[douse the lights]
Title: [douse the lights]
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
Summary: “I’ve been waiting for you,” Brendon tells him, and Ryan says, “I know.”
Notes: For the blows_to_come challenge. Thanks to impasto for editing.
Five.
“We should - ”
“ - don’t even know - ”
“ - has a right - ”
“What are we supposed to - ”
“ - think that he - ”
“Ryan.”
The voices filter in through the last wisps of dreams, the last clear and intent; Spencer’s. If Ryan were awake he’d be able to tell what it means, the way Spencer says his name, the tightness and inflection and too-even calm.
He fights his way up groggily, wondering what time it is and why he can’t feel the purr of the bus engine beneath his bunk. They can’t be at the venue already, they aren’t scheduled to arrive until noon at the earliest, and Ryan hasn’t slept that long.
“Ryan, hey.” Spencer’s voice again, so he sits up, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and forcing his mind into alertness. One of his hands lands automatically on the pillow beside him, but there’s no one there; it’s cold. Brendon has probably been up for hours, he’s still somehow perky at seven a.m. while the rest of them are walking zombies.
“What’s up?” he asks finally, tongue thick and sticky in his mouth, morning breath making him wrinkle his nose and wish for toothpaste. Spencer doesn’t seem to notice, though; his face is serious and solemn. Ryan blinks a few times and squints at him. “Spence?”
That’s when they tell him.
He doesn’t comprehend it at first, and it doesn’t make sense anyway, what they’re not saying, which is much louder in his ears than what they are. He doesn’t believe it at all until he sees something flash, yanks his blinds aside and sees the police cruiser sitting next to the bus, lights on but no siren.
“Zack called the cops as soon as we knew,” Jon is saying, and it ought to make sense but it doesn’t, it doesn’t at all. “Not that we know anything, really, but he thought…”
“Did we stop?” Ryan interrupts, finally starting to put it together. “Did he get off, did he get left somewhere? We should ask the driver…”
“We didn’t stop,” Spencer says, and his voice is still controlled, calm and it’s starting to freak Ryan out a little. “They already asked. We’ve been going since…”
“Not even for gas? You know how he is, he could have…” Ryan is still determined, eliminating possibilities he doesn’t want to think about because they don’t make any sense.
“Ry,” Spencer says, and this time his voice cracks, just a little, and that’s even worse. “He left a note.”
A nightmare of police reports later, Spencer comes out and sits beside him. Ryan has his hands between his knees, staring out at the murky morning, the unrelieved grey of mist and clouds blocking the sunlight. It feels a little like a television drama; ten a.m., four hours missing, or maybe five. Ryan can vouch for six, which is later than the rest of them can, but he doesn’t know what happened after that. No one does.
Spencer doesn’t try to hug him, doesn’t rub his shoulders or say are you okay? because he’s better than that, and Ryan would be grateful if he were feeling anything other than the way he is right now.
The note is still in his hand, written with more care than Brendon’s usual scrawl, but his signature is as familiar as Ryan’s own, more so with Ryan’s finger tracing the B, over and over. Brendon had left it next to the coffeemaker in the kitchenette, where Ryan wouldn’t be the first one to find it, but it still feels like it’s been left for him. Two words, and he doesn’t know what they mean.
They sit in silence for a while, and then Spencer says, “The police…they think, well,” and Ryan cuts him off sharply.
“He’s a punk emo scene kid who wears makeup and sings in a rock band, I know what the police think.” He can see the journalists’ articles already, with lines like under so much pressure and strained relationship with his family and so young. Brendon sang about death and teen angst, even if the lyrics were Ryan’s, and the last words he wrote were I’m sorry, crushed and crumpled in Ryan’s hand.
“Ry,” Spencer says quietly. “Maybe…”
“No. It’s Brendon,” Ryan says, suddenly fierce. “It’s Brendon.”
“Hey,” Jon says. He sits down on the other side of Spencer, arms hugging his knees against the chill, the only one of them with red-rimmed eyes. “We know.”
Spencer takes Ryan’s hand in his, just holding on, and Ryan’s eyes burn.
Interlude
Brendon slips into his bunk just as Ryan’s reached that point where he’s not sure whether he’s asleep or not, whether this is all a dream. It’s doesn’t feel like a dream; Brendon’s elbows are sharp against the softer places on Ryan’s body, and he smells the way Brendon always does, with just a hint of something sharper.
“Bren, what…?” It’s not the first time Brendon has climbed into his bunk in the middle of the night, but this feels different, and is accompanied by Brendon’s cold hands sliding up beneath his shirt. Ryan inhales sharply and his head falls back when Brendon’s thumb rubs over his nipple.
They have a strict no-sex-on-the-bus rule, introduced and enforced by both Jon and Spencer, and even the promise made by Brendon’s mouth open hot and wet against his throat isn’t quite enough for Ryan to risk Spencer’s wrath when they wake him up with this.
“We can’t,” he whispers, trying ineffectually to fight Brendon off, but Brendon’s hands are a little less chill now, and sliding down over his stomach slowly enough to make him shiver and push up against them.
Brendon’s mouth covers his, the rest of him going still, and he whispers, “Please.”
Four.
It’s a hotel night, which almost never happens anymore, and Brendon has claimed Spencer for the evening - no one is quite sure why, but “I claim Spencer!” Brendon had yelled when they were finally free of responsibilities, and then dragged him off somewhere - so Ryan wanders over to the hotel room Jon is sharing with Spencer looking for company.
Jon is engrossed in a book when Ryan lets himself in through the door that connects their rooms, bare feet crossed at the ankles and shoulders propped against the headboard.
“What are you reading?”
Jon rubs his eyes and closes the book over his finger, holding it up so Ryan can read the spine. “Brendon was talking about some stuff earlier, about God and that sort of thing, and I guess I just thought. I mean, they have these at practically every hotel we stay at, you know?” Jon rubs his hand over his chin, scratching at the stubble there and shrugging. “I thought it might help me understand him better.”
Ryan nods and crawls onto the bed, head on Jon’s shoulder when he moves to let Ryan curl up beside him. “Find anything yet?” Ryan asks.
“Not really.” Jon flips the page and Ryan closes his eyes, listening to the rustle of paper and Jon’s occasional shift as he reads. “He talked about predestination and some other stuff. Fate, God’s plan for us, heaven and hell. I don’t think he believed what he was saying, though. So I was curious.”
Ryan nods, only half-interested. He doesn’t think anyone will be able to find the answers to Brendon in a book, even one that supposedly came from God. There’s too much of him that can’t be put into words.
Ryan should know. He’s tried.
They’re interrupted around eleven by the door between their rooms opening, and Jon puts the book in his lap while Ryan looks up. “Brendon won’t stop listening to Radiohead,” Spencer announces as he comes in, flopping onto his own bed with the air of someone exhausted by too many hours of Brendon in a row. “Ryan, that’s your job.”
“What, since when?” Ryan complains. He’s in the middle of a word puzzle, and he’s no good at handling fits of brooding anyway, that’s more Jon’s thing. Or Spencer’s, when the one doing the brooding is Ryan.
Spencer just gives him a patented Spencer look, and Ryan concedes. “Okay, okay.”
Jon looks over and points to the row Ryan hasn’t yet filled in. “Fete,” he says helpfully, and Ryan blinks twice before carefully adding letters to the boxes.
Spencer is still looking expectantly at him, probably worried that Brendon is going to appear in the doorway any second now and mope at all of them. “I’m going,” Ryan promises hastily, setting the puzzle aside for later, and goes to find Brendon.
Brendon isn’t subdued very often, and never for long, but it’s hard to bring him out of it when he is. Spencer usually just gives him time; Jon brings him photographs and rubber balls and ice-pops, things to make him smile. Ryan finds him curled up on one of the beds with his earbuds in and climbs onto his lap, straddling his hips. Brendon looks up and Ryan gets rid of the iPod, takes off Brendon’s glasses and folds them up carefully before kissing him.
He starts gentle, petting Brendon’s soft hair with his hands, biting his upper lip. Brendon kisses him back without heat, deep and slow, and they exhale into each other’s mouths, like they’re breathing as one. Ryan folds a hand against Brendon’s heart and feels the beat, wills his own to match it. Brendon curls his hand around the back of Ryan’s neck, presses their foreheads together and just breathes.
Interlude
Brendon mostly goes straight to the point when it comes to sex, fast and intense, which Ryan usually appreciates because Brendon can wind him up with nothing more than a look or a touch or his fingers tripping over piano keys. Ryan doesn’t need a lot of foreplay, he never has. If he wants it slow, all he has to do is wait for Brendon to pass out somewhere after a long day and wake him up with soft kisses and lazily wandering hands.
This is different.
Brendon is taking his time, pushing Ryan’s shirt up and his pajama pants off, his tongue trailing over Ryan’s skin until he can’t think straight anymore, just clenches one fist in the blanket and the other in Brendon’s hair.
Brendon reaches up and removes Ryan’s hands, stretching them over his head and grinning as he winds one of Ryan’s scarves around them. It’s not tight at all, so loose Ryan could slip free without even trying if he wanted to, but he doesn’t fight. Brendon’s tongue trails up his cock, down again and up the side, his mouth leaves little sucking kisses all the way down the shaft and then harder at the base, like he’s leaving a hickey, licking again until Ryan raises his hips to beg for more.
Ryan’s hands struggle free to tangle in Brendon’s hair just as he slides down to swallow.
Three.
“The sunlight on your face…hey, what’s that from, Spencer? Spencer.” Brendon does a little dance onstage, a shimmy-wiggle while he sucks the last of his soft drink through the bright purple straw, and sings it again. “The sunlight…”
“I don’t know,” Spencer says, which probably means he isn’t even paying attention. Ryan thinks about it for a minute, but he doesn’t know either, and the fact that Brendon can’t seem to remember the notes isn’t helping.
“Walking into the sunlight on your…it’s really bugging me now. The sunlight…sunshine? The sunshine on your…no, I think it’s sunlight.” He starts humming, just one broken phrase over and over until Ryan thinks it starts to sound familiar, but he still can’t place it.
“Is it old?” Jon asks, going through the pre-soundcheck routine of checking his equipment, tuning his bass, scattering a confetti-fall of picks across the monitors. Spencer hits a cymbal with a crash, goes into a roll as if to punctuate.
“I don’t know, I can’t remember. I think…emerging into the…” Brendon wanders off again, humming, singing on his breath every now and then in snatches. “It’s going to drive me crazy now,” Brendon says as he picks up his guitar, already looking for the notes.
“You’re going to drive us all crazy,” Ryan tells him. Brendon sticks out his tongue. Ryan bares his teeth.
Ryan stumbles out in the middle of the night to find Brendon in the lounge, playing acoustic guitar. Ryan’s is the only one on the bus; the rest of them keep their instruments stowed below. Brendon is curved over it now, playing a melody soft enough that Ryan is sure this isn’t what woke him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and Brendon’s head jerks up, surprised and guilty. His hand mutes the strings immediately, but Ryan just wanders over to curl up beside him on the couch. “Is that the song we were working on last week?”
Brendon relaxes, the worry on his face easing. “Yeah,” he answers, and plucks a string fretfully. “I can’t get it to… It still doesn’t sound right.”
Ryan would mock him for working on it at three-something in the morning, but he’s been here often enough to know what it feels like, sleepless and looking for inspiration. He’s close enough to feel the warmth coming from Brendon through his faded sleep shirt.
Brendon picks through it a few more times, always faltering, visibly more frustrated each time a chord jangles against his ears. Finally Ryan reaches over, wraps his hand around the frets and says, “Brendon, come on. Go to bed. It’s not getting any better, we can work on it in the morning.”
Brendon shakes his head, shoulders hunched and tense. “I have to…I need to get it right now, Ry.” His voice sounds scraped and rough, an echo of the harsh sound that comes from the guitar when he strums. “I have to do this. Finish it.”
He plays for a few more minutes while Ryan sits in silence, listening, and then stills the strings and looks up, eyes bright and dark. “Do you ever feel like…like you need to leave something behind, like this is your only chance? Like. Like you might not get another one to say it? To say it right?”
Ryan nods, and Brendon goes back to playing, this time a wandering series of notes, no music or sense in them. Ryan is on the verge of falling asleep, but something in him stirs enough at a familiar chord to ask, “Hey, did you ever find out what that song was?”
Brendon strums another chord, unfocused. He looks up blankly a second later, delayed reaction, and Ryan clarifies, “The sunlight song.”
“Oh.” Brendon is still for a moment, frowning, fingers poised over the strings like he’s almost remembered. Then he says, “I don’t think it’s from anything. Yet.”
He smiles like it’s a secret between them, a little guilty, and Ryan hears the echo of that last chord, and the urgency in Brendon’s voice when he’d said I need to finish this.
“Play it again,” Ryan says, and Brendon bends his head to the strings.
Spencer comes in a few hours after Brendon finally falls asleep, his head on Ryan’s chest, the guitar between them on the floor. He looks at them and rolls his eyes, and Ryan gives him the most defiant glare he can manage with Brendon smushed up against him drooling on his shirt.
Spencer just laughs. “We’re stopping to refuel. Jon and I are going out to pick up some breakfast, do you want anything?”
Ryan rubs his eyes, tired, and says, “Yeah, a bagel would be great. Or a muffin, if they have banana nut.” He pauses, fingers curling without thought into the soft fabric of Brendon’s t-shirt. “Hey, and maybe a danish. Like, apricot.”
Spencer rolls his eyes again, but Ryan knows what it really means. “Yeah, we’ll get something for him too, don’t worry.”
Jon appears in the doorway behind Spencer, and Ryan can tell by his half-smile that he wants to photograph this, but is leaving them be. Jon’s good like that. “Danish,” Jon says, saluting with the end of his scarf. “Got it.”
Brendon sleeps for another hour, and by the time he wakes up, Ryan has a melody in his head. It’s not the one they were chasing, but it might be just as good. It might be something.
Interlude
Brendon’s head is bobbing steadily between his legs now, slow and light and not quite enough to get him off. Ryan is fascinated by the way his cheeks hollow, the sounds he makes as he sucks, the texture of his hair sliding like silk through Ryan’s fingers.
There’s a slight change in tempo, a flutter of Brendon’s tongue, something, and Ryan’s breath gusts out of him in a shudder. Brendon sucks harder in response, his hand grasping firm around the base and thumb rubbing in circles right where it drives Ryan craziest.
Ryan rests two fingers against Brendon’s cheek and presses hard enough to feel himself beneath the skin, moving slowly in and out of Brendon’s mouth. Brendon looks up at him with wide, round eyes, and Ryan pushes his hips up until Brendon nearly chokes.
Ryan gasps again, legs falling further apart, and asks breathlessly, “Do you want…?”
Brendon shakes his head, licks Ryan’s cock all the way to the tip, and says, “Just this.”
Two.
“Brendon’s been weird lately.”
Spencer looks over to where Ryan is folded up in the biggest armchair, waiting for their turn to interview. He doesn’t even need to say it; Ryan reads the look on his face and amends, “Weirder,” a little defensive. Spencer tosses the magazine he’d been skimming onto the coffee table and sits back.
“Are you guys okay?” he asks. And it’s Spencer, so Ryan doesn’t need to worry about there being anything else in the subtext, just the question.
“Yeah, it’s not that. It’s.” Ryan picks at the hem of his shirt, frowning slightly. “Something else.”
Spencer doesn’t say anything, just waits for Ryan to get it out, but Ryan isn’t sure he has anything left to say. It’s just been. Different.
They’ve got another five minutes, maybe, before it’s their turn to go in. Brendon has been hanging on Jon all day, a little muted, even his clothes more bland and basic than usual. Ryan doesn’t blame him; if he were in a mood, he’d probably go to Jon too. Or maybe he wouldn’t, but then he’s not Brendon.
“I don’t know,” Ryan says finally. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Okay.” Spencer picks up his magazine again, reassuringly casual. “Tell me when you figure it out.”
“You guys, there’s a Rita’s at the next rest stop, I saw it on the sign,” Brendon announces, bursting into the lounge and startling them all out of the relative peace they’d been enjoying.
Spencer frowns. “We can’t stop,” he says, as if it’s obvious, as if Brendon counts the miles and the minutes the way he does to keep them on track. “There’s no time, we’re tight as it is.”
“It will take five minutes,” Brendon argues, enthusiasm undampened. “Maybe not even that. We can be in, out, and…”
“No,” Spencer says, with a note of finality in his voice that stops Brendon in his tracks. “We’re not stopping for ice cream on the way to a venue, Jesus. You’re not five.”
Jon shifts, foreseeing the same fight Ryan is, but Brendon just stands there, visibly upset. “Can we not,” he asks, and stops, starts over again. “Can we not do this right now? Can we just…?”
Spencer looks like he’s going to say something else that at least one of them will regret, but Brendon just turns around and walks out. Ryan blinks, feeling the tension still humming in the air, and Spencer bursts out, “What the fuck was that?”
Ryan unfolds himself from his spot on the couch and goes after Brendon.
Brendon’s in his bunk, where Ryan knew he would be, huddled against the window looking miserable. Ryan climbs in and sits beside him, close without touching, tugging the curtain shut to give them privacy.
“I’ll buy you one when we get back home,” he says, watching the lights from passing trucks illuminate Brendon’s face.
“I just.” There’s still frustration in Brendon’s voice, an ache and a hint of wistfulness that sounds out of place. “I don’t know, I just thought. Like. What if that’s our last time driving past one, and we don’t… What if we can’t ever go again?”
“You’re full of such shit,” Ryan says, and kisses the protest from Brendon’s lips when he opens his mouth.
It’s only a handful of seconds before Brendon is wound around him, against him, taking up all of his space. His voice is muffled into the fabric of Ryan’s hoodie, but Ryan hears him all the same.
“It’s okay,” he promises, while Brendon repeats, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” until Ryan kisses him into silence.
Interlude
Ryan tries to muffle the noises he’s making by biting down hard on his fist, but Brendon pulls his hand away and gives him two fingers instead. Ryan takes them in and sucks, just getting them wet at first but slowly starting to mimic Brendon’s attentions to his cock, and then Brendon reciprocates and follows Ryan’s lead; sucking harder when he does, running his tongue all over, letting his teeth graze when Ryan bites.
It’s not a prelude to anything, it’s just this, and Ryan is okay with that.
Brendon’s fingers stroke his tongue, and Ryan thinks I love you I love you but just sucks harder.
He comes with Brendon’s hand covering his mouth, all of the energy leaving him at once, like a plug suddenly lifted from a drain, spiraling into a whirlpool. He falls back and thinks dizzily that it’s his turn now, but then Brendon is in his arms, holding him and licking at his lips, not asking for anything more, and he stops caring.
Brendon won’t stop kissing him, lips swollen and soft, and Ryan falls asleep with their mouths still pressed together, mid-kiss.
One.
Pre-show is the most frenetic time for all of them. Spencer won’t change or warm up, Jon wanders around talking to people, and Brendon harasses Ryan. He’s used to it now, mostly, the way his personal space evaporates when Brendon enters the room.
It’s little things, like Brendon sneaking up behind him and kissing his neck when Ryan isn’t paying attention, or his hand skating down Ryan’s chest and then up his thigh, just that fast and gone again before Ryan can stab him with the eye pencil.
Tonight Brendon is dancing around the dressing room while Ryan puts on his makeup, singing “Time To Dance” and suddenly holding out his invisible microphone for Ryan to take the next line. When he does, rolling his eyes and smiling, Brendon slips into full performance mode, hips cocked and arm in the air, making Ryan grin.
Brendon plays air guitar until Ryan gives in and plays with him, and then it’s just like the stage show, Brendon’s breath on his neck and his hand skimming over Ryan’s thigh.
When Brendon darts forward for the kiss Ryan isn’t fast enough, and Brendon’s laughter huffs on his cheek in the same spot left damp by his lips. “Gotcha,” Brendon whispers, and disappears again, humming the chorus.
Ryan shakes his head, and outlines a tiny star over the curve of his cheek.
The show is incredible. Ryan feels the energy crackling from the time they play the first chord, spinning and twisting and revolving around Brendon center stage, who has the microphone in his hand, already prowling the edge and soaking up the screams.
Brendon is more intense tonight, keeps ratcheting them all higher, tighter. He gets too close and holds Ryan too tightly, and his voice breaks during “Tonight, Tonight,” on what isn’t even a high note. Ryan can’t tell for sure, but he thinks there’s more than sweat stinging Brendon’s eyes.
Spencer tries to calm them back down during intermission, passing out bottles of water and making casual conversation, but Brendon won’t engage. He can’t sit still, and finally Ryan has to go into the other dressing room, looking into the mirror and tracing the lines beneath his eyes with fresh black until he feels like he’s got it together again.
When they go back onstage Brendon is hit by a spotlight, straight down and bright white, and for a split-second he doesn’t even look real.
The sweat has already cooled on Ryan’s skin by the time he finds Brendon outside after the show, wrapped up in a scarf and jacket on one of the balconies leading from the catwalks. Ryan isn’t dressed for this weather, but he sits down anyway and Brendon pulls him close, arm around his waist.
“What’s up?” he asks, sensing something in the air, a shift of mood he can’t pin down yet. He thinks Brendon might still be wired from the show, but the edge has been taken off now, he isn’t electrified like before.
“Just thinking, I guess,” Brendon says. His feet are dangling over the railing and he kicks them a little, swinging. “About what I’d do if I lost all this.” He turns puppy-plaintive eyes on Ryan and nudges him with his knee. “You’d never kick me out, would you?”
“No,” Ryan answers honestly, resting his head on Brendon’s shoulder. “I’d make Spencer do it.”
“Bitch,” Brendon accuses, lifting his shoulder and angling his head until they’re nose-to-nose, both smiling. Ryan tilts his face up and Brendon kisses him, the arm around his waist pulling him in tighter.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Brendon tells him, and Ryan says, “I know.”
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
Summary: “I’ve been waiting for you,” Brendon tells him, and Ryan says, “I know.”
Notes: For the blows_to_come challenge. Thanks to impasto for editing.
Five.
“We should - ”
“ - don’t even know - ”
“ - has a right - ”
“What are we supposed to - ”
“ - think that he - ”
“Ryan.”
The voices filter in through the last wisps of dreams, the last clear and intent; Spencer’s. If Ryan were awake he’d be able to tell what it means, the way Spencer says his name, the tightness and inflection and too-even calm.
He fights his way up groggily, wondering what time it is and why he can’t feel the purr of the bus engine beneath his bunk. They can’t be at the venue already, they aren’t scheduled to arrive until noon at the earliest, and Ryan hasn’t slept that long.
“Ryan, hey.” Spencer’s voice again, so he sits up, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and forcing his mind into alertness. One of his hands lands automatically on the pillow beside him, but there’s no one there; it’s cold. Brendon has probably been up for hours, he’s still somehow perky at seven a.m. while the rest of them are walking zombies.
“What’s up?” he asks finally, tongue thick and sticky in his mouth, morning breath making him wrinkle his nose and wish for toothpaste. Spencer doesn’t seem to notice, though; his face is serious and solemn. Ryan blinks a few times and squints at him. “Spence?”
That’s when they tell him.
He doesn’t comprehend it at first, and it doesn’t make sense anyway, what they’re not saying, which is much louder in his ears than what they are. He doesn’t believe it at all until he sees something flash, yanks his blinds aside and sees the police cruiser sitting next to the bus, lights on but no siren.
“Zack called the cops as soon as we knew,” Jon is saying, and it ought to make sense but it doesn’t, it doesn’t at all. “Not that we know anything, really, but he thought…”
“Did we stop?” Ryan interrupts, finally starting to put it together. “Did he get off, did he get left somewhere? We should ask the driver…”
“We didn’t stop,” Spencer says, and his voice is still controlled, calm and it’s starting to freak Ryan out a little. “They already asked. We’ve been going since…”
“Not even for gas? You know how he is, he could have…” Ryan is still determined, eliminating possibilities he doesn’t want to think about because they don’t make any sense.
“Ry,” Spencer says, and this time his voice cracks, just a little, and that’s even worse. “He left a note.”
A nightmare of police reports later, Spencer comes out and sits beside him. Ryan has his hands between his knees, staring out at the murky morning, the unrelieved grey of mist and clouds blocking the sunlight. It feels a little like a television drama; ten a.m., four hours missing, or maybe five. Ryan can vouch for six, which is later than the rest of them can, but he doesn’t know what happened after that. No one does.
Spencer doesn’t try to hug him, doesn’t rub his shoulders or say are you okay? because he’s better than that, and Ryan would be grateful if he were feeling anything other than the way he is right now.
The note is still in his hand, written with more care than Brendon’s usual scrawl, but his signature is as familiar as Ryan’s own, more so with Ryan’s finger tracing the B, over and over. Brendon had left it next to the coffeemaker in the kitchenette, where Ryan wouldn’t be the first one to find it, but it still feels like it’s been left for him. Two words, and he doesn’t know what they mean.
They sit in silence for a while, and then Spencer says, “The police…they think, well,” and Ryan cuts him off sharply.
“He’s a punk emo scene kid who wears makeup and sings in a rock band, I know what the police think.” He can see the journalists’ articles already, with lines like under so much pressure and strained relationship with his family and so young. Brendon sang about death and teen angst, even if the lyrics were Ryan’s, and the last words he wrote were I’m sorry, crushed and crumpled in Ryan’s hand.
“Ry,” Spencer says quietly. “Maybe…”
“No. It’s Brendon,” Ryan says, suddenly fierce. “It’s Brendon.”
“Hey,” Jon says. He sits down on the other side of Spencer, arms hugging his knees against the chill, the only one of them with red-rimmed eyes. “We know.”
Spencer takes Ryan’s hand in his, just holding on, and Ryan’s eyes burn.
Interlude
Brendon slips into his bunk just as Ryan’s reached that point where he’s not sure whether he’s asleep or not, whether this is all a dream. It’s doesn’t feel like a dream; Brendon’s elbows are sharp against the softer places on Ryan’s body, and he smells the way Brendon always does, with just a hint of something sharper.
“Bren, what…?” It’s not the first time Brendon has climbed into his bunk in the middle of the night, but this feels different, and is accompanied by Brendon’s cold hands sliding up beneath his shirt. Ryan inhales sharply and his head falls back when Brendon’s thumb rubs over his nipple.
They have a strict no-sex-on-the-bus rule, introduced and enforced by both Jon and Spencer, and even the promise made by Brendon’s mouth open hot and wet against his throat isn’t quite enough for Ryan to risk Spencer’s wrath when they wake him up with this.
“We can’t,” he whispers, trying ineffectually to fight Brendon off, but Brendon’s hands are a little less chill now, and sliding down over his stomach slowly enough to make him shiver and push up against them.
Brendon’s mouth covers his, the rest of him going still, and he whispers, “Please.”
Four.
It’s a hotel night, which almost never happens anymore, and Brendon has claimed Spencer for the evening - no one is quite sure why, but “I claim Spencer!” Brendon had yelled when they were finally free of responsibilities, and then dragged him off somewhere - so Ryan wanders over to the hotel room Jon is sharing with Spencer looking for company.
Jon is engrossed in a book when Ryan lets himself in through the door that connects their rooms, bare feet crossed at the ankles and shoulders propped against the headboard.
“What are you reading?”
Jon rubs his eyes and closes the book over his finger, holding it up so Ryan can read the spine. “Brendon was talking about some stuff earlier, about God and that sort of thing, and I guess I just thought. I mean, they have these at practically every hotel we stay at, you know?” Jon rubs his hand over his chin, scratching at the stubble there and shrugging. “I thought it might help me understand him better.”
Ryan nods and crawls onto the bed, head on Jon’s shoulder when he moves to let Ryan curl up beside him. “Find anything yet?” Ryan asks.
“Not really.” Jon flips the page and Ryan closes his eyes, listening to the rustle of paper and Jon’s occasional shift as he reads. “He talked about predestination and some other stuff. Fate, God’s plan for us, heaven and hell. I don’t think he believed what he was saying, though. So I was curious.”
Ryan nods, only half-interested. He doesn’t think anyone will be able to find the answers to Brendon in a book, even one that supposedly came from God. There’s too much of him that can’t be put into words.
Ryan should know. He’s tried.
They’re interrupted around eleven by the door between their rooms opening, and Jon puts the book in his lap while Ryan looks up. “Brendon won’t stop listening to Radiohead,” Spencer announces as he comes in, flopping onto his own bed with the air of someone exhausted by too many hours of Brendon in a row. “Ryan, that’s your job.”
“What, since when?” Ryan complains. He’s in the middle of a word puzzle, and he’s no good at handling fits of brooding anyway, that’s more Jon’s thing. Or Spencer’s, when the one doing the brooding is Ryan.
Spencer just gives him a patented Spencer look, and Ryan concedes. “Okay, okay.”
Jon looks over and points to the row Ryan hasn’t yet filled in. “Fete,” he says helpfully, and Ryan blinks twice before carefully adding letters to the boxes.
Spencer is still looking expectantly at him, probably worried that Brendon is going to appear in the doorway any second now and mope at all of them. “I’m going,” Ryan promises hastily, setting the puzzle aside for later, and goes to find Brendon.
Brendon isn’t subdued very often, and never for long, but it’s hard to bring him out of it when he is. Spencer usually just gives him time; Jon brings him photographs and rubber balls and ice-pops, things to make him smile. Ryan finds him curled up on one of the beds with his earbuds in and climbs onto his lap, straddling his hips. Brendon looks up and Ryan gets rid of the iPod, takes off Brendon’s glasses and folds them up carefully before kissing him.
He starts gentle, petting Brendon’s soft hair with his hands, biting his upper lip. Brendon kisses him back without heat, deep and slow, and they exhale into each other’s mouths, like they’re breathing as one. Ryan folds a hand against Brendon’s heart and feels the beat, wills his own to match it. Brendon curls his hand around the back of Ryan’s neck, presses their foreheads together and just breathes.
Interlude
Brendon mostly goes straight to the point when it comes to sex, fast and intense, which Ryan usually appreciates because Brendon can wind him up with nothing more than a look or a touch or his fingers tripping over piano keys. Ryan doesn’t need a lot of foreplay, he never has. If he wants it slow, all he has to do is wait for Brendon to pass out somewhere after a long day and wake him up with soft kisses and lazily wandering hands.
This is different.
Brendon is taking his time, pushing Ryan’s shirt up and his pajama pants off, his tongue trailing over Ryan’s skin until he can’t think straight anymore, just clenches one fist in the blanket and the other in Brendon’s hair.
Brendon reaches up and removes Ryan’s hands, stretching them over his head and grinning as he winds one of Ryan’s scarves around them. It’s not tight at all, so loose Ryan could slip free without even trying if he wanted to, but he doesn’t fight. Brendon’s tongue trails up his cock, down again and up the side, his mouth leaves little sucking kisses all the way down the shaft and then harder at the base, like he’s leaving a hickey, licking again until Ryan raises his hips to beg for more.
Ryan’s hands struggle free to tangle in Brendon’s hair just as he slides down to swallow.
Three.
“The sunlight on your face…hey, what’s that from, Spencer? Spencer.” Brendon does a little dance onstage, a shimmy-wiggle while he sucks the last of his soft drink through the bright purple straw, and sings it again. “The sunlight…”
“I don’t know,” Spencer says, which probably means he isn’t even paying attention. Ryan thinks about it for a minute, but he doesn’t know either, and the fact that Brendon can’t seem to remember the notes isn’t helping.
“Walking into the sunlight on your…it’s really bugging me now. The sunlight…sunshine? The sunshine on your…no, I think it’s sunlight.” He starts humming, just one broken phrase over and over until Ryan thinks it starts to sound familiar, but he still can’t place it.
“Is it old?” Jon asks, going through the pre-soundcheck routine of checking his equipment, tuning his bass, scattering a confetti-fall of picks across the monitors. Spencer hits a cymbal with a crash, goes into a roll as if to punctuate.
“I don’t know, I can’t remember. I think…emerging into the…” Brendon wanders off again, humming, singing on his breath every now and then in snatches. “It’s going to drive me crazy now,” Brendon says as he picks up his guitar, already looking for the notes.
“You’re going to drive us all crazy,” Ryan tells him. Brendon sticks out his tongue. Ryan bares his teeth.
Ryan stumbles out in the middle of the night to find Brendon in the lounge, playing acoustic guitar. Ryan’s is the only one on the bus; the rest of them keep their instruments stowed below. Brendon is curved over it now, playing a melody soft enough that Ryan is sure this isn’t what woke him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and Brendon’s head jerks up, surprised and guilty. His hand mutes the strings immediately, but Ryan just wanders over to curl up beside him on the couch. “Is that the song we were working on last week?”
Brendon relaxes, the worry on his face easing. “Yeah,” he answers, and plucks a string fretfully. “I can’t get it to… It still doesn’t sound right.”
Ryan would mock him for working on it at three-something in the morning, but he’s been here often enough to know what it feels like, sleepless and looking for inspiration. He’s close enough to feel the warmth coming from Brendon through his faded sleep shirt.
Brendon picks through it a few more times, always faltering, visibly more frustrated each time a chord jangles against his ears. Finally Ryan reaches over, wraps his hand around the frets and says, “Brendon, come on. Go to bed. It’s not getting any better, we can work on it in the morning.”
Brendon shakes his head, shoulders hunched and tense. “I have to…I need to get it right now, Ry.” His voice sounds scraped and rough, an echo of the harsh sound that comes from the guitar when he strums. “I have to do this. Finish it.”
He plays for a few more minutes while Ryan sits in silence, listening, and then stills the strings and looks up, eyes bright and dark. “Do you ever feel like…like you need to leave something behind, like this is your only chance? Like. Like you might not get another one to say it? To say it right?”
Ryan nods, and Brendon goes back to playing, this time a wandering series of notes, no music or sense in them. Ryan is on the verge of falling asleep, but something in him stirs enough at a familiar chord to ask, “Hey, did you ever find out what that song was?”
Brendon strums another chord, unfocused. He looks up blankly a second later, delayed reaction, and Ryan clarifies, “The sunlight song.”
“Oh.” Brendon is still for a moment, frowning, fingers poised over the strings like he’s almost remembered. Then he says, “I don’t think it’s from anything. Yet.”
He smiles like it’s a secret between them, a little guilty, and Ryan hears the echo of that last chord, and the urgency in Brendon’s voice when he’d said I need to finish this.
“Play it again,” Ryan says, and Brendon bends his head to the strings.
Spencer comes in a few hours after Brendon finally falls asleep, his head on Ryan’s chest, the guitar between them on the floor. He looks at them and rolls his eyes, and Ryan gives him the most defiant glare he can manage with Brendon smushed up against him drooling on his shirt.
Spencer just laughs. “We’re stopping to refuel. Jon and I are going out to pick up some breakfast, do you want anything?”
Ryan rubs his eyes, tired, and says, “Yeah, a bagel would be great. Or a muffin, if they have banana nut.” He pauses, fingers curling without thought into the soft fabric of Brendon’s t-shirt. “Hey, and maybe a danish. Like, apricot.”
Spencer rolls his eyes again, but Ryan knows what it really means. “Yeah, we’ll get something for him too, don’t worry.”
Jon appears in the doorway behind Spencer, and Ryan can tell by his half-smile that he wants to photograph this, but is leaving them be. Jon’s good like that. “Danish,” Jon says, saluting with the end of his scarf. “Got it.”
Brendon sleeps for another hour, and by the time he wakes up, Ryan has a melody in his head. It’s not the one they were chasing, but it might be just as good. It might be something.
Interlude
Brendon’s head is bobbing steadily between his legs now, slow and light and not quite enough to get him off. Ryan is fascinated by the way his cheeks hollow, the sounds he makes as he sucks, the texture of his hair sliding like silk through Ryan’s fingers.
There’s a slight change in tempo, a flutter of Brendon’s tongue, something, and Ryan’s breath gusts out of him in a shudder. Brendon sucks harder in response, his hand grasping firm around the base and thumb rubbing in circles right where it drives Ryan craziest.
Ryan rests two fingers against Brendon’s cheek and presses hard enough to feel himself beneath the skin, moving slowly in and out of Brendon’s mouth. Brendon looks up at him with wide, round eyes, and Ryan pushes his hips up until Brendon nearly chokes.
Ryan gasps again, legs falling further apart, and asks breathlessly, “Do you want…?”
Brendon shakes his head, licks Ryan’s cock all the way to the tip, and says, “Just this.”
Two.
“Brendon’s been weird lately.”
Spencer looks over to where Ryan is folded up in the biggest armchair, waiting for their turn to interview. He doesn’t even need to say it; Ryan reads the look on his face and amends, “Weirder,” a little defensive. Spencer tosses the magazine he’d been skimming onto the coffee table and sits back.
“Are you guys okay?” he asks. And it’s Spencer, so Ryan doesn’t need to worry about there being anything else in the subtext, just the question.
“Yeah, it’s not that. It’s.” Ryan picks at the hem of his shirt, frowning slightly. “Something else.”
Spencer doesn’t say anything, just waits for Ryan to get it out, but Ryan isn’t sure he has anything left to say. It’s just been. Different.
They’ve got another five minutes, maybe, before it’s their turn to go in. Brendon has been hanging on Jon all day, a little muted, even his clothes more bland and basic than usual. Ryan doesn’t blame him; if he were in a mood, he’d probably go to Jon too. Or maybe he wouldn’t, but then he’s not Brendon.
“I don’t know,” Ryan says finally. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Okay.” Spencer picks up his magazine again, reassuringly casual. “Tell me when you figure it out.”
“You guys, there’s a Rita’s at the next rest stop, I saw it on the sign,” Brendon announces, bursting into the lounge and startling them all out of the relative peace they’d been enjoying.
Spencer frowns. “We can’t stop,” he says, as if it’s obvious, as if Brendon counts the miles and the minutes the way he does to keep them on track. “There’s no time, we’re tight as it is.”
“It will take five minutes,” Brendon argues, enthusiasm undampened. “Maybe not even that. We can be in, out, and…”
“No,” Spencer says, with a note of finality in his voice that stops Brendon in his tracks. “We’re not stopping for ice cream on the way to a venue, Jesus. You’re not five.”
Jon shifts, foreseeing the same fight Ryan is, but Brendon just stands there, visibly upset. “Can we not,” he asks, and stops, starts over again. “Can we not do this right now? Can we just…?”
Spencer looks like he’s going to say something else that at least one of them will regret, but Brendon just turns around and walks out. Ryan blinks, feeling the tension still humming in the air, and Spencer bursts out, “What the fuck was that?”
Ryan unfolds himself from his spot on the couch and goes after Brendon.
Brendon’s in his bunk, where Ryan knew he would be, huddled against the window looking miserable. Ryan climbs in and sits beside him, close without touching, tugging the curtain shut to give them privacy.
“I’ll buy you one when we get back home,” he says, watching the lights from passing trucks illuminate Brendon’s face.
“I just.” There’s still frustration in Brendon’s voice, an ache and a hint of wistfulness that sounds out of place. “I don’t know, I just thought. Like. What if that’s our last time driving past one, and we don’t… What if we can’t ever go again?”
“You’re full of such shit,” Ryan says, and kisses the protest from Brendon’s lips when he opens his mouth.
It’s only a handful of seconds before Brendon is wound around him, against him, taking up all of his space. His voice is muffled into the fabric of Ryan’s hoodie, but Ryan hears him all the same.
“It’s okay,” he promises, while Brendon repeats, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” until Ryan kisses him into silence.
Interlude
Ryan tries to muffle the noises he’s making by biting down hard on his fist, but Brendon pulls his hand away and gives him two fingers instead. Ryan takes them in and sucks, just getting them wet at first but slowly starting to mimic Brendon’s attentions to his cock, and then Brendon reciprocates and follows Ryan’s lead; sucking harder when he does, running his tongue all over, letting his teeth graze when Ryan bites.
It’s not a prelude to anything, it’s just this, and Ryan is okay with that.
Brendon’s fingers stroke his tongue, and Ryan thinks I love you I love you but just sucks harder.
He comes with Brendon’s hand covering his mouth, all of the energy leaving him at once, like a plug suddenly lifted from a drain, spiraling into a whirlpool. He falls back and thinks dizzily that it’s his turn now, but then Brendon is in his arms, holding him and licking at his lips, not asking for anything more, and he stops caring.
Brendon won’t stop kissing him, lips swollen and soft, and Ryan falls asleep with their mouths still pressed together, mid-kiss.
One.
Pre-show is the most frenetic time for all of them. Spencer won’t change or warm up, Jon wanders around talking to people, and Brendon harasses Ryan. He’s used to it now, mostly, the way his personal space evaporates when Brendon enters the room.
It’s little things, like Brendon sneaking up behind him and kissing his neck when Ryan isn’t paying attention, or his hand skating down Ryan’s chest and then up his thigh, just that fast and gone again before Ryan can stab him with the eye pencil.
Tonight Brendon is dancing around the dressing room while Ryan puts on his makeup, singing “Time To Dance” and suddenly holding out his invisible microphone for Ryan to take the next line. When he does, rolling his eyes and smiling, Brendon slips into full performance mode, hips cocked and arm in the air, making Ryan grin.
Brendon plays air guitar until Ryan gives in and plays with him, and then it’s just like the stage show, Brendon’s breath on his neck and his hand skimming over Ryan’s thigh.
When Brendon darts forward for the kiss Ryan isn’t fast enough, and Brendon’s laughter huffs on his cheek in the same spot left damp by his lips. “Gotcha,” Brendon whispers, and disappears again, humming the chorus.
Ryan shakes his head, and outlines a tiny star over the curve of his cheek.
The show is incredible. Ryan feels the energy crackling from the time they play the first chord, spinning and twisting and revolving around Brendon center stage, who has the microphone in his hand, already prowling the edge and soaking up the screams.
Brendon is more intense tonight, keeps ratcheting them all higher, tighter. He gets too close and holds Ryan too tightly, and his voice breaks during “Tonight, Tonight,” on what isn’t even a high note. Ryan can’t tell for sure, but he thinks there’s more than sweat stinging Brendon’s eyes.
Spencer tries to calm them back down during intermission, passing out bottles of water and making casual conversation, but Brendon won’t engage. He can’t sit still, and finally Ryan has to go into the other dressing room, looking into the mirror and tracing the lines beneath his eyes with fresh black until he feels like he’s got it together again.
When they go back onstage Brendon is hit by a spotlight, straight down and bright white, and for a split-second he doesn’t even look real.
The sweat has already cooled on Ryan’s skin by the time he finds Brendon outside after the show, wrapped up in a scarf and jacket on one of the balconies leading from the catwalks. Ryan isn’t dressed for this weather, but he sits down anyway and Brendon pulls him close, arm around his waist.
“What’s up?” he asks, sensing something in the air, a shift of mood he can’t pin down yet. He thinks Brendon might still be wired from the show, but the edge has been taken off now, he isn’t electrified like before.
“Just thinking, I guess,” Brendon says. His feet are dangling over the railing and he kicks them a little, swinging. “About what I’d do if I lost all this.” He turns puppy-plaintive eyes on Ryan and nudges him with his knee. “You’d never kick me out, would you?”
“No,” Ryan answers honestly, resting his head on Brendon’s shoulder. “I’d make Spencer do it.”
“Bitch,” Brendon accuses, lifting his shoulder and angling his head until they’re nose-to-nose, both smiling. Ryan tilts his face up and Brendon kisses him, the arm around his waist pulling him in tighter.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Brendon tells him, and Ryan says, “I know.”