the trapeze act was wonderful but never meant to last
Hi! I wrote a story.
Title: Swing as high as any savior
Author: Sara
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pete/Ryan
Summary: Someday we'll be loved the way we want to be loved by the people we want to love us.
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
Thanks: theaerosolkid for the beta.
Notes: Directly inspired by this. This is for callsigns because I love her lots and lots and lots. Jessa, I hope you like it. <3
Ryan bruises easily; from clumsy collisions with tables, from errant knuckles flailed casually around, from the light but still insistent pressure of Pete's mouth - this last most of all.
Pete fits his thumbs against each mark, and if it hurts, Ryan never says so.
-
The theory and practice of Pete's love radically diverge. His desire to have John Hughes movie love usually ends up just being with people who are still in high school. His belief in his own ability to have a functional relationship is constantly proven wrong in a variety of new and exciting ways; he washes the eyeliner off and wears normal boy clothes and he's still the basketcase. "You deserve better," Pete mumbles against Ryan's stomach. Ryan's not the first person he's said that to. He won't be the last.
Ryan won't admit it, but he wants Baz Luhrmann movie love; he wants silk roses and fireworks and blinding sunlight and angel wings and every single time he forgets the misery, the absinthe headache, the end credits.
Ryan doesn't answer, because he's sleeping.
-
Pete fucks Ryan and six months later hears his band for the first time.
Pete's always been good with faces but never with names, so it's not until Ryan sends him pictures of the band that he makes the connection between Panic! At The Disco Ryan and Summer League Ryan he'd let blow him after a show, then fucked in the back of the van the next time they came through town. He remembers Ryan's mouth and the tender hinge of his jaw where Pete had pressed his thumb to get Ryan to open, how after that Ryan had been so eager, had come in Pete's hand barely a stroke after Pete had gotten his knuckles past the waist of Ryan's tight jeans.
In the pictures, Ryan's hair is a little longer, curling around his chin, and everything becomes clearer. Pete doesn't make a habit of sleeping with a kid more than once; Ryan just catches him off guard, a little smarter, a little prettier. Discussion of Kubrick leads, dizzyingly, to Ryan on his knees in the alley behind the venue, thin fingers wrapped around Pete's cock as he sucks the head into his mouth.
The trouble is Pete's never been very good at resisting offers, even though he wants to keep talking to Ryan, wants to know more about him. But Ryan wants kisses, wants his cock; it feels like a trade, Ryan's conversation for sex, a means to an end to reel Pete in so Ryan can get what he wants. Just from talking to him for half an hour, tucked into the back corner of the club, Pete gets the impression that Ryan doesn't often get what he wants.
Pete doesn't kid himself that it was an act of charity, by any means - he gets off, he comes in Ryan's mouth, he likes it. He likes watching Ryan swallow, he likes the look in Ryan's eyes when Ryan stands up, like Pete has just done him a favor.
He likes it when, on the next tour, Ryan comes again to seek him out. They can't go sit in the adjacent bar, but they talk in the corner, heads bent close together to hear each other over the headliners, and even though Pete can see that Ryan's edgy, even though he can see that Ryan's half-hard in his jeans just from talking to Pete, he still makes him wait, he gets as much as he can out of this kid until he feels himself begin to curl at the edges like a book left open too long, and that's when he leans and whispers, "Let's go back to the van," his breath hot on the shell of Ryan's ear. Ryan nods quickly, his fingertips brushing Pete's like he instinctively made to take Pete's hand in his, let himself be led.
It's awkward, it's always awkward trying to do this in the van, which is why Pete usually doesn't, but he somehow doubts Ryan has an apartment to go back to, at least not one where they wouldn't have to be quiet so as not to disturb his parents. Pete leads them to the backseat, and when he sits Ryan's still standing awkwardly over the seats, ducking and biting his lip. When Pete raises an eyebrow at him, Ryan slides to his knees, pulling at Pete's jeans, and Pete spreads his legs and lets him.
He likes it better this time, out of the cold night air, Ryan nuzzling at his lap, bent between Pete's legs, his fingers long and perfect when they wrap around Pete's dick, his lips pink and licked wet when he sucks Pete in, looking up through his eyelashes and leaning into Pete's palm when Pete touches his cheek. Ryan licks him sloppily, less carefully than he did before, from the head down to the base, and when Pete tilts his head curiously Ryan pulls back, face flushed. His voice shakes only a little when he says, "Will you - you can fuck me, if you want."
Pete wants. Pete shouldn't want, but he does, and there's most of his problems in life defined right there. He coaxes Ryan up, and Ryan struggles out of his shoes and tight jeans, revealing thin little red marks from where the girl's size twos have cut too tightly across his hips.
Ryan's favorite author is Chuck Palahniuk; Ryan is his middle name, not his first; he's an okay student, but what he really cares about is music; he's in a band, and they're going to play at his friend's Mormon church next week. Pete repeats these facts in his head: they mean he knows Ryan at least a little, at least enough, almost enough to be doing this to him, to be slipping two fingers into Ryan's willing mouth so Ryan can get them wet, so he can pull Ryan into his lap and spread the cheeks of his ass and push his fingers between, inside.
Pete doesn't ask if he's done this before; he never asks that. It's hard to tell with Ryan, who bites his lip like it feels good but is shaking like a virgin, and Pete doesn't put any great stock in sex and the meaningfulness thereof, but he still hopes Ryan isn't. He doesn't necessarily think loss of virginity should be accompanied by candlelight and roses, but Ryan looks like he might think so.
Pete tries to be gentle.
"Please, now," Ryan says after a moment, after Pete's got two fingers in him, tight and hot and Pete really hopes he's not going to come like some teenager the minute he gets inside Ryan.
He takes his fingers out and slouches down enough that Ryan can straddle him better, can take hold of his still spit-wet cock and get him right there where he needs to be, and Ryan trembles when he first gets it positioned right, but his hesitation doesn't last but a second before he's letting gravity take him down. Pete leans his forehead against Ryan's shoulder, afraid to look at him, biting his own lip against coming right away, because god, Ryan is tight, Ryan is so, so tight around him and he's taking Pete in almost unbearably slowly. Pete's fingers tense on his waist, and Pete needs to drag him down, needs to be buried in Ryan's body, there's only so much he can take before he shifts his hips up and finishes the descent for him.
Ryan lets out a startled little, "Oh," into the air above, and Pete doesn't look, doesn't want to see Ryan wincing through it if he is.
"Come on," Pete grits out, hating the words even as he says them, hating his own inability to resist this, a pretty face, a sincere word or two. Ryan rises up a bit, his thighs trembling as he does, and then slides back down, taking Pete back inside him, his thighs tight around Pete's legs. He raises and lowers himself with painful slowness, his hands clenching on Pete's shoulders, his ass clenching around Pete's dick, and it's all a lot, it's all too much, really, Pete needs to look at him, see his face, see if he's there with Pete, feeling what Pete is feeling, because with Ryan sitting astride him, taking Pete into his body, Pete shouldn't feel this alone.
When Pete pulls back to see, Ryan looks overwhelmed, like it hurts, but not because Pete's fucking him. He wants to say something - good things shouldn't hurt, they don't have to - but instead he just tugs Ryan's head down and kisses him, hand warm on the back of his neck, reaching around to touch the base of his spine, rub the thin flat of bone there and slip downward to feel where he's stretching Ryan wide, opening him, and he wants to reach inside but that won't find him want he wants, he knows that. His tongue slips between Ryan's lips, tasting him, and Ryan holds him in place, hand on his shoulder, the other knuckling clumsily down Pete's stomach until Ryan can grasp his own cock.
Pete's not a teenager, not like Ryan is, and he's lasted this long so far, moments, minutes; when Ryan starts to jerk himself off, his mouth going slack against Pete's, Pete lets himself push up hard, he lets himself fuck Ryan while he can, lets himself take what Ryan's offering and feels like he's stealing it.
He's thrusting roughly but Ryan's taking it, slamming back down into each push, gasping but otherwise quiet. Pete moans enough for the both of them, ducking his head to watch Ryan jerk himself off, hating and loving that Ryan's willing to just take what Pete gives him without asking for more. Pete takes hold of his hips and shoves him down, going deep, and holds him there, grinding up as Ryan squirms, squeezing his own dick; the look of concentration is what does it for Pete, and he comes inside Ryan, digging his nails into Ryan's ass and feeling only a little bad about it.
"Ryan," he says, and rubs his thumb under the head of Ryan's cock. That's all it takes for Ryan to come, thrusting up into his fist, and Pete wonders if it was the touch that did it, or just him saying Ryan's name aloud.
-
Most of Pete's memories of Ryan are manufactured. He constructs them from the ashes of dreams and movies starring upstanding young men who aren't in rock bands, who don't hold record contracts and pens to sign them with, who don't have girlfriends back home.
He jerks off to mental images of Ryan underneath him, and that's real enough, that's happened before and since. He jerks off to the memory of Ryan on top of him, he comes to the remembered echo of Ryan's moans in the L.A. house, the picture of Ryan's face when he heard his voice hit the walls and call back in the high-ceilinged room.
But sometimes, during the day, he'll be IMing Ryan and Ryan will say something offhand, mention something he's done, and Pete slots himself neatly in there. He's with Ryan as Ryan grabs a burger from the cheap diner across the street from the recording studio, he walks with Ryan through the forest outside the cabin and looks up through the trees to the sky, he lays with Ryan on the grass outside the venue in Portland and together they watch the stars. Ryan tells him what the new songs sound like - like Paris, like a Broadway musical, like home, and he fits himself in there too, slipping his hand into Ryan's, tangling their fingers together and letting Ryan lead him.
When he sees Ryan for real, it's vaguely surreal, like he's still dreaming, like he never woke up.
-
He gets inside Ryan but never as deeply as he wants.
-
They stop in October, and then again the October after that. Pete's fingertips play over Ryan's knuckles, skimming the grass where his hands rest, and Ryan threads their fingers together, spreading his own so Pete's push and fall between, naturally. "I don't think we should," Ryan says.
"Just because there's someone else doesn't mean there can't be us," Pete says.
But that's exactly what it means.
-
Pete never knows when it's going to be the last time, but instead of treating every time like the last he just takes it all for granted.
With Ryan in his bed on their first tour together, the possibilities are infinite: it's a slumber party, a sleepover, Ryan thin and long-limbed in Pete's bunk, bent and hunched and twisted and with his forehead pressed to the wall so Pete can fuck him. Between sets, between cities, Pete keeps Ryan with him when he can, taking him in venue bathrooms and closets when he can't, steadfastly not meeting Spencer's eyes or Brent's raised eyebrow or Brendon's glare when they walk out, taking his bandmates' disapproval as a given and grateful they're not louder about it.
He doesn't hold Ryan's hand and later he regrets it.
-
The second October Ryan says no, it's dark outside and warm in Pete's bed and he wishes again that he could sleep alone, that he could stop the invitations before they reach his lips. When Ryan has rough spots with the band or with girls or with his life he seems to end up at Pete's door, older every time, wiser debatable no matter how world-weary he looks. Pete pats the bed next to him and pulls Ryan into his arms and every time Ryan fits against him like he's meant to be there, like he should never be anywhere else and the illusion only lasts until Ryan's gone again.
Pete wouldn't admit it but secretly he's still a little startled that Ryan wants to touch him, that the gloss hasn't worn off, that Ryan still looks at him with the same eyes he did when he was seventeen, please, yes only barely tempered by familiarity: please, yes, I know you will, I know you want to. Ryan doesn't lie to him, he doesn't think Ryan lies to him, and for such a complex kid he can be surprisingly uncomplicated in what he wants. He tugs at Pete's clothes with the same eagerness he always has, and it's never something Pete gets tired of; he's glad to grant it, even, on the rare nights they skip the formalities, when Pete doesn't make Ryan trade secrets for skin. Pete likes to think he won't put out for less than dinner and conversation, but sometimes he catches a flash of Ryan's hip between his shirt and pants and he forgets his own name. The only cure then is kisses in excess and Ryan always grants those, Pete's a makeout king but Ryan could very well be makeout prince with lips like those and what he does with them.
But he always wants more, he always pushes beyond the limits of what Pete usually does, until Pete's promising maps of the Yukon and little red wagons and cheese sandwiches for their grand getaway, satin and brocade clothes for when they become circus performers; until Pete finds himself kissing down Ryan's long, arching spine, licking over each knob of bone before parting his cheeks and pushing his tongue between, touching Ryan wherever and however he wants. He wants. Ryan wants.
Ryan wants tenderness sometimes and roughness others, and Ryan never learns to ask so Pete has to learn to guess. He learns the language of Ryan's arched hips and spread legs, the intricate translations of his quiet moans and the thousand meanings behind an indistinct murmur into the pillow. Ryan parts his thighs and raises his ass and Pete knows to slip down to the bed and take hold of Ryan's cock from underneath, bite one cheek and then mouth at the sting. Being this close to Ryan, this intimate, it dizzies Pete worse than a hunger headache and just as heavy until he licks into Ryan, gives into Ryan, pushes his tongue in and follows with wet fingers until Ryan curls his hand back and brushes Pete's cheek, looks over his shoulder with heavy-lidded eyes and then Pete knows.
Ryan's need is his permission to rise, get Ryan's hips in his hands and slide his cock along the crack of Ryan's ass before pushing right in, and every time Ryan's better than he remembered, hotter inside, tighter. Even though Pete thinks he should have gotten used to it by now, it still makes him catch his breath, he still needs a minute to just be there with Ryan clenching around him, Ryan giving it up, Ryan letting him touch him like this. The better he gets to know Ryan the more he understands that this is a privilege, that this is how Ryan will bare himself to Pete, even if it's still not everything, not even close. Even bent over Ryan, kissing the back of his neck as he fucks into him, it's still not enough, not nearly.
He takes what he can get, he takes what Ryan offers and he gives back what he can and hopes it's what Ryan needs. He holds onto Ryan bruisingly tight and fucks him hard and fast and hopes Ryan will be up for another round because he can't wait, he can't wait. His hips slam into Ryan's ass and mark him up red while Pete fucks him raw, and that draws sounds out of Ryan, like each thrust is a favor that he's lucky to receive, like Pete's the one giving him something here, like this is all he needs. Like Pete's dick and Pete's come inside him is all he needs from Pete and the bruises are just a tithe, the secrets an entrance donation to get past the gates. He means to make Ryan tell him more when they finish; tonight he wants to know about every girl Ryan's ever slept with and why and whether or not they were in love or if he even knows what love is. He'll let Ryan suck him after and Ryan will be grateful.
Ryan comes easily when he's fucked, it barely takes a stroke or two when Pete's near to finishing and Ryan comes in Pete's fist, accepts his hand to lick clean as Pete presses himself to Ryan's back and fucks in deep and comes himself. The few times he tried to fall asleep inside Ryan he got pushed off for his troubles, so he doesn't try anymore, he just pulls Ryan over on top of him and pretends the cuddling is for Ryan's sake.
Ryan says, "Thank you," and Pete wishes he wouldn't.
That night he dreams they're underwater, that Ryan's telling him about a new song they wrote that sounds like The Little Mermaid, but not the Disney version, the scary Brothers Grimm one where each step on land felt like knives stabbing the mermaid's feet, and when Pete speaks he sounds just fine but Ryan's voice is muffled undersea and Pete has to guess what he's saying from context. Pete says that he wanted to be King Triton but Ryan just looks disappointed in him, and when Pete looks down the seabed is lined with sharp serrated blades of metal and shell and their feet are bleeding.
Pete likes sex in the morning but Ryan doesn't, and Pete tries not to look disappointed. Ryan looks hungover, Ryan looks like he didn't get any sleep at all, Ryan looks like he just walked over a bed of knives when he says he's sorry and they shouldn't and then he leaves, and all Pete can do is be grateful he at least stayed the night first.
-
The third of their first times is long after the second, after contracts and manstew and Maryland, and it's maybe too long coming because Ryan finishes in about three minutes and Pete only lasts fifteen seconds longer. Not that he's watching the clock, not that he's watching the door, not that they just rubbed against each other high school-style in the back room of a shitty venue in Vegas. Not that he's apparently useless when it comes to resisting Ryan, who extracts himself from the band group hug to fling himself into Pete's arms, knocking Pete against the wall (love hurts and so does his head), and it's a push-and-pull and keep-on-touching and Pete's not sure who drags who into the backstage bathroom but they end up there just the same.
Pete kisses Ryan first just to make things easier, because Ryan wants it so bad and Pete wants him to have things he wants, nice things, happy things, things like Pete's thigh to rub up against as he shoves their hips together hard and presses Ryan to the wall. So not strictly traditionally happy, that's fine, but Ryan panting against his ear feels pretty damn good and the skin of Ryan's neck is salty-sweet between his teeth as he sucks bruises into it. Ryan's legs part and Ryan's dick is hard against his hip, Ryan's hands fisted in his t-shirt. Pete loves his band but Ryan saying his name through clenched teeth, oh, that's music, the chorus the same but the verses different, and he follows Pete back to his hotel room that night and it's not the last time.
-
It's always the last time and it's never the last time, and even after months of friendly touches and nothing more than chaste hugs Pete still doesn't believe last times exist for them. They've had too many last times to count by now, and even with girls on their arms and others (always others) in their beds there's still more Pete needs to learn about Ryan, still more he means to extract from him with promises of kisses and touches tender or vicious, whatever he needs, whatever Pete guesses that he needs. He wants to call a summit with ex-girlfriends and compare all their notes, fill in the blank spots in Ryan's history; sometimes he even coaxes Brendon to talk to him, tell him about the years before Pete knew them, what Ryan was like, even though Brendon's gaze gets sharp when he talks about people taking advantage of Ryan.
At least Pete knows Ryan better than Brendon does; at least he knows that with Ryan, nobody ever has the advantage.
-
"I didn't know it was you," Pete says after that first meeting, when Brendon, Spencer, and Brent have gotten out of the car and are heading back into the practice space. Ryan stills with his hand on the car door. "I really just liked your music."
After a minute, Ryan says, "Okay."
Pete never figures out for sure if Ryan believes him, and he never stops wondering.
Title: Swing as high as any savior
Author: Sara
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pete/Ryan
Summary: Someday we'll be loved the way we want to be loved by the people we want to love us.
Disclaimer: This isn't real.
Thanks: theaerosolkid for the beta.
Notes: Directly inspired by this. This is for callsigns because I love her lots and lots and lots. Jessa, I hope you like it. <3
Ryan bruises easily; from clumsy collisions with tables, from errant knuckles flailed casually around, from the light but still insistent pressure of Pete's mouth - this last most of all.
Pete fits his thumbs against each mark, and if it hurts, Ryan never says so.
-
The theory and practice of Pete's love radically diverge. His desire to have John Hughes movie love usually ends up just being with people who are still in high school. His belief in his own ability to have a functional relationship is constantly proven wrong in a variety of new and exciting ways; he washes the eyeliner off and wears normal boy clothes and he's still the basketcase. "You deserve better," Pete mumbles against Ryan's stomach. Ryan's not the first person he's said that to. He won't be the last.
Ryan won't admit it, but he wants Baz Luhrmann movie love; he wants silk roses and fireworks and blinding sunlight and angel wings and every single time he forgets the misery, the absinthe headache, the end credits.
Ryan doesn't answer, because he's sleeping.
-
Pete fucks Ryan and six months later hears his band for the first time.
Pete's always been good with faces but never with names, so it's not until Ryan sends him pictures of the band that he makes the connection between Panic! At The Disco Ryan and Summer League Ryan he'd let blow him after a show, then fucked in the back of the van the next time they came through town. He remembers Ryan's mouth and the tender hinge of his jaw where Pete had pressed his thumb to get Ryan to open, how after that Ryan had been so eager, had come in Pete's hand barely a stroke after Pete had gotten his knuckles past the waist of Ryan's tight jeans.
In the pictures, Ryan's hair is a little longer, curling around his chin, and everything becomes clearer. Pete doesn't make a habit of sleeping with a kid more than once; Ryan just catches him off guard, a little smarter, a little prettier. Discussion of Kubrick leads, dizzyingly, to Ryan on his knees in the alley behind the venue, thin fingers wrapped around Pete's cock as he sucks the head into his mouth.
The trouble is Pete's never been very good at resisting offers, even though he wants to keep talking to Ryan, wants to know more about him. But Ryan wants kisses, wants his cock; it feels like a trade, Ryan's conversation for sex, a means to an end to reel Pete in so Ryan can get what he wants. Just from talking to him for half an hour, tucked into the back corner of the club, Pete gets the impression that Ryan doesn't often get what he wants.
Pete doesn't kid himself that it was an act of charity, by any means - he gets off, he comes in Ryan's mouth, he likes it. He likes watching Ryan swallow, he likes the look in Ryan's eyes when Ryan stands up, like Pete has just done him a favor.
He likes it when, on the next tour, Ryan comes again to seek him out. They can't go sit in the adjacent bar, but they talk in the corner, heads bent close together to hear each other over the headliners, and even though Pete can see that Ryan's edgy, even though he can see that Ryan's half-hard in his jeans just from talking to Pete, he still makes him wait, he gets as much as he can out of this kid until he feels himself begin to curl at the edges like a book left open too long, and that's when he leans and whispers, "Let's go back to the van," his breath hot on the shell of Ryan's ear. Ryan nods quickly, his fingertips brushing Pete's like he instinctively made to take Pete's hand in his, let himself be led.
It's awkward, it's always awkward trying to do this in the van, which is why Pete usually doesn't, but he somehow doubts Ryan has an apartment to go back to, at least not one where they wouldn't have to be quiet so as not to disturb his parents. Pete leads them to the backseat, and when he sits Ryan's still standing awkwardly over the seats, ducking and biting his lip. When Pete raises an eyebrow at him, Ryan slides to his knees, pulling at Pete's jeans, and Pete spreads his legs and lets him.
He likes it better this time, out of the cold night air, Ryan nuzzling at his lap, bent between Pete's legs, his fingers long and perfect when they wrap around Pete's dick, his lips pink and licked wet when he sucks Pete in, looking up through his eyelashes and leaning into Pete's palm when Pete touches his cheek. Ryan licks him sloppily, less carefully than he did before, from the head down to the base, and when Pete tilts his head curiously Ryan pulls back, face flushed. His voice shakes only a little when he says, "Will you - you can fuck me, if you want."
Pete wants. Pete shouldn't want, but he does, and there's most of his problems in life defined right there. He coaxes Ryan up, and Ryan struggles out of his shoes and tight jeans, revealing thin little red marks from where the girl's size twos have cut too tightly across his hips.
Ryan's favorite author is Chuck Palahniuk; Ryan is his middle name, not his first; he's an okay student, but what he really cares about is music; he's in a band, and they're going to play at his friend's Mormon church next week. Pete repeats these facts in his head: they mean he knows Ryan at least a little, at least enough, almost enough to be doing this to him, to be slipping two fingers into Ryan's willing mouth so Ryan can get them wet, so he can pull Ryan into his lap and spread the cheeks of his ass and push his fingers between, inside.
Pete doesn't ask if he's done this before; he never asks that. It's hard to tell with Ryan, who bites his lip like it feels good but is shaking like a virgin, and Pete doesn't put any great stock in sex and the meaningfulness thereof, but he still hopes Ryan isn't. He doesn't necessarily think loss of virginity should be accompanied by candlelight and roses, but Ryan looks like he might think so.
Pete tries to be gentle.
"Please, now," Ryan says after a moment, after Pete's got two fingers in him, tight and hot and Pete really hopes he's not going to come like some teenager the minute he gets inside Ryan.
He takes his fingers out and slouches down enough that Ryan can straddle him better, can take hold of his still spit-wet cock and get him right there where he needs to be, and Ryan trembles when he first gets it positioned right, but his hesitation doesn't last but a second before he's letting gravity take him down. Pete leans his forehead against Ryan's shoulder, afraid to look at him, biting his own lip against coming right away, because god, Ryan is tight, Ryan is so, so tight around him and he's taking Pete in almost unbearably slowly. Pete's fingers tense on his waist, and Pete needs to drag him down, needs to be buried in Ryan's body, there's only so much he can take before he shifts his hips up and finishes the descent for him.
Ryan lets out a startled little, "Oh," into the air above, and Pete doesn't look, doesn't want to see Ryan wincing through it if he is.
"Come on," Pete grits out, hating the words even as he says them, hating his own inability to resist this, a pretty face, a sincere word or two. Ryan rises up a bit, his thighs trembling as he does, and then slides back down, taking Pete back inside him, his thighs tight around Pete's legs. He raises and lowers himself with painful slowness, his hands clenching on Pete's shoulders, his ass clenching around Pete's dick, and it's all a lot, it's all too much, really, Pete needs to look at him, see his face, see if he's there with Pete, feeling what Pete is feeling, because with Ryan sitting astride him, taking Pete into his body, Pete shouldn't feel this alone.
When Pete pulls back to see, Ryan looks overwhelmed, like it hurts, but not because Pete's fucking him. He wants to say something - good things shouldn't hurt, they don't have to - but instead he just tugs Ryan's head down and kisses him, hand warm on the back of his neck, reaching around to touch the base of his spine, rub the thin flat of bone there and slip downward to feel where he's stretching Ryan wide, opening him, and he wants to reach inside but that won't find him want he wants, he knows that. His tongue slips between Ryan's lips, tasting him, and Ryan holds him in place, hand on his shoulder, the other knuckling clumsily down Pete's stomach until Ryan can grasp his own cock.
Pete's not a teenager, not like Ryan is, and he's lasted this long so far, moments, minutes; when Ryan starts to jerk himself off, his mouth going slack against Pete's, Pete lets himself push up hard, he lets himself fuck Ryan while he can, lets himself take what Ryan's offering and feels like he's stealing it.
He's thrusting roughly but Ryan's taking it, slamming back down into each push, gasping but otherwise quiet. Pete moans enough for the both of them, ducking his head to watch Ryan jerk himself off, hating and loving that Ryan's willing to just take what Pete gives him without asking for more. Pete takes hold of his hips and shoves him down, going deep, and holds him there, grinding up as Ryan squirms, squeezing his own dick; the look of concentration is what does it for Pete, and he comes inside Ryan, digging his nails into Ryan's ass and feeling only a little bad about it.
"Ryan," he says, and rubs his thumb under the head of Ryan's cock. That's all it takes for Ryan to come, thrusting up into his fist, and Pete wonders if it was the touch that did it, or just him saying Ryan's name aloud.
-
Most of Pete's memories of Ryan are manufactured. He constructs them from the ashes of dreams and movies starring upstanding young men who aren't in rock bands, who don't hold record contracts and pens to sign them with, who don't have girlfriends back home.
He jerks off to mental images of Ryan underneath him, and that's real enough, that's happened before and since. He jerks off to the memory of Ryan on top of him, he comes to the remembered echo of Ryan's moans in the L.A. house, the picture of Ryan's face when he heard his voice hit the walls and call back in the high-ceilinged room.
But sometimes, during the day, he'll be IMing Ryan and Ryan will say something offhand, mention something he's done, and Pete slots himself neatly in there. He's with Ryan as Ryan grabs a burger from the cheap diner across the street from the recording studio, he walks with Ryan through the forest outside the cabin and looks up through the trees to the sky, he lays with Ryan on the grass outside the venue in Portland and together they watch the stars. Ryan tells him what the new songs sound like - like Paris, like a Broadway musical, like home, and he fits himself in there too, slipping his hand into Ryan's, tangling their fingers together and letting Ryan lead him.
When he sees Ryan for real, it's vaguely surreal, like he's still dreaming, like he never woke up.
-
He gets inside Ryan but never as deeply as he wants.
-
They stop in October, and then again the October after that. Pete's fingertips play over Ryan's knuckles, skimming the grass where his hands rest, and Ryan threads their fingers together, spreading his own so Pete's push and fall between, naturally. "I don't think we should," Ryan says.
"Just because there's someone else doesn't mean there can't be us," Pete says.
But that's exactly what it means.
-
Pete never knows when it's going to be the last time, but instead of treating every time like the last he just takes it all for granted.
With Ryan in his bed on their first tour together, the possibilities are infinite: it's a slumber party, a sleepover, Ryan thin and long-limbed in Pete's bunk, bent and hunched and twisted and with his forehead pressed to the wall so Pete can fuck him. Between sets, between cities, Pete keeps Ryan with him when he can, taking him in venue bathrooms and closets when he can't, steadfastly not meeting Spencer's eyes or Brent's raised eyebrow or Brendon's glare when they walk out, taking his bandmates' disapproval as a given and grateful they're not louder about it.
He doesn't hold Ryan's hand and later he regrets it.
-
The second October Ryan says no, it's dark outside and warm in Pete's bed and he wishes again that he could sleep alone, that he could stop the invitations before they reach his lips. When Ryan has rough spots with the band or with girls or with his life he seems to end up at Pete's door, older every time, wiser debatable no matter how world-weary he looks. Pete pats the bed next to him and pulls Ryan into his arms and every time Ryan fits against him like he's meant to be there, like he should never be anywhere else and the illusion only lasts until Ryan's gone again.
Pete wouldn't admit it but secretly he's still a little startled that Ryan wants to touch him, that the gloss hasn't worn off, that Ryan still looks at him with the same eyes he did when he was seventeen, please, yes only barely tempered by familiarity: please, yes, I know you will, I know you want to. Ryan doesn't lie to him, he doesn't think Ryan lies to him, and for such a complex kid he can be surprisingly uncomplicated in what he wants. He tugs at Pete's clothes with the same eagerness he always has, and it's never something Pete gets tired of; he's glad to grant it, even, on the rare nights they skip the formalities, when Pete doesn't make Ryan trade secrets for skin. Pete likes to think he won't put out for less than dinner and conversation, but sometimes he catches a flash of Ryan's hip between his shirt and pants and he forgets his own name. The only cure then is kisses in excess and Ryan always grants those, Pete's a makeout king but Ryan could very well be makeout prince with lips like those and what he does with them.
But he always wants more, he always pushes beyond the limits of what Pete usually does, until Pete's promising maps of the Yukon and little red wagons and cheese sandwiches for their grand getaway, satin and brocade clothes for when they become circus performers; until Pete finds himself kissing down Ryan's long, arching spine, licking over each knob of bone before parting his cheeks and pushing his tongue between, touching Ryan wherever and however he wants. He wants. Ryan wants.
Ryan wants tenderness sometimes and roughness others, and Ryan never learns to ask so Pete has to learn to guess. He learns the language of Ryan's arched hips and spread legs, the intricate translations of his quiet moans and the thousand meanings behind an indistinct murmur into the pillow. Ryan parts his thighs and raises his ass and Pete knows to slip down to the bed and take hold of Ryan's cock from underneath, bite one cheek and then mouth at the sting. Being this close to Ryan, this intimate, it dizzies Pete worse than a hunger headache and just as heavy until he licks into Ryan, gives into Ryan, pushes his tongue in and follows with wet fingers until Ryan curls his hand back and brushes Pete's cheek, looks over his shoulder with heavy-lidded eyes and then Pete knows.
Ryan's need is his permission to rise, get Ryan's hips in his hands and slide his cock along the crack of Ryan's ass before pushing right in, and every time Ryan's better than he remembered, hotter inside, tighter. Even though Pete thinks he should have gotten used to it by now, it still makes him catch his breath, he still needs a minute to just be there with Ryan clenching around him, Ryan giving it up, Ryan letting him touch him like this. The better he gets to know Ryan the more he understands that this is a privilege, that this is how Ryan will bare himself to Pete, even if it's still not everything, not even close. Even bent over Ryan, kissing the back of his neck as he fucks into him, it's still not enough, not nearly.
He takes what he can get, he takes what Ryan offers and he gives back what he can and hopes it's what Ryan needs. He holds onto Ryan bruisingly tight and fucks him hard and fast and hopes Ryan will be up for another round because he can't wait, he can't wait. His hips slam into Ryan's ass and mark him up red while Pete fucks him raw, and that draws sounds out of Ryan, like each thrust is a favor that he's lucky to receive, like Pete's the one giving him something here, like this is all he needs. Like Pete's dick and Pete's come inside him is all he needs from Pete and the bruises are just a tithe, the secrets an entrance donation to get past the gates. He means to make Ryan tell him more when they finish; tonight he wants to know about every girl Ryan's ever slept with and why and whether or not they were in love or if he even knows what love is. He'll let Ryan suck him after and Ryan will be grateful.
Ryan comes easily when he's fucked, it barely takes a stroke or two when Pete's near to finishing and Ryan comes in Pete's fist, accepts his hand to lick clean as Pete presses himself to Ryan's back and fucks in deep and comes himself. The few times he tried to fall asleep inside Ryan he got pushed off for his troubles, so he doesn't try anymore, he just pulls Ryan over on top of him and pretends the cuddling is for Ryan's sake.
Ryan says, "Thank you," and Pete wishes he wouldn't.
That night he dreams they're underwater, that Ryan's telling him about a new song they wrote that sounds like The Little Mermaid, but not the Disney version, the scary Brothers Grimm one where each step on land felt like knives stabbing the mermaid's feet, and when Pete speaks he sounds just fine but Ryan's voice is muffled undersea and Pete has to guess what he's saying from context. Pete says that he wanted to be King Triton but Ryan just looks disappointed in him, and when Pete looks down the seabed is lined with sharp serrated blades of metal and shell and their feet are bleeding.
Pete likes sex in the morning but Ryan doesn't, and Pete tries not to look disappointed. Ryan looks hungover, Ryan looks like he didn't get any sleep at all, Ryan looks like he just walked over a bed of knives when he says he's sorry and they shouldn't and then he leaves, and all Pete can do is be grateful he at least stayed the night first.
-
The third of their first times is long after the second, after contracts and manstew and Maryland, and it's maybe too long coming because Ryan finishes in about three minutes and Pete only lasts fifteen seconds longer. Not that he's watching the clock, not that he's watching the door, not that they just rubbed against each other high school-style in the back room of a shitty venue in Vegas. Not that he's apparently useless when it comes to resisting Ryan, who extracts himself from the band group hug to fling himself into Pete's arms, knocking Pete against the wall (love hurts and so does his head), and it's a push-and-pull and keep-on-touching and Pete's not sure who drags who into the backstage bathroom but they end up there just the same.
Pete kisses Ryan first just to make things easier, because Ryan wants it so bad and Pete wants him to have things he wants, nice things, happy things, things like Pete's thigh to rub up against as he shoves their hips together hard and presses Ryan to the wall. So not strictly traditionally happy, that's fine, but Ryan panting against his ear feels pretty damn good and the skin of Ryan's neck is salty-sweet between his teeth as he sucks bruises into it. Ryan's legs part and Ryan's dick is hard against his hip, Ryan's hands fisted in his t-shirt. Pete loves his band but Ryan saying his name through clenched teeth, oh, that's music, the chorus the same but the verses different, and he follows Pete back to his hotel room that night and it's not the last time.
-
It's always the last time and it's never the last time, and even after months of friendly touches and nothing more than chaste hugs Pete still doesn't believe last times exist for them. They've had too many last times to count by now, and even with girls on their arms and others (always others) in their beds there's still more Pete needs to learn about Ryan, still more he means to extract from him with promises of kisses and touches tender or vicious, whatever he needs, whatever Pete guesses that he needs. He wants to call a summit with ex-girlfriends and compare all their notes, fill in the blank spots in Ryan's history; sometimes he even coaxes Brendon to talk to him, tell him about the years before Pete knew them, what Ryan was like, even though Brendon's gaze gets sharp when he talks about people taking advantage of Ryan.
At least Pete knows Ryan better than Brendon does; at least he knows that with Ryan, nobody ever has the advantage.
-
"I didn't know it was you," Pete says after that first meeting, when Brendon, Spencer, and Brent have gotten out of the car and are heading back into the practice space. Ryan stills with his hand on the car door. "I really just liked your music."
After a minute, Ryan says, "Okay."
Pete never figures out for sure if Ryan believes him, and he never stops wondering.