PatD fic: Call It Home (Brendon/Ryan, NC-17)
Title: Call It Home
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ryan goes to pick up Brendon from the airport after they've been apart for two weeks. He's kind of neurotic and cranky about the whole thing. But since (in my fic anyway, for some reason, *facepalm*) Brendon is always composed of one part perception, two parts patience, and three parts sunshine, it's all okay in the end (read: schmoop). Oh, and there might be some gratuitous sex, too. 4000 words.
Disclaimer: If this is about you, then you know it's not really about you. For your sanity, hit the back button.
Call It Home
It's late when Brendon's flight gets in, but McCarran is still spilling over with people. And that, Ryan thinks, is going to be a definite problem--because Brendon will want to have his hands all over him as soon as he sees him. And Ryan will probably want him to, no matter how much he might feel the need to put on a show of protest, at the very least do some stern eye rolling.
No matter how annoyed he might act, Ryan will be perversely glad to see that Brendon looks as desperate as he feels. It's been a long two weeks they've been apart, and Ryan doesn't just miss the sex stuff, making him come and Brendon putting his mouth all over him. He misses talking to him, seeing him smile, wrapping his arms around him whenever he wants. Maybe he took it for granted, after living with people practically on top of him all the time. But this is Brendon, and living with him every day made him so used to touching and being touched, to keeping his walls down way more than he ever has before, that these two weeks have been very, very lonely. He's remembered why he always used to keep those walls up. Every day, he's having to actively fight the impulse to withdraw like he hasn't in…months, maybe.
Suddenly, he realizes he's not paying attention to where he's going.
Despite being so weirdly nervous and jittery, he's also more than a little sleepy. And lost, apparently, which is ridiculous given how many times he's flown out of this motherfucking airport. But yet here he is, mopily meandering as much as his thoughts are, having to stop in the middle of the terminal to squint at the signs until he finds the one for Baggage Claim.
Claim. Fuck, he thinks. It hits him almost physically. Claim and Brendon.
Maybe he hasn't before. He's been afraid to, because that's what everyone expects out of him--to be a possessive, controlling asshole--and he doesn't want that. But maybe, then, Brendon doesn't completely understand what this is and what it means. Fuck, maybe he didn't get it himself either, not until the last few days. It's so much clearer now that he's not in the cycle of touring and touching and bitchy fights at three a.m. and make-up make-outs at four and seeing him every goddamn day until he forgot that there are times when he wouldn't be able to see him. Like now, how it's still not yet, echoing through his head the same way the loneliness has for days. He's just about fucking sick of that.
He stands around the baggage carousel feeling the crowd swell in behind him. He's got his iPod on shuffle, but he's not really actively listening, just drowning out the rush of noise all around him and the whirl of thoughts in his head. He keeps his eyes peeled, though, and he's startled to see Brendon's bag come around, recognizing it by the piece of electric blue ribbon woven around the handle. He mechanically picks it up, wondering where Brendon is, why he's not there. Wondering and, for no good reason, worrying.
By the time almost everyone on Brendon's flight has drifted away with their checked bags, his cell phone buzzes in his pocket. He wrenches it out, glancing at the caller ID but knowing who it is anyway.
He answers with, "Where the hell are you?"
After a beat, Brendon's voice is there, warm and friendly like it has been every day for the last fourteen days over the phone. Still over the phone.
"Missed you too, dickhead," he replies.
"Your bag's here, but where are you? The board said it was on time."
"Stopped to pee, then to get coffee and eat a donut. I'm like the walking dead. It's like, I don't know, four a.m. on the east coast? You have my bag?"
"Yes. You stopped for coffee?"
"Uh. Yeah."
"I'm waiting down here for you, and you're dicking around the domestic concourse, getting coffee and a donut?"
Brendon sighs. "I'll be five minutes, okay?"
"Fine," Ryan says tersely.
Brendon sighs again, but his voice has a tense edge when he says, "Thought I was being, you know, courteous telling you where I was."
Ryan realizes he's not breathing. He really has no idea why he's angry, only that Brendon's being Brendon, but if he was really being Brendon he'd know without Ryan having to say it that Ryan's sort of batshit with missing him right about now. Missing him, still, though he's already here, home.
"Meet me at the car, then," Ryan says just before he clicks his phone shut.
He knew it was a mistake almost before he did it, but he did it anyway. He knows why, too, and it pisses him the fuck off.
He wishes he could just wait at baggage claim now, but he can't. He told Brendon he'd be at the car, so he extends the handle on the suitcase and pulls it petulantly behind him, watching the pattern in the carpet intently as he navigates the airport, bleary eyes keeping tabs on the signs, weary brain trying not to think--and not really succeeding any better than he was before, maybe worse now.
As he comes out into familiar dry wind again and tucks himself into the elevator in the parking garage, he feels this ache in his stomach--the same ache that woke him up at 5:30 this morning, but maybe it's a little different now. Not just missing Brendon but wondering if there's something big he's missing about him, about how to do this and not fuck it up.
But come to think of it, though, that feeling's the same as it's always been. It's just that he thought he was over that shit, the passive-aggression, the pushing him away--because Brendon took so much time helping him get over it, by patience and by sheer force of his irritatingly optimistic will. Walls simply do not hold up around Brendon, and bullshit doesn't stand for long, either. It's both a blessing and half of the problem in the first place.
Ryan sighs as he hefts Brendon's bag into the trunk. He tries to remember how many he checked. One? Two? Did he leave one behind on the carousel? Probably--just like he left his boyfriend behind, to weave through McCarran alone. He's just about made up his mind to go back in and try to meet him on the way somehow when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn't even check this time. He just leans back against the trunk and flips the phone open.
"Hey," he says. "Um. Shit."
Brendon gives a small chuckle. "What a sweet talker you are."
"Bren, I'm--"
"Yeah yeah yeah, I know," he says, voice weary but still playfully sarcastic. "Spontaneous PMS. Misplaced diva behavior. Fucking retarded Ryanness. Whatever. Just tell me where the car is, you cranky fucker."
"What? It's… Oh."
"Yeah, oh," he says with a giggle. "Unless you're a lot more OCD than I thought, it's not, like, exactly where it was when you drove me here."
"I'm sorry."
"I know," he says, then he chuckles. "Fuck, maybe it's too much to assume that you can even remember where it is, especially without Spencer there to remind you."
Brendon's trying to be funny, but all Ryan can do is half snap at him: "I can take care of myself. Been doing it for two weeks now."
He waits for Brendon to say something else, but he's silent a little longer than he'd normally be, and it makes Ryan nervous as hell. When he speaks again, it sounds like an afterthought. Except for how it also sounds--to Ryan's ears, at least--like an indictment:
"I got you coffee, too. If you want it."
Of course he got him coffee. Of course.
"Yeah," he replies.
Things go quiet again until Brendon says, "So, tell me where I'm going?"
"Home," Ryan says, and then a thought settles heavy in his stomach, spreading through his whole body like a pre-show tension. Claim. Some kind of gesture. Something he can't fucking take back when he gets fucking stupid like this and forgets how to trust himself and this thing they have together, and especially trust that Brendon will always be kind of smarter than him, at least about this shit. Something to permanently place Brendon behind all those walls, or at least the ones Ryan's already figured out how to deal with. Literal ones will be a good start.
"Duh," Brendon says with a soft chuckle. "I meant which parking--"
"No," Ryan replies. Then before he can chicken out, he says: "Home with me. For good."
"For good?"
"Um… I mean, my home…being your home, too?"
When Brendon's voice comes again, it's small and tight and it makes his stomach clench up: "Where are you?"
"Um." He casts his eyes about and says, "Level one. Look, Brendon, I--"
"Shut up. I can't do shit like this over the phone, okay? I need to, like, see you, okay?"
Ryan's pacing by the elevator a minute or two later, nervous and more than a little nauseated, when Brendon comes up the stairs, taking them two at a time, duffel bag bouncing at his back and coffee cup in each hand. When he sees Ryan, he gives him one of those smiles that can break Ryan wide open. And it totally does. Hurts a little, actually.
Brendon sets the two paper cups on top of a nearby trash can and drops the duffel off that arm and pulls Ryan into a crushing hug.
"You're serious?" Brendon says in his ear.
"Yeah," he says, squeezing him so tightly it's hard to breathe. "Yeah."
Without any warning then, Brendon starts kind of frantically kissing at his mouth. Soon, he moves on to his jaw, then his neck. Finally, he settles down, still clutching Ryan tight, and Ryan imagines that he could stay like that forever, just sinking deeper and deeper into it.
"I have a lot of shit," Brendon murmurs against his neck.
"Just the one bag, right? I mean--"
"No," he says with a giggle, pulling his head up and drawing back a little. "You sure you want to share closet space with all my shit? You sure there's even room for it with all your shit?"
No, fuck, he's not sure. But he's sure he wants to be. So Ryan nods and Brendon smiles, then he steps back and grabs his coffee and hands Ryan's over to him. Ryan's too nervous to drink anything, but Brendon closes his eyes as he takes a sip and smiles, content. He makes all this seem so easy. Like: Move in with me, Bren. Then: Okay, Ry. Like Brendon doesn't know what this really means. Or else...
Or else he's known way longer than Ryan.
Brendon makes this satisfied murmuring noise as he takes another swallow of coffee. He's so mesmerized he doesn't realize what Ryan's doing until he's already set his cup of coffee on the top of the trash can. After he takes Brendon's cup from him and deposits it beside his own, he puts a hand in the middle of Brendon's chest and walks him back the couple of paces to the brick wall beside the elevator.
When Ryan licks his way inside Brendon's mouth, really kissing him now, he tastes too much sugar and just a hint of coffee and everything he's been missing for two weeks. His hands splay over Brendon's hips and shove them back against the wall, and Brendon's surprised murmur doesn't make him want to stop. The opposite, actually.
Brendon's hand comes up to the back of his neck so he can press him deeper into the kiss even as he's squirming against him, hips rising up off the wall a little. Brendon's not even all the way hard yet, just doing that thing where he tries to wait and wait and wait before he lets go. Ryan's left hand curls into his waistband, his callused thumb sweeping over Brendon's stomach there where his t-shirt doesn't quite meet his jeans.
Ryan pulls his mouth away suddenly, feeling a little shaky, and just rests his head on Brendon's shoulders.
Mine, he thinks, but he can't say it. It still seems possessive when it would really be more like desperate. His hand slides down and seeks out the bulge of Brendon's cock, just to the right of his zipper, making him gasp as it finally comes up hard, the length of it pressing obscenely against the front of his pants.
"Ryan," he says, like it's all one syllable. "Ryan." He's shuddering a little as Ryan's fingers stroke and rub, even as the other holds him firmly to the wall. "We're… public… fucking parking-- Fuck," he moans softly as he shivers.
Ryan bites at his collarbone, right through his t-shirt. He doesn't really care that they're in a public parking garage--except for how he can't do what he'd really like, which is drop to his knees and blow Brendon's mind.
"My house is so far," Ryan mumbles. "But, Jesus, Brendon, I need--"
Brendon twines around him suddenly, pulling him close and shoving his tongue into his mouth. Ryan's hands come up to his neck and hold on tight as he's trying to think. Trying, but what the fuck was he thinking of that wasn't Brendon's mouth on his and Brendon's tongue probing in and flicking back out, making him chase it? Fucking tease. Fucking asking for all the things Ryan needs to give him, all the ways he needs to do it right now: fast and rough and overwhelming.
Brendon's hips shift against his, but not enough. It's not enough and it won't be enough in the middle of short term parking at the Las Vegas International Airport.
Ryan pulls out of the kiss with a gasp. "Oh, I know."
"What?"
"Just get in the car and trust me?"
And he always does; that's the hell of it. Brendon raises his eyebrows, but he's already scooping up his bag to throw it in the trunk, pausing to grope Ryan a little before Ryan gives him a stern face (which takes every bit of his willpower) and shoves him away, to his side of the car.
Thankfully, once they're on the road things seem a bit less frantic; just as tense, but it's like they've put on hold the wild need to have their hands on each other. Ryan keeps looking over at him as though he hasn't seen him a million times before. Maybe he hasn't. Not like this. Brendon finally mumbles, God, watching the fucking road, Ross.
He doesn't have to watch it for long. He pulls into a BP right off the freeway and he goes in alone and buys a bottle of water. When he comes back out to the car, he opens the driver's side door and tosses it into the back seat and holds up the key to the bathroom, attached to half of a bent to hell coat hanger.
"Seriously? Jesus, Ryan." Brendon sighs out a long breath, then he wrinkles his nose. "But you know it's gonna be fucking scary in there."
Ryan leans in across the middle console and grabs Brendon by the back of the neck, his voice in his ear: "Which is why you're gonna close your eyes and let me blow you so good you forget where you are."
Brendon still looks skeptical, but his eyes narrow and darken and he pulls himself up out of the car and follows Ryan behind the building.
The unisex bathroom really is pretty fucking scary, and it smells like you'd expect, but when Brendon leans back against the inside of the door and looks at him, he kind of forgets. All he can see is Brendon's belt buckle and how he'd open his belt with his fucking teeth if he had to, that's how badly he wants Brendon's cock in his mouth.
Brendon's already got his eyes closed, but when Ryan kneels down, he opens them, grimacing.
"Your pants will get--"
"I can have them cleaned. And I don't plan on wanting to be in them for long anyway. Not once when we get home."
"Home."
"Yeah."
Ryan's hands tug at Brendon's belt, but his face is pressed to his thigh, so close he could nuzzle his cock if he wanted to, but he doesn't.
He murmurs against his thigh, "I fucking missed your stupid face. I want to see it when I wake up every day."
Brendon sucks in a breath, and then another as Ryan draws him out of his briefs, already fisting him and then dragging his thumb over the head.
"Holy fuck," Brendon pants. "This is not gonna--" Ryan sucks in the head, and Brendon's knees buckle a little. "Shit, you just have no-- fuck--"
Ryan makes his lips slick with spit but keeps a tight suction, moving his mouth up and down on Brendon's cock and listening to Brendon's ragged gasps, watching over his scruffy jaw as his mouth falls open and stays like that. When he gets home, he'll have that mouth wherever he wants it. But right now, this is what he needs, to make Brendon shiver and squirm and buck his hips, to drive himself deeper even as he buries his hands in Ryan's hair and tries to hold his head back a little, so he doesn't choke him.
Ryan presses down hard on his own cock through his pants as he swirls his tongue over that spot on the underside of Brendon's crown that makes him whimper and fall apart. Predictable, yes, but still so goddamn hot. After Brendon thrusts a couple of times, bitter heat floods his mouth and he swallows it all down.
Ryan lets him kiss him after it's over, but not for long. He doesn't want this to be about him. He can wait. But when he squirms in Brendon's arms and manages to turn around so he can reach for the key where he laid it across the back of the sink, Brendon's arms snake around his waist from behind, his hands already halfway down Ryan's pants before he can take a breath or even protest.
"Bren," he whimpers as Brendon grasps him through his briefs.
"Want you to come."
"You don't have to…"
"Want," he breathes in his ear. "Please."
"Shit."
Brendon's got his zipper down, and Ryan braces his arms on the side of the sink, his head falling forward as Brendon shoves his pants down far enough that his cock hangs out. Then there's Brendon's hand, small and firm and hot and perfect.
Ryan bites his lip and tries not just openly gasp at every stroke, but Brendon wants him to react, and before long, he can't really help it.
"Fuck," Ryan gasps. "Fuck, I need… God, Brendon."
"Love you," Brendon says. "You know that, right?"
Brendon doesn't say anything else, just presses closer and jerks harder and breathes fast in his ear as he feels Ryan shudder and spill over his hand.
As Brendon wipes his hands on a paper towel, Ryan tucks himself back into his pants, then he turns and wraps his arms around Brendon.
"I do," Ryan says. "I mean, I know. And I do."
"I know." Brendon's voice is thin and sleepy in his ear. "And I'll still know tomorrow if you decide wanting me to move in is a bad idea."
"Bren."
"No. I know how you are. And I know you're stubborn enough to do it even if you decide it's a mistake later. Just want you to think, that's all."
"Okay."
"I mean, you'd actually have to pay bills and clean your house and shit." Then he grins. "Or maybe that's why you want me around, to--"
"No. It's…"
"Hey, I get it. I only want you to think about it, okay? I can spend a hell of a lot of time at your house--and in your bed--without moving in with you."
"I just…"
"I know."
"Do you?" Ryan says, jerking his head up and looking him in the eyes.
Brendon's whole expression softens, from his eyes all the way down to his mouth. His head rolls to the side a little and finally ducks. He can't meet his eyes; he never can when he's filled with too much emotion.
Ryan's about to duck his own head, seek out Brendon's mouth for a kiss when Brendon's head comes up again, and he holds him by both sides of face and says, "You are…" But then he just kisses Ryan, hard and insistent on the lips.
When he pulls away, Ryan feels a little shaky again. Nervous laughter comes pouring out of him.
He says, "I can't believe I got so pissy over waiting for like fifteen minutes."
"I can't either. No, wait, I can totally believe it. I just wouldn't have predicted it."
"So why did you…?"
"I wanted to be awake, honestly. Figured you'd want…" He raises his eyebrows.
Ryan feels his face get hot. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry." He snorts softly and grins. "Didn't say I didn't want you to jump my bones. Just didn't know if I'd be awake enough to make it worth your while."
He's joking, of course, but Ryan feels inordinately selfish all of a sudden. Sure, Brendon isn't perfect; he's as complicated and screwed up as the next person. He can be flaky and annoying, and he finds ways to make the simplest things more complicated without even trying, but he's also the most sincere motherfucker Ryan's ever met, and he's never for one day pushed him about anything except what he needed to. He's pretty perfect, all things considered; and Ryan feels selfish for wanting to keep him.
But Brendon laughs. "Don't make that face. I've been thinking about this all day. Couldn't have predicted this particular location, but, then again, I wouldn't have predicted you blowing me, either."
"What would you have predicted?"
Brendon leans in close. "You throwing me down on the bed and licking me open and then fucking me until I begged you to let me come."
Ryan feels hot all over now, despite having just come. Still, he huffs, "Like you've ever followed orders about when to come."
"Can't fucking help it," he says with a shrug. "Sometimes, I actually do try, you know. But you don't exactly make it easy." He reaches over and takes the key off the back of the sink. "But neither one of us apparently likes easy, so… Anyway, let's get the hell out of here."
After Ryan finishes setting his clothes right, he follows him back into the florescent bright world and the dry, steady breeze and waits for him to do drop the key on the counter inside.
When he gets back outside, Ryan says, "Is that what you want?"
"What?"
"When we get home. You want me to…?"
Brendon glances back at him, eyebrows raised. "Definitely. Of course, I might fall asleep on you."
"I think know a few ways to keep you awake. Unless you'd rather…"
Brendon grins. "I'd rather have your hands on me any way I can get them."
"Okay," Ryan says.
"Okay," Brendon replies, grinning like a fool, but it's the grin of a very sleepy person. A happy one, too.
Ryan finds himself smiling fondly at him. "You know, though… I'm kind of sleepy, too. Probably why I was so cranky before. One reason, anyway. Maybe when we get up later?"
"Yes, please," Brendon says with a yawn, grabbing his hand like he rarely does in public.
Ryan is just sleepy and happy enough to take it without even thinking about rolling his eyes. It's possible he doesn't even want to.
~
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ryan goes to pick up Brendon from the airport after they've been apart for two weeks. He's kind of neurotic and cranky about the whole thing. But since (in my fic anyway, for some reason, *facepalm*) Brendon is always composed of one part perception, two parts patience, and three parts sunshine, it's all okay in the end (read: schmoop). Oh, and there might be some gratuitous sex, too. 4000 words.
Disclaimer: If this is about you, then you know it's not really about you. For your sanity, hit the back button.
Call It Home
It's late when Brendon's flight gets in, but McCarran is still spilling over with people. And that, Ryan thinks, is going to be a definite problem--because Brendon will want to have his hands all over him as soon as he sees him. And Ryan will probably want him to, no matter how much he might feel the need to put on a show of protest, at the very least do some stern eye rolling.
No matter how annoyed he might act, Ryan will be perversely glad to see that Brendon looks as desperate as he feels. It's been a long two weeks they've been apart, and Ryan doesn't just miss the sex stuff, making him come and Brendon putting his mouth all over him. He misses talking to him, seeing him smile, wrapping his arms around him whenever he wants. Maybe he took it for granted, after living with people practically on top of him all the time. But this is Brendon, and living with him every day made him so used to touching and being touched, to keeping his walls down way more than he ever has before, that these two weeks have been very, very lonely. He's remembered why he always used to keep those walls up. Every day, he's having to actively fight the impulse to withdraw like he hasn't in…months, maybe.
Suddenly, he realizes he's not paying attention to where he's going.
Despite being so weirdly nervous and jittery, he's also more than a little sleepy. And lost, apparently, which is ridiculous given how many times he's flown out of this motherfucking airport. But yet here he is, mopily meandering as much as his thoughts are, having to stop in the middle of the terminal to squint at the signs until he finds the one for Baggage Claim.
Claim. Fuck, he thinks. It hits him almost physically. Claim and Brendon.
Maybe he hasn't before. He's been afraid to, because that's what everyone expects out of him--to be a possessive, controlling asshole--and he doesn't want that. But maybe, then, Brendon doesn't completely understand what this is and what it means. Fuck, maybe he didn't get it himself either, not until the last few days. It's so much clearer now that he's not in the cycle of touring and touching and bitchy fights at three a.m. and make-up make-outs at four and seeing him every goddamn day until he forgot that there are times when he wouldn't be able to see him. Like now, how it's still not yet, echoing through his head the same way the loneliness has for days. He's just about fucking sick of that.
He stands around the baggage carousel feeling the crowd swell in behind him. He's got his iPod on shuffle, but he's not really actively listening, just drowning out the rush of noise all around him and the whirl of thoughts in his head. He keeps his eyes peeled, though, and he's startled to see Brendon's bag come around, recognizing it by the piece of electric blue ribbon woven around the handle. He mechanically picks it up, wondering where Brendon is, why he's not there. Wondering and, for no good reason, worrying.
By the time almost everyone on Brendon's flight has drifted away with their checked bags, his cell phone buzzes in his pocket. He wrenches it out, glancing at the caller ID but knowing who it is anyway.
He answers with, "Where the hell are you?"
After a beat, Brendon's voice is there, warm and friendly like it has been every day for the last fourteen days over the phone. Still over the phone.
"Missed you too, dickhead," he replies.
"Your bag's here, but where are you? The board said it was on time."
"Stopped to pee, then to get coffee and eat a donut. I'm like the walking dead. It's like, I don't know, four a.m. on the east coast? You have my bag?"
"Yes. You stopped for coffee?"
"Uh. Yeah."
"I'm waiting down here for you, and you're dicking around the domestic concourse, getting coffee and a donut?"
Brendon sighs. "I'll be five minutes, okay?"
"Fine," Ryan says tersely.
Brendon sighs again, but his voice has a tense edge when he says, "Thought I was being, you know, courteous telling you where I was."
Ryan realizes he's not breathing. He really has no idea why he's angry, only that Brendon's being Brendon, but if he was really being Brendon he'd know without Ryan having to say it that Ryan's sort of batshit with missing him right about now. Missing him, still, though he's already here, home.
"Meet me at the car, then," Ryan says just before he clicks his phone shut.
He knew it was a mistake almost before he did it, but he did it anyway. He knows why, too, and it pisses him the fuck off.
He wishes he could just wait at baggage claim now, but he can't. He told Brendon he'd be at the car, so he extends the handle on the suitcase and pulls it petulantly behind him, watching the pattern in the carpet intently as he navigates the airport, bleary eyes keeping tabs on the signs, weary brain trying not to think--and not really succeeding any better than he was before, maybe worse now.
As he comes out into familiar dry wind again and tucks himself into the elevator in the parking garage, he feels this ache in his stomach--the same ache that woke him up at 5:30 this morning, but maybe it's a little different now. Not just missing Brendon but wondering if there's something big he's missing about him, about how to do this and not fuck it up.
But come to think of it, though, that feeling's the same as it's always been. It's just that he thought he was over that shit, the passive-aggression, the pushing him away--because Brendon took so much time helping him get over it, by patience and by sheer force of his irritatingly optimistic will. Walls simply do not hold up around Brendon, and bullshit doesn't stand for long, either. It's both a blessing and half of the problem in the first place.
Ryan sighs as he hefts Brendon's bag into the trunk. He tries to remember how many he checked. One? Two? Did he leave one behind on the carousel? Probably--just like he left his boyfriend behind, to weave through McCarran alone. He's just about made up his mind to go back in and try to meet him on the way somehow when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn't even check this time. He just leans back against the trunk and flips the phone open.
"Hey," he says. "Um. Shit."
Brendon gives a small chuckle. "What a sweet talker you are."
"Bren, I'm--"
"Yeah yeah yeah, I know," he says, voice weary but still playfully sarcastic. "Spontaneous PMS. Misplaced diva behavior. Fucking retarded Ryanness. Whatever. Just tell me where the car is, you cranky fucker."
"What? It's… Oh."
"Yeah, oh," he says with a giggle. "Unless you're a lot more OCD than I thought, it's not, like, exactly where it was when you drove me here."
"I'm sorry."
"I know," he says, then he chuckles. "Fuck, maybe it's too much to assume that you can even remember where it is, especially without Spencer there to remind you."
Brendon's trying to be funny, but all Ryan can do is half snap at him: "I can take care of myself. Been doing it for two weeks now."
He waits for Brendon to say something else, but he's silent a little longer than he'd normally be, and it makes Ryan nervous as hell. When he speaks again, it sounds like an afterthought. Except for how it also sounds--to Ryan's ears, at least--like an indictment:
"I got you coffee, too. If you want it."
Of course he got him coffee. Of course.
"Yeah," he replies.
Things go quiet again until Brendon says, "So, tell me where I'm going?"
"Home," Ryan says, and then a thought settles heavy in his stomach, spreading through his whole body like a pre-show tension. Claim. Some kind of gesture. Something he can't fucking take back when he gets fucking stupid like this and forgets how to trust himself and this thing they have together, and especially trust that Brendon will always be kind of smarter than him, at least about this shit. Something to permanently place Brendon behind all those walls, or at least the ones Ryan's already figured out how to deal with. Literal ones will be a good start.
"Duh," Brendon says with a soft chuckle. "I meant which parking--"
"No," Ryan replies. Then before he can chicken out, he says: "Home with me. For good."
"For good?"
"Um… I mean, my home…being your home, too?"
When Brendon's voice comes again, it's small and tight and it makes his stomach clench up: "Where are you?"
"Um." He casts his eyes about and says, "Level one. Look, Brendon, I--"
"Shut up. I can't do shit like this over the phone, okay? I need to, like, see you, okay?"
Ryan's pacing by the elevator a minute or two later, nervous and more than a little nauseated, when Brendon comes up the stairs, taking them two at a time, duffel bag bouncing at his back and coffee cup in each hand. When he sees Ryan, he gives him one of those smiles that can break Ryan wide open. And it totally does. Hurts a little, actually.
Brendon sets the two paper cups on top of a nearby trash can and drops the duffel off that arm and pulls Ryan into a crushing hug.
"You're serious?" Brendon says in his ear.
"Yeah," he says, squeezing him so tightly it's hard to breathe. "Yeah."
Without any warning then, Brendon starts kind of frantically kissing at his mouth. Soon, he moves on to his jaw, then his neck. Finally, he settles down, still clutching Ryan tight, and Ryan imagines that he could stay like that forever, just sinking deeper and deeper into it.
"I have a lot of shit," Brendon murmurs against his neck.
"Just the one bag, right? I mean--"
"No," he says with a giggle, pulling his head up and drawing back a little. "You sure you want to share closet space with all my shit? You sure there's even room for it with all your shit?"
No, fuck, he's not sure. But he's sure he wants to be. So Ryan nods and Brendon smiles, then he steps back and grabs his coffee and hands Ryan's over to him. Ryan's too nervous to drink anything, but Brendon closes his eyes as he takes a sip and smiles, content. He makes all this seem so easy. Like: Move in with me, Bren. Then: Okay, Ry. Like Brendon doesn't know what this really means. Or else...
Or else he's known way longer than Ryan.
Brendon makes this satisfied murmuring noise as he takes another swallow of coffee. He's so mesmerized he doesn't realize what Ryan's doing until he's already set his cup of coffee on the top of the trash can. After he takes Brendon's cup from him and deposits it beside his own, he puts a hand in the middle of Brendon's chest and walks him back the couple of paces to the brick wall beside the elevator.
When Ryan licks his way inside Brendon's mouth, really kissing him now, he tastes too much sugar and just a hint of coffee and everything he's been missing for two weeks. His hands splay over Brendon's hips and shove them back against the wall, and Brendon's surprised murmur doesn't make him want to stop. The opposite, actually.
Brendon's hand comes up to the back of his neck so he can press him deeper into the kiss even as he's squirming against him, hips rising up off the wall a little. Brendon's not even all the way hard yet, just doing that thing where he tries to wait and wait and wait before he lets go. Ryan's left hand curls into his waistband, his callused thumb sweeping over Brendon's stomach there where his t-shirt doesn't quite meet his jeans.
Ryan pulls his mouth away suddenly, feeling a little shaky, and just rests his head on Brendon's shoulders.
Mine, he thinks, but he can't say it. It still seems possessive when it would really be more like desperate. His hand slides down and seeks out the bulge of Brendon's cock, just to the right of his zipper, making him gasp as it finally comes up hard, the length of it pressing obscenely against the front of his pants.
"Ryan," he says, like it's all one syllable. "Ryan." He's shuddering a little as Ryan's fingers stroke and rub, even as the other holds him firmly to the wall. "We're… public… fucking parking-- Fuck," he moans softly as he shivers.
Ryan bites at his collarbone, right through his t-shirt. He doesn't really care that they're in a public parking garage--except for how he can't do what he'd really like, which is drop to his knees and blow Brendon's mind.
"My house is so far," Ryan mumbles. "But, Jesus, Brendon, I need--"
Brendon twines around him suddenly, pulling him close and shoving his tongue into his mouth. Ryan's hands come up to his neck and hold on tight as he's trying to think. Trying, but what the fuck was he thinking of that wasn't Brendon's mouth on his and Brendon's tongue probing in and flicking back out, making him chase it? Fucking tease. Fucking asking for all the things Ryan needs to give him, all the ways he needs to do it right now: fast and rough and overwhelming.
Brendon's hips shift against his, but not enough. It's not enough and it won't be enough in the middle of short term parking at the Las Vegas International Airport.
Ryan pulls out of the kiss with a gasp. "Oh, I know."
"What?"
"Just get in the car and trust me?"
And he always does; that's the hell of it. Brendon raises his eyebrows, but he's already scooping up his bag to throw it in the trunk, pausing to grope Ryan a little before Ryan gives him a stern face (which takes every bit of his willpower) and shoves him away, to his side of the car.
Thankfully, once they're on the road things seem a bit less frantic; just as tense, but it's like they've put on hold the wild need to have their hands on each other. Ryan keeps looking over at him as though he hasn't seen him a million times before. Maybe he hasn't. Not like this. Brendon finally mumbles, God, watching the fucking road, Ross.
He doesn't have to watch it for long. He pulls into a BP right off the freeway and he goes in alone and buys a bottle of water. When he comes back out to the car, he opens the driver's side door and tosses it into the back seat and holds up the key to the bathroom, attached to half of a bent to hell coat hanger.
"Seriously? Jesus, Ryan." Brendon sighs out a long breath, then he wrinkles his nose. "But you know it's gonna be fucking scary in there."
Ryan leans in across the middle console and grabs Brendon by the back of the neck, his voice in his ear: "Which is why you're gonna close your eyes and let me blow you so good you forget where you are."
Brendon still looks skeptical, but his eyes narrow and darken and he pulls himself up out of the car and follows Ryan behind the building.
The unisex bathroom really is pretty fucking scary, and it smells like you'd expect, but when Brendon leans back against the inside of the door and looks at him, he kind of forgets. All he can see is Brendon's belt buckle and how he'd open his belt with his fucking teeth if he had to, that's how badly he wants Brendon's cock in his mouth.
Brendon's already got his eyes closed, but when Ryan kneels down, he opens them, grimacing.
"Your pants will get--"
"I can have them cleaned. And I don't plan on wanting to be in them for long anyway. Not once when we get home."
"Home."
"Yeah."
Ryan's hands tug at Brendon's belt, but his face is pressed to his thigh, so close he could nuzzle his cock if he wanted to, but he doesn't.
He murmurs against his thigh, "I fucking missed your stupid face. I want to see it when I wake up every day."
Brendon sucks in a breath, and then another as Ryan draws him out of his briefs, already fisting him and then dragging his thumb over the head.
"Holy fuck," Brendon pants. "This is not gonna--" Ryan sucks in the head, and Brendon's knees buckle a little. "Shit, you just have no-- fuck--"
Ryan makes his lips slick with spit but keeps a tight suction, moving his mouth up and down on Brendon's cock and listening to Brendon's ragged gasps, watching over his scruffy jaw as his mouth falls open and stays like that. When he gets home, he'll have that mouth wherever he wants it. But right now, this is what he needs, to make Brendon shiver and squirm and buck his hips, to drive himself deeper even as he buries his hands in Ryan's hair and tries to hold his head back a little, so he doesn't choke him.
Ryan presses down hard on his own cock through his pants as he swirls his tongue over that spot on the underside of Brendon's crown that makes him whimper and fall apart. Predictable, yes, but still so goddamn hot. After Brendon thrusts a couple of times, bitter heat floods his mouth and he swallows it all down.
Ryan lets him kiss him after it's over, but not for long. He doesn't want this to be about him. He can wait. But when he squirms in Brendon's arms and manages to turn around so he can reach for the key where he laid it across the back of the sink, Brendon's arms snake around his waist from behind, his hands already halfway down Ryan's pants before he can take a breath or even protest.
"Bren," he whimpers as Brendon grasps him through his briefs.
"Want you to come."
"You don't have to…"
"Want," he breathes in his ear. "Please."
"Shit."
Brendon's got his zipper down, and Ryan braces his arms on the side of the sink, his head falling forward as Brendon shoves his pants down far enough that his cock hangs out. Then there's Brendon's hand, small and firm and hot and perfect.
Ryan bites his lip and tries not just openly gasp at every stroke, but Brendon wants him to react, and before long, he can't really help it.
"Fuck," Ryan gasps. "Fuck, I need… God, Brendon."
"Love you," Brendon says. "You know that, right?"
Brendon doesn't say anything else, just presses closer and jerks harder and breathes fast in his ear as he feels Ryan shudder and spill over his hand.
As Brendon wipes his hands on a paper towel, Ryan tucks himself back into his pants, then he turns and wraps his arms around Brendon.
"I do," Ryan says. "I mean, I know. And I do."
"I know." Brendon's voice is thin and sleepy in his ear. "And I'll still know tomorrow if you decide wanting me to move in is a bad idea."
"Bren."
"No. I know how you are. And I know you're stubborn enough to do it even if you decide it's a mistake later. Just want you to think, that's all."
"Okay."
"I mean, you'd actually have to pay bills and clean your house and shit." Then he grins. "Or maybe that's why you want me around, to--"
"No. It's…"
"Hey, I get it. I only want you to think about it, okay? I can spend a hell of a lot of time at your house--and in your bed--without moving in with you."
"I just…"
"I know."
"Do you?" Ryan says, jerking his head up and looking him in the eyes.
Brendon's whole expression softens, from his eyes all the way down to his mouth. His head rolls to the side a little and finally ducks. He can't meet his eyes; he never can when he's filled with too much emotion.
Ryan's about to duck his own head, seek out Brendon's mouth for a kiss when Brendon's head comes up again, and he holds him by both sides of face and says, "You are…" But then he just kisses Ryan, hard and insistent on the lips.
When he pulls away, Ryan feels a little shaky again. Nervous laughter comes pouring out of him.
He says, "I can't believe I got so pissy over waiting for like fifteen minutes."
"I can't either. No, wait, I can totally believe it. I just wouldn't have predicted it."
"So why did you…?"
"I wanted to be awake, honestly. Figured you'd want…" He raises his eyebrows.
Ryan feels his face get hot. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry." He snorts softly and grins. "Didn't say I didn't want you to jump my bones. Just didn't know if I'd be awake enough to make it worth your while."
He's joking, of course, but Ryan feels inordinately selfish all of a sudden. Sure, Brendon isn't perfect; he's as complicated and screwed up as the next person. He can be flaky and annoying, and he finds ways to make the simplest things more complicated without even trying, but he's also the most sincere motherfucker Ryan's ever met, and he's never for one day pushed him about anything except what he needed to. He's pretty perfect, all things considered; and Ryan feels selfish for wanting to keep him.
But Brendon laughs. "Don't make that face. I've been thinking about this all day. Couldn't have predicted this particular location, but, then again, I wouldn't have predicted you blowing me, either."
"What would you have predicted?"
Brendon leans in close. "You throwing me down on the bed and licking me open and then fucking me until I begged you to let me come."
Ryan feels hot all over now, despite having just come. Still, he huffs, "Like you've ever followed orders about when to come."
"Can't fucking help it," he says with a shrug. "Sometimes, I actually do try, you know. But you don't exactly make it easy." He reaches over and takes the key off the back of the sink. "But neither one of us apparently likes easy, so… Anyway, let's get the hell out of here."
After Ryan finishes setting his clothes right, he follows him back into the florescent bright world and the dry, steady breeze and waits for him to do drop the key on the counter inside.
When he gets back outside, Ryan says, "Is that what you want?"
"What?"
"When we get home. You want me to…?"
Brendon glances back at him, eyebrows raised. "Definitely. Of course, I might fall asleep on you."
"I think know a few ways to keep you awake. Unless you'd rather…"
Brendon grins. "I'd rather have your hands on me any way I can get them."
"Okay," Ryan says.
"Okay," Brendon replies, grinning like a fool, but it's the grin of a very sleepy person. A happy one, too.
Ryan finds himself smiling fondly at him. "You know, though… I'm kind of sleepy, too. Probably why I was so cranky before. One reason, anyway. Maybe when we get up later?"
"Yes, please," Brendon says with a yawn, grabbing his hand like he rarely does in public.
Ryan is just sleepy and happy enough to take it without even thinking about rolling his eyes. It's possible he doesn't even want to.
~