Fic: Being on One Tree Hill Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry (high school AU)

Mar 03, 2008 21:50

Being on One Tree Hill Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry
[Alex/Ryland, slight Ryan/Brendon | 2400 words | PG-13]

It's so clichéd and embarrassing, he thinks it's perfectly understandable to be in denial.

First, IF YOU ARE A MEMBER OF COBRA STARSHIP, PLEASE DON'T READ THIS. Or if you insist on it, please don't comment. I like my blissful ignorance. \o/

Second, this is a) completely for txtequilanights and for shleemeri's birthday and b) a continuation of my crazy, self-indulgent high school 'verse that was started here. Thanks as always to adellyna for the beta, even though she's currently suffering from Alex Marshall Plague. ♥



For almost four years, Ryland’s been in denial.

It’s sort of like being allergic to a type of vegetable, or having a toothache that only comes and goes; it’s there, but not noticeable until the broccoli’s served, or when a piece of candy gets chewed too hard.

Or, y’know, when you end up having to kiss your best friend during a stupid game of Spin-the-Bottle.

It's so clichéd and embarrassing, he thinks it's perfectly understandable to be in denial; the whole falling-in-love-with-your-best-friend thing is only for people whose lives exist in a CW drama. Sure, there are the little details, like the fact that Ryland knew he was in love with Alex at thirteen, when Alex had agreed to be Harry to Ryland's Lloyd when Ryland had desperately wanted to be the guys from Dumb and Dumber for Halloween (Alex had worn a blond wig and everything), or the fact that Ryland knows about Alex's super secret fear of chipmunks (resulting from a childhood trauma that had led to ten stitches), or the fact that Alex once admitted that he only talks in his sleep when he sleeps over at Ryland's house.

He knows these details are meaningful, but they don't justify being stupidly, anime-heart-eyes, Disney musical-sappy in love with his best friend.

This party didn’t exactly start out on a stellar note, and now the whole thing has dissolved into a drunken junior high game that Ryland hasn’t played since he was twelve, and even then he thought it was lame. But at least then he wasn’t completely fucked like he is now, staring down at the Bud Light bottle pointing at him, the same Bud Light bottle Alex spun five seconds ago.

Ryland sighs and wishes he were drunker.

“Dude, did we even make a rule about guys kissing guys?” someone pipes up, and Pete, the leader of this lametastic game, replies with a grin, “No, but I say anything goes.”

Of course he’d say that, because the universe hates Ryland. Fuck Pete and his stupid house party Ryland didn't even want to come to, except Alex talked him into at the last minute. Alex talks him into a lot of things.

He finally looks up from the bottle and meets Alex’s eyes. He’s not surprised at all to see Alex looking like he’s perfectly content to kiss him in front of the whole school (okay, fifteen people, tops, but whatever, that’s still a big fucking crowd).

Alex tilts his head to one side and grins as he slowly unfolds his legs and gets to his knees. “C’mon, Ry, you know I’m a sure thing,” he says, scrinching his nose. An affectionate joke loaded with innuendo; it's nothing he hasn’t said before to Ryland in public. They talk like this to each other all the time, always, and Ryland doesn’t quite remember when he started to hate it.

He rolls his eyes, faking a look of resigned apathy. “That’s what you said last night,” he replies without missing a beat, and the room laughs as usual. Ryland may hate it, but he knows there’s a status quo to keep; he and Alex are a pair, a matched set, the bass-playing student body president and the popular drama nerd who does the morning announcements with a British accent. Everyone has grown accustomed to their casual flirting, because it’s just another part of who they are - the shocker would be if it actually meant something.

The catcalls start up, along with cooing from the girls, and Alex is practically beaming at him, like he's on the verge of laughing. Ryland can feel the back of his neck getting hot, but he still smirks as he leans in and meets Alex halfway.

"You're gonna taste like smoke," he says, swallowing when he realizes his voice is too soft. He's trying very hard not to glance down at Alex's mouth.

"Fuck you, I smoked hours ago." Someone yells for them to hurry the fuck up, but Ryland barely hears them; he's completely distracted by Alex glancing at his mouth.

He is so very, very fucked.

Carefully, making sure each word is heard by the room at large, Ryland says, "Whatever, I'll get over it," and leans the rest of the way, lips parted. He closes his eyes, even though he really doesn't mean to.

Fireworks don't go off and he doesn't swoon like something out of a movie, thank god. But he does let his mouth go soft and press a little harder against Alex's, harder than what's strictly appropriate for a kissing game. There's no tongue involved, Ryland's not that dumb, yet his heart is slamming into his ribcage, and he can't breathe.

Unfortunately, the lack of air causes Ryland to gasp, very softly, into Alex's mouth, and it sounds way too much like a whimper.

He jerks back, eyes wide open, and waits for...something. A response, anything. What he gets is worse than if there had actually been tongue.

Alex blinks, and then laughs. "Damn, I didn't know I was that good, Blackinton," he says, but not before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The room at large applauds and laughs as well.

Ryland doesn't have an automatic, snarky comment ready for that, and he doesn't even want to try to fake one. Instead, he gets up from the floor and leaves the room.

The house has a long, winding deck facing out into dark woods that remind Ryland of something out of The Blair Witch Project. But it's quiet and away from the crowd. Most importantly, it's away from Alex and his fucking laughter. Ideally, he'd like to just go home, but he's kind of drunk and isn't in the mood to go searching for a ride.

He digs a crumpled pack of Camels out of his back pocket, takes stock of his inventory. There are three left, and by force of habit he mentally sets one aside for Alex, who doesn't smoke except when he drinks, and then he always bums off Ryland.

Wincing, he shoves a cigarette in his mouth and lights it with the matchbook he took from the Mexican restaurant they ate at earlier tonight, the same place where Alex flirts with the waitresses in Spanish and gets them free beer.

Ryland sighs, hard, blowing smoke out into the trees. "Fucking fuck," he whispers to himself. His lips still feel warm.

"Fuck what?" Alex's voice floats through the night air and interrupts Ryland's emo party. He sounds affectionate, if a little hesitant and a little more drunk.

Ryland keeps his back to the doorway and doesn't answer Alex right away. "Nothing, just...thought I saw a bear." He braces his hands against the wood railing and concentrates on the glowing ash he's flicking in a nervous tick.

"Yeah?" He can hear Alex's footsteps across the deck, getting closer, until he's leaning against Ryland, shoulder to shoulder. Ryland starts flicking the ash faster, not looking over. "I wouldn't worry, dude. We're not worth the effort for 'em, y'know?" He nudges Ryland's elbow.

"Probably. The bear'd get alcohol poisoning or something, and then, like, the National Wildlife Federation would arrest us." Ryland pulls back his arm in the pretense of throwing his cigarette away, but he really can't be touching Alex right now.

He thought he was being subtle, but Alex grabs his wrist, pulls him back. "Hey, hey. What's up with you? You disappeared without saying anything."

Ryland resists getting another smoke. He doesn't want to have to share with Alex, because he's being emo and petulant and an all-around thirteen-year-old girl. "I needed some air. It's fucking hot in that place with everyone shoved together in the same room." This time he takes a full step away, and he swears he can hear Alex frown.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asks, the words soft and alcohol-fuzzy. "Was it the kiss? 'Cause I didn't mean anything by it, seriously - "

"Yeah, I know." It comes out louder than Ryland intends, sharp around the edges. He huffs out a breath as he scrubs a hand through his hair, leaning both arms on the railing and searching for some dark spot out in the trees to focus on. "It's nothing," he adds softly.

They're both quiet for a moment, and Ryland thinks (hopes?) that Alex is going to let it drop. They'll deal with the consequences later, when he's sober and not feeling like the equivalent of a stupid country song about broken hearts and crying into a beer mug. Besides, he's nowhere near broken-hearted, and Alex isn't worth crying into a perfectly good beer.

Too bad Ryland is a shitty liar.

He startles when he feels a cool hand slide up his arm and curl around his shoulder. Alex isn't letting it drop, he's leaning into Ryland and whispering against his cheek in this really sad voice, "Ry, do you hate me 'cause I kissed you? I'm sorry, okay, it was just a fucking game, I wasn't trying to...to piss you off or anything." His lips are skimming over Ryland's skin, over stubble he was too lazy to shave today, and Ryland kind of just wants to curl up and die.

Oh god, his life really is a goddamn CW show.

"I'm fine, alright?" He tries to pull away again, but Alex keeps following, the hand on Ryland's shoulder sliding over to cup around his neck, and Ryland thinks there's no possible way Alex can't feel the blush there.

"You're not fucking fine, you're not looking at me, and I'm sorry." Before Ryland gets the chance to fight him, Alex tugs his head down far enough to press their foreheads together, his nails scratching through the hair at Ryland's nape.

He whispers again, "I'm sorry," and something snaps in Ryland's brain, something that controls the part that tells him when he's about to do something insanely wrong.

Like kiss Alex again.

Ryland mutters, "Stop fucking apologizing," and kisses the corner of Alex's mouth just to get him to shut up. That's all. But then the hand on his neck flexes, and Alex makes this weird surprised noise in his throat, and the next thing Ryland knows, he's being kissed back, mouth to mouth.

He falls back into the railing, hands flying out to catch himself, and it's. It's not what he expected at all; Alex tastes like beer and Starbursts and yeah, there's still a trace of nicotine. His mouth is a little sloppy and just this side of too wet, and he nips at Ryland's lower lip too hard.

It's not what he expected, because it's perfect.

When his head begins to spin, Ryland cups Alex's face with both hands and pulls back enough to look him eyes (once he's managed to blink the stars out of his own).

"You..." It takes a few moments to find his voice. "I..." He finally closes his eyes tightly and shakes his head, tries to make his brain think.

"I guess I was wrong," Alex says instead. His free hand, the one not tangled in Ryland's hair, is splayed over Ryland's chest, in the general vicinity of his heart.

He swallows and looks up. Alex is looking at him with dark, intent eyes, without a hint of laughter. “Wrong about what?”

“About.” Alex chews his lip, looking conflicted for a second. “About you hating me.”

Now it’s Ryland’s turn to laugh.

It’s not an admission of anything, and it’s not like Alex is admitting to feeling anything, either, but it’s more than Ryland ever thought he’d get. He leans up and brushes his mouth over Alex’s, slow and easy; he’s on the verge of taking it deeper, seeing how far Alex will let him go, when they’re interrupted by some guy yelling at a raccoon.

“Oh my god, he’s right there! Ryan, Ryan, come look at this, seriously - ”

“God, it’s a fucking raccoon, not Big Foot.”

Ryland can hear footsteps coming closer, loud against the wood planks of the deck, and he immediately drops his hands. Alex licks his lips (Ryland tries not to stare) and backs away, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.

He recognizes the guys as underclassmen friends of Pete’s, and he’s pretty sure he’s seen the taller kid at a few of Walker’s gigs - something about him being best friends with Walker’s boyfriend, Spencer.

Then it hits him that he’s just been cockblocked (so to speak) by a goddamn raccoon and a couple of sophomores.

Ryland takes one look at Alex and promptly bursts into a fit of giggles. And the best part is that he doesn’t even have to explain himself; Alex laughs right along with him, head bowed just enough so that his bangs fall into his eyes. They don’t touch, or hug, and Ryland so doesn’t care. He’s not in denial anymore.

In the midst of their private laughing fit, he can hear the shorter guy (Ryland’s pretty sure his name’s Brendon) say, “Oh wow, are they high? Is there pot here? Did I miss something?”

A long-suffering sigh follows. “No, there’s no pot, and you’re plenty fucking drunk. Pot would just turn you into a Muppet.”

“Ryan Ross, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, ever. Let’s go makeout.”

Ryland glances over to catch Brendon plastering himself along Ryan’s side as he nuzzles into his neck.

“Smooth, Urie, real smooth.” But Ryan doesn’t completely duck away, even as he grabs Brendon’s arm and drags him back into the house, mumbling, “If Spencer’s off having sex, I’ll kill him.”

The deck is quiet once more, even though the two of them are still laughing, still grinning at each other like morons.

“So,” Alex finally says, breathless, “wanna go makeout?” His cheeks are flushed.

Ryland slings an arm Alex’s neck, tugging him into a rough hug. He whispers against his ear, “Alex Suarez, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” and they both crack up again.

But this time it’s different, because the laughter eventually fades back into kissing, and because finally, finally, it means something.

cobra fic, high school verse, alex/ryland, ryan/brendon, panic! fic

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