Always Leaving, But (Brendon/Ryan, NC-17)
Always Leaving, But
by Charli J. Brendon/Ryan. NC-17. If there's a science to it, Brendon can't figure it out.
Brendon doesn't regret often, for two reasons: 1) if he's just going to wish he could take back doing or saying anything, then he would imagine that, even as impulsive as he is, he'd have enough sense not to waste his time in the first place, because 2) regret is lame and boring.
Still, that said, he sort of wishes he could rewind this whole night and rethink the part where he asks Ryan about his girlfriend. Yeah. Yeah, Brendon's pretty sure that's what got him into this mess. If he can just rewind, he can change how the evening progresses from that point. In the new version, Brendon asks Ryan about his girlfriend, Ryan says that she's not his girlfriend, they're just hanging out sometimes, and Brendon drops the subject.
In the new version, Brendon doesn't bring it up again when Ryan comes to watch television in Brendon's hotel room while Jon's still out. Brendon doesn't call him a "fellow lonely heart" or whatever terrible joke it had been, Ryan doesn't ask him about Brittany, and Brendon won't have to talk about how she was cool but they really are mostly just friends considering the way she never put out anyway. Ryan doesn't tell Brendon he's kind of ridiculous, Brendon doesn't say, yeah, but Ryan still likes him, right? Ryan doesn't laugh at him, staring at the television, and Brendon certainly does not, at any point, kiss Ryan just because he fails to push Brendon off when he sprawls on Ryan, pouts until Ryan looks at him, and somewhere during that moment, Ryan licks his lips, enticing him.
Most importantly, Ryan doesn't ever get to kiss back, because the situation they're in now, well. Well.
The biggest clue that this maybe could have been better thought out (other than the fact that Brendon has been focusing on all the ways he knows this is going so, amazingly wrong) is that when he clips Ryan in the ribs for the fifth time, Ryan hisses but then finally shudders, and all Brendon can do is mentally thank God it's over.
He pushes up on his arms and sits back. Ryan breathes through his nose, eventually opening his eyes, and Brendon can't even convincingly fake a smile. It comes off more like a wince probably, and Ryan glances down. Brendon doesn't know what to do with his right hand, holding it out awkwardly before wiping it on Ryan's shirt.
"Brendon," Ryan says, shifting. "Brendon, come on, I have to wear this -- "
"-- sorry! Shit, um," he says, but Ryan just shakes his head a little against the floor, saying, "It's -- whatever. I'll find something to change into -- " at the same time.
"Fuck. Fuck," Brendon mutters and rolls off so that he's lying next to Ryan now, stomach cold from the loss of contact. He's sticky inside his underwear, and if the world ever plans on ending, now would be the perfect opportunity. Really. Any moment now would be great.
Ryan tries, "So --"
"Let's not even," Brendon says, shrugging helplessly. "You know."
"No, right. We don't have to, uh," Ryan says. "discuss, or -- "
"No, yeah," Brendon says. This is fine. Well, actually this is terrible, but not dwelling on it is, "good. Yeah, okay."
"Okay."
They lie there for what feels like a span of time Brendon can only describe as For-Fucking-Ever but is probably closer to twenty seconds or something, before Ryan adds another, "Okay," again and gets up. Brendon closes his eyes and keeps them shut until he hears a door click.
It was a bad idea. Brendon definitely has a pretty impressive share of bad ideas on a regular basis, but given the onstage response and every time someone has asked about them in interviews, well. Considering the way it feels when he leans in mid-speech or ducks to graze his nose along Ryan's neck, just hugging, you know -- he doesn't want to go into weird metaphors about sparks of electricity, but the point is that he never expected that this wouldn't be anything but easy. Not that Brendon expects -- expected -- to ever get to this place, but a guy can't really anticipate when he'll end up kissing one of his best friends in the middle of a King of Queens episode. Brendon hasn't spent time actively predicting they would be half-naked on the hotel room floor by the middle of the tour, fumbling to get into each other's jeans, but objectively, given everything, he assumed that things would have gone a lot better, generally. That is, hypothetically. You know, should they, uh.
Clearly, it was a bad idea. They had a mutual lapse in judgement for a few minutes there. It was an accident. A really bad one that will probably leave bruises on Brendon's stomach and an ache in his arms, but an accident nonetheless, and things will be fine. Of course they will be.
Fuck.
Hell, if Brendon's going to start listing small miracles, he needs to thank the sky that this isn't one of the cities where he and Ryan are rooming together, because later, when Brendon's up two hours longer than he wants to be, staring at the ceiling and deliberately not thinking about having sex on the floor at the foot of the bed, Jon will snore happily through it.
;;
In the morning, the phone rings.
Under a mound of hotel blankets, Jon mumbles, "Mmph, grab it!"
Blindly, Brendon stretches an arm to feel around the nightstand between the beds for the phone. Picking up the call on the fifth or six ring, he says, "Hello?"
"...Brendon. Are you up?"
"No," Brendon mutters.
"Is Jon?"
"No," Brendon says, more whispering in slumber-rough whispers. "We're both alseep. You're actually speaking to a recording. Soon the line's just gonna -- beeeeep."
Ignoring him, Ryan says, "Well, me and Spencer are up, so we're going for Dunkin' Donuts. You want some or not?"
Brendon's conscious enough to suggest, "Mmmm, bear claws."
"What about Jon?"
Poking his head out into the cool room enough for his voice to carry across the few feet of space between him and Jon, Brendon whisper-yells, "Hey! Jon! Donuts."
"Boston Kreme!" Jon says, shoving a hand from under the cover to wave a little.
Into the phone, Brendon says, "Boston Kreme."
"Umm, okay." There's some shifting, and then Ryan says, "Anything else?"
Brendon thinks about it, turns on his side and then, wait, "Wait. What did I say I wanted?"
Sighing, Ryan says, "Go back to sleep, Brendon."
"No, but wait -- "
"Don't worry about it. I have you. Just don't sleep through it when me and Spencer knock," Ryan says and hangs up.
"Mmmkay," Brendon yawns into an empty line.
He reaches over to replace the receiver a moment later, and the first thing he remembers is last night.
;;
If there was one good thing about that short period in his life where he let William Beckett and Butcher show him how to shotgun beer cans, it was that alcohol was an out. If he was lucky, booze let a guy forget the parts of the previous night where he made an ass of himself, and whenever he did finally remember them (if he ever remembered at all), it didn't provide an immediate excuse, but it fit his less spectacular actions into a certain context.
The fact that Brendon sort of wishes that this could be one of those alcohol-excused incidents probably says a lot about the whole situation.
Jon jumps up to answer the door when Ryan and Spencer knock. It's like he hears the noise and it dawns on him that, "Donuts!" are right outside, and he's at the door in two seconds flat.
"Yes, yes, yes," Jon says as he looks through the peephole. As his hand goes for the top lock, Brendon curls his fingers in his comforter and tugs it up over his head.
He hears Ryan ask, "Is he still asleep?"
A moment later, someone thumps at his calfs through the blankets. Brendon peels back the comforter, and Spencer throws a bag at him. He says, "Bear claws, asshole."
"How am I an ass already? I'm not even up yet," Brendon asks without immediately asking if Spencer knows, because there isn't anything to know, because Ryan wouldn't tell, right?
Spencer rolls his eyes. "I'm sorry -- bear claws, Brendon."
"Thank you," Brendon says, opening the bag as he lies back again.
"Asshole," Spencer amends.
Brendon takes out a claw and bites into it. Around a mouthful of sweet wholesome goodness, he says, "I love you too, Spencer."
Ryan sets down a tray of cups on the table in the corner. He picks two up, comes over to sit on Jon's bed near the headboard and holds one out.
"Hot chocolate," he says, and Brendon can't read his face. Not that he's trying. Not that there should be anything on Ryan's face to read for any reason at all.
Instead, Brendon says, "You guys are my fucking heroes," and Jon makes satisfied, agreeable noises from his place at the foot of his bed.
Spencer says, "So we've heard."
Brendon rocks onto his elbow to reach out and grab his cup from Ryan. He doesn't realize he's having trouble deciding where to look at Ryan (the face, the knees, his feet?) until he stops himself and just looks at Jon.
Jon nods a little as he chews. Jon is a really big fan of Boston Kremes. He licks his lips and says, "What, the guy at the counter told you you were heroes for making the morning donut run?"
"Something like that, yeah," Spencer says lifting his eyebrows quickly.
Brendon asks, "Really?"
"Nope."
Ryan cuts in, saying, "He should have, though."
"Because it's fucking true," Spencer says. "Everyday I look in the mirror and say, 'You're a motherfucking P-I-M-P.'"
"You talk to yourself out loud?" Brendon starts on his second donut.
Spencer shrugs. "Well, Brendon, I guess I could use telepathy, but that seems a little excessive to do on myself."
Jon laughs. "That sounds like something from a t-shirt."
"Oh, hey, yeah. But it would go 'I'm the only one my telepathy works on' or something," Ryan says.
Now Spencer laughs, too. "I wouldn't wear that."
"Brendon, you probably would, huh?"
Brendon glances at Ryan and just looks for a second before lifting a shoulder and dropping. He smirks. "Probably."
Jon balls up his paper bag as he finishes his last donut. He says, "We should find a plain white shirt and just Sharpie it on there."
Spencer shakes his head. "I don't think we'll have time to get it before the interviews."
"What time is the first one?"
Ryan says, "At like one, I think. And you guys are still in bed."
Brendon scoffs. He says, "Spencer, you and Ryan could get it while we -- "
"The fuck we can," Spencer says.
Brendon's mouth hangs open until Ryan raises off the bed, reaches out, and closes it. Brendon clears his throat and rubs a hand across his chin, saying, "Why not?"
Spencer looks at Brendon like he's grown three heads, which is pretty much par for the course. He says, "I'm your hero, not your personal assistant. Asshole. There, we've established a reason why for today. Now, hey, go take a shower."
When Brendon looks to Jon, he doesn't offer any help, so Brendon just pushes the covers back to get up and toss out his trash. The room shocks him, colder outside of the blankets, and he grabs a shirt from the floor to pull over himself because of it. Right.
He doesn't look at Ryan.
;;
Sometime between the second and third interview for the afternoon, Brendon admits to himself, okay, things might be a little weird and maybe they do need to talk about it.
He knows because in the hallway to the side of banquet room he says, "Um, last night..." and Ryan stops him.
"It's kind of bizarre enough without you starting sentences with 'about last night,'" Ryan says, which plainly states that it is already bizarre in the first place.
So, yes, things are a little weird. Brendon takes a breath. Or, like, seven. He doesn't know how to have to this conversation. This seems like the kind of thing that might require a lot of tact. Brendon makes it a point to try and stay aware of his strengths and weaknesses, and so that might cause a problem.
He tries, "Well, okay, what do you want me to say? Because I don't think 'Hey, Ryan, about the sex we had' works very -- "
"Don't say it like that." Ryan looks up from fussing with his gloves. "We didn't -- "
"Oh," Brendon says. Oh. Did he miss something? He can admit that he lets things fly right past him sometimes, but if they have already decided that they're handling this by saying it never happened, he would remember. That's a pretty important memo. "Okay, it didn't happen."
"That's not --" Ryan looks left, stares down the hallway quickly, then leans in kind of conspiratorially. "I meant we didn't fuck. We did --" and he waves his hand between them.
Brendon interrupts him, saying, "Wow, yeah, I know? I was there."
"But we didn't fuck," Ryan reiterates.
Brendon leans back against the wall and thumps his head against the plaster twice. He slides his hands in his pockets, shrugs, and says, "I don't want it to stay awkward. Like, honestly, that's the last thing I want."
"Well, yeah. I mean --" Ryan scratches at his hair, digging a couple fingers under the brim of his cap, and exhales through his nose. "Okay, we both agree it was a mistake?"
"Yes," Brendon says. Completely. "God, yes. I don't know what I was thinking, but."
"Right. Exactly." Ryan nods. He says, "So, good, like. That should just --" He pulls his hat back some, and looks Brendon in the eye. "--be it. Right?"
"Sure," Brendon says. He hopes he's not actually nodding as hard as he suddenly feels he is. He twists his foot on the carpet, bending his ankle, and then stands straight. "Right. It happened, but it's not, uh. "
"We tried something; it didn't work," Ryan says. He shrugs. "Whatever."
An assistant pokes her head around the corner. She waves her hand, trying to interrupt them without being too rude. She gives them the five-minute warning before they go in for interview three.
"And we got someone to pick up sandwiches for you guys, if you want something to snack on," she says and doesn't disappear.
"Um. Alright," Ryan says after a beat or two and starts around the corner with her.
Brendon hangs back a few seconds. To himself, he says, "Alright," and then pushes off the wall, following after them.
;;
On stage that night, Brendon doesn't lean in during the first part of the dream speech and stops short of Ryan during the "I Write Sins" intro. He talks to Ryan on his knees, more than a foot between them. He does the same things the next night, and Ryan takes a step forward, Brendon choking strangled sounds into the microphone.
The third night, when Brendon comes closer for the kiss, Ryan mouths, "Scared now?" as Brendon touches his shoulder. A tiny smile flashes across his mouth, just a flicker of mischief there and gone in the next blink. He raises his eyebrows, questioning, as Brendon leans back.
Brendon can recognize a challenge. Later, he gets down in front of Ryan and holds onto his legs as he talks about marriage strangling him. Repeating the drop in the middle of the song, Brendon goes a step further and swipes his hand up the back of Ryan's thigh.
When they walk off after the final blackout, Brendon hangs center stage until Ryan walks past. Brendon trails behind him, leaning in to whisper, "What was that about being scared?"
Ryan swings his hand behind him blindly and knocks his fingers against Brendon's thigh. Brendon hops back to dodge the small blow mostly, using the recovery time to hug Ryan from behind and lift him just enough to elicit a shout as Ryan's feet leave the ground. He lets go just as quickly, laughing, and Brendon presses his mouth to Ryan's collar before jogging around him and all the way to the dressing room.
Inside the dressing room, Jon says, "That one was really good."
"Yeah, it was," Spencer agrees. "The crowd was insane."
Brendon stands on one of the benches and holds up his hands, victorious. "Yeah. And, Spencer, imagine standing not even ten feet away from them the whole time."
"Brendon, we don't want to know about you getting off on the screaming."
Finally inside with the rest of the group, Ryan says, "Which he does, because he kept trying to get fresh with me."
"I was not!"
Jon laughs. "I saw that. You can't sully Ryan's virtues, man, that's not cool."
Spencer says, "You said virtues. Like they're some kind of collector's item."
"They are," Jon says, "They come in a bunch of colors and, I don't know, scents or something."
"Ryan's virtues! Collect them all."
"Excuse me! Hey!" Brendon shouts. "What about the part where Ryan's a liar?"
Ryan says, "Brendon, you caressed my thigh."
"I did not caress anything."
"It was a caress," Ryan insists, and walks over to Brendon. He braces one knee on the bench and reaches up, sliding his hand from the back of Brendon's knee on upward. Brendon shakes his leg out and Ryan rolls his eyes. "Tell me I couldn't sue you for sexual harassment after that."
Drawling the words, Brendon says, "Not anymore, baby, you just did it back," and bends down to push his forehead against Ryan's. "Mutual molestation ain't rape."
Ryan rolls his eyes and pushes Brendon's head away as Spencer and Jon laugh to their left.
"Get off me," Ryan says, and Brendon raises his eyebrows.
He counters, "That's not what you said last night!" and laughs when Ryan flips him off, hopping down from the bench to grab his change of clothes.
;;
By the seventh day, it isn't weird anymore at all, thank goodness. If he's honest with himself, Brendon had still been a little worried about it. He's touched Ryan just a bit more tentatively than usual, extraordinarily conscious of how he positions his hands and trying not to wish he could take a whole night back, but thinking maybe -- maybe it would be better.
But It's alright now. They're completely fine, and Brendon knows because Ryan comes bouncing back on the bus with Jon, falls across Brendon's lap on the couch when Jon shoves him, and asks, "You want to see the pictures Keltie just sent me?"
"You mean Keltie, the girl you called your girlfriend over and over on TV the other day?" Brendon asks, pushing his headphones down to hang around his neck.
"She can only be 'the girl I'm sometimes dating' for so long. I did fly her to London."
Ryan slides off Brendon's legs as he pulls up the photos on his Sidekick. He holds it out for both of them to see, and there are only three or four new pictures. Ryan tells the story behind them, too, and Brendon laughs when appropriate but mostly he's amused by how Ryan gets whenever he's excited about something -- someone.
Ryan says, "She was telling me that she had some time off next week, so I want her to come out for a few days."
"That's cool." Brendon stops drumming his fingers on Ryan's leg, creeps his fingers under it to the back of the knee and pinches. "Just make sure you keep your bunk curtain closed."
"Har har," Ryan says, jerking his leg and sliding it off Brendon's lap and onto the floor. "You, Jon -- everybody's got a joke about bus sex."
"Am I laughing?" Brendon asks. "I mean, unless you want us to hear it." He raises his voice a little, moaning dramatically as he says once and then louder, "Ryan. Ryan."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ryan asks, swatting at Brendon.
Brendon just laughs and does it more, grabbing at Ryan's arms every time he tries to cover Brendon's mouth. Before long, they're scuffling on the couch, both trying to get a hold of the other. Ryan finally pins Brendon on his back with a knee digging sharply into his left thigh, one arm crossed over his chest, and his other hand covering Brendon's lips.
"Give up?" he asks, smirking. Brendon nods.
When he lifts his hand just a little, Brendon asks, "No, really, is she a screamer?" and Ryan claps his fingers back over Brendon's mouth, pressing his weight on his knee to make Brendon give a muffled shout.
Ryan says, "That's what you get," and then, "No, not as much as you."
Brendon narrows his eyes, and it's Ryan's turn to alter his voice, moaning, "Fuck, Ryan! Ryannn." He just laughs when Brendon tries to buck him off, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, and, really, Satan gets tips from Ryan Ross. People don't even realize.
Coming from the back of the bus, Spencer yells, "Ryan, are you moaning your own fucking name? You guys, I'm coming up there and, I swear to God, if anybody's naked, I'm quitting."
Brendon takes the opportunity to gain back some control when Ryan's head snaps toward the sound. He licks Ryan's palm, and Ryan snaps his hand away, disgusted. When Spencer appears, Brendon shouts, "Save me! You have to save me."
Spencer stops to look at them for about three seconds before he shakes his head and walks off the bus. He says, "Yeah, figure it out."
"What? That's not helping!" Brendon turns his face against the couch cushion to shout after Spencer. "I'll remember this, Spencer!"
"Go ahead," Spencer calls back, and Brendon shut his eyes, turning his face forward again. Ryan's mouth is crooked, half-smirking thoughtfully when he opens them.
"Now do you give?" he asks, calm.
Brendon sighs and accepts defeat. "...Yes."
"Good choice," Ryan says, nodding once in acknowledgment and then sits back, moving away to allow Brendon to get up. He holds out a hand to help pull him upright. "Jon had Cassie bring her copy of Brick for me. Want to watch it with me?"
;;
In Chicago, Pete says, "Get over here, Ryan Ross," and hugs Ryan so hard that he lifts up onto his tiptoes and then rocks back to bring Ryan down some.
Ryan groans, "Aw, I just felt my spine crack." Brendon reaches to pat Ryan there as Pete sets lets him back away.
Pete says, "I told a magazine we were having an affair. Below the waist, is that okay?"
Ryan shrugs.
"Oh, so all the years I put in for you don't matter?" Jon asks, cuffing Pete on the shoulder. Pete turns and hugs Jon, laughing into his shoulder.
"You'll always be special to me, Jon, but the long legs." Pete angles outward to look at Ryan and then back to Jon. "You understand."
Jon shakes his head, amused. "You're in town for the holiday?"
"Hell yes! Food, parents, going through boxes in the attic," Pete says. "Can you tell this is a desperate cry for you to save me from my Transformers?"
Spencer says, "Jon's family has a whole thing planned."
"Time to take the boys home to mom. She says I have to if I'm gonna keep them."
"Even though we proposed like five, six months ago!" Brendon chimes in, grinning. "In a Target parking lot. Spencer bought the ring."
Spencer pretends to shine his nails on his shirt. "Cost me a pretty quarter -- two quarters. A whole fifty cents."
In between fits of laughter, Pete asks, "Did you get on one knee?"
"Brendon did," Ryan says, and Brendon drops down right there in front of Jon, head thrown back to look up at him. "We said something like -- Jon, if you play bass for us forever, we'll feed you ice cream sundaes from now until eternity --"
" -- tuck you in at night and do your community college homework," Spencer adds.
"-- bring you breakfast in bed every day. He said yes."
Jon nods, dips forward to pat Brendon's head and then help him up. "I did. Now they get to meet the folks."
"No, we've met them. But now we get to sit down for dinner," Brendon corrects. "Completely different story."
Pete can't catch his breath. "Okay. Okay, dude, I understand. But you guys have to come by after or something."
What they decide to do is all go to Jon's house for dinner and family the following night, agreeing to catch Pete later in the evening. Spencer falls asleep on the couch after sweet potato pie, and Jon and Cassie get roped into collecting plates as people finish eating. When Pete comes by, he kisses Ryan on the cheek and tells him that his mother demands his presence for at least five minutes. Ryan kicks at Brendon's leg where he sits cross-legged on the carpet as Pete tugs him from the couch.
"Come with," he says.
Brendon looks down at his own plate. "But my pie."
Pete shifts back and forth on his feet and says, "Man, we have pie. Come play with me."
"Brendon," Ryan says, and Brendon figures, whatever, he'll finish in the car.
Pete tells him that he's going to make Brendon clean the excess up with his tongue if he spills anything on his seats, to which Brendon says, "You say that like I wouldn't."
The pie tastes that good. There is no way he's letting any of the pie end up anywhere other than his stomach. Hell, he wonders if he can get Jon's mom to save some for them to take along to Minneapolis.
Pete's parents are always extremely nice, their house is always more comfortable than Brendon remembers, and Pete. Pete really does have Transformers in his bedroom. He doesn't even have them in boxes for collector's purposes. No, these are just the same toys Pete played with when he was like ten, and he hands Brendon a fucking peg person, keeps Megatron for himself and says, "You have to work your way up."
"Are you for fucking real?" Brendon could swallow this peg person without a chaser. "Let me be Optimus Prime."
And Pete hardly jokes as he says, "You can't just be Optimus Prime. You have to earn that shit."
Ryan comes back from the bathroom and sits on the other bed, watching them play battle and make sound effects at each other. Pete tells him to grab a Fall Out Boy doll or something -- "Dude, you can be Patrick. He always saves the day." -- and join, but Ryan says, "Um. I'm twenty years old," and pulls out his sidekick like that's an answer.
"By twenty, he actually means a seventy-year-old man stuck in a young guy's body," Brendon explains. "Little excites him."
"Well, maybe if you showed more skin, kid." Pete reaches out to pull at the hem of Brendon's shirt, exposing part of his stomach. His hand tickles, brushing over the skin, and Brendon sucks in a breath, trying not to laugh, as Pete sing-songs, "Bow chicka bow wow."
Brendon does giggle then. "What? You're lame."
"Look, I'm improvising here," Pete says, and he's smiling, too, hand on Brendon's stomach. He looks over to Ryan, says, "Hey, look what I got, Ryan."
Ryan cuts his eyes toward them briefly and rolls them. The phone wins over them once again, and Pete's hand drops as his smile dims, settling lower on Brendon's belly, the shirt falling over his fingers. Brendon breathes slowly. Pete has his head turned to Ryan, but when Brendon's stomach dips, he turns back, expression mildly amused but questioning. Brendon shakes his head, dismissing the way the touch startles him unexpectedly, and Pete's grin picks up again. His fingers skid lower still, and Brendon jerks back then, Pete's hand falling away as he chuckles, and Brendon glances at Ryan and then quirks his mouth at Pete in a faint mirror of his own amusement.
"What are you two doing?" Ryan asks, eyes still glued to his screen.
Pete says, "Having more fun than you," and he raises the action figure in his hand in front of Brendon's face. "Prepare to be destroyed, Urie."
Brendon looks to Ryan another time, lingering, and then tightens his grip on his tiny peg person as he blinks away his daze. He says, "Yeah," and then more defiantly, "Yeah, right. Don't let size fool you. I'm like David to your scrap metal Goliath -- "
"You'll throw pebbles at me?"
"I will overcome. You're going down," Brendon promises.
From the other bed, Ryan says, dryly, "You guys. I have to say. I'm sad I'm missing out on all the excitement over there," and both Pete and Brendon laugh.
"I told you," Pete says. "You blew it, dude."
Ryan shrugs, and Pete chuckles again but leaves him alone until he looks over later and notices that Ryan has started smiling at his screen. He practically leaps across the divide and harasses Ryan with a bunch of questions about whether or not Ryan's talking to his lady friend. That's exactly how he says it, too. "Lady friend." It must be late, because Brendon finds that so funny he falls off the bed.
Ryan and Pete laugh at his expense then, Pete crawling down onto the floor to hover over him. He kisses Brendon's forehead and calls him a dunce cap. It sounds like a pet name the way he says it, and Brendon suddenly thinks of Spencer sleeping on Jon's couch. God, it must be really late. They'll have to make bus call soon. Maybe. He doesn't know the time.
Pete runs downstairs when his mom calls up for him. Brendon pulls himself up onto the bed where Ryan is, lunging himself over Ryan's calfs and feet. Ryan wiggles his toes inside his socks, and Brendon laughs lightly, but doesn't move.
Setting his sidekick down, Ryan says, "Keltie's gonna come. She's gonna be there for St. Louis."
"Yeah? Nice." Brendon stares at the bottle caps stuck into one corner of the ceiling. "What time is it?"
"Almost midnight."
Hm. It feels later. "I thought it was later than that. Happy Thanksgiving."
"Getting that in just under the wire."
Brendon crosses one ankle over the other and folds his hands on his stomach. "Eh, you know. Better late blah blah blah. Bottle caps are way better than stars."
"Bottle -- " Ryan says, and Brendon points up. "Oh. Yeah they are."
"I love this house," Brendon says. "His room."
"You love his toys."
"I do," Brendon says, rolling over. He props himself on his elbows and looks at Ryan, who's glancing at his Sidekick again, smirking to himself. "You should see your face."
"Hm?" Ryan acknowledges Brendon without really looking. When he finally does turn his attention away from the phone, he slides down on the bed, lips pressed together and stretched in a pleasant smile. Brendon's fiercely glad, in that moment, that he came along. He's glad that he and Ryan are still okay after that night.
Flopping back onto a pillow, Ryan says, "Happy Thanksgiving."
"Aha! I'm not the only one late," Brendon says, narrowing his eyes.
Ryan shrugs. "Busy day. Anyway, I hear there's a saying."
;;
In St. Louis, Spencer tells Jon to please name one fun thing about a place named Council Bluffs, Iowa. Seriously. If he can name one thing, Spencer would fucking, like, get Jon's name tattooed on his ass. After a couple minutes, Jon says, "Oh, they have a Harrah's!" Ryan jumps up and shouts, "SOLD," and since they don't know where to find a tattoo parlor in the area, Jon settles for drawing his name in a big heart on the back of Spencer's neck with washable marker the day after the show.
Brendon runs up behind Spencer, rubs at his neck just above the ink and laughs. "You let him do it in purple?"
"That's all we could find," Spencer says, sighing. He reaches to pull his hood over his head until Jon comes up and catches him.
"Ah-ah," Jon says. He pulls at the hood to help make sure the ink is exposed. "Everybody needs to know. You heart me, man. A lot."
"And in purple," Brendon points out.
"It was the only one we had," Spencer repeats. He spins around to look at Jon. "How did you know they had a Harrah's? I know you cheated."
Jon cocks his head to the left where Ryan and Keltie are lagging behind. "She mouthed it to me."
"Keltie!" Spencer looks appalled. "I thought you were part of the team!"
Brendon whacks Spencer hard over the shoulder a couple times. He leans in to whisper, "Oh. Oh, man. Payback is a motherfucker," and then dashes away, Spencer hot on his heels.
Within their first hour at the casino, Brendon loses all of the money he allots himself for gambling. He makes his way to the craps table to find Jon and harasses him over his shoulder until Jon puts it all on red and loses.
"You said you had a feeling!" Jon says, pushing at Brendon's shoulder.
"Hey, you didn't ask what kind of feeling. A good one, a you're-gonna-blow-it one -- you didn't ask!" Brendon says, grinning. Jon's always the easiest to distract. "Want to help me get Ryan?"
Colorado, Canada, Washington. Each feels just as good as, if not better than, the last. Brendon goes ice-skating with Spencer and Hayley in Everett and makes sure to edge as close to Spencer as possible every time he feels like he's about to fall. After five times, Spencer shouts, "Hey! I'm gonna need you to stop that!" punctuating every few words with a shot to the arm, but he's grinning.
They find Ryan sitting in the dressing room after, listening to music. Brendon unwraps his scarf and flips it to horseshoe Ryan, draping it around his neck. He flops down on the couch next to him and throws an arm over his shoulders. Ryan pulls back his headphones so that they're just behind his ears instead of covering them, and looks up.
On the way to the couch on the far left of the room, Spencer says, "I had to lay the smack down on Brendon. He skates like an asshole."
"Good job," Ryan says.
"Hey!" Brendon hooks his arm closer to jerk Ryan, and Ryan smiles.
He says, "What? You probably deserved it," curling a hand around Brendon's forearm to wedge his fingers between their skin.
Brendon touches Ryan's other wrist, rotates it out to see the iPod screen. "What are you listening to? Are you moping because Keltie left?"
"No."
Brendon snorts. Of course Ryan is. Here Brendon is, getting along fine without a girlfriend at all, and Ryan spends time slouched and frowning when he just saw his and probably sent her fifty text messages before lunch today. Brendon dips his head forward, his forehead against Ryan's hair and mocks.
"Is RyRy lonely?"
Pushing Brendon's shoulder, Ryan says, "RyRy is going to kick your ass next."
"Is he? Would RyRy like to throw in a wager with that threat?"
Ryan frowns. "Zack won all my cash today."
"Aw," Brendon says. "Sucks to be you." He tugs at Ryan's arms more as he stands and gets him to come along. "Come on, let me beat you at Guitar Hero, then."
"That won't make me feel better about my money."
Brendon looks around. "Are you sure? Because beating you at Guitar Hero would make me feel better."
Ryan gives him a withering smile, and Brendon just grins back, biting his lower lip.
;;
He does Ryan the favor of winning at least ten rounds of video games over the next few days, from Washington right through San Jose and into Las Vegas, because Ryan won't even try. A few times he seems content to watch Brendon play single-player, blurting out tips and telling Brendon what to watch for on the screen. Brendon laughs, trying to keep up until he and Spencer get into a mini-tournament, and have to shush both Ryan and Jon.
"Stop helping," Spencer grits out, taking a step closer to the screen. Brendon reaches out a hand quickly to stop him, the cheater.
Jon says, "But you're gonna let him win!"
"Quit backseat driving!" Brendon says.
Ryan scoffs. "Backseat driving? It's a video game. Watch that next lick."
Jon snaps his fingers. "Oh, Spencer, Spencer, get that -- "
"Shut up," Spencer and Brendon say in unison.
They don't stop until Joe and Pete knock on the bus door. Ryan lets them in and the first thing Pete does is jump in front of the television screen until the game is ruined. Pete hops forward to hug them both at the same time, tossing opposite arms around their necks. Brendon looks over Pete's shoulder, whoops and points at the screen.
"Nailed you!" he shouts, triumphantly, and Spencer doesn't exactly give him a death glare, but it has a lot of the same qualities.
And the show feels heightened that evening. It feels somehow more frenetic to be back home and have Pete, Joe, and Andy watching from side stage during the show. Brendon can't really tell if it makes him feel anxious or just more excited. After the first song, he figures it might be some of both, but mostly the latter, and he's hyperaware of everything that happens even as the show rushes by in a whirlwind of lights and music. Screams and sweat.
He has mostly forgotten about the night in New York, has focused on letting it sink somewhere away from the forefront of his mind. He had spent a day or so trying to figure out what went wrong, but it's better for his pride and sanity not to pick it apart. It didn't mean anything, and it won't happen again, but tonight he can see Pete just past Ryan when he leans closer. Brendon thinks about Ryan with his fingers scraping between coarse denim and skin, mouth slack, or legs spread, and he wonders if Pete knows what that looks like. He wonders briefly if he should feel so satisfied right now that he does.
After the show, Pete and the rest of the guys tell them they'll see them at the afterparty if they show up.
"You gonna go?" Brendon asks Ryan in the dressing room.
"I don't know," Ryan says, and Brendon's known him long enough that if Ryan isn't immediately into something, chances are slim that it'll grow on him later.
Spencer leaves to go home for a while when Jon decides to head out for the afterparty. Brendon grabs Spencer's bike and rides alongside them as they go, riding ahead and circling back until Jon and Spencer get into a car.
"Don't wreck my bike, Brendon," Spencer says, getting into the back.
Brendon rolls his eyes. "Your bike's fine."
Ryan's finishing up when Brendon rides back to the dressing room. He pulls a hoodie over his head and gets tangled in the arms at first, shifting the clothing around until he pokes his head through the right hole. He smiles a little, amused at himself as he smoothes a hand over his hair. His face is clean.
"Beep beep!" Brendon says brightly, batting his palms against the bars on the bike as if tapping a horn. "Pick up for Mr. Ross."
"Jon and Spencer took off?" Ryan stuffs his sidekick in his pocket and walks over to the door.
"Yeah," Brendon says. He motions to the back of the bike when Ryan just stands there. "Get on, man. Get out of everybody's way."
"I'm not the one blocking the door."
He comes around and braces his feet on the back wheel pegs anyway, lifting up and resting his hands on Brendon's shoulders. Brendon doesn't pedal too fast through the hallway because people are milling around, getting things moved and packed away. A couple of the roadies congratulate them on the show, and he feels Ryan lift a hand to give them quick high fives.
They ride out of the back entrance and stop at the trucks. Brendon makes sure Spencer's bike gets taken care of before he and Ryan head to the bus.
Ryan says, "I was thinking about going by the house really quick."
"Yeah? Why?" Brendon asks climbing onto the bus behind him. He edges past Ryan to move to the bunks, adding, "Hold on, let me get a jacket; I'll go with you."
He grabs one of his own hoodies, snatches the first one he sees when he throws back the curtain on his bunk. Ryan's thumbing things into his Sidekick when Brendon comes back toward the front, humming the melody to something. Brendon recognizes it as one of the Forgive Durden songs and picks up the melody with lyrics, singing along.
He whispers, "I'm headed straight for the top, the top, the top, the dirt," and bounces on his feet in front of Ryan. "Who are you texting?"
"Pete," Ryan says.
"He mad you won't come make out with him?"
Ryan smirks and shrugs. He closes his phone, looks and asks, "Alright. You're ready?" He lifts his shoulders, drops them and exhales as he speaks.
"Yep."
He starts to follow Ryan out, hands not exactly pushing at Ryan's back. He hears it when Ryan's phone signals a new message in his pocket, and then just as quickly as they start moving, Brendon grips a hand in Ryan's hood and says his name, pulling.
"Ryan," he says, and he doesn't really have anything to say. He cranes in as best he can with Ryan mostly looking backward over his shoulder. His lips land somewhere on the side of Ryan's mouth, dragging back across his cheek as Ryan jerks in reaction. The snap-sharp burst of laughter feels more like shock than anything, and Brendon's ready to rock back and laugh it away, too -- "That's. I had no idea I was gonna do that." -- except Ryan's smile drops and he doesn't pull back as he angles his body toward Brendon again, so Brendon doesn't pull back either.
And it's so unfair that his mind only provides the wrong metaphors each time he's in the this situation -- the two times now that he's been here. The phrases flash across the backs of his eyelids, all electric sparks, and tingling, and Brendon finds himself half-grinning into the kiss as he nixes each one. There's something else here, razor fine and hot, spiking low in Brendon's belly. He edges closer at the same time Ryan lifts his hand, key ring dangling from his fingers. The metal shocks cold on his face, on his neck as Ryan touches him, and when Brendon jerks a little from the contrast, Ryan breaks away.
"Wait," Ryan whispers, stepping back. He fishes his phone from his pocket to check his message. Brendon breathes, wipes his palms needlessly over the stomach of his own shirt and scratches his hair. "Pete says you'll never be Optimus Prime bailing on him like this."
Brendon laughs. "That's what he thinks."
Closing the phone, Ryan says, "You know what, I don't need to go my place again. We should go find Zack or something."
"Oh," Brendon says. It's like it's not even the same moment, the way the tension shifts and dies so quickly. "Are you sure? I'll drive."
"You are not driving my car."
"I'm a great driver," Brendon insists. "Are you implying that I'm not a great driver?"
Ryan pushes at Brendon's head a little, laughing. "You're just bummed because now you can't try to throw yourself at me in my living room."
"Shut up." Brendon swats at Ryan's hand, grabbing his arm as it drops. Ryan comes forward so easily, and instinct has Brendon open his mouth and rise up again, ready.
There's a different intent now, the energy suddenly switching. Ryan's phone buzzes in his pocket again, and Brendon fumbles it out. He accidentally drops it on the carpet and curses, giggling.
Ryan says, "Brendon, that's my phone."
"Don't worry about it, come on," Brendon mutters, when Ryan automatically starts to bend down to get it. "Forget it."
"Fuck." Ryan nudges Brendon back. "Better not be broken," he mutters, and Brendon is sort of laughing about it lightly. Ryan kisses him and butts the heel of his hand on Brendon's hip, bumps it up and pushes back. "The couch."
"What --" but Brendon's already moving in reverse, tripping backward. He feels blindly for the couch and flops onto it, knees buckling before his hand finds the cushions. His legs splay awkwardly, and Ryan's knee jabs hard into his thigh when he scrambles into Brendon's lap. Brendon hisses and shifts, closing his legs so Ryan straddles him.
"You okay?" Ryan asks, huddling close.
Brendon lifts his hips, and says, "Mhm, yeah. Yeah," breathily. Ryan's in his lap, and he rolls his hips forward, and yeah. Brendon's okay. Mostly okay. He hides his hand in Ryan's hoodie, slipping the fingers under that and rucking up Ryan's t-shirt underneath. This is different from last time. Brendon had initiated the kiss, then, too, but Ryan had found the skin first. "Take this off."
Ryan raises his hands, and Brendon lifts the clothing. Ryan gets caught in it again, the neck only clearing half his face.
"Brendon," he says, frustrated, and Brendon laughs.
"I'm not the one with the big head."
Ryan yanks his hands free and says, "Just get my belt," reaching to pull off the shirt and hoodie himself.
"Sit back," Brendon says, and Ryan leans away some. Brendon trips over the buckle, inching it loose. He sits up on the couch himself, and maybe he angles too far forward. Just as Ryan pulls the hoodie over and off his eyes, Brendon shifts his legs. Ryan drops back as if in slow motion, the surprise spreading slow over his face, except Brendon tries to grab for him, and he's already hit the floor with a loud thud.
"Oh, shit!" Brendon shouts, and Ryan groans, writhing.
"Ow, oh my -- ow," he coughs out.
Brendon slides of the cushions and beside Ryan on the carpet, and his giggles are kind of manic for the situation. Nerves, fuck. His body thrums and Brendon's fucking nervous -- oh, God, Ryan just fell.
Brendon says, "Whoa. Ryan -- "
"I hit my head," Ryan says a little pathetically. He adds, "Did you just drop me?" but sort of smiles, a confused sort of disbelief. Dude, Ryan just fell.
"No," Brendon says, hand fluttering near Ryan's belt again. It's loose now, anyway.
"Ugh, forget it. Come on."
Ryan shakes his head left and right against the floor and covers Brendon's hand with his own. He tugs until Brendon raises to cover Ryan's body, not moving between his legs again but hovering over his torso, and he moves too fast. The kiss is sloppy, and Brendon accidentally bites when Ryan uses his left hand to cup Brendon's dick through his jeans.
"Shit, Brendon," Ryan hisses, and it comes out thick, simultaneously trying to tongue the inside of his lip as he speaks. Brendon squeezes his eyes shut.
He says, "Sorry. Sorry, your hand is on my dick."
"So you bite me?"
"I just told you I was sorry."
Ryan squeezes as he says, "You really need to relax," rubbing. Brendon sucks in his lip, letting his teeth scrape over the skin as it drags out again.
"I am," he murmurs, but that becomes increasingly untrue with each new second, because, fuck him, they're doing this shit again, and Brendon's fucking it up more than a little. "I'm relaxed. So relaxed. The epitome of -- "
"Stop talking."
Ryan's hand doesn't stop moving. Brendon opens his eyes, and Ryan looks at him evenly, mouth parted, but Brendon can't tell what he's looking for in his face.
They're watching each other silently, Brendon's arms braced on either side of Ryan. Ryan unfastens Brendon's jeans and gets his hand inside, wrapping his fingers around Bendon's cock inside his underwear. Finally, Brendon looks away first, dropping his head.
He grits out, "Keep doing that."
Ryan lifts his head some to say, quietly, "I was gonna blow you."
The bass in his voice bangs around in Brendon's head, that spark rushing down to meet the sensation Ryan's hand sends up his spine, and he braces one hand on Ryan's chest. His thumb and index fingers V at Ryan's collarbone, and Brendon can't help thrusting into Ryan's fist a little. Reckless, his mind supplies. He wants more.
It catches him off guard when Ryan sits up, and the reversal is awkward and stilted. Ryan tries to flip them without taking his hand out of Brendon's pants at the same time Brendon thinks he should maybe start trying to pull his jeans down. In the middle of that, he thinks, oh, maybe he should be trying to touch Ryan, too, and Ryan has to slap his hand away -- "Stop. Stop that." -- but eventually Brendon finds his back on the carpet and Ryan between his legs, one stretched flat across the carpet while still kicking his pants off with the other foot.
Ryan braces his hands on the floor at either side of Brendon, rushing up to kiss him. He shifts, leaning heavily onto one arm and brings the other hand to his mouth after breaking away. He half-smiles and then licks his palm as Brendon watches, snaking the hand between them to reach down and stroke Brendon again. Brendon pushes his head into the floor, breathing in sharply. His eyes close almost involuntarily, and when he opens them again, Ryan's smirking at him for just a second before slipping down, thumbs anchoring Brendon's hips.
Ryan is -- Brendon's reflexes have his hand flutter over Ryan's head, tempted to touch as Ryan takes in the head of his cock and then keeps going. His fingers curve around the base, and then Brendon does touch his head as Ryan sucks, and it's good. It's so good, the heat and warmth, and if he could just --
Ryan coughs and lifts his head, swatting at Brendon's hand.
"Okay, seriously, stop," he says. He swipes a palm over his hair where Brendon's hand had been, not fixing the messed piece at all. His face is flushed, annoyed, and Brendon thinks, god, that's so fucking hot.
He says, "Sorry, sorry, what I --"
"Just. Don't," and Ryan tightens his grip on Brendon's dick again, stroking it for good measure. "Okay?"
"Alright. Yeah, alright, but. Ryan," Brendon mutters, the words falling from his mouth hastily, because, what else can he say? Ryan's mouth quirks, and Brendon wants it on him again right now. This moment. Like five seconds ago, no kidding. He squirms on the floor, torn between watching Ryan's hand and demanding that he, seriously, stop fucking around.
He settles for, "Hey. Hey," and lifts his hips a little, hoping.
"You're impatient," Ryan says. He makes the comment conversationally, like this is a great time to just make observations and not get Brendon off, please.
Brendon grunts, thrusting his hips into Ryan's hand again, saying, "You're a tease."
"You tried to push my head." Ryan frowns.
"Oh, my God," Brendon groans, still squirming, breath labored. "I said -- sorry, okay? Ryan. Can you just --"
He's trying hard not to demand anything, because he suspects Ryan might like the control. He scratches his fingers along the floor, alternating between that and touching his own thigh, anxious. The rhythm of Ryan's hand is steady, sufficient but not quite what he wants. He closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose, and it feels like a fucking dream when he feels Ryan's mouth around him a few seconds later, thankfully. That's exactly what he wants, and, whoa, did he just call it a dream in his head? Great. So, thinking isn't working out so much.
Instead he tunes into the noises Ryan makes, erratic streams of "mm, mm," in his throat, and Brendon loves the sound. He bites his lip so hard it starts to hurt, riding the sensations, the tingle it causes in his stomach and somewhere in his legs, muscles twitching. He just does it when Ryan pulls off to tell to lift up and then starts in again almost immediately, back to sucking the head of Brendon's cock, and he might have jumped half out of his skin, except Ryan ducks lower to take care of his balls at the same time Brendon feels him test a finger against his entrance, careful. He gets stuck somewhere between reactions, heart punching in that instant and everything suddenly hotter.
Brendon curses under his breath, mumbling to himself as Ryan just strokes a finger there. He goes from sucking Brendon's balls to licking the underside of his cock, and when he finally says, "You have to relax," breath hot and damp over his skin, Brendon swears louder.
Ryan stops then and goes quickly down the short hallway to grab a bag from his bunk. He drops it on the floor next to Brendon, digs around and gets out a small container of what Brendon assumes is lube.
"I'm not even going ask why you're carrying that around all tour," he says.
Ryan says, "Alright, don't," and pushes the bag aside. He smiles at Brendon, squeezing some onto his fingers. Brendon almost can't believe he's on the floor with his legs open for Ryan, but then Ryan touches him again, fingers slick, and it's not like Brendon can really pretend he isn't, either.
"Ryan," Brendon says, but he doesn't have more after that. He tries to look down, fascinated as Ryan touches his ass with one hand, grips his dick with the other. His mouth stretches, and Brendon quits trying to see once his neck gets tense, but it feels -- it feels -- Ryan's sucking hard at the same time Brendon feels the give, Ryan's finger inside, and holy shit, and there aren't words at all.
It burns some. It takes a while before it stops feeling like the worst idea ever, but Ryan keeps blowing him. Brendon hisses, and soon the slide of Ryan's finger isn't as overwhelming. He rolls his hips forward a little, meeting Ryan's push. He does it again and another time, and somewhere in there Ryan curls the finger, and fuck. Now that makes sense.
Backing off, Ryan jerks Brendon through it, pulling firmly as he lines up a second finger, and Brendon's having trouble keeping his eyes open. His throat feels full somehow, like he has something to say and can't figure out what, and thinks, yeah, definitely, he could come like this, when Ryan licks his lips.
He asks, "Alright?"
Brendon nods. He means to throw out some words to go along with it, but the phrasing gets tangled in a strained moan. Ryan's fingers just keep pushing, and it takes Brendon a second to notice that Ryan's half-grinning at him, lips curved mischievously. Brendon's about to tell him to stop looking so goddamn self-satisfied. He opens his mouth to say just that, but Ryan gets there first.
He says, "You're gonna fuck me," like it's point of fact. "Right now, I mean."
The sky is blue, the grass is green, Brendon is going to fuck him, and Brendon digs his heel into the floor in an effort to, christ, not embarrass himself all over Ryan's fist right then.
He reaches for Ryan's wrist, stilling the hand on his cock and urges him up. Brendon doesn't say, "come here," and thank God he doesn't have to, Ryan pushing at his knee and crawling up Brendon's torso. They're a little too anxious to meet halfway, teeth clicking, but Brendon tilts his head, and they figure it out. Ryan thrusts against him once -- Brendon is going to fuck him -- and the fabric of his pants is way too --
"We should," Brendon starts to suggest, pushing at Ryan's ribs just enough to get him to lift up. He reaches for Ryan's fly, belt already undone, and fumbles with the button and zipper. The simple science of the task confuses his fingers for longer than he likes, and when he curses breathily, Ryan just licks his bottom lip and kisses him harder.
He pulls back and looks down, asking, "You got it?"
"Yeah," Brendon grits out, frustrated, "yeah," and then he feels absolutely triumphant when he really does.
Sliding his hands into the clothing, he immediately gets inside both denim and underwear. His palms drag flat over the skin of Ryan's hips, then back out, and this is where things had become the weirdest before. On a hotel room floor, Brendon's hands foreign and directionless, and he'd thought to just do what he liked having done to himself, except it hadn't been that easy somehow.
"Brendon," Ryan says against his cheek. "I gotta take these off. I need your fingers."
And fuck, okay. Okay.
Ryan moves them back to the couch, standing to hook his thumbs inside his jeans. He maintains eye contact the whole time, and Brendon has enough sense to sit up and tug on the pant legs until they pool around Ryan's ankles. Ryan steps out of them, and his underwear comes off next, Ryan pushing them down around his thighs. Brendon strips them off the rest of the way when Ryan drops back on the couch, thinking, yes, something that goes smoothly for a change. Ryan's just as hard as he is, hooking his foot around Brendon's calf to coax him closer, so willing, and it hits Brendon in a real way just how happy he is to be here, pun always intended.
He can't hide his amusement as they maneuver. He's kneeling between Ryan's legs on the cushions now, and Ryan asks, "What? Are you laughing at me?"
Shaking his head, Brendon says, "Nothing, no," and then the moment subsides when Ryan reaches for his hand and pulls it to his mouth, taking in one finger and then another.
The suction is hot. Ryan's mouth closes tight and wet around his fingers, and Brendon fists his cock as Ryan licks and sucks them. Ryan's eyes flash down to Brendon's crotch, and then back up to his face. He releases Brendon's fingers, the tips grazing his lower lip, as he says, "You can't wait for two seconds."
Brendon frowns, because, come on, has Ryan seen himself? Waiting is way overrated, he thinks, but says, "I can, too," and lets go of his dick.
"Whatever," Ryan says, and then brushes a hand along Brendon's side, grasping ineffectually. He says, "Brendon," and rolls his hips.
"Since you asked so nice," Brendon says, grinning, but it's easier to be smug about sticking his fingers in Ryan's ass than it is to, hey, actually have them there. He suddenly thinks and says, "You don't want --?" looking at the floor for the lube, but Ryan says his name again, frustrated and thin.
He says, "Just fuck me, okay?"
Guess not, Brendon thinks, and he pushes in slow, watching one finger disappear. Ryan makes that noise in his throat. Really, Brendon loves that noise, he does, but he only pushes deep a few times before Ryan's squirming and the thread of moans doesn't sound satisfied, just impatient himself now.
"Both of them," he pants, and Brendon gives him the second finger, pushing inside slow. "Faster."
And Brendon's torn between watching his own hand and Ryan's reaction. He does move fast, thrusts his fingers in a little harder, and Ryan gnaws on his lip, but Brendon can still tell that it's not right. Something about it isn't as good as it could be, even though Ryan's hot right now. Brendon is fascinated by him just like this, but then Ryan says, "Your dick," like a reminder, like a demand, and right -- right.
"Sorry," Brendon mutters and leans down to grab the lube. Getting some in his palm, he strokes his cock, aware of Ryan watching.
"Jesus Christ," Ryan says huffily, bumping his foot against the closest part of Brendon's body after, like, six seconds, no joke.
Brendon says, "Now who can't wait?"
"Who's taking his sweet time?" Ryan spits back, and he really never does stop being a pushy motherfucker, does he?
Ryan scoots back enough to turn over then, and, really, if someone had told him forty minutes ago that he would be getting ready to have sex with Ryan, Brendon would've... Well, he has no idea what he might've done, but here they are anyway. He has a misplaced thought as he moves up against Ryan, lining up, about some time right after they started the band. Ryan was making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on whole grain bread, and he started telling Brendon that, you know, he never used to like all that healthy shit in his bread, but nowadays he kind of preferred it. Back then Brendon had thought, wow, this dude could not be more boring unless he was talking about music, but now, these days, as Brendon thrusts in a little harder than he intends, it's -- seriously, fucking fantastic -- the exact opposite of that.
He has to take a moment.
Brendon's had sex. This is not his first time. He thinks about this over and over, sinking deeper. Ryan's so tight around him, and this is not his first time, so coming right now would be unforgivable and ridiculous. He breathes in, hands twitching where they rest on Ryan's hips, and tries to not to tighten his stomach when Ryan pushes back onto him.
Brendon counts backwards from five because it's the first thing he can think of, and he should, like, he should maybe move. He pulls out way too slowly, only halfway and stops. Three, two, one, this is fucking stupid, and he slides deeper again, too weakly to be good for anybody, but shit, Ryan is really tight. It almost hurts; it's almost overwhelming, and Brendon wants to move, but he also wants not to come in two seconds, and he mostly just shifts indecisively, until Ryan groans, tries to glance over his shoulder, and just asks, "Brendon. What the fuck are you doing?"
There are at least a hundred better, more clever ways to answer that question than, "Ryan, I don't even know," but that's what spills out, hasty and incriminating. The nervous, slightly wild laughter that makes a return and follows it probably doesn't make it better. Brendon bends forward, trying to muffle his amusement against Ryan's back.
He slides a hand under Ryan, rubbing his hand across Ryan's stomach, promising, "I'm sorry. Ryan. I'm so sorry." He can't stop laughing. God. His life sucks. This is terrible. Ryan's never going to want to touch him again.
After a moment, Ryan's barely tolerant sighs are broken up by that sort of disbelieving laughter of his own. He drops his head, and then picks it up again, looking over his shoulder to say, "Just move, alright? Just move a little bit."
"Right."
Brendon pulls back as much as he can still bent over. He moves out just barely, starting small, and alright. Maybe he can ride this for at least a good few minutes. Maybe. He's going to try his best here.
He backs off, lifting to gain more leverage and thrusts in with intent. Ryan's still tight, but Brendon gets the hang of it, and a few times he thrusts in hard enough to earn the hitch in Ryan's breath.
"Better?" Brendon asks.
"Harder," Ryan says.
Brendon slams into him, and Ryan says, "Yeah," pushing back.
He really can't last long here, not like this, and pulls out just before he comes. He leans over Ryan's back again, burning up. He wraps his hand around Ryan's cock, still hard, and jerks him as best he can until Ryan comes over his fingers. He drops his head forward again, and Brendon just watches the flex of Ryan's shoulder blades, chin on his spine and fingers tight around his cock.
He listens to Ryan breathe for a moment. Brendon slips his hand back and down, bumping his hand on the front of Ryan's thigh and huffs. He smiles involuntarily, kind of embarrassed.
He says, "Man. I'm really sorry that sucked so bad. Don't, you know. Do me a favor and let's not let that get out."
"Relax." Ryan laughs breathily, a couple sharp exhales and then moves to stretch. Brendon rocks back, collapsing on the other side of the couch. Ryan turns over, facing him again. He shrugs and nudges Brendon's leg with his foot, then tucks his toes under the thigh. He twists his mouth, and says, "You're dirty."
Brendon pushes at his calf. "You're the one with come on your ass."
"Oh!" Ryan jumps up then, wiping his hand over the back of his thigh and looking at the couch. "That'll come out. Right?"
next
by Charli J. Brendon/Ryan. NC-17. If there's a science to it, Brendon can't figure it out.
Brendon doesn't regret often, for two reasons: 1) if he's just going to wish he could take back doing or saying anything, then he would imagine that, even as impulsive as he is, he'd have enough sense not to waste his time in the first place, because 2) regret is lame and boring.
Still, that said, he sort of wishes he could rewind this whole night and rethink the part where he asks Ryan about his girlfriend. Yeah. Yeah, Brendon's pretty sure that's what got him into this mess. If he can just rewind, he can change how the evening progresses from that point. In the new version, Brendon asks Ryan about his girlfriend, Ryan says that she's not his girlfriend, they're just hanging out sometimes, and Brendon drops the subject.
In the new version, Brendon doesn't bring it up again when Ryan comes to watch television in Brendon's hotel room while Jon's still out. Brendon doesn't call him a "fellow lonely heart" or whatever terrible joke it had been, Ryan doesn't ask him about Brittany, and Brendon won't have to talk about how she was cool but they really are mostly just friends considering the way she never put out anyway. Ryan doesn't tell Brendon he's kind of ridiculous, Brendon doesn't say, yeah, but Ryan still likes him, right? Ryan doesn't laugh at him, staring at the television, and Brendon certainly does not, at any point, kiss Ryan just because he fails to push Brendon off when he sprawls on Ryan, pouts until Ryan looks at him, and somewhere during that moment, Ryan licks his lips, enticing him.
Most importantly, Ryan doesn't ever get to kiss back, because the situation they're in now, well. Well.
The biggest clue that this maybe could have been better thought out (other than the fact that Brendon has been focusing on all the ways he knows this is going so, amazingly wrong) is that when he clips Ryan in the ribs for the fifth time, Ryan hisses but then finally shudders, and all Brendon can do is mentally thank God it's over.
He pushes up on his arms and sits back. Ryan breathes through his nose, eventually opening his eyes, and Brendon can't even convincingly fake a smile. It comes off more like a wince probably, and Ryan glances down. Brendon doesn't know what to do with his right hand, holding it out awkwardly before wiping it on Ryan's shirt.
"Brendon," Ryan says, shifting. "Brendon, come on, I have to wear this -- "
"-- sorry! Shit, um," he says, but Ryan just shakes his head a little against the floor, saying, "It's -- whatever. I'll find something to change into -- " at the same time.
"Fuck. Fuck," Brendon mutters and rolls off so that he's lying next to Ryan now, stomach cold from the loss of contact. He's sticky inside his underwear, and if the world ever plans on ending, now would be the perfect opportunity. Really. Any moment now would be great.
Ryan tries, "So --"
"Let's not even," Brendon says, shrugging helplessly. "You know."
"No, right. We don't have to, uh," Ryan says. "discuss, or -- "
"No, yeah," Brendon says. This is fine. Well, actually this is terrible, but not dwelling on it is, "good. Yeah, okay."
"Okay."
They lie there for what feels like a span of time Brendon can only describe as For-Fucking-Ever but is probably closer to twenty seconds or something, before Ryan adds another, "Okay," again and gets up. Brendon closes his eyes and keeps them shut until he hears a door click.
It was a bad idea. Brendon definitely has a pretty impressive share of bad ideas on a regular basis, but given the onstage response and every time someone has asked about them in interviews, well. Considering the way it feels when he leans in mid-speech or ducks to graze his nose along Ryan's neck, just hugging, you know -- he doesn't want to go into weird metaphors about sparks of electricity, but the point is that he never expected that this wouldn't be anything but easy. Not that Brendon expects -- expected -- to ever get to this place, but a guy can't really anticipate when he'll end up kissing one of his best friends in the middle of a King of Queens episode. Brendon hasn't spent time actively predicting they would be half-naked on the hotel room floor by the middle of the tour, fumbling to get into each other's jeans, but objectively, given everything, he assumed that things would have gone a lot better, generally. That is, hypothetically. You know, should they, uh.
Clearly, it was a bad idea. They had a mutual lapse in judgement for a few minutes there. It was an accident. A really bad one that will probably leave bruises on Brendon's stomach and an ache in his arms, but an accident nonetheless, and things will be fine. Of course they will be.
Fuck.
Hell, if Brendon's going to start listing small miracles, he needs to thank the sky that this isn't one of the cities where he and Ryan are rooming together, because later, when Brendon's up two hours longer than he wants to be, staring at the ceiling and deliberately not thinking about having sex on the floor at the foot of the bed, Jon will snore happily through it.
;;
In the morning, the phone rings.
Under a mound of hotel blankets, Jon mumbles, "Mmph, grab it!"
Blindly, Brendon stretches an arm to feel around the nightstand between the beds for the phone. Picking up the call on the fifth or six ring, he says, "Hello?"
"...Brendon. Are you up?"
"No," Brendon mutters.
"Is Jon?"
"No," Brendon says, more whispering in slumber-rough whispers. "We're both alseep. You're actually speaking to a recording. Soon the line's just gonna -- beeeeep."
Ignoring him, Ryan says, "Well, me and Spencer are up, so we're going for Dunkin' Donuts. You want some or not?"
Brendon's conscious enough to suggest, "Mmmm, bear claws."
"What about Jon?"
Poking his head out into the cool room enough for his voice to carry across the few feet of space between him and Jon, Brendon whisper-yells, "Hey! Jon! Donuts."
"Boston Kreme!" Jon says, shoving a hand from under the cover to wave a little.
Into the phone, Brendon says, "Boston Kreme."
"Umm, okay." There's some shifting, and then Ryan says, "Anything else?"
Brendon thinks about it, turns on his side and then, wait, "Wait. What did I say I wanted?"
Sighing, Ryan says, "Go back to sleep, Brendon."
"No, but wait -- "
"Don't worry about it. I have you. Just don't sleep through it when me and Spencer knock," Ryan says and hangs up.
"Mmmkay," Brendon yawns into an empty line.
He reaches over to replace the receiver a moment later, and the first thing he remembers is last night.
;;
If there was one good thing about that short period in his life where he let William Beckett and Butcher show him how to shotgun beer cans, it was that alcohol was an out. If he was lucky, booze let a guy forget the parts of the previous night where he made an ass of himself, and whenever he did finally remember them (if he ever remembered at all), it didn't provide an immediate excuse, but it fit his less spectacular actions into a certain context.
The fact that Brendon sort of wishes that this could be one of those alcohol-excused incidents probably says a lot about the whole situation.
Jon jumps up to answer the door when Ryan and Spencer knock. It's like he hears the noise and it dawns on him that, "Donuts!" are right outside, and he's at the door in two seconds flat.
"Yes, yes, yes," Jon says as he looks through the peephole. As his hand goes for the top lock, Brendon curls his fingers in his comforter and tugs it up over his head.
He hears Ryan ask, "Is he still asleep?"
A moment later, someone thumps at his calfs through the blankets. Brendon peels back the comforter, and Spencer throws a bag at him. He says, "Bear claws, asshole."
"How am I an ass already? I'm not even up yet," Brendon asks without immediately asking if Spencer knows, because there isn't anything to know, because Ryan wouldn't tell, right?
Spencer rolls his eyes. "I'm sorry -- bear claws, Brendon."
"Thank you," Brendon says, opening the bag as he lies back again.
"Asshole," Spencer amends.
Brendon takes out a claw and bites into it. Around a mouthful of sweet wholesome goodness, he says, "I love you too, Spencer."
Ryan sets down a tray of cups on the table in the corner. He picks two up, comes over to sit on Jon's bed near the headboard and holds one out.
"Hot chocolate," he says, and Brendon can't read his face. Not that he's trying. Not that there should be anything on Ryan's face to read for any reason at all.
Instead, Brendon says, "You guys are my fucking heroes," and Jon makes satisfied, agreeable noises from his place at the foot of his bed.
Spencer says, "So we've heard."
Brendon rocks onto his elbow to reach out and grab his cup from Ryan. He doesn't realize he's having trouble deciding where to look at Ryan (the face, the knees, his feet?) until he stops himself and just looks at Jon.
Jon nods a little as he chews. Jon is a really big fan of Boston Kremes. He licks his lips and says, "What, the guy at the counter told you you were heroes for making the morning donut run?"
"Something like that, yeah," Spencer says lifting his eyebrows quickly.
Brendon asks, "Really?"
"Nope."
Ryan cuts in, saying, "He should have, though."
"Because it's fucking true," Spencer says. "Everyday I look in the mirror and say, 'You're a motherfucking P-I-M-P.'"
"You talk to yourself out loud?" Brendon starts on his second donut.
Spencer shrugs. "Well, Brendon, I guess I could use telepathy, but that seems a little excessive to do on myself."
Jon laughs. "That sounds like something from a t-shirt."
"Oh, hey, yeah. But it would go 'I'm the only one my telepathy works on' or something," Ryan says.
Now Spencer laughs, too. "I wouldn't wear that."
"Brendon, you probably would, huh?"
Brendon glances at Ryan and just looks for a second before lifting a shoulder and dropping. He smirks. "Probably."
Jon balls up his paper bag as he finishes his last donut. He says, "We should find a plain white shirt and just Sharpie it on there."
Spencer shakes his head. "I don't think we'll have time to get it before the interviews."
"What time is the first one?"
Ryan says, "At like one, I think. And you guys are still in bed."
Brendon scoffs. He says, "Spencer, you and Ryan could get it while we -- "
"The fuck we can," Spencer says.
Brendon's mouth hangs open until Ryan raises off the bed, reaches out, and closes it. Brendon clears his throat and rubs a hand across his chin, saying, "Why not?"
Spencer looks at Brendon like he's grown three heads, which is pretty much par for the course. He says, "I'm your hero, not your personal assistant. Asshole. There, we've established a reason why for today. Now, hey, go take a shower."
When Brendon looks to Jon, he doesn't offer any help, so Brendon just pushes the covers back to get up and toss out his trash. The room shocks him, colder outside of the blankets, and he grabs a shirt from the floor to pull over himself because of it. Right.
He doesn't look at Ryan.
;;
Sometime between the second and third interview for the afternoon, Brendon admits to himself, okay, things might be a little weird and maybe they do need to talk about it.
He knows because in the hallway to the side of banquet room he says, "Um, last night..." and Ryan stops him.
"It's kind of bizarre enough without you starting sentences with 'about last night,'" Ryan says, which plainly states that it is already bizarre in the first place.
So, yes, things are a little weird. Brendon takes a breath. Or, like, seven. He doesn't know how to have to this conversation. This seems like the kind of thing that might require a lot of tact. Brendon makes it a point to try and stay aware of his strengths and weaknesses, and so that might cause a problem.
He tries, "Well, okay, what do you want me to say? Because I don't think 'Hey, Ryan, about the sex we had' works very -- "
"Don't say it like that." Ryan looks up from fussing with his gloves. "We didn't -- "
"Oh," Brendon says. Oh. Did he miss something? He can admit that he lets things fly right past him sometimes, but if they have already decided that they're handling this by saying it never happened, he would remember. That's a pretty important memo. "Okay, it didn't happen."
"That's not --" Ryan looks left, stares down the hallway quickly, then leans in kind of conspiratorially. "I meant we didn't fuck. We did --" and he waves his hand between them.
Brendon interrupts him, saying, "Wow, yeah, I know? I was there."
"But we didn't fuck," Ryan reiterates.
Brendon leans back against the wall and thumps his head against the plaster twice. He slides his hands in his pockets, shrugs, and says, "I don't want it to stay awkward. Like, honestly, that's the last thing I want."
"Well, yeah. I mean --" Ryan scratches at his hair, digging a couple fingers under the brim of his cap, and exhales through his nose. "Okay, we both agree it was a mistake?"
"Yes," Brendon says. Completely. "God, yes. I don't know what I was thinking, but."
"Right. Exactly." Ryan nods. He says, "So, good, like. That should just --" He pulls his hat back some, and looks Brendon in the eye. "--be it. Right?"
"Sure," Brendon says. He hopes he's not actually nodding as hard as he suddenly feels he is. He twists his foot on the carpet, bending his ankle, and then stands straight. "Right. It happened, but it's not, uh. "
"We tried something; it didn't work," Ryan says. He shrugs. "Whatever."
An assistant pokes her head around the corner. She waves her hand, trying to interrupt them without being too rude. She gives them the five-minute warning before they go in for interview three.
"And we got someone to pick up sandwiches for you guys, if you want something to snack on," she says and doesn't disappear.
"Um. Alright," Ryan says after a beat or two and starts around the corner with her.
Brendon hangs back a few seconds. To himself, he says, "Alright," and then pushes off the wall, following after them.
;;
On stage that night, Brendon doesn't lean in during the first part of the dream speech and stops short of Ryan during the "I Write Sins" intro. He talks to Ryan on his knees, more than a foot between them. He does the same things the next night, and Ryan takes a step forward, Brendon choking strangled sounds into the microphone.
The third night, when Brendon comes closer for the kiss, Ryan mouths, "Scared now?" as Brendon touches his shoulder. A tiny smile flashes across his mouth, just a flicker of mischief there and gone in the next blink. He raises his eyebrows, questioning, as Brendon leans back.
Brendon can recognize a challenge. Later, he gets down in front of Ryan and holds onto his legs as he talks about marriage strangling him. Repeating the drop in the middle of the song, Brendon goes a step further and swipes his hand up the back of Ryan's thigh.
When they walk off after the final blackout, Brendon hangs center stage until Ryan walks past. Brendon trails behind him, leaning in to whisper, "What was that about being scared?"
Ryan swings his hand behind him blindly and knocks his fingers against Brendon's thigh. Brendon hops back to dodge the small blow mostly, using the recovery time to hug Ryan from behind and lift him just enough to elicit a shout as Ryan's feet leave the ground. He lets go just as quickly, laughing, and Brendon presses his mouth to Ryan's collar before jogging around him and all the way to the dressing room.
Inside the dressing room, Jon says, "That one was really good."
"Yeah, it was," Spencer agrees. "The crowd was insane."
Brendon stands on one of the benches and holds up his hands, victorious. "Yeah. And, Spencer, imagine standing not even ten feet away from them the whole time."
"Brendon, we don't want to know about you getting off on the screaming."
Finally inside with the rest of the group, Ryan says, "Which he does, because he kept trying to get fresh with me."
"I was not!"
Jon laughs. "I saw that. You can't sully Ryan's virtues, man, that's not cool."
Spencer says, "You said virtues. Like they're some kind of collector's item."
"They are," Jon says, "They come in a bunch of colors and, I don't know, scents or something."
"Ryan's virtues! Collect them all."
"Excuse me! Hey!" Brendon shouts. "What about the part where Ryan's a liar?"
Ryan says, "Brendon, you caressed my thigh."
"I did not caress anything."
"It was a caress," Ryan insists, and walks over to Brendon. He braces one knee on the bench and reaches up, sliding his hand from the back of Brendon's knee on upward. Brendon shakes his leg out and Ryan rolls his eyes. "Tell me I couldn't sue you for sexual harassment after that."
Drawling the words, Brendon says, "Not anymore, baby, you just did it back," and bends down to push his forehead against Ryan's. "Mutual molestation ain't rape."
Ryan rolls his eyes and pushes Brendon's head away as Spencer and Jon laugh to their left.
"Get off me," Ryan says, and Brendon raises his eyebrows.
He counters, "That's not what you said last night!" and laughs when Ryan flips him off, hopping down from the bench to grab his change of clothes.
;;
By the seventh day, it isn't weird anymore at all, thank goodness. If he's honest with himself, Brendon had still been a little worried about it. He's touched Ryan just a bit more tentatively than usual, extraordinarily conscious of how he positions his hands and trying not to wish he could take a whole night back, but thinking maybe -- maybe it would be better.
But It's alright now. They're completely fine, and Brendon knows because Ryan comes bouncing back on the bus with Jon, falls across Brendon's lap on the couch when Jon shoves him, and asks, "You want to see the pictures Keltie just sent me?"
"You mean Keltie, the girl you called your girlfriend over and over on TV the other day?" Brendon asks, pushing his headphones down to hang around his neck.
"She can only be 'the girl I'm sometimes dating' for so long. I did fly her to London."
Ryan slides off Brendon's legs as he pulls up the photos on his Sidekick. He holds it out for both of them to see, and there are only three or four new pictures. Ryan tells the story behind them, too, and Brendon laughs when appropriate but mostly he's amused by how Ryan gets whenever he's excited about something -- someone.
Ryan says, "She was telling me that she had some time off next week, so I want her to come out for a few days."
"That's cool." Brendon stops drumming his fingers on Ryan's leg, creeps his fingers under it to the back of the knee and pinches. "Just make sure you keep your bunk curtain closed."
"Har har," Ryan says, jerking his leg and sliding it off Brendon's lap and onto the floor. "You, Jon -- everybody's got a joke about bus sex."
"Am I laughing?" Brendon asks. "I mean, unless you want us to hear it." He raises his voice a little, moaning dramatically as he says once and then louder, "Ryan. Ryan."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ryan asks, swatting at Brendon.
Brendon just laughs and does it more, grabbing at Ryan's arms every time he tries to cover Brendon's mouth. Before long, they're scuffling on the couch, both trying to get a hold of the other. Ryan finally pins Brendon on his back with a knee digging sharply into his left thigh, one arm crossed over his chest, and his other hand covering Brendon's lips.
"Give up?" he asks, smirking. Brendon nods.
When he lifts his hand just a little, Brendon asks, "No, really, is she a screamer?" and Ryan claps his fingers back over Brendon's mouth, pressing his weight on his knee to make Brendon give a muffled shout.
Ryan says, "That's what you get," and then, "No, not as much as you."
Brendon narrows his eyes, and it's Ryan's turn to alter his voice, moaning, "Fuck, Ryan! Ryannn." He just laughs when Brendon tries to buck him off, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, and, really, Satan gets tips from Ryan Ross. People don't even realize.
Coming from the back of the bus, Spencer yells, "Ryan, are you moaning your own fucking name? You guys, I'm coming up there and, I swear to God, if anybody's naked, I'm quitting."
Brendon takes the opportunity to gain back some control when Ryan's head snaps toward the sound. He licks Ryan's palm, and Ryan snaps his hand away, disgusted. When Spencer appears, Brendon shouts, "Save me! You have to save me."
Spencer stops to look at them for about three seconds before he shakes his head and walks off the bus. He says, "Yeah, figure it out."
"What? That's not helping!" Brendon turns his face against the couch cushion to shout after Spencer. "I'll remember this, Spencer!"
"Go ahead," Spencer calls back, and Brendon shut his eyes, turning his face forward again. Ryan's mouth is crooked, half-smirking thoughtfully when he opens them.
"Now do you give?" he asks, calm.
Brendon sighs and accepts defeat. "...Yes."
"Good choice," Ryan says, nodding once in acknowledgment and then sits back, moving away to allow Brendon to get up. He holds out a hand to help pull him upright. "Jon had Cassie bring her copy of Brick for me. Want to watch it with me?"
;;
In Chicago, Pete says, "Get over here, Ryan Ross," and hugs Ryan so hard that he lifts up onto his tiptoes and then rocks back to bring Ryan down some.
Ryan groans, "Aw, I just felt my spine crack." Brendon reaches to pat Ryan there as Pete sets lets him back away.
Pete says, "I told a magazine we were having an affair. Below the waist, is that okay?"
Ryan shrugs.
"Oh, so all the years I put in for you don't matter?" Jon asks, cuffing Pete on the shoulder. Pete turns and hugs Jon, laughing into his shoulder.
"You'll always be special to me, Jon, but the long legs." Pete angles outward to look at Ryan and then back to Jon. "You understand."
Jon shakes his head, amused. "You're in town for the holiday?"
"Hell yes! Food, parents, going through boxes in the attic," Pete says. "Can you tell this is a desperate cry for you to save me from my Transformers?"
Spencer says, "Jon's family has a whole thing planned."
"Time to take the boys home to mom. She says I have to if I'm gonna keep them."
"Even though we proposed like five, six months ago!" Brendon chimes in, grinning. "In a Target parking lot. Spencer bought the ring."
Spencer pretends to shine his nails on his shirt. "Cost me a pretty quarter -- two quarters. A whole fifty cents."
In between fits of laughter, Pete asks, "Did you get on one knee?"
"Brendon did," Ryan says, and Brendon drops down right there in front of Jon, head thrown back to look up at him. "We said something like -- Jon, if you play bass for us forever, we'll feed you ice cream sundaes from now until eternity --"
" -- tuck you in at night and do your community college homework," Spencer adds.
"-- bring you breakfast in bed every day. He said yes."
Jon nods, dips forward to pat Brendon's head and then help him up. "I did. Now they get to meet the folks."
"No, we've met them. But now we get to sit down for dinner," Brendon corrects. "Completely different story."
Pete can't catch his breath. "Okay. Okay, dude, I understand. But you guys have to come by after or something."
What they decide to do is all go to Jon's house for dinner and family the following night, agreeing to catch Pete later in the evening. Spencer falls asleep on the couch after sweet potato pie, and Jon and Cassie get roped into collecting plates as people finish eating. When Pete comes by, he kisses Ryan on the cheek and tells him that his mother demands his presence for at least five minutes. Ryan kicks at Brendon's leg where he sits cross-legged on the carpet as Pete tugs him from the couch.
"Come with," he says.
Brendon looks down at his own plate. "But my pie."
Pete shifts back and forth on his feet and says, "Man, we have pie. Come play with me."
"Brendon," Ryan says, and Brendon figures, whatever, he'll finish in the car.
Pete tells him that he's going to make Brendon clean the excess up with his tongue if he spills anything on his seats, to which Brendon says, "You say that like I wouldn't."
The pie tastes that good. There is no way he's letting any of the pie end up anywhere other than his stomach. Hell, he wonders if he can get Jon's mom to save some for them to take along to Minneapolis.
Pete's parents are always extremely nice, their house is always more comfortable than Brendon remembers, and Pete. Pete really does have Transformers in his bedroom. He doesn't even have them in boxes for collector's purposes. No, these are just the same toys Pete played with when he was like ten, and he hands Brendon a fucking peg person, keeps Megatron for himself and says, "You have to work your way up."
"Are you for fucking real?" Brendon could swallow this peg person without a chaser. "Let me be Optimus Prime."
And Pete hardly jokes as he says, "You can't just be Optimus Prime. You have to earn that shit."
Ryan comes back from the bathroom and sits on the other bed, watching them play battle and make sound effects at each other. Pete tells him to grab a Fall Out Boy doll or something -- "Dude, you can be Patrick. He always saves the day." -- and join, but Ryan says, "Um. I'm twenty years old," and pulls out his sidekick like that's an answer.
"By twenty, he actually means a seventy-year-old man stuck in a young guy's body," Brendon explains. "Little excites him."
"Well, maybe if you showed more skin, kid." Pete reaches out to pull at the hem of Brendon's shirt, exposing part of his stomach. His hand tickles, brushing over the skin, and Brendon sucks in a breath, trying not to laugh, as Pete sing-songs, "Bow chicka bow wow."
Brendon does giggle then. "What? You're lame."
"Look, I'm improvising here," Pete says, and he's smiling, too, hand on Brendon's stomach. He looks over to Ryan, says, "Hey, look what I got, Ryan."
Ryan cuts his eyes toward them briefly and rolls them. The phone wins over them once again, and Pete's hand drops as his smile dims, settling lower on Brendon's belly, the shirt falling over his fingers. Brendon breathes slowly. Pete has his head turned to Ryan, but when Brendon's stomach dips, he turns back, expression mildly amused but questioning. Brendon shakes his head, dismissing the way the touch startles him unexpectedly, and Pete's grin picks up again. His fingers skid lower still, and Brendon jerks back then, Pete's hand falling away as he chuckles, and Brendon glances at Ryan and then quirks his mouth at Pete in a faint mirror of his own amusement.
"What are you two doing?" Ryan asks, eyes still glued to his screen.
Pete says, "Having more fun than you," and he raises the action figure in his hand in front of Brendon's face. "Prepare to be destroyed, Urie."
Brendon looks to Ryan another time, lingering, and then tightens his grip on his tiny peg person as he blinks away his daze. He says, "Yeah," and then more defiantly, "Yeah, right. Don't let size fool you. I'm like David to your scrap metal Goliath -- "
"You'll throw pebbles at me?"
"I will overcome. You're going down," Brendon promises.
From the other bed, Ryan says, dryly, "You guys. I have to say. I'm sad I'm missing out on all the excitement over there," and both Pete and Brendon laugh.
"I told you," Pete says. "You blew it, dude."
Ryan shrugs, and Pete chuckles again but leaves him alone until he looks over later and notices that Ryan has started smiling at his screen. He practically leaps across the divide and harasses Ryan with a bunch of questions about whether or not Ryan's talking to his lady friend. That's exactly how he says it, too. "Lady friend." It must be late, because Brendon finds that so funny he falls off the bed.
Ryan and Pete laugh at his expense then, Pete crawling down onto the floor to hover over him. He kisses Brendon's forehead and calls him a dunce cap. It sounds like a pet name the way he says it, and Brendon suddenly thinks of Spencer sleeping on Jon's couch. God, it must be really late. They'll have to make bus call soon. Maybe. He doesn't know the time.
Pete runs downstairs when his mom calls up for him. Brendon pulls himself up onto the bed where Ryan is, lunging himself over Ryan's calfs and feet. Ryan wiggles his toes inside his socks, and Brendon laughs lightly, but doesn't move.
Setting his sidekick down, Ryan says, "Keltie's gonna come. She's gonna be there for St. Louis."
"Yeah? Nice." Brendon stares at the bottle caps stuck into one corner of the ceiling. "What time is it?"
"Almost midnight."
Hm. It feels later. "I thought it was later than that. Happy Thanksgiving."
"Getting that in just under the wire."
Brendon crosses one ankle over the other and folds his hands on his stomach. "Eh, you know. Better late blah blah blah. Bottle caps are way better than stars."
"Bottle -- " Ryan says, and Brendon points up. "Oh. Yeah they are."
"I love this house," Brendon says. "His room."
"You love his toys."
"I do," Brendon says, rolling over. He props himself on his elbows and looks at Ryan, who's glancing at his Sidekick again, smirking to himself. "You should see your face."
"Hm?" Ryan acknowledges Brendon without really looking. When he finally does turn his attention away from the phone, he slides down on the bed, lips pressed together and stretched in a pleasant smile. Brendon's fiercely glad, in that moment, that he came along. He's glad that he and Ryan are still okay after that night.
Flopping back onto a pillow, Ryan says, "Happy Thanksgiving."
"Aha! I'm not the only one late," Brendon says, narrowing his eyes.
Ryan shrugs. "Busy day. Anyway, I hear there's a saying."
;;
In St. Louis, Spencer tells Jon to please name one fun thing about a place named Council Bluffs, Iowa. Seriously. If he can name one thing, Spencer would fucking, like, get Jon's name tattooed on his ass. After a couple minutes, Jon says, "Oh, they have a Harrah's!" Ryan jumps up and shouts, "SOLD," and since they don't know where to find a tattoo parlor in the area, Jon settles for drawing his name in a big heart on the back of Spencer's neck with washable marker the day after the show.
Brendon runs up behind Spencer, rubs at his neck just above the ink and laughs. "You let him do it in purple?"
"That's all we could find," Spencer says, sighing. He reaches to pull his hood over his head until Jon comes up and catches him.
"Ah-ah," Jon says. He pulls at the hood to help make sure the ink is exposed. "Everybody needs to know. You heart me, man. A lot."
"And in purple," Brendon points out.
"It was the only one we had," Spencer repeats. He spins around to look at Jon. "How did you know they had a Harrah's? I know you cheated."
Jon cocks his head to the left where Ryan and Keltie are lagging behind. "She mouthed it to me."
"Keltie!" Spencer looks appalled. "I thought you were part of the team!"
Brendon whacks Spencer hard over the shoulder a couple times. He leans in to whisper, "Oh. Oh, man. Payback is a motherfucker," and then dashes away, Spencer hot on his heels.
Within their first hour at the casino, Brendon loses all of the money he allots himself for gambling. He makes his way to the craps table to find Jon and harasses him over his shoulder until Jon puts it all on red and loses.
"You said you had a feeling!" Jon says, pushing at Brendon's shoulder.
"Hey, you didn't ask what kind of feeling. A good one, a you're-gonna-blow-it one -- you didn't ask!" Brendon says, grinning. Jon's always the easiest to distract. "Want to help me get Ryan?"
Colorado, Canada, Washington. Each feels just as good as, if not better than, the last. Brendon goes ice-skating with Spencer and Hayley in Everett and makes sure to edge as close to Spencer as possible every time he feels like he's about to fall. After five times, Spencer shouts, "Hey! I'm gonna need you to stop that!" punctuating every few words with a shot to the arm, but he's grinning.
They find Ryan sitting in the dressing room after, listening to music. Brendon unwraps his scarf and flips it to horseshoe Ryan, draping it around his neck. He flops down on the couch next to him and throws an arm over his shoulders. Ryan pulls back his headphones so that they're just behind his ears instead of covering them, and looks up.
On the way to the couch on the far left of the room, Spencer says, "I had to lay the smack down on Brendon. He skates like an asshole."
"Good job," Ryan says.
"Hey!" Brendon hooks his arm closer to jerk Ryan, and Ryan smiles.
He says, "What? You probably deserved it," curling a hand around Brendon's forearm to wedge his fingers between their skin.
Brendon touches Ryan's other wrist, rotates it out to see the iPod screen. "What are you listening to? Are you moping because Keltie left?"
"No."
Brendon snorts. Of course Ryan is. Here Brendon is, getting along fine without a girlfriend at all, and Ryan spends time slouched and frowning when he just saw his and probably sent her fifty text messages before lunch today. Brendon dips his head forward, his forehead against Ryan's hair and mocks.
"Is RyRy lonely?"
Pushing Brendon's shoulder, Ryan says, "RyRy is going to kick your ass next."
"Is he? Would RyRy like to throw in a wager with that threat?"
Ryan frowns. "Zack won all my cash today."
"Aw," Brendon says. "Sucks to be you." He tugs at Ryan's arms more as he stands and gets him to come along. "Come on, let me beat you at Guitar Hero, then."
"That won't make me feel better about my money."
Brendon looks around. "Are you sure? Because beating you at Guitar Hero would make me feel better."
Ryan gives him a withering smile, and Brendon just grins back, biting his lower lip.
;;
He does Ryan the favor of winning at least ten rounds of video games over the next few days, from Washington right through San Jose and into Las Vegas, because Ryan won't even try. A few times he seems content to watch Brendon play single-player, blurting out tips and telling Brendon what to watch for on the screen. Brendon laughs, trying to keep up until he and Spencer get into a mini-tournament, and have to shush both Ryan and Jon.
"Stop helping," Spencer grits out, taking a step closer to the screen. Brendon reaches out a hand quickly to stop him, the cheater.
Jon says, "But you're gonna let him win!"
"Quit backseat driving!" Brendon says.
Ryan scoffs. "Backseat driving? It's a video game. Watch that next lick."
Jon snaps his fingers. "Oh, Spencer, Spencer, get that -- "
"Shut up," Spencer and Brendon say in unison.
They don't stop until Joe and Pete knock on the bus door. Ryan lets them in and the first thing Pete does is jump in front of the television screen until the game is ruined. Pete hops forward to hug them both at the same time, tossing opposite arms around their necks. Brendon looks over Pete's shoulder, whoops and points at the screen.
"Nailed you!" he shouts, triumphantly, and Spencer doesn't exactly give him a death glare, but it has a lot of the same qualities.
And the show feels heightened that evening. It feels somehow more frenetic to be back home and have Pete, Joe, and Andy watching from side stage during the show. Brendon can't really tell if it makes him feel anxious or just more excited. After the first song, he figures it might be some of both, but mostly the latter, and he's hyperaware of everything that happens even as the show rushes by in a whirlwind of lights and music. Screams and sweat.
He has mostly forgotten about the night in New York, has focused on letting it sink somewhere away from the forefront of his mind. He had spent a day or so trying to figure out what went wrong, but it's better for his pride and sanity not to pick it apart. It didn't mean anything, and it won't happen again, but tonight he can see Pete just past Ryan when he leans closer. Brendon thinks about Ryan with his fingers scraping between coarse denim and skin, mouth slack, or legs spread, and he wonders if Pete knows what that looks like. He wonders briefly if he should feel so satisfied right now that he does.
After the show, Pete and the rest of the guys tell them they'll see them at the afterparty if they show up.
"You gonna go?" Brendon asks Ryan in the dressing room.
"I don't know," Ryan says, and Brendon's known him long enough that if Ryan isn't immediately into something, chances are slim that it'll grow on him later.
Spencer leaves to go home for a while when Jon decides to head out for the afterparty. Brendon grabs Spencer's bike and rides alongside them as they go, riding ahead and circling back until Jon and Spencer get into a car.
"Don't wreck my bike, Brendon," Spencer says, getting into the back.
Brendon rolls his eyes. "Your bike's fine."
Ryan's finishing up when Brendon rides back to the dressing room. He pulls a hoodie over his head and gets tangled in the arms at first, shifting the clothing around until he pokes his head through the right hole. He smiles a little, amused at himself as he smoothes a hand over his hair. His face is clean.
"Beep beep!" Brendon says brightly, batting his palms against the bars on the bike as if tapping a horn. "Pick up for Mr. Ross."
"Jon and Spencer took off?" Ryan stuffs his sidekick in his pocket and walks over to the door.
"Yeah," Brendon says. He motions to the back of the bike when Ryan just stands there. "Get on, man. Get out of everybody's way."
"I'm not the one blocking the door."
He comes around and braces his feet on the back wheel pegs anyway, lifting up and resting his hands on Brendon's shoulders. Brendon doesn't pedal too fast through the hallway because people are milling around, getting things moved and packed away. A couple of the roadies congratulate them on the show, and he feels Ryan lift a hand to give them quick high fives.
They ride out of the back entrance and stop at the trucks. Brendon makes sure Spencer's bike gets taken care of before he and Ryan head to the bus.
Ryan says, "I was thinking about going by the house really quick."
"Yeah? Why?" Brendon asks climbing onto the bus behind him. He edges past Ryan to move to the bunks, adding, "Hold on, let me get a jacket; I'll go with you."
He grabs one of his own hoodies, snatches the first one he sees when he throws back the curtain on his bunk. Ryan's thumbing things into his Sidekick when Brendon comes back toward the front, humming the melody to something. Brendon recognizes it as one of the Forgive Durden songs and picks up the melody with lyrics, singing along.
He whispers, "I'm headed straight for the top, the top, the top, the dirt," and bounces on his feet in front of Ryan. "Who are you texting?"
"Pete," Ryan says.
"He mad you won't come make out with him?"
Ryan smirks and shrugs. He closes his phone, looks and asks, "Alright. You're ready?" He lifts his shoulders, drops them and exhales as he speaks.
"Yep."
He starts to follow Ryan out, hands not exactly pushing at Ryan's back. He hears it when Ryan's phone signals a new message in his pocket, and then just as quickly as they start moving, Brendon grips a hand in Ryan's hood and says his name, pulling.
"Ryan," he says, and he doesn't really have anything to say. He cranes in as best he can with Ryan mostly looking backward over his shoulder. His lips land somewhere on the side of Ryan's mouth, dragging back across his cheek as Ryan jerks in reaction. The snap-sharp burst of laughter feels more like shock than anything, and Brendon's ready to rock back and laugh it away, too -- "That's. I had no idea I was gonna do that." -- except Ryan's smile drops and he doesn't pull back as he angles his body toward Brendon again, so Brendon doesn't pull back either.
And it's so unfair that his mind only provides the wrong metaphors each time he's in the this situation -- the two times now that he's been here. The phrases flash across the backs of his eyelids, all electric sparks, and tingling, and Brendon finds himself half-grinning into the kiss as he nixes each one. There's something else here, razor fine and hot, spiking low in Brendon's belly. He edges closer at the same time Ryan lifts his hand, key ring dangling from his fingers. The metal shocks cold on his face, on his neck as Ryan touches him, and when Brendon jerks a little from the contrast, Ryan breaks away.
"Wait," Ryan whispers, stepping back. He fishes his phone from his pocket to check his message. Brendon breathes, wipes his palms needlessly over the stomach of his own shirt and scratches his hair. "Pete says you'll never be Optimus Prime bailing on him like this."
Brendon laughs. "That's what he thinks."
Closing the phone, Ryan says, "You know what, I don't need to go my place again. We should go find Zack or something."
"Oh," Brendon says. It's like it's not even the same moment, the way the tension shifts and dies so quickly. "Are you sure? I'll drive."
"You are not driving my car."
"I'm a great driver," Brendon insists. "Are you implying that I'm not a great driver?"
Ryan pushes at Brendon's head a little, laughing. "You're just bummed because now you can't try to throw yourself at me in my living room."
"Shut up." Brendon swats at Ryan's hand, grabbing his arm as it drops. Ryan comes forward so easily, and instinct has Brendon open his mouth and rise up again, ready.
There's a different intent now, the energy suddenly switching. Ryan's phone buzzes in his pocket again, and Brendon fumbles it out. He accidentally drops it on the carpet and curses, giggling.
Ryan says, "Brendon, that's my phone."
"Don't worry about it, come on," Brendon mutters, when Ryan automatically starts to bend down to get it. "Forget it."
"Fuck." Ryan nudges Brendon back. "Better not be broken," he mutters, and Brendon is sort of laughing about it lightly. Ryan kisses him and butts the heel of his hand on Brendon's hip, bumps it up and pushes back. "The couch."
"What --" but Brendon's already moving in reverse, tripping backward. He feels blindly for the couch and flops onto it, knees buckling before his hand finds the cushions. His legs splay awkwardly, and Ryan's knee jabs hard into his thigh when he scrambles into Brendon's lap. Brendon hisses and shifts, closing his legs so Ryan straddles him.
"You okay?" Ryan asks, huddling close.
Brendon lifts his hips, and says, "Mhm, yeah. Yeah," breathily. Ryan's in his lap, and he rolls his hips forward, and yeah. Brendon's okay. Mostly okay. He hides his hand in Ryan's hoodie, slipping the fingers under that and rucking up Ryan's t-shirt underneath. This is different from last time. Brendon had initiated the kiss, then, too, but Ryan had found the skin first. "Take this off."
Ryan raises his hands, and Brendon lifts the clothing. Ryan gets caught in it again, the neck only clearing half his face.
"Brendon," he says, frustrated, and Brendon laughs.
"I'm not the one with the big head."
Ryan yanks his hands free and says, "Just get my belt," reaching to pull off the shirt and hoodie himself.
"Sit back," Brendon says, and Ryan leans away some. Brendon trips over the buckle, inching it loose. He sits up on the couch himself, and maybe he angles too far forward. Just as Ryan pulls the hoodie over and off his eyes, Brendon shifts his legs. Ryan drops back as if in slow motion, the surprise spreading slow over his face, except Brendon tries to grab for him, and he's already hit the floor with a loud thud.
"Oh, shit!" Brendon shouts, and Ryan groans, writhing.
"Ow, oh my -- ow," he coughs out.
Brendon slides of the cushions and beside Ryan on the carpet, and his giggles are kind of manic for the situation. Nerves, fuck. His body thrums and Brendon's fucking nervous -- oh, God, Ryan just fell.
Brendon says, "Whoa. Ryan -- "
"I hit my head," Ryan says a little pathetically. He adds, "Did you just drop me?" but sort of smiles, a confused sort of disbelief. Dude, Ryan just fell.
"No," Brendon says, hand fluttering near Ryan's belt again. It's loose now, anyway.
"Ugh, forget it. Come on."
Ryan shakes his head left and right against the floor and covers Brendon's hand with his own. He tugs until Brendon raises to cover Ryan's body, not moving between his legs again but hovering over his torso, and he moves too fast. The kiss is sloppy, and Brendon accidentally bites when Ryan uses his left hand to cup Brendon's dick through his jeans.
"Shit, Brendon," Ryan hisses, and it comes out thick, simultaneously trying to tongue the inside of his lip as he speaks. Brendon squeezes his eyes shut.
He says, "Sorry. Sorry, your hand is on my dick."
"So you bite me?"
"I just told you I was sorry."
Ryan squeezes as he says, "You really need to relax," rubbing. Brendon sucks in his lip, letting his teeth scrape over the skin as it drags out again.
"I am," he murmurs, but that becomes increasingly untrue with each new second, because, fuck him, they're doing this shit again, and Brendon's fucking it up more than a little. "I'm relaxed. So relaxed. The epitome of -- "
"Stop talking."
Ryan's hand doesn't stop moving. Brendon opens his eyes, and Ryan looks at him evenly, mouth parted, but Brendon can't tell what he's looking for in his face.
They're watching each other silently, Brendon's arms braced on either side of Ryan. Ryan unfastens Brendon's jeans and gets his hand inside, wrapping his fingers around Bendon's cock inside his underwear. Finally, Brendon looks away first, dropping his head.
He grits out, "Keep doing that."
Ryan lifts his head some to say, quietly, "I was gonna blow you."
The bass in his voice bangs around in Brendon's head, that spark rushing down to meet the sensation Ryan's hand sends up his spine, and he braces one hand on Ryan's chest. His thumb and index fingers V at Ryan's collarbone, and Brendon can't help thrusting into Ryan's fist a little. Reckless, his mind supplies. He wants more.
It catches him off guard when Ryan sits up, and the reversal is awkward and stilted. Ryan tries to flip them without taking his hand out of Brendon's pants at the same time Brendon thinks he should maybe start trying to pull his jeans down. In the middle of that, he thinks, oh, maybe he should be trying to touch Ryan, too, and Ryan has to slap his hand away -- "Stop. Stop that." -- but eventually Brendon finds his back on the carpet and Ryan between his legs, one stretched flat across the carpet while still kicking his pants off with the other foot.
Ryan braces his hands on the floor at either side of Brendon, rushing up to kiss him. He shifts, leaning heavily onto one arm and brings the other hand to his mouth after breaking away. He half-smiles and then licks his palm as Brendon watches, snaking the hand between them to reach down and stroke Brendon again. Brendon pushes his head into the floor, breathing in sharply. His eyes close almost involuntarily, and when he opens them again, Ryan's smirking at him for just a second before slipping down, thumbs anchoring Brendon's hips.
Ryan is -- Brendon's reflexes have his hand flutter over Ryan's head, tempted to touch as Ryan takes in the head of his cock and then keeps going. His fingers curve around the base, and then Brendon does touch his head as Ryan sucks, and it's good. It's so good, the heat and warmth, and if he could just --
Ryan coughs and lifts his head, swatting at Brendon's hand.
"Okay, seriously, stop," he says. He swipes a palm over his hair where Brendon's hand had been, not fixing the messed piece at all. His face is flushed, annoyed, and Brendon thinks, god, that's so fucking hot.
He says, "Sorry, sorry, what I --"
"Just. Don't," and Ryan tightens his grip on Brendon's dick again, stroking it for good measure. "Okay?"
"Alright. Yeah, alright, but. Ryan," Brendon mutters, the words falling from his mouth hastily, because, what else can he say? Ryan's mouth quirks, and Brendon wants it on him again right now. This moment. Like five seconds ago, no kidding. He squirms on the floor, torn between watching Ryan's hand and demanding that he, seriously, stop fucking around.
He settles for, "Hey. Hey," and lifts his hips a little, hoping.
"You're impatient," Ryan says. He makes the comment conversationally, like this is a great time to just make observations and not get Brendon off, please.
Brendon grunts, thrusting his hips into Ryan's hand again, saying, "You're a tease."
"You tried to push my head." Ryan frowns.
"Oh, my God," Brendon groans, still squirming, breath labored. "I said -- sorry, okay? Ryan. Can you just --"
He's trying hard not to demand anything, because he suspects Ryan might like the control. He scratches his fingers along the floor, alternating between that and touching his own thigh, anxious. The rhythm of Ryan's hand is steady, sufficient but not quite what he wants. He closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose, and it feels like a fucking dream when he feels Ryan's mouth around him a few seconds later, thankfully. That's exactly what he wants, and, whoa, did he just call it a dream in his head? Great. So, thinking isn't working out so much.
Instead he tunes into the noises Ryan makes, erratic streams of "mm, mm," in his throat, and Brendon loves the sound. He bites his lip so hard it starts to hurt, riding the sensations, the tingle it causes in his stomach and somewhere in his legs, muscles twitching. He just does it when Ryan pulls off to tell to lift up and then starts in again almost immediately, back to sucking the head of Brendon's cock, and he might have jumped half out of his skin, except Ryan ducks lower to take care of his balls at the same time Brendon feels him test a finger against his entrance, careful. He gets stuck somewhere between reactions, heart punching in that instant and everything suddenly hotter.
Brendon curses under his breath, mumbling to himself as Ryan just strokes a finger there. He goes from sucking Brendon's balls to licking the underside of his cock, and when he finally says, "You have to relax," breath hot and damp over his skin, Brendon swears louder.
Ryan stops then and goes quickly down the short hallway to grab a bag from his bunk. He drops it on the floor next to Brendon, digs around and gets out a small container of what Brendon assumes is lube.
"I'm not even going ask why you're carrying that around all tour," he says.
Ryan says, "Alright, don't," and pushes the bag aside. He smiles at Brendon, squeezing some onto his fingers. Brendon almost can't believe he's on the floor with his legs open for Ryan, but then Ryan touches him again, fingers slick, and it's not like Brendon can really pretend he isn't, either.
"Ryan," Brendon says, but he doesn't have more after that. He tries to look down, fascinated as Ryan touches his ass with one hand, grips his dick with the other. His mouth stretches, and Brendon quits trying to see once his neck gets tense, but it feels -- it feels -- Ryan's sucking hard at the same time Brendon feels the give, Ryan's finger inside, and holy shit, and there aren't words at all.
It burns some. It takes a while before it stops feeling like the worst idea ever, but Ryan keeps blowing him. Brendon hisses, and soon the slide of Ryan's finger isn't as overwhelming. He rolls his hips forward a little, meeting Ryan's push. He does it again and another time, and somewhere in there Ryan curls the finger, and fuck. Now that makes sense.
Backing off, Ryan jerks Brendon through it, pulling firmly as he lines up a second finger, and Brendon's having trouble keeping his eyes open. His throat feels full somehow, like he has something to say and can't figure out what, and thinks, yeah, definitely, he could come like this, when Ryan licks his lips.
He asks, "Alright?"
Brendon nods. He means to throw out some words to go along with it, but the phrasing gets tangled in a strained moan. Ryan's fingers just keep pushing, and it takes Brendon a second to notice that Ryan's half-grinning at him, lips curved mischievously. Brendon's about to tell him to stop looking so goddamn self-satisfied. He opens his mouth to say just that, but Ryan gets there first.
He says, "You're gonna fuck me," like it's point of fact. "Right now, I mean."
The sky is blue, the grass is green, Brendon is going to fuck him, and Brendon digs his heel into the floor in an effort to, christ, not embarrass himself all over Ryan's fist right then.
He reaches for Ryan's wrist, stilling the hand on his cock and urges him up. Brendon doesn't say, "come here," and thank God he doesn't have to, Ryan pushing at his knee and crawling up Brendon's torso. They're a little too anxious to meet halfway, teeth clicking, but Brendon tilts his head, and they figure it out. Ryan thrusts against him once -- Brendon is going to fuck him -- and the fabric of his pants is way too --
"We should," Brendon starts to suggest, pushing at Ryan's ribs just enough to get him to lift up. He reaches for Ryan's fly, belt already undone, and fumbles with the button and zipper. The simple science of the task confuses his fingers for longer than he likes, and when he curses breathily, Ryan just licks his bottom lip and kisses him harder.
He pulls back and looks down, asking, "You got it?"
"Yeah," Brendon grits out, frustrated, "yeah," and then he feels absolutely triumphant when he really does.
Sliding his hands into the clothing, he immediately gets inside both denim and underwear. His palms drag flat over the skin of Ryan's hips, then back out, and this is where things had become the weirdest before. On a hotel room floor, Brendon's hands foreign and directionless, and he'd thought to just do what he liked having done to himself, except it hadn't been that easy somehow.
"Brendon," Ryan says against his cheek. "I gotta take these off. I need your fingers."
And fuck, okay. Okay.
Ryan moves them back to the couch, standing to hook his thumbs inside his jeans. He maintains eye contact the whole time, and Brendon has enough sense to sit up and tug on the pant legs until they pool around Ryan's ankles. Ryan steps out of them, and his underwear comes off next, Ryan pushing them down around his thighs. Brendon strips them off the rest of the way when Ryan drops back on the couch, thinking, yes, something that goes smoothly for a change. Ryan's just as hard as he is, hooking his foot around Brendon's calf to coax him closer, so willing, and it hits Brendon in a real way just how happy he is to be here, pun always intended.
He can't hide his amusement as they maneuver. He's kneeling between Ryan's legs on the cushions now, and Ryan asks, "What? Are you laughing at me?"
Shaking his head, Brendon says, "Nothing, no," and then the moment subsides when Ryan reaches for his hand and pulls it to his mouth, taking in one finger and then another.
The suction is hot. Ryan's mouth closes tight and wet around his fingers, and Brendon fists his cock as Ryan licks and sucks them. Ryan's eyes flash down to Brendon's crotch, and then back up to his face. He releases Brendon's fingers, the tips grazing his lower lip, as he says, "You can't wait for two seconds."
Brendon frowns, because, come on, has Ryan seen himself? Waiting is way overrated, he thinks, but says, "I can, too," and lets go of his dick.
"Whatever," Ryan says, and then brushes a hand along Brendon's side, grasping ineffectually. He says, "Brendon," and rolls his hips.
"Since you asked so nice," Brendon says, grinning, but it's easier to be smug about sticking his fingers in Ryan's ass than it is to, hey, actually have them there. He suddenly thinks and says, "You don't want --?" looking at the floor for the lube, but Ryan says his name again, frustrated and thin.
He says, "Just fuck me, okay?"
Guess not, Brendon thinks, and he pushes in slow, watching one finger disappear. Ryan makes that noise in his throat. Really, Brendon loves that noise, he does, but he only pushes deep a few times before Ryan's squirming and the thread of moans doesn't sound satisfied, just impatient himself now.
"Both of them," he pants, and Brendon gives him the second finger, pushing inside slow. "Faster."
And Brendon's torn between watching his own hand and Ryan's reaction. He does move fast, thrusts his fingers in a little harder, and Ryan gnaws on his lip, but Brendon can still tell that it's not right. Something about it isn't as good as it could be, even though Ryan's hot right now. Brendon is fascinated by him just like this, but then Ryan says, "Your dick," like a reminder, like a demand, and right -- right.
"Sorry," Brendon mutters and leans down to grab the lube. Getting some in his palm, he strokes his cock, aware of Ryan watching.
"Jesus Christ," Ryan says huffily, bumping his foot against the closest part of Brendon's body after, like, six seconds, no joke.
Brendon says, "Now who can't wait?"
"Who's taking his sweet time?" Ryan spits back, and he really never does stop being a pushy motherfucker, does he?
Ryan scoots back enough to turn over then, and, really, if someone had told him forty minutes ago that he would be getting ready to have sex with Ryan, Brendon would've... Well, he has no idea what he might've done, but here they are anyway. He has a misplaced thought as he moves up against Ryan, lining up, about some time right after they started the band. Ryan was making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on whole grain bread, and he started telling Brendon that, you know, he never used to like all that healthy shit in his bread, but nowadays he kind of preferred it. Back then Brendon had thought, wow, this dude could not be more boring unless he was talking about music, but now, these days, as Brendon thrusts in a little harder than he intends, it's -- seriously, fucking fantastic -- the exact opposite of that.
He has to take a moment.
Brendon's had sex. This is not his first time. He thinks about this over and over, sinking deeper. Ryan's so tight around him, and this is not his first time, so coming right now would be unforgivable and ridiculous. He breathes in, hands twitching where they rest on Ryan's hips, and tries to not to tighten his stomach when Ryan pushes back onto him.
Brendon counts backwards from five because it's the first thing he can think of, and he should, like, he should maybe move. He pulls out way too slowly, only halfway and stops. Three, two, one, this is fucking stupid, and he slides deeper again, too weakly to be good for anybody, but shit, Ryan is really tight. It almost hurts; it's almost overwhelming, and Brendon wants to move, but he also wants not to come in two seconds, and he mostly just shifts indecisively, until Ryan groans, tries to glance over his shoulder, and just asks, "Brendon. What the fuck are you doing?"
There are at least a hundred better, more clever ways to answer that question than, "Ryan, I don't even know," but that's what spills out, hasty and incriminating. The nervous, slightly wild laughter that makes a return and follows it probably doesn't make it better. Brendon bends forward, trying to muffle his amusement against Ryan's back.
He slides a hand under Ryan, rubbing his hand across Ryan's stomach, promising, "I'm sorry. Ryan. I'm so sorry." He can't stop laughing. God. His life sucks. This is terrible. Ryan's never going to want to touch him again.
After a moment, Ryan's barely tolerant sighs are broken up by that sort of disbelieving laughter of his own. He drops his head, and then picks it up again, looking over his shoulder to say, "Just move, alright? Just move a little bit."
"Right."
Brendon pulls back as much as he can still bent over. He moves out just barely, starting small, and alright. Maybe he can ride this for at least a good few minutes. Maybe. He's going to try his best here.
He backs off, lifting to gain more leverage and thrusts in with intent. Ryan's still tight, but Brendon gets the hang of it, and a few times he thrusts in hard enough to earn the hitch in Ryan's breath.
"Better?" Brendon asks.
"Harder," Ryan says.
Brendon slams into him, and Ryan says, "Yeah," pushing back.
He really can't last long here, not like this, and pulls out just before he comes. He leans over Ryan's back again, burning up. He wraps his hand around Ryan's cock, still hard, and jerks him as best he can until Ryan comes over his fingers. He drops his head forward again, and Brendon just watches the flex of Ryan's shoulder blades, chin on his spine and fingers tight around his cock.
He listens to Ryan breathe for a moment. Brendon slips his hand back and down, bumping his hand on the front of Ryan's thigh and huffs. He smiles involuntarily, kind of embarrassed.
He says, "Man. I'm really sorry that sucked so bad. Don't, you know. Do me a favor and let's not let that get out."
"Relax." Ryan laughs breathily, a couple sharp exhales and then moves to stretch. Brendon rocks back, collapsing on the other side of the couch. Ryan turns over, facing him again. He shrugs and nudges Brendon's leg with his foot, then tucks his toes under the thigh. He twists his mouth, and says, "You're dirty."
Brendon pushes at his calf. "You're the one with come on your ass."
"Oh!" Ryan jumps up then, wiping his hand over the back of his thigh and looking at the couch. "That'll come out. Right?"
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