Fight Club [Ryan/Brendon][PATD][NC-17][2/2]

[spottedcricket]

Ryan/Brendon. Overall NC-17. 
Part I
{so, here's the second part. to quote my mother on making you guys waiting, "i fucking hate when people do that." so, here's to you, and here's to her. thanks mom.}

disclaimer: don't own. just read, write, and worship. the plot is mine, but fight club is not. that belongs to chuck palahniuk. there is text quoted directly from the book, and it's not mine.

warnings: violence and overuse of the words that make sailors blush.

Ryan doesn't notice him immediately. He's too busy with the shirt-off, shoes-off thing. The nervousness comes instantly. You get a weird rush of immediate adrenaline before you fight. Better than sex. Better than metaphorical, hypothetical kisses. Better than your nine-to-five. Better than your normal life.

He does notice though, and that's enough to blindside him. Brendon's standing there with a halo of dingy basement light behind his head, cheering along with the crowd. He sort of goes still as Ryan catches his eye though, like he knows that Ryan was going to look at that exact instant. The next second Ryan's on the ground. Muscle and skin hitting cold concrete like a sledge hammer. Ow. Breath gone.

A fist comes down and snaps against his jaw. Ryan feels the immediate ache and pull. Three more forceful punches to his ribs and he gasps. He doesn't tap out though, just rolls sharply. The pain in his ribs blossoms and makes his toes tingle. The next blow catches him in his shoulder. He rolls more, picking himself up. The other guy is right there. He slams his pointy fist into Ryan's lip, splitting it. Ryan tastes blood.

Ow.

He swings again. Ryan's body kicks in and boosts his adrenaline. It's better than sex. Better than metaphorical kisses. He practically flies, grabbing the guy's head and just punching. Ryan's elbow hits the corner of his temple. Dingdingding.

The crowd's cheers come back. Adrenaline drains and he's throbbing all over. There's a thin layer of sweat covering Ryan's body, like victory. Victory is better than a day off. Victory is better than nicotine.

He weaves his way into the back, getting his shoes on. Brendon's there next to him, grabbing his wrist and smashing his lips forward. It's messy and hard, needy. Ryan gasps against Brendon's lips, pressing forward. This is what he wants. His body kicks in adrenaline, endorphins, lust. His body is on fire. Kissing Brendon is better than victory. Brendon pushes Ryan into the wall. Ryan gasps and his head falls.

"I think I've broken something," Ryan says. Ow. He grimaces and Brendon's face slides into the over-worried expression he likes best. Shit.

Ryan says he has health insurance, it's fine.

Brendon tells the hospital Ryan fell. Ryan laughs out right as they gauze his chest up.

Bruised ribs take one to two weeks to heal. The healing of bruised ribs is directed at controlling the pain. That means morphine. Vicodin. Shit. Bruised ribs mean no sex. No fight club. No bending sharply. No moving quickly. No breathing heavily. No laying the wrong way. No falling. No twisting. No fight club.

Ryan takes the prescription from the doctor. Vicodin. He makes a mental note to burn it.

Ryan wakes up to a stabbing pain in his chest. It's white hot and burning and deep and it pulls at his insides. He's in so much pain he doesn't know whether to cry or vomit or scream or moan. He opts for grabbing a pillow and groaning into it loudly. Ow. Don't move. Ow.

Brendon's there with his prescription bottle of pain killers. Ryan shakes his head no, no he can't take them, no. Because he's scared, because he's been through that once and doesn't want it to happen again. Brendon just stares at him and tells him he has to, or it'll hurt a lot fucking worse. Ryan nods and takes the pills. Brendon pats his head and says it's okay.

"I want to take a shower," Ryan says. His lips tug on the cherry of his cigarette sharply. He looks at the ground so he doesn't have to look at Brendon.

"Well," Brendon says, "it's your house." He laughs at Ryan. Ryan just shrugs.

"I can't get my shirt off." Ryan wants Brendon to understand. He's a poor broken boy who can't lift his arms that high. He needs help taking his shirt off. Brendon laughs out right and says, yes, yes Ryan; I'll take your shirt off.

So this is awkward. Brendon's trying to figure out the best way to take Ryan's shirt off. Ryan's not breathing, but Ryan's taking deep breaths.

IN. OUT.

Ryan is not concentrating on Brendon's cold hands on his shirt on his skin. Ryan is not concentrating on the deafening silence. Ryan is not concentrating on the amount of space between him and the person that he's wanted for a very long time.

IN. OUT.

Ryan and Brendon have not talked about the kiss.

It takes a lot. Brendon bunches up the shirt so it's around Ryan's armpits and tries to figure out a way to get the arms off.

"Maybe if we did it quick," Ryan suggests. Brendon gives him a skeptical look, but shrugs.

"On three?" he says. And Ryan nods. "Onetwothree." Brendon pushes the shirt up the same time Ryan raises his arms. The pain is sharp and instant. Ryan shouts out as hard tears spring to his eyes. Ow.

"Fuck, fuckcocksuckingmotherfucking. Ow. Ow. Fuck ow." He breathes too fast and the pain starts up again. It's insistent like needles under and over and around his skin. He wants to cry but Brendon is right there and being all worried.

"Shit, shit, sorry," Brendon says, and tosses Ryan's shirt in the corner. Ryan's eyes are shut all tight and what-not as he tries not to cry. "Shit, shit, are you okay?" Ryan wants to kick Brendon for being all worried. He doesn't though. Brendon's icy hands are at his hips. Ryan peels his eyes open and looks into Brendon's huge-and-worried brown ones, and smiles.

"Yeah," he croaks. His breath is lodged hard in his throat. He still feels like crying.

"Liar," Brendon accuses, and swipes his thumb under Ryan's eye. Fucking traitor tears. Ryan just nods and breathes slow. In and out. Easy. Easy.

"Pretty much," Ryan says, his voice cracking again. "Shit, this is going to be hard." There's a big scab on Ryan's lip from the fight. He picks at it softly with his teeth and tongue. He's contemplating how the hell he's going to shower. The bruise climbs his entire side, huge and intense over his ribs, orange and yellow and maroon where it twists out and makes everything seem worse. He can't bend.

"Uhm," he says. So, this is awkward. "Can you take off my pants?" A blush climbs up his neck and stains his cheeks.

Brendon laughs like wind like rain like chimes. "I just can't bend," Ryan says. Can't twist. Can't laugh. Can't breathe right. Can't bend. Brendon just smirks at him and raises an eyebrow. Shit. Brendon's icy hands don't just move, they slide. They touch all the skin from the top of Ryan's hips down to his belt buckle.

"Do I have to do this one on three, too?" Brendon asks, looking at Ryan wide-eyed. Ryan makes a noise in the back of his throat. They haven't talked about the kiss. Ryan can feel the pull in his gut.

"No," Ryan says, his voice unstable. There's pure want nagging at the rimming of his brain. "No," and he pressed his lips to the crease of Brendon's, darting his tongue forward. Brendon's grip tightens on his belt. Ryan licks all over in Brendon's mouth, mapping out his teeth and how his tongue reacts when he does this and this.

"What does this mean?" Brendon asks, lacing and unlacing and relacing his fingers through Ryan's.

"I dunno," Ryan says, watching as Brendon laces and unlaces and relaces their fingers. "Nothing is static."

"Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart," Brendon says. He smiles the Secret Smile That's Not So Secret. He smiles his Ryan Smile.

Ryan swears he's going to punch something. Some one. Brendon. There's a scar on the back of Brendon's hand when he comes home the next day. It's pink and glistening and taunting the fuck out of Ryan.

"What the fuck Brendon," he says. Lye. Super glue. Whatever. You can't take back something like that. It's not a bruise, a scratch, a tear, a fracture. It doesn't cover up and heal. It's a scar. It's a scar kissed into his hand. It's kissed in with lye.

This is a chemical burn. And it will hurt more than you have ever been burned.

"What the fuck," he says again when Brendon just shrugs and gives him a half-hearted smile. Ryan gives him a glare and totally settles down on the other side of the couch. He knows he's being an asshole, but hello lye burn from hell.

"Don't do this," Brendon pleads. Brendon's suddenly right there. His lips against Ryan's neck as he says his name over and over. He says it soft, then seductive, then almost purrs it as he drags his lips over Ryan's neck. Ryan grabs Brendon's sleeve and drags him up and closer. There's a tug at his ribs with the action, but his lips are sealed to Brendon's without a second thought.

Ryan watches the scar on the back of Brendon's hand as Brendon lazily strokes him. It hurts to arch. The pluck of his bruised ribs makes him groan as Brendon makes him moan. He comes with a yelp. Brendon smiles his Ryan Smile and licks the come off his hand.

Brendon walks in on Wednesday morning with a white bandage over his nose. He has a black eye that's so purple it's dark as midnight. Ryan's gut tangles itself up with worry. Brendon's head has stitches in it. Little black ones that contrasts with the raw reds adorning his skin.

"Ow," Ryan says. "What happened?"

"Big dude," Brendon says, smiling.

Brendon doesn't work. Brendon gets money from far-off family. Brendon gets money sent to addresses that aren't his own. Brendon doesn't have an address. Brendon is a homeless bum, living off Ryan and paying rent. Brendon is the product of a broken home. Brendon is an outcast. Brendon has more money than Ryan does. Brendon's relatives don't know why they're sending money, but they do.

That's all that matters.

A letter comes in the mail. It's a large envelope, heavy and brown. It's addressed to a "Mister Urie" with fluffy, girly writing. Ryan tosses it to the side. It's probably money. Brendon gets more money a month than Ryan does. Ryan works to pay bills. Ryan pulls his vest on over his button up shirt and goes to work.

Ryan actually doesn't know where Brendon goes when they're not together. Brendon doesn't exactly live with Ryan. He pays rent for the days he's there. Sometimes he's there a month. Sometimes Ryan comes home to Brendon and there's food and soft hugs, cuddles, and sex. Sometimes there's Brendon around every corner. Sometimes he's not. Ryan just knows that Brendon's been gone for a week. He shouldn't worry, it's not like it was before. Before, Brendon left and stayed away, because he thought Ryan was a homophobe. Now he's just gone. Whatever.

The envelope stays on the counter for the week. It looks lonely and collects dust. Ryan doesn't pick it up though, because it's Brendon's and not his. He can't figure out how Brendon even knows his address. He doesn't worry about it though, as he holds an ice pack to his side. Next week he should be able to go to fight club again. The swelling is going down, the bruise receding. Ryan's excited.

"No more," the guy at the door says. He has a curling bruise over his eye; it climbs across the bridge of his nose and down his cheek. It ends in a jagged cut all caked with blood and red-brown. "No more," is repeated. Ryan gets it. No more fight club. Cops came and shut it down when he was all banged up and bruised.

He sighs a big breath against the cherry of his cigarette. Brendon just grabs his hand like it's okay, it's alright, it's just a whatever. We can get through this. We're in this together. The corners of Ryan's crooked mouth tug up as Brendon grins his Ryan Smile.

"Nothing is static," is the note tapped to the mirror above the sink. Ryan fingers the paper, his jaw clenched tight. He knows what this means. Goodbye, only harder. Nothing is static, even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.

In the kitchen the envelope is gone. He can almost see the imprint of it on the counter. Maybe he should stop trusting people.

Ryan has been out of fight club for two months. Ryan works a nine-to-five. Ryan is in a band. Ryan used to come home to a boyfriend and eat dinner. Ryan's life is fairly boring. Ryan is heartbroken. Ryan is just the outcome of another broken relationship.

Three months later...

Brendon watches Ryan step out into the dingy warehouse light. He's bigger than he used to be. Wider, with more muscle mass. He's not that little scrawny kid he used to be.

"The first rule of fight club is you don't talk about fight club," he says. The second rule is that you don't talk about fight club.

"The third rule of fight club is two men per fight," he says. The fourth rule of fight club is one fight at a time. The fifth rule of fight club is no shoes, no shirts in the fight.

"The sixth rule of fight club is the fights go on as long as they have to," he says.

"And the seventh rule of fight club is that if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight." Yes, we know, we know, we know the rules. Brendon draws into the shadows, just watching. Ryan points to two people, then moves out of the light. In fight club the only people in the spotlight are the ones fighting.

Ryan's walking around now. Prowling in the shadows behind the jeering crowd. Brendon almost can't believe he's the leader now. Ryan used to avoid face hits because that meant people would ask questions.

He grabs onto Ryan's wrist as he slips past, tugging him over. Ryan's eyes are all wide and questioning before they slip down to a glare.

"What was in the envelope?" He asks. Thanks. Hello to you too, baby.

"Where did you go?" Brendon counters.

"I left after you did," Ryan says, a bored look occupying his features. "I had nothing left to stay there for. I moved down here and started this," he gestures behind him. There's blood and sweat and cheers.

"Money," Brendon says. Ryan raises his eyebrow, high and arching, disappearing into his bangs. "A will, someone died and left everything to me." He sighs, and steps into Ryan's space, slipping his hand along Ryan's hip bones. "I've been trying to find you." Ryan flinches, stepping away like he was shocked.

Behind him the fight has stopped. He turns and walks to the middle of the circle, hooking his hands along the bottom of his shirt, flinging it against the on-lookers. Brendon steps forward into the dingy light, toeing off his shoes. He stares at Ryan with hard eyes, evaluating him.

Brendon hasn't fought in months, but his body remembers everything. When he slips into the stance, raises his fists, it's like before. Ryan's up against him, driving him out and away. He punches into Brendon's side. His fist like a mallet to Brendon's tender skin. He's startled, but takes Ryan's abuse with grace. He hops away and around,  kicking out, tensing his legs. He gets Ryan in the back of his knees, making him stumble away.

Ryan comes back hard though, catching his little, pointy fist on Brendon's lower lip. Brendon jerks back, the force making him bite down on his tongue and lip. Brendon finally grins, blood leaking down his chin. He ducks in, catching Ryan around his torso and pile-driving him back. The crowd backs up, giving them more space. Ryan twists, his muscles rippling under the surface of his skin. He breaks free and catches Brendon's arm, pretzeling it so Brendon drops to his knees, hitting concrete. Brendon feels the impact through his bones.

Gasping he rolls over. Ryan's suddenly there, straddling Brendon's chest, his fist colliding with Brendon's eye. Brendon slaps his hand against the skin on Ryan's shoulder, tapping out, and spits blood.

"Sorry," Ryan says. They're in the shadows again. Ryan runs a thumb over Brendon's lip. He looks worried, but heated, like he wants to punch Brendon again. He drifts forward though, and crashes their lips hard. Brendon gasps from surprise and Ryan steps closer, attacking the heat of Brendon's mouth with his tongue.

"Fuck," Brendon says. The kiss tastes sharp and metallic from the blood, but Brendon's brain is cloudy and he doesn't mind. Ryan's hand grabs his as they break and he pulls him through the shadows. They run into a door, the bathroom, because they're so full of class like that. Ryan locks the door behind Brendon and smiles like a fucking lion looking at his prey. Shit.

"Fuck," Brendon says, grabbing Ryan's hips and kissing him hungrily. Ryan's hand grips the curve of Brendon's arm so hard he knows there are bruises. "Fuck," he repeats, biting at Ryan's lower lip.

"Shit," Ryan says, grinning all Cheshire-like and eager. "Fuck Bren," he says. Brendon smiles in Ryan's lips, his heart hammering against his rib cage. He backs Ryan against the sink, banging them into it so hard there's a muffled clang. Ryan bites Brendon's lip and arches his back, but doesn't say anything. "Fuck, fuck," he mutters, like it's his new favorite word. Brendon just smiles his Ryan Smile and hooks his hands around Ryan's buckle.

"I'm going to blow you," he announces, voice rough and heated. He's all hooded eyes and suggestive undertones, making Ryan want him more. Anticipation curls in his gut as he nods. Right. Thanks. Brendon licks his lips, still smiling. There's the sound of the zipper, antagonizingly slow. Ryan is already hard as fuck, and just waiting.

Brendon watches with amusement, then hurries up, dropping to his knees. He looks up at Ryan. Ryan's flushed, red creeping elegantly up his skin. Sweat beads his body, from the fight and all the heated kisses. Need claws at Brendon's stomach as he peels the jeans off Ryan's hips.

Brendon mutters a 'fuck' into the skin of Ryan's hip. It's slick. He can smell the sex already, lingering all around him. He takes Ryan in his mouth, working with his tongue and hand. Ryan groans, his eyes shut tight. Brendon pulls off and says, hey, hey, look at me. Ryan looks and more sweet sounds drip from his mouth. He's heavy and salty-sweet when he comes, slumping dramatically to the floor.

Then, their mouths smash again and Ryan's hand is down his pants. He gasps and arches. The tile is uncomfortable against his ass, and he's sore, but Ryan makes him come in, about, five strokes because he's wound so tight. They sit there, Brendon half in Ryan's lap, his forehead sticking to Ryan's shoulder.

"Missed you," Ryan mumbles again. His hand threads through Brendon's hair. Yeah, yeah, missed you too.

"What are we going to do?" Brendon asks, talking to Ryan's shoulder.

"Whatever we want," Ryan answers, his thumb rubbing circles on Brendon's hip.

Someone bangs on the door loudly and asks them the hurry the fuck up. Please.

Ryan's hand curls around the bend of his arm, keeping him close. All the fight club participants have left for the night, so they're just there in the middle of a warehouse, staring each other down. The dingy light casts intense shadows all over Ryan's intense features. He looks like he's contemplating the wonders of the universe. Brendon shuffles, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He feels giddy and high, but oddly lethargic at the same time.

"Hey," Ryan finally says.

"Hey," Brendon says. He gets this weird swipe of adrenaline through his veins. "Listen," he begins. "I can't stick around," he says. He rubs out the dirt on the ground with his foot. "I want to," he slurs. "I really do," he mutters. "But, I have shit to do," he's trying to explain in sincerity, but Ryan's just giving him this blank look. "I'll come find you though," he promises. "Like when I'm done," he says.

"Yeah," Ryan says, then, "yeah." His fingers squeeze Brendon's elbow softly. "So, yeah." He leans in and kisses Brendon's lips. Brendon feels his heart skip four beats, then doubles up its pace. "I love you," he breathes out quietly against Brendon's lips. Like a whisper, like a secret, like a kiss.

"Fuck," Brendon says.

"Fuck, I love you too," he says, kissing Ryan. "I seriously have to sort property shit out, or whatever, though." He's talking fast and looking at the door as if lawyers will take away his land. "I'm getting money, and I'm coming back." He grabs Ryan's hands and squeezes them, hard. "I love you," he repeats. He kisses Ryan fiercely on the mouth and leaves.

The knock is sharp and loud, invading Ryan's head where he had passed out on the couch earlier. Yeah. Yeah. He glances at the burning reds on the clock. 3:46. AM. He groans and pretends the knock was his imagination. It comes again though, all insistent and booming. Ryan rolls off the couch and yawns, shuffling his way over to the door. Pulling at the latch he opens it up.

There's Brendon, standing with a duffle bag and a Ryan Smile on his face.

"Fuck," Ryan says, and drags Brendon in by the shirt collar.

Ryan has been in fight club for over a year and a half. Ryan runs his own fight club. Ryan no longer works a nine-to-five. Ryan left his band a long time ago. A long time ago Ryan met this boy Brendon. Ryan fell in love.

"May I never be complete," Brendon quotes, tangled up in Ryan, sharing a cigarette.

"Metaphorical kisses," Ryan says, tugging the nicotine into his lungs.

"May I never be content," Brendon quotes, kissing the top of Ryan's forearm.

"Hypothetical kisses," Ryan says, as Brendon grabs the cigarette and lays his lips over the cherry.

"May I never be perfect," Brendon quotes, his fingers dancing across the leg that Ryan has wrapped around him. Ryan kisses Brendon's head quietly and grins.

Brendon watches as Ryan paces the circle. The dingy warehouse lights casting a halo around his head. He's the preacher, they are the students. You don't know what you have until it's gone. There is nothing in this world you take for granted more than a loved one. Maybe self improvement isn't the answer. Maybe self destruction is the answer. Ryan just stares at all the new recruits. This is Ryan's fight club.

"The first rule of fight club is you don't talk about fight club."

{♥} thank you all for reading and commenting. whenever i see NEW in my inbox i get all excited. i appriciate every one who has taken time out of their day to stop and leave some love. special thanks to
rydenyourhog for beta'ing.