Take My Hand {TABLE 6}
Summary: Ryan & Brendon meet in a bar AU { table}
Disclaimer: I own them; I also have a tie-dyed nargle.
Ryan and Brendon were both at the strip club last night. Brendon had approached Ryan, drunkenly, of course. He would of have been way too nervous any other way. He’s sober now, though. It’s been almost a whole day. Ryan had let Brendon follow him home, slept with him, and didn’t say a word about Brendon leaving anytime soon when they woke up naked and still exhausted. There had been talking, of course; small talk over drinks, music talk in the cab, dirty talk in the bedroom, and weather talk over coffee. Now, it was love talk in Ryan’s study.
“I love you,” Brendon says wistfully almost to quiet to hear.
“No you don’t,” Ryan scoffs.
Brendon’s a bit taken aback by that response, “Excuse me?”
“You don’t love me, Brendon. You don’t even know me.”
“I do to-“
“What’s my middle name?”
Brendon began to protest, “Rya-“
“Good job, but . . .” Brendon frowned. Ryan’s middle name was Ryan? “My first name is George. I’m the third of my family to be named George Ryan. I’ve been cutting my wrists since I was eleven.” He showed Brendon the scars briefly while he kept talking. “My Dad beat me from the time I could walk until two years ago when I walked out and never went back. I wear all this makeup because in middle school, I had to learn to hide my bruises; guess the habit just stuck,” Ryan said bitterly.
Brendon wanted to run over and hug the boy he’d only met yesterday. He wanted to hold him and stop the shaking his hands were doing. They shook when he got mad, Brendon noted. He took a step forward, but stopped when Ryan continued.
“My best friend, Spencer, died a year and a half ago and I wasn’t even there because I’d left home to get away from my dad. Everyday- Every fucking day I wonder if he’d still be alive if I’d stayed. I wonder if I’d still be alive. I’m always- always dressed up - like this,” Ryan gestured to the dress pants, shirt, and tie he was wearing. “So, that if I ever happen by Spencer’s grave - wherever it is - I can go and tell him goodbye like I wish I could of when he was here. Pretty fucking selfish, isn’t it?” Ryan let out a hollow laugh. “My life is pathetic to the point that I should just go live in a box off Main Street and beg for change, not coins. What a cliché I’d be then, huh?” Ryan’s eyes bore into Brendon, daring him to argue. Brendon said nothing, just looked back.
“Ry- Ge-“ Brendon had no idea what to call him now. “Ryan,” he decides.
“You don’t love me.” Ryan’s voice cracks, “You don’t even know me.” Brendon just reached forward & laced his fingers with Ryan’s. Brendon does love Ryan. He doesn’t need to know anything else.
Disclaimer: I own them; I also have a tie-dyed nargle.
Ryan and Brendon were both at the strip club last night. Brendon had approached Ryan, drunkenly, of course. He would of have been way too nervous any other way. He’s sober now, though. It’s been almost a whole day. Ryan had let Brendon follow him home, slept with him, and didn’t say a word about Brendon leaving anytime soon when they woke up naked and still exhausted. There had been talking, of course; small talk over drinks, music talk in the cab, dirty talk in the bedroom, and weather talk over coffee. Now, it was love talk in Ryan’s study.
“I love you,” Brendon says wistfully almost to quiet to hear.
“No you don’t,” Ryan scoffs.
Brendon’s a bit taken aback by that response, “Excuse me?”
“You don’t love me, Brendon. You don’t even know me.”
“I do to-“
“What’s my middle name?”
Brendon began to protest, “Rya-“
“Good job, but . . .” Brendon frowned. Ryan’s middle name was Ryan? “My first name is George. I’m the third of my family to be named George Ryan. I’ve been cutting my wrists since I was eleven.” He showed Brendon the scars briefly while he kept talking. “My Dad beat me from the time I could walk until two years ago when I walked out and never went back. I wear all this makeup because in middle school, I had to learn to hide my bruises; guess the habit just stuck,” Ryan said bitterly.
Brendon wanted to run over and hug the boy he’d only met yesterday. He wanted to hold him and stop the shaking his hands were doing. They shook when he got mad, Brendon noted. He took a step forward, but stopped when Ryan continued.
“My best friend, Spencer, died a year and a half ago and I wasn’t even there because I’d left home to get away from my dad. Everyday- Every fucking day I wonder if he’d still be alive if I’d stayed. I wonder if I’d still be alive. I’m always- always dressed up - like this,” Ryan gestured to the dress pants, shirt, and tie he was wearing. “So, that if I ever happen by Spencer’s grave - wherever it is - I can go and tell him goodbye like I wish I could of when he was here. Pretty fucking selfish, isn’t it?” Ryan let out a hollow laugh. “My life is pathetic to the point that I should just go live in a box off Main Street and beg for change, not coins. What a cliché I’d be then, huh?” Ryan’s eyes bore into Brendon, daring him to argue. Brendon said nothing, just looked back.
“Ry- Ge-“ Brendon had no idea what to call him now. “Ryan,” he decides.
“You don’t love me.” Ryan’s voice cracks, “You don’t even know me.” Brendon just reached forward & laced his fingers with Ryan’s. Brendon does love Ryan. He doesn’t need to know anything else.