Owned Part One
Ryan seethed inwardly as Brendon approached him, microphone clutched in his hand, trademark smirk fixed in place. The screaming pre-teen girls lapped it up as Brendon leant in close and sang the words that Ryan had written directly into the skin on his neck. Brendon knew that the timid guitarist would submit to it as usual, he knew that sweet, innocent, naïve Ryan Ross would allow Brendon to use him as a simple flirtation.
Ryan wondered momentarily that if Brendon knew the images that flashed through his mind in these moments, the plans that were formulated, the deviant desires that the younger boy provoked in his guitarist’s mind; would he still do it?
Ryan stepped back without emotion and turned his attention back to the microphone, knowing that Brendon would strut back across the stage with an extra bounce in his step, thinking that he had the upper hand in this strange relationship that seemed to have developed between the two of them. But this time, thought Ryan, he has asked for it. And who am I to deny him?
* * * *
After the show Ryan watched from across the dressing room as Brendon mopped the sweat from his face. A part of Ryan was repulsed by the unashamed way that Brendon allowed himself to perspire on stage. It was so…primitive. Unrestrained. Untrained.
Ryan smiled to himself. That boy needs to learn some restraint.
Just like on an ordinary final night in a venue, Spencer and Jon took themselves out for the evening, letting off steam and enjoying their fame in the stereotypical way. And just like on an ordinary final night in a venue, Ryan returned to the bus to brood over his notebook, secretly waiting for the torrent of interruptions and attention-seeking behaviour that would inevitably come from his excitable friend. But unlike an ordinary final night in a venue, Ryan knew a few things that Brendon did not. Firstly, Ryan knew that Spencer and Jon would not be back that night. Not until late the next day, in fact. Ryan also knew that there was an ounce of premium Amsterdam skunk tucked safely away in the drawer beside his bunk. But most importantly, Ryan knew that he was in fact not so sweet, or innocent, or naïve as Brendon might imagine. Not even close.
* * * *
“Ryan!” came the familiar velvet tones as Brendon’s slim form bounded into view, whipping open the curtains of Ryan’s bunk and striking a pose in the opening. Ryan ignored him and focused on his notepad, eyes not leaving the paper for a moment.
“Ry?” Brendon pouted, “Come ooon! I’m bored!”
Brendon knelt on Ryan’s bunk directly in front of him, staring at him bug-eyed in a way that usually irritated the crap out of conscientious Ryan.
“Can’t you see I’m busy Bren?”
“Busy doing what? What could be more important than entertaining me?”
Ryan flinched at Brendon’s selfish words. Even though his band mate was only playing, Ryan knew there was an element of truth in what he said.
“You’re bored?” enquired Ryan, innocently.
“Bored shitless. Play with me…prrrrrlease!”
Ryan couldn’t help but grin to himself at the irony of the younger boy’s words.
“Okay, Bren. If you’re really that bored, there’s an ounce in my drawer. Why don’t you build me a joint?”
There was a pause while Brendon’s stubborn mind tried to compute the fact that someone had just given him a direct order. “Um…okay…I guess.”
Brendon was slightly put out by the fact that Ryan had not yet looked up from the notebook. As always Brendon had taken time at the end of the show to shower and dress, choosing tight pants that clung to his round behind, and an equally tight shirt that strained at the buttons and begged to be removed. The truth was that he enjoyed these rare moments of quiet when it was just the two of them. Sure, Ryan was not the most reciprocal of flirtation buddies but occasionally, very occasionally, Brendon caught a flash of something in Ryan’s eyes that made his stomach do somersaults. And there was no harm in a guy wanting to look good, right?
Brendon rolled his legs back to the floor and perched on the edge of the bed, reaching to Ryan’s drawer and taking out a baggy and some skins.
“Jesus Ryan! I didn’t know you were such a connoisseur!” He said, referring to the pungent odour that met his nostrils when he opened the bag.
“Well maybe I just wanna lose myself today.” Answered Ryan cryptically, still keeping those beautiful green eyes locked on the notebook, and studiously ignoring his friend.
Something about the delivery of the line made Brendon uneasy but he shrugged it off and set to work. He wasn’t great at rolling joints, that was for sure. In fact he kind of sucked at it but he told himself he would humour Ryan. Hey, what the hell, how could he refuse an official ‘Ryan Ross’ request? After all he made so few of them.
As Brendon’s fingers crumbled weed clumsily into a folded king skin, Ryan kept his eyes firmly glued on the notebook in front of him, still stubbornly refusing to look up and give Brendon the attention he craved. He smiled to himself as he heard the younger boy’s mumbled curses under his breath. Brendon liked to think that he was pretty ‘hip’, pretty ‘streetwise’, pretty ‘down with it’ but Ryan knew that if he hadn’t been plucked from obscurity just as Panic! were about to hit the big time, Brendon Urie would still be that geeky Mormon kid that scared the girls at his school and played way too many video games.
Despite his pleas to the contrary, Ryan knew that he had been present during all of Brendon’s ‘firsts’: first cigarette (much choking and regret), first kiss (eyes open and staring frightened at Ryan the whole time while the oblivious fan girl ate his face), first drink (on his knees over the toilet while Jon rubbed soothing circles on his back and tried to ignore the smell of vomit), first joint (“Oh my God Ryan, I never realised it before but Britney Spears’ lyrics are like so profound, you know?”). So it came as no great surprise when ten minutes later Brendon handed Ryan a rolled up piece off paper that vaguely resembled a tampon filled with tea leaves.
Ryan took the offering in his hand, still not looking into Brendon’s eyes and inspected it.
“Is this the best you can do?” Asked Ryan, a cold edge in his voice.
“Um…” Brendon sounded a little taken aback, “come on Ryan, you know I suck at rolling.”
“Then you had better try again, hadn’t you?” That cold voice spoke again and Ryan balled the joint up in his fist and threw it, ruined, into the waste basket. He picked up his pen and resumed his feverish scribbling in the notebook without further comment.
Brendon sat a moment, dumbfounded, opening and closing his mouth trying to find words to express his outrage. But something strange had happened. Something that had never happened before. Brendon Urie was lost for words. After reaching the conclusion that Ryan was, in fact, not joking, Brendon pulled another Rizla from the pack, folded it and started the process again, the same shocked expression still slapped across his face. It just seemed like the only logical thing to do.
Ryan tried to contain the smile that lurked just behind his stern expression. He hadn’t been sure that Brendon would do it. He thought maybe the singer would make a joke of it, laugh at Ryan’s sudden change of attitude. Instead Ryan risked a glance and was met with the sight of Brendon hunched over a copy of Kerrang magazine on which he was tenderly, meticulously crumbling weed into a second skin, the tip of his tongue pushed out of the side of his full lips, his eyes focused in utter concentration.
Adorable Ryan wrote in his notebook before crossing it through and continuing with his doodle of a deep, chocolate brown eye.
Several minutes later a second joint appeared under his nose, clutched between Brendon’s trembling fingers. Once again Ryan took the proffered item and once again he inspected it thoroughly. Brendon sat meekly beside him, wondering why the fuck his hand had trembled as he had passed the joint to Ryan. Wondering why the fuck he cared so much about meeting Ryan’s needs.
“Better.” Stated Ryan eventually. “Light it.”
And with that he nonchalantly threw the roll up back in Brendon’s direction and resumed his doodling, eyes still denying the boy their gaze. Brendon was horrified at the satisfied smile that danced momentarily across his own mouth at the thought of having passed the test. He checked it immediately, took the joint between the fingers of his right hand and placed it between his lips. He was about to reach into his pocket for a lighter when the unmistakeable sound of a match being struck came from his left and Ryan’s delicate fingers appeared under his nose, the tiny flame dancing close to his skin. Brendon leant forward and allowed Ryan to light the joint trapped between his lips, inhaling deeply, before pulling away and blowing smoke across the room. He stifled a cough and felt his head swim, closing his eyes and immediately leaning backwards so that his shoulder blades slumped against the wall behind him. The position was not particularly comfortable but moving suddenly seemed like a lot of effort. He took two more deep pulls on the joint and was about to take a third when he felt Ryan’s hand brush his fingers and firmly take the thing from him. Brendon couldn’t resist sticking out his bottom lip and shooting Ryan a pout but still the older boy did not look at him and Brendon was forced to sit patiently and watch while Ryan’s delicate lips drew deeply on the joint.
They certainly are pretty lips, Brendon thought.
In fact, the face as a whole was pretty. Brendon had often heard it described as feminine and it was true that the features were soft; the bone structure and the button nose, the slightly swollen bottom lip and the little pink tongue that was currently toying with the top row of teeth. And yet, thought Brendon, it was not a weak face. The green eyes were often trained on the floor in a manner that could be mistaken for shyness but when they looked at you, really looked at you, it was with such a piercing clarity that no-one who really knew Ryan Ross could ever imagine that he was weak.