Let Each Who is Worthy Part 3

[moku_youbi]

Ryan is actually vibrating. Spencer can feel it where their shoulders touch, and it’s almost enough to make him nervous, which is just ridiculous. He wraps his fingers around Ryan’s wrist and gives a gentle squeeze. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not sure,” he says.

Spencer wants to be in a band, but only in Ryan’s band, and for a long time that was his only requirement. Having Brent was nice, but not necessary. Now, for him, band has become Ryan + Jon, but this guy, Jesse-Spencer doesn’t really care if he’s their singer, or someone else. He knows Ryan will pick the best person to sing his lyrics, and Spencer trusts that.

“No,” Ryan says. He’s staring fixedly at Jesse, singing his heart out on stage, strumming his guitar almost like it’s an afterthought. He is good, Spencer acknowledges, and Jon likes him well enough.

“No,” Ryan says again. “I think it’ll work. He’s got a good voice. He’s charismatic. Really good-looking.” He has an absent expression on his face, watching Jesse. Spencer knows he has no claim on Ryan, as anything other than best friend, but it still sparks something like jealousy in him to hear Ryan say as much.

Spencer once thought, years ago, that it would get less difficult with time, watching Ryan fall for other people, but if anything it’s gotten harder. Particularly watching Ryan fall for Jon, and seeing Jon fall back. They haven’t acted on it, but Spencer can see very easily how Ryan might fall for Jesse, too, and how he might not be so hesitant about pursuing him.

Jon brings Jesse to their table after he finishes and introduces everyone. Jesse is really good-looking-loose blonde curls falling in blue eyes, tan skin, wide smile. “So you’re the guys who somehow charmed Jon Walker back into the music scene,” he says.

Spencer is curious about Jon’s musical background, but he refuses to push. At first he didn’t know Jon very well and didn’t want to pry where it wasn’t his business. Now it’s more a matter of pride. Spencer refuses to ask. Jon can offer to tell, or not.

“Jon’s mentioned that you’re looking for a band,” Spencer says. There’s nothing coy about it. He’s direct and to the point, and that’s why he’s the one who handles this sort of thing for Ryan.

“Yeah.” Jesse’s smile gets wider.

“Well,” Spencer says, “we just so happen to be a band in need of a singer. We were wondering if you’d like to come over sometime, mess around a little bit, see how things work.”

“A band of Jon Walker’s?” Jesse asks. Ryan tenses, and Spencer gets it. Ryan’s used to Panic! being his band. For a second he worries that presumption will make Ryan call the whole thing off. But the moment passes without Jesse even noticing, Ryan relaxing again. “I’m so in.”

Ryan smiles tightly and Jon gives Jesse a high-five. “How about sometime this weekend,” Jon offers. “I’ve got the day shift all weekend, so we could get together at night.”

“Awesome,” Jesse says, and sounds so sincere. “I’m going to get us all shots.”

Ryan hasn’t had anything to drink since he helped himself to Spencer’s Long Island. Admittedly that went better than Spencer had expected. There hadn’t been any guilt or drama when Ryan had sobered up. Still, he’s worried until Jesse brings the shots back and Ryan eyes his like it’s a pop quiz he hasn’t prepared for. He throws his back with the rest of them, though.

Jesse doesn’t eye them strangely when both Spencer and Ryan refuse second shots, which, considering how everyone at school acts about their relative straight-edgedness, Spencer takes as a good sign.

Ryan and Jesse get into a forty minute talk about guitars which is completely over Spencer’s head. He lets his attention drift away, reassured for the moment that Ryan is okay, and redirects towards Jon, who’s watching Jesse and Ryan with an absent smile. Jon catches him looking and flashes him a smile. “Come smoke with me,” he says.

Spencer doesn’t smoke, and doesn’t even like the smell, but he goes anyway, because it’s Jon asking him. “You know,” Jon says conversationally, when they’re outside. Spencer’s come to know that tone, which means Jon’s about to say something Spencer probably doesn’t want to hear.

“If I know it, you don’t have to say it,” Spencer says.

Jon cracks a smile and bumps their shoulders together. “You tell me I can’t fix everyone, and you’re right. But you know, you don’t have to try to handle all the stress by yourself, either.”

Spencer was right, he doesn’t want to hear this. Particularly from Jon, who doesn’t know the meaning of the word stress. “You going to shoulder some of it for me?” he sneers. It sounds weak, even to his own ears, like instead of taunting he wants to beg Jon for his help.

“If you let me,” Jon says, in that sincere way he has that makes Spencer want to just be close to Jon, in his arms.

Spencer hunches his shoulders and turns away, scowling down the alley. The wind is bitingly cold, even in mid-February. Every time Spencer thinks Chicago can’t get any colder, he’s proven wrong. He’s used to February heralding the coming of spring, but all it’s bringing in Chicago is snow, freezing rain, and wind from the lake cutting through Spencer’s layers like they aren’t even there.

“Hey,” Jon says. He flicks his cigarette away and hooks an arm around Spencer, drawing him into a half hug. “Hey, Spence, seriously. What do you think of me? I care just as much as you do. I see just as much as you do. Jesse calling Panic! my band? You think I told him that? Or that I’m not going to say something about it to him later? If Jesse hurts him, I’ll be the first one in line to kick his ass.”

Spencer draws his coat more tightly together and doesn’t say anything. Jon sighs and his breath is warm on Spencer’s neck. “Spence.” Jon hugs him tighter and Spencer wants to relax into him, and there are so many reasons he can’t.

Spencer’s been in love with Ryan so long that he’s learned to deal with his longing and jealousy, for the most part. It hurts, but it is a hurt he’s become inured to. These new feelings for Jon still take Spencer by surprise, still try to trick him into action. He barely trusts himself alone around Jon, most of the time.

“I’m tired,” Spencer says and shakes himself loose from Jon’s hold. “I think I’m going to head back early.”

Jon doesn’t try to argue him on it, but he does give Spencer a disappointed smile that Spencer has to look away from. “I’ll get Ryan home in a while. I might stay with my parents for a few nights.”

“Fine, whatever,” Spencer says, and refuses to ask why. Ryan always gets worried when Jon spends nights at his parents’ place, or does anything to remind Ryan that Jon doesn’t actually, officially live with them.

Spencer can’t help but feel like Jon knows it, and is punishing Ryan for Spencer’s behaviour, or something. Just another reason why Jon obviously isn’t suited to help Spencer take care of things.

Even though he can’t really afford it, Spencer hails a cab. He can’t stand the thought of standing in the cold, waiting on the train and dealing with two transfers. The city is a blur of lights on the ride and it even looks cold, and Spencer thinks he’s been Ryan’s friend too long, because he’s turning into one morose motherfucker.

It’s just…he’s getting so tired of waiting for everything. He feels as though he’s been watching Ryan and Jon dance around each other forever. For the longest time, Spencer wanted to put off the inevitable, but now it just feels like lying.

If Jon and Ryan want each other, they should be together. Maybe it isn’t how Spencer might imagine letting Jon share his burden, but he’s pretty sure Jon would make Ryan happier.

There’s a light on in Brendon’s apartment when Spencer gets to the building. He can see a shadow moving within from the street. He has no reason for knocking-he isn’t even sure that he likes Brendon very much. Besides, having Ryan Ross as a best friend is all the emotional crisis a person needs to deal with.

All the same, Spencer finds himself outside Brendon’s apartment, rapping his knuckle against the door. Unbidden, an image of Brendon in his baggy pants and tight shirt comes to mind, and Spencer’s mouth goes dry at the memory of tight skin exposed, low on Brendon’s belly. Maybe no one will answer, he thinks, hopes.

Brendon opens the door and dispels the image Spencer’s conjured, dressed in better fitting sweats and a hoodie that swallows his figure. “Spencer,” he says cautiously, “what’s up?”

“Can I come in?” Spencer asks, forcing himself not to fidget.

Brendon swings the door open wider and steps back to let Spencer in. “Um. We don’t really have any…” he gestures around the living room and Spencer gets what he’s saying immediately. There’s no sofa, only four uncomfortable looking armchairs around a coffee table. There are no wall hangings, no television, no radio. The dining table is bare save four identical books, three stacked at one end, the other marked open.

“Do you…I have juice and milk. And, uh, water,” Brendon says. He’s fidgeting in the threshold between kitchen and living room, looking uncertain and adorable. It takes Spencer a second to realise that Brendon doesn’t usually fidget, and then he realises that Brendon’s practically shaking, almost like Ryan.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“I’m. Ah…” Brendon turns fully into the kitchen, getting down two glasses and pulling out a bottle of grape juice. “I. I’m on pills, for my ADD and stuff. You know.” He sets the bottle down and his nails tap compulsively against the countertop. “I thought maybe I could cut them back a little, you know. Because they’ve been making me tired, you know, and depressed.”

Spencer sort of wants to put a hand on Brendon’s shoulder and try to hold him still, or something. “How do you feel?” he asks instead.

“Oh.” Brendon pauses. “I don’t know. It’s only been a couple days, but I think maybe I cut back too much, or. I don’t know. I’ve got lots more energy, but I thought it would be easier to think without the meds, only now it seems harder, and I can’t focus on my reading, and I feel really restless.” He takes a big gulp of his juice and fills it up again.

“I just think they’ve been wearing off more quickly,” Brendon says. “I’ll figure it out. Anyway. What’s up? Did you need more help with your French?”

“No.” Spencer isn’t even entirely sure what he’s doing here, but he hears himself speaking, entirely without his permission. “I saw your light on, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry about the other night. Coming down here to ask for your help then giving you shit about the whole Mormon view on gays. That was a dick move.”

“Nah,” Brendon says. “It’s alright.” He’s so much more relaxed and casual than Spencer’s ever seen him, in spite of his new jittery energy. It’s sort of fascinating to see. “I mean, I wasn’t entirely honest with you, anyway. I don’t agree with what the Church says about it. I don’t think that homosexuals are bad, or anything. I think they have as much a right to love who they want as anyone else.”

“I don’t think it’s a curse. Unless, I mean, you’re a gay Mormon, in which case I guess it is like a curse, because it isn’t like you could ever do anything about it.” Brendon shrugs, and Spencer gets a sudden flash of insight that makes Brendon make a lot more sense. Spencer’s chest hurts thinking about it. Maybe this was what Jon saw. Maybe this was why he wanted to invite Brendon over. Spencer feels like a dick all over again.

“Well, it was still shitty of me to do,” Spencer says. “I’m sorry if I made you feel unwelcome, but you know, what Jon said. You’re welcome to come up whenever. I mean, even when I don’t need help with French. You don’t need an excuse.”

Brendon smiles, and Spencer thinks it’s the first time he’s ever seen Brendon smile for real-happy and earnest, and he looks younger and suddenly alive with it. Something about it makes Spencer vaguely embarrassed and he clears his throat. “Anyway. It’s late. I should get going. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Thank you,” Brendon says, and his grin doesn’t dim in the least. Spencer can’t get the image out if out of his head the rest of the evening, and it makes him uneasy.

Spencer lies awake in bed trying to understand what it must be like to be Brendon. His family was never overly religious. He went to church when he was a kid, and when he decided, at twelve, that he didn’t want to go anymore, no one made him. No one really cared.

He can’t imagine what it must be like to live a life that’s been planned for you every step of the way-going on a mission where you’re told, going to the school your religion says, picking the career that your family says suits you. He doesn’t even want to imagine what it must be like for a gay man in that life, marrying a woman as the only way to be ‘saved.’

It all makes him sick to his stomach to think about it, especially when he thinks about how Brendon seemed tonight. It must be bad enough, being brainwashed into thinking that it’s the life you want. But knowing that you want something different for yourself and feeling you have no choice? Spencer’s parents have always been supportive of him.

The front door opens and closes, and a few minutes later a strip of light spills into his room as Ryan slips in the door. “Hey,” Ryan whispers.

“I’m up,” Spencer says. Ryan shuffles across the floor and Spencer lifts his covers so Ryan can crawl between them. He cuddles close in just his boxers, skin still cold from the outside. Spencer shivers and curls closer. “Hey,” he says in greeting.

“Hey,” Ryan says. His voice is bright but hushed.

“What’s up?”

“I think Jesse might work,” Ryan says. “He’s…I think he might work, Spence.” He sounds excited, though tempered, as ever, with doubt. He doesn’t, Spencer is relieved to note, sound smitten. “We’ll have to try him out, first. But I think he’s good.”

“Good,” Spencer echoes and kisses Ryan’s hair. Ryan’s fingers curl against Spencer’s chest, and the touch is nice, familiar, and Spencer’s had years of experience to keep his body from reacting how it would like to in response. He lets thoughts of Ryan distract him from thoughts of Brendon, and then it’s much easier to fall asleep.

Jesse fits pretty well, Jon thinks, even after only a few hours. Ryan hasn’t shown him any of his stuff yet, but Jon figures that will take a while. Ryan also hasn’t gotten that tight, unhappy look around his mouth even once since Jesse showed up, which he usually gets within the first ten minutes of an audition.

Jesse’s voice is good. It isn’t William Beckett good, and it’s safe to say it doesn’t approach Patrick, but he stays on pitch and in key, and his voice is clear and strong. He’s also happy jumping from genre to genre so Ryan can hear how he handles different sounds. Jesse would probably be cool singing just about anything that wasn’t country music, Jon can guess, from the various bands Jesse’s been a part of over the years.

They take a break after three hours, sitting around in the living room, Jesse strumming idly at his guitar. “When are your boys getting back?” he asks Jon absently. He totally misses the look Spencer and Ryan share, but Jon doesn’t.

“These are my boys, now,” Jon says easily, and then adds, “but Tom said something about next week.”

“Coooool,” Jesse says emphatically. “Party?”

“Do you forget who are you talking about?” Jon asks, his tone wry.

“Fair enough,” Jesse says. “It’ll be good to see him and everyone else. Man, I’ve missed Joe’s shit.”

Ryan’s got that cool assessing look he gets sometimes, when he’s pissed that someone knows something he doesn’t, and he plans on figuring it out. The thing is, Jon’s gone so long without telling them that he knows he’s in deep shit now, either way.

Whether he tells them himself or they figure it out on their own, Ryan and Spencer aren’t going to be happy. Somewhere between the time when their acquaintance was too casual to bring it up, and now, there was some point, a moment when he could have said something, but it’s long since passed.

A knock on the door saves Jon from this particular moment. Spencer, the only one without an instrument in his lap, goes to get it and has a smile for Brendon when he answers, which makes Jon wonder.

“Hey. Blossom’s party somehow spread to my place. I was wondering if I could hang out?” Brendon asks. He has a hesitant, hopeful look on his face and he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well-his skin is pale and there are deep circles under his eyes.

“Well, we were practicing,” Spencer says, and casts a look at Ryan.

“Oh.” Brendon fidgets with the hem of his shirt and shuffles back a few steps. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“No, it’s okay,” Ryan says quickly. “You could hang out if you want. We probably won’t be good company, though.”

“It’s okay. I just don’t want to be down there right now,” Brendon says, bouncing a little in place.

Brendon is quiet while they practice, sipping slowly on the hot chocolate Jon made him and watching. He’s not as still as usual, fingers twitching at his side as they play, like his fingers want an instrument in them. Jon doesn’t want to be pushy when Brendon’s having a crisis, or whatever, but he wonders if he should offer to let Brendon play sometime.

Things wind down close to midnight, when Jesse’s girlfriend texts him to come over and he makes his goodbyes. Ryan mutters something about being inspired and disappears into his bedroom. Spencer goes off to shower, and Jon’s left with Brendon who’s studying his toes like they hold the answers to the universe.

“Hey,” Jon says gently, and nudges his shoulder. “Wanna talk?”

“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You stop taking your meds?” Jon asks.

Brendon laughs, a dry, painful sound. “Is it that obvious? But. No. Not entirely. Just cut back.”

“That’s…good,” Jon says cautiously.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Brendon says. He fiddles with his toes, wiggling them, pulling his big toe between his fingers. Jon is reminded of his little cousin and he wants to put an arm around Brendon, but doesn’t know what’s allowed.

“I thought it would be easier to sleep, and maybe I wouldn’t be so sad all the time. And…I guess it’s better. I mean, I fall asleep easier, but I can’t stay asleep,” Brendon admits. “I feel like I have all this extra energy. I’m not sad like I was, but I’m not any happier, either, I don’t think.”

“You wanna come to my room?” Jon offers. “I’ve got a keyboard. We could play a little. Maybe that would help you relax, like when you were a kid.”

Brendon looks up at him, face caught in a expression between startled and hesitantly please. “You remembered me saying that?”

“Come on,” Jon says, smiling wider. He stands and holds out a hand and Brendon takes it, letting himself be led down the hall.

Jon’s room is actually the study and the futon is a little lumpy, but he can’t complain since he isn’t paying rent and because it allows him to spend plenty of time around Spencer and Ryan. Anyway, he’s got big plans regarding Spencer’s queen-sized mattress.

The study is actually more like a music room, since Ryan moved the writing desk into his bedroom and Jon brought over his keyboard and bass and rhythm guitars. Spencer’s kit is kept in the living room since it’s the only room big enough, but when they’re all working on new stuff, they inevitably find their way into the study.

Brendon sees the keyboard and it’s like he’s drawn to it, crossing the room to sit at the bench. His fingers aren’t long like Ryan’s, but they look elegant as they move over the keys. There’s something sensual about it, the way Brendon strokes the keys like the skin of a long lost lover. Other than his hands, his body remains still, a look of concentration on his face.

Even without the power on, Jon imagines he can hear the melody Brendon is playing. Something haunting and beautiful, echoed in the expression on Brendon’s face. It makes Jon’s mouth go dry to watch. He leans across the keyboard to turn the power on and mid-note the piece comes to life, pouring from the speakers. The volume is low, but the piece loses nothing for it.

Jon sits on the futon, watching and waiting while Brendon finishes one song and segues into the next seamlessly. The change is noticeable, after several minutes. Brendon’s shoulders relax a little-it isn’t that his posture becomes worse, but the tension bleeds from him until it doesn’t hurt just to look at the straight line of his back.

The curve of Brendon’s neck into his shoulder would fit Jon’s hand perfectly, he thinks. Jon wonders idly the last time anyone touched Brendon, in anyway than the little, casual ways that happen everyday. When was the last time someone hugged him or stroked his hair, or kissed him?

After a while, Brendon runs out of things to play and his fingers begin to move randomly across the keys, slow and plodding. Jon rolls his head to look at the clock from where he’s slid down into a reclining position on the futon. He has to blink and sit up when he sees that over an hour has passed.

Jon stands and goes to the keyboard and Brendon scoots over to make room for him. He shoots Jon a purely happy, easy smile when Jon starts up “Heart and Soul.” After a second Brendon finds the right place and begins to play along.

“Now I’ll know who to come to when Panic! needs a pianist,” Jon says.

“Panic? Is that the name of your band?” Brendon asks, arching a curious brow. Seeing his face all lit up with expression again is such a relief, really.

“Panic! at the Disco,” Jon explains. “With an exclamation point, after Panic. I don’t get it. You’d have to ask Ryan.”

Brendon chuckles. “I think it adds character,” he says. “I can just imagine trying to explain to my parents that I’m playing piano for a rock band called Panic! at the Disco.” Just like that his face crumples.

For a moment, Jon’s worried Brendon’s going to start crying. But Brendon just takes a deep breath and lets it out. His head drops onto Jon’s shoulder and that gives Jon the right incentive. He slides an arm around Brendon’s back, hugging him lightly, loose enough that Brendon could break away.

“Wanna talk?” Jon asks. He can’t stop his hand caressing up and down Brendon’s arm, but Brendon doesn’t pull back. If anything, he presses closer, however subtly, his face turning slightly into Jon’s neck so Jon can feel his breath.

“Not about them. Not about…” Brendon takes another shuddery breath. He shakes his head. “You know, I was almost in a band once?”

“Yeah?” Jon asks encouragingly.

“There was this guy in school. In band. He said some friends were looking for someone to play guitar, sing backup. I was. It was before I started on the meds, and I wasn’t very happy at home or at church or at school. I really loved music, you know, so I was like, well, even if it makes my parents unhappy, it might be the one place where I could fit in.”

“So what happened?” Jon asks. He lays his head over Brendon’s slowly, waiting for any sign that Brendon doesn’t want the touch, but Brendon doesn’t resist.

“I don’t know. The guy…He said something about coming to practice and hanging out, seeing if I fit, or whatever,” Brendon says, and Jon can hear the frown in his voice. “Then whenever I asked when I should come, he’d change the subject or have somewhere to be, and eventually I stopped pushing it. Then I went on the meds and I guess I didn’t care as much about that, anymore.

“Sometimes I wonder though. I mean, it was just some shitty-I mean…I mean crappy-” Brendon begins, but Jon cuts him off.

“You can say ‘shitty’ around me, Brendon,” he says.

Jon can practically feel the smile Brendon gives him at that. “Fine. Shitty. But. It was probably just some shitty band, you know? I mean, how many high school bands ever go anywhere, what are the odds? But I still can’t help wondering how things might have been different, if I’d joined them. Like. That was a bad time for me, and what if I had found a place where I fit in? Where would I be now?”

Brendon snorts into the following silence. “Stupid. I’d probably be in the exact same place.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Jon interrupts.

“Jon Walker,” Brendon says thickly, “where the hell were you when I was in high school?”

Jon laughs and it sounds weak to his own ears. He hugs Brendon tighter and something loosens in him-something he hadn’t even realised was tight-when Brendon loops both arms around Jon’s waist and hugs him back, tight and desperate. He can tell Brendon doesn’t want to talk anymore, so he lets Brendon cling as long as he wants, and when his embrace begins to loosen, Jon pulls back.

“Let’s watch Harry Potter on my laptop and eat all of Spencer’s Rocky Road,” Jon suggests.

“That’s not cool. Spencer’s nice,” Brendon laughs and protests. He wipes his sleeves over his cheeks, even though they’re not wet. Jon is really relieved that tears aren’t involved. He’s bad at dealing with that.

“That’s why he’ll forgive us,” Jon says, getting up.

Jon raids the freezer for the ice cream and the fridge for milk and grabs two spoons on his way out of the kitchen. Brendon’s moved to the futon in his absence, all curled up close to the wall, knees to his chest, looking tiny and vulnerable. Jon gets the DVD set up and puts the computer on the piano bench, dragging it close so they can see and hear. He hits the lights and climbs onto the futon, not too close.

“Hey Jon,” Brendon says, as the previews start. His hand reaches out in the dark, fumbling, clutching Jon’s sleeve. “Thanks.”

Jon slings his arm across Brendon’s shoulders and Brendon melts into his side. Jon pulls the comforter over them both, and settles in. It’s not even twenty minutes into the film before Brendon’s breathing has evened out with sleep. Jon takes off his glasses for him and folds them on the night stand before lying back down at Brendon’s side. It isn’t long before Jon follows him into sleep.

Ryan wakes up around eleven, still vaguely tired, but not enough to keep him in bed. Spencer is already awake, and pops his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, when Ryan walks by. “Pancakes?” Ryan asks, and Spencer gives him the thumbs up.

Jon’s door is closed, which is strange, because he doesn’t usually bother. Ryan turns the knob and pushes in, question on his lips. He stops before he can voice it. Jon is spooned up against Brendon’s back, arm snug around Brendon’s hips. They look comfortable, peacefully asleep, and Ryan makes a point of slamming the door on his way out.

Spencer follows him into the kitchen a few minutes later, just as Ryan is lining up the ingredients by the stove. “What’s up with the door slamming?”

The shower starts running and all Ryan can think is they had better not be in there together. Which, okay, he knows is irrational, because they both had their clothes on and besides, Jon’s into Spencer, right?

Jon stumbles blearily into the kitchen and Ryan can see the gears working in Spencer’s head. “Make enough for Brendon?” Jon asks, like it’s nothing.

Spencer eyes them both warily and Ryan gives a tight nod. “How’s he doing?” Spencer asks. He doesn’t look or sound upset. If anything, he sounds actually concerned.

“Working through a lot of shit, you know?” Jon says. “I mean, I don’t understand most of it. He didn’t really want to talk about it very much. I think he just needs someone who doesn’t expect anything of him.”

Ryan can’t stop himself from snorting. Granted, he doesn’t try very hard. Jon and Spencer ignore him, which sets his teeth on edge. He applies himself to the task at hand, pouring the batter into the pan, watching the air bubbles form around the edges.

Brendon comes in just as the first batch is ready and Ryan decides that he’s the least to blame, and lays the plate in front of him. Brendon looks up at Ryan in delight, water catching at the tips of his hair and Ryan thinks, didn’t anyone teach him how to properly dry himself off, and then has to resist the urge to push his fingers back through Brendon’s hair.

“Thanks,” Brendon says, and digs in, making noises of pleasure.

Ryan goes back to his skillet and his good humour disappears at once. Fucking Jon Walker, all sweet and unassuming and apparently, a player. He’d never thought, for one minute, that Jon would pick someone else.

The second batch gets burnt and he lays those at Jon’s place. Jon arches a brow and Ryan gives him a look that dares him to say something. Instead, Jon slathers the plate in syrup and begins eating with apparent relish. Ryan gives him a sickly sweet smile and Jon’s is just as fake in return.

Brendon leaves after breakfast and Ryan feels a little guilty about it, because how is Brendon supposed to know that Jon is an asshole? He can’t say he blames Brendon, either; the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife.

All day Jon stays in his room. Spencer, after several attempts at conversation with Ryan, gives up and spends the majority of the afternoon with Jon. Every time Ryan passes the door he hears the soft murmur of conversation, but nothing he can understand from the hallway.

There’s a restless sort of energy humming under Ryan’s skin that makes him feel like he’s back in high school-that helpless desire to do something to be noticed. Sometimes Ryan forgets how old he is; it seems so much longer than two years ago that he was finishing high school. Without his father breathing disappointment down his neck, Ryan has felt older, independent. He hates being reduced to this feeling again, but he gives into it.

When Spencer comes to knock on his door around eight, Ryan’s nearly finished perfecting his look. Even out of practice it wasn’t difficult to recreate the style he’d adopted his first year out of high school. All around his eyes are the colours of the setting sun, bleeding into night, with stars tumbling down his cheek.

“Hey,” Spencer says cautiously, hip propped against the door frame. Ryan allows his eyes to follow the curve of it in the mirror, where Spencer can’t see. What if they’d never moved here and never met Jon Walker, would Ryan be allowed to look openly? “What’s up?”

“I felt like going out,” Ryan says, filling in his lashes with mascara.

Spencer doesn’t comment, and when Ryan looks up again, he’s gone from the doorway. There’s more of that fucking murmuring in the hallway and by the time Ryan finishes getting ready, Jon and Spencer are waiting in the living room, dressed for clubbing too, though more hastily put together.

“We want to go, too,” Spencer says. He gets up, lacing his fingers through Ryan’s, eyes daring Ryan to fight him on it.

Ryan shrugs. “Fine. Jon would know better where to go, anyway.”

Jon gives him a searching look and Ryan has been friends with him long enough to know that look often prefaces some well meant interference. But instead, Jon just sighs and says, “I think I know a place you’d like. It’s pretty mellow, even on Friday nights, but the djs are good and they have an awesome dance floor.”

Ryan nods, not meeting Jon’s gaze. “Sounds good to me.”

Spencer lets go of his hand long enough for them to get their jackets on and then he grabs it again and Jon gets his other side. It takes all of Ryan’s will power not to jerk away from them, but he’s not going to give them the satisfaction.

The bar, the Lapin Agile, really is Ryan’s sort of place. It’s just pretentious enough to appeal to his sense of irony, but not so much to be annoying. From the outside, it looks like something out of turn of the century France, the door tucked away down a small alley, light warm and golden spilling from the windows.

Indoors the music is good, but not so loud as to discourage conversation. Jon secures them a table close to the dance floor and goes to get them drinks, and Ryan disappears onto the dance floor before he gets back.

It’s been so long since Ryan’s gone dancing. Since before he and Spence moved to Chicago, at least. It’s still early, but there are a couple hot scene kids who move close when Ryan starts to dance, and it’s nice, losing himself in the music, knowing that there are people watching him and wanting him.

He makes his way back to the table a few times, taking sips of the soda Jon got him, before diving back into the dance floor. On his fifth time back, shirt plastered to his chest from other people’s sweat, he notices how much the place has started to fill up. He has to push through several groups to make his way to the table and there’s a line visible through the open door. As he passes, a pleasantly chilly breeze cools his flushed skin.

Jon’s chatting with some skinny, blonde girl and Spencer is being flirted with, very obviously, by her brunette friend. Ryan refuses to be jealous of it, insinuating himself close to the table. Spencer flicks him a look and pushes a glass of soda across the table and Ryan is pleased to note, when he takes a sip, that there is no alcohol in it.

“Hey, Ry,” Jon says cheerfully, cheeks flushed red, whether from alcohol or happiness, or the heat, Ryan can’t say. “This is Mellissa and Selene.” He gestures to the brunette and blonde in turn. Ryan pointedly doesn’t notice the way Mellissa is clinging to Spencer’s arm.

“Jonathan Walker!” a voice calls, and Ryan looks around along with the others, trying to find the source. A scruffy looking blond guy who shares, Ryan notes, Jon’s proclivity for wearing flipflops in the dead of winter, bursts through the crowd to throw an arm around Jon’s shoulders.

Jon lets out a delighted laugh and pulls the guy into a bear hug and, well. Ryan knows Jon doesn’t worry about the usual things guys do, about hugging, when it comes to Ryan and Spencer. Still, it’s disconcerting to see him hugging another guy like that.

“Hey!” new guy says, face all lit up with excitement. Jon’s usually mellow happy, not this bright, effusive happy, like glowing. Ryan feels something rising in his stomach, making him feel sick. “I didn’t think you were getting back until Monday.”

The guy waves a hand. “That’s what Adam said. But what I didn’t know was that rather than asking Tony, Adam just picked a random day of the week when asked the question ‘hey, you know when we get home?’”

“Guys,” Jon says, turning back to them. “Guys, this is my best friend in the whole world, Tom.” Ryan feels his smile freeze on his face, brittle and tight, at the words. “Tom, this is Spencer and Ryan.”

Tom smiles at them warmly and there’s something vaguely familiar about him that tickles the back of Ryan’s mind. Tom offers Spencer his hand, then it’s Ryan’s turn. His body sort of moves without his permission. He thinks Tom can probably read Ryan’s mood by the tension in his arm. Ryan hates everyone right now. “I’ve heard so much about you guys,” Tom says.

Spencer looks at Jon with a bemused smile. “Really?” he asks. Ryan’s glad one of them is still capable of speech that hasn’t been reduced to four letter words and derivatives thereof.

Jon blushes, but Tom speaks before he can. “Heard you’re the ones who finally got him back in a band,” he says. “You must be really good.”

Ryan was curious enough when Jesse said it, but now he’s burning to know what the big deal is about Jon being in a band, and why everyone seems to know about it except his actual band.

“You’ll hear soon enough,” Jon says. “We got ourselves a singer, I think it’s gonna work out. Probably be ready to start doing a few gigs in a month or so.”

Ryan’s about ready to open his mouth to protest, just because he can, because where does Jon get off thinking he can say that he thinks Jesse’s going to work out when they haven’t even rehearsed any of their material with him, and who said anything about gigs next month, anyway?

Ryan’s got a million bitter, pissy things to open with, and they all die, unspoken, when Pete Wentz comes up and slings his arm around Jon’s waist and says, “Did I hear that you’re actually going to play something with your new band? Where I can hear it?”

Jon flushes even darker and shoots Ryan an indecipherable look. Ryan’s heart is beating so loudly he can barely hear over it, and the rushing sound in his ears reminds him of the one time he passed out, back in eighth grade gym class. He grabs the edge of the table and stares because what. The. Fuck?

“Pete,” Jon says, still looking at Ryan. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Pete fucking Wentz grins all big and horse-like, and that urge Ryan has sometimes, to punch him? Has never been stronger. He squeezes tighter at the table edge and feels Spencer move closer, his body warm all along Ryan’s side.

“Joe picked the venue, this evening,” Pete says, and lays his head on Jon’s shoulder, like that’s somehow allowed. Jon doesn’t shrug him off. In fact, he pats Pete’s head absently.

“No one even told me you guys were back in town,” Jon says.

“We wanted to surprise you, Jonny Walker,” Pete says enthusiastically, and Tom nods his head. “We called your mom and made her promise not to tell, and then what do we find but that you’ve practically moved out. To live in sin with your deliciously hot scene boys.” Pete shrugs. “She gave us the address.”

“Me,” Tom interrupts, glaring playfully at Pete. “Like she’d trust you with that information.” He rolls his eyes.

“Anyway,” Pete says, “we were gonna throw you an impromptu party tomorrow.”

“Bill made a banner,” Tom says.

“You were going to throw me an impromptu party at my own apartment?” Jon asks, arching a brow.

“Still are, dude,” Tom says. “Bill made a banner. You can’t let something like that go to waste.”

“Damn straight!” Ryan looks around, and it’s fucking William Beckett, which he really should have put together, and he guesses if you gave Tom a shower and pushed his hair out of his face, yes…

William Beckett comes with an entourage and a distracted, confused looking Patrick Stump under his arm and there’s lots of hugging and squealing that goes on, Jon passed around like a doll from person to person. All the while, Jon dodges desperate looks at Ryan.

Seriously, Ryan is past the getting sick and wanting to pass out stage, and he’s so past the wanting to punch Pete Wentz phase. He’s pretty much moved onto the mass homicide part of the evening.

“So,” Pete says, when everyone’s hugged Jon, some of them two or three times each. “Speaking of deliciously hot scene boys…” his gaze roves over Spencer and Ryan, pausing when he meets Ryan’s eyes and something like recognition passes over his face. He smiles just slightly, and Ryan feels like he’s being mocked.

“Right,” Jon says, and ducks out from under several arms to get to Ryan and Spencer. “Ryan and Spencer.”

“And when am I going to get you on my label?” Pete asks.

Ryan goes completely tense, he feels like his skin is going to burst apart. Jon can’t miss it, standing close by his side. “Working on it,” Jon says.

“I have to. I have to go,” Ryan says, and pushes Spencer and Jon away, moving through the crowd of rock stars trying really hard not to touch or look at any of them.

Spencer catches up with him on the street, hand clasping Ryan’s wrist. Ryan tries to shake him off. “I don’t wanna talk about this right now,” Ryan says.

“Ryan,” Spencer says, tone warning.

“What? Spence, what?” Ryan spins on his heel, pinning Spencer with the full force of his glare.

Spencer drops his wrist. He shakes his head. “I mean, there’s got to be a reason he didn’t tell us.”

“Tell us? That he’s apparently BFF with the entire Fueled by Ramen label?” Ryan demands.

“Ryan, it’s Jon. There’s a good reason. I know there is.” Spencer isn’t big on sentimentality, but he’s got the most earnest, believing expression on his face.

“Well, you can go listen to it then. Because I don’t care,” Ryan says. Spencer looks torn, so Ryan makes up his mind for him. “I want to be alone right now, Spence.”

Spencer takes a step back. “Look. I’ll talk to him, okay.”

“Whatever makes you feel better,” Ryan says. He hurries down the street before Spencer changes his mind and decides to follow anyway.

The restless energy from earlier is back. Or it never went away, he was only distracted for a while. He walks all the way home. It isn’t very far and the cold makes him feel more alive and vital.

For the first ten minutes, he refuses to think about it. His mind keeps trying to come up with excuses for Jon, reasons why he wouldn’t say anything, but he keeps shutting it up, shoving it away. His phone starts buzzing and he turns it off without checking the display.

He’s gone past furious to this place of cool rationality where he’s decided he’s simply never going to speak to Jon Walker again. He’s been stupid, he can see that, let Jon charm him, charm Spencer and now he gets to see what Jon’s really about-first with Brendon and now this.

Ryan can’t think of a single reason why Jon wouldn’t have told them about Pete. He can imagine now, when Jon first saw Ryan’s notebook, when Ryan finally trusted Jon and himself enough to hand it over, and Jon saw that email from Pete…did he call Pete up? Did they have a laugh about it?

Even as he thinks these things, some small, rational part of his mind is telling him how ridiculous it all is. Why would Jon waste his time with them just for a joke? He was still calling Ryan and Spencer his band, still talking about playing with them. Pete hadn’t seemed to know anything about Panic!, insinuated that he’d never heard any of their music.

It doesn’t make any sense that Jon both wouldn’t tell Ryan about Pete and wouldn’t tell Pete about Panic!, though, and Ryan doesn’t want to listen to rationality. He wants, he thinks, climbing the front steps of the building, to hurt Jon like Jon’s hurt him. Jon knows that Ryan doesn’t give his trust easily…

There isn’t a lot of thought that goes into it. Ryan wonders what he could do to strike back, and though a small voice, rather like Spencer’s, warns him he’ll regret it, the nearest, easiest thing Ryan can think of is Brendon. He recognised the warmth in Jon’s eyes when he watched Brendon, saw the tenderness in the way he held Brendon close.

Before he really has time to process it, or to acknowledge his Spencer voice, he’s standing at Brendon’s door, fist poised to knock.

Brendon’s parents call him in the afternoon to tell him about his sister’s new baby, and they can immediately tell that something is different about him. He hasn’t taken his meds, having spent the night at Jon’s and he’s feeling jittery and anxious over the way Ryan was acting. It only takes a little prodding on the part of his parents before he confesses that he’s stopped taking his full prescription.

His father gets angry and his mother gets upset, and it hurts Brendon to hear them like this. A low, throbbing headache starts at the base of his skull and works its way up throughout the entire conversation.

“I just. I didn’t feel like myself anymore,” he tells them, hoping they understand. “I’m not sure that all of this is what I want.”

“What do you mean, all of this?” his father asks.

Brendon knows there’s a line and he’s standing right on top of it, and he can’t cross it. He can’t. He’s the same coward he was two years ago, and messing around with his dosage isn’t going to change that. He swallows hard, and every word tastes as bitter as vomit on his tongue as he speaks.

“The medication was making me feel sick. I understand why I had to go on it when I was younger, but I was reading with Elder Mathis the other day and we were discussing free will, and I thought, maybe I’m stronger now. Maybe I don’t need the medication to keep myself in line.”

It’s a weak argument to his own ears, but his mother starts making hesitant noises about how she never thought the medication was a very good idea. His father is less impressed, but he gives Brendon his permission to continue. “However,” he says, before they hang up, “the next time we call, if we hear any sign that this isn’t working how you planned, I expect you to go back to your full dosage.”

None of Brendon’s companions say anything about his absence, and he wonders if they even noticed. Elder Link says he’s going out of town with some friends and can Brendon make excuses for him at church tomorrow. Brendon’s gotten pretty good at that.

Brendon meant to spend his day studying and spreading the word, but the truth of the matter is, it’s been over a week since anyone actually listened to him. Pretty much every call he’s made has ended up with a door slammed in his face. Brendon can’t help but think that those people can see right through him, see his own doubts about what he’s saying. Just like Anna did.

Rather than doing anything productive, anything his parents or the Church would approve of, he goes to the library and uses the internet to look up stories about Mormons doubting their faith.

Five hours pass and Brendon’s head is spinning from all the things he’s read. The way his parents and his counsellor spoke, Brendon had always thought he was some sort of freak for feeling the way he did. The way his teachers at church spoke, he thought there was no one else who’d asked the same questions he had.

Online he finds dozens upon dozens of stories like his own-even if the circumstances were different, the things they say ring true to Brendon. He supposes he should find it reassuring, that he’s not the only one.

But all of them end the same way-with the author leaving the Church, and in doing so, losing family members who kept the faith, losing friends and jobs and the entire social network, the entire community around which their lives had been built.

The apartment building is strangely silent for a Saturday night, when Brendon arrives home. Everyone must be out partying, he figures. All of his companions are gone and Brendon is left on his own in the quiet and he feels like he’s slowly going mad. He wants to go upstairs but from the street he could see the lights were out in Jon’s apartment.

Different scenarios are playing over and over in his mind. They all start the same way, with him telling his parents that he doesn’t want to finish his mission and he wants to go to a different college, and study music.

The scenarios are all different from that point-some ending with him living on the streets, some with him taken to the special Mormon hospital for therapy, some with him married off to some girl he can’t stand-none of them end well.

His thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door and he jerks, noticing that the room has gone dark around him. The only light is the one in the hall and the clock on the wall by the kitchen reads a quarter ‘til eleven.

It’s Ryan, and Brendon had known before, on his medication, that he was attracted to Ryan, but without it in his system the attraction hits him so much harder, makes him feel weak in his knees. Because Ryan’s beautiful, even with rainbow make-up streaking down his cheeks and his hair a messy tangle of half-formed curls.

“Can I come in?” Ryan asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer, pressing close to Brendon to squeeze through the opening in the door.

There’s something different about him, beyond the make-up and the clubbing clothes. Brendon hasn’t known Ryan all that long, true, but the Ryan he has observed up to this point has a strange stillness about him. This Ryan is thrumming with energy, bouncing in place with it. He is, Brendon realises, the physical representation of how Brendon feels.

“Are you okay?” Brendon asks.

Ryan blinks at him and shakes his head.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Brendon whispers. He doesn’t know why. There’s no one to hear, but he feels like he should keep quiet.

Ryan pushes his hair out of his face and bites his lip. “No,” he says, and surges forward. Brendon catches him out of reflex and his back hits up against the door before Ryan’s kissing him.

Brendon kissed a girl once. Abigail Henderson, in 10th grade, during lunch. He’d done it because he was miserable and he hated himself and everything about his life and he couldn’t think of anything else he could do to break the rules. He’d done it because he’d thought, even if he didn’t like her, even if it wasn’t any good, maybe he’d feel something. At the time, all he’d felt was Abigail’s braces and her chapped lips.

Ryan’s lips are impossibly soft as they move against Brendon’s, and taste like some kind of berry lipgloss. Brendon can feel the press of Ryan’s bony hips against his stomach and the slide of Ryan’s mouth as it opens, hot and wet. It’s like some chain reaction. He has no control over it and he doesn’t want any-if he had control, he’d put an end to this, and he doesn’t want this to end.

Brendon parts his mouth, opening for Ryan, and he feels clumsy and awkward, tongue sliding against Ryan’s. Ryan doesn’t complain; he shifts his hips and works a leg between Brendon’s, heel up, knee pressed tight against Brendon’s groin and Brendon can’t stop the high-pitched sound of mixed pleasure and surprise that causes. His head is spinning and he has to grab Ryan’s waist and hold on, but that doesn’t seem to help.

“Where’s your room?” Ryan murmurs, the question another kiss against the corner of Brendon’s mouth.

There’s this moment where Brendon can say that everything before was a mistake, was Ryan forcing something on him. But from this point on, Brendon is a willing participant.

Ryan’s fingers tangle in Brendon’s and his mouth is swollen and red, and looks tender. Brendon’s already made the choice anyway. He doesn’t know why this is happening, but Ryan is beautiful and Brendon’s willpower is shot.

Brendon leads him down the hall and Ryan locks the door behind them. There’s a thrill of nerves and disbelief that run up and down Brendon’s spine. “I’ve…I’ve never,” he tries to say and Ryan steps closer and kisses him again, harder. His hand feels big on Brendon’s back, strong and possessive.

Brendon doesn’t put up a fight when Ryan tugs on his shirt, raising his arms to help Ryan get it off. “I know,” Ryan says, when they part. He sheds his own shirt in a matter of seconds and Brendon drinks in the sight of him. He’s seen plenty of attractive guys, but he’s never been given this permission to look, and Ryan is certainly one of the most attractive people Brendon’s ever seen. He looks fragile and dangerous all at once, delicate skin and sharp angles.

“Take off your pants,” Ryan says, undoing his own belt, and Brendon’s distracted by watching for a moment. Ryan’s fingers are so long and watching them unbuttoning and unzipping his pants is decidedly erotic. But once he starts to push down, baring more skin, Brendon looks quickly away, stripping out of his pants and underwear all together.

“Which one’s your bed?” Ryan asks. Brendon steps nervously towards the bed on the far left, holding his hands over himself. “Do you have any lube?”

Brendon almost says no, but just because he doesn’t touch himself doesn’t mean the other guys don’t. In fact, he’s heard them talking about it with each other, and had to leave he was so embarrassed and inexplicably turned on. He fumbles in the night stand and only feels mildly bad about taking Elder Mathis’ things as he passes the small bottle into Ryan’s hand.

Ryan looks at where their fingers touch and puts a hand under Brendon’s chin, drawing him into another kiss. It’s softer, easier. Brendon finally feels like he’s getting the hang of it, and the brush of Ryan’s tongue against the top of his mouth makes Brendon’s knees feel weak. He feels bold enough to press back a little, pushing into Ryan’s mouth and Ryan lets him, retreating and inviting.

“Lie down,” Ryan whispers and Brendon realises he’s stopped trying to hide his body, and doesn’t feel the need any more. He pushes himself up the bed, resting on his elbows and watching.

Ryan leans over Brendon, palms on either side of Brendon’s hips, and he lowers his head. Brendon holds his breath, stomach twitching in excitement or anxiety. Ryan kisses his stomach, just beneath his belly button, kisses his hipbone. His shoulder just brushes the head of Brendon’s cock and Brendon stifles a whimper but can’t stop his hips from jumping. Ryan smiles and that’s all the warning Brendon gets before Ryan’s lips are wrapped around his cock.

It’s all just a blur of sensation from there. Brendon keeps trying to tell himself to slow down and take it all in. It’s his first time and that’s supposed to mean something. But he’s feeling and seeing and hearing too many things to process them all properly. Ryan’s mouth is warm and when he sucks, Brendon’s elbows go out from under him. He can hear himself making sounds but he can’t stop them from coming.

Ryan’s fingers press into him-two first, then three, and it hurts. The pain never really goes away, but it gets better, and then it starts to feel good, too, which is distraction enough from the discomfort. Brendon can’t tell if it’s been a long time since they started or a very short time. Ryan’s arm is heavy on Brendon’s hips, holding him in place.

There’s something about Ryan’s fingers inside him that strikes Brendon as intimate far beyond what he’s associated with sex. He’s never dared to want this enough to think about it before, and despite the pain it feels so right. Brendon’s never felt so anchored, so owned, so perfectly that he belongs anywhere, until now, here, under Ryan.

“Please,” Brendon pants and for the first time he realises he’s sweating, all of his body straining towards Ryan. Ryan looms over him and Brendon almost cries over the loss of his mouth, except then Ryan’s kissing him again. “Please,” Brendon says again, against Ryan’s lips.

Ryan pushes into him and Brendon clings to his arms, fingernails digging into Ryan’s shoulders, leaving red marks. Ryan presses their foreheads together and waits until Brendon’s grip loosens before pushing in further. It takes several minutes like this before Ryan’s all the way in and Brendon feels full and it’s so good.

“Okay?” Ryan asks, and nips at his mouth, soft kisses with just a hint of teeth and it only takes Brendon a moment to relax and respond, opening his mouth for deeper kisses.

“Okay,” he says, and nods.

Ryan draws back and pushes in again slowly and Brendon lies back and lets him, content with this sensation of being taken. Ryan only manages another couple thrusts before he makes a soft sound of pleasure and frustration. He grabs Brendon’s leg at the knee and jerks it up high, over his hip and pushes in again and this time Brendon finds himself arching up into it, gasping at the sensation, reaching for Ryan and holding tight.

Brendon can hear himself saying something, he doesn’t know what, and now when Ryan moves, Brendon is moving with him, chasing the sensation. The pain is all but forgotten in the face of this pleasure. It’s too overwhelming, too bright and good. Ryan touches his cock again, wraps his fist tight and jerks twice before Brendon comes.

Ryan keeps moving and it’s almost too much sensation. Brendon whimpers and his cock jumps like it wants to be hard again but can’t. Ryan buries his face in Brendon’s neck when he comes, and the hot rush inside makes Brendon wish he could come again, right then.

Ryan slumps against him, breath warm and damp on Brendon’s skin and their breathing slows down together. For several minutes, everything in Brendon’s mind and body is blissfully still and silent. It is the most relaxed, most contented he’s felt in longer than he can remember.

Then Ryan shifts and pulls out all the way, lying at Brendon’s side. It stings, but Brendon barely feels it over the sudden terror that rushes through him. He can’t tell if it is paralysing or freeing.

Brendon’s been taught that sex is the physical expression of love and must be saved until after marriage. He’s never thought he’d marry for love and sex has always just been something he’s seen as an unavoidable duty as a good Mormon and husband and son.

Still, something inside him baulks at the fact that he just had sex outside of marriage and it wasn’t even because he was in love, or even that he felt some overwhelming need to do it. Ryan had just asked and Brendon had just given in because it felt good.

There are things that can be forgiven, but he knows without having to ask that this isn’t one of them. Having sex with another man…if it even exists, Brendon’s not getting into the Celestial Kingdom.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks. His voice sounds rough but sincere, a counterpoint to the soft touch of Ryan’s hand on his arm. Brendon doesn’t know how to answer.

“Hey,” Ryan says. He sits up. “Did I hurt you?”

Brendon shakes his head. “No,” he says. His throat is tight and forcing words past is painful. “It felt nice. Really nice.”

“Then when do you look so miserable?” Ryan asks. He traces his fingers over Brendon’s cheek, around the shape of his lips. In a distant way, the sensation is pleasant, but Brendon barely registers it.

Brendon doesn’t mean to tell the truth. His mind is screaming for him to say anything but the truth. All the same, the words fall from his lips, saying all the things he’s thinking. All the things he has been thinking about religion and being gay and how what they just did goes against everything he’s tried so hard to believe in.

Ryan listens, face losing a little more expression with every word and when Brendon is finished, Ryan is silent. “I know you didn’t come here for this,” Brendon says. He’s not going to be mean, because they both know Ryan came for the sex and Brendon gave it willingly. “You can leave.”

Ryan stares at Brendon, propped on his elbow above Brendon. Finally, he lowers himself again, curling on his side against Brendon and tucking an arm over Brendon’s chest. “I’d rather stay,” he says.

Somehow, that makes Brendon feel better, something loosening in his chest. He feels almost giddy at the sudden lightness, even though his mind keeps telling him this doesn’t change anything. He’s still in so much trouble. Especially if Elder Mathis walks in on this. It’s one thing for them to be sort of loose about the rules. It’s another to be having gay sex.

Ryan feels nice and though he looks like he’s all sharp angles, his body is soft pressed against Brendon’s. He draws Brendon into a slow kiss and Brendon feels the tension slowly seeping out of his neck and shoulders.

Brendon pulls the covers over them both and Ryan lays his head on Brendon’s shoulder. It’s a small bed, but they fit pretty well. Brendon’s mind suddenly flashes back to waking up held close to Jon’s body, and shame and regret flash white hot through Brendon.

“I’m so fucked up,” he whispers.

Ryan is quiet for so long Brendon thinks he’s gone to sleep. But then he shifts and places a kiss on Brendon’s chest and says, “We all are.”

Part Four