Like So Much Science (R, GSF)
It's finished! This started off about half as long and probably twice as imcomprehensible, heh, but I had an interesting time working through this. Also, I feel weird not having a group icon now, or at least a Jon one.
Like So Much Science
R; GSF-ish (or if you like specifics - Brendon/Spencer, Brendon/Ryan, Jon/Spencer, Jon/Ryan)
babygotbass looked over an earlier draft for me, littlerhymes held my hand as always and said many intelligent and encouraging things, and joyfulseeker was honest with me and made an awesome beta even as I stumbled through draft after draft like a newbie. Thank you!
Jon’s been on the Panic! bus before, but he’d always been there as part of some other entity - friend of their friends, TAI crew, the temp guy. So it’s not without some trepidation that he steps up to the bus that first night, only to be greeted by Brendon bouncing into his personal space and saying oh so casually, “Let’s celebrate! I call for a group orgy.”
Jon looks around quickly, buying time. Ryan’s tapping away at his Sidekick, not paying the slightest attention, and Spencer is sprawled on the couch, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. They’re so disinterested that Jon’s sure everything depends on what he says next.
“Cool,” he hears himself answering. “But not here. I don’t think the couch can hold the four of us.” He’s so used to being behind the scenes, playing the straight guy, that holding his face in its most inscrutable expression is not as hard as it probably would be for these kids.
“I guess that means your bunk’s out of the question too,” Brendon says easily. “What a shame. It's on your left, by the way. Just down the corridor. Ryan’s on the bottom.”
There’s a snigger from Spencer then, and Jon catches just the edge of a smirk between him and Brendon. Ryan’s still got his head down, though, and doesn’t seem to have noticed. Jon doesn’t stop to think about it, mostly feeling mightily relieved that he’s stepping over the threshold and into the band.
*
They’re parked on a lush green lot in the middle of nowhere, and Jon’s spent the afternoon hanging out with crew playing b-ball in the sun. There’s a red line creeping up his arms though, and he bails to go back to the bus and grab some water, some sunscreen, a rest. He hasn’t seen anyone else from the band in hours, and that happens more than Jon would like. They’ve let him in, but there are still lines he can’t cross, a part of them he can’t reach. He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t know what he’s done, or what he doesn’t do, and he doesn’t know how to ask them either. So he’s waiting it out until one of them cracks, or he stumbles on the answer, or whatever.
Passing the bunks on his way through the bus Jon notices sounds of life from the bunk across from his, and without thinking he twitches aside the curtain. “What’s up?” he says, grin spreading across his face, but as the light shines over his shoulder into the dark space below Jon notes that it’s not just one but two of his bandmates, and it’s not Spencer listening to music in his bunk or reading. Brendon’s bent over between Spencer’s legs, but on Jon’s greeting his mouth slips, wet and shiny, from Spencer’s cock. Spencer’s just a second late, grabbing the pillow that’s propping him up, jamming it over his groin while Brendon eases up gingerly, feeling the low ceiling of the bunk above with groping hands.
“I - uh - ” Spencer grimaces, and looks at Brendon, who shrugs and remains uncharacteristically silent.
“Does Ryan know about this?” Jon blurts out, surprising himself. Sure, he’s never ever had reason to contemplate a response to catching his bandmates fucking each other but, yeah, probably not that. There’s something so incestuously tight about this band though, it warps his thinking.
“Um - ” Spencer starts again, but his face is tightening and Jon’s come to recognise that look now, the gears shifting in his brain; formulating, shuffling and deciding on the best response in the situation, the inner workings of Spencer’s composure.
“Well, if you hang around you might catch Ryan in action later on,” Brendon throws out instead, and Spencer rolls his eyes and pinches Brendon on the arm viciously. Brendon retaliates with the girliest punch known to man, and Jon, seemingly forgotten, watches them tussle. Spencer’s really naked under that pillow, and Jon notes the cream skin and freckles before he averts his eyes, moving onto the safer territory of Brendon, who’s still mostly clothed with only his hair really messed up.
“I’ll take that as a yes about Ryan,” Jon says finally, “Huh.” At his voice, both boys look up at him and in that moment it feels like the first night all over again, the testing.
“I’ll…be outside if you need me,” Jon says. “I’ll take my guitar out and uh, maybe find Ryan. He’s not in there with you, is he?” He’s only half-joking, and he’s only a tiny bit relieved when they smile and shake their heads, almost in unison. “You guys - you - it’s okay.”
But as Jon walks away, he’s not sure if he’s just given them his blessing, or asking for theirs.
*
Brendon attacks him on his way back to the bus the next afternoon, a full body tackle that manages to bring Jon down by sheer shock and surprise. Jon ends up sitting against the side of the bus for the shade as Brendon drops to the ground beside him, wriggling and shifting until his head is comfortably pillowed on Jon’s thighs, his hands busy pulling the daisies around them apart.
“So, you really thought we were kidding about the group orgy,” Brendon says cheerfully.
“I haven’t been invited to one again,” Jon says lightly. It’s that kind of afternoon, the sun is setting behind the bus and throwing sharp light at odd angles until all he sees are shadows everywhere. He’s trying not to take things too seriously. Ryan and Spencer had been particularly and ominously subdued last night, keeping their distance from Jon, throwing frowns at one another. Jon’s studied nonchalance seems to be working though, the tension ratcheting down a notch since then; he’s meant to stay on his side of the line, obviously.
“Uh-huh. But you want in, right? Because I am totally, one-hundred percent all for that, you know?”
Jon gives Brendon an exasperated glance, wondering if Brendon’s maybe taking this joke just a little too far considering the reactions of the other two, but Brendon just smiles wide and holds up one unmutilated daisy. Jon takes it and tucks it behind his ear, making Brendon giggle.
He listens to Brendon start some complicated story about a junior school ex-girlfriend he had for all of two days and dozes off briefly to the now-familiar sound. But he wakes when there are footsteps, heavy, on the metal steps and Jon twists around to just catch Spencer with his hand low on Ryan’s back, whispering into his ear as they leave the bus. Jon laughs softly, and says to Brendon, “Were you sent to distract me from finding them?”
There’s no answer though, and Jon looks down, surprised. Brendon’s rolled over towards Jon, and his face is almost pressed against the worn material of his t-shirt, breathing out evenly, little puffed snores. Jon can’t help but smile, watching Brendon sleep, and he has to fight the urge to reach down and stroke Brendon’s hair behind his ears.
*
Some of the crew go drinking after the gig late into the night, and after a very dry two weeks Jon jumps at the change to tag along. This is the dynamic he’s used to, he thinks two beers in, this easy joking and the emotional and physical distance between the guys; the drunken sprawl and affection they save for when another five have been downed.
Jon vaguely remembers waving off Andy, one of the sound techs, as he collides with the side of the bus early in the morning, but the rest of the journey home is a mystery. He wakes up face down in the corridor between the lounge and the bunks, Brendon’s foot nudging the tops of his shoulders in arrhythmic pattern. Brendon doesn’t appear to have any reason for doing this - but this has never stopped Brendon from doing anything. Jon makes a desperate lunge for Brendon’s foot but he’s too slow, and all he feels is the bone of Brendon’s ankle sliding against his knuckles, hears the giggle from above him.
“We’ve been walking over you for the last four hours,” Brendon tells him solemnly. “I’m thinking, if you don’t get up soon, I’ll have to pick you up and carry you to bed. And maybe it’s a bit too soon in our relationship for that.”
“Mmmrrrph,” Jon manages to say in reply; a part of him recognises what Brendon is saying, and that it’s sensible (the bit about getting up anyway), but that's the only part of him that’s actually working. He flops around a bit on the floor, groaning at every movement, until Brendon takes pity on him or something, because he finally stops poking Jon in any squishy spot he can find and leans down to help him up. They stagger their way those last few steps to the bunks, an awkward fit for their sway and bulk in the narrow space.
“Here, up you - no, don’t lie down in Spencer’s, he’ll kill you if you puke - oh, um. I guess Ryan’s is okay?”
But Jon’s already rolled over in the small bunk, mumbling something about the light and softness, burrowing into the pile of blankets to block out the world.
The next time he comes to, the volume of the thudding - in his head, his heartbeat - has subsided somewhat, which is only a slight relief, because he’s suddenly so cold and shivering, and there’s a killer migraine lurking behind his right eyeball.
There’s something damp on his forehead, and Jon reaches up slowly to find a washcloth, folded over into a neat rectangle; it’s pink, and has a bunny in each corner. It’s warm where it’s been on his skin, but he turns it over and places it over his eyes and sighs at the small comfort it brings.
“How are you feeling?”
Jon jumps at the question, then winces; he takes the cloth away from his eyes and blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the light. He follows the direction of the voice until he can see the shape of Ryan at the end of the bed, knees up, chin resting on his hands.
“Terrible,” Jon croaks.
“You should,” Ryan says mildly. “Some of the techs were talking about it at breakfast this morning, they said you put in a pretty solid effort. How’s your head? Does that help?”
Jon puts the cloth back on his forehead and says gratefully, “Yeah, it’s good, thank you.” He feels a drop of water running down the side of his face and into the crease of his neck, and he shivers again.
Ryan says, “Do you want - hang on, just drink this.” He leans down and picks up a steaming mug from the floor beside the bunk. “It’s just black tea, but it’s hot. It’ll settle your stomach, hopefully.”
He reaches forward and helps Jon into a sitting position, a hand just under his shoulder blades to guide him. Jon eases back against the wall and sips appreciatively and slowly, the heat coursing through him instantly.
“Hey, I’m sorry about…” Jon trails off as he waves a hand over himself, the bed, the whole mess he must appear to be.
Ryan just shrugs and pulls at a loose thread at the edge of the blanket. “Nothing was damaged,” he says carefully.
Jon finishes the tea and juggles the still warm mug in his hands, closing his eyes, feeling the effort. Ryan pats his leg quickly, and plucks the cup from him.
“You need to get some more rest,” he says, and Jon takes it as his cue. He starts to swing his legs out of the bunk, saying, “I’ll get out of your way then - ”
Ryan shakes his head. “Dude, you’re not going to make it up the top of the bunk. We can’t have you injured or anything, we’ve got a big show tonight.” His hands rest on Jon’s back again, low and gentle, and ease him down back onto Ryan’s bed. Jon pulls the blanket up, and as he settle back an image flashes in his mind, of being five and ill, and his mother tucking him in at night.
“I just - do I get a kiss goodnight then?” Jon jokes sleepily, only half aware of what he’s saying.
Ryan turns, his left hand on the curtain rail, mug in his right. He smiles at Jon, then bends down, pressing his lips firmly to Jon’s for a sweet moment.
“Thanks,” Jon whispers, as Ryan breaks away. There’s a lot he’s apologising for in that small word.
“It’s alright,” Ryan replies softly as Jon drifts off into sleep.
*
“You’re good to hang on to,” Brendon says, apropos of nothing, as stylists fuss over the tiniest details around them, another long boring day of shoots and interviews. He’s got both his hands on Jon’s shoulders, and his chin hooked over the left curve where it meets his neck.
“Are you testing that out right now?” Jon keeps a smile plastered on his face, willing it to reach his eyes. Everyone tells him he looks great, he looks fine, but he’s seen some of the final pictures that make it into those magazines, and he’s frustrated by how out of place, at sea, he looks in them, even when they’ve put him in a matching costume and make-up.
“Oh, any experiment result needs to go through multiple test runs,” Brendon says solemnly. “This is #256. You’re good.” He shuffles in front of Jon on the direction of one of the many assistants moving them this way, that way, like dolls; or even puzzles, as Ryan and Spencer are slotted in next to them. Their two heads - one dark, one fair, tilt towards each other as they carry on a quiet conversation, barely noticing the fuss that’s going on. Jon envies the detachment they’ve developed, lost in a world of their own that isn’t quite so chaotic.
But even as Brendon hams it up for the camera, tilting his head and tapping a finger against the side of his head as if deep in simulated thought, he continues, “I think it’s your nice broad shoulders. Good to hide behind too.”
“Like when Ryan found out what happened to his favourite shirt three nights ago.”
“Yep. Thanks for protecting me, by the way.”
“Glad to be of service,” Jon says, and means it. He takes a florid bow, a spur of the moment silliness, and as he straightens up he hears the stutter-click of the camera shutter, the tsk noise of frustration made by the photographer, tongue to the roof of her mouth.
“Boys…!” she says, raising her voice, and it’s a command and exasperation all in one. Brendon shuffles behind Jon and with a quiet count to three, he launches himself into the air, hands on Jon’s shoulders and pressing down hard.
The photos turn out great. Jon’s got a goofy smile in all of them, Brendon wide-eyed above his half-bent body. On his way down, as his feet hit the floor with a solid thump, Brendon grabs Jon around the waist, pressing himself close, and says quickly, “I think I’m falling in love!” Just for Jon to hear.
*
They’re in for an exhausting day, round after round of never-ending interviews, followed by a big concert that night, and everything goes to hell within the first half hour. Brendon becomes too quiet and sulks in the background after a particularly disdainful journalist, who manages to call them by the wrong names at the start, lets a loud laugh escape after one of Ryan’s more sincere answers. Spencer takes over the bulk of the answering, managing to sound coherent, polite and cold, and Jon bites the inside of his cheek when he sees that writer doesn’t even bother to write half of it down.
Ryan asks for a sandwich at eleven, murmuring something about really hungry, and Brendon asks snidely of this hour’s scribbling interviewer, “Are you going to make that sound like a really demanding request? Since you’ve decided we’re underaged untalented brats anyway.”
“Well, he has now,” Spencer hisses, and Brendon glowers at him, until Ryan pinches Brendon on the arm, and then Brendon turns the glare on him instead. Jon sits on the edge of the couch and tries not to fidget too much. The air conditioner’s turned up too much for this seasonal weather, his toes are cold. The atmosphere is about as frigid. They have another five interviews to go, and even Spencer’s starting to fray at the edges.
So it’s not really that surprising when all that pent up energy finds an outlet in a fight between Ryan and Brendon on their escape from the press, a makeshift hurried lunch.
“Calm down, you freak!” Ryan yells at Brendon, the food he’s finally managed to get now on the ground in front of him, staining the dirt. Brendon darting backwards and forwards, sneering, any initial charm leeching from his hyperactivity the further into the day it goes.
“Fucking make me,” he taunts, never knowing when to stop until too late. Ryan growls and lunges at Brendon, and it’s only Zach’s quick presence that stops it getting physical, the big guy dragging Brendon away easily.
“Hey, hey there Ryan Rossy,” Jon says, laying a hand on Ryan’s arm, feeling the other boy trembling under the shirt sleeve. He doesn’t mean to, but the old nickname slips out, the easy tone, trying to calm Ryan down naturally. “Take some deep breaths and work it off. It’s been a long morning, hey.”
Ryan’s still glaring over Jon’s shoulder as Brendon protests the whole way out, but the tension is easing from his shoulders, and he gives Jon a tentative smile as he mutters, “Thanks.” He wanders off in the opposite direction, eyes on the ground, and Jon worries about their performance tonight, wonders if the stage dynamics will take on the same strained tone.
It’s less than two hours to soundcheck when Jon heads down to the dressing rooms a bit early. He’s missing his Sidekick, and he has a hunch that he dropped it into his stage clothes last night. He’s halfway through the open door before it registers that someone’s beat him down here already, though at first he only picks up on Brendon’s voice.
“Just say you’ll forgive me already, alright?” There’s frustration, the edge of anger in Brendon’s question, and Jon slides further into the room, thinking Uh, just in case I need to break up any argument that arises. He even thinks he might have to, when he sees that Ryan is pinned to the wall, his wrists in Brendon’s hands, their bodies flush and flat against each other. “C’mon, say it and we’ll forget the whole thing. You know I was just messing around.”
“People usually mean it when they say sorry,” Ryan spits out. “Get off, and say it properly.”
“No.” Brendon says petulantly. He flexes his fingers, maintaining good grip on Ryan, using his body weight to press against Ryan. Jon takes another involuntary step closer, but he’s pretty sure they can’t see him around behind the door. Brendon loosens his hold a fraction and Ryan pushes Brendon out of the way quickly, stepping around the other boy, but Brendon drops his voice at the last moment and says, “I bet you wouldn’t struggle so much if it was Jon holding you down, would you?”
Ryan stiffens at the words, takes a step back to where he was. Brendon’s hands are still looped slack around his wrists, thumbs on the inside against the pulse points. Jon imagines the sound of Ryan’s heartbeat echoing his, the rhythm of being found out.
“If he was standing here, if he was pressed against you. Like this. You’d let him, wouldn’t you? You’d let him do anything.” Brendon chuckles, dirty and low, and Ryan actually relaxes at this, falling back against the wall. Brendon moves into the V of Ryan’s legs and slides his hands down to rest at Ryan’s waist, wriggling his own hips closer.
“Hey there, Ryan Rossy,” Brendon singsongs, and Ryan closes his eyes, tipping his head back. Jon holds his breath and watches; it’s not a great imitation, but he can hear enough of his own voice in it, and he can feel the effect on Ryan all the way from here. Brendon pulls at the belt around Ryan’s jeans, and then it’s a flurry of hands and buttons popping, layers of clothing shed. Brendon wraps his hands around their cocks, bumping and sliding against each other, and jerks them off. It’s awkward, Ryan has to brace his hands against the wall to keep himself up and in the circle of Brendon’s palms, but it’s still ridiculously hot. Jon doesn’t look away as Brendon strokes, evenly then faster and faster until he comes, sticky, over his hands and Ryan’s stomach. He leans forward and presses his lips against Ryan’s throat, hands still moving back and forth, and Ryan shudders into his release a little later.
“Wouldn’t you just,” Brendon whispers then. “If Jon was here.” He smiles, sly, and Jon knows that’s his cue to go. He tries to slide out the door as quietly as he can, but he’s not halfway down the corridor when he hears the click of the door latching behind him.
That night, the concert goes off without a hitch, the crowd adores them, and they work together perfectly as a band. Brendon stalks Ryan on stage with purpose, leaning closer, bolder than ever before. He tries landing that kiss before “Lying…” and Jon hears how loud the roar of approval from the crowd is, sees the exaggeration in Ryan shrugging Brendon off, suddenly so much more aware of the act in everything they do, private gestures played publicly, confusing the real meaning.
*
Another leg travelling through the night, and it’s only him and Spence left in the lounge, watching Labyrinth because it’s the only thing they recognised when channel-surfing. Ryan went to bed earlier, complaining of a headache, and Brendon had run off a bit after that. Jon had seen, though he probably wasn’t mean to, the almost imperceptible shake of Spencer’s head in Brendon’s direction, the tiny frown. But when walks past the bunks on his way to the toilet a little later, Jon only hears even breathing from both sides of the corridor, deep sleep sounds. So the only thing running wild tonight is his imagination.
It’s only then that Jon realises that he should’ve asked another question earlier. He settle back onto the couch and Spencer eases up, crossing his legs so his knees occasionally bump against Jon’s thigh. Jon thinks for a moment, adopts a light tone, and goes for it. “So. Just out of curiosity, did Brent know?”
Spencer glances over, startled - his eyes blink slowly, and it’s almost in slow motion, illuminated blue and grey by the colours on the screen. “What - Oh. Yeah, at the end.”
Ah. That’s Jon’s second unasked question answered too. But it doesn’t make him feel better, really. He’s at the same level of inclusion as the bass player they already turfed out. He turns back to the movie, and they watch together in silence, but Jon can hardly concentrate, not even on a young Jennifer Connelly.
“Can I ask another - I mean, so it’s you and Brendon. And Brendon and Ryan? And, um.” He trails off under Spencer’s pained look. He knows he should let this drop, but seriously, his three bandmates are involved with each other and this is stuff he should know just in case - well. Of future awkwardness.
“Uh, yeah. It’s. A comfort thing. So. I guess whoever’s there out of the three of us.” Jon hears the three of us and twitches. Spencer’s still talking, and Jon’s pretty much missed whatever he just said, but he does pick up on the twisting fingers in Spencer’s lap, the hunch of his back, his feet back on the floor.
“I’m making you uncomfortable,” Jon says, “Sorry. I shouldn’t - I just want to know - I don’t - ”
“No,” Spencer waves it off, a fluttering of his hands. His voice is surer than his gesture. “We didn’t plan on it - and we didn’t want to freak you out - but it’s us against the world, you know? When we left Vegas, that’s how it felt and you have to have something to tie you together. It’s - um - it’s being grounded. In someone else, who knows who you are, what you really are.”
The movie’s cold tones, blue colours, wash over his face as he speaks, and Jon suddenly gets a feeling that they’re so much younger in this moment than they ever are allowed to be. It makes him sad for a moment, and he leans over and rests his head on Spencer’s shoulders, an uninvited intimacy. But Spencer seems okay with it, and reaches up with one hand to pat Jon softly on the cheek.
“It’s a weird life we lead, right?” Spencer says, then adds wistfully, “But I think we’ve made things alright for ourselves.”
And Jon wants so much in that moment to be included in that sentence, in that us-against-the-world unit; to know he’s not wandered into someone else’s crazy exciting dream that could end at any moment and dump him back into a life before this band. He lifts his head and reaches up, and Spencer, surprised, turns his head down and towards Jon, his eyes wide and clear. He opens his mouth and Jon closes the gap between their faces, feels their lips meet; Spencer tastes like gummy bears and orange soda on the surface, and makes a noise in the back of his throat, a surprised purr, when Jon slides his hand higher on Spencer’s thigh.
*
Brendon is restless, shifting and bouncing from one end of the couch to the other, never staying in one place for more than five seconds. He sits in Jon’s lap at one point, but Jon’s so used to the black hole of Brendon’s attention span by now that he’s just thankful for the quieter moments like these, holding Brendon around the waist and burying his face in Brendon’s neck. But when Spencer walks into the lounge area, eating candy out of the packet, Brendon’s off again, tackling the other boy until they’re a red-faced and huffy pile of denim clad legs, random shouts and jewel coloured gummy bears. Ryan looks up briefly from his Sidekick, distracted by the chaos, and Brendon moves in for the kill, dashing across the small space and throwing himself onto the couch, pressing up against Ryan’s side, practically spooned up behind Ryan.
“Whatcha doing?” he says, at minute intervals, until Ryan finally puts the phone away and says, obediently, “Paying attention to you, now what do you want?”
Brendon just smiles in response and straddles Ryan in one quick move. “More attention,” he says demandingly, and he wriggles happily when Ryan sighs and gives in, kissing Brendon and sliding his hands under Brendon’s shirt at the same time, pulling it up and off, barely breaking the kiss.
Jon watches with interest; he’s walked in on Brendon and Spencer twice more in the last month, mostly because Brendon tends to catch people unaware; and he can sometimes hear Ryan and Spencer alternating between making out and speaking in low voices, late into the night in Spencer’s bunk. But this is the first time they’ve ever started something in front of him, in this case right beside him on the same seat. But before he even has time to wonder if he should maybe leave and give them some room, Brendon glances over at him, eyes bright, and reaches out a hand.
Jon darts a look over at Spencer, who’s sitting across from them on the other couch, arms folded and calmly watching. Spencer catches his eye and smiles reassuringly, mouthing Brendon at him, and Jon looks back to find Brendon making an impatient noise. He grabs Jon by the wrist, and says, “Come on.”
And Jon goes, cupping Brendon’s face in his hands and bringing their lips together, a bright and somehow triumphant kiss. Jon can feel the awkward angle of his neck, but Brendon curls a hand over his jaw and keeps him there, deepening the kiss. But someone pulls at his hoodie, pushing it off his frame, and Jon finally pulls away.
“Share,” Ryan tells Brendon petulantly, and Brendon huffs, pretending to be annoyed, but then he slides off Ryan and pushes him towards Jon. Jon rests his forehead against Ryan’s and closes his eyes for a moment. He traces the outline of Ryan’s mouth with his thumb and listens to Ryan’s breathing change, the hitches, the slowing tempo. It’s music.
“Wanted to do this for a while,” Jon says softly, and when he opens his eyes, Ryan is watching him intently, tongue poking out slightly between his lips. Ryan kisses like he does everything that’s important to him, focused on the task at hand and nothing else. It’s not until Jon hears a muffled groan beyond them that he breaks away from Ryan and from touching Ryan all over, noting all the ways he can make Ryan shiver: he gazes beyond Ryan and gasps and Ryan turns, to be rewarded with the same sight.
Brendon’s lying on the other cough, his jeans abandoned on the floor, an arm thrown over his eyes, moaning as Spencer fucks him with three fingers, slow and careful. Ryan stills, watching the scene and enjoying the show. Jon’s enjoying it too, but there’s a part of him that’s a bit put out; he wants Ryan to go back to focusing on him, watching Jon again like he’s watching the other two now.
“Hey,” Jon says, and suddenly he can’t help but think back to the dressing room, Brendon’s theory, Ryan’s response. He flips them over suddenly so he’s lying on top of Ryan on the couch, and pins Ryan’s wrists above his head. He doesn’t do anything more then, just watches the emotions chase across Ryan’s face for the moment, and it’s scarily intimate and maybe more than Jon bargained for. Then Ryan swallows, gives a little sigh, and tilts his hips up, rubbing up against Jon. It’s a demanding movement, and Jon remains still for a little longer until Ryan makes a keening noise and Jon leans down to lick the skin at the base of Ryan’s neck. They lose t-shirts and jeans and socks in the fevered seconds after that, until Ryan’s shivering under Jon and whispering, “Fuck me,” into Jon’s ear as the clearest invitation. Jon hesitates, but Ryan’s focus is greater than any panic he feels, and he pulls Jon in, panting against the skin of Jon’s cheeks as he nudges his hips back and forth, a steady rhythm. Jon comes not long after that, and Ryan directs Jon’s hand to his own cock and Jon jerks him off, holding Ryan down with the weight of his body.
Jon drifts off after that, but he comes to later in the day, and they’re all still lying there on the floor of the lounge, Brendon and Spencer entwined next to them. Jon can hear them all breathing, the different rates, the different sounds. Ryan’s tucked into his side and he murmurs in his sleep, mouthing lost lyrics into Jon’s side. Jon thinks the others might be deep asleep too, until Spencer suddenly rolls over and kisses Jon hungrily and Brendon, on his other side, leans over them both to grab Jon’s hand. He squeezes it, and Jon squeezes back, Spencer’s mouth still on his. Spencer still tastes like gummy bears, and Jon slides his tongue against Spencer’s and wants it to last forever, wants all this to just be, the way things are. The way this band is a part of him now that he’s a part of them.
END
Like So Much Science
R; GSF-ish (or if you like specifics - Brendon/Spencer, Brendon/Ryan, Jon/Spencer, Jon/Ryan)
babygotbass looked over an earlier draft for me, littlerhymes held my hand as always and said many intelligent and encouraging things, and joyfulseeker was honest with me and made an awesome beta even as I stumbled through draft after draft like a newbie. Thank you!
Jon’s been on the Panic! bus before, but he’d always been there as part of some other entity - friend of their friends, TAI crew, the temp guy. So it’s not without some trepidation that he steps up to the bus that first night, only to be greeted by Brendon bouncing into his personal space and saying oh so casually, “Let’s celebrate! I call for a group orgy.”
Jon looks around quickly, buying time. Ryan’s tapping away at his Sidekick, not paying the slightest attention, and Spencer is sprawled on the couch, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. They’re so disinterested that Jon’s sure everything depends on what he says next.
“Cool,” he hears himself answering. “But not here. I don’t think the couch can hold the four of us.” He’s so used to being behind the scenes, playing the straight guy, that holding his face in its most inscrutable expression is not as hard as it probably would be for these kids.
“I guess that means your bunk’s out of the question too,” Brendon says easily. “What a shame. It's on your left, by the way. Just down the corridor. Ryan’s on the bottom.”
There’s a snigger from Spencer then, and Jon catches just the edge of a smirk between him and Brendon. Ryan’s still got his head down, though, and doesn’t seem to have noticed. Jon doesn’t stop to think about it, mostly feeling mightily relieved that he’s stepping over the threshold and into the band.
*
They’re parked on a lush green lot in the middle of nowhere, and Jon’s spent the afternoon hanging out with crew playing b-ball in the sun. There’s a red line creeping up his arms though, and he bails to go back to the bus and grab some water, some sunscreen, a rest. He hasn’t seen anyone else from the band in hours, and that happens more than Jon would like. They’ve let him in, but there are still lines he can’t cross, a part of them he can’t reach. He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t know what he’s done, or what he doesn’t do, and he doesn’t know how to ask them either. So he’s waiting it out until one of them cracks, or he stumbles on the answer, or whatever.
Passing the bunks on his way through the bus Jon notices sounds of life from the bunk across from his, and without thinking he twitches aside the curtain. “What’s up?” he says, grin spreading across his face, but as the light shines over his shoulder into the dark space below Jon notes that it’s not just one but two of his bandmates, and it’s not Spencer listening to music in his bunk or reading. Brendon’s bent over between Spencer’s legs, but on Jon’s greeting his mouth slips, wet and shiny, from Spencer’s cock. Spencer’s just a second late, grabbing the pillow that’s propping him up, jamming it over his groin while Brendon eases up gingerly, feeling the low ceiling of the bunk above with groping hands.
“I - uh - ” Spencer grimaces, and looks at Brendon, who shrugs and remains uncharacteristically silent.
“Does Ryan know about this?” Jon blurts out, surprising himself. Sure, he’s never ever had reason to contemplate a response to catching his bandmates fucking each other but, yeah, probably not that. There’s something so incestuously tight about this band though, it warps his thinking.
“Um - ” Spencer starts again, but his face is tightening and Jon’s come to recognise that look now, the gears shifting in his brain; formulating, shuffling and deciding on the best response in the situation, the inner workings of Spencer’s composure.
“Well, if you hang around you might catch Ryan in action later on,” Brendon throws out instead, and Spencer rolls his eyes and pinches Brendon on the arm viciously. Brendon retaliates with the girliest punch known to man, and Jon, seemingly forgotten, watches them tussle. Spencer’s really naked under that pillow, and Jon notes the cream skin and freckles before he averts his eyes, moving onto the safer territory of Brendon, who’s still mostly clothed with only his hair really messed up.
“I’ll take that as a yes about Ryan,” Jon says finally, “Huh.” At his voice, both boys look up at him and in that moment it feels like the first night all over again, the testing.
“I’ll…be outside if you need me,” Jon says. “I’ll take my guitar out and uh, maybe find Ryan. He’s not in there with you, is he?” He’s only half-joking, and he’s only a tiny bit relieved when they smile and shake their heads, almost in unison. “You guys - you - it’s okay.”
But as Jon walks away, he’s not sure if he’s just given them his blessing, or asking for theirs.
*
Brendon attacks him on his way back to the bus the next afternoon, a full body tackle that manages to bring Jon down by sheer shock and surprise. Jon ends up sitting against the side of the bus for the shade as Brendon drops to the ground beside him, wriggling and shifting until his head is comfortably pillowed on Jon’s thighs, his hands busy pulling the daisies around them apart.
“So, you really thought we were kidding about the group orgy,” Brendon says cheerfully.
“I haven’t been invited to one again,” Jon says lightly. It’s that kind of afternoon, the sun is setting behind the bus and throwing sharp light at odd angles until all he sees are shadows everywhere. He’s trying not to take things too seriously. Ryan and Spencer had been particularly and ominously subdued last night, keeping their distance from Jon, throwing frowns at one another. Jon’s studied nonchalance seems to be working though, the tension ratcheting down a notch since then; he’s meant to stay on his side of the line, obviously.
“Uh-huh. But you want in, right? Because I am totally, one-hundred percent all for that, you know?”
Jon gives Brendon an exasperated glance, wondering if Brendon’s maybe taking this joke just a little too far considering the reactions of the other two, but Brendon just smiles wide and holds up one unmutilated daisy. Jon takes it and tucks it behind his ear, making Brendon giggle.
He listens to Brendon start some complicated story about a junior school ex-girlfriend he had for all of two days and dozes off briefly to the now-familiar sound. But he wakes when there are footsteps, heavy, on the metal steps and Jon twists around to just catch Spencer with his hand low on Ryan’s back, whispering into his ear as they leave the bus. Jon laughs softly, and says to Brendon, “Were you sent to distract me from finding them?”
There’s no answer though, and Jon looks down, surprised. Brendon’s rolled over towards Jon, and his face is almost pressed against the worn material of his t-shirt, breathing out evenly, little puffed snores. Jon can’t help but smile, watching Brendon sleep, and he has to fight the urge to reach down and stroke Brendon’s hair behind his ears.
*
Some of the crew go drinking after the gig late into the night, and after a very dry two weeks Jon jumps at the change to tag along. This is the dynamic he’s used to, he thinks two beers in, this easy joking and the emotional and physical distance between the guys; the drunken sprawl and affection they save for when another five have been downed.
Jon vaguely remembers waving off Andy, one of the sound techs, as he collides with the side of the bus early in the morning, but the rest of the journey home is a mystery. He wakes up face down in the corridor between the lounge and the bunks, Brendon’s foot nudging the tops of his shoulders in arrhythmic pattern. Brendon doesn’t appear to have any reason for doing this - but this has never stopped Brendon from doing anything. Jon makes a desperate lunge for Brendon’s foot but he’s too slow, and all he feels is the bone of Brendon’s ankle sliding against his knuckles, hears the giggle from above him.
“We’ve been walking over you for the last four hours,” Brendon tells him solemnly. “I’m thinking, if you don’t get up soon, I’ll have to pick you up and carry you to bed. And maybe it’s a bit too soon in our relationship for that.”
“Mmmrrrph,” Jon manages to say in reply; a part of him recognises what Brendon is saying, and that it’s sensible (the bit about getting up anyway), but that's the only part of him that’s actually working. He flops around a bit on the floor, groaning at every movement, until Brendon takes pity on him or something, because he finally stops poking Jon in any squishy spot he can find and leans down to help him up. They stagger their way those last few steps to the bunks, an awkward fit for their sway and bulk in the narrow space.
“Here, up you - no, don’t lie down in Spencer’s, he’ll kill you if you puke - oh, um. I guess Ryan’s is okay?”
But Jon’s already rolled over in the small bunk, mumbling something about the light and softness, burrowing into the pile of blankets to block out the world.
The next time he comes to, the volume of the thudding - in his head, his heartbeat - has subsided somewhat, which is only a slight relief, because he’s suddenly so cold and shivering, and there’s a killer migraine lurking behind his right eyeball.
There’s something damp on his forehead, and Jon reaches up slowly to find a washcloth, folded over into a neat rectangle; it’s pink, and has a bunny in each corner. It’s warm where it’s been on his skin, but he turns it over and places it over his eyes and sighs at the small comfort it brings.
“How are you feeling?”
Jon jumps at the question, then winces; he takes the cloth away from his eyes and blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the light. He follows the direction of the voice until he can see the shape of Ryan at the end of the bed, knees up, chin resting on his hands.
“Terrible,” Jon croaks.
“You should,” Ryan says mildly. “Some of the techs were talking about it at breakfast this morning, they said you put in a pretty solid effort. How’s your head? Does that help?”
Jon puts the cloth back on his forehead and says gratefully, “Yeah, it’s good, thank you.” He feels a drop of water running down the side of his face and into the crease of his neck, and he shivers again.
Ryan says, “Do you want - hang on, just drink this.” He leans down and picks up a steaming mug from the floor beside the bunk. “It’s just black tea, but it’s hot. It’ll settle your stomach, hopefully.”
He reaches forward and helps Jon into a sitting position, a hand just under his shoulder blades to guide him. Jon eases back against the wall and sips appreciatively and slowly, the heat coursing through him instantly.
“Hey, I’m sorry about…” Jon trails off as he waves a hand over himself, the bed, the whole mess he must appear to be.
Ryan just shrugs and pulls at a loose thread at the edge of the blanket. “Nothing was damaged,” he says carefully.
Jon finishes the tea and juggles the still warm mug in his hands, closing his eyes, feeling the effort. Ryan pats his leg quickly, and plucks the cup from him.
“You need to get some more rest,” he says, and Jon takes it as his cue. He starts to swing his legs out of the bunk, saying, “I’ll get out of your way then - ”
Ryan shakes his head. “Dude, you’re not going to make it up the top of the bunk. We can’t have you injured or anything, we’ve got a big show tonight.” His hands rest on Jon’s back again, low and gentle, and ease him down back onto Ryan’s bed. Jon pulls the blanket up, and as he settle back an image flashes in his mind, of being five and ill, and his mother tucking him in at night.
“I just - do I get a kiss goodnight then?” Jon jokes sleepily, only half aware of what he’s saying.
Ryan turns, his left hand on the curtain rail, mug in his right. He smiles at Jon, then bends down, pressing his lips firmly to Jon’s for a sweet moment.
“Thanks,” Jon whispers, as Ryan breaks away. There’s a lot he’s apologising for in that small word.
“It’s alright,” Ryan replies softly as Jon drifts off into sleep.
*
“You’re good to hang on to,” Brendon says, apropos of nothing, as stylists fuss over the tiniest details around them, another long boring day of shoots and interviews. He’s got both his hands on Jon’s shoulders, and his chin hooked over the left curve where it meets his neck.
“Are you testing that out right now?” Jon keeps a smile plastered on his face, willing it to reach his eyes. Everyone tells him he looks great, he looks fine, but he’s seen some of the final pictures that make it into those magazines, and he’s frustrated by how out of place, at sea, he looks in them, even when they’ve put him in a matching costume and make-up.
“Oh, any experiment result needs to go through multiple test runs,” Brendon says solemnly. “This is #256. You’re good.” He shuffles in front of Jon on the direction of one of the many assistants moving them this way, that way, like dolls; or even puzzles, as Ryan and Spencer are slotted in next to them. Their two heads - one dark, one fair, tilt towards each other as they carry on a quiet conversation, barely noticing the fuss that’s going on. Jon envies the detachment they’ve developed, lost in a world of their own that isn’t quite so chaotic.
But even as Brendon hams it up for the camera, tilting his head and tapping a finger against the side of his head as if deep in simulated thought, he continues, “I think it’s your nice broad shoulders. Good to hide behind too.”
“Like when Ryan found out what happened to his favourite shirt three nights ago.”
“Yep. Thanks for protecting me, by the way.”
“Glad to be of service,” Jon says, and means it. He takes a florid bow, a spur of the moment silliness, and as he straightens up he hears the stutter-click of the camera shutter, the tsk noise of frustration made by the photographer, tongue to the roof of her mouth.
“Boys…!” she says, raising her voice, and it’s a command and exasperation all in one. Brendon shuffles behind Jon and with a quiet count to three, he launches himself into the air, hands on Jon’s shoulders and pressing down hard.
The photos turn out great. Jon’s got a goofy smile in all of them, Brendon wide-eyed above his half-bent body. On his way down, as his feet hit the floor with a solid thump, Brendon grabs Jon around the waist, pressing himself close, and says quickly, “I think I’m falling in love!” Just for Jon to hear.
*
They’re in for an exhausting day, round after round of never-ending interviews, followed by a big concert that night, and everything goes to hell within the first half hour. Brendon becomes too quiet and sulks in the background after a particularly disdainful journalist, who manages to call them by the wrong names at the start, lets a loud laugh escape after one of Ryan’s more sincere answers. Spencer takes over the bulk of the answering, managing to sound coherent, polite and cold, and Jon bites the inside of his cheek when he sees that writer doesn’t even bother to write half of it down.
Ryan asks for a sandwich at eleven, murmuring something about really hungry, and Brendon asks snidely of this hour’s scribbling interviewer, “Are you going to make that sound like a really demanding request? Since you’ve decided we’re underaged untalented brats anyway.”
“Well, he has now,” Spencer hisses, and Brendon glowers at him, until Ryan pinches Brendon on the arm, and then Brendon turns the glare on him instead. Jon sits on the edge of the couch and tries not to fidget too much. The air conditioner’s turned up too much for this seasonal weather, his toes are cold. The atmosphere is about as frigid. They have another five interviews to go, and even Spencer’s starting to fray at the edges.
So it’s not really that surprising when all that pent up energy finds an outlet in a fight between Ryan and Brendon on their escape from the press, a makeshift hurried lunch.
“Calm down, you freak!” Ryan yells at Brendon, the food he’s finally managed to get now on the ground in front of him, staining the dirt. Brendon darting backwards and forwards, sneering, any initial charm leeching from his hyperactivity the further into the day it goes.
“Fucking make me,” he taunts, never knowing when to stop until too late. Ryan growls and lunges at Brendon, and it’s only Zach’s quick presence that stops it getting physical, the big guy dragging Brendon away easily.
“Hey, hey there Ryan Rossy,” Jon says, laying a hand on Ryan’s arm, feeling the other boy trembling under the shirt sleeve. He doesn’t mean to, but the old nickname slips out, the easy tone, trying to calm Ryan down naturally. “Take some deep breaths and work it off. It’s been a long morning, hey.”
Ryan’s still glaring over Jon’s shoulder as Brendon protests the whole way out, but the tension is easing from his shoulders, and he gives Jon a tentative smile as he mutters, “Thanks.” He wanders off in the opposite direction, eyes on the ground, and Jon worries about their performance tonight, wonders if the stage dynamics will take on the same strained tone.
It’s less than two hours to soundcheck when Jon heads down to the dressing rooms a bit early. He’s missing his Sidekick, and he has a hunch that he dropped it into his stage clothes last night. He’s halfway through the open door before it registers that someone’s beat him down here already, though at first he only picks up on Brendon’s voice.
“Just say you’ll forgive me already, alright?” There’s frustration, the edge of anger in Brendon’s question, and Jon slides further into the room, thinking Uh, just in case I need to break up any argument that arises. He even thinks he might have to, when he sees that Ryan is pinned to the wall, his wrists in Brendon’s hands, their bodies flush and flat against each other. “C’mon, say it and we’ll forget the whole thing. You know I was just messing around.”
“People usually mean it when they say sorry,” Ryan spits out. “Get off, and say it properly.”
“No.” Brendon says petulantly. He flexes his fingers, maintaining good grip on Ryan, using his body weight to press against Ryan. Jon takes another involuntary step closer, but he’s pretty sure they can’t see him around behind the door. Brendon loosens his hold a fraction and Ryan pushes Brendon out of the way quickly, stepping around the other boy, but Brendon drops his voice at the last moment and says, “I bet you wouldn’t struggle so much if it was Jon holding you down, would you?”
Ryan stiffens at the words, takes a step back to where he was. Brendon’s hands are still looped slack around his wrists, thumbs on the inside against the pulse points. Jon imagines the sound of Ryan’s heartbeat echoing his, the rhythm of being found out.
“If he was standing here, if he was pressed against you. Like this. You’d let him, wouldn’t you? You’d let him do anything.” Brendon chuckles, dirty and low, and Ryan actually relaxes at this, falling back against the wall. Brendon moves into the V of Ryan’s legs and slides his hands down to rest at Ryan’s waist, wriggling his own hips closer.
“Hey there, Ryan Rossy,” Brendon singsongs, and Ryan closes his eyes, tipping his head back. Jon holds his breath and watches; it’s not a great imitation, but he can hear enough of his own voice in it, and he can feel the effect on Ryan all the way from here. Brendon pulls at the belt around Ryan’s jeans, and then it’s a flurry of hands and buttons popping, layers of clothing shed. Brendon wraps his hands around their cocks, bumping and sliding against each other, and jerks them off. It’s awkward, Ryan has to brace his hands against the wall to keep himself up and in the circle of Brendon’s palms, but it’s still ridiculously hot. Jon doesn’t look away as Brendon strokes, evenly then faster and faster until he comes, sticky, over his hands and Ryan’s stomach. He leans forward and presses his lips against Ryan’s throat, hands still moving back and forth, and Ryan shudders into his release a little later.
“Wouldn’t you just,” Brendon whispers then. “If Jon was here.” He smiles, sly, and Jon knows that’s his cue to go. He tries to slide out the door as quietly as he can, but he’s not halfway down the corridor when he hears the click of the door latching behind him.
That night, the concert goes off without a hitch, the crowd adores them, and they work together perfectly as a band. Brendon stalks Ryan on stage with purpose, leaning closer, bolder than ever before. He tries landing that kiss before “Lying…” and Jon hears how loud the roar of approval from the crowd is, sees the exaggeration in Ryan shrugging Brendon off, suddenly so much more aware of the act in everything they do, private gestures played publicly, confusing the real meaning.
*
Another leg travelling through the night, and it’s only him and Spence left in the lounge, watching Labyrinth because it’s the only thing they recognised when channel-surfing. Ryan went to bed earlier, complaining of a headache, and Brendon had run off a bit after that. Jon had seen, though he probably wasn’t mean to, the almost imperceptible shake of Spencer’s head in Brendon’s direction, the tiny frown. But when walks past the bunks on his way to the toilet a little later, Jon only hears even breathing from both sides of the corridor, deep sleep sounds. So the only thing running wild tonight is his imagination.
It’s only then that Jon realises that he should’ve asked another question earlier. He settle back onto the couch and Spencer eases up, crossing his legs so his knees occasionally bump against Jon’s thigh. Jon thinks for a moment, adopts a light tone, and goes for it. “So. Just out of curiosity, did Brent know?”
Spencer glances over, startled - his eyes blink slowly, and it’s almost in slow motion, illuminated blue and grey by the colours on the screen. “What - Oh. Yeah, at the end.”
Ah. That’s Jon’s second unasked question answered too. But it doesn’t make him feel better, really. He’s at the same level of inclusion as the bass player they already turfed out. He turns back to the movie, and they watch together in silence, but Jon can hardly concentrate, not even on a young Jennifer Connelly.
“Can I ask another - I mean, so it’s you and Brendon. And Brendon and Ryan? And, um.” He trails off under Spencer’s pained look. He knows he should let this drop, but seriously, his three bandmates are involved with each other and this is stuff he should know just in case - well. Of future awkwardness.
“Uh, yeah. It’s. A comfort thing. So. I guess whoever’s there out of the three of us.” Jon hears the three of us and twitches. Spencer’s still talking, and Jon’s pretty much missed whatever he just said, but he does pick up on the twisting fingers in Spencer’s lap, the hunch of his back, his feet back on the floor.
“I’m making you uncomfortable,” Jon says, “Sorry. I shouldn’t - I just want to know - I don’t - ”
“No,” Spencer waves it off, a fluttering of his hands. His voice is surer than his gesture. “We didn’t plan on it - and we didn’t want to freak you out - but it’s us against the world, you know? When we left Vegas, that’s how it felt and you have to have something to tie you together. It’s - um - it’s being grounded. In someone else, who knows who you are, what you really are.”
The movie’s cold tones, blue colours, wash over his face as he speaks, and Jon suddenly gets a feeling that they’re so much younger in this moment than they ever are allowed to be. It makes him sad for a moment, and he leans over and rests his head on Spencer’s shoulders, an uninvited intimacy. But Spencer seems okay with it, and reaches up with one hand to pat Jon softly on the cheek.
“It’s a weird life we lead, right?” Spencer says, then adds wistfully, “But I think we’ve made things alright for ourselves.”
And Jon wants so much in that moment to be included in that sentence, in that us-against-the-world unit; to know he’s not wandered into someone else’s crazy exciting dream that could end at any moment and dump him back into a life before this band. He lifts his head and reaches up, and Spencer, surprised, turns his head down and towards Jon, his eyes wide and clear. He opens his mouth and Jon closes the gap between their faces, feels their lips meet; Spencer tastes like gummy bears and orange soda on the surface, and makes a noise in the back of his throat, a surprised purr, when Jon slides his hand higher on Spencer’s thigh.
*
Brendon is restless, shifting and bouncing from one end of the couch to the other, never staying in one place for more than five seconds. He sits in Jon’s lap at one point, but Jon’s so used to the black hole of Brendon’s attention span by now that he’s just thankful for the quieter moments like these, holding Brendon around the waist and burying his face in Brendon’s neck. But when Spencer walks into the lounge area, eating candy out of the packet, Brendon’s off again, tackling the other boy until they’re a red-faced and huffy pile of denim clad legs, random shouts and jewel coloured gummy bears. Ryan looks up briefly from his Sidekick, distracted by the chaos, and Brendon moves in for the kill, dashing across the small space and throwing himself onto the couch, pressing up against Ryan’s side, practically spooned up behind Ryan.
“Whatcha doing?” he says, at minute intervals, until Ryan finally puts the phone away and says, obediently, “Paying attention to you, now what do you want?”
Brendon just smiles in response and straddles Ryan in one quick move. “More attention,” he says demandingly, and he wriggles happily when Ryan sighs and gives in, kissing Brendon and sliding his hands under Brendon’s shirt at the same time, pulling it up and off, barely breaking the kiss.
Jon watches with interest; he’s walked in on Brendon and Spencer twice more in the last month, mostly because Brendon tends to catch people unaware; and he can sometimes hear Ryan and Spencer alternating between making out and speaking in low voices, late into the night in Spencer’s bunk. But this is the first time they’ve ever started something in front of him, in this case right beside him on the same seat. But before he even has time to wonder if he should maybe leave and give them some room, Brendon glances over at him, eyes bright, and reaches out a hand.
Jon darts a look over at Spencer, who’s sitting across from them on the other couch, arms folded and calmly watching. Spencer catches his eye and smiles reassuringly, mouthing Brendon at him, and Jon looks back to find Brendon making an impatient noise. He grabs Jon by the wrist, and says, “Come on.”
And Jon goes, cupping Brendon’s face in his hands and bringing their lips together, a bright and somehow triumphant kiss. Jon can feel the awkward angle of his neck, but Brendon curls a hand over his jaw and keeps him there, deepening the kiss. But someone pulls at his hoodie, pushing it off his frame, and Jon finally pulls away.
“Share,” Ryan tells Brendon petulantly, and Brendon huffs, pretending to be annoyed, but then he slides off Ryan and pushes him towards Jon. Jon rests his forehead against Ryan’s and closes his eyes for a moment. He traces the outline of Ryan’s mouth with his thumb and listens to Ryan’s breathing change, the hitches, the slowing tempo. It’s music.
“Wanted to do this for a while,” Jon says softly, and when he opens his eyes, Ryan is watching him intently, tongue poking out slightly between his lips. Ryan kisses like he does everything that’s important to him, focused on the task at hand and nothing else. It’s not until Jon hears a muffled groan beyond them that he breaks away from Ryan and from touching Ryan all over, noting all the ways he can make Ryan shiver: he gazes beyond Ryan and gasps and Ryan turns, to be rewarded with the same sight.
Brendon’s lying on the other cough, his jeans abandoned on the floor, an arm thrown over his eyes, moaning as Spencer fucks him with three fingers, slow and careful. Ryan stills, watching the scene and enjoying the show. Jon’s enjoying it too, but there’s a part of him that’s a bit put out; he wants Ryan to go back to focusing on him, watching Jon again like he’s watching the other two now.
“Hey,” Jon says, and suddenly he can’t help but think back to the dressing room, Brendon’s theory, Ryan’s response. He flips them over suddenly so he’s lying on top of Ryan on the couch, and pins Ryan’s wrists above his head. He doesn’t do anything more then, just watches the emotions chase across Ryan’s face for the moment, and it’s scarily intimate and maybe more than Jon bargained for. Then Ryan swallows, gives a little sigh, and tilts his hips up, rubbing up against Jon. It’s a demanding movement, and Jon remains still for a little longer until Ryan makes a keening noise and Jon leans down to lick the skin at the base of Ryan’s neck. They lose t-shirts and jeans and socks in the fevered seconds after that, until Ryan’s shivering under Jon and whispering, “Fuck me,” into Jon’s ear as the clearest invitation. Jon hesitates, but Ryan’s focus is greater than any panic he feels, and he pulls Jon in, panting against the skin of Jon’s cheeks as he nudges his hips back and forth, a steady rhythm. Jon comes not long after that, and Ryan directs Jon’s hand to his own cock and Jon jerks him off, holding Ryan down with the weight of his body.
Jon drifts off after that, but he comes to later in the day, and they’re all still lying there on the floor of the lounge, Brendon and Spencer entwined next to them. Jon can hear them all breathing, the different rates, the different sounds. Ryan’s tucked into his side and he murmurs in his sleep, mouthing lost lyrics into Jon’s side. Jon thinks the others might be deep asleep too, until Spencer suddenly rolls over and kisses Jon hungrily and Brendon, on his other side, leans over them both to grab Jon’s hand. He squeezes it, and Jon squeezes back, Spencer’s mouth still on his. Spencer still tastes like gummy bears, and Jon slides his tongue against Spencer’s and wants it to last forever, wants all this to just be, the way things are. The way this band is a part of him now that he’s a part of them.
END