By Small and Simple Things;; Part 2
Continued from here.
Ryan searches his house again, twice more, and curls up on the couch when Spencer and Jon leave at eleven that night. They tell him to call if he needs them, to call if he finds him, to call if he doesn’t and Ryan doesn’t touch his phone once. The only thing he needs is to find Brendon and when he hasn’t by midnight, he’s too discouraged to move anywhere further than the couch.
His house is littered with all the useless things he decorates with, all the books and lamps and fancy plates and if he weren’t so exhausted with worry, he’d find the energy to move everything back in it’s place because looking at the dust settled around things only reminds him of Brendon and how desperately he would want to clean.
If he’s completely honest, Ryan is worried sick.
It storms until one and when the rain finally lets up enough for Ryan to hear the AC kick on and off, he’s drifting in and out of consciousness and he can feel the dull throb of his arm muscles clenching beneath the skin, coiling after their hard work of moving and lifting all day.
He falls asleep at two, stomach still churning with concern and eyes heavy with the want to stay awake but not enough fight. He tosses and turns and finally his body quits and settles him into the back of the couch, tucked warmly into the cushions behind and below him and he passes out just after the last loud roll of thunder rattles his windows. He dreams of the howling wind, the lightning and the rain and he can practically feel the cold seeping into his shirt.
When he wakes, it’s to the sound of the rain whispering his name and he’s shaking and breathless with the chill lingering from a dream that was far too vivid. He scans the ceiling line, chest heaving and shoulders trembling and he registers that his right hand is damp and cold, as well as his shirt. Peering down his body, he sees his hand resting on his stomach and beneath his palm is none other than Brendon, curled up and shivering, soaking Ryan’s shirt with what appears to be the same water that has soaked Brendon’s entire body.
Ryan doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or cry because Brendon looks pitiful either way he goes.
“Brendon,” Ryan says breathlessly, like he’s afraid to break Brendon with his voice. He’s a little awed that Brendon is so close, tucked under Ryan’s warm hand like a blanket, but every inch of Ryan’s heart is stretching so much he’s quite sure it’s going to burst. Brendon’s head snaps up, his little lips trembling and his face wet and he tries so hard to smile at Ryan but his eyes close lazily when his lips attempt to quirk up at the corners.
“Hi,” is all Brendon says.
Ryan tries to contain the almost hysterical relief attempting to bleed into his voice when he sits up carefully, cupping Brendon in his hand and bringing him up to eye level. Ryan says, “Where have you been? God, I thought something had happened to you.”
Brendon blinks up at him, eyes rolling around in his head and coughs weakly. “I went outside.”
Ryan almost yells at him, almost. “Why? Why would you leave the house and not tell me?”
Shrinking into Ryan’s palm, Brendon looks terrified and Ryan instantly regrets his tone. “I saw a really pretty flower by the back fence,” Brendon says, voice so small it pains Ryan to know he made it that way. “I went to pick it for you to put in the kitchen and on my way back it started raining.”
Brendon went to pick a flower for him and got stuck in the rain: Ryan is torn between laughing and hating himself.
“I tried to walk back,” Brendon explains through chattering teeth. “But I fell in a really big puddle and you’ve got a lot of holes in your yard.” Ryan’s mind instantly flashes to the numerous times he had to scold his previous dog Hobo for digging up the grass. “So I went back to your birdbath and tried to wait it out and dry off, but then that started overflowing and I-” Brendon stops to take a breath, coughs so hard for his little body it shakes his whole frame. It turns into a fit, coughs racking Brendon’s chest so fast he can hardly expel one before another is clawing at his throat and he’s curled into himself in Ryan’s hand, eyes clenched together.
“Fuck, I think you’re sick,” Ryan sighs heavily when Brendon can’t stop and his coughs start sounding painful. Brendon punctuates Ryan’s observation with a hard sneeze and a whimper and Ryan cringes when Brendon slumps limply against the upright curve of Ryan’s fingers, still shivering and looking helplessly weak.
It takes Ryan a moment to think beyond how guilty he feels, beyond how pitiful Brendon is, and when Brendon makes another pathetic attempt to cough, Ryan is up off the couch and heading to the bathroom, intent heavy in his eyes. When he enters and turns on the light, he sets Brendon carefully on the porcelain lining of his sink and says, “Take off your clothes.”
Brendon inhales a little too sharply and starts coughing all over again.
Ryan thinks he comprehends a gasping “What?” come from Brendon’s hunched over figure, and he replies with, “You’re soaking wet and you’re already sick. You don’t have any other clothes here, so I’m going to dry the ones you have on. Now, off.”
Brendon looks up at Ryan with this bleeding innocence, a sort of nervous bite in his lip and a hesitant hand curling around the hem of his shirt. “Um.”
“I’ll get you a towel,” Ryan says and gives Brendon a wash rag. “Tell me when,” Ryan says and turns his back, not looking as Brendon peels off his water logged clothing.
There are a few wet slaps that slosh against the porcelain and Brendon clears his throat before he coughs a little. “Okay,” he says, so small Ryan pauses to make sure he heard him before he turns around.
Brendon has the rag wrapped around his shoulders, fuzzy blue cloth tucked beneath an arm that overlaps his torso and hugs the warmth to his chest. The sides puddle around his now bare feet and his hair isn’t plastered to his head anymore, but rubbed dry and messy. Ryan bends down to his bottom drawer to retrieve his hair dryer without a word and when he resurfaces beyond the ledge of the counter, Brendon is sitting in the dip carved into the sink where the soap should be, still wrapped up tight in his towel, like he’s too afraid to speak. Ryan flattens Brendon’s clothes on the edge of the sink and dries them carefully and thoroughly with the dryer before handing them back to Brendon, toasty and cozy.
When Ryan carries him into the bedroom, he tucks Brendon - who has suddenly become even more exhausted than before due to the warmth clinging inside his clothes - into his sock inside his drawer and presses his pinky to Brendon’s forehead for experiment. Feverish already.
With a sigh, Ryan goes to turn off the lamp on his nightstand when Brendon croaks something from inside the drawer that causes Ryan to look down.
“What?”
“I said ‘I’m sorry if I upset you.’ I didn’t mean to,” Brendon murmurs, arms tucked beneath the sock so that only the tops of his shoulders, neck and head are visible. The fabric around his stomach is moving and he’s toying idly with his hands, like he’s ashamed.
“I’m not upset, Brendon,” Ryan says softly. “You just really worried me.”
“I know,” Brendon says dejectedly and looks down his body at his fumbling hands. “I’m still sorry, though.”
Ryan gives Brendon a sad smile and reaches out to smooth back Brendon’s unruly hair with the pad of his index finger. Brendon’s eyes dart up to Ryan’s wide hand before the comfort sets in and they flutter closed. He snuffles once and swallows, shifts beneath the shadow of Ryan’s arm and Ryan finds himself smiling entirely too easily, eyes filled to the brim with something bordering on adoration.
“S’okay,” is all Ryan says before turning off the lamp and falling asleep.
----
Surprisingly, Brendon is still asleep when Ryan wakes up at ten and he calls Spencer when he gets up to throw together breakfast.
“Is he okay?” Spencer asks off the bat and Ryan assures him that he’s just got a little cold, nothing too serious, and that he’s still sleeping. Spencer says, “Well, where was he?” and “You better not have yelled at him” and threatens Ryan’s life if he’s lying.
Ryan’s laughing when he starts to answer but a quiet noise starts coming from down the hall and he’s promising to call Spencer back in a few minutes so that he can go check on Brendon.
Brendon is sick. Really sick.
Ryan is on his knees beside Brendon’s drawer in no time flat and he’s peering in only to see Brendon’s entire body convulsing with rough coughs and moaning painfully. There’s a short moment where Brendon’s chest catches a break and his throat isn’t tightening around the air bursting out of his lungs and his eyes flicker open and up to Ryan’s face and he’s swallowing sorely.
“Ryan,” he croaks and something in Ryan’s heart clenches at how hoarse and tired Brendon sounds. “Ryan, I don’t feel good.”
There’s a sad smile on Ryan’s face when he reaches down to brush back the hair plastering itself to Brendon’s feverish forehead. “I know, Bren,” he laments and bites his lip when Brendon takes short, stuttering breaths through his mouth.
“I’m thirsty,” Brendon says shallowly, licking his lips and then pausing to take a few soothing breaths, like the act alone winded him.
“Do you want some water? I have orange juice? Or apple juice, do you want apple juice? There’s milk in the fridge, or I could run to the store and get you some Sprite or-”
“Can I just have some water?” Brendon says softly, fighting off a smile.
Ryan chuckles nervously, “Yeah, okay.”
When Brendon is perched on the armrest of the couch, wrapped up tight and barely visible under the entire, full-sized blanket Ryan keeps draped over the back of his couch, Ryan comes back from the kitchen with a bottle of water and what looks like an eyedropper filled with purple liquid. Brendon makes a face.
“Wassat?” he mumbles, wiping his runny nose on the fabric wrapped around his arm.
“Cold medicine,” Ryan says, sitting down easily. “It’s grape?” he offers with a hopeful smile.
“I don’t want any,” Brendon says, pushing away Ryan’s hand encroaching with the eyedropper.
“Brendon, it’ll make you feel better,” Ryan says with a sigh, eyes insistent. “And I brought you some water to wash the taste out of your mouth if you don’t like it.” He holds up the bottle as proof.
Brendon looks at him questioningly and coughs a little. “Okay,” he says softly. “But get the water ready.”
Ryan chuckles and sets the eyedropper on his knee in order to twist the top off the bottle and pour a small cap-ful of water into it. “You ready?” Ryan asks, taking up the medicine again. Brendon nods valiantly and takes both sides of the dropper with both hands when Ryan puts it up to his lips. With one small squeeze, a drop of cough syrup slides into Brendon’s mouth and he swallows it with a scrunched up face and sound effects that suggest he’s tasted the worst thing ever. He’s beckoning for the cap of water frantically and Ryan passes it to him carefully so as not to spill any on his couch. Brendon drinks it greedily and shudders.
“It tastes so gross,” Brendon whines, eyes watering a bit.
“Sorry,” Ryan says, taking the cap back from Brendon. “But it’ll make that cough go away.”
As if to punctuate Ryan’s point, Brendon coughs softly and reaches out to Ryan, looking up at him hopefully, tired, both arms outstretched. The weight of the blanket makes his knees buckle a little.
“What?” Ryan blinks.
“I’m cold,” Brendon sniffles. “Will you hold me?”
Ryan smiles. “C’mere.”
They settle in on the couch, Brendon wormed into the chest pocket of Ryan’s white cotton t-shirt with the fleece blanket pulled over both of them, up to the top of Ryan’s chest. Ryan places a warm hand on his chest, lightly covering Brendon’s curled up body and sighs softly.
Brendon makes a point of adjusting Ryan’s hand so that Ryan’s first finger is tucked inside the cotton sleeve with him and he wraps his arms around the joints in Ryan’s pointer, nuzzling his face into the side of Ryan’s knuckle. Ryan’s heart is beating way too fast beneath Brendon.
“I never asked you,” Ryan begins in a hushed tone and Brendon hums to acknowledge he’s listening. “Why were you in that music box Jon gave me?”
“I was living there,” Brendon replies.
“But don’t you have a house? A real house with a family?”
“They kicked me out.” Brendon’s voice is so small and Ryan’s throat instantly constricts with regret for even mentioning it. But Brendon continues just as Ryan is about to change the topic, “My parents wanted me to stay in the family business with my dad and keep surveying safe places for people like us to live, where people like you can’t find us. It’s not that big people knowing we exist is a bad thing - like Jon said, pretty much everyone in Chicago knows about us - it’s just that it’s much easier living somewhere out of heavy foot traffic, you know?”
Ryan nods even though his gut does this weird twist at the thought of Brendon running through the streets of Chicago, dodging the heavy footfalls of tourists who might not know he’s down there.
Brendon tells Ryan about how he was kicked out for making friends at the jazz club down the block, about how the night singer, Greta, let Brendon sit in her music box while she got ready each night and how Brendon felt more at home around music than he ever did at his parents house. He tells Ryan about Greta getting a job as a secretary across town and how she left Brendon the music box after her last show at the club. Brendon’s breath is barely there and almost unnoticeable but Ryan feels it brushing over his knuckle each time Brendon speaks, describing how wild and annoying the new singer the club had hired was. Brendon says his name was Gabe and that he had no respect for the music box Brendon kept polished and shiny, he only wore obnoxious amounts of neon and changed the entire atmosphere of the club into something Brendon hated. And then he sold the music box to the pawn shop where Jon found him a few weeks later.
There’s a silent period where the only thing happening is Brendon rising and falling softly with Ryan’s chest, Brendon’s fingers fanned over the calluses on Ryan’s like he’s envious of them, in awe of them. Ryan swallows the lump in his throat and closes his eyes against Brendon’s admiration of his rough fingers.
“Your heart is beating really fast,” Brendon whispers and Ryan pushes back the irony that although Brendon is searching for sleep curled around the warmth of Ryan’s index, it’s hard to decipher who has whom wrapped tighter around their finger.
----
It’s a little passed eleven and they’ve only moved from the couch so that Ryan could go to the bathroom and so Brendon could take some more medicine. It’s dark outside and Ryan has the lights cut off, but the TV’s on and Brendon is sprawled out nice and cozy on Ryan’s chest, fleece blanket pulled up to his chin.
Ryan’s propped up a little, back pressed into the armrest as he texts Spencer about how Brendon’s doing, not paying attention to the movie they settled on half an hour ago. It’s a romantic comedy Ryan’s never heard of so he’s not paying attention, but Brendon likes it. It’s cute and hopeful and fun and it makes Brendon laugh which in turn makes him cough which means Ryan puts his phone down every now and then to pet Brendon on the head and ask, “You okay?” in this really soft voice with a concerned lilt on the end that makes Brendon sniffle and nod his head and reply, “Yeah.”
Brendon really likes to laugh, even if it hurts a little.
There comes a part, however, towards the end of the movie when the comedy is surging as the main characters are arguing just before they realize they’re in love, when Brendon gets so tickled by something, that he coughs for so long and so hard that by the time his body stops clenching into itself, he’s on his stomach, breathing heavily into Ryan’s shirt and Ryan is rubbing small circles onto Brendon’s back with his thumb.
“Hey,” Ryan murmurs when Brendon lifts his heavy head, hair shagging in his eyes and his arms trembling a little under his weight. “Easy there, man. It wasn’t that funny.”
Brendon gives him a bashful smile and ducks down to smooth out the wrinkles his fingers clenched into Ryan’s shirt.
They finish the movie and as the now happy couple engage in a flirtatious water fight on screen, Brendon sighs and says, “I wish I weren’t so small.”
Ryan stops texting and looks away from his phone. “What? Why?”
Brendon shrugs and picks a piece of fuzz from Ryan’s shirt. The warmth of Ryan’s thumb is still clinging to his back and Brendon says, “I don’t know. So I could do more.”
“What do you mean?” Ryan asks with a curious frown. “You can do pretty much anything being that size.”
Brendon shakes his head like Ryan doesn’t understand. “No, I can’t. Not anything.”
Ryan’s frown deepens and he shifts beneath Brendon, emphasizing his attentiveness. “Like what? What do you want to do?” His voice is really light, genuine with curiosity and Brendon freezes for a moment, staring at Ryan’s chest in thought. And then carefully, Brendon unfolds himself and crawls up Ryan’s body, up to his neck and chin and softly, both hands pressed against the dry warmth, Brendon kisses Ryan’s bottom lip with closed eyes and shallow breath and everything in Ryan’s head comes to a screeching halt and his lip is tingling.
There’s a look of worry on Brendon’s face when he draws back, clasping his hands together at his chest like he wishes he could take back his carelessness. Ryan touches his lip carefully, as he would if he were worried it was busted, and it’s more like he’s testing to see if he even felt Brendon’s lips on his before he pulls it away to examine the ghost of a tiny kiss on his finger. Then he looks at Brendon and all Brendon can see in his big, wide eyes is confusion and questioning and he’s so stupid for ever considering that maybe Ryan would understand.
The back of Brendon’s shirt isn’t warm with Ryan’s gesture anymore and he’s backing down Ryan’s body slowly, but with a growing intent because Ryan isn’t stopping him and that’s even more incentive for Brendon to think he’s made a huge mistake. He stumbles a little, trips up on a wrinkle in the blanket and Ryan jolts, instinctively reaching out to steady him, but Brendon is already scaling down the couch.
For a few moments after Brendon’s shadow disappears into the darkness, Ryan sits on the couch and just breathes. His mind, literally blank with- it’s not shock or anger but- Brendon just kissed him and it doesn’t matter that Ryan could hardly feel Brendon’s small lips pressed softly against his mouth, what matters is that Brendon did feel it, felt the smooth heat of Ryan’s bottom lip and he’d kissed Ryan with the hope that maybe Ryan could sense how nervous Brendon’s breath was when it was ghosting over Ryan’s skin.
Fuck.
In a split second, Ryan is scrambling off the couch and practically stumbling into his room, long limbs knocking against each other as he fights to regain his balance. When he reaches the door, he steadies himself on the frame and pauses to catch his breath before turning the light on and starting inside. But he makes it two steps towards his bed before he stops to observe the way the lamp on the nightstand is still trembling from the drawer below being pulled shut. Something hits him hard in his chest and when he finds the nerve to swallow down the lump in his throat, he takes another step forward before thinking better of himself.
Brendon has the drawer pulled closed and Ryan is standing in his own bedroom debating with himself over whether he should sleep on the couch tonight. It’s quite ridiculous, really.
Regardless, Ryan sighs and goes back into the living room before curling up on the couch and not sleeping.
----
In the morning, Ryan wakes from a restless sleep to the heavy sound of his piano drifting through the house. He sits up carefully, knuckling his eyes and shaking away the sleep blanketing his senses and another deep, lonely note creeps into his ears, reverberating through his bones.
Apparently Brendon is awake.
Slowly, Ryan rolls off the couch and walks softly towards his music room, each step producing a pop or creak as his joints stretch and his body unravels. At the doorway Ryan can see his piano and Brendon is sitting on the fall board, head hung low as his toes dip down onto the keys at the far left of the piano. His shoulders are hunched and his hands are in his lap. He looks disheartened.
Brendon doesn’t look up until Ryan makes it to the piano bench, his feet pressing softly into the two darkest notes on the entire piano, creating a sad little ditty that Ryan supposes reflects his mood. When their eyes meet Brendon tenses and looks down at his hands while Ryan pulls out the bench and sits, eyeing Brendon patiently. Brendon draws up one leg and hugs it to his chest, burying his face into the top of his knee while his other leg dangles just above the piano and he sniffs and glances at Ryan with cautious, flitting eyes.
It’s too quiet in the room and Brendon’s foot is swinging mindlessly, or perhaps mindfully, attempting to distract himself. Ryan perches his hand over the keys on the opposite end and presses one down softly, a question.
Brendon’s eyes peek over the top of his knee and look at Ryan with a tiny frown. He presses his foot down on the key below him, an answer.
Ryan’s face falls a little but nonetheless, he replies with two sharp notes back to back, this time his hand wavering over the keys in the center of the piano, a neutral question. Brendon answers with another gloomy note, letting his foot linger as his weight on the key lets the sound from the piano fizzle out beneath him. He looks up at Ryan and his eyes are sad.
They talk, not verbally, but musically and Brendon lets his feet fall on heavy notes after every attempt Ryan makes to cheer him up. Ryan asks Please with a lilted key and Brendon says No with a footfall and Ryan asks Why and Brendon says Because with a quick tap and Ryan’s eyes fall into his lap when Brendon pulls up his other leg and turns his back to Ryan, arms wrapped around the knees he’s pulled tightly to his chest. He’s not talking anymore.
Ryan takes quick, unsubtle glances at Brendon’s back and counts the small knobs of his spine visible through his shirt and all Ryan wants to do is smooth out the hunch in Brendon’s back with his fingers and tell him he’s sorry.
Instead, Ryan poises his hand over the piano again and plays five notes that do things to Brendon that Ryan knows he can’t. They melt him. Tear down and reassemble him and wrap around him in a way that makes Ryan so envious he can hardly stand it. And then Brendon’s spine straightens and he lifts his head from his knees, just enough to turn his neck and look over his shoulder at Ryan with an expression Ryan can’t read.
Ryan turns his face down and plays the five consecutive notes to You Are My Sunshine with his eyes on his fingers, concentration burning into the backs of his hands. He swallows and presses his fingers into the next nine notes and tries not to notice how Brendon has unfurled his body slightly, opening up and listening as Ryan speaks to him with his fingers. The next five notes flow from his fingers perfectly and Brendon is staring at Ryan with these huge, questioning eyes that Ryan tries to ignore.
And then Ryan plays two notes into the following five keys and stops, fingers frozen over the next three that should follow easily. The next three - the three notes, the three words that are fluttering around in Ryan’s heart and coiling up in his stomach and curling his lips up at the edges and drawing his eyes up to Brendon’s when he presses them into the piano slowly, deliberate and clear - they make Brendon’s eyes swell and his smile explode.
Ryan hardly finishes the rest of the song before Brendon is scurrying across the piano keys and throwing himself across Ryan’s hand, hugging so tight Ryan’s fingers start tingling.
----
Sure, Ryan has a job, but he hates it. Brendon likes to think that maybe that’s why Ryan comes off as a very cross person when you first meet him. Ryan just smiles and says, “No, I’m just an asshole.”
But Ryan keeps himself sane at his job, a nine to five desk job answering phones and filing paperwork and generally being bored out of his fucking mind, and he does it through the little tiny notebook he has pushed out in front of him on the floor, pages a little wrinkled and written on, but that only implies it’s frequent use. He keeps a lot in there: thoughts, feelings, opinions, ideas. He doodles in it sometimes, but those are only on the days that his work puts him on the verge of a rampage and he’s sketching out creative ways to murder everyone in the office.
Mostly, he writes in it because Spencer got tired of Ryan calling him every five minutes to share a little piece of his genius.
“Hey, that tickles,” Ryan says softly, pulling the end of his pen out of his mouth to look at Brendon who is on his knees in Ryan’s palm, folded over the heel of Ryan’s hand as he reaches out to trace the tattoos on Ryan’s wrist. Brendon stops and looks up a little surprised at first and then leans down to press a kiss to the spiraling curl tailing off the end of a letter inked onto his skin. Ryan beams.
“What are you writing, anyway?” Brendon asks curiously. He walks to the tips of Ryan’s fingers and curls them up before sitting down and leaning back against him.
Ryan sighs and presses his forehead into the carpet, right hand abandoning his pen across the untouched page of notebook before him. He taps the end of his socked foot into the ground and says, “I don’t even know. I had an idea for a song and I just - Fuck, I can’t word anything right.”
Brendon contemplates asking him what the song is supposed to be about, but he doesn’t. Just says, “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” and pats Ryan’s palm reassuringly. “Is it for your band? The one you and Jon and Spencer are in?”
“Oh, we’re not in a band,” Ryan laughs and it sounds a bit disheartened to Brendon, like maybe he wishes they were. “We just get together and make noise.”
“Well, you’re really good at piano,” Brendon smiles and knocks his head against Ryan’s fingers for emphasis.
Ryan shrugs and makes some sort of halfhearted agreement before turning his attention back to his notebook, wrapping his fingers around his pen. He stares and he stares and he stares at the inkless page below him and for a few minutes they sit in silence as he writes and then scratches out, writes and adjusts, writes and adjusts and scratches out and he’s in the middle of a sentence when suddenly his mind tells him it isn’t good enough and he groans in frustration, dropping his head back onto the carpet in defeat.
“Jesus, I just- Why won’t this come out right? It’s like I have the thought but I don’t have the words and every single thing I write is utter shit and there isn’t -”
He stops short and looks down his arm to where Brendon has sat himself, straddling across the lowest part of Ryan’s hand, pressing his little fingers hard into Ryan’s wrist and massaging the pulse beneath the layers of skin and ink. Ryan’s heart skips a beat and slows. He’s never known it before - but leave it to Brendon to discover things about Ryan even Ryan himself doesn’t know - but the feeling is soothing, calming, relaxing him into a state where the only thing his entire body concentrates on is the rhythm beneath Brendon’s hands, thumping through his ears.
Every tense nerve in Ryan’s body untangles itself, uncoils and melts into a warm heat he feels all the way down to his toes as he closes his eyes and just listens to his heartbeat and the small, almost inaudible little grunts Brendon makes as he digs his fingers harder into Ryan’s stress, pressing it out and twisting it loose.
Brendon sneezes and the force of it almost topples him off the edge of Ryan’s arm. But he steadies himself, sniffles and shakes his head and looks up at Ryan with a look that asks Better?
Ryan nods and presses his smile into the side of his arm and watches Brendon’s smile grow wider with each and every second Ryan stares.
----
Reluctantly, Ryan leaves Brendon at the house to “go make noise with the boys.” Brendon says it’s okay, that Spencer has dogs and that he’ll be just fine here on the couch until Ryan comes home. Ryan argues that Spencer’s dogs are nice and when Brendon laughs and says, “Ryan, it’s alri-” Ryan says, “I’ll hold you.”
“The whole time?” Brendon asks, his smile skeptical. Ryan nods. “Even when you’re playing your guitar?”
“Well, no. But I can wear a shirt with a pocket in it. You’re sick, Brendon. You shouldn’t be left alone. Besides, I can keep an eye on you and keep you warm.”
“I think you just want me to sit in your shirt pocket so I can be close to you,” Brendon beams with an insinuating tone as he twirls around under Ryan’s pinky finger.
Ryan sighs, defeated, “Fine, okay. But- you really are sick and-”
“I’ll be okay,” Brendon assures and leans in to kiss the soft skin beneath Ryan’s last two fingers. “I promise.”
Ryan looks hesitant for a few moments, a small frown tugging at the corners of his lips and a look of uncertainty creasing his brow. Brendon gives him a wide, cheesy smile - one that scrunches up his whole face and bares all his teeth. It would be highly unflattering if it were anyone but Brendon, but clearly the smile that overwhelms Ryan’s face is evidence that it is precious.
“I’ll be home at eleven,” Ryan says but it sounds like he’s setting an internal alarm for himself.
“Okay,” Brendon smiles easily with a small nod.
It takes another five minutes to get Ryan to leave - he has to fix Brendon up on the couch and make sure he’s comfortable and put the remote in a place that Brendon can reach and leave his, Spencer and Jon’s cell numbers on a scrap of paper on the armrest and check the batteries in the smoke alarm just in case - and when he does leave, he has to run back inside twenty seconds after closing the garage door because he left his keys on the counter. He frets over Brendon a little more and kneels by the couch and says soft words like, “Brendon,” and “Will you call me if -?” and “Are you sure I gave you your medicine?”
And Brendon just looks up at Ryan’s helpless, almost distraught expression and says, “I love you, too.”
----
Ryan finally leaves for good around eight and Brendon watches TV until his eyes get heavy from the florescent glow during an episode of late night cartoons. There’s a dog next door that won’t stop barking and Brendon presses his palm into the TV Guide button for the time. It’s eleven twenty five.
He smiles knowingly to himself and powers off the TV. With a small yawn, he unfurls himself from the mound of blankets Ryan wrapped him in and shimmies off the side of the couch, toes searching for the ground as his legs dangle below. They skim the carpet and he lets go of the seam of the couch, dropping down carefully. Through the darkness he treks into Ryan’s room and climbs up the ruffle around the bottom of Ryan’s bed, arms straining - it’s been a while since he’s had to get up there all by himself.
The air up on the mattress is nothing but Ryan and Brendon takes a moment to recognize it, smile and breathe in the scent that hits him full force when he crawls over the edge. He walks cautiously over the wrinkles in the sheets, toeing out in front of him before he takes each step. There’s limited visibility other than the almost nonexistent glow of light from the moon outside and before he knows it, he’s reached the edge of the nightstand, cool wood under his palm as he crawls out onto it and reaches up blindly for the string to turn on the lamp. Light floods the corner of the room and the bulb reflects off the polished surface of the nightstand, giving Brendon a reflection rather than a shadow.
It’s good that Ryan’s out with Jon and Spencer because Brendon feels guilty for letting Ryan wait on him hand and foot. It’s not that Brendon needs to be tended to twenty-four seven, but Ryan is stubborn and insistent and paranoid and slightly adorable when he panics (like the time Brendon sneezed ten consecutive times and Ryan was two digits into dialing 911 before Brendon pried the phone from his hand and kissed his palm, “I’m okay, I’m okay”). Brendon’s happy that he’s out having fun instead of keeping himself cooped up with him when he’s not at work. Plus, the quiet is nice.
Before he even thinks twice, he’s pushing up the lid on his music box and crawling inside, breathing slightly less elevated as he escapes the smell of Ryan. Inside, it still smells familiar, cold and slightly like stale cigarettes and cheap booze and the wave that hits him is enough to draw him back into the reality that he’s crawling back into a place that just isn’t home anymore. Inside and deep within the velvet lining are memories of smooth jazz and loneliness and Brendon pauses to let the warmth of realization wash over him because he doesn’t need this anymore. Because the air outside is a lot less heavy, safer and more comfortable and it’s Ryan and that is home. This, in here, this life he had in here - he doesn’t need it anymore. Decidedly, he turns around and crawls back out over the rim of the box.
Brendon glances down at his reflection as he makes his way over to turn off the lamp and coil up, sleep and sound on Ryan’s pillow, but the sight of one of Ryan’s bright red guitar picks catches his eye, the tip of it jutting out from the back corner of the box. He looks at it thoughtfully for a moment before going over to pick it up, cool plastic beneath his hands as he pulls it out from under the heavy wooden box.
Two nights ago, Brendon couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning and sniffling so much that his head got so heavy and full he didn’t have any room to dream. Ryan had thrown the covers off and crossed the room without a word, brought back his guitar from off the opposite wall and sat at the edge of his bed and played a light melody for Brendon until Brendon’s eyes were falling shut and Ryan was whispering, “Go to sleep, B,” over the soft notes curling through the room, and Brendon fell asleep on the edge of Ryan’s pillow. The pick had been tossed onto the nightstand and now Brendon had it in his hands, turning it over and reading the golden cursive pressed into the top.
It was special to him, the pick. A cute little reminder of why Ryan is so wonderful and how lucky Brendon was to have come from a cold, lonely life in Chigaco, to a life of warmth and happiness here in Vegas, curled up on Ryan’s pillow every night and falling asleep knowing he’s loved.
Brendon carries the pick over to the music box and opens the lid to slip it inside, to keep it in a safe place, and when he hears it bounce softly against the velvet carpet inside, he smiles and closes the lid again softly before turning off the lamp and finding his usual spot on Ryan’s pillow, right on the inside edge where there’s nothing but a sea of cushion and blankets to his right and the solid warmth of Ryan to his left.
----
It’s the odd sensation of someone watching him that stirs Brendon, and when his eyes flutter open, Ryan is sitting on the edge of the bed, head tilted just slightly, looking at Brendon with a soft smile.
“Hey,” Ryan whispers quietly, leaning over onto his elbow so that his face is level with Brendon’s. Brendon rubs his eye against the brightness of the bedside lamp beaming into his face when Ryan’s shadow moves and Ryan says, “I’m sorry.”
“W’for?” Brendon mumbles, stretching out on the soft cotton, arm and leg muscles tense as he extends his limbs. He grunts weakly and Ryan reaches out to stroke the length of Brendon’s arm with his index finger.
“It’s late. I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Ryan replies.
“No, no,” Brendon says hastily, coughing a little in his rush to push out such hushed words. The sleep still clinging in his voice is harsh and rough and he coughs into Ryan’s pillow softly. When his coughs subside, he wraps his hand around Ryan’s finger and pulls it closer.
He swallows and Ryan says, “I should have been home earlier but I lost track of time. Jon ordered a pizza and Spencer ordered a Pay Per View movie and we just -”
Brendon stops Ryan’s rant short by pressing his lips against the bottom of Ryan’s fingernail, skin so smooth and soft, and Ryan stops talking. “I didn’t expect you home on time anyway,” Brendon smiles and it’s laced with sleep and just enough insinuation to make Ryan understand how predictable he is. And how well Brendon can read him. “Did you have fun?” Brendon asks, sliding his hands down the sides of Ryan’s finger slowly. “How are Jon and Spencer?”
“Yeah, we did. And they’re good. They asked about you, if you were feeling better, and I told them that your cough wasn’t as bad. They want to come over and hang out sometime this week.”
“I’d like that,” Brendon hums, closing his eyes. Last time Jon had been over, he’d balanced Brendon on one of Ryan’s unpaid water bills and carried him around the living room singing Aladdin and making Brendon perform death defying acrobatics, his wide hand just below Brendon’s “magic carpet.”
“I want to make sure you’re feeling okay first,” Ryan admits, crooking his finger just a bit to touch the side of Brendon’s face gently. “You don’t have a fever, that’s good.”
“I’ve been kind of cold though,” Brendon replies, voice small, fragile. “And I can’t reach the thermostat,” he laughs quietly and Ryan smiles.
“I’ll turn up the heat a little,” Ryan tells him, but Brendon squeezes his finger when he shifts to get up and Ryan stops.
“Don’t.” Brendon’s eyes close again and he tugs Ryan’s index a little. “It’s fine, you’re here now. Lay down.” Ryan nods with a grin and Brendon lets go of his finger so that Ryan can strip down to his boxers and socks and crawl under the covers, placing his head a few inches away from Brendon’s lazing body. Brendon reaches out for Ryan again and says, “C’mere,” and Ryan worms his way down the pillow, until he’s staring cross-eyed down his nose at Brendon’s tired, squinty smile. Brendon runs his hand over the curve in Ryan’s bottom lip and kisses the tip of Ryan’s nose lightly.
“I’m always so afraid I’m going to hurt you,” Ryan whispers so softly that Brendon’s shirt barely ripples in the wake of Ryan’s breath washing over him.
“Don’t be,” Brendon replies as Ryan nuzzles the side of his head deeper into the pillow and his nose brushes against Brendon’s stomach. Humming, Brendon places his hand on the warmth of smooth skin just below Ryan’s eye, high on the inside of his nose and Ryan purses his lips, just enough so that they press into the cotton of Brendon’s shirt and he plants tiny kisses on Brendon’s belly, lips only moving when he draws them back in a little with a soft breath.
Brendon presses an appreciative kiss between Ryan’s eyes and nuzzles his head down into the pillow and Ryan can feel his eyelashes brush against the top of Brendon’s head when his eyes flutter closed.
----
Ryan really hates throwing himself into panic before he’s even able to register he’s awake.
When his eyes flicker open it’s light out and he’s sprawled out across the entire mattress, arms and legs spread to each corner of the bed, his face pressed hard into the pillow at an angle awkward enough to his jaw ache. The comforter is pushed all the way to the foot of the bed, but the blankets beneath it are still drawn up over his hips, revealing the expanse of skin from his waist up to his stretched shoulders and his fuzzy head. He rolls his neck to face the window and squint through the sunlight streaming in and when the temporary blindness settles, he sees that his pillow is Brendon-less.
And he’s not fallen off onto the mattress.
And he’s not sleeping in the dip of Ryan’s back.
And he’s not curled up under the pillow shoved up against the headboard either.
And he’s not under the blankets Ryan tosses off the bed and Ryan claws through the sheets until he reaches the one covering the actual mattress, cotton pulled tight across the surface and instantly there’s a sharp twist in Ryan’s gut and he’s pushing up off the bed and onto his haunches, looking beneath him with eyes filled with the fear that somehow, in the middle of his sleep, he crushed Brendon beneath him.
There’s nothing there.
His arms are shaking and he’s already breathing heavy and his heart is thumping so fast in his chest that it actually hurts and he swallows and lifts up his pillow once more, another scan of the bed. There’s a soft whimper and instantly Ryan’s heart rate doubles in speed, if possible, because Brendon is here, somewhere, and he hasn’t been suffocated under Ryan’s weight.
And Ryan hardly has time to absorb the shock of guilt that hits him, the self loathing for thinking that it was okay for Brendon, tiny, tiny Brendon, to sleep in the same bed, on the same pillow as Ryan, Ryan in all of his big, normal sized idiocy. They’ve fallen asleep like this before, Brendon lying up on Ryan’s pillow until one or both of them fall asleep talking about things that mean nothing and everything and in the morning Ryan will wake up with a stiffness in his bones with Brendon still draped across the cushion under Ryan’s head. And each time Ryan thinks never again because the split second of terror that hits him before he sees Brendon’s sleeping figure is uncomfortable and slightly embarrassing.
He’s ripping through the sheets he’s tossed off the side of the bed, arms flying as he calls for Brendon, frantic and desperate with something broken in his voice and he hears another noise, a groan and he freezes, just to make sure he heard it through the rustling of the sheets. But the sheets don’t stop rustling, even when his hands stop moving and he looks down to see something worming beneath the linen he threw on the floor and -
Ryan is scrambling backwards off the opposite side of bed, tumbling onto the ground and crashing his head into the hardwood floor he had put in throughout the house, like a moron, apparently. He winces and surveys the back of his head with dabbing touches, checking for blood or the sensation of his skull showing through a gap busted in the back of his head, but his eyes are slightly fuzzy from the shock and fuck, how many fingers is he holding up? Two? Five? Damn, his head is throbbing.
Through the fog behind his eyes, he detects the movement of something moving across the bed just behind his fingers and as he blinks, focuses past his spotless fingers, he sees Brendon, peering over the edge of the mattress, frowning curiously before realizing that Ryan has, once again, practically cracked his skull open due to his irrational fear of things he doesn’t recognize.
Or - well. It might be Brendon. Sure, it looks like Brendon, the soft curl of his hair and the concerned pout on his lips is easily distinguishable. But it’s even more noticeable, even more prominent because Brendon has more hair and a deeper pout and bigger, wider eyes and his shadow is able to fit perfectly over Ryan’s shoulders and there’s an actual dip in the mattress from where Brendon is perched.
Ryan thought he hit his head pretty hard when he first saw a tiny little man scampering around on his kitchen floor, but this - seeing Brendon sitting on the edge of his bed, big enough to make the coils in the mattress squeak - this is worse, because he’s established that Brendon is five inches tall and pocket-sized and completely real, and he’s not sure he has enough energy to convince himself otherwise now.
But regardless of the illusion Ryan sees, Brendon is okay and that’s all that matters. The stretch of his hand out to Brendon is slightly distorted by his hazy head and when he smiles weakly and says, “Brendon,” beckoning Brendon down from the bed, it’s strange that Brendon doesn’t scale down the side of Ryan’s bed like normal. Instead he just plants his hands into the ground and crawls over the floor and up Ryan’s torso, their eyes meeting with the same proportion: wide and surprised and awe-stricken.
Brendon’s lips quiver just slightly and while Ryan is busy still being in complete shock that his distorted view of things was, in fact, real, he cups Ryan’s cheek with a tentative hand, smoothing his thumb over the flushed skin of Ryan’s face, fascinated. Ryan feels the warmth of it all at one moment, the overwhelming heat in Brendon’s palm and the weight of Brendon’s chest pressing into his with each breath they take together.
Ryan says, “You’re -”
“Yeah,” Brendon whispers through only a slightly watery smile, voice laced with amazement. “Yeah, I know.”
Slowly, Ryan curls his hands up and around Brendon’s hips and it’s nothing but solid warmth beneath his fingers when he cautiously pulls Brendon down to him, hands skimming up the now almost too vast expanse of Brendon’s back. He traces the knobs in Brendon’s spine with his pinky finger (oh, to smooth out the worried curve in his back…) and watches Brendon’s throat when Brendon shudders just a little before he transitions smoothly into a satisfied chuckle.
There’s suddenly not enough of Ryan to touch every inch of Brendon that he wants.
Ryan’s fingers itch.
The gap between them is closed before either of them are aware of who leaned in first, but Ryan’s lips are barely mushed against the corner of Brendon’s mouth, still and unmoving and so, so soft that Brendon finds himself pressing into it a little more, earnest and curious and drawn by Ryan’s warm lips, and if there were ever a point in Ryan’s life that time stopped, it’s now, with Brendon’s mouth, full and wet and sweet covering his and Ryan’s fingers digging into Brendon’s hips, pulling everything closer.
A flick of Ryan’s tongue unfreezes Brendon and his mouth opens readily, lips parting as Ryan traces his bottom lip with a cautious tongue and bated breath. Ryan’s own lips open and he curls his tongue back inside his mouth before tilting his head up and catching Brendon’s lips in just the right way, sealing their mouths together in something slow and tender, and the throbbing in Ryan’s head fizzles away.
Brendon shifts, draws his leg up and it slips between Ryan’s legs and Ryan’s reflex is to bite Brendon’s bottom lip softly instead of gasping. And then their tongues are touching and Brendon is taking in a deep, shaky breath, his whole body is tensing and then melting onto Ryan, kissing and kissing and kissing and Brendon pulls off of Ryan’s mouth with the intention to laugh with nervous embarrassment, but Ryan just chases after his swelling lips, neck craning and hand sliding up to curl around the back of Brendon’s neck and Ryan kisses him three more times, long and deep and real, before Brendon is whimpering softly, unsure but wanting and Ryan pushes his lips to Brendon’s temple and just breathes.
“Ryan,” Brendon says, panting, voice wavering. “Ryan, I don’t- I don’t know how I -”
Ryan shushes him, kisses Brendon’s head then his cheek and lips and nose and forehead and says, “My head is really starting to resent you always scaring me like that.”
Brendon laughs light and relieved, and presses his forehead to Ryan’s and listens to Ryan’s breath come out in quick, humored spurts of hot air tickling over Brendon’s lips. “Sorry,” he grins, brushing his nose against Ryan’s, just because he can do that now. Ryan accepts his apology by kissing Brendon’s lower lip and his fingers twirl mindlessly with the hair at the base of Brendon’s neck.
“Hey,” Ryan says softly, lips moving with Brendon’s. “Hey, I love you.” Brendon looks down at him, at Ryan’s cheesy smile and his kiss swollen lips and his eyes, still a little hazy, and Ryan’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and his eyes flicker to Brendon’s mouth. “I love you,” he whispers, so silently that Brendon only knows what he says by watching his lips move, despite his lingering smile. And Brendon knows this is the one that’s meant for him, the silent one, the one he can see on Ryan’s lips and in his eyes, the one that’s more confident.
“I l-” Brendon begins, but there’s a crash on the floor next to their heads and they both snap their attention to the music box that lay on the ground, lid still clamped shut, despite the impact of the fall. They stare at it curiously and then glance at each other before Ryan reaches out and takes hold of the box, attempting to lift the lid with his thumb alone.
“It won’t open again,” he tells Brendon who then takes the box and tries to open it for himself with both hands. The lid won’t budge. “Hmm, that’s weird,” Ryan says thoughtfully, grabbing the box and wiggling his other arm out from beneath Brendon. “I know I couldn’t get it open before, but I figured that was because you were in it,” he says and shakes the box, testing. Inside, something thumps around and Ryan frowns, confused. Brendon’s pulse spikes and his breathing gets faster and the smile on his face is uncontainable. If possible, Ryan’s confusion grows. “What?”
Brendon’s smile simmers down to one that reflects in his eyes and he shakes his head as he pushes the box out of Ryan’s hand carefully and laces their fingers together as he kisses Ryan’s lips again. “Nothing.”
But it’s everything. The knowledge that Ryan’s guitar pick is locked inside the one and only thing Brendon ever thought would define him - something filled with music and isolation and a little corner of hope - and Brendon finds it hopelessly, ironically heartwarming. Like he’s out grown that life of loneliness and moved onto bigger and better things, perhaps in more ways than one.
They kiss and they touch and Ryan can’t get enough of Brendon’s mouth on his, back arching up so that their chests flush together and share a common rhythm. Brendon moans a little and Ryan licks it out, wanting to taste it. It turns frantic and desperate and a little dirty, but Brendon shies away when Ryan pinches Brendon’s bottom lip hard between his teeth and ducks his head, blushing.
“You know,” Ryan says, carding his fingers through Brendon’s hair carefully, reveling in the soft locks he used to brush back with just the pad of his finger. “This whole ‘lying on top of me’ thing isn’t going to work so well anymore. You’re kind of squishing me.”
The tint in Brendon’s cheeks fades away and he just smiles - one of Ryan’s hands in his hair, the other in Brendon’s hand - and he squeezes Ryan’s fingers and says, “We’ll see about that.”
fin.
camatie is a beautiful soul and drew me precious tiny!brendon fan art. it goes without saying that i am completely, undeniably, unbearably in love with it (and her). ♥
also, my boo, my_obsession_xx, drew me the precious second piano scene and i have been staring at it all day ♥_♥ lovvvvve.
and look at this epic piece of cute that longerthanwedo made me! LOOK AT BRENDON TOUCHING RYAN'S FACE! LOOK AT HIS WITTLE FEET TUCKED UP UNDER HIM! GAH! ♥
AND THIS! LOOKIT BRENDON IN A GLASS DRAWING SMILEY FACES IN HIS BREATH! I AMY DEAD. THANK YOU SO MUCH alles_luege! ♥!
EDIT 1-1-11:
x_heavyheart_x drew this for me and as you can see it's totally adorbz. JUST LOOK AT THOSE BIG EYES. HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE? I DON'T KNOW EITHER.
she also drew tiny!bden with a skittle. a skittle you guys, a skittle
and this, which made me flail so hard it hurt. brendon kissing ryan, all tiny and whatnot. seriously, oh my god. just look.
EDIT 4-1-11:
"Frankie" from tumblr drew this. Look at the mouse! Look at the pens! And the poptarts! But more importatntly BRENDON! He's so teeny! ♥
