One-Night Stand Forever - [Thirteen]
On the fifth day of being locked in the basement with Brendon, Ryan was convinced that he could be classified as clinically insane. He frowned each time he remembered he didn't have a cellphone, because he could've been spending time with Maja or updating William, but then reminded himself that it didn't matter much anyway: his back was beginning to ache like hell and all he desired to do was curl up in a ball between the sheets of Brendon's bed.
Ryan had become the epitome of pregnancy. Brendon had magically transformed into his kiss-ass servant, who was still rather snappy.
"Brendon," Ryan called. The sound of rushing water disappeared immediately and a towel-clad boy emerged from the bathroom in seconds, sporting a worried expression. "Brendon, the baby wants something cheesy and salty."
It was evident not only to himself, but to the other boy as well, that Ryan was steadily gaining confidence. Within days, he had realized that Brendon would never hurt him. Brendon was terrified of putting the baby in harm's way. So intricately cautious around Ryan's body that he visibly flinched whenever he reached over Ryan or recognized his proximity to the other's stomach.
Ryan knew he was taking advantage of Brendon's fear.
The darker-haired boy peered at the pregnant boy seated atop the bed's comforter. His lanky form was adorned in an extra large, white sleep shirt with blue boxers. His lips were pursed in deep thought.
"Maybe fried pickles with queso dip," he suggested.
Brendon's concerned face was quick to fall. "We don't have queso. Don't you remember? You asked for it yesterday after you ate all of the mozzarella sticks and pizza rolls." Ryan rolled his eyes and Brendon continued. "Besides, you've been eating loads of crap lately. Don't you think it's time to maybe include some veggies or fruits?"
Ryan glanced up from the same magazine he had been reading for the past week. He scrunched up his nose and then relaxed his face, adopting a small grin of achievement.
"The queso dip at Los Caballeros has chunks of tomato."
He returned his gaze to the article, an interview with a band that was supposedly the "next big thing", but saw Brendon's towel drop from the corner of his eye. His focus fell strictly to the words in front of him.
Why Brendon had this strange obsession with prancing around naked, Ryan had no clue. He wasn't going to point it out, either. He didn't want a repeat of last time, submitting himself to the boy like a ragdoll. Or, in Brendon's words, a whore.
In fact, Ryan was feeling quite smug. Brendon had woken up that morning with his erection digging into Ryan's thigh, and as soon as he began rutting against the limb and nibbling on the soft lobe of Ryan's ear, the boy had hopped out of bed and politely requested scrambled eggs. Watching Brendon smash his head repeatedly into the pillow tasted sweeter than any type of revenge he had ever received.
"You know, I preferred it better when you kept your mouth shut," Brendon commented.
The boy on the bed chuckled and placed the magazine beside him, removing himself from the bed and making his way to the bathroom. He sensed the intense eyes attached to his waddling form before he turned to meet them.
With a hand rested against the arch of the doorway, he said, "I suppose that means you won't want to hear my fail-proof plan of how to get you out of the house without your parents caring."
Before Ryan could shut the door, a desperate limb shot out to hold it open. "Okay, spill."
And his plan was effective.
Within fifteen minutes the boys were riding in Brendon's car. Ryan was in the passenger's seat "experiencing intense abdominal pain" and Brendon was his honorary chauffeur.
Ryan had been salivating on to the leather, expecting to relish in the delicacy that was authentic Mexican cuisine, but Brendon had other plans.
They pulled up to a nearly run-down gas station. It was decorated in overgrown vines, with chipped paint and a cracked sign.
A thin finger floated to the door handle and Brendon released a sturdy, "No!"
The younger boy unbuckled his seat belt and exited the car, leaning down to tell Ryan, "You're staying in the car."
And maybe Ryan was sick of it, or maybe he was stupid, but he opened his door and climbed out anyway. A stretch and a turn and he was facing Brendon over the top of the car. Brendon was furious.
"Ryan," he warned. His eyes darkened, but it might have been the shade provided by the concrete overhang. Ryan couldn't tell; he was too busy attempting to act unfazed. "I swear to God. If you don't get back in the car right now, you're going to be forced to walk back to my place."
Ryan took a deep breath and cringed when he stuttered, "W-why can't I go inside?"
In the seconds after, he resounded the words to himself. Brendon probably thought he was being whiny. Really, he simply wanted to know why, to stand up for himself. He crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped for the best.
Brendon shook his head and began a walk up to the doors, but stopped before the curb and twisted his neck to reply, "Because, Ryan. You're a goddamn hippo, and I don't want people thinking I'm your kiss-ass husband. You better be in the fucking car by the time I get back out here."
But the tip-toed footsteps following Brendon went unnoticed, so Ryan continued on into the store behind him, walking on broken glass.
The gas station was nowhere near large. Ryan headed straight for the nacho machine. Brendon gravitated towards the cigarettes behind the counter.
As a horrendous amount of cheese was pumped onto the corn chips, golden eyes searched the room and then the parking lot.
Brendon was outside, kicking the left, front wheel in frustration. Ryan grabbed a bag of Swedish Fish - because they were calling his name - and paid, then darted out the door.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Ryan!" Brendon shouted, gripping at his hair, which really only made the boiling blood in his enlarged veins that much more visible on his forehead. A few customers stared. Brendon didn't care. "Are you deaf? Get in the fucking car!"
Ryan's mouth opened in protest, but he thought better of it. Yes, Brendon had threatened to leave him with the only option of walking his almost seven-months pregnant body the ten or so miles to his house, but Ryan had at least learned Brendon's behavior in this area. The boy wouldn't let it happen, no matter how much of a fool Ryan made him seem. Ryan was just sick of arguing.
He got in the car.
Brendon slammed the door when he sat down and Ryan jumped.
"Why the hell did you go inside?" he probed.
A mouth full of sweet gummy candy and salty chips, Ryan reasoned, "I'm starving, and since we're not going to Los Caballeros, I got something here."
Dark brown eyebrows moved together, almost attaching themselves but allowing wrinkled skin to connect them instead.
"Who said we weren't going to go right after I got my cigarettes?"
Brendon was leaning over the dashboard now. He was peering at Ryan and the boy felt cut open, on display for Brendon to see. He felt too exposed. He couldn't brew up any lies worth telling and he finally had to return to his original, wimpy self. The one that Brendon took pleasure in dealing with.
Ryan picked at the stretchy fish between his fingers. His voice went meek. "I thought we were going to one of your friend's houses or something. I knew you would make me sit in the car, so I decided I would get myself something to eat while I waited."
A grin grew and eyes sparkled. "Aw, Ryan," Brendon cooed. "You're so loyal."
Ryan rolled his eyes and turned away. His eyes gained warmth and began to tingle, then burn. He swallowed the tears.
"Now," Brendon began in a much less sarcastic tone, "since you obviously can't follow rules, we're going back to my house."
And as they drove, Ryan wondered when Brendon had become so controlling. But mostly he wondered when and why he had first sacrificed himself to the control.
In passing, Brendon explained to his parents that Ryan was "all good", and they smiled at the pregnant boy, who had unsuccessfully tried to hide himself behind the other. He gave an affirmative nod and jetted for the stairs to the basement, scarfing down the food in his hands as he went. Brendon followed with an unseen smirk.
The door clicked closed and hands were on him. Rough, demanding hands. The empty cardboard tray slipped from his grip along with the half-eaten bag of Swedish Fish and Ryan situated himself so that he was facing Brendon. Brendon went straight for his lips.
Greasy fingers pushed at Brendon's black t-shirt, leaving smudges in their wake. Brendon didn't mind. He sucked Ryan's bottom lip between his own.
"Get off," Ryan protested, though it was muffled, and shoved again.
With his hands locked behind Ryan's back, Brendon chuckled and whispered, "You know you want it, Ross."
He dove again for Ryan's mouth, but the boy cupped a hand over the other's eager lips.
"No, I fucking don't. I'm not so loyal that I'll just sit back and relax while you rape me."
Brendon was quick to step back. His hands went up in the air as a sign of surrender.
"Hey, hey. Whoa. I'm sorry. I just thought that since you usually just take it-"
"-like a whore?" Ryan supplied for him. Brendon beamed. "Well, guess what," Ryan began, retreiving the confidence he had been reaching for in the passenger's seat, "I don't let you fuck me because I want to be obedient to you." And as the words spilled, his thick shell cracked. He flowed out of himself, his self-esteem going along with the current. And he let himself cry. It was just something he needed in order to keep speaking. "I don't let you touch me so that I can be claimed as your own."
Brendon bit his lip. He fiddled with his hands. He tapped his foot.
"Ryan, fuck," he sighed. "Stop crying."
The older, yet more fragile boy, shook his head. "I do it because it feels good. For me. And I'm sure that's why you do it, too." He paused and his face bunched up in confusion. "Actually, I don't know why you jerk me off."
The cheeks of the other were hastily dipped in a rose-petal red.
Ryan shrugged and pulled his jeans off, unveiling his blue boxers, and traveled towards the bed. Without a word, he spread his body underneath the covers, curling onto his side and facing away from Brendon. The younger boy was hesitant, but ended up next to him on the bed. He was facing the ceiling again. Deja vu, except Ryan's tears had ceased.
The fact had gone unnoticed by Brendon. "Don't cry."
Not a muscle was moved as Ryan anticipated more words from Brendon. It was an experiment, he told himself. Curiosity.
"Why don't we think up names?"
Thin pink lips huffed a silent laugh of disbelief. Brendon took it as a tremble of his body.
Within seconds, a smooth finger was trailing down Ryan's clothed spine, spelling things out into the fabric. Names, most likely.
"I mean, you get to choose since you'll probably have him most of the time." Brendon laughed. It shook the tiny bed. "Fuck, I'll be a horrible father. But I'll help you pick some out."
Ryan blinked. This wasn't Brendon. Maybe Brendon around his friends, but not Brendon around Ryan.
"I like Atticus. It's pretty sweet." Ryan felt the A-T-T-I-C-U-S embedded into his T-shirt. "If you're looking for something more traditional, I've always liked the name Caleb." C-A-L-E-B, all the way up his vertebrae.
Slowly, cautiously, Ryan rolled over in the sheets. Brendon was waiting, his eyes glued to Ryan's, his finger now stroking the convex curve of Ryan's belly.
"You're not crying," he whispered, like someone had just begun listening in. Like he wanted to know why Ryan had retreated to the bed.
"I was going to take a nap," Ryan softly spoke back.
And Brendon kissed him. As speedily as Brendon had leaned over and brushed Ryan's lips with his own, he had returned, rigid, to the other side of the bed.
Ryan shut his surprised eyes, tight.
Twenty minutes later, as he was hammocked in between consciousness and unconsciousness, he heard the words released into the silent air of Brendon's room, seemingly not meant to be heard.
"I'm sorry."
Ryan had become the epitome of pregnancy. Brendon had magically transformed into his kiss-ass servant, who was still rather snappy.
"Brendon," Ryan called. The sound of rushing water disappeared immediately and a towel-clad boy emerged from the bathroom in seconds, sporting a worried expression. "Brendon, the baby wants something cheesy and salty."
It was evident not only to himself, but to the other boy as well, that Ryan was steadily gaining confidence. Within days, he had realized that Brendon would never hurt him. Brendon was terrified of putting the baby in harm's way. So intricately cautious around Ryan's body that he visibly flinched whenever he reached over Ryan or recognized his proximity to the other's stomach.
Ryan knew he was taking advantage of Brendon's fear.
The darker-haired boy peered at the pregnant boy seated atop the bed's comforter. His lanky form was adorned in an extra large, white sleep shirt with blue boxers. His lips were pursed in deep thought.
"Maybe fried pickles with queso dip," he suggested.
Brendon's concerned face was quick to fall. "We don't have queso. Don't you remember? You asked for it yesterday after you ate all of the mozzarella sticks and pizza rolls." Ryan rolled his eyes and Brendon continued. "Besides, you've been eating loads of crap lately. Don't you think it's time to maybe include some veggies or fruits?"
Ryan glanced up from the same magazine he had been reading for the past week. He scrunched up his nose and then relaxed his face, adopting a small grin of achievement.
"The queso dip at Los Caballeros has chunks of tomato."
He returned his gaze to the article, an interview with a band that was supposedly the "next big thing", but saw Brendon's towel drop from the corner of his eye. His focus fell strictly to the words in front of him.
Why Brendon had this strange obsession with prancing around naked, Ryan had no clue. He wasn't going to point it out, either. He didn't want a repeat of last time, submitting himself to the boy like a ragdoll. Or, in Brendon's words, a whore.
In fact, Ryan was feeling quite smug. Brendon had woken up that morning with his erection digging into Ryan's thigh, and as soon as he began rutting against the limb and nibbling on the soft lobe of Ryan's ear, the boy had hopped out of bed and politely requested scrambled eggs. Watching Brendon smash his head repeatedly into the pillow tasted sweeter than any type of revenge he had ever received.
"You know, I preferred it better when you kept your mouth shut," Brendon commented.
The boy on the bed chuckled and placed the magazine beside him, removing himself from the bed and making his way to the bathroom. He sensed the intense eyes attached to his waddling form before he turned to meet them.
With a hand rested against the arch of the doorway, he said, "I suppose that means you won't want to hear my fail-proof plan of how to get you out of the house without your parents caring."
Before Ryan could shut the door, a desperate limb shot out to hold it open. "Okay, spill."
And his plan was effective.
Within fifteen minutes the boys were riding in Brendon's car. Ryan was in the passenger's seat "experiencing intense abdominal pain" and Brendon was his honorary chauffeur.
Ryan had been salivating on to the leather, expecting to relish in the delicacy that was authentic Mexican cuisine, but Brendon had other plans.
They pulled up to a nearly run-down gas station. It was decorated in overgrown vines, with chipped paint and a cracked sign.
A thin finger floated to the door handle and Brendon released a sturdy, "No!"
The younger boy unbuckled his seat belt and exited the car, leaning down to tell Ryan, "You're staying in the car."
And maybe Ryan was sick of it, or maybe he was stupid, but he opened his door and climbed out anyway. A stretch and a turn and he was facing Brendon over the top of the car. Brendon was furious.
"Ryan," he warned. His eyes darkened, but it might have been the shade provided by the concrete overhang. Ryan couldn't tell; he was too busy attempting to act unfazed. "I swear to God. If you don't get back in the car right now, you're going to be forced to walk back to my place."
Ryan took a deep breath and cringed when he stuttered, "W-why can't I go inside?"
In the seconds after, he resounded the words to himself. Brendon probably thought he was being whiny. Really, he simply wanted to know why, to stand up for himself. He crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped for the best.
Brendon shook his head and began a walk up to the doors, but stopped before the curb and twisted his neck to reply, "Because, Ryan. You're a goddamn hippo, and I don't want people thinking I'm your kiss-ass husband. You better be in the fucking car by the time I get back out here."
But the tip-toed footsteps following Brendon went unnoticed, so Ryan continued on into the store behind him, walking on broken glass.
The gas station was nowhere near large. Ryan headed straight for the nacho machine. Brendon gravitated towards the cigarettes behind the counter.
As a horrendous amount of cheese was pumped onto the corn chips, golden eyes searched the room and then the parking lot.
Brendon was outside, kicking the left, front wheel in frustration. Ryan grabbed a bag of Swedish Fish - because they were calling his name - and paid, then darted out the door.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Ryan!" Brendon shouted, gripping at his hair, which really only made the boiling blood in his enlarged veins that much more visible on his forehead. A few customers stared. Brendon didn't care. "Are you deaf? Get in the fucking car!"
Ryan's mouth opened in protest, but he thought better of it. Yes, Brendon had threatened to leave him with the only option of walking his almost seven-months pregnant body the ten or so miles to his house, but Ryan had at least learned Brendon's behavior in this area. The boy wouldn't let it happen, no matter how much of a fool Ryan made him seem. Ryan was just sick of arguing.
He got in the car.
Brendon slammed the door when he sat down and Ryan jumped.
"Why the hell did you go inside?" he probed.
A mouth full of sweet gummy candy and salty chips, Ryan reasoned, "I'm starving, and since we're not going to Los Caballeros, I got something here."
Dark brown eyebrows moved together, almost attaching themselves but allowing wrinkled skin to connect them instead.
"Who said we weren't going to go right after I got my cigarettes?"
Brendon was leaning over the dashboard now. He was peering at Ryan and the boy felt cut open, on display for Brendon to see. He felt too exposed. He couldn't brew up any lies worth telling and he finally had to return to his original, wimpy self. The one that Brendon took pleasure in dealing with.
Ryan picked at the stretchy fish between his fingers. His voice went meek. "I thought we were going to one of your friend's houses or something. I knew you would make me sit in the car, so I decided I would get myself something to eat while I waited."
A grin grew and eyes sparkled. "Aw, Ryan," Brendon cooed. "You're so loyal."
Ryan rolled his eyes and turned away. His eyes gained warmth and began to tingle, then burn. He swallowed the tears.
"Now," Brendon began in a much less sarcastic tone, "since you obviously can't follow rules, we're going back to my house."
And as they drove, Ryan wondered when Brendon had become so controlling. But mostly he wondered when and why he had first sacrificed himself to the control.
In passing, Brendon explained to his parents that Ryan was "all good", and they smiled at the pregnant boy, who had unsuccessfully tried to hide himself behind the other. He gave an affirmative nod and jetted for the stairs to the basement, scarfing down the food in his hands as he went. Brendon followed with an unseen smirk.
The door clicked closed and hands were on him. Rough, demanding hands. The empty cardboard tray slipped from his grip along with the half-eaten bag of Swedish Fish and Ryan situated himself so that he was facing Brendon. Brendon went straight for his lips.
Greasy fingers pushed at Brendon's black t-shirt, leaving smudges in their wake. Brendon didn't mind. He sucked Ryan's bottom lip between his own.
"Get off," Ryan protested, though it was muffled, and shoved again.
With his hands locked behind Ryan's back, Brendon chuckled and whispered, "You know you want it, Ross."
He dove again for Ryan's mouth, but the boy cupped a hand over the other's eager lips.
"No, I fucking don't. I'm not so loyal that I'll just sit back and relax while you rape me."
Brendon was quick to step back. His hands went up in the air as a sign of surrender.
"Hey, hey. Whoa. I'm sorry. I just thought that since you usually just take it-"
"-like a whore?" Ryan supplied for him. Brendon beamed. "Well, guess what," Ryan began, retreiving the confidence he had been reaching for in the passenger's seat, "I don't let you fuck me because I want to be obedient to you." And as the words spilled, his thick shell cracked. He flowed out of himself, his self-esteem going along with the current. And he let himself cry. It was just something he needed in order to keep speaking. "I don't let you touch me so that I can be claimed as your own."
Brendon bit his lip. He fiddled with his hands. He tapped his foot.
"Ryan, fuck," he sighed. "Stop crying."
The older, yet more fragile boy, shook his head. "I do it because it feels good. For me. And I'm sure that's why you do it, too." He paused and his face bunched up in confusion. "Actually, I don't know why you jerk me off."
The cheeks of the other were hastily dipped in a rose-petal red.
Ryan shrugged and pulled his jeans off, unveiling his blue boxers, and traveled towards the bed. Without a word, he spread his body underneath the covers, curling onto his side and facing away from Brendon. The younger boy was hesitant, but ended up next to him on the bed. He was facing the ceiling again. Deja vu, except Ryan's tears had ceased.
The fact had gone unnoticed by Brendon. "Don't cry."
Not a muscle was moved as Ryan anticipated more words from Brendon. It was an experiment, he told himself. Curiosity.
"Why don't we think up names?"
Thin pink lips huffed a silent laugh of disbelief. Brendon took it as a tremble of his body.
Within seconds, a smooth finger was trailing down Ryan's clothed spine, spelling things out into the fabric. Names, most likely.
"I mean, you get to choose since you'll probably have him most of the time." Brendon laughed. It shook the tiny bed. "Fuck, I'll be a horrible father. But I'll help you pick some out."
Ryan blinked. This wasn't Brendon. Maybe Brendon around his friends, but not Brendon around Ryan.
"I like Atticus. It's pretty sweet." Ryan felt the A-T-T-I-C-U-S embedded into his T-shirt. "If you're looking for something more traditional, I've always liked the name Caleb." C-A-L-E-B, all the way up his vertebrae.
Slowly, cautiously, Ryan rolled over in the sheets. Brendon was waiting, his eyes glued to Ryan's, his finger now stroking the convex curve of Ryan's belly.
"You're not crying," he whispered, like someone had just begun listening in. Like he wanted to know why Ryan had retreated to the bed.
"I was going to take a nap," Ryan softly spoke back.
And Brendon kissed him. As speedily as Brendon had leaned over and brushed Ryan's lips with his own, he had returned, rigid, to the other side of the bed.
Ryan shut his surprised eyes, tight.
Twenty minutes later, as he was hammocked in between consciousness and unconsciousness, he heard the words released into the silent air of Brendon's room, seemingly not meant to be heard.
"I'm sorry."