fic: In nobody's eyes but mine, pt. 5
In nobody's eyes but mine, pt. 5
Panic at the Disco, Ryan/Brendon/Brittany*. Explicit. In progress. ~7,000 words. Etc.
previous parts all tagged here.
(i am really obsessed with this song right now. the cliks/complicated [sendspace])
*minor disclaimer: unlike jac or audrey, whose own LJs and public photo posts sucked up a good month of my life, i know almost nothing about brittany except that she maybe dated brendon for like a minute. she's as much an original character as any of the other wholly invented girls in this series.
5.
Brendon's fingers tap a strange pattern on the steering wheel. It's not wholly unfamiliar, some song Ryan's heard before but never quite like this. A burst of singing breaks through Brendon's pursed lips, bitten back as soon as it escapes, but when Ryan smiles at the sound, Brendon lets loose with words, a twisted-up take on "Eleanor Rigby" Ryan wants to hear with the whole band.
Maybe this wasn't as awful an idea as Ryan had thought. Anyway they could still stop. It's early. No one's naked or close to it. Ryan's determined not to make this worse, not again, not after the freak-out and the month (years, it felt like, generations of unease) of trying so hard to make every touch seem innocent without ever being too distant or cold. There wasn't going to be any punishment for Brendon drawing a line and staying safely on his side. Brendon wasn't the one who'd done anything wrong. Brendon wasn't the one who'd pushed too far. If anyone should have been cut off, it was Ryan, but Brendon hadn't done that, hadn't frozen him out or given him the silent treatment or any of the far, far worse he deserved.
Before Ryan had caught his breath, before Alex had stood up, Brendon had pulled away, flailing his arms weakly, and maybe to someone who hadn't known Brendon as long his sudden and intense need to go clean up would have sounded believable. "Okay," Ryan said, and Alex rose to her feet as the bathroom door clicked shut.
"Hmm," she murmured, and it wasn't a condemnation but maybe it wasn't necessary to have known Brendon for years, maybe all it took was having had his dick and another guy's in your mouth at the same time to realize something had gotten fucked up. They didn't owe her any explanation, and Ryan was ready to say just that when she tilted his chin towards her with one long fingernail, kissing him deep and wet and salty and, oh shit, she was tonguing Brendon's come into his mouth, and when Ryan gasped he felt one smooth, viscous stream slide down his throat.
She smirked against his lips, squeezing his wrist until the bones creaked against each other. "Thought you might like that," she said, and Ryan wasn't sure whether to slap her or fuck her, but Brendon -- Brendon was locked in the bathroom and Ryan had to fix this, had to at least try to. He had to not make it worse.
"Thank you," he said, and bent down to retrieve her shirt. She scoffed a little, more disappointment than disbelief, and put her clothes back on.
When she was gone, he knocked on the bathroom door, calling Brendon's name softly. "She left," he said. "It's just us."
There was no answer from the other side, no noise, no shower running or toilet flushing or puking or crying or anything at all. It was if Brendon had gone in there and disappeared into himself. Ryan knew what that was like, to think a thin door and squeezed shut eyes could protect you from reality. Finally he thought to try the handle, and it turned. Brendon never had been very good at hiding.
He was sitting on the ledge of the tub, knees pressed together, hands folded in his lap. He stared blankly at the mirror, his neck, chin and face peeking back over the counter opposite him. There was a red scratch rising on his shoulder that made Ryan glance down at his own nails, his right hand left long since he'd started playing more acoustic on the bus.
"Brendon," he said, and Brendon's mouth twitched.
"Yeah, sorry," Brendon said. He didn't look at Ryan, though. He didn't seem to be looking at anything at all. His voice was flat and resigned, and his skin was pale and blotchy.
Ryan stepped closer and the weighted door fell shut behind him. The fluorescent hum echoed against the tile like a screaming swarm of bees. Brendon blinked, slow and sad, and Ryan sat down next to him. It wasn't a huge bathtub but there was room to leave, if he wanted, between their bare bodies. He didn't, even when he felt Brendon's arms tense at the contact.
They sat in silence for a while, that awful kind of interminable wait that could have lasted a minute or an hour, the kind that never had good news on the other end, would always end in "we're sorry but" or "the hospital called" or "don't ever speak to me again." This was the worst fucking idea he'd ever had, and Ryan felt the inevitability of its collapse in weird places: the edge of his kneecap (the one not touching Brendon's leg), the underside of his rib cage (but only on the left), the backs of both ankles, Achilles' heels taut and ready to snap.
He heard Brendon try to speak several times, a few raspy inhalations and the gurgling of a cleared throat that only reminded Ryan of Alex's kiss and the fact that he could still taste Brendon far back on the roof of his mouth. Finally Brendon breathed in and swallowed and licked his lips and said, "Ryan," and it wasn't flat, it wasn't resigned, it was two broken, bruised syllables.
It was the voice of a man condemned, a haunted house, and Ryan had been called an asshole before, had been told he was worse, that he was worthless and a waste of space and so fucking selfish he wasn't fit to deprive the world of oxygen other people could be using to say something worth hearing. But he'd never felt the truth of those judgments before, had never agreed so wholeheartedly.
"I can't," Brendon said, "I'm sorry," and Ryan said, "I know, I know," and put his arm around Brendon's shoulders as gently as he could. He had thought there might be more, my family, Ryan, I can't, but there wasn't, or he couldn't, he just apologized again and Ryan said, "It's okay," though it obviously wasn't. Then Brendon stood up and went back into the room. The door slammed shut after him and by the time Ryan had used the complimentary mouthwash and stared dully at his reflection for a while, Brendon was in one bed with his pajamas on and the blankets pulled up to his ears, his back to the world.
They've been home almost a week now, five days of breathing room that should have been welcome, a reprieve from the routine of acting like nothing had changed, that nothing had happened. Ryan has spent a lot of time sleeping and driving aimlessly around rough roads on the outskirts of the suburbs. He doesn't want to be in his tiny old room or sitting in front of the TV listening to his dad wheeze every time he stands up and walks to the fridge.
Going over to Spencer's means risking another variation on the inquisitions Ryan has been dodging all month. It was possible to calculate the precise amount of physical interaction Brendon seemed to need and accept to continue their mutual denial, but things were still different and Spencer still wasn't stupid. The first time they had roomed together again, Spencer had snapped, short and annoyed and maybe scared, "You don't have to pretend to be okay around me." Ryan hadn't known how to say something about Brendon without sounding pathetic and creepy and like a stupid kid with a broken heart, so he hadn't said anything at all.
Since getting back to Vegas, he's seen Spencer three times, twice over subs, where they never talk about anything serious. He hung out one time with other kids he knew but couldn't think of anything to say about their last tour and Brent or Jac or Brendon that didn't make him sound like a jackass, and then not talking at all made him look like one anyway, an aloof jerk who thought he was too cool for old friends who hadn't thought he was that special to start off with.
Then Brendon called, and because Ryan wasn't going to avoid Brendon or his invitations to go buy luggage it turned out he wasn't going to say no to anything Brendon asked for at all. They wandered through Fashion Show Mall and Brendon talked about what he'd been doing since they were home, a dumb family picnic and sleeping till three every day and how nice it was hanging out with Brittany again, how easy it was, how it wasn't weird at all that they'd had sex last year, how she just understood him.
"She totally wanted to hear all about Audrey and what happened," Brendon said, and Ryan ran his palm over the soft leather stomach of a bag and swallowed hard. He couldn't figure out what to say to his oldest friend in the world and Brendon was swapping locker room stories with his ex-whatever? A big hand closed in a fist around his lungs.
"You told her?" he managed, while Brendon was distracted by the shiny patent gloss on a shoulder strap, and Brendon's head snapped up.
"No," he said, "no, I wouldn't," and that was the closest they'd come in a month to talking about it, to acknowledging there might have been something to talk about. "I mean," Brendon said, and bounced on his toes like he would before going onstage, "I just, she kept asking me about all sorts of things, Audrey things and like, tour things, and sex things, and I told her how, you know, sometimes we would -- in the same room, you know."
Ryan knew. He knew Brittany was the first girl Brendon had made come, and only then because she'd called him an idiot, grabbed his hand and put his fingers in the right place. He knew somehow Brendon had managed to stop her from thinking that meant they were dating, which was a feat they'd all been impressed by.
"And once I told her that, she couldn't stop talking about it, dude, it was crazy." Brendon looked down at his hands and then back up, a careful, casual smirk in place. "I think she wants to fool around again? But, like, with someone watching."
"Watching," Ryan said. He couldn't, he wouldn't put those kind of words in Brendon's mouth.
"You like Brittany, right?"
"Sure," he said, weak, like a scared, short twelve-year-old who had no idea how to stand up for himself. That was a shitty metaphor, though, because what he thought Brendon was getting at was as much a welcome tease as a threat.
Anyway it was true. He liked Brittany, liked her better than lots of girls they knew. He liked her, if not as one of his own friends then one of Brendon's, one who hadn't started treating him any different because they were in a famous band and had Pete Wentz's phone number.
"And, come on," Brendon said, "it's not anything you haven't seen before, right?"
That was right, that was accurate and true. Ryan had watched Brendon fuck Audrey dozens of times, had seen him come in his jeans with a stripper grinding on his lap, had stood there with Brendon's sweat-slick shoulder under his hand as they fucked a girl's mouth together. And apparently all that was fine as long as they didn't get carried away, as long as their respective mouths stayed on the safe side of the line in Brendon's head that divided fucked up from totally fucking unacceptable.
"So maybe tomorrow?" Brendon asked, and Ryan still had no idea who was supposed to watch what, but anything Brendon asked, anything Brendon wanted, Ryan would say yes to. That was part of his penance, and if even if he had known it was a trick or some special torture cooked up in revenge, he'd say yes. He deserved to bear the brunt of Brendon's worst ideas for a change. So he nodded and Brendon grinned. He actually looked a little relieved, and he waved across a mountain of bags. "Should I get the whole set?" he asked, suddenly sounding shy, and Ryan said yes.
Brendon called in the morning and said Brittany had told him to pick Ryan up at seven, so at five till he was sitting on his front steps like a little kid. The first few minutes in the car were fine, were meaningless chatter and jokes and they hadn't spent these two years living in each other's pockets without learning how to make conversation. But now Brendon is singing and smiling and acting like that magic line is so obvious of course they'll pull up short just in time to avoid a repeat crash and burn. Ryan doesn't know, isn't convinced that what Brendon needs is someone else agreeing with him.
At a stop light, Brendon grips the gearshift, squeezing it tight before letting go. He's acting calm but he smells like pre-show nerves, a light musky sweat, mixed with the post-performance shower, shampoo and soap clinging to his skin. Ryan's spent five weeks trying to forget how that all tastes. He puts his hand over Brendon's anyway, lays it on top like a blanket and says, "We don't have to do this," even though they do, he's been telling himself all day they clearly have to in some way or they wouldn't keep finding themselves here, almost all alone, almost knowing what they're doing.
Brendon doesn't flinch and doesn't pull away, not even when he puts on the gas, his dad's Toyota sliding into the intersection, closer to Brittany's apartment, where her roommate is never home, where there aren't any parents or childhood friends or brand-new bandmates.
"I was out late last night," Brendon says, and Ryan's usually grateful for Brendon being so easily distracted from seriousness. Ryan usually loves his own overactive imagination but at times like this it's a curse, it's a million reasons and faces and bodies Brendon could have sought refuge in instead of him, and that -- that would be worse than any other mistake they could make together. "Brittany and I had dinner," Brendon says, "and we just started talking, about, like, everything."
Ryan doesn't ask for clarification, doesn't want to know, if he's being completely honest, what Brendon's version of the whole thing sounds like, what he remembers, what parts he's pretending didn't matter. Ryan can't close his eyes and not see Brendon's mouth, open, panting before he kissed Ryan, can't put on headphones and not hear Brendon's desperate directions, his mouth spilling out every filthy fucking word he'd spent years keeping inside.
Brendon says, "So I got home at two, maybe two-thirty, right?"
Ryan nods because he still doesn't trust himself not to be an asshole about this, about Brendon and what he wants or doesn't want or doesn't know how to want in a way he won't hate himself for it after.
"And I wake up this morning, go down for breakfast, and my mom -- I mean, Jesus, Ryan. You'd think I was taking pictures of my dick and putting them on the internet or something."
Brendon looks away from the road, at Ryan, and cracks a too-wide smile. Ryan blinks and tries to laugh, but it's not really funny and they both know it.
"And Brittany's great," Brendon says, and Ryan shakes his head more firmly now in agreement. "She's this completely awesome girl, and they hate when I spend time with her, like because she's not LDS and isn't trying to drag me back into some life I don't want anymore, she's not worth it. Everything I do, they think it's just me trying to hurt them. And you know -- maybe, whatever, maybe I fucking am, you know? Their rules are ridiculous, and I'm not that fucking person any more and they just can't stand to admit it. But they don't see any difference between me being with someone like Brittany and having, like, a line of girls come blow me after a show. And there's a difference, right?"
Ryan says, "Yeah, Brendon, there's a big fucking difference."
"I know, right, I know. But, like, how the hell am I supposed to figure out how not to be a total asshole about sex when being in that house makes me feel like I don't fucking know anything. They're living in this world where none of this is even funny as, like, a joke. I didn't want to be -- I just didn't want to make it worse."
Brendon sighs and stares at Ryan for a long minute, the road empty as they slide through a new development with sharp-edged curbs, perfectly poured concrete no kid has even skated down yet.
"No one I bring home is going to be what they want, Ryan. It just won't ever be okay."
Ryan thinks, my family, Ryan, I can't. He thinks, I'm right here. He tries to breathe around the clench in his stomach, to swallow through the collapsed pressure in his chest. He thinks, wildly, I have no fucking idea what we're doing, but please don't ask me to stop. He stares down at his hand still draped over Brendon's, and he makes himself squeeze it, watching his fingers wrap tightly around Brendon's.
Brendon says, "So fuck them, you know? Fuck that noise." He grins for real then, huge and happy, light like he can breathe just fine, like he can swallow and feel his knees and his toes and all of it's okay, all of it works.
"Yeah," Ryan says, "fuck it." He rolls down the window to feel the breeze on his face and Brendon hums in harmony over the stereo.
When they get there, Ryan remembers how Brittany is great, she's amazing, she's either psychic or an even better friend than he'd realized or has some selfish motivation of her own for this plan. Ryan's doesn't even care why she's doing this. He's completely happy to watch Brendon fuck her, if that's what she wants, if that's what she tells him to do, or he guesses he could fuck her himself, whatever she wants. It gets him back in the room with Brendon instead of marooned on his own lonely, miserable planet. It gets Brendon thinking how it shouldn't matter what his fucking parents want him to be.
"You first," she says to Ryan instead of hello, and flips her brown bangs out of her eyes. She pulls him by the hand through the apartment, turning to kiss him in the doorway to her bedroom.
He looks at Brendon and all he gets is a shrug and, "You heard the woman." It isn't the joke Ryan was expecting. He'd figured on something about short straws or an elaborate game of rock, paper, scissors. Years now of spending nearly every day with this kid who changed everything and Ryan's been pretty confident he knows everything a person can about Brendon Urie -- what he wants, what he thinks. How he fucks. What he tastes like. But maybe Ryan's been fooling himself.
He's not even sure suddenly what Brendon was trying to tell him in the car, what it really means. No fucking way is Ryan the person to teach Brendon how not to be asshole about sex when all Ryan can think is that these mistakes they make together are the best kind of trainwreck. His life's not even the one that will really get destroyed if they can't stop.
Brendon smiles then, just a tiny bit, and nods like he does when Ryan's been feeling less like performing than usual. It's his version of a pep talk and so Ryan takes it as one, crowds Brittany against the wall and kisses his way down from her mouth to her neck, his fingers trailing down her arms and back up again, cupping her breasts as he licks down the open V of her shirt.
This is just like a show, just like any other time he's gone out in front of a crowd and tried to pretend they can't see through his words and his makeup. It's a show for Brendon, who already knows what Ryan is underneath all that. This whole thing is for Brendon.
Ryan unbuttons Brittany's blouse, licking between each gap as the fabric gives way and focusing on what Brendon can see, what Brendon is watching. What it would be like if Brendon was the one pressed against the wall, if it was his chest under Ryan's lips. At the very least he wants Brendon to think the same thing, to put himself in Brittany's place, to yearn for Ryan's mouth on his stomach and Ryan's fingers pulling down his zipper. Brittany gasps, maybe surprised, maybe pleased that he's sliding to his knees already.
When he looks up, tugging her pants off, Brendon is leaning against the wall beside them, arms crossed on his chest, and he's staring down at Ryan with his mouth open, his cheeks flushed. Ryan leans forward and presses the bridge of his nose to her underwear, the fabric already a little wet even before he begins licking her through it.
Ryan doesn't mind going down on girls because they pretty much always seem to genuinely be enjoying it. Oh, they'll try at first to keep it together, to act cool and arch their backs and moan all sexy. But then pretty fast they just give in and get really fucking needy, pushing their hips where they want to be licked, spreading their legs wide if they want your fingers too. He's pretty sure girls don't bother faking this part, because a guy doesn't usually have to be asked twice to get right to the fucking.
Brittany pushes her underwear down, her shoulders still flat on the wall as she tilts her thighs up, towards him. "I was getting there," he says, but he doesn't really give a shit who takes whose clothes off if eventually they all end up naked.
"You're a tease, Ryan Ross," she says lightly, and swallows the last S of his name when he pulls her clit between his teeth, sucking hard.
"That is so true," Brendon says, and turns Brittany's cheek towards him to plant a light, breezy kiss on her lips, and Ryan thinks, I'll show him a tease and counts off twelve slow measures with smooth, deep licks, then shallow, then deep, until Brittany makes some kind of squeaking noise and scrabbles one bare foot onto Ryan's shoulder, heel sliding down his back. Her other leg is shaking, her stomach muscles quivering, and Ryan pushes two fingers in at once.
"Oh God, your -- Brendon, his hands," she sighs, and Brendon says, "I know," as if he's ever felt them like this. Like he's imagined it, maybe. Ryan speeds up, wanting to make her come with Brendon's tongue in her mouth and his in her cunt, one of her hands in his hair and one holding onto Brendon so she can stay standing. The whole thing -- it's so completely un-fucking-believable that Ryan is pretty sure no one, not even Spencer, would believe him if later he said, hey, guess what Brendon and I did today?
They didn't bother getting drunk, or having dinner, or acting like this night was going to be anything other than lots of sex with one more person around than typically required to get the job done. They just showed up and got right down to it, and maybe that's what they've needed, that's what he and Brendon have been doing wrong. They've been acting like it's special, like it's cool, like it's a fucking awesome secret when all along they could have just walked out of rooms and shrugged and said, Yeah, we'll be back in a while, we have some fucking to do now. Maybe then it wouldn't matter so much who was actually doing the fucking.
Brittany's close -- she tells them that, barking it out in a high whine, she's close, she's so close -- and Ryan can hear Brendon kiss her, to shut her up or help out somehow, Ryan's not sure, but either way it makes it easier to focus on finding the spot that makes her whole body spasm, there it is, a push with one finger and a flick of his tongue at the same time and a half-dozen repetitions later she pulls away from Brendon's mouth and groans low, satisfied, a smoky laugh punctuating the wet slide as Ryan pulls back. Her leg slips off his back and she pokes at Ryan's elbow with her toes, nudging him up.
They're all standing very close together, Brittany bare below the waist, her shirt falling off her shoulders. He and Brendon are still wearing all their clothes but their shoes are bumping up against each other, Brendon's arm now around Brittany's lower back, keeping her upright. She reaches a hand out and cups Ryan's cock through his pants, and Ryan jumps a bit. He just wasn't expecting that move so fast and yeah, he's hard, he's been going down on her for God knows how long and there's no good way or reason to stay unaffected by sex even if it was kind of his second-choice scenario. Still he startles at her touch and then feels Brendon steady him, Brendon's hand on his forearm as Brittany rubs his dick, flicks the button open so she can squeeze and pull him until he's, yeah, he's totally hard now, now he remembers he'd like to get something out of this too. They're all watching Brittany's hand on his cock and Ryan would offer some kind of explanation if he had any idea what they were doing.
"Brendon wants to watch you fuck me," Brittany says, and Ryan's almost entirely certain that's not true, that it's what she wants for whatever reason, that this has been her plan all along.
"I --" Brendon starts, like he's going to clear that up himself, but Brittany kisses Brendon as she jerks Ryan slow and steady and when she pulls back all Ryan can think to say is, "Okay." She flashes a smile, fast and pleased, and strips what's left of her shirt off, dropping it on the floor before climbing onto the bed. She's on all fours, looking back over her shoulder at them, and Ryan fumbles to get himself naked.
He's kicking off his underwear and raising his eyebrows at Brendon, because it's not really cool for only one person to be fully clothed, when Brittany says, "How do you want him to do it, Brendon?"
Brendon laughs a little, like he might make a joke, and Ryan reaches out and grabs him by the shirt, staring seriously because someone has to teach Brendon the right and wrong times to make a joke in the fucking bedroom, and apparently that's Ryan's job. "How do you want her," he says, and Brendon swallows hard and says, "Like that, on, up on her knees."
"Take off your clothes," Ryan says, and Brendon does, no kidding around, no smart-ass remarks. He strips and stands with his hands by his sides until Brittany says, "Brendon, come over here," and arranges him so he's sitting against the headboard, legs crossed, fingers steepled over his dick. He stares straight ahead, blinking a little wide, and watches as Ryan stands at the foot of the bed and rolls on a condom, knees pressed into the edge of the mattress.
"Do you want --" Ryan waits until Brendon understands it's his call. "Should I stand or --" He gestures to the bed, to the square of mattress behind Brittany.
"Uh," Brendon says. "Bed."
Ryan positions himself and says, "Okay," which Brittany must take as a question and not a warning, because she says, "Yes, come on," and so he does. Depending on how high Brittany bends her back, how much she straightens her arms, he can't see all of Brendon, who's slipping down the pillows a little more each time Ryan catches a glimpse, his legs unfolded and his dick lying hard and a little wet against his stomach.
Ryan's not sure if Brittany even cares about coming again or if she's just waiting for some reaction out of Brendon, some call to action. Ryan has figured out that she'll say what she wants when she's ready, so he doesn't bother taking it all that slow, or touching her all that much, just holds her hips and snaps in and out. He closes his eyes once, trying to lose himself in it, to just feel like he's fucking some girl, any girl, like the girl he picked up in London two weeks ago because he thought at least maybe that would make him feel better. This girl, Brittany, she's wet and tight and he'll come soon enough if he doesn't overthink it too much, doesn't remember how the girl in London wanted to play their CD while he fucked her. He couldn't do it, he wouldn't fuck with Brendon's voice in his ears if they weren't in the same room still.
Still he's getting closer now, he's focused, and this sex, right here, this is good sex, she's thrusting back at him and he can do this, he's getting there when he hears Brendon say, "fuck," high and little like he's trying to be quiet but that's not working any better than Ryan's imaginary world laid over this very specific and personal and intimate thing they're doing.
He opens his eyes and Brendon's staring right at him, now lying all the way down on the mattress next to them, hand gripping his dick tight, trying to hold himself back. Ryan slams in as deep as he can and Brittany actually slips a little on the sheets, almost loses her balance.
Brendon licks his lips and says, "He's fucking you so hard, Brit," but he never looks away from Ryan. "You like it rough, don't you, you always wanted me to fuck you harder." He squeezes his cock again and swallows. "Tell him you want it harder, come on, come on Brit, yeah, put your arms down and just let him hold you up and fuck you as hard as he can, come on, tell him."
She doesn't ask for anything but she does slump face-first into the pillows, arms under her head, and when Ryan uses the change in position to get in a little deeper she moans, yells really, and, fuck, now he knows she wants another go, now he has to really fuck her as hard as he can, goddamn Brendon and his ideas and his filthy fucking mouth, still lying there not jerking off, just whispering the dirtiest shit he can think of, narrating the whole thing like a fucking game: "Come on, Brit, he's fucking you so hard, come on, come on and use your own hand and help him out, fuck, Brit, want you to scream when you come, we want to hear you scream."
Finally Brendon slides the hand not trying to tame his hard-on down between Brittany's body and the sheets. Ryan knocks her knees farther apart until she's pressed to the bed, held between Brendon's fingers and Ryan's cock as he juts up again and again and then she's coming. She actually is fucking screaming, not their names, not Jesus or God or anyone else, no real words at all, just a long broken cry and Brendon's triumphant laugh layered under it, and Ryan says, "Fuck, fuck," and comes, too.
He lowers himself slowly onto her back, waiting for his brain to clear long enough that he can figure out what the fuck they're supposed to do next. He can see Brendon a little out of his peripheral vision, one hand still holding his cock tight, his chest rising and falling like he's been fucking someone as hard as Ryan was. Brittany is boneless and soft and her skin smells like oranges, maybe, or lemons, something citrusy and sweet. Ryan licks her shoulderblade but it just tastes like skin.
"Hey," she says, out of the corner of her mouth, puffs of air blowing into the pillowcase. "Hey Brendon."
"Yeah, still here." He sounds lust-stupid but with an undercurrent of eagerness.
Brittany raises her head a notch, enough that Ryan scoots back and slides halfway down and off until he's lying at her side, her body splayed between him and Brendon. She pulls his leg back over her hip and he feels really naked, really open. "Do you want to fuck?" she asks, slowly, non-specfically, and Brendon's breath hitches in his lungs.
Ryan can suddenly feel his heart pounding, a noisy thud like a metronome against Brittany's back, a cacophony of possibility. Almost too many options just between the three of them for how that could play out, and Ryan hadn't gotten that far, not even in his head, not anywhere close to it because what was the point in imagining worlds that were never going to be built, that defied physics and reason and here Brittany is, here she is like it's just that easy. Like it was just that no one had bothered to ask.
"Or," she says, and Ryan almost claps a hand over her mouth because they weren't done, Brendon hadn't answered. Maybe he was ready, maybe he was almost there. "Or we can just take care of you," she finishes, and Brendon still doesn't answer, barely seems to even breathe. Ryan can't see his face from where he is, only his chest, an elbow, his thighs and his dick, his dick that is so flushed and leaking and the hand that still holds it is shaking.
Ryan pushes himself up with one hand on the mattress between Brittany and Brendon, one on the other side of her body. They have to take care of this, they can't make him say it, he's not ready. Maybe, almost, but not yet. Ryan pushes down the bed a bit and Brittany rolls onto her side, staring now at them both. "We'll do it," Ryan says, and barely recognizes his own voice, how it's so sure, so rough. Brendon's eyes get even wider but he doesn't say no, not at all, he doesn't shake his head or stare with squinted eyes like he will when he's trying to be kind or polite but would rather stab himself than sit through another autograph signing.
Ryan is half-lying down, knees tucked under him, and he puts one hand on Brendon's knee. Brendon exhales, shaky, sounding scared, and fuck, fuck, there's no contest here for being cool, it's not going to help balance anything out or make Brendon feel any better if he thinks he's the only one who's taking a flying leap. Ryan bites his lip and looks to Brittany and says, "Will you tell me how?"
Brendon raises his head at that. "Wait, you've never --" and Ryan shrugs. He's never. He's never really gotten this far. He's wanted to, but he hasn't. He hasn't been sure he wanted to, not like this, not like how he would do anything Brendon wanted if Brendon knew he wanted it, if he knew and could say and not hate himself every second of the way. He doesn't even have to say, not right now, he just has to let Ryan do this for him.
Brittany almost looks surprised, but there's a slow, warm smile beneath it as she wraps a hand around Brendon's cock. Brendon gasps, body jumping, and Ryan pins him to the bed and licks his way from Brendon's navel to his balls, just like Brittany says to, slow and steady, breathing in and out and keeping his eyes open the whole time. He pushes his nose against Brittany's hand, nudging her fingers open so he can dip his tongue between.
Brendon whimpers, just a wordless noise at first, but then he says, shakily, "Stop," and Ryan squeezes his eyes tight and does not, he absolutely does not scream in frustration. Brittany takes her hand away entirely and Ryan looks up just as Brendon smiles down, wicked and hot, saying, "Stop being such a fucking tease, Ross," and Ryan swallows as much of Brendon's cock down as he can at once, pulling off again and pinching Brendon's thigh hard once in retaliation. Brendon laughs, short and sharp, and Ryan laughs back because what the fuck, what the fuck are they even doing, why have they spent one minute acting like this isn't what they wanted all along.
Brittany elbows Ryan, a hot poke in the arm and he bats her away with an annoyed flail. "Yeah, I am, I am," he says, and she says, "Use your own hand then, rock star," so he does, his hand and his mouth on Brendon's cock, his other fingers splayed across Brendon's leg until Brendon's hands push into his hair. He pulls off long enough to say, "Oh, this is what shuts you up?" and when he goes down again, Brendon thrusts up hard.
"Can't believe you never," Brendon chokes out, "you're so -- fuck, Ryan, like that, oh fuck, you're so fucking good at this, how do you, oh --"
Ryan gags a little as Brendon hits the back of his throat, tries to swallow through it and gags again. Brendon doesn't loosen his grip and Ryan doesn't even really want him to, wants Brendon to hold on as long and as tight as it takes to let go, to lose himself in this like he has every other time they've fucked together.
He feels Brittany slide up the bed, vaguely hears her say, low, "Don't be an asshole," and Ryan's pretty sure he's not talking to him, especially when she says, "Be a good boy, Brendon, come on, are you close, are you?" And Brendon moans like he's being ripped apart and fucks into Ryan's mouth one more time before his hands are pushing instead of pulling, shoving Ryan's head away.
Ryan keeps a hold on Brendon's hips, keeps him close as he jerks him the rest of the way, bending his head to lick across the head of Brendon's cock. "Fuck," Brendon says, and Ryan can't see his face but it almost sounds like he's crying. His legs are sliding around under Ryan's chest and he says Ryan's name, tight and scared as he comes, half across Ryan's cheek, the rest over Ryan's back. Ryan feels a splatter on his shoulderblade and pushes his dick into the mattress, burying his face in the crook of Brendon's thigh.
After a while, after Ryan's felt his need to get up on his knees and fuck Brendon harder than he fucked Brittany slowly, mostly dissipate, he can tell Brendon's asleep, has slipped into the even, wet breathing Ryan's heard a thousand nights on the bus. He keeps his eyes closed and tries to pick out Brittany in the chorus of inhales and exhales but he can't tell, he hasn't woken up slumped on her chest after a movie in the back lounge or blinked awake drooling on her shoulder in a van or slept shoulder to shoulder in a tiny apartment, swallowing down secrets he's never told anyone but Spencer.
He carefully pushes himself up. Brittany is curled next to Brendon, looking right at Ryan, so he climbs over Brendon's legs and settles along his other side. He and Brittany stare at each other, each passing minute making Ryan feel more stubborn and immature.
He could do this all night. He can wait as long as it takes for Brendon to wake up and drive them home and maybe she gets late-night dinner confessions but he gets Brendon's songs and months on the bus and maybe one day he'll be ready for the rest, one day he will and Ryan is the one who will be there, Ryan is the one who will have always been there.
Finally Brittany blinks and Ryan is ashamed of the surge of triumph he feels, blood surging up his spine in victory. She holds one finger above Brendon's mouth, his lips parted slightly as he sleeps, but doesn't touch him. When she brings her hand back and sweeps her bangs out of her eyes, Ryan can't breathe. She doesn't smile when she speaks. "You have to tell him," she says, and before he can answer, before he can act like there's nothing to tell, she rolls out of bed, smooth and graceful right up until she kicks the mattress, jostling Brendon into consciousness. "Time's up, boys," she says.
...
[ pt 6]
Panic at the Disco, Ryan/Brendon/Brittany*. Explicit. In progress. ~7,000 words. Etc.
previous parts all tagged here.
(i am really obsessed with this song right now. the cliks/complicated [sendspace])
*minor disclaimer: unlike jac or audrey, whose own LJs and public photo posts sucked up a good month of my life, i know almost nothing about brittany except that she maybe dated brendon for like a minute. she's as much an original character as any of the other wholly invented girls in this series.
5.
Brendon's fingers tap a strange pattern on the steering wheel. It's not wholly unfamiliar, some song Ryan's heard before but never quite like this. A burst of singing breaks through Brendon's pursed lips, bitten back as soon as it escapes, but when Ryan smiles at the sound, Brendon lets loose with words, a twisted-up take on "Eleanor Rigby" Ryan wants to hear with the whole band.
Maybe this wasn't as awful an idea as Ryan had thought. Anyway they could still stop. It's early. No one's naked or close to it. Ryan's determined not to make this worse, not again, not after the freak-out and the month (years, it felt like, generations of unease) of trying so hard to make every touch seem innocent without ever being too distant or cold. There wasn't going to be any punishment for Brendon drawing a line and staying safely on his side. Brendon wasn't the one who'd done anything wrong. Brendon wasn't the one who'd pushed too far. If anyone should have been cut off, it was Ryan, but Brendon hadn't done that, hadn't frozen him out or given him the silent treatment or any of the far, far worse he deserved.
Before Ryan had caught his breath, before Alex had stood up, Brendon had pulled away, flailing his arms weakly, and maybe to someone who hadn't known Brendon as long his sudden and intense need to go clean up would have sounded believable. "Okay," Ryan said, and Alex rose to her feet as the bathroom door clicked shut.
"Hmm," she murmured, and it wasn't a condemnation but maybe it wasn't necessary to have known Brendon for years, maybe all it took was having had his dick and another guy's in your mouth at the same time to realize something had gotten fucked up. They didn't owe her any explanation, and Ryan was ready to say just that when she tilted his chin towards her with one long fingernail, kissing him deep and wet and salty and, oh shit, she was tonguing Brendon's come into his mouth, and when Ryan gasped he felt one smooth, viscous stream slide down his throat.
She smirked against his lips, squeezing his wrist until the bones creaked against each other. "Thought you might like that," she said, and Ryan wasn't sure whether to slap her or fuck her, but Brendon -- Brendon was locked in the bathroom and Ryan had to fix this, had to at least try to. He had to not make it worse.
"Thank you," he said, and bent down to retrieve her shirt. She scoffed a little, more disappointment than disbelief, and put her clothes back on.
When she was gone, he knocked on the bathroom door, calling Brendon's name softly. "She left," he said. "It's just us."
There was no answer from the other side, no noise, no shower running or toilet flushing or puking or crying or anything at all. It was if Brendon had gone in there and disappeared into himself. Ryan knew what that was like, to think a thin door and squeezed shut eyes could protect you from reality. Finally he thought to try the handle, and it turned. Brendon never had been very good at hiding.
He was sitting on the ledge of the tub, knees pressed together, hands folded in his lap. He stared blankly at the mirror, his neck, chin and face peeking back over the counter opposite him. There was a red scratch rising on his shoulder that made Ryan glance down at his own nails, his right hand left long since he'd started playing more acoustic on the bus.
"Brendon," he said, and Brendon's mouth twitched.
"Yeah, sorry," Brendon said. He didn't look at Ryan, though. He didn't seem to be looking at anything at all. His voice was flat and resigned, and his skin was pale and blotchy.
Ryan stepped closer and the weighted door fell shut behind him. The fluorescent hum echoed against the tile like a screaming swarm of bees. Brendon blinked, slow and sad, and Ryan sat down next to him. It wasn't a huge bathtub but there was room to leave, if he wanted, between their bare bodies. He didn't, even when he felt Brendon's arms tense at the contact.
They sat in silence for a while, that awful kind of interminable wait that could have lasted a minute or an hour, the kind that never had good news on the other end, would always end in "we're sorry but" or "the hospital called" or "don't ever speak to me again." This was the worst fucking idea he'd ever had, and Ryan felt the inevitability of its collapse in weird places: the edge of his kneecap (the one not touching Brendon's leg), the underside of his rib cage (but only on the left), the backs of both ankles, Achilles' heels taut and ready to snap.
He heard Brendon try to speak several times, a few raspy inhalations and the gurgling of a cleared throat that only reminded Ryan of Alex's kiss and the fact that he could still taste Brendon far back on the roof of his mouth. Finally Brendon breathed in and swallowed and licked his lips and said, "Ryan," and it wasn't flat, it wasn't resigned, it was two broken, bruised syllables.
It was the voice of a man condemned, a haunted house, and Ryan had been called an asshole before, had been told he was worse, that he was worthless and a waste of space and so fucking selfish he wasn't fit to deprive the world of oxygen other people could be using to say something worth hearing. But he'd never felt the truth of those judgments before, had never agreed so wholeheartedly.
"I can't," Brendon said, "I'm sorry," and Ryan said, "I know, I know," and put his arm around Brendon's shoulders as gently as he could. He had thought there might be more, my family, Ryan, I can't, but there wasn't, or he couldn't, he just apologized again and Ryan said, "It's okay," though it obviously wasn't. Then Brendon stood up and went back into the room. The door slammed shut after him and by the time Ryan had used the complimentary mouthwash and stared dully at his reflection for a while, Brendon was in one bed with his pajamas on and the blankets pulled up to his ears, his back to the world.
They've been home almost a week now, five days of breathing room that should have been welcome, a reprieve from the routine of acting like nothing had changed, that nothing had happened. Ryan has spent a lot of time sleeping and driving aimlessly around rough roads on the outskirts of the suburbs. He doesn't want to be in his tiny old room or sitting in front of the TV listening to his dad wheeze every time he stands up and walks to the fridge.
Going over to Spencer's means risking another variation on the inquisitions Ryan has been dodging all month. It was possible to calculate the precise amount of physical interaction Brendon seemed to need and accept to continue their mutual denial, but things were still different and Spencer still wasn't stupid. The first time they had roomed together again, Spencer had snapped, short and annoyed and maybe scared, "You don't have to pretend to be okay around me." Ryan hadn't known how to say something about Brendon without sounding pathetic and creepy and like a stupid kid with a broken heart, so he hadn't said anything at all.
Since getting back to Vegas, he's seen Spencer three times, twice over subs, where they never talk about anything serious. He hung out one time with other kids he knew but couldn't think of anything to say about their last tour and Brent or Jac or Brendon that didn't make him sound like a jackass, and then not talking at all made him look like one anyway, an aloof jerk who thought he was too cool for old friends who hadn't thought he was that special to start off with.
Then Brendon called, and because Ryan wasn't going to avoid Brendon or his invitations to go buy luggage it turned out he wasn't going to say no to anything Brendon asked for at all. They wandered through Fashion Show Mall and Brendon talked about what he'd been doing since they were home, a dumb family picnic and sleeping till three every day and how nice it was hanging out with Brittany again, how easy it was, how it wasn't weird at all that they'd had sex last year, how she just understood him.
"She totally wanted to hear all about Audrey and what happened," Brendon said, and Ryan ran his palm over the soft leather stomach of a bag and swallowed hard. He couldn't figure out what to say to his oldest friend in the world and Brendon was swapping locker room stories with his ex-whatever? A big hand closed in a fist around his lungs.
"You told her?" he managed, while Brendon was distracted by the shiny patent gloss on a shoulder strap, and Brendon's head snapped up.
"No," he said, "no, I wouldn't," and that was the closest they'd come in a month to talking about it, to acknowledging there might have been something to talk about. "I mean," Brendon said, and bounced on his toes like he would before going onstage, "I just, she kept asking me about all sorts of things, Audrey things and like, tour things, and sex things, and I told her how, you know, sometimes we would -- in the same room, you know."
Ryan knew. He knew Brittany was the first girl Brendon had made come, and only then because she'd called him an idiot, grabbed his hand and put his fingers in the right place. He knew somehow Brendon had managed to stop her from thinking that meant they were dating, which was a feat they'd all been impressed by.
"And once I told her that, she couldn't stop talking about it, dude, it was crazy." Brendon looked down at his hands and then back up, a careful, casual smirk in place. "I think she wants to fool around again? But, like, with someone watching."
"Watching," Ryan said. He couldn't, he wouldn't put those kind of words in Brendon's mouth.
"You like Brittany, right?"
"Sure," he said, weak, like a scared, short twelve-year-old who had no idea how to stand up for himself. That was a shitty metaphor, though, because what he thought Brendon was getting at was as much a welcome tease as a threat.
Anyway it was true. He liked Brittany, liked her better than lots of girls they knew. He liked her, if not as one of his own friends then one of Brendon's, one who hadn't started treating him any different because they were in a famous band and had Pete Wentz's phone number.
"And, come on," Brendon said, "it's not anything you haven't seen before, right?"
That was right, that was accurate and true. Ryan had watched Brendon fuck Audrey dozens of times, had seen him come in his jeans with a stripper grinding on his lap, had stood there with Brendon's sweat-slick shoulder under his hand as they fucked a girl's mouth together. And apparently all that was fine as long as they didn't get carried away, as long as their respective mouths stayed on the safe side of the line in Brendon's head that divided fucked up from totally fucking unacceptable.
"So maybe tomorrow?" Brendon asked, and Ryan still had no idea who was supposed to watch what, but anything Brendon asked, anything Brendon wanted, Ryan would say yes to. That was part of his penance, and if even if he had known it was a trick or some special torture cooked up in revenge, he'd say yes. He deserved to bear the brunt of Brendon's worst ideas for a change. So he nodded and Brendon grinned. He actually looked a little relieved, and he waved across a mountain of bags. "Should I get the whole set?" he asked, suddenly sounding shy, and Ryan said yes.
Brendon called in the morning and said Brittany had told him to pick Ryan up at seven, so at five till he was sitting on his front steps like a little kid. The first few minutes in the car were fine, were meaningless chatter and jokes and they hadn't spent these two years living in each other's pockets without learning how to make conversation. But now Brendon is singing and smiling and acting like that magic line is so obvious of course they'll pull up short just in time to avoid a repeat crash and burn. Ryan doesn't know, isn't convinced that what Brendon needs is someone else agreeing with him.
At a stop light, Brendon grips the gearshift, squeezing it tight before letting go. He's acting calm but he smells like pre-show nerves, a light musky sweat, mixed with the post-performance shower, shampoo and soap clinging to his skin. Ryan's spent five weeks trying to forget how that all tastes. He puts his hand over Brendon's anyway, lays it on top like a blanket and says, "We don't have to do this," even though they do, he's been telling himself all day they clearly have to in some way or they wouldn't keep finding themselves here, almost all alone, almost knowing what they're doing.
Brendon doesn't flinch and doesn't pull away, not even when he puts on the gas, his dad's Toyota sliding into the intersection, closer to Brittany's apartment, where her roommate is never home, where there aren't any parents or childhood friends or brand-new bandmates.
"I was out late last night," Brendon says, and Ryan's usually grateful for Brendon being so easily distracted from seriousness. Ryan usually loves his own overactive imagination but at times like this it's a curse, it's a million reasons and faces and bodies Brendon could have sought refuge in instead of him, and that -- that would be worse than any other mistake they could make together. "Brittany and I had dinner," Brendon says, "and we just started talking, about, like, everything."
Ryan doesn't ask for clarification, doesn't want to know, if he's being completely honest, what Brendon's version of the whole thing sounds like, what he remembers, what parts he's pretending didn't matter. Ryan can't close his eyes and not see Brendon's mouth, open, panting before he kissed Ryan, can't put on headphones and not hear Brendon's desperate directions, his mouth spilling out every filthy fucking word he'd spent years keeping inside.
Brendon says, "So I got home at two, maybe two-thirty, right?"
Ryan nods because he still doesn't trust himself not to be an asshole about this, about Brendon and what he wants or doesn't want or doesn't know how to want in a way he won't hate himself for it after.
"And I wake up this morning, go down for breakfast, and my mom -- I mean, Jesus, Ryan. You'd think I was taking pictures of my dick and putting them on the internet or something."
Brendon looks away from the road, at Ryan, and cracks a too-wide smile. Ryan blinks and tries to laugh, but it's not really funny and they both know it.
"And Brittany's great," Brendon says, and Ryan shakes his head more firmly now in agreement. "She's this completely awesome girl, and they hate when I spend time with her, like because she's not LDS and isn't trying to drag me back into some life I don't want anymore, she's not worth it. Everything I do, they think it's just me trying to hurt them. And you know -- maybe, whatever, maybe I fucking am, you know? Their rules are ridiculous, and I'm not that fucking person any more and they just can't stand to admit it. But they don't see any difference between me being with someone like Brittany and having, like, a line of girls come blow me after a show. And there's a difference, right?"
Ryan says, "Yeah, Brendon, there's a big fucking difference."
"I know, right, I know. But, like, how the hell am I supposed to figure out how not to be a total asshole about sex when being in that house makes me feel like I don't fucking know anything. They're living in this world where none of this is even funny as, like, a joke. I didn't want to be -- I just didn't want to make it worse."
Brendon sighs and stares at Ryan for a long minute, the road empty as they slide through a new development with sharp-edged curbs, perfectly poured concrete no kid has even skated down yet.
"No one I bring home is going to be what they want, Ryan. It just won't ever be okay."
Ryan thinks, my family, Ryan, I can't. He thinks, I'm right here. He tries to breathe around the clench in his stomach, to swallow through the collapsed pressure in his chest. He thinks, wildly, I have no fucking idea what we're doing, but please don't ask me to stop. He stares down at his hand still draped over Brendon's, and he makes himself squeeze it, watching his fingers wrap tightly around Brendon's.
Brendon says, "So fuck them, you know? Fuck that noise." He grins for real then, huge and happy, light like he can breathe just fine, like he can swallow and feel his knees and his toes and all of it's okay, all of it works.
"Yeah," Ryan says, "fuck it." He rolls down the window to feel the breeze on his face and Brendon hums in harmony over the stereo.
When they get there, Ryan remembers how Brittany is great, she's amazing, she's either psychic or an even better friend than he'd realized or has some selfish motivation of her own for this plan. Ryan's doesn't even care why she's doing this. He's completely happy to watch Brendon fuck her, if that's what she wants, if that's what she tells him to do, or he guesses he could fuck her himself, whatever she wants. It gets him back in the room with Brendon instead of marooned on his own lonely, miserable planet. It gets Brendon thinking how it shouldn't matter what his fucking parents want him to be.
"You first," she says to Ryan instead of hello, and flips her brown bangs out of her eyes. She pulls him by the hand through the apartment, turning to kiss him in the doorway to her bedroom.
He looks at Brendon and all he gets is a shrug and, "You heard the woman." It isn't the joke Ryan was expecting. He'd figured on something about short straws or an elaborate game of rock, paper, scissors. Years now of spending nearly every day with this kid who changed everything and Ryan's been pretty confident he knows everything a person can about Brendon Urie -- what he wants, what he thinks. How he fucks. What he tastes like. But maybe Ryan's been fooling himself.
He's not even sure suddenly what Brendon was trying to tell him in the car, what it really means. No fucking way is Ryan the person to teach Brendon how not to be asshole about sex when all Ryan can think is that these mistakes they make together are the best kind of trainwreck. His life's not even the one that will really get destroyed if they can't stop.
Brendon smiles then, just a tiny bit, and nods like he does when Ryan's been feeling less like performing than usual. It's his version of a pep talk and so Ryan takes it as one, crowds Brittany against the wall and kisses his way down from her mouth to her neck, his fingers trailing down her arms and back up again, cupping her breasts as he licks down the open V of her shirt.
This is just like a show, just like any other time he's gone out in front of a crowd and tried to pretend they can't see through his words and his makeup. It's a show for Brendon, who already knows what Ryan is underneath all that. This whole thing is for Brendon.
Ryan unbuttons Brittany's blouse, licking between each gap as the fabric gives way and focusing on what Brendon can see, what Brendon is watching. What it would be like if Brendon was the one pressed against the wall, if it was his chest under Ryan's lips. At the very least he wants Brendon to think the same thing, to put himself in Brittany's place, to yearn for Ryan's mouth on his stomach and Ryan's fingers pulling down his zipper. Brittany gasps, maybe surprised, maybe pleased that he's sliding to his knees already.
When he looks up, tugging her pants off, Brendon is leaning against the wall beside them, arms crossed on his chest, and he's staring down at Ryan with his mouth open, his cheeks flushed. Ryan leans forward and presses the bridge of his nose to her underwear, the fabric already a little wet even before he begins licking her through it.
Ryan doesn't mind going down on girls because they pretty much always seem to genuinely be enjoying it. Oh, they'll try at first to keep it together, to act cool and arch their backs and moan all sexy. But then pretty fast they just give in and get really fucking needy, pushing their hips where they want to be licked, spreading their legs wide if they want your fingers too. He's pretty sure girls don't bother faking this part, because a guy doesn't usually have to be asked twice to get right to the fucking.
Brittany pushes her underwear down, her shoulders still flat on the wall as she tilts her thighs up, towards him. "I was getting there," he says, but he doesn't really give a shit who takes whose clothes off if eventually they all end up naked.
"You're a tease, Ryan Ross," she says lightly, and swallows the last S of his name when he pulls her clit between his teeth, sucking hard.
"That is so true," Brendon says, and turns Brittany's cheek towards him to plant a light, breezy kiss on her lips, and Ryan thinks, I'll show him a tease and counts off twelve slow measures with smooth, deep licks, then shallow, then deep, until Brittany makes some kind of squeaking noise and scrabbles one bare foot onto Ryan's shoulder, heel sliding down his back. Her other leg is shaking, her stomach muscles quivering, and Ryan pushes two fingers in at once.
"Oh God, your -- Brendon, his hands," she sighs, and Brendon says, "I know," as if he's ever felt them like this. Like he's imagined it, maybe. Ryan speeds up, wanting to make her come with Brendon's tongue in her mouth and his in her cunt, one of her hands in his hair and one holding onto Brendon so she can stay standing. The whole thing -- it's so completely un-fucking-believable that Ryan is pretty sure no one, not even Spencer, would believe him if later he said, hey, guess what Brendon and I did today?
They didn't bother getting drunk, or having dinner, or acting like this night was going to be anything other than lots of sex with one more person around than typically required to get the job done. They just showed up and got right down to it, and maybe that's what they've needed, that's what he and Brendon have been doing wrong. They've been acting like it's special, like it's cool, like it's a fucking awesome secret when all along they could have just walked out of rooms and shrugged and said, Yeah, we'll be back in a while, we have some fucking to do now. Maybe then it wouldn't matter so much who was actually doing the fucking.
Brittany's close -- she tells them that, barking it out in a high whine, she's close, she's so close -- and Ryan can hear Brendon kiss her, to shut her up or help out somehow, Ryan's not sure, but either way it makes it easier to focus on finding the spot that makes her whole body spasm, there it is, a push with one finger and a flick of his tongue at the same time and a half-dozen repetitions later she pulls away from Brendon's mouth and groans low, satisfied, a smoky laugh punctuating the wet slide as Ryan pulls back. Her leg slips off his back and she pokes at Ryan's elbow with her toes, nudging him up.
They're all standing very close together, Brittany bare below the waist, her shirt falling off her shoulders. He and Brendon are still wearing all their clothes but their shoes are bumping up against each other, Brendon's arm now around Brittany's lower back, keeping her upright. She reaches a hand out and cups Ryan's cock through his pants, and Ryan jumps a bit. He just wasn't expecting that move so fast and yeah, he's hard, he's been going down on her for God knows how long and there's no good way or reason to stay unaffected by sex even if it was kind of his second-choice scenario. Still he startles at her touch and then feels Brendon steady him, Brendon's hand on his forearm as Brittany rubs his dick, flicks the button open so she can squeeze and pull him until he's, yeah, he's totally hard now, now he remembers he'd like to get something out of this too. They're all watching Brittany's hand on his cock and Ryan would offer some kind of explanation if he had any idea what they were doing.
"Brendon wants to watch you fuck me," Brittany says, and Ryan's almost entirely certain that's not true, that it's what she wants for whatever reason, that this has been her plan all along.
"I --" Brendon starts, like he's going to clear that up himself, but Brittany kisses Brendon as she jerks Ryan slow and steady and when she pulls back all Ryan can think to say is, "Okay." She flashes a smile, fast and pleased, and strips what's left of her shirt off, dropping it on the floor before climbing onto the bed. She's on all fours, looking back over her shoulder at them, and Ryan fumbles to get himself naked.
He's kicking off his underwear and raising his eyebrows at Brendon, because it's not really cool for only one person to be fully clothed, when Brittany says, "How do you want him to do it, Brendon?"
Brendon laughs a little, like he might make a joke, and Ryan reaches out and grabs him by the shirt, staring seriously because someone has to teach Brendon the right and wrong times to make a joke in the fucking bedroom, and apparently that's Ryan's job. "How do you want her," he says, and Brendon swallows hard and says, "Like that, on, up on her knees."
"Take off your clothes," Ryan says, and Brendon does, no kidding around, no smart-ass remarks. He strips and stands with his hands by his sides until Brittany says, "Brendon, come over here," and arranges him so he's sitting against the headboard, legs crossed, fingers steepled over his dick. He stares straight ahead, blinking a little wide, and watches as Ryan stands at the foot of the bed and rolls on a condom, knees pressed into the edge of the mattress.
"Do you want --" Ryan waits until Brendon understands it's his call. "Should I stand or --" He gestures to the bed, to the square of mattress behind Brittany.
"Uh," Brendon says. "Bed."
Ryan positions himself and says, "Okay," which Brittany must take as a question and not a warning, because she says, "Yes, come on," and so he does. Depending on how high Brittany bends her back, how much she straightens her arms, he can't see all of Brendon, who's slipping down the pillows a little more each time Ryan catches a glimpse, his legs unfolded and his dick lying hard and a little wet against his stomach.
Ryan's not sure if Brittany even cares about coming again or if she's just waiting for some reaction out of Brendon, some call to action. Ryan has figured out that she'll say what she wants when she's ready, so he doesn't bother taking it all that slow, or touching her all that much, just holds her hips and snaps in and out. He closes his eyes once, trying to lose himself in it, to just feel like he's fucking some girl, any girl, like the girl he picked up in London two weeks ago because he thought at least maybe that would make him feel better. This girl, Brittany, she's wet and tight and he'll come soon enough if he doesn't overthink it too much, doesn't remember how the girl in London wanted to play their CD while he fucked her. He couldn't do it, he wouldn't fuck with Brendon's voice in his ears if they weren't in the same room still.
Still he's getting closer now, he's focused, and this sex, right here, this is good sex, she's thrusting back at him and he can do this, he's getting there when he hears Brendon say, "fuck," high and little like he's trying to be quiet but that's not working any better than Ryan's imaginary world laid over this very specific and personal and intimate thing they're doing.
He opens his eyes and Brendon's staring right at him, now lying all the way down on the mattress next to them, hand gripping his dick tight, trying to hold himself back. Ryan slams in as deep as he can and Brittany actually slips a little on the sheets, almost loses her balance.
Brendon licks his lips and says, "He's fucking you so hard, Brit," but he never looks away from Ryan. "You like it rough, don't you, you always wanted me to fuck you harder." He squeezes his cock again and swallows. "Tell him you want it harder, come on, come on Brit, yeah, put your arms down and just let him hold you up and fuck you as hard as he can, come on, tell him."
She doesn't ask for anything but she does slump face-first into the pillows, arms under her head, and when Ryan uses the change in position to get in a little deeper she moans, yells really, and, fuck, now he knows she wants another go, now he has to really fuck her as hard as he can, goddamn Brendon and his ideas and his filthy fucking mouth, still lying there not jerking off, just whispering the dirtiest shit he can think of, narrating the whole thing like a fucking game: "Come on, Brit, he's fucking you so hard, come on, come on and use your own hand and help him out, fuck, Brit, want you to scream when you come, we want to hear you scream."
Finally Brendon slides the hand not trying to tame his hard-on down between Brittany's body and the sheets. Ryan knocks her knees farther apart until she's pressed to the bed, held between Brendon's fingers and Ryan's cock as he juts up again and again and then she's coming. She actually is fucking screaming, not their names, not Jesus or God or anyone else, no real words at all, just a long broken cry and Brendon's triumphant laugh layered under it, and Ryan says, "Fuck, fuck," and comes, too.
He lowers himself slowly onto her back, waiting for his brain to clear long enough that he can figure out what the fuck they're supposed to do next. He can see Brendon a little out of his peripheral vision, one hand still holding his cock tight, his chest rising and falling like he's been fucking someone as hard as Ryan was. Brittany is boneless and soft and her skin smells like oranges, maybe, or lemons, something citrusy and sweet. Ryan licks her shoulderblade but it just tastes like skin.
"Hey," she says, out of the corner of her mouth, puffs of air blowing into the pillowcase. "Hey Brendon."
"Yeah, still here." He sounds lust-stupid but with an undercurrent of eagerness.
Brittany raises her head a notch, enough that Ryan scoots back and slides halfway down and off until he's lying at her side, her body splayed between him and Brendon. She pulls his leg back over her hip and he feels really naked, really open. "Do you want to fuck?" she asks, slowly, non-specfically, and Brendon's breath hitches in his lungs.
Ryan can suddenly feel his heart pounding, a noisy thud like a metronome against Brittany's back, a cacophony of possibility. Almost too many options just between the three of them for how that could play out, and Ryan hadn't gotten that far, not even in his head, not anywhere close to it because what was the point in imagining worlds that were never going to be built, that defied physics and reason and here Brittany is, here she is like it's just that easy. Like it was just that no one had bothered to ask.
"Or," she says, and Ryan almost claps a hand over her mouth because they weren't done, Brendon hadn't answered. Maybe he was ready, maybe he was almost there. "Or we can just take care of you," she finishes, and Brendon still doesn't answer, barely seems to even breathe. Ryan can't see his face from where he is, only his chest, an elbow, his thighs and his dick, his dick that is so flushed and leaking and the hand that still holds it is shaking.
Ryan pushes himself up with one hand on the mattress between Brittany and Brendon, one on the other side of her body. They have to take care of this, they can't make him say it, he's not ready. Maybe, almost, but not yet. Ryan pushes down the bed a bit and Brittany rolls onto her side, staring now at them both. "We'll do it," Ryan says, and barely recognizes his own voice, how it's so sure, so rough. Brendon's eyes get even wider but he doesn't say no, not at all, he doesn't shake his head or stare with squinted eyes like he will when he's trying to be kind or polite but would rather stab himself than sit through another autograph signing.
Ryan is half-lying down, knees tucked under him, and he puts one hand on Brendon's knee. Brendon exhales, shaky, sounding scared, and fuck, fuck, there's no contest here for being cool, it's not going to help balance anything out or make Brendon feel any better if he thinks he's the only one who's taking a flying leap. Ryan bites his lip and looks to Brittany and says, "Will you tell me how?"
Brendon raises his head at that. "Wait, you've never --" and Ryan shrugs. He's never. He's never really gotten this far. He's wanted to, but he hasn't. He hasn't been sure he wanted to, not like this, not like how he would do anything Brendon wanted if Brendon knew he wanted it, if he knew and could say and not hate himself every second of the way. He doesn't even have to say, not right now, he just has to let Ryan do this for him.
Brittany almost looks surprised, but there's a slow, warm smile beneath it as she wraps a hand around Brendon's cock. Brendon gasps, body jumping, and Ryan pins him to the bed and licks his way from Brendon's navel to his balls, just like Brittany says to, slow and steady, breathing in and out and keeping his eyes open the whole time. He pushes his nose against Brittany's hand, nudging her fingers open so he can dip his tongue between.
Brendon whimpers, just a wordless noise at first, but then he says, shakily, "Stop," and Ryan squeezes his eyes tight and does not, he absolutely does not scream in frustration. Brittany takes her hand away entirely and Ryan looks up just as Brendon smiles down, wicked and hot, saying, "Stop being such a fucking tease, Ross," and Ryan swallows as much of Brendon's cock down as he can at once, pulling off again and pinching Brendon's thigh hard once in retaliation. Brendon laughs, short and sharp, and Ryan laughs back because what the fuck, what the fuck are they even doing, why have they spent one minute acting like this isn't what they wanted all along.
Brittany elbows Ryan, a hot poke in the arm and he bats her away with an annoyed flail. "Yeah, I am, I am," he says, and she says, "Use your own hand then, rock star," so he does, his hand and his mouth on Brendon's cock, his other fingers splayed across Brendon's leg until Brendon's hands push into his hair. He pulls off long enough to say, "Oh, this is what shuts you up?" and when he goes down again, Brendon thrusts up hard.
"Can't believe you never," Brendon chokes out, "you're so -- fuck, Ryan, like that, oh fuck, you're so fucking good at this, how do you, oh --"
Ryan gags a little as Brendon hits the back of his throat, tries to swallow through it and gags again. Brendon doesn't loosen his grip and Ryan doesn't even really want him to, wants Brendon to hold on as long and as tight as it takes to let go, to lose himself in this like he has every other time they've fucked together.
He feels Brittany slide up the bed, vaguely hears her say, low, "Don't be an asshole," and Ryan's pretty sure he's not talking to him, especially when she says, "Be a good boy, Brendon, come on, are you close, are you?" And Brendon moans like he's being ripped apart and fucks into Ryan's mouth one more time before his hands are pushing instead of pulling, shoving Ryan's head away.
Ryan keeps a hold on Brendon's hips, keeps him close as he jerks him the rest of the way, bending his head to lick across the head of Brendon's cock. "Fuck," Brendon says, and Ryan can't see his face but it almost sounds like he's crying. His legs are sliding around under Ryan's chest and he says Ryan's name, tight and scared as he comes, half across Ryan's cheek, the rest over Ryan's back. Ryan feels a splatter on his shoulderblade and pushes his dick into the mattress, burying his face in the crook of Brendon's thigh.
After a while, after Ryan's felt his need to get up on his knees and fuck Brendon harder than he fucked Brittany slowly, mostly dissipate, he can tell Brendon's asleep, has slipped into the even, wet breathing Ryan's heard a thousand nights on the bus. He keeps his eyes closed and tries to pick out Brittany in the chorus of inhales and exhales but he can't tell, he hasn't woken up slumped on her chest after a movie in the back lounge or blinked awake drooling on her shoulder in a van or slept shoulder to shoulder in a tiny apartment, swallowing down secrets he's never told anyone but Spencer.
He carefully pushes himself up. Brittany is curled next to Brendon, looking right at Ryan, so he climbs over Brendon's legs and settles along his other side. He and Brittany stare at each other, each passing minute making Ryan feel more stubborn and immature.
He could do this all night. He can wait as long as it takes for Brendon to wake up and drive them home and maybe she gets late-night dinner confessions but he gets Brendon's songs and months on the bus and maybe one day he'll be ready for the rest, one day he will and Ryan is the one who will be there, Ryan is the one who will have always been there.
Finally Brittany blinks and Ryan is ashamed of the surge of triumph he feels, blood surging up his spine in victory. She holds one finger above Brendon's mouth, his lips parted slightly as he sleeps, but doesn't touch him. When she brings her hand back and sweeps her bangs out of her eyes, Ryan can't breathe. She doesn't smile when she speaks. "You have to tell him," she says, and before he can answer, before he can act like there's nothing to tell, she rolls out of bed, smooth and graceful right up until she kicks the mattress, jostling Brendon into consciousness. "Time's up, boys," she says.
...
[ pt 6]