Splash! [2/3]
Ryan's already there when she wakes up, rifling around with some new cleaning equipment. (Audrey's always forced to think of it as equipment when she sees him going through it. He always seems so serious and methodical, like it's artillery he's going over, or dwindling food supplies. It's probably the whole, Ryan's-job-is-serious-and-not-stupid-or-unimportant thing where he acts like it's a real responsibility, a real necessity. Audrey sometimes mixes up his meticulously arranged nets, on particularly dull days, and waits for him to yell.)
He doesn't look at her when she sidles up behind him, just says, flatly, "What."
"I saw Brendon yesterday."
Ryan tenses. It's ever so rewarding. "Right," Ryan says.
"I'm meeting him again," she tells him, turning back into the house to get her things. "You're coming with me."
Ryan doesn't reply. So that's a yes.
+
Audrey is trying to make this work. And she understands Brendon better than he thinks.
Next time they meet, she lets him choose the place. She offers it over the phone and she can almost already hear his thoughts ticking as to where he could take the two of them, what he could do with them, show them. He’s going to try to alienate them, probably, or irritate them, have whatever fun he can muster from this before getting on with his life, but as long as he doesn’t take them to an Abercrombie and Fitch store, Audrey’s pretty sure she can handle it. (Audrey can handle a lot of things, ha ha, wink wink. It’s the sort of thing that would make Ryan laugh.) She grins into the cell as she tells Brendon to pick a meeting point because Ryan is standing next to her shaking his head, which just makes giving control over to Brendon all the more painless.
Brendon chooses a fucking art gallery.
Ryan refuses to walk into the place with Audrey, naturally, so they agree to meet there. Audrey offers to drive Ryan and drop him off a couple blocks away - “Like a soccer mom with an embarrassed kid, Ryan, c’mon, it’ll be fun,” - but he tells her through gritted teeth that he’ll take the subway. Audrey knows he hates the subway, the whirring darkness and the shaking and the having to be so close to strangers, so he’s probably pretty pissed if he’d brave it to avoid her. Whatever. His loss.
When Audrey steps in, exactly on time, Ryan and Brendon are standing by a painting, not talking. Ryan - Ryan's expression is undeniably well managed. He looks awed, yes - but toned down a little. Semi-awed. Brendon looks… well, he’s looking at Ryan and not recoiling, which is probably a good thing, in the long run. Maybe.
She walks over slow, and ignores the way Ryan winces when he sees her approaching.
“So, you like art, huh?” she asks Brendon before her mind can get in and say something worse like so, you like Ryan, huh?
Ryan looks grateful, in a way.
Brendon regards her for a second, and then says, “No.”
Audrey raises her eyebrows. He doesn’t seem to notice. Jesus, this guy.
“Oh, great,” Ryan says, to no one in particular.“So I'm hanging out with two total assfucks.”
Brendon looks at Ryan with affronted interest. “Right,” he says, and with credit to Ryan his eyes don’t soften but he does slump back a little, waning in Brendon’s wake. “Right, so this, right now, with… you two - this is ‘hanging out’? Fantastic,” Brendon says. “Fan-tastic.”
Audrey looks between the two of them. Brendon looks like he’s restraining himself from laughing in Ryan’s face - Audrey would probably hit him if he did, but she maybe wants him to anyway. Ryan just looks annoyed. Big surprise.
“Fuck you,” Ryan says, measured. “Both of you.” He stalks over to the other side of the gallery and glares at a picture of a dying geranium, examining the rot. His shoulders look nice, hunched over like that while he fumes, even in the cheap shirt he’s wearing, probably to prove a point about something stupid. Brendon is looking over at him as if Ryan’s a piece of gum stuck on his shoe, but one that happens to be in the shape of a star, or a perfect spiral, or Kurt Cobain's face.
Brendon glances at her, and sighs. “Why are we here?” he asks, doing his best to sound exasperated.
Audrey grins. “Seduction," she tells him plainly. "I’m working on it.” She links onto his arm and pulls him gently over to Ryan.
She gives Brendon a reassuring grin (which he immediately glances away from, batting it away like a fly), slipping her free arm around Ryan’s and holding him fast. “This painting is probably the ugliest I’ve ever seen,” she says.
Ryan wriggles a little and then glances over at her, very pointedly not looking at Brendon. Audrey’s seen this trick from him a thousand times before. To her right, she feels Brendon shake his head, just slightly. “No,” he says, drawling boredly, but still, at least he’s engaging in conversation. It’s probably a pretty monumental deal for him. “There’s an uglier one over there.”
Ryan looks at him carefully for a second, maybe thinking fleetingly of second chances and strong arms and hey, what’s the harm? and then he says, “Are you kidding? Did you see the fucking shitstorm on canvas by the door?”
Audrey grins, tilts her head back like she’s laughing loud, and says, “Fuck, I hate art.”
Neither of them unlink their arms.
+
Ryan doesn't mention it the next day when he comes in for work. That's okay though, Audrey's got enough to talk about that his input isn't necessary anyway.
"So Brendon's funny, as well as hot," she remarks to the sharp blue sky, and hears Ryan sigh. "Wait, not just hot," she amends, waving a hand in the air, erasing the statement. "Smoking. Sizzling. You think, Ryan?" She sits up suddenly - too fast and her brain's whirring. Ryan snorts out a laugh as she holds her arms out to balance, recuperate.
Audrey glares at him for a minute, before grudgingly softening the look around the edges. She's pleased with him, as things go; he was kind enough to co-operate yesterday. He barely spoke except to curse either them or the art, yes, but he still turned up and didn't punch holes in any of the walls or ruin anything priceless, so Audrey's counting it as a plus. Brendon seemed to find him amusing, which probably only served to aggravate him a whole lot more. It was fun standing between them in front of canvas after canvas of horrific post-modernism, pointing out flaws and problems and feeling them seethe and sigh either side of her. It didn't so much matter how they felt about it, anyway. Audrey had a good time.
"He wasn't funny," Ryan says unexpectedly.
"What?"
"Brendon," Ryan says, turning his back on her again and sloping around to the other side of the pool, "wasn't funny."
Audrey leans back again. "Define funny," she replies, narrowing her eyes at him exagerratedly.
He twists out a smile like he's wringing water out of a wet shirt.
It's a hot, peachy kind of day. Somewhere nearby Audrey can hear lawnmowers and sprinklers, every garden being polished and perfected, and they're nice sounds. As familiar as her mom's perfume and carefully arranged magazines on a coffee table and broken plates swept quickly into the trash. It's bright and calm, and the sun teases across the breeze.
Somewhere a couple thousand miles away, the door to the house rings. Audrey and Ryan stare at each other pointedly for a second, and then Audrey raises her eyebrows, which effectively works as the final word. Ryan huffs, drops his mop theatrically, and stalks away to answer the door.
While he's gone she sits on the sun lounger, decides what color to paint her nails next, reminds herself to schedule a hair appointment, wonders where her mules are, and congratulates herself on her general success in life thus far. Ryan shuffles back outside, holding a box and frowning and squinting at the sunlight.
Audrey's really very interested in the box.
She holds out her hand, but she doesn't expect him to hand it to her, and predictably, he doesn't. Instead of the biting reply she was expecting, though, he simply shakes his head, stares down at it. "It's for me," he says, turning the box, and yes, written across the top in careful, rounded handwriting is the word, 'Ryan.' "Delivered by some kid on a bike."
Audrey blinks, and then says, "Waiting for it to open itself?"
He skitters thin fingers across the sides, pulling back tape and paper, flipping the box open and pulling out -
"What the fuck," Ryan mumbles, turning them over in his hand. Audrey sees what he's holding, and then she's grinning so hard it has to hurt a little bit. (But, Audrey thinks, beauty, pain, whatever.)
Not the aviators she pointed out, but a better pair, one that will work with Ryan's bones and the way his nose turns when he frowns. Gucci round frames, silver hardware, with the logo on the temple. Brendon chose them in black, it looks like.
Audrey coughs, gaining Ryan's attention from where he's turning the sunglasses over in his hands, frowning. "They're from Brendon," she says.
"I know," Ryan replies, which means he didn't know. He slips them on, cautiously, in profile to Audrey to deflect her smirk. "I don't take bribes," he says plainly.
"Do you take gifts?" she asks him. He scowls, blinking through the frames. He must be seeing Audrey in sepia tone now, all dark and soothing, dream-like.
"Looking good, Ross," she says, and there is a whole lot of truth in that statement.
Ryan sniffs, discards the box to the side, and strides back over to his mop.
Audrey observes him.
"I was actually thinking he was more cute than hot," Ryan says, suddenly.
Audrey agrees.
+
Later in the day, Audrey's phone tips off of the side of her dresser as it buzzes. She picks it up, irritated, and checks it; just a stupid text from the phone company. She swears she's going to sue them, one day, because through process of bitter elimination Audrey's contact list is so small it doesn't even have a scroll bar anymore and she takes pride in her hollow inbox, thank you.
And then, like. It's maybe just because she doesn't have anywhere to be for the next half hour, or because she can't think of a reason not to, or just because it seems like a good idea, but she pulls open the message box and writes, those glasses make him look like a bug.
Brendon's returning message is quick, effortless. Does that mean he's wearing them?
Audrey turns out to the window, to where Ryan is stooped over the pool, net in one hand, the other busy pushing the damn sunglasses up his nose. Yeah, he is, she writes.
Fuck Brendon replies, and then another message few seconds later; poor, poor guy. cute, though.
Okay. Right, so. That wasn't really. Right. Audrey doesn't quite know what to do with that, so she just replies with another, clipped, yeah, he is.
Don't be jealous Brendon texts back, and she can almost see his smirk dripping off of the letters. I feel sorry for you, too.
Audrey writes another reply to that one, but saves it to her drafts instead of sending it. By the time she remembers, later, that she never sent it, it's too late anyway. No big loss.
+
It turns out that they don't have to worry who's going to call Brendon next time after all, because Audrey wakes up and walks downstairs to find him sitting on the couch in her living room, with his jacket off and his shirt sleeves rolled up, reading a copy of Marie Claire and looking pleased with himself. Brendon looks pleased with himself pretty often. He probably reads the backs of cereal boxes looking pleased with himself. Audrey kind of likes the way his lips quirk upwards when he does it, though.
"You're... here," she says, brilliantly. She's wearing mules, purple ones, and isn't particularly worried for him to catch her so early. Her specialized skill is being glamorous.
"Yeah," Brendon says, not looking up from the book. "I got up too early this morning."
Audrey rubs her eyes, feels the pointed nail of her index finger catch on her eyebrow. "How did you even get inside? What time did you get here?"
"Seven?" He leans forward, smirking. "Your mom was pretty charmed by me."
"My -" Audrey starts, and then thinks, fuck. "You met my mother?"
"I think," Brendon says, recounting it with relish, "I think it was much more a case of her meeting me."
"Asshole," Audrey says, speaking on default, because her mind is elsewhere. Brendon has met her mother. That is one half of her parents. Brendon has met her parent. Jesus, she thinks.
Brendon, on his part, seems to be ridiculously amused by the whole thing. "It was fun," he says, smile opening further. He's probably only doing it for effect, and Audrey doesn't actually give a shit, because Brendon met her mother.
"She'd never heard of me," Brendon says. "I was disappointed."
"Oh," Audrey says, because, oh. "Sorry. I must have forgotten to mention you during our Girl Time."
The sarcasm tastes slick and bitter on her tongue, reminding her of something she doesn't really need to be thinking about right now. She frowns.
"So when does this seduction start?" Brendon asks, with something akin to genuine curiosity, but a little too loose to be real.
Audrey is saved from having to answer by the sneaker-wearing, messy haired, angry little bell.
"Both of you," Ryan says from the doorway. His hair is a mess and his legs are stained with black oil from that fucking ridiculous bicycle he insists on riding into work on - Audrey's offered him a motorbike, a scooter, even just a better fucking bicycle, but Ryan's too good for her charity. Like, duh.
"Both of us," Audrey repeats, still stood in the centre of the living room, patiently waiting to freak out.
"Both of you are here," Ryan says. "It is early in the morning and both of you are here at the same time."
Brendon doesn't look up from the magazine, but his eyes aren't moving across the words at all, and his smile is reflecting across the pages like a flashbulb.
"Fuck," Ryan says. "I'll be in the poolhouse."
He shuffles out of the sliding doors, hands dangling bitterly by his sides as he makes his way around the pool, doing his best, Audrey guesses, to look troubled and unhappy. She notices with a pang of - some emotion, not fondness, but not amusement either - that he's wearing the sunglasses again. Brendon watches him with her, and then stands, crosses the room, and touches her shoulder lightly.
"Let's make him breakfast," he says, and Audrey smiles, because she's going to take it.
+
“This is… weird,” Brendon says.
Ryan shrugs.
They’re standing in front of a large, gleaming billboard advertising some movie, and Audrey’s being pessimistic. A movie date, seriously?
She just hopes no one sees.
Brendon buys the tickets. Ryan tries to refuse, of course, tries to dig out his own wallet from the pocket of his - hey, actually pretty nice - pants, but Brendon’s slipped in front of him with a smile before he can protest. He makes buying things for Ryan a method to irritate instead of to please, and gives Ryan the chance to spit and roll his eyes and agree to go with it. Then again, it might just be that it’s Brendon doing the buying.
They bypass the concession stand with varying degrees of disgust, and don’t really talk a whole lot. Audrey’s thinking stupid things like RUN! NOW! and she feels like someone’s picked her up out of her glossy buzzing comfort zone and set her down in a shitty movie theatre where Brendon’s hand keeps knocking against hers.
Ryan refuses to let them sit in the back row because “Hello, high school cliché,” so they take seats somewhere near the middle, and that’s when Audrey starts crossing and uncrossing her legs, fiddling with a loose thread on the arm-rest, kicking the seat in front of her. There must have been some easier way for them to figure this out, to prove it could work. They’re sitting in a line, Audrey Brendon Ryan, a misplaced set of musical chimes with a messed up tune that no one wants to hear. Audrey has to fight to keep turning around, checking no one she knows is here.
It was supposed to be Audrey Kitching and Her Two Boyfriends.
Audrey Kitching and Her Two Boyfriends On A Lame-Ass Movie Date?
Not so great.
Ryan’s checking his phone (Who would be contacting him now, though? Who would be contacting him ever? Audrey tells herself not to think about it, and mostly doesn’t) and Brendon’s leant his head back almost over the top of the seat, staring at the ceiling.
The lights are dim, and the air-con blows a soft sigh around them, and Audrey breathes, and breathes.
“Jesus,” Brendon says, eventually. “How do you get gum on the fucking ceiling?”
Ryan turns his head minimally, and says, after a pause, “It probably takes a whole lot of skill.”
“But I mean, it’s probably hard to get it that high even if you throw it,” Brendon muses.
Audrey rests her chin in her elbow and looks at them. Ryan’s still gazing up at the ceiling, trying to spot the gum now, but Brendon’s staring back at her. “What?” he says quietly, and he’s smiling an off-guard, pre-teen kind of smile, about the same shape as a worn down sidewalk curb. It disappears after a second, but lingers in his eyes.
“Nothing,” Audrey says, and turns back to the commercials on screen, while Ryan whispers something about the aerodynamics of gum and Brendon whispers something back, heady and laughter-spun. Audrey leans into the seat, and watches.
+
The next day, Ryan says, "I know I'm late for work, but I figured, whatever."
And Audrey blinks at him and says, "You really think I care?"
And Brendon, from beside Ryan on the front step, says, "I brought donuts. Just, uh. In case you didn't have any food." His eyes zone in on Audrey's waist.
They spend the day by the pool, and Ryan doesn't clean a thing, and Audrey leaves a note for her mom that evening saying they really should increase his pay, since he's such a hardworking guy and all.
+
It, alright.
So.
So maybe this - the three of them - maybe they can work out okay.
+
They’re outside and Brendon is thinking, glowing in the darkness. The pool is flush with electrics, stupid lights they installed last summer just because it looked pretty. The illuminated blue creeps across Brendon’s face. And it does. Look pretty.
Ryan is in the house - Audrey can hear something hissing, and the occasional clanging of metal that says he’s cooking.
Audrey doesn’t remember the last time she spent a night at home, but not alone. It’s nice.
“Ryan is going to burn down my house,” she tells Brendon.
He doesn’t look up. “You’d be safe,” he says. “You can jump in the water.”
She slides her legs over to face him, and says, “Yes. But if my parents come home and find the house burned down, tiny possibility they might not let him work here anymore.” She waves her arms a little, to indicate something homely, maybe.
Brendon frowns. “That would suck,” he mumbles, and then blinks, and coughs. He looks at her, suddenly, and says, “Sorry.”
Audrey doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, but she isn’t stupid enough to think that’s important anyway. His eyes are still dark and cool, blank. Like pebbles, or coins. Glinting.
And then he’s reaching out and touching her hair, curling a strand of it and smiling indulgently. Audrey closes her eyes and breathes out.
“You have pink hair,” he says. “Pink. Hair. Can you say ‘look at me’ any louder?”
Audrey glances at him, trying to gauge which way to go with this, but he’s turned away now, watching as Ryan stumbles his way through the sliding glass doors, slipping away from the gold light of the house and into the blue glow surrounding them. He sets the plate he’s holding down at their feet. “Omelette,” he says, reverently, as if he could be saying "Gucci" or "ponyskin leather" or "serenity."
And then he stands back and takes in the scene, Brendon’s hand in Audrey’s hair, Audrey’s eyes on Brendon and Brendon’s eyes on the floor and something else, something unseen, spitting and flying between them. He blinks, and says, “Oh. So, I’m gonna -”
He turns to leave, awkwardly, and just like that both of them, Brendon and Audrey, are standing and Brendon is in front of him and Audrey is behind him and something, something is happening.
“Uh,” Ryan says.
Audrey says, “Look at me.”
Brendon smiles, quietly. Ryan turns out a little so the three of them are in a triangle, standing calm, and Audrey is still trying to play this by ear but it gets difficult when the sounds are so loud rational thought gets drowned out, it gets difficult when the tune she wanted to follow sounds distorted and wrong, when the only beat that’s playing across the scene is want, want, want.
Audrey says, “Are you - ?” She's thinking, are you are you are you sure you want this mess?
Ryan frowns at her, searching, and then turns to Brendon, his face still carefully poised and set. He shrugs, and nods imperceptibly.
“So, then,” Brendon says, and Audrey forgets whose lips touch hers first. It’s okay, because they all do in the end.
+
Audrey is a helpless puddle of mixed up faith and there’s so much she never wants them to tell her. Fingers keep slipping and she doesn’t even know who’s who here, it all feels mixed, half and half and double.
Eyes, mouths, hands, resting and leaning and pulling on each other.
Oh, Audrey thinks, and it feels good. It feels like something left out in the sun, melted and blended to make a bowlful of badly spelled muscle and feeling somewhere underneath her curling feet. There are touches stored in their skin, heated and laced with clever veins.
She’s forgotten the difference in the colors of their eyes because all she can see in them is everything.
+
"I don't hate people," Brendon whispers. "I know everyone thinks I do. I'm just..."
Audrey is technically asleep, but she hears him anyway, the words humming through to where she's pressed up against his arm.
"I know," Ryan whispers back, softly. "I know."
There's a weighted pause.
"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Ryan says. It's heavy, something in his inflection, and Audrey's never heard this side of him before. Ryan with fears, Ryan with problems, Ryan with worries. Ryan.
"My dad's fucking right, I'm gonna be a fucking poolboy for the rest of my life."
"Don't," Brendon says. "Don't. It'll - work out."
Audrey watches her eyelashes split her vision as her eyes flutter closed again.