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When Brendon is packing, shoving shirts and jeans haphazardly into a too-small suitcase, Shane stands at the doorway, his arms folded, looking like he’s about to say something. Brendon dutifully avoids him. It’s not his business.
“It’s not your business,” Brendon says aloud, a petulant inflection to his voice. It’s petty, he’s acting petty, bristling like a defensive animal, but he can’t help it. “Have you seen my black jeans, the ones with the hole right --”
“In the dryer.” Shane nods in that direction and Brendon mumbles a thanks before brushing past him. Shane grabs his arm and Brendon freezes, not looking at him. “How long have you had this planned?”
How long? Brendon racks his brain, going back, before what he ate yesterday and the last time he called his mother, before that, to when Ryan called him, drunk for the first time Brendon’s ever witnessed, slurring his words, saying, “Seattle. We should, you and me, for my birthday, Seattle,” and then some kind of rough sound that sounded a lot like dry heaving.
“Two weeks. Three, maybe.”
Shane hums, like this isn’t satisfactory, but still he lets go. “Why?”
Brendon had asked Ryan why, and Ryan had said, “Because,” and then there was laughter on the other line, not Ryan’s, a girl’s. “It’s my birthday. And I miss you."
That had been enough. It’s not like Brendon was old enough to join Ryan at his actual birthday party, an elaborate event coordinated by Pete and Keltie, something he couldn’t be involved in. That still left a sour taste in his mouth, but it was only fair.
Brendon says now, “It’s his birthday. We haven’t seen each other in a while."
Retrieving the pants from the dryer, Brendon makes his way back to the room, shoving it in with the rest of his clothes. He doesn’t feel like answering Shane’s invasive questions, not now, but Shane still has that goddamn look on his face, the one that says Brendon is being a dick, the one that says Brendon is being stupid.
He averts his eyes, straightens his shoulders, and says, “Can you give me a ride?”
...
When he sees Ryan at the terminal, Brendon says, “God, you couldn’t have bothered getting changed?” but there’s a smile in his voice, laughter behind his words.
Ryan just laughs, looking tired, his eyes rimmed red. “Didn’t want to wake her up.”
So Brendon feels like a secret, but he knows better than that, anyway, knows what’s coming like he can anticipate a fist flying at his face. He just lets himself smile, lets himself feel like this is okay, and his stomach feels like it’s being squeezed, all his food rising up in his throat. “Happy birthday.”
Ryan smiles and says, “Come on. I’m exhausted,” leading the way.
...
Ryan’s flight had been nearly six hours, crossing the whole goddamn country and a time zone. “God, it feels like it’s way later than it is.”
Brendon chews on a fingernail, studying the pattern on the duvet on one of the double beds. “Seattle is so out of the way for you.” It’s words, and he’s saying them just to say anything, but he knows why Ryan picked Seattle. He knows well enough.
Ryan yawns rather than answering, craning his neck towards the balcony overlooking downtown Seattle. “It’s pretty,” he says, and Brendon isn’t looking, just watching the way the skin on Ryan’s neck stretches taut with the movement, and yeah, this was a mistake. Brendon should’ve listened to Shane.
“Yeah,” is all he says in return, swallowing hard.
There’s dirt underneath his fingernail.
Ryan asks him, “Are you hungry?” and without waiting for a response, “I’m starving.”
Brendon still doesn’t look up at him but he nods, trying to remember what it was like not to feel small. He meets Ryan’s gaze and -- maybe it’s not so hard. His stomach constricts again and a smile comes to him easily and that, that’s not a good thing, probably, but Ryan just looks relieved, happy, relaxed, and that’s something Brendon hasn’t seen in a long time.
So he follows.
...
“It’s not a big deal,” Brendon says, placatingly, trying to figure out if now is the best time to touch Ryan, who looks tense in the shoulders but won’t turn around to look at him on the walk back to the hotel.
Ryan doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then, quietly, “I know. Just -- didn’t expect to be seen.”
Brendon thinks maybe leaving to go to Pike Market wasn’t the best idea, but staying locked up all weekend wasn’t, either. If Ryan didn’t want to be seen --
Brendon shuts that thought down right away. “It’s your birthday,” he says, repeating feebly what he’d told Shane before he left. “We haven’t seen each other in a while.”
That’s no one’s fault, really. Things got busy. Time off between the album and the touring. That was no one’s fault. Ryan had Keltie, and Brendon had time to himself, and they just rarely ever managed to run in the same circle. Brendon doesn’t blame Ryan. He never could.
Ryan just nods to that, the muscles in his shoulders easing up, and Brendon squeezes his arm. “So what’s next?” He’s comfortably full and the air is cool. It feels good to be here. It feels alright.
Ryan does smile at that, but shakes his head, like he’s got nothing. “We can split some beers and catch up.”
And that sounds fine. That sounds safe. So Brendon nods, loosening his grip, and the walk back to the hotel gets paused by Ryan stopping at the liquor store across the street, returning triumphantly with a twelve-pack of some german beer Brendon’s never heard of, but he guesses Ryan tried when he was up in New York.
They walk side-by-side, the plastic bag brushing against Brendon’s thigh every so often, and Ryan says, “I missed you, man,” but so quietly he might as well not have said it at all.
Brendon feels an ache tugging at him but he doesn’t know what that means.
Still, he says, “I missed you, too.” Like it had been that simple.
...
Two beers down and Ryan won’t shut up about Keltie, and that’s fine, that’s fine, because Brendon is downing his third as fast as possible to avoid having to listen to him talk for too long.
“It’s like,” Ryan’s saying, his fingers around the neck of the bottle, his lips pressing against the top, “she wants the whole fucking world from me, Brendon.” He shakes his head, and Brendon watches the way his lips move and brush against the bottle, and that’s not good, that’s not good -- “And I want to give it to her. I wish I could.”
Brendon picks at the cotton of his socks, his legs folded on the double bed closest to the door. Ryan is next to him, and their knees aren’t touching, they’re not, if you squint. Brendon says, “I’m sure she knows that.” In truth, he doesn’t know shit about Keltie other than that she’s a dancer and she’s become Ryan’s whole world in the past year. Not that it means anything at all.
Ryan swallows down the remaining froth, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have promised her anything.” His words are thick, like he’s already had a bit too much, and Brendon wonders whether to slow him down, if that’s something Ryan would take offense to.
And he doesn’t know what to say to that.
Ryan reaches out, his hand landing on Brendon’s knee, and through his jeans Ryan’s hand feels hot and solid and this wasn’t a good idea, this wasn’t a good idea -- Brendon meets his gaze and Ryan’s eyes are glassy like, God, maybe he’ll cry, but Brendon knows him better than that.
The moment -- if you could call it that -- is over in a second, when Ryan lifts his palm like he’s been burned, moving instead to fish another beer out of the box. Brendon isn’t disappointed, he’s not, so he reaches for another as well, and this time he doesn’t look at Ryan at all when he takes the first sip. Bad idea, bad idea. Ryan isn’t looking at him, isn’t looking anywhere, really, just staring at the wall like he expects something to happen there.
Brendon starts talking, then, about anything and nothing, about Shane and their place and what he’s been up to, which amounts to nearly nothing at all. Ryan relaxes, making comments here and there, even smiles, like this is normal, this is normal.
They’re friends.
This is normal.
...
Brendon barely remembers falling asleep -- just a hazy memory of stumbling into the other bed, muttering goodnight, not quite wasted but drunk enough to feel light on his feet. He wakes now to the feeling of a warm body pressing to his back, shifting under the blankets, and his eyes fly open. It’s nearly light out, dark blue in the sky outside, and Ryan’s arm is curling around his side, his face pressed against his shoulder blades.
Brendon mumbles, “What the fuck, Ryan,” but there’s laughter there, because he wonders maybe if it was a mistake, Ryan being used to cuddling someone to sleep, like it’s a normal thing for him.
Ryan burrows further into him. “I’m still drunk,” he says, and that’s probably not a lie, his words still heavy and his voice rough. “You feel good right now.”
Brendon can feel his own head swimming still, like maybe he’s not sober either, which is funny, because he can’t really remember the last time he woke up still drunk. “I feel good?”
“Mm.” Ryan hand splays across Brendon’s stomach, too close, too close. “Guess I thought you were a girl last night.”
“Right,” Brendon snorts, but he doesn’t try to wiggle away, doesn’t try to, and he doesn’t think about why. “A girl.”
Ryan laughs, and Brendon can feel the way his body shakes with the movement. “You have the hips for it.”
Brendon’s neck flushes. “Bite me, asshole.”
Ryan laughs harder, ducking his head, pressing his mouth to Brendon’s back. Brendon laughs, too, until he feels warm breath on his skin and then the pressure of teeth. Brendon’s stomach curls, his eyes flying open, and Ryan bites down on the spot between his shoulder blades. It’s not funny anymore, Brendon wants to say, his whole body thrumming, but he doesn’t say anything. Ryan bites down hard, sucks on the skin, leaving what is sure to be a mark later. Despite himself, Brendon can feel himself getting hard. Fuck.
Ryan pulls back, and Brendon can hear his breath shaking, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. Ryan leans in again, and this time it’s his tongue, swiping over the sensitive skin, tracing the indents of his teeth.
Brendon’s teeth sink into his bottom lip as he tries to stop himself from speaking. Ryan’s hand on Brendon’s stomach slides back over his hips to his side, down to where his boxer briefs cover up the slope of his ass. Brendon still doesn’t say anything. He expected this. He knew this would happen.
Ryan bites down on Brendon’s shoulder this time, and Brendon tries to focus on the noises he’s making, his slow movements and heavy breathing, and then the sensation of his hand slipping into Brendon's jeans, gripping the soft flesh of Brendon’s ass through the cloth of his boxer briefs.
Brendon says, finally, “Ryan.” Just his name, like that would help stop it.
Ryan breathes out, and his breath feels cool on the area his tongue just assaulted. “Yeah?” His voice is shaking.
Brendon doesn’t know what to say, except he can feel Ryan and knows that he’s hard, knows what he wants, what he’s asking for. Mistake. He knows it’d been a mistake but he --
Ryan’s hand splays across his stomach again, his palm warm. He doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t slide his hand down, just continues breathing hot air onto the sore spot on Brendon’s back, and his crotch is pressed up against Brendon’s ass and he can feel it, and every part of him wants to touch Ryan, remember what it was like to have him in this way. That had been a year ago, but the memories are vivid. Brendon can practically taste him still.
Brendon doesn’t move a muscle. Then, quietly, “You missed me?”
Ryan exhales, his hand inside Brendon's jeans, dipping his fingertips below the elastic of Brendon’s boxer briefs. He presses his lips to Brendon’s skin again and says, “God. You know I did.”
Brendon squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t try to think about what he means. Thinking too much never got him anywhere. He shifts, twisting until he ends up facing Ryan. It reminds him of a time before, reminds him of salt in the air and sand between his fingers, and he doesn’t want that to go away, can’t have that go away.
Brendon pushes forward, his lips connecting with Ryan’s in a way that could be more graceful, definitely, but Ryan doesn’t seem to be taking points. Fingers twist in his hair and that -- that feels like a memory, all over again, like something he can’t give a name, and Brendon presses closer. Ryan’s tongue swipes greedily over his bottom lip, licking his way into Brendon’s mouth, and he’s not close enough, not close enough.
“You think about me?” Brendon asks and he doesn’t know why he wants to hear it, doesn’t know if it matters but it does, somehow. “When you’re with her.”
Ryan’s hands slide down Brendon’s sides, his fingers getting to work on Brendon’s belt. “All the time,” he says, ducking his head to suck on Brendon’s neck, and that --
He could be lying, Brendon knows it, doesn’t know why he hasn’t learned not to trust Ryan but maybe, maybe -- not everything has to be complicated, he knows that too. He tries to remember why they stopped, but can’t come up with anything. It just had. One day.
Brendon groans when Ryan finally gets a hand inside his jeans, grabbing his cock without any kind of hesitance, like this is something he’s done a thousand times before. Maybe he has. Brendon never kept count. Ryan kisses him again, slowly fisting his cock, lazily, like he’s too focused on the kissing. Brendon grips his shoulders with both hands and --
“Do you think about me?” Ryan whispers this too close to Brendon’s ear and a prickly feeling crawls down his back. “When you’re with anyone? Do you wish it was me?”
It’s not untrue, though maybe Brendon shouldn’t let him know, shouldn’t tell him. He doesn’t want to make this seem like -- like he’s been waiting for it, expecting it, like every time Ryan looked at him a certain way he expected him to lean in to kiss him. Brendon focuses on breathing properly, his eyes squeezing shut every time Ryan’s wrist twists a certain way, trying not to let Ryan know how much he’s wanted this.
“Sometimes,” he manages, and Ryan laughs, like it’s funny.
“Sometimes?” He starts trying to push Brendon’s jeans down, sliding them further off his hips, the angle awkward. “Only sometimes?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just kisses him again, pushing at Brendon’s shoulders until he’s above him and settling between his legs.
Brendon swallows hard. “Yeah.” He doesn’t want to answer any more than that, and Ryan doesn’t seem interested in hearing what he has to say, anyway. Ryan tugs at the denim until he works the jeans down to mid-thigh, and Brendon bites his lip, watching him, his legs spreading almost automatically. Ryan slides a finger down Brendon’s cock, over the sensitive skin wound tight on his balls, teasingly traveling to the crack where he presses against his hole. Brendon closes his eyes, muffling a needy whine with his hand. “Did you bring --”
“Yeah,” Ryan cuts him off, still not looking at him, his eyes watching the movement of his hand. He finally glances up briefly. “You didn’t?”
That almost makes him want to laugh, almost, but he doesn’t. “I didn’t know we’d be doing this.”
“Yes, you did.”
And that’s not a lie, so Brendon shuts his mouth.
Ryan climbs off the bed, going rummaging through a duffel bag full of clothes. Brendon starts pulling his jeans off, having them at his ankles when Ryan makes a triumphant sound. He turns around, and in his hands he’s holding lube, the foil wrapper of a condom, and something else tucked into his palm. He approaches quickly but stops at the foot of the bed, watching Brendon undress, and it’s only when Brendon’s jeans land on the floor that Ryan starts unbuckling himself, tossing the stuff on the bed.
Brendon swallows, watching, tracing every movement, and he knows how he must look but he’s not thinking about it. Ryan doesn’t take his eyes off of him, sliding the fabric down from his hips, his bulge so obvious and, God, big. Brendon had forgotten about that part.
Brendon lifts himself to his elbows to watch, and he doesn’t care for a second if he looks desperate, needy, because fuck it, he could be, and that’s fine. So he’s missed this, so he wants this again, so what? Ryan is the last person to judge him for that.
Ryan pulls his briefs down and his cock springs free, and he’s hard, so fucking hard, and Brendon is too, wonders how often Ryan has thought about this, wonders how often Ryan jerked off thinking about this like Brendon has but would never admit to. Brendon sits up just as Ryan’s knees land on the edge of the bed, and he pulls himself forward to touch him, can’t help it, never could. His fingertips trail up and down the length, and he’s trying to look unaffected, trying to look like this is something he’s used to doing, but his hands are shaking, like he’s scared to touch.
Ryan shifts forward a little bit on his knees, pushing Brendon to lie flat. Brendon closes his eyes, willing himself not to whimper or shake or anything else mildly embarrassing. When he opens his eyes, Ryan is holding a small plastic baggie, shaking it back and forth so all the familiar white powder lands at the bottom. Brendon bites down on his bottom lip. “Didn’t know you had that.”
Ryan glances up. “Want some?”
And he does, of course he does, can’t remember when Ryan told him he’s been trying all this shit, can’t understand why he wouldn’t tell him in the first place. He nods and sits up again, watches Ryan shaking a generous amount onto the back of a movie ticket stub, folding it just right to align it. Brendon doesn’t wait for an invitation and leans down, squeezing his eyes shut as he snorts the substance in one go.
It hits him almost immediately, his eyes watering, every part of his exposed skin tingling. He watches Ryan toss the ticket stub, wonders suddenly what movie he saw, and who with, and it’s probably Keltie, yeah, probably her, and he imagines Ryan holding her hand and buying her popcorn and doing all the boyfriend stuff and Brendon sometimes fucking wishes he’d just --
But it’s fine, it’s fine, because Brendon grabs the back of Ryan’s head with both hands and scrapes his fingers against his scalp and pulls him in and the kiss is dirty and wet and sloppy and Brendon licks at the roof of Ryan’s mouth and thinks, this is fine, because it is, and then mine, mine, mine, because it is, for now.
Ryan sucks on his bottom lip, biting just the right way, just soft enough, like he knows, and then he pulls away with a pop and pushes at Brendon’s chest to get him to lie down.
Brendon hasn’t had coke in a long time and he’d forgotten it, sort of, how everything is heightened, and he feels everything like it’s happening to him for the first time, and it’s hard to keep from squirming. Ryan places his palm on Brendon’s abdomen and Brendon looks up, focuses on his face. “What?” His mouth feels sore. He just wants to kiss him again.
Ryan says, “Don’t move,” and Brendon holds his breath and lies still, as still as possible. Ryan gives him this look, like Brendon is being a good boy, a fucking good boy, doing what he says, and that makes his stomach flip. Ryan starts shaking powder onto his stomach, right above where the fine hairs start to get coarser, just above where his cockhead’s resting on his stomach. Brendon balls his hands into fists and focuses on not moving.
Ryan seals the bag and tosses it aside, leaning down over Brendon’s cock, and that shouldn’t be allowed, he shouldn’t be allowed to be so close if he’s not going to --
Ryan’s tongue flattens against the underside of Brendon’s cock and the sensation is unexpected and cruel, really, so fucking cruel because Brendon can’t move, isn’t allowed to, and his muscles quiver, his legs shake. Ryan is in between his parted legs, already parted because he knows, he knows. He leans down again but this time to snort the line off his stomach, and the feeling of it just makes Brendon feel ticklish. Ryan coughs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, blinking too fast like maybe it had been too much.
After a second his mouth, open and wet and soft, lands on Brendon’s skin and he’s licking up what he missed, and God, that can’t be allowed. Brendon’s eyes are wide and focused on him, and he wants the image in his brain forever, wants to file it away in the storage cabinets on the walls of his skull so he can always, always, always --
Ryan says, “How do you feel?”
Brendon breathes out through his mouth. “Good.”
“Just good?” Ryan won’t look at him, still kissing the skin around his belly button, his tongue hot and perfect, and his voice is muffled but he sounds so clear, so close.
Brendon attempts to pull him up by his shoulder but Ryan won’t move. He gives up, then, letting his arm fall back to his side, borderline frustrated with all the sensations coursing through him, like he can’t pick one to feel, he has to feel all of them. He blinks up at the ceiling and then looks back down at Ryan, who’s started to circle his hipbones with his tongue. Brendon bites back the moan rising in his throat. “I feel fucking crazy,” he says.
Ryan looks up, finally. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Brendon licks his lips. “C’mere.”
He expects Ryan to refuse but Ryan complies easily, and his skin is burning hot, so hot Brendon can’t stand it when Ryan leans over him and kisses him. Shouldn’t be allowed, shouldn’t be, and God, maybe they shouldn’t be doing this anyway, not with Keltie and --
“Stop thinking so much,” Ryan pants into his mouth and Brendon had forgotten, of course he had.
Brendon surges up with his whole body to catch Ryan’s lips again, his cock thrusting against Ryan’s and that feels so good and Brendon just wants it again. Ryan’s hips roll down and Brendon curses into his mouth and Ryan grips onto his hair with one hand, tugging the way Brendon likes it, didn’t know he liked it until Ryan taught him, a year ago, God, a whole fucking year ago.
Ryan’s lips wander away from Brendon’s, kissing along his jawline and down to his throat, his mouth wet and hot there, then biting down and sucking and Brendon knows it’ll leave a mark, knows it, and his eyes are on the ceiling, trying to keep in control of his body. Everything feels like it’s not happening to him. He is not here, in this bed, in Seattle, he’s not this person, but he is, he’s hyper-aware of everything, and it’s a strange combination, this sense of awareness and unawareness.
Ryan detaches himself from his neck and pulls back to look at his face, and Brendon stares at his eyes, the way they’ve darkened, the way his pupils look, a combination of lust and coke, probably, a strange middle-ground. Ryan lets out a shaky exhale. “I’ve been thinking about this all year.”
The feeling in Brendon’s chest that expands and fills cannot be real, a phantom thing. He wants it to go away. “All year?”
Ryan’s hand comes up to brush a few stray hairs behind Brendon’s ear. It’s a touch for lovers. Brendon wills his heart to stop beating like that, like it knows something he doesn’t. “You have no idea.” His sigh washes over Brendon’s face. “I think about you all the fucking time.”
It feels like a confession and Brendon can’t -- doesn’t want to hear that, please, God, that’s the last thing he needs right now. Something under his skin is panicking, his blood racing like it’s trying too hard to get to his heart. Brendon can’t hear this, can’t feel this -- this isn’t what he came here for, it’s not, it’s not. He tells himself that.
Instead of answering, Brendon bucks up once, his lower body lifting off the sheets, his cock sliding along Ryan’s. Ryan hisses once, his elbows shaking, like he can no longer hold his weight over Brendon, like it’s becoming too much.
Brendon pushes up again and this time crushes his mouth against Ryan’s, his swollen lips feeling sore and raw. “Ryan.” It comes out like a whine, which isn’t what he wanted, not really, but it does its job, because Ryan groans, kisses him again and again. “Ryan,” Brendon repeats, his breath coming in quick gasps when Ryan pulls back again. “Can you, just --”
“You want me to fuck you?” His voice is hoarse and deep, like Brendon’s never heard it, not even from before.
Brendon nods, biting his lip, not trusting his voice right now. God, he doesn’t even have the sense to feel embarrassed, and maybe that’s the coke, maybe it’s -- but he knows himself, anyway, knows what he likes. His ears burn hotly, like maybe his body is reacting the way his brain should be. At least part of him is.
Ryan lifts himself off Brendon and for a second Brendon is almost confused, craving touch and warmth, the brush of skin on skin, but Ryan only reaches behind him for a second, fumbling with something in the sheets. He frowns and moves to sit up in between Brendon’s parted thighs, finally retrieving the lube, then looking back down at Brendon with this fucking look, this stupid --
Like he knows.
Brendon squeezes his eyes shut. Let him wonder, let him look harder. He can’t see everything, he’s not allowed to.
Ryan says, “Brendon,” and his eyes open again, focusing on the way Ryan is slicking up his fingers, and God, the anticipation has him biting down on his tongue and tasting iron. He hasn’t, in a while. Not with a guy. Not in fucking forever. And that feels like a confession, too, something he should keep to himself, so he does, doesn’t say it out loud. Ryan shouldn’t know every secret, it’s not fair.
He doesn’t look away when Ryan’s eyes leave his, he still watches, the way Ryan reaches between his legs, already wide open and ready, his thighs shaking ever so slightly, adrenaline in his veins. Ryan’s fingers are cold and wet when they press against his hole and the whimper in his throat gets choked down. Ryan’s fingertips just circle him, not pushing in, not yet, and Brendon’s fingernails press into his palms, and he imagines that he’ll draw blood, imagines that he can already taste it down his throat.
“Ryan,” and that time it comes out like a whimper, fuck, like it’s obvious, how much Brendon wants it, how much he’s waited and how he can’t do it anymore, can’t --
Ryan pushes in with one finger, going knuckle-deep, and Brendon can’t help the noise that comes strangled from his throat, because it’s been too long, so fucking long, and Ryan is hovering over him, still seated between his thighs. Brendon forces his eyes open, ignoring the sensation of burning in the pit of his stomach, and catches Ryan’s gaze, staring down at him, as if watching the flashes of pleasure, the way Brendon’s lip quivers in anticipation.
Without breaking eye contact, Ryan pushes in a second finger, and Brendon’s teeth sink into his bottom lip, leaving indentations there, and if his cheeks are wet he doesn’t notice. Still he refuses to shut his eyes, wants to watch Ryan watching him. The stretch leaves a shooting sensation of pain running up his spine but Ryan’s fingers are constantly moving, pushing in and out at a steady pace, and just when Brendon is used to this, just when his body accommodates to the feeling, Ryan crooks his fingers.
“Fuck,” Brendon gasps without meaning to, because God, he forgot about that, he forgot how that felt. He squirms against the sheets and Ryan’s free hand comes down on his stomach, pushing him down and keeping him still. Ryan hooks his fingers again, pressing against the spot that makes Brendon feel crazy, makes him feel like he’s going to explode. This time, Brendon can’t move, and it heightens the feeling somehow, his skin still buzzing with coke and now his whole body feeling like he’s about to come undone.
Ryan’s tongue darts out to wet his lips as his fingers continue their slide. “You okay?”
Brendon can hardly manage to keep his eyes open, and his tongue feels thick and fuzzy in his mouth. “Yeah,” he manages, breathing out through his nose, like that’ll help him be able to form words properly. Ryan’s face is impossible to read but he keeps his fingers working inside of Brendon, and the slick slide is intoxicating, the way he’s pushing at the muscles.
Ryan’s fingers start to pull out, the very tips of them remaining inside, and Brendon wants to protest that, wants to -- but then Ryan’s pushing in again and at a different angle, and everything Brendon wants to say dies in his throat. He’s sweating too much, his forehead drenched, every muscle in his body wound too tight, too tight, like a rubber band. Ryan keeps watching him and that feeling is hard to shake off, the feeling of being exposed, the feeling of being filled up and worshiped. Too much.
Brendon can’t help himself, reaching out to touch his cock, his fingers sliding along the heated skin. Ryan immediately moves to help him, covering his hand with his own free hand, giving his cock a few eager pumps. The sounds that rip from his throat don’t sound human, don’t sound like him. Ryan’s fingers keep moving, his other hand squeezing Brendon’s cock, and God, Brendon feels close, like he could come right then.
“Ryan, I think I’m gonna,” is the closest he gets before Ryan’s fingers slip out of him entirely. His body trembles involuntarily, sweat on his brow and slicked to his neck, in some way like when he’s on stage, and he shouldn’t think about that now, that’s not good, that’s not --
Ryan’s mouth is on his before Brendon can say or think anything else, his tongue sliding along Brendon’s, deep and wild and urgent, like they’ll run out of time. And then Ryan’s saying, “God, you’re so hot, fuck,” like he’d forgotten, somehow, like he’d somehow lost all memory of Brendon’s face when he’s close to coming, of Brendon’s face drenched in sweat and his cock flushed. Brendon almost thinks that’s not fair, maybe, that Ryan could forget, even a little bit. Not fair that Ryan’s memory works like an Etch-a-Sketch, and Brendon’s left with all the picture images, like posters hanging up on the walls of his brain.
Doesn’t matter now.
Brendon pushes both hands into Ryan’s hair, the strands in between his fingers soft and damp at the roots. “Please,” he says, doesn’t know what he’s asking for until he does, “fuck me, Ryan, please.”
Ryan pulls back, a smacking sound between them as he lifts himself to hover over him. Brendon’s legs are already wrapped around his waist, he’s being greedy and eager but he doesn’t care. Ryan reaches for the foil wrapper of the condom and a sudden vehement feeling of no, no, no rises in Brendon’s chest. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand himself, but when Ryan is holding the condom in between two fingers Brendon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and says, quietly, “No.”
Ryan looks at him, a frown on his face. “What?”
Brendon impatiently reaches for the condom and snatches it from him, chucking it across the room. He locks his legs tighter around Ryan’s hips, feeling selfish and mean and possessive. Ryan has this look on his face like he’s not sure what he’s meant to think, but then Brendon's shifting, writhing beneath him, unable to handle him being so close and so far. He reaches down between them and curls his hand around Ryan’s dick. He enjoys the way Ryan’s breath hitches, the way his hips buck forward pathetically out of reflex. Brendon thumbs the slit of his cock and trails the wetness down to the underside, his every movement slow and deliberate.
He says, “Just this once,” into the short space between their mouths, sounding needy and desperate but being unable to care. “I just want to feel you.” He doesn’t know which part of him is talking, surely the irrational part of him, the part of him drugged up and hungry and yearning.
It doesn’t seem to matter, though; his words have an animalistic effect on Ryan, who makes some kind of half-growl, half-groan sound from deep in his throat, something between a “fuck” and an “oh, God.” Ryan props himself up on his elbow and uses one hand to squeeze lube onto his palm clumsily. Brendon removes his exploring hand just as Ryan starts fisting his cock, spreading the lube evenly, hissing as he does it like he’s too hard, like he’ll come just from that alone.
Brendon keeps kissing him, little kisses on the corner of his mouth, bites along his jaw, seeking constant touch, warmth, contact. Ryan doesn’t seem focused on it until he is, until he’s shifting his weight between Brendon and moving up his body a little. Brendon doesn’t get it, not at first, but then the wet tip of Ryan’s cock slides against his crack, aligning with his hole, and the world clears up, every molecule freezing up, every sensation evening out and his blood thrumming in anticipation.
Ryan gazes down at him and that look, that look has Brendon’s whole body wired tight, and he feels like he’ll snap in two. Ryan’s hard enough for Brendon to feel the pressure before he’s pushed forward at all. Ryan’s hands are in Brendon’s hair, his fingernails scraping at his scalp, and he whispers, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”
Brendon doesn’t know if he believes him, really, and about which part? But it doesn’t matter, not at all, because Ryan is pushing forwards suddenly, his cock so unbelievably hard, one of his hands landing on Brendon’s shoulder, as if to keep him still on the bed. Brendon bites down so hard on his lip he’s sure he’s cut into it. The slide is smooth, though it’s clear Ryan’s forcing himself inside, and maybe they should’ve --
God, and it burns. He’d forgotten, maybe, about that part, and somehow without the condom it feels better, like there’s less in between them, just this, this, this. So simple and easy. So fucking good.
Ryan buries himself as far as he can go and Brendon finally lets out his breath. It stings, God, it feels like an intrusion, but it makes it better, somehow, because behind the pain is something better, sweeter, and Brendon wants that. Ryan groans, sounding like he’s already going to come, like he can’t handle even this part, like it feels better than he expected.
“God.” Ryan’s head drops onto Brendon’s shoulder, his mouth tracing words there, indistinguishable. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good.” His voice is shaking. Shaking? Brendon breathes out and finds himself trembling, too.
“Why did we stop?” It’s a dumb question to ask now that Ryan’s in him, so fucking close, closer than anyone’s been, but Brendon can’t shut his brain off, can’t stop himself from feeling and thinking and wanting and --
Ryan draws his hips back suddenly and then thrusts back in, and Brendon cries out without meaning to. Ryan’s mouth is on his again, coaxing and demanding, and Brendon almost forgets he asked anything, until Ryan’s pulling back, using his left hand to push Brendon’s sweat-slicked bangs off his forehead, pressing his forehead to Brendon’s and saying, “Because I couldn’t stop.”
And that doesn’t make sense, not really, but Brendon feels the shiver coursing through his blood anyways. Ryan’s eyes are staring into his and it’s unnerving. Like he knows. Like he can see everything. Brendon just says, “Okay,” like he’s satisfied by the answer.
Ryan’s breath is coming in short gasps, like he can’t handle this, and that’s funny, that’s goddamn hilarious. Brendon always wanted to be the one to make Ryan break character, so he tried extra hard to make him laugh and when that didn’t work, he’d try extra hard to make him angry, because indifference was worse than anger. Brendon wanted to be the person to drive Ryan fucking crazy. On the night it first happened, sand between their toes and salt in the air, Brendon had been trying so hard to make Ryan kiss him.
Now, Ryan’s fingers dig into Brendon’s hip as he thrusts into him at a steady pace, and the short space between them gets filled up with his breath and the sounds ripping from his chest, and Brendon feels like maybe he’s accomplished that, maybe he’s finally driven Ryan crazy. Losing himself in the process. Still better than indifference.
Brendon can’t fucking shut up, never could, and wonders if Ryan remembers that from the time they did this before. He keeps crying out, involuntarily, his head twisting back into the pillow, his jaw dropping open as he trembles and groans and sounds just like he’s being fucked, properly fucked, and if the shoe fits --
Ryan draws back again and Brendon can feel every inch in a sweet slide, and he nearly pulls out all the way, the very tip of his cock remaining inside of him, and Brendon wants to protest that, but then Ryan thrusts in again at a different angle, brutally hard, and Brendon’s back arches off this sheets and he sputters and gasps, his hands sliding over Ryan’s shoulders.
He’d forgotten, of course he had, that it was so good, that it felt like this, and maybe he’d forgotten because Ryan had gotten better. Maybe it wasn’t like this before. He’s thinking too much. He doesn’t know why that is, if it’s a combination of being drugged up and pinned down, his whole body pulsing and thrumming and his brain going into overdrive. Ryan pushes in again, this time brushing against Brendon’s prostate, and God, that feels so -- Brendon claws at Ryan’s back like maybe he could draw blood if he wanted to, and he wants to, he wants to.
Brendon’s head rolls back onto the pillow and Ryan takes the opportunity to lean down and press devouring kisses to his neck, his throat, sucking on his Adam’s apple, and Brendon wonders if there will be bruises. Ryan’s teeth scrape against his skin and Brendon shivers, wanting. His whole body is on edge, unbearable pleasure from where Ryan’s cock disappears inside him, and then feeling like he’s being swallowed hole by the consuming kisses and bites. Proof that it was Ryan on his skin. No one else.
Brendon forces a hand between them and cups his cock, choking down a breathy whine when his fingers make contact with the heated flesh. The tip feels wet, and Brendon spreads some of his pre-come with his thumb, giving himself a few strokes. It helps, somehow, in dealing with the pleasure, the way it radiates through him and makes his skin flare up. He needs to finish because it’s too fucking much, it’s too much everywhere and all over and Ryan, God, he’s missed this, okay, and that’s not anything to be ashamed of, it’s not.
Ryan’s hips snap forward erratically, like he’s maybe getting close, and Brendon bites down on his thumb, his other hand still stroking himself, and he’s not looking at Ryan, can’t, his eyes shut so tight he’s seeing fireworks behind them. It’s rattling through his body, all of it, the millions of sensations, and the noises Ryan’s making sound like music, if he strains his ears.
“Bren,” Ryan’s saying, and Brendon does open his eyes then, unnerved at how close Ryan is, how intense this feels because that’s not what he wanted, he just --
But it is what he wanted, of course it is, he can’t lie and say otherwise when his body tells a different story, less editing, a rough draft of the truth. Brendon doesn’t know what Ryan wants him to see in his eyes but he stares back anyway.
Ryan puts space between them, extending his arm, and then shamelessly grabs Brendon’s cock, his fingers sliding into the gaps between Brendon’s and giving a few experimental pumps, like he’s trying to see what Brendon likes. Brendon can’t help the way his mouth drops open, can’t help the moans that escape him, and Ryan seems content with this, tightening his grip towards the tip as if trying to get more out of him.
Brendon licks his dry lips, overwhelmed. His right hand slides from Ryan’s shoulder to his lower back, pulling him in, his legs tightening their hold on him. He’ll be bruised. Brendon wants to leave him that way. Proof that he was here.
Ryan matches his strokes with the pace of his thrusts, and it’s liquid movement, addicting, a sharp sensation of pain and pleasure. Brendon’s nails scrape into his back. “Ryan.” He feels like he’s asking for something but he doesn’t know what for, and Ryan doesn’t ask, anyways, their thoughts on two different wavelengths, parallel lines that won’t meet. He feels it building inside of him, starting from his stomach and the burning feeling, the way his lungs struggle to process the air he’s gasping.
“Ryan,” Brendon warns. “I’m gonna --” and it gets cut off when Ryan pushes in brutally hard and deep, the head of his cock making contact with Brendon’s prostate, and he continues to jerk Brendon off. Everything is heightened, everything feels hot and perfect and he could do this for hours, he could never leave this bed.
Brendon grinds his teeth together, forcing back the filthy moan rising in his throat, and God, Ryan’s thrusts get deeper and faster like he’s intent to make Brendon explode, and that’s not fair, Brendon wants to protest --
When he comes, it’s a surprise, like he wasn’t expecting it but he was. His back arches, his eyes squeezed shut, sweat on his forehead trickling down the sides of his face, and the white light, the fireworks, it all comes apart in him and he feels come sliding through his fingers and Ryan’s fingers, entwined, like it was a joint effort. His come feels warm and sticky on his lower stomach, but he can’t focus on it, hardly feels it.
Brendon can’t even breathe, his chest rising and falling so rapidly like he’s just ran a marathon, going for the gold. He hasn’t come down yet when Ryan’s rushed-out breaths get even more uneven and Ryan leans forward, sucking on a sore spot of Brendon’s neck, groaning like he’s never fucked before, like this is the first time, and Brendon feels it, Ryan emptying himself inside of him. It’s a surreal feeling, like being filled without having known that he was empty. Being claimed without knowing he was free.
Ryan keeps thrusting, minuscule movements now, until eventually he comes to a stop, slumping forward, his weight on Brendon’s chest and his mouth close to his ear, panting.
Brendon blinks up at the ceiling, trying to find something to focus on, but it’s all white, nothing special, nothing to look at. He’s trying to keep a hold of something, some kind of reality. Ryan remains inside him, and Brendon’s come must be smearing on Ryan’s stomach but Ryan isn’t saying anything, isn’t complaining. Brendon can’t even fucking move. He feels fucking unreal.
Ryan stirs on top of him after what feels like hours but must only be minutes. He lifts himself just slightly to look at Brendon’s face and, wordlessly, moves in for a kiss, this time soft and intent, his lips sliding slowly over Brendon’s. And that feels nice, that feels like something, so Brendon clutches onto that, arms wrapping around Ryan’s neck, not trying to get hard, not trying to feel anything he doesn’t want to. Ryan keeps kissing him, keeps kissing him. It feels...
Brendon pulls back an inch, loosening his legs’ hold of Ryan’s hips, detangling himself from Ryan’s grip. He doesn’t want to feel this fucking consumed, controlled, but Ryan looks at him, and his gaze is warm and open like Brendon’s never seen it, and maybe. Maybe.
“Do you feel guilty?” Keltie is here even now, in this bed, on these sheets that they’ve made their home. Brendon can feel it, this unpleasant feeling twisting his stomach.
Ryan is softening now inside of him but doesn’t move. Brendon is grateful for that. He wants to keep him close, as close as he can, for as long as he can. Ryan shakes his head, an imperceptible movement, and then he kisses Brendon again, a closed-mouth brush of skin. It’s enough.
Brendon says, “I love you.”
It’s not a confession. Confessions implied something that isn’t already known, some secret that’s been hidden. Brendon hasn’t tried to hide it. Hasn’t wanted to. He wears his heart on his sleeve, anyways. Couldn’t if he tried.
Ryan exhales into his hair. He doesn’t answer for a long time, his breath coming in slow and deep near Brendon’s ear. So maybe not guilty. If it doesn’t mean anything, then who has room for guilt? For shame? It’s nothing but skin on skin. There’s no guilt when there’s no meaning. Brendon swallows down the bile in his throat. No guilt because it doesn’t mean anything. And he knew that. He knew that, of course he did. Knew that even before he came here.
Ryan says, “I never want to leave this bed.”
Brendon closes his eyes. “So let’s not.”
When Ryan pulls out of him, Brendon hisses a little, can’t help it, the way his muscles ache at the loss. He feels Ryan’s come rolling out in his wake, and it’s not an unpleasant sensation, just fucking weird. He could maybe do that again. Could. Ryan wouldn’t object.
Ryan collapses next to him, falling under a strip of pale light coming from the uneven curtains. It’s morning now. A new day, and Brendon’s already gone back to the person he was a year ago. It’s not like he didn’t expect it.
At least now he feels sobered up.
...
He tells himself he doesn’t ask what this means for them, for their friendship, for their lack-thereof, because it doesn’t matter, and that’s such a half-truth, because it does. It has to matter. But Ryan keeps looking at him like all that exists is that room, that bed, those sheets, all that exists for him is the world they’ve created for themselves here. And the words die in Brendon’s throat. The questions fizzle out. Because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to matter. It shouldn’t. So he doesn’t ask.
He doesn’t want to know.
...
Brendon makes the mistake of looking at himself in the mirror after, when the day has faded into the night, and they must’ve spent all day in that goddamn bed, relearning each other, like they’d somehow forgotten. The mistake, of course, is looking himself in the eye. He doesn’t want to. The boy in the mirror is still acting like he’s barely eighteen, all those flutters in his stomach, all those quick, passing touches that don’t mean anything but feel like everything. That boy in the mirror is acting like a fucking idiot.
The lighting hurts his eyes, making them water. He touches an ugly, purple bruise on his neck, the perfect indentation of Ryan’s teeth there. He imagines he’s been found dead, nothing but his body and his bruises, but he’s not dead, of course. He’s still breathing. He presses harder on it and it stings. It feels good. He hates himself.
And on his chest, nail marks and scratches, half-moon imprints circling his wrist and his hips, bruises from Ryan’s hands pressing too hard. He wonders if Ryan means to mark him. Means to leave memories on his skin. Like he can never look at himself again without thinking of Ryan. Maybe that’s the point, the whole fucking point.
Brendon’s lips are swollen. He licks over a sore on his bottom lip, probably from biting on his lip too hard. God. It’s like Ryan has found a home inside Brendon’s flesh and is doing all he can to get inside.
Stupid boy in the mirror. Stupid boy in the bed. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He shuts off the light.
...
Brendon doesn’t ask what it means. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t have to.
Ryan clutches onto the hairs at the back of Brendon’s neck. He says, “I missed you.” And it doesn’t even sound like a lie. It doesn’t even sound like he’s pretending. Brendon has to swallow it all down. Smile. It doesn’t have to be real.
And then it’s Brendon watching him at the windowsill, Ryan on a chair pulled up to the view as the morning unfolds before them, the sun turning up pale and bright over the horizon as the world changes colors. Ryan is writing. He’s been writing too much this weekend.
And Brendon... God. Brendon doesn’t want to have to a sing a song about Seattle, doesn’t want to have to sing a song about all these mistakes Ryan won’t stop making. He can’t sing Ryan’s words when those words are about him.
Still. He says nothing. Just watches.