Archive of Our Own

P!ATD Fic//Strange and Beautiful // AU // Ryan/Brendon // NC-17 // ~9500 words

we_are_cities prompt for june 05 07

past the road to your house
(that you never called home).

It's cold; a deep chilling cold that reaches his insides. He's scared, scared and alone; but he's determined and stubborn and he had to get out of there, and he's never, never going back.

---

Brendon walks along the abandoned road, trying to swallow the panic threatening to crawl up his throat and drown him. It had been a rash decision (and the phrase brings to mind his grandfather, and he thinks family, he thinks home and he wavers).

His mother, they'd been alone with her as usual, her and Brendon, the baby in his overcrowded crib, bawling recklessly out into the already stuffy and overheated house. Her current boyfriend had been nowhere to be found and she'd been angry, and she'd taken it out on Brendon.

A berating word here, a stinging slap to the back of his head; nothing she hadn't done before. And he'd taken it stoically, reheating the baby's formula after she'd criticized its warmth, and he'd tried to make himself as unobtrusive as possible.

Then she'd gone to her room, locked the door behind her, leaving Brendon and the miserable baby, and he'd known she'd gone to snort up.

She'd come out half an hour later, jittery and rubbing repeatedly at her nose, looking as if her nerves would snap any second.

The night had ended with the baby's crib overturned, splashes of formula on the floor and Brendon leaving and fervently vowing to himself that he'd never come back.

---

Now Brendon's walking aimlessly, dragging his feet through the melting ice on the black asphalt of the empty street and wondering what the fuck he's going to do.

It's hard to choke back the panic now, when the gravity of his situation washes over him.
He's alone, in the middle of the night, two dollars and a gum stick in his pocket, a too thin jacket over his shoulders and nowhere to go.

He's fucked.

He's fucked

He collapses on the wooden seat of a bus stop and drops his head to his hands. He has nowhere to go; he was so fucking stupid, stupid. But how could he have stayed? She would have killed him eventually, he's sure of it (she'd threatened to more than once).

Brendon isn't aware that he'd been whimpering, that wet, cold tears had been sliding down his face messily until an anonymous voice asks,

"Hey, dude. Are you alright?"

---

His name is Jon Walker, and he keeps telling Brendon he's lucky that it'd been him who'd found him, 'cause this part of town's dangerous ('Man, you could'a been corrupted).

Jon drags Brendon up from the seat that night, outing his cigarette with his other hand and releasing one last white plume of smoke into the air. Brendon (and maybe this is because he's just naturally trusting, and would've spilled his guts to anyone just then, in the state he was in) discerns from Jon's relatable face and concerned features that he can talk to him.

He tells him everything; about the baby, his mother, the boyfriends, the crack, the beatings. He tells Jon all this in a small boyish voice, reduced to pure innocence in the quiet aloofness of the cold night.

Jon listens, then drags Brendon up, letting him lean on his shoulder, and brings him back to his apartment. Brendon, eyes already falling closed from the warmth of Jon's body and the comforting scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket, he follows.

---

Brendon doesn't remember much from the rest of that night. He can recall being shuffled through a door, up narrow stairs and into a dark apartment, the blue lights of a muted T.V. in the distance and more smoke, the thick choking scent of weed.

He remembers falling into a bed while warm fingers pried his wet jacket and shoes from his body, and then he remembers sleep.

---

The next morning, Brendon wakes up bleary and unfocused, and then anxious because even before he opens his eyes, the brilliance of the sun is making red spots behind his closed lids. It's late, and he didn't get up to wake mom, shit.

Then he opens his eyes and sees the unfamiliar room swim before him and he thinks, oh.

Then shit.

---

So Jon goes to school part time, he works at Starbucks and he lives with his roommate Spencer.

Spencer hates Brendon.

Okay, not necessarily hate, but Brendon's pretty sure it's close. The first morning he stumbles out of the strange room and into a strange kitchen. This one's small and well-lit and there are boxes of opened cereal and a half-full bottle of milk on the counter.

Behind the counter is a strange boy, and his blue eyes are looking at Brendon suspiciously, as if to say don't come any closer, I know what you are.

Brendon turns to run through the front door, his fingers fumbling over the unfamiliar chains and locks.

"Hey, wait." The stranger stands and says, placing his bowl on the counter and coming to stand beside Brendon, putting his hands protectively on the door.

"Jon told me you were here; I'm Spencer, his roommate. What's your name?" Spencer smells like soap, cologne, milk and sugary cereal. Brendon smells like baby formula and wet musty clothes.

He drops his head and mumbles out his name. Spencer smiles at him tentatively, though Brendon can see that his eyes are still guarded—untrusting.

"Do you want some cereal?"

---

Later that day when Jon finally comes home, smelling of coffee and vanilla, Brendon is showered and wearing a pair of Spencer's jeans, a shirt and a hoodie bearing Spencer's college logo across its front.

All the clothes hang loosely on Brendon, but he burrows in them, grateful for their warmth and clean smell.

Spencer's stopped looking at him suspiciously now; it's been replaced by barely hidden pity after he hears Brendon's story. Brendon's not sure which he prefers.

They're playing video games on the T.V. in the living room/hang out room when a key turns in the door's lock and it opens. Jon steps in with a package of coffee beans and a tired smile which brightens when he sees Brendon seated beside Spencer.

"Hey man, "he asks, "You doing alright?"

Brendon drops the game controller, feeling absurdly guilty that maybe he'd made himself too much at home.

He smiles at Jon, "Yeah." He fingers the hem of the hoodie nervously, tapping his bare feet frantically against the carpeted floor. He knows he'll have to go soon, and last night's panic is threatening to return full force. He stretches his face into a broad smile, maybe he could go to the park? He's always seen people lying on the benches, hidden beneath the trees.

"Yeah man, thanks for everything, taking me in and stuff. I should probably go now though, I can—"

"Wait, what?" Spencer interrupts, his face wrinkled in confusion. "Where are you going to go? Back home?"

"No," both Brendon and Jon answer quickly. Jon glances at Brendon briefly before continuing, "You can't go home dude, not after what you told me."

Brendon sighs, "No, I'm not going home. But I was thinking, maybe the park? I mean--"

Jon and Spencer look at each other worriedly, then seem to confer and come to some silent decision with their eyes.

Spencer sighs and Jon answers, "No. Dude, you're staying here. It's cool, we'll help you out and stuff, until we find somewhere for you to go.

Brendon opens his mouth to protest half-heartedly. He doesn't really want to leave, he has no fucking idea where he'd go and he's still scared out of his mind. "But—"

"No," Spencer silences him firmly, "You're staying."

So, he stays.

---

put down your hollow tips
and kiss your lover's lips
and know that fate is what we make of it.

After that, Spencer complains that they should've kicked him out on his ass when they had the chance.

Brendon usually grins and continues whatever he's doing, pausing briefly to smack a wet kiss to Spencer's cheek.

He sleeps on the sofa at nights, bundled in blankets and dressed in a pair of either Jon or Spencer's sweatpants.

He's sure he's never been happier.

In the mornings he wakes up early and watches Jon prepare coffee (which he's allowed none of, the caffeine incident does not need to be repeated) while he gulps down orange juice, watching Jon pour the liquid into enamel mugs, adding milk and sugar precisely, his hair falling into his eyes.

Later, when Jon leaves for work, Brendon waits for Spencer to wake up, munching on cereal and watching cartoons ("How old did you say you were again?" Spencer had asked the first time. "Seventeen." "Oh god.").

When Spencer wakes up, Brendon manages not to bug him until he's had his second cup of coffee. After which he proceeds to badger him until their daily ritual comprises of Spencer threatening to choke Brendon with the cord of the game controllers and then throw the Xbox out the window.

Brendon's (almost) convinced that he won't follow through.

Then Spencer leaves for school and Brendon's left alone. The first time this happens, Brendon's mind inevitably drifts back to his mother and that house and the baby and the heat and the noises and the men.

Brendon doesn't do well alone.

After that, Spencer convinces him to leave the apartment daily and do something. Something which does not involve him following Spencer to school or staying at Starbucks so long that even Jon gets tired of him.

Brendon sees it as an adventure. He can't remember a time when he didn't have to be taking care of somebody; be it his mother on a binge, wiping up her nose and putting her to the bed, or the (always) crying baby, cleaning a dirty diaper, feeding, amusing.

Now there's nothing to do, its different, a good different.

Brendon explores.

---

He ends up at the library, this is strange in and of itself because Brendon? Doesn't read—he has no patience for it.

But he'd stolen Jon's bicycle and had been wandering around town, exploring and trying to pop a wheelie (and failing. Twice). So he'd rested the bike against a rack where other's had been chained up and walked into the library.

It took him about five minutes to become bored.

So now he's wandering the aisles, picking up books randomly and dropping them back down, wondering if it's really too soon after last week's espresso fiasco for him to go visit Jon.

Then the book he means to drop on one of the library's wooden desks lands on something else; human flesh to be exact.

Brendon's moving his fingers around blindly when a voice asks in a monotone, "What are you doing?"

He looks down; he's—well, he's fondling this dude's eye. He removes his hand and smiles sheepishly, "Um, sorry?"

The guy rolls his eyes and lets out an irritated breath, then turns his head away from Brendon; pressing it flat on the wood of the desk and holding a book in front of him.

Brendon stands still for a moment before walking around so that his body casts a shadow on the boy's face and book.

The boy sighs again and looks up through the strands of brown hair which fall into his eyes. "Do you mind?'

Brendon shrugs, "No," and keeps standing. He stays like that for ten seconds until the boy stands up quickly, pushing back his chair and moving through the aisles of books.

Brendon follows behind him, 'Hey! Wait up."

"Shut up," the boy hisses, "We're in a library."

"Oh," Brendon answers, and then drops his voice. 'I'm Brendon, what's your name?"

The boy's sits around another table, but seems to abandon placing his head back on the desk and into his book.

"Ryan." He answers shortly.

Brendon smiles.

---

Now, everyday after his daily ritual of watching Jon make coffee and badgering Spencer until he leaves for school, Brendon rides over to the library.

The first couple of weeks of him going are pretty much repeats of the first day. Ryan basically ignores him and answers Brendon's incessant questions with the minimum amount of words, usually fingering the pages of a book in his hands.

Today the book is a copy of Frederic Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil, but Ryan's pretty much given up on reading it and has surrendered to Brendon's endless chatter.

He's rambling on about Jon and Spencer as usual and Ryan interrupts him to ask, "Hey, who are they? I mean, I know you live with them, but are they your brothers or something?"

Brendon is momentarily stunned into silence; these are the most words Ryan's ever spoken in one sentence. "Dude, you talked."

Ryan sighs and rolls his eyes; this is a habit of his that Brendon has observed. Another observation: Ryan is bitchy.

He idly opens his book again and Brendon grins before answering, "No, we're not related. I just live with them."

"Oh," Ryan answers, and then goes back to reading. "Okay."

---

Brendon drags Ryan with him to Jon's Starbucks. He grins and holds Ryan's hand, leading him to the counter, "Hey Jon."

He places his elbows on the surface and leans forward, "This is Ryan."

Ryan waves weakly, quirking his lips slightly at Brendon's never ending enthusiasm. Jon smiles at him and asks, "So, what do you guys want?"

Brendon orders hot chocolate (after knocking over the straws), Ryan orders a Chai tea latte and they sit at the back of the Starbucks, drinking and watching Jon serve the myriad of customers who come in.

An old woman enters and orders a tall Caffè Misto to go. Ryan speaks suddenly, his voice quiet and monotonous, "I bet she's a psycho old lady, who keeps her grandchildren locked in the basement and makes coffee in the morning so they can smell it and remember their dad."

Brendon laughs quickly and turns in his seat as a teenaged boy comes in, dressed in black and wearing white rimmed glasses; he orders a Caramel Frappuccino.

"He probably listens to Fall Out Boy all the time, and his girlfriend broke up with him because she found out he was gay but he begged her not to tell his parents."

Ryan opens his mouth as if to say something, and then closes it, seeming to reconsider as he lifts his cup to his lips.
---

They're lying on the couch playing Grand Theft Auto when Spencer meets Ryan for the first time. He comes through the door with a bag slung over his shoulder and an irritated frown on his face.

"Who the fuck majors in music, who?" he asks as he flings sheets of music on a corner table, dropping the keys with a clang on top of them

"Um, you?" Brendon replies, then groans as his character on screen meets a bloody demise.

"Yeah," Spencer sighs and then looks up, "Who's this?"

Ryan had been watching Spencer as soon as he entered the room, his hands pausing on the controller when he hears the words 'majors in music'.

"Ryan," he answers, and Brendon looks at him in surprise.

---

the future's rubbed off of my palms
from shaking psalms
one-two and we fight
one-two-three we flight
and we choke on the light.

The apartment is filled with Jon and Spencer's friends from college; noise, alcohol and smoke are everywhere. It's a party, but Brendon is uncomfortable. He's hot and feels crowded, so he exits the building wrapped in another of Spencer's hoodies and sits on the steps outside.

The night is cool but not too chilly; Brendon wraps his arms around his knees and brings them to his chest. He wonders about his mother; he's been away for months now and she hasn't so much as come looking for him. Not that he would've gone back—it just stings slightly that she hadn't even tried, that he hadn't mattered that much.

He rocks slowly back and forth until a thin shadow blocks the yellow illumination from the streetlight.

"Hey," Ryan says, and Brendon looks up.

"What are you doing here?" he asks and squints until Ryan sits beside him on the cold step.

"Spencer called me; he said you guys were having a party."

"Yeah," Brendon answers, beginning to sway back and forth again. "You can go up if you want, a bunch of people are there already."

"Hmm," Ryan mutters non-commitingly and places a thin hand on Brendon's shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

Brendon nods silently, his movement slowing, so focused Ryan's hand that he swears he can feel the fingers imprint through the material of his clothes, past the skin and emblazoned on the flesh beneath.

He nods until he can hear the music from upstairs streaming through the windows. It's Fall Out Boy, and Ryan is humming along throatily.

"Dude, you're such a geek." Brendon says jokingly, and then sings along quietly. "I know I should be home, all the colours of the street signs they remind me,"

"You can sing," Ryan remarks, surprised.

Brendon laughs, "Yeah, right."

"No, really," Ryan says, moving his hand from Brendon's back and dropping it on his fingers.

Brendon's skin tightens from the cold of Ryan's fingertips, and then relaxes as he feels warmth seep in.

"Keep going," Ryan says, his breath making clouds in the night air.

"Okay," Brendon says, then continues, moving his fingers minutely under Ryan's while his voice ebbs and flows, so that their fingers are a tight grip away from being intertwined.

Ryan closes his eyes and Brendon feels proud; proud that there's something he's good at, and for the moment his mother disappears from his mind.

He leans forward, not quite sure what he means to do, but his eyes trained on the pale skin of Ryan's face and the pinched colour of his lips, wondering how he would taste and if Ryan would mind.

He's inches away when Ryan's eyes and the door to the apartment building open simultaneously.

A blush stains Brendon's cheeks, travels down his neck, and he moves back quickly. He rises to his feet and turns as Jon lifts his cup of beer in greeting, "Hey, Ryan. Aren't you guys gonna come up?"

---

Brendon has concluded that Ryan fancies himself an enigma; complicated and deep and intense, when in reality he's just a normal guy who reads way too much and listens shitty music.

They're on the bed in Jon's room (never Spencer's, Brendon still values his life, thank you very much), and they're going through Jon's music, laughing about everything and nothing.

Brendon's taken to singing obnoxiously loud now whenever he and Ryan hang out, and at the moment he's projecting some warped version of an opera noisily as he and Ryan sit side by side, knees bent and stacks of C.D.s around them.

"God, shut up," Ryan remarks, flipping through the thin booklet of Nirvana's 'In Utero'. Brendon can tell he's trying hard not to smile, though; he's become skilled at discerning the subtle nuances in Ryan's face, for some reason he's yet to understand.

He stretches a hand across and playfully brushes away the causal swath of hair covering Ryan's eye. "You love me," he teases. "Dude, I'd love you too if you'd stop blinding yourself with your hair."

Ryan scoffs and bats away Brendon's hand, though the smile has broken through now. He flops back on the bed, his tennis-shoe clad feet hanging over the edge. "I wish I could have my own place," he says, his eyes wandering around the room, cataloguing every strewn t-shirt on the floor and the fan whirring quietly from the ceiling.

Brendon reclines on the bed beside him, following his gaze, sharply reminded that this is not his; he's crashing and eventually he'll have to leave.

"I ran away, you know," Brendon says quietly, watching Ryan for any movement. "Jon found me and he and Spencer took me in."

"Why did you run away?" Ryan asks, in a voice which doesn't sound as surprised as it does curious.

"My mom," Brendon replies vaguely, and randomly wonders how old the baby (Riley. Brendon never calls him by name) is by now (ten months).

Ryan moves his head slightly in a nod acknowledging Brendon's statement, then asks, "How long are you going to stay here?"

""I don't know," Brendon says, and then sighs deeply.

Ryan bends over and kisses him slightly, so swiftly that Brendon is sure he's imagined it with the sunlight creeping through the dirty curtains.

But then he does it again, and the scrape of Ryan's tiny lips upon his is starkly real for the couple of seconds it lasts.

"What was that?" Brendon asks, and to him his voice sounds garbled, disoriented, and he contemplates the repercussions of sunlight exposure.

Ryan shrugs, and Brendon feels the falsely nonchalant movement of his boney shoulders. He asks his question again.

Ryan sighs, "I was waiting for you to tell me how you'd ended up here, and you did. And I've been waiting to kiss you, so I did."

Brendon feels his face get heated and turns his head quickly, "The night at the party—I was drunk—"

"You don't want me to kiss you?" Ryan interrupts stonily.

"No! I mean, I do. I mean—"

"Shut up," Ryan supplies, reaching over and placing his lips on Brendon's again; opening, exploring, tasting him with the sun's dappled light through the curtains, painting them and Jon's navy blue sheet with patterns.

Brendon shuts up.

---

faster than the speeding bullet
that took the life of your radio.

There's rotten apples and oranges littering the black asphalt behind Wentz' Fruit Stand. The smell is thick and overpowering and the sour flies buzzing around Brendon and Ryan's heads pepper the sky behind them.

They're 'exploring', but Brendon is convinced that they're only here because Ryan is obsessed with the store's owner. Wentz hardly talks, only gestures lightly over the trays of fruit he's selling until the customer can communicate to him what they want.

Ryan thinks Mr. Wentz is intriguing; Brendon just wants to go home and make out.

Brendon plops sulkily on the ground, grimacing as his open palm lands messily in a sludge of heat-softened strawberries. Ryan has his head halfway through the store's back window, observing patiently as the diminutive shop owner rearranges the bunches of yellow bananas so that the slightly blackened ones are half-hidden from sight.

Brendon lifts a hand and tugs Ryan down from where his hips are settled precariously on a stack of cardboard boxes. "I'm bored; the library is more fun than this."

Ryan sighs and rolls his eyes as he turns to look at Brendon briefly and then turn back, "I think we should talk to him."

"Why?" Brendon asks incredulously, vaguely noticing the strawberry stains on the jeans he's wearing and wondering how he'll explain them to Spence. "You're so fucking weird," he finishes pointlessly--that's been established ages ago.

Ryan slides down beside Brendon, "Let's just go say hi, and then we can go home."

Brendon stands up and sighs long-sufferingly, "Fine, whatever. Let's go."

---

Obviously Brendon was mistaken when he thought them going to say 'hi' to the weird fruit man would actually involve Ryan talking.

Obviously, since Ryan has his eyes trained on Mr. Wentz' employee apron with almost scary concentration and is not saying a word.

Brendon lets out an irritated breath and picks up a bunch of grapes randomly. "How much for a bunch?" He doesn't actually have any money on him, but it seems to be the right move, as Ryan lifts his head and smiles at him slightly.

He ignores the now familiar tingle somewhere in the lower region of his lower stomach and focuses on the guy before him. Wentz is short, with skin the colour of the scones Jon sometimes sneaks him when the shop is not too busy, and heavy lidded eyes which, when revealed by a quick upsweep of thick lashes, are dark and surprisingly cold.

No--dead, Brendon amends in his mind. Wentz' eyes seem devoid of anything; empty and apathetic.

Wentz lifts a lazy hand and points at the sign perched between the display of grapes, declaring '69 cents a bunch', before flicking his eyes back down to the tattered notebook in front of him. It's filled with words he wrote, judging from the blotches of ink stains on his small hand.

"Um, okay." Brendon says mindlessly, placing the plump grapes back down and turning to Ryan.

"What are you writing?" Ryan asks in his quiet monotone, Brendon is now familiar with Ryan's flat, unchanging voice.

Wentz lifts his eyes briefly to look at Ryan's hair obscured face and says dryly, "The world's next literary masterpiece." He shuts the book and wipes his hands absently on his dirty apron, "Do you guys want those grapes?"

"How come you own the store?" Brendon says with his usual lack of tact, "You look kinda young."

"I'm twenty eight," Wentz answers, his voice flat. "Why do you care?"

Brendon shrugs, he really doesn't; he'd rather they were home on Jon's bed resuming what he and Ryan had been in the process of before they had heard Spencer's key turning in the lock yesterday afternoon.

Brendon looks at Ryan pointedly, before retreating and tapping his fingers absently against his jeans. Ryan hurries forward and lets loose a tentative smile, "I'm Ryan, he's Brendon."

Wentz' eyebrows curve in confusion but he nods slowly and answers, "Pete."

---

They're on the couch watching Moulin Rouge (Ryan's choice, Brendon would like to add) and Brendon's already dozing off.

It's warm, comfortable; he and Ryan are tangled on the soft sofa, barefoot and drowsy. Ryan's fingers are settled against Brendon's hipbones, and even in his near-sleep state Brendon feels his heart thudding heavily in his throat.

He has no idea what they are, they make-out endlessly in whichever quiet corner they can find, the summer heat always a constant and Brendon usually feeling a combination of excitement and confusion.

He's memorized the taste of Ryan's lips now, he can relive the soft slide of his tongue over Brendon's in the mornings when he locks himself in the bathroom and strokes himself messily and muffled so that neither Jon nor Spencer can hear.

Ryan's engrossed in the movie, Brendon throws a heavy arm over his chest and asks, his voice rough with sleep. "Are we boyfriends?"

He literally feels Ryan's entire body freeze, his body switches from boneless and relaxed to tense in a split second, and Brendon imagines he can feel the long fingers on his hip turn chilly.

"What?" Ryan asks, voice flat, indifference in place.

Brendon fumbles, "It's not—it's not a big deal. I was just wondering—" He sighs, "It doesn't matter, forget it."

Ryan half turns so that his mussed hair tickles Brendon's cheeks, his breath smells heavy and sweet, a mixture of twizzlers and the coffee he'd drank when they'd visited Jon earlier. "No, say it."

Brendon settles his eyes on Ryan's, answers, "I just wanted to know what we are."

Ryan rests his lips atop Brendon's, and then moves back only slightly so his breath is warm on Brendon's lips as he talks. "We are whatever you want us to be."

Ryan turns back to the movie, and Brendon feels his own eyes drift shut again, the summer heat and Ryan's body warmth making his lids heavy. Well, that was a straight answer. Totally.

---

They're back at Wentz'—Pete's. Brendon's grown accustomed to calling Ryan's obsession by his funny sounding last name. They've been here countless times since the first and Brendon still can't see Ryan's attraction; the guy's prickly, sarcastic and makes lots of references to books, movies and bands that Brendon's never heard of.

Brendon feels left out, but Ryan seems happy, talking more to Pete than he does even when he's alone with Brendon, so Brendon just munches on fruit absently and watches the old-fashioned T.V. in the backroom until he gets bored.

Ryan informs Brendon of his and Pete's conversations at the end of everyday, whether Brendon cares or not, and Brendon learns that Pete inherited the store from a grandfather from whom he apparently was estranged. Along with the store came a bundle of manuscripts; half-written plays Pete says the elderly Wentz had been writing all his life.

Ryan is excited at the prospect of reading them, Pete's promised, and so they're going extra early tomorrow, forgoing their usual trip to Starbucks so Ryan can peruse a bunch of dusty papers (and maybe Pete too).

Brendon doesn't care.

---

the clouds intoxicating
extinguishing the light
deepening the threshold
what once was strong and bright.

Ryan's collarbone is beneath Brendon's teeth, he's nipping and scraping, laving his tongue wetly over the pink abrasions rising. They're hidden in the closet—Spencer's shoe closet to be exact. Brendon had wanted to show Ryan Spencer's ridiculously large collection, but they'd ended up with shirts off and Brendon's mouth on Ryan's neck.

"Wait," Ryan gasps out, and then reaches down to hastily unzip his jeans, pushing them down until they bunch around his knobby knees. His eyes settle on Brendon's face, intense and blurred a bit by pleasure. "I want you to touch me."

Brendon hesitates, he has no idea what he's doing, none.

Ryan reaches out, lowers his voice and chokes out desperately, "Please."

Brendon steps forward, settles his lips on Ryan's again comfortably, licking the seam between and delving inside. He drags a hand down Ryan's body, fingers identifying each of the definable ribs even in the closet's near dark.

He closes his eyes and inches a finger beneath Ryan's thread bare boxers, and then wraps his hand around Ryan, his own cock jumping at its warmth and heaviness and the reality of what they're doing.

A breathy moan escapes from Ryan and Brendon feels fingers rubbing against the tightened denim around his dick. The sensation sends a shock of pleasure through him, which ebbs out into a kind of warmth at the base of his spine.

Ryan's finger's begin to rub frantically against the scratchy denim and Brendon instinctively moves his own, pumping up and down as Ryan juts his hips and gasps out against the crux of his shoulder and neck.

He pauses his movements, breathing hard as Ryan strokes his thumb over the head of his cock, still encased tightly in jeans. He feels the wet spurt from his cock as he squeezes his eyes shut, reveling in the feeling, he never wants it to stop.

Ryan nudges Brendon's hand, leaning forward and slickly licking into Brendon's mouth, Brendon pumps his hand up and down along Ryan's now slick cock, watching the other's face as he gasps and writhes.

Ryan reaches down, taking hold of Brendon's hand and lifting it to his mouth, he slides a tongue over a finger and Brendon feels his dick jerk with pleasure again as his finger is laved with saliva.

Eyes closed, Ryan pushes Brendon's hand back down as he whispers, "Put it in me."

Brendon pauses, Does he mean--?

Ryan's eyes open and he bites at Brendon's reddened bottom lip warningly, "Come on."

Brendon nods, sliding a hand between Ryan's leg and over his dick briefly. He moves the wet finger behind Ryan's balls, and rubs it along the sensitive opening, encouraged when Ryan lets out a heavy breath.

He works the finger up, his other hand stroking the head of Ryan's cock, and pushes slowly until he feels his finger snugly surrounded.

Ryan moans out, his hips moving, undulating, Brendon follows their movement, crooking the finger up and sliding, surprised when he feels wetness across his bare stomach and Ryan gasping breathlessly.

He slips out the finger, and falls to the floor with Ryan, landing on top of the hard shoeboxes.

He wraps a hand around Ryan's thin chest, feeling content; he licks absently along Ryan's neck. He's tired, fatigue seeping into his bones, so he sleeps.

---

Spencer finds them.

"Oh, fuck no."

Brendon opens his eyes to the too bright light diffracting around the body standing in the door way.

"Ugh, turn out the lights." He mumbles, closing his eyes and curving his arm around Ryan's sleeping, naked body.

"Brendon, get the fuck up."

His head jerks up and he's met with Spencer's stern face, he's angry.

Shit.

---

Spencer doesn't speak to him until Jon comes home, not once between Ryan scrambling out the door with his clothes held in front of him and Brendon walking towards the bathroom for a shower, eyes downcast and grateful that he kept on his pants.

Brendon isolates himself in Jon's room until he hears the front door creaking open, he's embarrassed beyond belief, but mostly he's scared. They're going to kick him out, he's sure of it, right after they beat him up for being such a fucking fag.

He slows his breathing and listens to the low voices in the kitchen. He can hear Spencer, tense and strict and upset, and he can hear Jon, tired and sighing. Brendon feels like his midsection is dissolving; he doesn't want to leave, they're like his fucking family and he has nowhere to go. He can taste fear, metallic and scratchy at the back of his throat when two pairs of footsteps enter the room.

"Brendon," Jon starts and Brendon interrupts, frantic and desperate to explain himself; he just wants to stay.

"I'm sorry, Jon, I didn't mean to, I—I wasn't thinking. I promise, promise I won't do it again, just don't kick me out. Please."

He's rocking back and forth on the floor, his knees to his chest and resolutely avoiding Spencer's gaze.

"Hey, Hey," Jon interrupts, coming forward and kneeling on the carpet beside him, running a hand over Brendon's messy hair. "No ones kicking you out, calm down."

"Really?" Brendon looks up, pausing his rocking as Jon settles beside him. He smells familiar, of coffee and sweet whipped cream, spicy cinnamon and sugar and sweat.

"Of course man, are you kidding? You won't get rid of us that easily."

Brendon smiles, relief washing over him, "Okay," he nods.

"But," Jon clears his throat, glancing at Spencer who's still at the door. "Why didn't you tell us you were gay?"

And that makes Brendon's stomach turn to lead again, he's never thought about what he was really, he just. "I just like Ryan," He finishes lamely; "I'm not gay."

Spencer sighs from the door and walks inside, sliding to the floor on the other side of Brendon. "Hey," he says softly, "You know it wouldn't be a problem right? We just want you to tell us this stuff, so we can know what's up."

Jon nods in agreement, ruffling Brendon's hair playfully.

Brendon smiles, "Yeah, okay." He can do this, it's alright.

"So," Jon starts, leaning back and Brendon predicts it before the words leave his mouth. "Is Ryan your boyfriend?"

Brendon rolls his eyes and sighs good-naturedly, "No, we just—" He stops; he remembers exactly what they did this afternoon.

"Yeah," Spencer fills in, "I know." He gets to his feet and Jon follows after whispering a muffled, "You know you can come to me whenever you wanna talk, okay?" against Brendon's ear.

Brendon's chest is light and he feels incredibly lucky to have them both. They're his and they don't give a fuck if he came from a crack whore mother or that he's maybe-possibly-kinda gay. A smile breaks across his face.

Spencer shouts over his shoulder as he and Jon leave the room, "Just stay the fuck away from my shoes!"

---
somewhere weakness is a strength
and i'll die searching for it.
i can't let myself regret such selfishness.

They're at the fruit shop again, sat on the dusty floor of the small backroom with half-rolled bundles of yellowed paper at their feet. Pete and Ryan are immersed in them, heads bowed close together and stubs of pencils in their hands; underlining phrases and circling words here and there. Brendon is curled up in the corner with one of the manuscripts in his hand, feeling pissed off and isolated and just a little bit jealous.

He doesn't get it; whatever connection Ryan and Pete have seems custom-made to push him out, and he's angry that for the hours they have been here reading Ryan has not once turned an eye on him.

Brendon skims through the typewriter font of the text on the page, his mind only vaguely understanding the plot of the play and the lives of its characters. The scene before him is where Papa Wentz seemed to have lost his inspiration--or interest, whichever. Half of the page is lined with rather stilted dialogue between Anna-Gaye and Trevor; teenagers who—as far as Brendon understands—have been somehow removed from their comfortable suburban life in the present and teleported to the drug-induced mania of the 1960's.

It's mind-numbingly boring; full of phrases and anecdotes that could only be written by an elderly person trying to sound like teenagers placed in the wrong time.

[Anna-Gaye turns away from Trevor, head in her hands and gasping as if stifling tears]

Anna-Gaye: You just don't get it do you? We were never going steady!

[Trevor stands behind Anna-Gaye almost cautiously, hesitating before placing a gentle hand on her shoulder]

Trevor: I know Anna, I caught you making out with the quarterback behind the bleachers, I was just—

[The noise from the crowd below interrupts the conversation. Chants of 'peace' and 'love' flow through the apartment's window along with the distinctive scent of pot]

Brendon sighs heavily and closes the manuscript, glancing reflexively over at Pete and Ryan, who now has his head bent towards Wentz, attention focused on something beyond Brendon's comprehension apparently.

Brendon gets up, drops the manuscript on the floor with a dull splat, digs his hands into the fleeced pockets of the hoodie previously owned by one Spencer Smith, and walks out.

---

The thing is, Brendon doesn't think Ryan even notices that he's gone; and that does nothing to help the mood he's in. He's fully aware that he is sulking, bottom lip protruding like it hadn't since he was three years old and still believed in his mommy.

The sky is gray and thick with black clouds releasing fat drops of rain on Brendon's hair, sneakers, and the previously parched asphalt and dirt of the streets; creating a musty, enveloping scent that Brendon breathes in with abandon.

His mind feels clear, and as he tugs his sweater close he's thinking all he might need is a little rain, Spencer's warmth, Jon's hot chocolate and Ryan's kisses to make him feel better whenever he's down, when he collides with the woman. Before he lifts his eyes, he knows it's her, because she smells and its familiar; musk and cheap dollar store perfume and desperation.

"Watch where the fuck you—Brendon?"

Her face is tired, more lines seemed to have been etched by an unforgiving artist around her eyes and lips; her cheekbones are more pronounced, and it's grotesque almost--scary.

Brendon doesn't answer, feels like he'll choke on his tongue if he tries to speak so he doesn't, just stares at her blankly and almost cracks when he sees something like relief flare in her eyes.

"I was—I was so worried. Where were you?"

He opens his mouth then, ready to spill about Jon and Spencer and the apartment and the family, but also how he kind of misses her, the her she used to be so long ago. His mind seems to have conveniently forgotten who she has become, until he starts listening to her again.

"I've been all alone with the baby. Fucking feeding when you should have been here, and if it wasn't for Trevor helping me out every week, dropping by the corner store and getting me a bottle of Jack Daniels I don't know where I'd be, he told me you were a lost cause but—"

His mouth closes and his fingers clasp around each other as he drowns her words out again. Rain drops are sprinkled against the dark roots of her peroxide blonde hair and he's so tired, so over it, over her, over hoping.

He pushes away, pretending it's the raindrops that are sliding down his cheeks and pulls the hood over his head. His mind is seemingly fighting against him, compounding with thoughts of 'Why the fuck would she care about you?' 'She probably never noticed you were gone' 'She's got the baby and Trevor'.

And 'Trevor' reminds him of the play and of Wentz and the melon seeds embedded in the soles of his sneakers and Ryan, and he closes his eyes and walks, runs home.

---

Jon's there, and he stops Brendon stuffing Spencer's hoodie and the few possessions he's scattered around the apartment in the months he's been here into a bag.

Brendon had fought against him, shouting and screaming until his voice had gone hoarse and he couldn't pretend it was the raindrops any longer, until he'd fallen to the floor limp and spent.

Then he'd slept, deep and long until the burnt orange of the afternoon sky had transformed into the impenetrable darkness of night.

Brendon had woken up, dragging his feet into the brightly-lit kitchen, where Jon and Spencer were sitting and talking quietly, drinking coffee while Spencer tapped his fingers against the lacquered counter, recreating the center snare solo beat of his drumline's newest piece.

Brendon sat on the stool between them, leaning his head on Spencer's shoulders and spoke, told them about his mother, about how he'd been hoping she'd been different, how he'd almost forgotten how much he loved her, and how she had never loved him.

Spencer and Jon are what they always are; comforting, understanding, solid, but they're not Ryan.

---
"Do you like him?"

"What?" Ryan asks, occupied with the manuscript before him. Wentz has given him the honour of finishing whichever play catches his fancy, and its all he's been doing since he and Brendon have entered the library. "Like who?"

Even now Brendon can tell his attention is divided, concentrated on Wentz' fucking play, never anytime for him. He shouldn't have expected it anyway, it's not like they're boyfriends, not like they're anything.

Brendon reaches across and snags the booklet out of Ryan's grip, irrationally angry, even more so because that Ryan hasn't noticed that he is.

"What the fuck man?" Ryan asks, "Give it back, I was on a roll."

"Do you like Wentz?" It's obvious he does, but Brendon just needs to know. Needs to, so he can stop trailing behind Ryan and hoping for whatever scraps of attention he throws his way.

"What the fu—Pete? What are you talking about?"

"Pete," Brendon repeats in a sickly sweet and, frankly, inaccurate rendition of Ryan's voice. "You're so fucking pathetic, you're obsessed with him. Trailing behind him like a dog, hanging onto every word he says." And never to mine.

Ryan's eyes turn chilly, gloss over with the shield that Brendon is aware he's putting in place. "Give me the fucking play back."

"No, not until you admit it." Brendon replies, and he knows he's being childish, but so the fuck what if he isn't twenty-eight years old or owns a store. What if he is open and transparent and not faux-mysterious and artistic like Ryan and his idol?

"Admit what? That you're an idiot who gets jealous just because I like his plays?"

"I'm not jealous," Brendon answers, faltering, because he is, and he feels like an idiot. And maybe he likes Ryan more than Ryan likes him. He flings the manuscript back on the table and pushes the chair back from the table, its legs making indents in the thick gray carpet. "Fine, I'll leave so you can enjoy Pete's Plays. Its not like you give a fuck about me anyway, did you even know that I saw my mom last week?"

The sneer on Ryan's face melts into confusion, "Wait, what? You saw your mom? Why—why didn't you tell me?"

"Like you'd give a fuck."

"Christ, Brendon, of course I do." Ryan gets up and moves toward Brendon, "Just because I hang out with Pete, doesn't—I mean, I don't like him. I like you. A lot."

A smile's threatening to ruin the very convincing pout on Brendon's lips, and Ryan laces his fingers through Brendon's. "Now, stop being a dick and tell me about your mom."

---

believe in the resolute urgency of now.

Jon's cooking dinner, his famous veggie lasagna (made famous because, as Spencer says, he adds rum to the sauce with a heavy hand) and Ryan's staying over. It's a celebration, Brendon's been here for eight months; its been eight months since Jon found him and brought him here to this apartment, to Spencer and to Ryan.

Brendon's almost giddy with excitement, so giddy that he's forbidden to be in the kitchen. He's already broken one of the dollar store wineglasses Spencer had obtained for the occasion, and Jon is guarding his bottle of Jamaican Wray & Nephew White OverProof rum with his Starbucks apron-clad body, so Brendon retreats into the living room.

Ryan's perched comfortably on the same couch where they've had numerous video game, movie and make-out sessions, dressed up for the occasion in pinstriped black slacks and a cravat Brendon's sure he stole from his father.

Spencer is entertaining them, plucking out simple notes on the guitar he borrowed from the Wind Instruments department at school, and Brendon is happy. He's never felt more at home, with a small smile playing on Ryan's lips as he taps his slim fingers against the sofa, Spencer's stability as he glances at the music sheet left on their make-shift coffee table, wondering if he's memorized the tempo of his section for the percussion performance tomorrow, and the alcohol tinged aroma of Jon's cooking.

Brendon flops down beside Ryan on the sofa, winding an automatic hand around his thin waist, which Ryan tries to shrug off despite Brendon's grin and immoveable hand. They're staying in Jon's room for the night, since he's leaving for his girlfriend's dorm after dinner for the rest of the weekend.

Brendon's excited and has plans to molest Ryan in his sleep.

Spencer begins playing Smashing Pumpkins, his fingers sliding against the strings deftly, reproducing the tune of 'Tonight, Tonight'.

Brendon sings along, feeling as if his chest will brim over with some indefinable feeling, voice cracking a little as he projects, his hands tight around Ryan's waist. "We're not the same, we're different tonight, tonight. Tonight, so bright."

---

"I swear to fucking God I'm not lying." Jon proclaims, through Spencer, Ryan and Brendon's breathless laughter. Jon's acquired a stalker at work, a sixteen-year old girl from the perfume store next to his Starbucks who's convinced she's meant for him. "This huge bottle full of some purple shit, and she's pushing it on me when I'm serving about twenty people at once.'Take it Jon, it's essence of rose, it's supposed to be seductive.' "

Jon's lasagna is a hit, and even Ryan's plate is cleared of every bit, the white dish streaked only with the red remains of sauce. They're all full and content, Brendon chattering even more than usual and laughing the loudest at Jon's jokes. Ryan's beside him, his chuckling more contained, though his thigh has been pressed warmly against Brendon's since the start of dinner.

"Hey," Spencer says, and breaks the lull in the conversation, he turns to Jon, "Should we give him it now?"

"Give me what?" Brendon asks, head snapping around and focusing on Jon's secretive smile. "Is it a gift? Yes, Jon, give me it now."

Jon rises with an exaggerated groan from the table, lumbering into his room and coming back. He sits back down with a piece of paper in his hands, which he's carefully shielding from Brendon's inquisitive gaze. "Not yet young one," he says teasingly, then turns to Spencer and asks, "Should I say it or should you?"

"Oh, god," Spencer rolls his eyes exasperatedly and turns to Brendon. "Me and Jon, we kinda thought you'd want something to do when the summer's over, other than enjoy the company of Mr. Talkative here," He gestures at Ryan, who gives him the finger easily.

"So," Jon continues, brandishing the piece of paper with flourish, "We signed you up at this music course over at the community college. Since you're always damaging our hearing with your voice and Spencer said he knew the guy who ran it so. Here." He finishes, and Brendon takes the receipt for three semesters worth of classes from him, his eyes comically wide and his mouth still open.

"Guys—Seriously, I mean. Wow."

He glances over at Ryan, who's smiling at him, and he clutches the paper in his hands tighter. He hadn't wanted to say anything, to voice his worries over what would happen to him after the end of this surreal, dreamlike summer, hadn't wanted to be more of a burden. But this—them, he doesn't know what to say, but he's thankful.

---

Brendon and Ryan are side-by-side in Jon's small bathroom, their skinny bodies in pajamas reflected in the mirror over the sink. Brendon bends and spits toothpaste in the sink, running his toothbrush over his teeth and tongue and catching Ryan's eye in the mirror every time he rises. There's something between them tonight, he can feel it in the tips of the fingers Ryan drags across his waist as he moves around him to grab the toothpaste, the intensity in his eyes whenever they meet Brendon's, and Brendon swallows convulsively, almost chokes on the minty toothpaste.

Ryan rinses out his brush and maneuvers around Brendon, wiping his face on a towel. "I finished the play," he says off-handedly and Brendon turns around.

"The one by Wentz' granddad?" he asks, unnecessarily, since it's the only play he knows Ryan's been working on obsessively. They haven't talked about it or Pete since their argument in the library.

Ryan smiles, a slight curving of his lips at the corners, "I like it," he says simply, "You can read it if you want."

Brendon's mid-nod when Ryan steps closer, his thin body looming over his so that Brendon has to rest his hands on the sink for balance. "Tomorrow."

---

when there's nothing left to burn
you have to set yourself on fire.

Brendon can't keep still, his hands are gripping the pillows with undue force and his feet are flailing, his knees jerking in spastic unplanned movements. "God," he moans, "Where did you—How did you--Guh."

Ryan's mouth is around his dick, his tongue is moving with surprising skill around its head, lingering and sucking as his head bobs and his hands twist and pull alternately on the shaft. Brendon feels delirious, his mind a flash of colours and sensation as he tries to resist the pull of his balls, the jerk in his spine that tells him he's going to come, hard.

He fails, and spurts white liquid jerkily over Ryan's face, gasping hard and trying to mumble 'sorry' as after shocks of pleasure go through him.

Ryan wipes a hand messily across his face, and goes forward to kiss Brendon, swiping his tongue into his mouth so that Brendon can taste himself bitter on his tongue.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Brendon asks, still breathless, aware of Ryan's erection resting distractedly against his hip.

Ryan shrugs, "Practice."

"How much practice?" Brendon swivels his head, mock anger concealing his embarrassment at never having any practice at all, wondering if it's obvious.

Ryan grins and dips beneath the sheet again, running a tongue absently along Brendon's thigh. "Just practice." A finger ascends slowly up Brendon's leg and he shivers despite the already heavy warmth of the room. "You need to be quiet though, Spencer might hear."

Brendon laughs jerkily, Ryan's mussed hair the only thing visible as the finger ventures closer up. "You tell me that after you suck me off, great timing."

Ryan pauses and looks back up, his eyes pinning Brendon as he speaks lowly, his voice sending twinges of pleasure through Brendon's flaccid cock. "We're not done yet," He says, as the finger reaches Brendon's entrance and pushes in slowly, still making Brendon gasp though he knew it was coming. " I want to fuck you."

"What?" Brendon asks, his dick definitely hardening again, as Ryan rummages through Jon's bedside table until he removes a bottle of lotion with his other hand.

"I want," he repeats, his head disappearing under the sheets again along with the bottle. "To fuck," Brendon hears the click of the top opening, and gasps as the finger is out of him and put in again, this time covered with the cold, slippery lotion. "You."

"Okay," Brendon answers, and closes his eyes, trying to ignore his nervousness and become used to the feeling of a finger up his ass. Another finger joins the other and he raises his hips instinctively, letting out a short moan as one of them crooks, as he feels himself stretching and widening, as the lotion warms inside of him.

"Have you—have you done this before?" He asks, in a quiet voice which ends in an expletive as he feels a finger press purposely against something, something that makes him arch his back as an intense spark of pleasure flies through him and rests directly in his dick.

Brendon sees Ryan's nod as he removes the fingers. Brendon feels himself ache wanting, as his muscles clench for the fingers that are no longer there.

"I'm not a virgin," Ryan says in a hushed voice, ever cautious of the sleeping Spencer in the room beside this one. "It's okay if you don't want to, we don't have—"

"No," Brendon interrupts, "I want to."

That small smile plays around Ryan's lips again, and he bends forward to kiss Brendon, his tongue hot and heady in Brendon's mouth, their bare bodies pressed against each other, long discarded pajamas on the floor.

They kiss until the film of sweat on both their bodies seem to mix with each other, until Brendon's cock is achingly hard from the constant friction of Ryan's sweat-slick legs against them, until Brendon parts his lips and gasps out to Ryan that he's ready.

He waits silently as Ryan slicks himself liberally with the lotion, feeling the sweat on his chest cool as a wisp of breeze enters through the open window.

Brendon opens his legs as Ryan comes forward, feeling exposed even beneath the heavy cover of the sheet. He feels the weight of Ryan's cock right there, and he can't wait anymore. He undulates his hips, urging Ryan on, pausing when he feels the tip inside of him.

"Alright?" Ryan asks, his eyes closed, and his damp hair stuck to his forehead.

Brendon nods, and then grimaces as Ryan enters him to the hilt. He wants to push him off, he feels like he's being pierced with an axe from the inside out, and he scrabbles for purchase on the sheet beneath him, squeezes his eyes shut and wills the sharp pain away.

Ryan is still, hands on either side of Brendon as he waits, his own eyes tightly shut as he tries to stave off the need to move within his tighttightight surroundings.

A moment passes before Brendon speaks in a soft voice, "I think—maybe, you can move now," The pain's still there, only its duller, and the heavy, real feeling of Ryan all the way inside him makes him flush, makes him want to feel more.

Ryan nods, and begins moving his thin hips slowly, eyes latched onto Brendon's face and pausing when he sees twinges of discomfort.

"Don't stop," Brendon rasps out, and Ryan doesn't, continues moving until hopes of finding a rhythm are lost in heavy waves of pleasure, stifled moans, and sticky climaxes.

---

They're around the kitchen counter in the morning, Brendon finishing half his Fruit Loops dry, while Ryan carefully fills his own bowl with equal proportions of milk and coloured cereal.

Brendon's sore in places he's sure he's never felt before, and when he flings himself down on the stool with his usual abandon his body aches in protest. He can't stop smiling at Ryan though; soft, secretive smiles that speak of what they've shared.

Ryan's reading his finished play aloud, his usual flat voice now taking on the nuances and characteristics of each of his characters. Alexander and Sue-Ann are a mismatched couple; she eighteen and him almost forty. The world hates them, loathes their love with blind preconceived notions of what's right and what will always be wrong. Ryan reads the last couple of lines, his voice bleeding with emotion, the words heavy on his tongue.

Alexander:
This world will never understand us, and I don't want them to. We are all that matters. When I hold you and you know what I'm thinking before I speak it, that I love you. That after this world dies and we go down with it, I will love you. That when we're buried, the earth will burn with our love, until the devil himself fears its fire, its heat. That is how I love you.

~fin