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Whistles grazed the thick stone walls of the house, but the fire inside didn't budge for all its toil. Brendon had been on the phone with his mother earlier. She said he needn’t come home for the holidays if he hadn't yet changed his mind.
"You want—" Brendon started.
"No, I'm good," Ryan replied before Brendon could even finish offering. Ryan ran up the stairs and left Brendon in the middle of the kitchen, wooden spoon still lifted and the apron he got from his grandmother still slightly crooked. His smile dropped quickly, and he went back to stirring, somewhat mechanically now, as he stared into the sauce he made. He had been getting up the courage to make something for them, to have Ryan share a meal with him with just the right dish, but it felt a bit silly now. He turned the stove off and carefully put the paper clipping with the recipe in the drawer with the miscellaneous things. It was basically done anyway. He was planning on making pasta as well, but there wasn't really any need. His mouth got slightly watery, but he remained with no need for food.
He really thought it had been such a good idea.
...
It was better this way, Ryan told himself. He could keep himself contained and not bother Brendon because he was too nice to say no.
His hair was everywhere, wind-spun and slightly wet from the drizzle outside. His ears were ringing from the gusts. He was chilled all the way through and desperately needed a shower. His day at work had been a humiliation ritual, and he debated not having a phone if it saved him any more disparaging texts from his father and others he maybe thought had wanted him around at some point.
He did feel bad for what he did to Brendon, but he needed him to understand Ryan wasn't a person you wanted to spend time with, not long-term anyway. Fun for a bit, but a liability for any longer. He had looked so hurt. He would be more hurt in the long run, though.
Maybe Ryan could-
No, he definitely couldn't, as was pointed out by many people before. He was listening for the sounds in the kitchen, the clumsy bustling of Brendon's endearing unawareness of space. He thought it slightly odd that it was completely silent already; he was so sure he had seen Brendon cooking something when he paused to look through the window before stepping inside.
No matter, he would slip by and grab a quick shower. He crept down the stairs, holding to the side, stopping right before he was going to dash to the door.
Any idea of that was slid in half, and then a hundred exponents of it were. Brendon was there, sitting in one of the chairs, looking outside at the foggy beach. He had his back mostly turned to Ryan so he couldn't see his face; in the chair, he claimed the second he saw it, so he could look out at the ocean.
It was uncanny, him sitting completely still in an eerie silence. He wasn't even bouncing his leg, twitching his fingers over the table as if there were invisible piano keys hiding under the tablecloth.
Ryan was cold, but it was as if another forceful burst cut through him at the sight. Brendon shouldn't be so still.
"Hey," he said before he could think it was a bad idea.
Brendon spun around quickly. His face was barren, but he quickly forged a smile.
"Hey", he said and added nothing else.
Ryan frowned. "Sorry. Um. For earlier. I was just really cold. I didn't mean to—hadn't he? "to upset you. " That, at least, was something he always tried to avoid.
"You didn't," Brendon said immediately.
"Okay," Ryan said flatly. "Do you? I'll just. Fuck." And he left towards the bathroom and started up the shower. Brendon had looked confused, then hopeful, then sad, and Ryan was sick of it. It was cruel to him, but mostly it was cruel to Brendon, and he couldn't stand it. He finished quickly, didn't bask as much as he intended initially, and went back to the kitchen.
Brendon had disappeared once he returned. He didn't understand how, since he hadn't heard any of Brendon's usual stomping up the stairs. He was debating looking for him, but he needed to start first. He headed to the kitchen to begin working.
...
Outside was cold—good. Brendon felt like he was on fire sometimes; he just needed a moment to calm down. Stand in the wind and rain for some time. But standing still wasn't much relief, so he decided it wouldn't hurt to walk around. His mind was devoid of thoughts, though he felt no need to fill it with music. He walked nowhere in particular around where he usually did, then switched to paths he didn't normally take. The forest was a bit calmer than the beach was: less wind and rain. It was darker still, and he wished he had maybe taken a thicker jacket, but that would have required forethought. A quality he obviously didn't possess.
It was getting darker faster than he knew where the main trail was. The paths weren't clear anymore, just an assembly of roots meant for tripping. He didn't have the will to feel panicked; the days were short, he lived in this area, and he couldn't wonder forever. Though the thought was appealing, staying somewhere nice and cold to keep him grounded instead of steaming through the air. He took another turn and tripped aggressively over a misplaced tree trunk. He didn't have the time to brace himself and hit his chin on another root. He didn't feel any pain, not in his shin, not in his knee, and not on his chin; mostly he just minded the warm drip of the blood. Should he try to clean it up? With his muddy hands. Probably best not to.
He'd find the right path eventually.
...
Ryan was panicking, not yet much, but it had become apparent that Brendon wasn't in his room. It was haunting, being in a house warmed by the fire, yet still cold. Empty.
He stood at Brendon's door for an age and listened for the smallest creak of the bed or the floor or the rustle of paper, but nothing came. Even in sleep, Brendon wasn't idle—Ryan knew.
He went back down to the kitchen and reheated the hot chocolate he made, wanting to have it warm when Brendon returned. The kitchen was suspiciously clean, like Brendon wasn't there at all—no pots and pans he usually returned to clean later.
If Brendon did go outside, Ryan wouldn't have a chance at finding him. For someone so present, Brendon had a disquieting ability to disappear when he so pleased.
Searching for him would be counterproductive, but just looking around surely wasn't. Ryan got dressed warmly in a thick woollen sweater and scarf with the biggest jacket he owned.
He stalked around the house, then looked over the cliff to the beach. The wind swept up the raindrops so quickly they turned to a glassy filter, and it was difficult to make much of anything out there. The wind was cold, but he didn't dare put something over his ears in case he missed Brendon's voice, footsteps, stumbling, or anything.
It was beginning to get dark, the murky water burning on the horizon. He had gone back inside and at last remembered to call Brendon’s cellphone, but the cheery ringtone came from his room without anyone there to answer.
They had a porch light, which neither of them ever bothered to light, but Ryan tried it as a last resort. If Brendon had gone to town, he would probably come in late enough that it would be pitch black, and not aiding in some way felt like iniquity. Maybe the first one was driving him out in the first place. Shame burnt in him, and he let it go – a fire so cold it burns.
He sat out on the porch in the dumb rocking chair Brendon insisted they keep.
The wind was aggressive; his ears were ringing, and his hands stung from the cold. He was sure his bones were chilling down to the same temperature as the sea, and he remained seated.
...
It was dark enough that he could see stray stars from the gaps in the trees. They calmed him somewhat, and he felt at ease at last. Stupid? Humiliated? Yes, but not undeserved.
He didn't bother thinking about which way was home, just went where the wind took him. The closer he got to home, the stronger it was. Blowing his jacket into a parachute of freezing air. His hair was wet, but not soaking, and his chin had begun to sting. He couldn't see, but by the way the fabric of his jeans stuck to his skin, the stumbling had left him with some bloody knees.
There was a warm yellow light calling from beyond the forest, and he stopped. He considered it wasn't his house, but the cliff the moon illuminated was what he saw every day.
The spinning air circled him vividly, draining any deep, dark shades of black and blue in favour of the yellow glow.
He went towards it slowly, feeling like a chided child, like he was crawling back. The lamp was swinging side to side, creaking metal.
"You're back!" Ryan screamed. He ran towards him and hugged him forcefully. He pulled Brendon towards himself and held him up.
"Just went for a walk," Brendon told him. It was odd, almost as if Ryan had missed him. Ryan held him close, hooking his chin over Brendon's shoulder. He was running his hands up and down Brendon's arms, warming him up.
"Missed you," Ryan whispered right into his ear.
"You did?" Brendon asked. He wanted to see Ryan's face, but he was held so close all he did was run his lips over Ryan's cheek.
"Yeah, now let's get inside; I'm freezing." He tugged Brendon behind him, hand in his.
"You scared the hell out of me," Ryan said, and Brendon gasped as his chin dragged over the rough stitch of Ryan's sweater.
Ryan stopped immediately and held Brendon's face gently in his hands.
"How did this happen?" he asked, concerned. Only now, in the dimmed light of the hallway, did he really notice the dishevelled state Brendon was in.
"Fell," Brendon said. He was basking in Ryan's touch and moved his head readily as Ryan tried to take a better look.
Ryan hummed and looked somewhat displeased. He guided Brendon gently to the bathroom, and only lit the smaller light above the mirror.
"Sorry," Brendon said, and tried to hang his head.
Ryan frowned and held him still. "I'm not mad at you," he told him. "I just don't want you to be hurt." He let go of Brendon's face and turned around to get something from the cabinet. The sudden lack of warmth and slight stirring of air reminded him of the outside, and he shivered, half from the chill still crawling over him, half from the loss of Ryan's gentle hands.
Ryan was careful and gentle; years of practice. Brendon kept his eyes on Ryan as he worked methodically; he wasn't even caught with Ryan's incessant focus. When he was deeply concentrating on being gentle, he bit his lip, like it helped him steady his hands.
"Want a fun bandaid?" Ryan asked him. He reached for the box they kept them in and opened it in front of himself. Brendon reached for a sky blue one with happy yellow suns on it. He went to put it on when Ryan stopped him.
"Let me," he said and warmly stopped his hands. He opened it in the neat way his grandma did, never touching the small pad of gauze in the middle, and centred it.
"There," Ryan said, proud. "We should probably get your knees cleaned up as well and get you into some fresh warm clothes.
"You don't have to dote on me," Brendon said, waving his hands dismissively.
"Sure, but I want to." He ran his hands up and down Brendon's arms. "You take a quick shower and I'll get you some clothes and then I'll clean up your knees."
"Jeez, who put you in charge?" Brendon laughed self-consciously.
"Um," Ryan was at a loss for words. "I guess I did."
"Okay," Brendon said, like it made total sense, "But I'll have you know; I don't like being coddled and bossed around." He was laughing somewhat as he said it, but Ryan knew well enough he really meant it.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Ryan said and raised his palms. "I'll be right back," he promised.
Brendon took his time to stand under the warm water for long enough for thick steam to gather, warming him on the inside as well. At some point Ryan opened the door for a sliver to throw his sleeping shorts and shirt in the sink and disappeared again.
When he was done, Ryan cleaned his knees dutifully, especially careful not to pull any of the hairs on Brendon's legs in a painful way.
"I made some hot chocolate. If you want."
Brendon's eyes lit up before he could remind himself to remain calm and not irritating.
"Great. I'm sorry. For before, I didn't think you really wanted me there," Ryan said, looking at the ground.
"Why would I invite you if I didn't?" Brendon said, stupefied.
"Why do people ever do anything?" and it somehow reminded him of his family, the girls that at some point fancied dating him, then not so much anymore, and the friends who did the same.
"I don't fake invites," Brendon stated firmly.
"You say that now," Ryan started.
"I'm saying it now, and I'll say it tomorrow and all the days after." He slowly, hesitantly took hold of Ryan's hand.
"I promised you hot chocolate," Ryan said. "And I want you to tell me something nice you thought about lately."
"You don't want to listen to me talk," Brendon said dismissively. They moved to the kitchen, and their hands slipped together.
"Of course I do," Ryan countered. He squeezed Brendon's hand quickly before guiding him to his chair and leaving to retrieve the pot and mugs.
"You're in a charitable mood." Brendon was looking out into the ocean, at the wind combing the grass.
"I said it because I meant it."
Brendon hummed, not in agreement, but more so acknowledgement. It wasn't that he didn't believe Ryan; it was more so that he knew how these things went.
Ryan went to the table and placed down the mugs, though he didn't sit down immediately. He slid his fingers into Brendon's almost dry hair and smoothed it. He didn't mean to, but soon enough Brendon was resting his head on Ryan's side, and Ryan accommodated him gladly.
"You made lunch before," Ryan said. "If you still want..."
Brendon immediately stopped drinking. "Is there–"
"There's enough hot chocolate left for at least two cups after the food," Ryan reassured.
"Then, yeah. That'd be cool," he said. Ryan didn't let him stand up and made him ready the food and plates.
...
"Would you? I know you like. I have a queen bed," Ryan said when they were done.
"What?" Brendon asked.
"I know you said you sleep easier with someone there, and I thought maybe. I don't know why you'd wanna share?" He was nervous and couldn't keep his eyes anywhere near Brendon's.
"I. Would," Brendon said carefully, "But I move around a lot," he said. Better not to get his hopes up.
"I'm a heavy sleeper," Ryan dismissed.
"Don't be mad at me tomorrow," Brendon asked. He was slowly following Ryan up to his room. It all felt somewhat surreal.
"I'm never mad at you?" Ryan said, confused. Irritated? Sometimes, rarely, the less he knew him. Mad? Never.
"You could be. Should be," Brendon told him.
"Yeah, no, I don't think so." Ryan said and shook his head.
...
They settled in the thick sheets opposite each other, face to face, like they would share secrets.
But their eyelids were heavy and sleep was fast approaching.
"Thanks for today," Brendon said.
Ryan frowned, "There would have been no need, had I—"
"Say you're welcome," Brendon ordered. He found Ryan's hand somewhere under the sheets and squeezed.
"You're welcome," Ryan said quietly.
"Good", Brendon smiled. He kissed Ryan's forehead and settled back, letting himself fall asleep.