The mall is busy and bright, and Brendon doesn't much like it.
He sat upon the barrier surrounding the fountain, watching the hoards of people bustle past. Beside him sits Spencer, and they're waiting for Jon to arrive. It's three in the afternoon, and Brendon knows that when Jon comes he's going to make his excuses and leave for Ryan's. After all, Spencer and Jon will hardly miss him, he's sure.
It seems that Spencer hadn't realised that Brendon and Ryan had been eavesdropping the previous day; he's not mentioned it, at any rate, and it's not awkward between them. Brendon hasn't given much thought to what he'd overheard; he's been thinking of Ryan and their project a lot, but now he dwells upon it, he wonders how Spencer can be so sure.
From puberty, Brendon's always been mystified by sexuality. He's tried his hardest to get on with girls, but not only do they all seem to think him a loser, he just can't make himself like them, sexually. Sometimes he tries to tell himself that he just hasn't met the right girl yet, but he's not sure he believes that.
He's not exactly unexposed to the world of relationships, though. Just to relationships with girls. He'd had a boyfriend in 11th grade at his old school - a beautiful, shy boy called Lawrence - but it had had to stop when the entire school found out and the both of them had been beaten to a pulp, almost daily. The memory still stings, especially that of Lawrence telling him that they had to end it, and it had been more of an experiment than anything else, and that he just couldn't handle the amount of energy Brendon had all the time.
"Brendon," Spencer sighs, poking him in the shoulder to get his attention. Brendon starts, blinking away his memories, and glances at his friend questioningly. Spencer smiles, obviously relieved he's back in the present. "We haven't properly spoken since the first day, have we? I keep meaning to ask - how are things with Ryan Ross shaping up?"
"Better than I thought they would," Brendon shrugs, wondering how to sum up what's happened between them so far. "I mean, I still can't really call us friends, I guess, but we've been getting on better. You know when he dragged me out of Music yesterday? He took me back to his place and helped clean the cut and everything. He was really nice about it. But I still don't understand him."
Spencer shakes his head, looking awed. "I can't believe that Ryan Ross invited you to his house and actually helped you."
"Is it really that hard to believe?" Brendon asks, tilting his head to one side. "I mean, I know that he's a little...well, I don't know. He keeps himself to himself and everything, and he can have some serious mood swings. But he's not that bad."
"You haven't seen him when he goes over the edge," Spencer says, with a slight frown. "He carries a knife, Brendon. I told you, you really shouldn't mix with him too much. He's dangerous."
Brendon looks away, not agreeing but not wanting to voice it, either. He looks up, with a smile, a question suddenly striking him. "How are things with you and Jon, hmm?"
Spencer colours, dramatically, and he clears his throat. "Um. In what sense?"
Brendon fixes him with a stern, knowing look. "Come on, you're both beyond obvious. You know perfectly well in what sense."
"I don't," Spencer replies, weakly. He bites his lip, and then heaves a heavy sigh. "Fine. You're right, okay? I think I kind of like him. A lot."
Brendon smiles so widely that his lip begins to sting again. "I knew it. He totally likes you back, you know. You should see the way he talks about you and everything. Oh, wait, I know! When he gets here I'm going to Ryan's to work on our project, so you have to tell him how you feel. He'll say it back and everything, I know. But yeah, you absolutely have to, because --"
"Are you mad?" Spencer asks, with wide eyes. "That would ruin everything. Jon is. Jon is popular and well-liked and he'd never like me. Ever."
"But --"
"No, Brendon, it's useless trying to persuade me," Spencer warns, firmly. "He'd never like me."
"Who wouldn't like you?" comes a curious voice, and they both look up to see Jon stood in front of them, a suspicious expression on his face. Spencer turns about ten shades darker, and shoots Brendon a glare, silently warning him to shut up.
"Uh. Nobody important," Spencer shrugs, hopping off the banister. "Brendon's got to go to Ryan's now. He was just keeping me company until you came."
"What, so I've got you all to myself now, have I?" Jon jokes, and Brendon laughs. Spencer, on the other hand, looks down at his feet, awkwardly. Brendon shakes his head, despairing over his shy friend, and then runs a hand through his hair.
"Yeah, I should get going," he smiles. "Bye."
"Bye," they both chime, still looking overly awkward.
"Oh, and Spencer?" Brendon laughs, and the boy shoots him a questioning look. "Good luck with the confession."
Spencer's eyes narrow, and Jon looks confused, but Brendon just laughs to himself and leaves them both to it. He heads out of the mall, smiling to himself. He really hopes they both get their acts together. After all, they're both gay, and they're both into each other - he just hopes that shyness doesn't stop them from developing a relationship.
Ryan's house is only ten minutes from the mall, so Brendon sets off quickly, quite looking forward to getting there. He's thrilled that Ryan had thought so highly of his singing, and he spent all last night practising. For some reason, he feels a strong drive within him to impress Ryan. Maybe it's because Ryan so seldom shows emotion, and he likes to be the one to bring it out.
Maybe it's because of that smile. But, of course, Brendon won't let himself think of that.
He reaches Ryan's house in about seven minutes, having walked fast, and he knocks three times on the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other restlessly. Within seconds, the door opens, revealing Ryan. To his surprise, Ryan's cheeks are flushed, and his hair is tousled, and he looks hastily dressed in a pair of pyjama bottoms and a baggy t-shirt.
"Um. Brendon. Hey," he greets, sounding a little embarrassed. He runs a hand through his messy hair, and steps back, to let Brendon in. Brendon enters, feeling a little wrong footed, and Ryan gives a nervous laugh. "I just, um. I just out of the shower and everything."
Brendon blinks. Ryan sounds like he's lying - but even if he's telling the truth, just why would Brendon need to know? "Afternoon," he smiles, trying his best to ignore the awkward air surrounding them. "Sorry if I came round at a bad time."
"No, not at all." Ryan smoothes down his t-shirt, as though he's trying to subtly wipe his hands. "Let's go up then, shall we?"
Brendon nods, and follows Ryan up the stairs and into his bedroom. It's the same as it was the day before - except, making Brendon's cheeks suddenly flame red, the bed isn't made and there's a wad of tissues dropped haphazardly on the sheets. Everything instantly makes sense; Ryan's flushed persona, his embarrassment, and the mess.
"Having a nice time, were you?" Brendon asks, and then actually claps a hand over his mouth, completely and utterly mortified at himself. "I mean. Uh. Fuck. I didn't mean to --"
Ryan follows his gaze to the tissues, and his eyes go wide. "Fuck. Um. It's not what it looks like, at all. It's just. Uh. I spilt something all over the bed and was cleaning it up, that's all."
Brendon nods, not trusting himself to speak again, and fights an odd desire to laugh. There's something absurd about the situation, and he can't help but wonder what would have happened if he'd arrived a couple of minutes earlier, to find Ryan even more hot and flushed and...fuck. He's not allowed to think that way.
"Uh. The music project, then!" he says, in a falsely bright voice, and sits himself carefully on Ryan's bed - avoiding the tissue as best he can. Ryan bites his lip, sinking into his computer chair, and can't seem to meet Brendon's eye. Then, he heaves a great sigh, and glances at Brendon.
"What did your mom say about your lip?" he asks, studying it carefully. Brendon runs a tongue across it, self-consciously, and Ryan swallows, hard.
"She wasn't too happy," Brendon shrugs, remembering her horror. "But I swore to her that I'd just tripped and fallen. I think she believed me in the end. I'd normally tell her the truth, but she'd freak out and everything, and I don't need that to start all over again, it was --"
"Again?" Ryan asks, sharply. "It's happened before?"
Brendon winces, having let too much slip, as usual. "Well. Um. At my old school, yeah. I had a few bad experiences with people and their love for violence. That's why I had to move schools. But, yeah, I'd rather not go through that all again, I'm just settling down. It was only one punch, anyway, and --"
"It's still one punch too many," Ryan says, quietly, and then shakes his head, brushing his hair from his eyes. "Right. Music project, then. I've got some lyrics sorted out, but I'm not sure if you'll like them."
He reaches for a journal ontop of his computer keyboard, flicks to a page in the middle, and holds it out for Brendon. Brendon takes it, curious as to what the words will be like. There are several ink smudges and crossing-outs, and it takes a moment for Brendon to decipher Ryan's untidy scrawl.
"'The hospice is a relaxing getaway where you're a cut above all the rest," he murmurs, reading aloud, "'sick and sad patients on first name basis with all the top physicians. I am alone in this house, bed, and head, and she never fixes this, but at least she --"
"They're awful, aren't they?" Ryan asks, snatching the journal back and closing it, hastily. He puts it back onto the desk, and frowns, heavily. "I just can't get what's in my head out on paper."
"What? No, they were amazing," Brendon reassures him, honestly. He bites his lip, wondering if he's being a bit pushy, but he's just about dying of curiosity, and he really wants to know. "Um. Is it about anybody?"
Ryan looks at him, expressionlessly, for almost a full minute, in which Brendon's heart beats strangely louder. "It's about somebody I know."
Brendon casts his mind back to the day before, and Ryan's arguing, screaming parents, and it suddenly clicks that there was a definite smell of alcohol coming from one of them, and he wonders if, maybe, "Is it about your parents?"
Ryan stands up, sharply, his hand somehow suddenly holding his knife, and he grabs Brendon's t-shirt, pushing him, hard, down onto the bed. Brendon lets out a sound of surprise, but he soon shuts up as he feels something sharp digging into the tender skin of his neck, and sees Ryan's dark, furious expression above him.
"Don't you ever, ever fucking guess anything like that about my parents," he hisses, shaking Brendon, his dark eyes narrow. "You don't know me, and you don't know them, so don't you dare fucking assume shit."
"I-I wasn't assuming anything, I just thought --"
"Are you fucking stupid?" Ryan asks, his voice rising. "That's what assuming is."
Brendon struggles against him, kind of wanting to cry or scream or something, but he daren't do anything too drastic, because, fuck, there's a knife at his throat. "Look, j-just put the knife --"
Ryan pulls back, chest heaving, and he tucks the knife in his pocket. He clambers off Brendon, and stands by the bed, still looking murderous. Cautiously, absolutely terrified, Brendon sits up, taking deep, shaky breaths. "Get out," Ryan orders, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him to his feet. "You need to learn to keep your fucking mouth shut."
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean --"
"I said get out!" Ryan shouts, pushing him towards the door. "Just leave, okay?"
Brendon nods, throwing open the door and running down the stairs, his heart slapping wetly against his ribcage. He slams out of the front door, not looking back, and comes to a stop against the wall in front of the house. He's breathing heavily and he's close to tears, and his bruised side is hurting, and he just wants to curl up and die or something.
He's been threatened, yes. He's been beaten up, yes. He got knocked into by a car in 9th grade and had to go to hospital with a broken leg, yes. But he's never nearly been murdered before. He can still feel the ghostly sharpness of the knife against his throat, and he rubs the spot with a shaking hand.
He heaves a great, trembling breath, and rests his back against the wall, running a hand over his face. He can't really get his head around what's just happened. Ryan Ross - the boy he was so sure he was becoming friends with - nearly killed him, all because of a question about his parents.
"You," comes gruff, male voice, causing Brendon to start and look up. It is, much to his surprise, Mr. Ross. The man stands in front of Brendon, swaying slightly on the spot, and the scent of alcohol hits Brendon when the man opens his mouth. "Aren't you my son's friend?"
"Yeah," Brendon lies, standing up straight. "Um. Are you okay, Mr. Ross?"
"Is he in?" the man asks, ignoring him, and nodding towards the house.
"Yeah," Brendon repeats, and Mr. Ross smiles, drunkenly.
"Good. I've got to have a word with him about his bad grades."
He says nothing more to Brendon, but stumbles over to his front door, manages to open it, and shuts it clumsily behind himself. Brendon stares after him, nerves blossoming wildly in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't know why, but he feels a bit uneasy about sending the man into Ryan. Yes, Ryan just tried to stab him, but he has a feeling that something is little odd about his and his father's relationship.
Then, he remembers the feeling of Ryan over him, pressing a knife to his throat, and sighs, heavily.
Whatever might be happening in the house in front of him - and he can guess what is happening, though he may be entirely wrong - he can't save Ryan Ross. It's not that he doesn't want to. It's just that Ryan, for some reason that Brendon can't work out, and God it stings to know it, doesn't want him to be his saviour.
*
Brendon tries to ignore the dull murmur of voices from the bedroom next to his. His mother has brought Rodney round for the night, and it's making Brendon's skin crawl, thinking of them in bed together. He well and truly hates the obnoxious, foul man, and the sooner his mother is rid of him, the better.
To distract himself, he lets one of his hands slip down his undressed body, and his fingers close, slowly, around his cock. He bites his sore lip to make sure no moans escape, and begins to trail his hand up and down, up and down, letting out a small groan as he hardens.
He thinks of all the things he usually thinks of - a body pressed against his, a hand guiding his, sex, his ex-boyfriend, those pictures he sometimes stumbles across on the internet. He lets out a quiet, moan, muffling it into his pillow, and jerks his hand faster, feeling close, and then...then...
Then, he suddenly, inexplicably, remembers a door opening, to reveal a flushed, tousled-hair, hastily-dressed Ryan, and the way the boy's hair frames his face, and how his fingers smooth across the fret boards of the guitar, and how he bites his lip and looks at the floor when he's nervous.
Before Brendon can even begin to ask his mind what it thinks it's doing, he comes, hard, letting out a moan of pleasure that seems to shape itself in the form of a certain someone's name. He withdraws his hand, slowly, chest heaving, skin slightly moist from the sweat of passion.
He sits up, slowly, and stares across the room into his mirror, gazing back at himself with wide, stunned eyes.
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
He did not just come whilst thinking of Ryan Ross. He really, really, really didn't.