It’s almost as if Spencer’s words are the starting signal for a whirlwind: The following days—The following weeks, wow, pass in a flurry of activity, with Jon red-cheeked and talking about hardly anything other than the plans he and Spencer are working out for the new café, detailed sketches of an Indian sort of hippie interior, of furniture they’re trying to assemble, of cloth and pictures that should be on the walls, the espresso machine already picked out. Talking bank people into credits isn’t a problem since Ryan, by Spencer’s account, nearly forced Spencer into accepting some of his money as a loan with extremely good conditions – as in, the interest equals the inflation rate, and it would have been zero if Spencer hadn’t insisted to pay at least a very small amount for the loan.
While Brendon would like to spend as much time in the changing shop as Jon does, Jon has the advantage of actually getting some money as well as college work out of it. His term project consists of a photo series, the topic conveniently chosen to allow him to take pictures of the construction and the planning, ladders that blur out of focus as they reach for the ceiling, paint dripping off a brush, maps that have been corrected until they’re almost unintelligible.
Brendon spends a few afternoons on the construction site, too, and he and Jon end up painting an enormous sun on one wall. Pete, who flits back and forth between the main room and Spencer’s office, claps his hands in glee the moment he catches sight of it, and he doesn’t stop talking until Spencer agrees that yes, it would be totally stylish to decorate the beams with pieces of a broken mirror, so that the pieces reflect the light of Indian lamps Haley found at a scruffy Asian shop a few days earlier.
In order to finish what they started, Jon and Brendon collaborate to break a large mirror into small slices, Brendon gathering up the pieces while Jon works the hammer.
It’s impossible to miss the occasional, increasingly obvious glances Jon sneaks at Spencer. Brendon is proud that he himself only nearly startles once, when Tom exhales against his cheek while examining Brendon's work. Fortunately, Tom leaves quickly to help Haley carry some things for the supply closet.
During the second week, William drops in to supply a selection of CDs, and Jon and Gabe immediately set to work on the stereo system. Whenever Brendon manages to spare a couple of hours at the emerging café, there's a constant trickle of people coming in to help out for a while, or to just have a look at how things are progressing. There are too many to remember all their names – Victoria, and a guy called Travis, and Brendon distinctly remembers that one is called The Butcher – but even between all those people, Brendon never meets Ryan.
Jon does. The first time is on his second day at the newly deserted screw shop, when he and Spencer are still trying to figure out how to do this working relationship thing. The figuring out part was apparently cut short when Jon and Ryan started discussing guitar models and pot while Spencer was pouring over his business plan. Considering Jon liked Ryan’s book, he’s probably biased about Ryan being a cool guy. Either way, it doesn’t take them long to fall into what sounds like an easy kind of friendship.
Brendon doesn’t really care about not getting to meet Ryan, not at first. Jon’s tales sound quite cool, but Brendon has enough on his plate without wasting time thinking about his elusive employer.
On the other hand, he and Ryan still exchange notes. The first song – Brendon still hesitates to call it that; it seems presumptuous, but Ryan went there first – gets polished and then exchanged for another set of lyrics, a different kind of mood, come save me from walking off a windowsill or I'll sleep in the rain.
Along with what might be the chorus, Brendon leaves a comment about how Ryan should really eat those eggplants in his fridge, or they'll walk out on him. He feels weird about it later, but the next time he's there, Ryan left the print-out of an internet recipe in plain view on the kitchen table: Eggplant lasagna. I'm sure you'd have liked it,Ryan wrote in one corner.
You cook? Brendon scribbles underneath it.
I'm a professional procrastinator. Anything to make me feel like I can stall working on my next book just a while longer.
Brendon buys him a book called Eat that Frog, supposedly teaching its readers how to tackle their most pressing problems without delay, and leaves it in Ryan's kitchen along with a burnt copy of Yundi Li playing Satie, because he can't quite part with his own signed original. It probably would have been over the top, anyway.
So maybe Brendon is beginning to mind not meeting Ryan, after all. Then again, he's just not good at interacting with people he really, really likes a lot. Tom is walking, talking proof of that sad truth.
--
The next time Brendon comes in, he finds a stack of papers on the table, along with another post-it note, light blue this time. The title on the first sheet says ‘Chapter 1’ and when Brendon looks at the note, there’s a list of things to do, some of them crossed out:
A. finish chp 3
B. start chp 4
B. find painting for Spence
B. ask Spence about Jon
C. what was that coffee brand called?
A. calm editor
A. buy groceries + toilet paper
A. thank Brendon for frog-eating lessons, give him draft as evidence & for reading, if he’s interested
Grinning, Brendon transfers the post-it note to the fridge, crosses the last item off the list and scribbles a thank you, yes below it. He stuffs Ryan’s draft of the first three chapters into his backpack before he gets started by moving Ryan’s pile of clothes from the floor to the bed, so that he has room for vacuuming.
The clothes are almost normal. Brendon pauses for a moment, turning a v-neck shirt over in his hands wonderingly before he remembers a comment from Spencer about how Ryan seems to have plunged from his Grandpa Starving Writer phase right into a Real Boy With V-Neck universe.
Brendon likes v-necks on boys. And from what he can tell by that one picture of Ryan bare-chested at some beach, with two people Brendon now vaguely recognizes from the café, he’s pretty sure Ryan’s collarbones lend themselves quite well to that particular choice of cloth. Quite well, oh yes.
--
Ryan’s second book is very, very different from his first. It’s still intrinsically his tone, his words, his way of shaping sentences, but the mood has changed. Where Behind the Sea is dark and twisted, this untitled beginning is lazy and quirky, almost whimsical.
Brendon secures the pages under one arm, protecting them from the breeze as he rolls over onto his back, gazing into an eternity of pale blue. The sun is almost blinding, at its highest point in the sky.
He wonders if it would be cheating if he tried to fit his term project around Ryan’s story – or, okay, the beginning of Ryan’s story, at least. So far, Brendon hasn’t had much luck getting high and then trying to come up with something, which is how he usually works best. Anything it brought him this time were a couple of short, almost show-tune like pieces that are nowhere close to the three-minutes mark.
Ryan’s writing has been pretty good stimulation.
Only… Only Ryan didn’t give this to Brendon so he’d turn it into a term project or whatever. It was a sneak peek, nothing more, even though it certainly implied a surprising amount of trust. Brendon could probably make money off selling this draft. No, not probably; he could. Times Online recently published an interview with Ryan, asking about the direction of his new book and when it was due, if he was afraid it might not appeal to his audience the way his first book did.
Brendon sort of felt like punching the interviewer while he read it. It would be hypocritical of him if he now went ahead and used Ryan’s draft for his own purposes, without at least asking first.
Hey, Brendon’s parents raised him better than that. Even if they might beg to differ.
--
Ryan underlined his reply twice, Of course, so forcefully the pen almost went through the paper. Let me know how it goes?
As soon as Brendon gets back home, he sets up his keyboard and earphones along with the recorder he got right after he began his studies. It’s completely out of date by now, wasn’t up to current technical standards when he bought it, but it records in .wav format and the microphone isn’t half-bad. Also, he got it cheap.
He starts out with the song he and Ryan worked out already, the one Brendon calls I’ll Sleep In The Rain. It takes him several tries to get it down, and it still sounds rough, but… It’s a good foundation, definitely.
Another two days later, Brendon finishes an instrumental piece that sounds like travelling through deserted landscapes searching for something undefined, like the character in Ryan’s book who sets out for a road trip through America in an old van threatening to break down each time the driver switches gears, with nothing but the clothes on his body, a guitar on the passenger seat and just enough gas in the tank to last him the first three-hundred miles.
By the time Wednesday rolls around again, Brendon leaves a CD with three songs on Ryan’s table – I’ll Sleep In The Rain, the instrumental one and one that could use some lyrics, I think. You interested?
Ryan’s reply consists of a Wow. Your voice blows me away. Also: Definitely interested! ;-) It comes with a recorder that is way better than anything Brendon could afford at the moment, and a first set of words. Brendon’s stomach feels a little uneasy and fluttering while he reads through Ryan’s reply again, and then again, grinning stupidly at the winking smiley.
He leaves the recorder on the table with a post-it note that says, Glad to see we’re on the same page, then. I mean… You know. You’re the guy with the words. Also, just, this recorder is awesome, but seriously, I can’t possibly accept it. Just. You know? But, oh, hey, you should stock up your supply of toilet paper, you’re almost out.
--
Brendon is willing to swear that each time he comes into the improving construction site, Spencer is giving him increasingly smug looks. Since Spencer never says anything, Brendon never says anything about how much time Spencer and Jon appear to spend together, while Haley’s visits are frequently accompanied by Tom. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, just like the notes Ryan and Brendon exchange.
They might be just that, notes. Maybe Ryan likes to flirt, or something. Not that Brendon minds.
Another thing he doesn’t mind is how easy it suddenly is to picture alternate scenarios for his weekly cleaning shifts, scenarios when he comes in just as Ryan emerges wet and naked from taking a shower, scenarios of Ryan asleep in his bed, waking up when Brendon enters the room, and instead of sleepy annoyance, Ryan greets him with a smile and some cheesy line, something like hey, I was waiting for you, wanna come to bed?
Ryan might have taken over Tom’s number one spot at the top of Brendon’s jerk-off list. Brendon won’t admit to anything.
--
It’s, like, one of nature’s many cruelties that the morning sun always seems to be so much fucking brighter than it has any right to be. Simple equation: Mornings mean just getting up, just getting up means sensitive eyes. Easy, no?
Yeah.
So, nature – because Brendon kissed his faith in God goodbye; he doesn’t need a God when there’s music, and— Right. Uh. Nature is a bitch because the sun is too bright in the mornings. That was the point.
He scratches at an itching spot near his bellybutton and squints at the mess of items that are lined up beside the sink. Unfortunately, coffee doesn’t step forward to reveal itself.
“Looking for something?” Jon asks from the table. He sounds amused. Because he’s an ass.
Slowly, Brendon turns. His glare isn’t very impressive even when he’s at the height of his abilities, which he’s definitely not at the moment, but he’s trying, at least. Until Jon nods his chin towards a steaming cup in the middle of the table, and, oh. Clearly, Jon is heaven-sent.
And Brendon is maybe a little addicted. “I could stop anytime,” he says, slumping down heavily in the chair Jon kicks out for him, immediately lunging for the coffee.
“Right.” Jon is grinning behind his own cup. They’re an apartment full of addicts, seriously.
“I just don’t want to.” Brendon barely manages to finish the sentence in the face of, oh God, wonderful, fresh, delicious coffee, already sugared and with just a hint of milk. He takes a careful sip at first, but it’s not hot anymore, just perfect. If he had his hands free, he’d flail them about.
“Do I smell coffee?” Tom asks from the doorframe.
Brendon nearly chokes. It would be a waste of good coffee, but Jesus, how is he supposed to stay all calm and collected when the sun is too bright and he’s still slightly dizzy with sleep, and then there’s Tom in his apartment, leaning one hip against the doorframe, looking all tousled and hot, and, most importantly, not wearing a shirt. Brendon just does not deal well with bare-chested Tom in the morning. It doesn’t go with his plans of admiring from afar.
“Take mine, I’ll make a new one for myself,” Jon tells Tom, but he’s smirking at Brendon. Oh, the bastard knows exactly why he didn’t voice a warning. Brendon lifts his cup high enough to shield most of his reddening face.
Tom takes Jon’s coffee with a sweet, grateful smile before he sits down, closing his eyes briefly as he inhales. Brendon should stop staring. He turns his head to watch Jon go about his coffee-making ways.
“Staying for breakfast, Tommy?” Jon asks over his shoulder.
Tom lifts one shoulder and yawns. “Can’t.”
It looks like Jon hears something in the reply, because he twists around, one brow raised. “Really.”
Tom clears his throat before he replies. “I’m meeting Haley to go over some stuff. For the café. That still needs a name.”
“It does, and you’re trying to distract.” Something about Jon’s posture gives away his delight. Brendon is looking back at Tom, and there’s something like a flush high on his cheeks, yeah, definitely. Brendon is pretty sure he should mind more than he actually does. Maybe it’s because he was always perfectly aware he never stood a chance with Tom.
Briefly, Brendon thinks of Ryan. They’ve never even met, though.
“Just friends,” Tom says, a beat too late. “I mean, she’s with Spencer, and. I like Spencer. I wouldn’t interfere with that, I’m not—You know I’m not that much of an ass, right?”
“I’m pretty sure Spencer would get over it,” Brendon says into the following silence.
Both Tom and Jon turn to look at him. While Jon looks speculating, Tom looks vaguely hopeful. They both stay silent.
“Just sayin’,” Brendon eventually adds, when no one seems inclined to comment.
“Huh.” Jon grins very suddenly, and then he turns to press the button on the coffeemaker. Tom seems to be smiling, but it’s hard to tell behind the cover provided by his cup.
--
Words are just hollow birds! Or something. I’m not so good with them when talking to people I really like, so maybe this is a better way for me. –R.
P.S. The shop was out of normal toilet paper, so I had to buy pink one with flowers. What a gay cliché.
A friend of mine said I’m not so good with functioning relationships, so, hey. What a catch, Donnie. (I don’t know, it’s something your friend(?) Pete Wentz kept saying at the Angels&Kings yesterday.) Either way, do two minuses make a plus? – Bden, and P.S. Thought you were bi?
I don’t know about minus and plus, but once in a while, it’s not so bad to take a risk, right? Come save me from walking off a windowsill… Never mind. And yes, that sounds like Pete. –R.
P.S. I don’t like labels.
P.P.S. Chapters 4 & 5, rough draft, standard warnings apply.
Ryan Ross, are you asking me out? If so, the answer’s yes.
- Bden
P.S. Fair enough.
P.P.S. Looking forward to reading them!
P.P.P.S. Please tell me you came up with “9 in the afternoon” for the café. Spencer just smiles mysteriously when I ask.
P.P.P.P.S. The CD is another rough draft: Song #4. You’ll recognize the hollow birds, I’m sure.
P.P.P.P.P.S. That’s a lot of PS.
--
Maybe Brendon should have written his phone number onto the note. It just… It sucks, knowing that he won’t get an answer until next Wednesday. Well, unless Ryan asks Spencer for the number, or Brendon could ask Spencer, but that would look desperate, right, and that’s why Ryan probably won’t ask Spencer, either.
Life is a bitch, and we’re all her—No, that went differently. Oh, whatever. The point is, neither of them is desperate. They’re just…
Brendon doesn’t know what Ryan is. He doesn’t even really know what he is, only that interestedis certainly part of it. Interested in what, though? He hasn’t met Ryan. How could he be interested in a relationship with a guy he only knows from exchanging notes? And from looking at pictures, reading his book, from the fondly exasperated way Spencer talks about him and from the things he surrounds himself with, the music he likes?
Okay. So maybe there’s a lot Brendon knows; definitely more than he knew about Frank when they started dating. That doesn’t mean Brendonwants to date Ryan, he’s not—maybe, okay, but it’s not entirely rational, or… Ah, fuck that.
Given his slight restlessness – just slight, honestly, even if Jon keeps giving him amused glances – Brendon is rather grateful to receive a text from Cash. were on stage @ angels&kings 2moro, wanna com? hvnt cn u 4evr! the cab rulz!
“Cabbies at the Angels & Kings tomorrow,” Brendon tells Jon.
“Wow.” Jon sounds impressed. “They must be good, then. Wentz doesn’t let just anyone take the stage. Maybe all the not fucking you was put into band practice?”
“Actually,” Brendon grins, “I think all the not fucking me was put into fucking Singer. Not sure that’s band practice, really. Although I guess it could be, like, a team building thing.”
“Thanks for the images. Aren’t half of them still jailbait?” Jon snorts into his coffee. He’s taken to trying out different brands for the café, small test portions he and Spencer bought at a coffee shop specialized in fair trade espresso from Costa Rica and Nicaragua, even though Jon complains their coffee machine at home isn’t up to the task.
“Cash wasn’t jailbait when we were together,” Brendon protests.
“Whatever.” A pause. “Perv.”
“You’re just jealous I nailed a future rock star.”
“Very.” Jon’s tone is flat.
Brendon snickers and leans back against the windowsill. The stony edge is cold even through his shirt, and when he glances around, it’s to notice that the plant they were trying to raise for strawberry-production has died, wasted away from a lack of water. Shame. “So, you coming along?”
“To the concert?” Something about Jon’s look is shifty.
“Yes,” Brendon says slowly. “The concert. Tomorrow night. Are you coming?”
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
Jon makes a valid attempt at hiding behind his cup. Fortunately, he’s just as aware as Brendon that he’s not a particularly good liar. “I’m meeting someone.”
Brendon aimlessly plucks at a dried leaf while observing Jon’s face. “Who?”
“Spencer.”
“On a Friday night.”
“He’s cooking something.” Jon quickly gulps down some coffee, almost choking on it. “It’s just, we’re just going over some stuff for the café.”
“On a Friday night,” Brendon repeats slowly. This isn’t his business, really, but, “Shouldn’t he be spending time with Haley, or something, instead of cooking for you?”
“Um.” The word is followed by a significant pause while Jon smiles down into his coffee. “Actually, they broke up.”
“What? When?”
“Wednesday, I think?” Jon makes a valid attempt at disguising his delight. A valid attempt means he manages not to beam like a fucking light bulb, and instead only like, say, a fairly large candle. Which is kind of a strange image, Brendon has to admit. “I didn’t really catch much of it, but, like, they were gone for hours that afternoon, and Spencer looked odd when he came back alone, so, I just asked if he was okay.”
“Selfless,” Brendon comments cheekily, even though Jon really… Well. Jon is possibly the most generous guy Brendon’s ever met, easy-going about everything that belongs to him becauseit’s just stuff, dude. Just stuff, yeah.
“Shut it, Urie.” Jon’s cheeks are tinged with pink. “So anyway, he said that yeah, he’s okay, he’s perfectly fine, just not used to being single anymore, and how it was kind of weird. And, um.”
“You kissed him?”
Jon shakes his head, and the pink seems to darken, and spread up to the tips of his ears. “No, I just, uh. Asked if he wanted a coffee, because I found this really awesome fair trade brand at this store near the bridge, you know the one I mean? I made it for you last week.”
Brendon shrugs because really, coffee is coffee. As long as it’s not decaffeinated and there’s enough sugar, he doesn’t care so much. Predictably, Jon gives him an exasperated look. Since he’s still flushed, it’s not nearly as effective as he’d probably like it to be. Brendon bites down on the inside of his cheek and says, slightly muffled, “Wow, smooth. The guy just, like, told you he’s kind of heartbroken, and you wanna fix it with coffee. Very emotionally competent, Jon Walker.”
“You’d have offered him hugs and kisses and a teddy bear, I take it,” Jon snaps.
Brendon grins, not offended in the least. There’s a hint of truth to it. “Hey, maybe he wanted hugs and kisses from you.”
“Fuck you,” Jon says.
“Classy comeback.” Brendon raises one hand, waving it mildly in a gesture he copied from William. He doesn’t have the limbs for it, but he’d like to think he more than makes up for it in enthusiasm. “Fits almost all situations, requires no actual brain cell activity, so, we got a winner.”
“I get the feeling you don’t really appreciate my coffee in the morning.” Jon obviously tries to sound firm. “Unlike Spencer. Who, by the way, totally beamed at me when I brought him his coffee, you know, the one that makes his whole face light up, and—”
“You’re such a girl,” Brendon says. “Seriously, ateenage girl. You’re twelve.”
“Says the guy who exchanges love notes with his employer.”
Brendon narrows his eyes at Jon. “Hey, no fair. You can’t suddenly recover your wits, and stuff. That’s not on.”
“Your mom’s not on,” Jon says. His grin is cheesy.
Brendon bursts out laughing.
--
The Angels & Kings is a riot. Brendon’s never been there on a Friday night, so it catches him by surprise, the thick air and heavy music and how people have to raise their voices over the music to hold something vaguely resembling a conversation.
Brendon manages to sneak backstage to talk to Cash for a moment, but they’re all preoccupied with the upcoming show. While Cash seems genuinely delighted to see him and even Singer cracks a smile – Brendon returns it cautiously, too aware of the lingering rivalry – it’s not hard to tell that they need some band time in order to collect themselves. Brendon wonders if he’d be the same, jittery with stage fright and anticipation. He’s only ever performed in the context of his music studies, and that’s probably different.
So, after wishing them good luck, he makes his way back to where masses of people are still gathered. He has to duck out of the way of a too-full glass more than once, to avoid getting beer all over his carefully chosen shirt. He likes the way red makes his skin look, even if Jon tells him blue’s so much more his color.
Wow, they’re such a cliché. Brendon’s almost certain Ryan would find it funny.
Also, Brendon was supposed not to worry about the strange fluttering thing in his stomach tonight. Not that he is. Worried.
He fumbles his phone out of his jeans pocket, but there’s nothing from Gabe or William yet. They said they’d be here in time for the show. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve gotten distracted by each other, though.
Brendon really, really needs a drink. Of course, the bar is even more crowded than the rest of the club. When he finally makes it into the first row, he’s relieved he can prop his elbows on the counter, his shirt clinging damply to his shoulders, sweaty from too many bodies in too small a room. He should have worn black; at least that covers up the wet patches.
Someone squeezes into the nonexistent space beside him, accidentally planting a pointy elbow in Brendon’s ribs. It’s not the first time tonight, but hey, all good things come in threes. Brendon rubs at the sore spot and glances at the oblivious guy beside him, then further down the bar to find the bartender still puzzling over a simple daiquiri.
Then Brendon abruptly looks back at the guy.
(Art by
It’s—He’s not wearing one of those godawful paisley shirts, no, and his hair’s longer and curlier than in the pictures, maybe it’s the humid air that makes it curl like that. His v-neck is cut quite low, shadows pooling at the hollow of his throat and below his collarbones, and—
And.
As if sensing Brendon’s inquisitive stare, Ryan turns his head with a half-smile. The smile flickers for a moment when their eyes meet, and then it brightens. “Hey,” Ryan says, inaudible over the music, but easy to tell by the movements of his mouth. How did he—
Of course. Jon has quite a few pictures on his phone, some of them showing Brendon in more and less flattering situations. Mostly more – Jon’s a good photographer. So, yeah. That explains how Ryan might recognize Brendon’s face.
“Hey,” Brendon shouts back, leaning a little closer. Then he wonders if that’s wrong, if he should keep his distance for now – not that it’s possible with the way people keep pushing from behind, but, well. Brendon could try. Should he?
Notes are so much easier.
Well, of course they are. No body language to consider, and Brendon has a natural tendency to say too much too soon, get too close too fast, a certain disregard for people’s boundaries that he’s not always aware of. Ryan’s smile doesn’t fade, though, his head tilted slightly. Brendon is almost nearly sort of sure that Ryan’s gaze flicks down to his mouth for a moment. Just in case, Brendon turns his lips up at the corners.
Cash always said he has a good mouth. Everyone says that. So, there must be some truth to it.
The bartender interrupts them. He taps Ryan on the shoulder and Ryan turns quickly, startled. Then he grins and nods in greeting. It’s obvious they know each other, not just because the bartender preferred Ryan over a number of people who waited much longer, but also because Ryan holds up his hand in a gesture that seems to mean something. Then he gestures at Brendon while the music blares on.
Brendon raises a brow, questioning. It takes him three tries – leaning in close, Ryan’s breath warm against the shell of his ear – to discern Ryan’s words as, “Vodka O for you?”
It’s not quite the date Brendon had in mind for them, but hey, he’s not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Happily, he nods. Ryan’s smile flashes in the dim light before he conveys the order to the bartender. They have to wait for a minute or so, shoulders pressed together. Brendon hasn’t even had a drink, and already his body is humming. The music beats in time with his heart, and wow, what a stupid thought. Maybe it’s just because the bass is so heavy it shakes the floor.
He keeps sneaking glances at Ryan. Ryan’s eyes are different than he expected, brighter, less brown. Also, Ryan’s nose is kind of a little funny, but in a good way, a pretty way, and no, that doesn’t make sense, Brendon’s sure. When Ryan catches him looking, he quickly averts his eyes. He’s only flushing because the room’s hot. Really. Also, this is why he doesn’t go on dates often; he sucks at it. It’s only a matter of time until his talkative side kicks in and he starts making dumb remarks – or, he would if they’d translate over the music. Thank God, or someone, for noisy bars. They’re vastly underrated as dating locations.
Ryan’s fingertips brush over Brendon’s wrist, lingering on the pulse point. It might be an accident.
Brendon doesn’t think it is.
The bartender hands them the drinks with a sketchy bow and something like a wink at Ryan. Brendon grins too broadly. Cool condensation has gathered on the outside of his glass, a relief against his burning skin. The air tastes thick and humid on his tongue. He feels slightly drunk even before taking his first sip, a little fluttery and unsteady. It’s a good thing Ryan is close enough that Brendon can lean against him, perfectly natural in the thick press of bodies all around them. It doesn’t help with the heat in his face. It doesn’t help either that he catches Ryan intently watching his throat as he swallows a cooling mouthful of the drink down.
Caught, Ryan merely reacts by offering another smile. He opens his mouth to say something Brendon doesn’t quite catch – dance? trance? chance? Take a chance, Brendon thinks. He points towards the dance floor, then gestures between Ryan and himself. Just then, someone pushes him from behind, and he falls into Ryan, chest to chest suddenly.
Ryan stumbles back half a step and Brendon catches them both, one arm tight around Ryan’s waist, some of his drink spilling on Ryan’s shirt as he tries to regain his balance. “Oops,” Brendon says, and he can make out Ryan’s laughter as a burst of air against his cheek.
The wet patch on Ryan’s shirt is a darker shade of brown than the rest of the cloth, nearly black in the dingy illumination. They should probably run some water over it, or it’ll smell awful tomorrow. It’s an utterly selfish thought on Brendon’s part. It is. It has nothing to do with Ryan potentially taking the shirt off to rinse it in the sink. Brendon’s not that kind of guy, okay? He believes in the whole third-date-is-for-sex rule Ally McBeal spelled out once. There might be traces of his parents’ upbringing lingering in him.
Still. Looking never hurt, did it? And it’s not like Ryan’s a complete stranger.
Brendon’s nose brushes Ryan’s when he turns his head to figure out the way to the bathrooms. A red, glowing sign beside the bar makes it rather easy. From here, Brendon can’t be certain, but he thinks there are crystals sparkling around each ‘e’ of ‘Refreshment Area.’ The more he sees, the less certain he is that listening to Pete’s decoration advice can possibly be a good idea, ever. Then again, the Angels & Kings is packed, so Pete must be doing something right.
Ryan’s fingers on his chin pull Brendon’s attention back. He slants his eyes up – Ryan’s taller than him, something else Brendon couldn’t learn from the pictures – to find Ryan’s head canted to the left, watching him seriously. Then Ryan’s lips pull up at the corners. It looks like an invitation.
Brendon touches the wet spot on Ryan’s shoulder. “You wanna clean that? Water?” It’s more a shout than a question, and still the music is louder. Brendon feels it humming in his bones. There’s no way Ryan’s getting out of dancing with him later.
Ryan merely frowns and shrugs one shoulder, eyes never leaving Brendon’s face. Talk about communication problems. Grinning, Brendon points at the sign to the bathrooms, and Ryan is quick to nod this time, a reflection of Brendon’s grin pulling at his mouth. He’s really, really hot. Possibly more so than Tom. Probably. The decision might depend on Brendon’s mood, and since he’s got Ryan close right now, close and smiling and available, it’s not a hard choice.
Brendon sets off first, trying to weave his way through the thick crowd with his drink held protectively to his chest. Ryan is pressed against his back, a necessity in order not to lose each other here, but it still makes heat collect on the back of Brendon’s neck.
Then they’re out of the thickest parts. On the outskirts, fewer people are blocking their way, and still Ryan doesn’t move back. The realization makes Brendon’s stomach drop, like a sudden blowhole on a plane ride, but he always enjoyed the sensation, the drop-and-turn of excitement sizzling through his body. He’s certainly enjoying this, even shifting back a little. One of Ryan’s arms comes up around his stomach, palm settling lightly over his bellybutton. Brendon sucks in a breath, and all he drank was that one sip of his Vodka O, but he feels quite flushed all the same.
This is not what he thought their first date would be like.
To Brendon’s surprise, Ryan steers him past the clearly marked men’s toilet. “What—” Brendon begins, audible now that the music is somewhat muffled.
“There’s a bathroom for staff,” Ryan interrupts. His grin has seeped into his voice, and when Brendon turns his head, he’s startled momentarily by how closed they are. “More privacy. I know the owner, so.”
Sure, I know, Brendon is about to say, but he’s distracted when Ryan’s palm slides a little lower, settling above the waistband of Brendon’s jeans. The corridor is made of orange bricks, warehouse style, and since they just turned a corner and passed a door marked as Staff Only, they’re alone now, just the two of them. Brendon might have entertained the thought in his head once or twice, with his hand wrapped around his cock, but he’s not admitting to anything. He doesn’t think Ryan would mind, though.
Considering Brendon thought they were only going to rinse Ryan’s shirt, this sure is turning out quite differently. Maybe they should try having a conversation first? Only Brendon can feel Ryan’s erection press against his back, and, wow, coherent thinking? Not so much right now. Conversations are overrated. A little less conversation, a little more action, please? Yeah, Brendon is right on board with Elvis.
He hums the first few notes of the song, and their faces are close enough that Ryan should catch it. A quick, dark laugh shows that he does. “Satisfy you? I think I can do that.”
“Who says I’d let you?” Brendon asks, but he’s grinning too hard to sound believable. Also, his body is a traitorous bitch, because when Ryan cups him through the jeans, Brendon automatically pushes into the touch.
“Just a hunch,” Ryan replies. He lets go of Brendon to open a door with a hand-written sheet tacked to it, Agent 00. The staff bathroom is plain, just white tiles and a small mirror above a sink, the toilet set into the far corner of the room. Brendon enters first, and it’s with another excited spin of his stomach that he hears Ryan lock the door behind them. He turns, and Ryan is already there, eyes so much brighter now that they’re illuminated by the clinical light of an energy-saving lamp.
“So,” Brendon says aimlessly, inexplicably hesitant to trace the line of Ryan’s jaw. He wants to, though. “You’re here for The Cab?”
“That was the plan. But, hey.” Ryan seems undecided for a moment as well, hovering just out of reach before he takes a deliberate step forward. “I mean, I don’t mind some alterations.”
“Me neither.” Brendon lifts a hand to touch the still wet patch on Ryan’s shirt, says, “Sorry about that, by the way,” and he doesn’t quite know how it happens, but suddenly they’re kissing, mouths open and Ryan standing between Brendon’s thighs, spread a little because Brendon uses the sink to keep upright. His glass nearly slips out of his loosening grasp and he sets it down blindly on the bathroom counter, his hand brushing Ryan’s as Ryan does the same. Their fingers tangle, gripping too tight, but it’s good, really fucking good.
Brendon shifts to wrap one leg around Ryan. It earns him something like a muttered groan, and oh, wow, Ryan's voice. That's another thing Brendon couldn't have known, how much he likes the surprisingly low, gentle pitch of Ryan talking.
He squeezes Ryan's hand and tightens his arm around Ryan's waist, forcing him closer. Not that Ryan resists in the first place.
“Hey.” Ryan pulls back just enough to say the word, his breath cool on Brendon's damp lips. The momentary separation gives Brendon a chance to wrestle the shirt over Ryan’s head, all naked chest now, planes of shadow and bright skin in the dingy light. Ryan drops the shirt and steps back in between Brendon’s legs. His hand lightly closes around Brendon’s wrist, expression curiously intent. “Hey, you like blowjobs?”
Brendon swallows convulsively. It's been… Shit, he doesn't even know the last time he—With Cash, probably, although Cash preferred to be on the receiving end. “Giving or getting?” Brendon asks. Randomly, he notices how prettyRyan's eyes are when he smiles.
“Both. Either.”
“Uh. That's,” Brendon's throat is a little dry, but he goes for a casual tone all the same. “Okay-hey with me.”
“What?” Ryan asks. He sounds confused, and he probably writes enough that he doesn't remember all of it.
“Never mind,” Brendon says with a faint laugh. “Come back here. I wanna kiss you some more.”
Ryan's grin is wide, and then it’s pressed to Brendon's mouth again, lips already parted, sharing breath. Brendon pushes the tip of his tongue into Ryan's mouth, testing, and Ryan immediately tilts his head for better access. He twists closer while their hands are still clasped together between their chests. Ryan’s other hand works the buttons of Brendon’s shirt open, one by one, palm smoothing down from Brendon’s throat to his stomach. The cloth gets tangled around Brendon’s forearms when Brendon tries to shrug out of it.
With a soft laugh, Ryan tears his mouth away, which hey, no. Brendon is about to protest – only Ryan gives him a wicked smile and drops to his knees, no hesitance in the smooth motion.
Oh. Oh fuck.
“What was that?” Ryan sounds pleased as he nudges his nose against Brendon's too-tight jeans. They weren’t this tight when Brendon chose them.
“Nothing,” Brendon says. “Just, please, do that again?”
Instead, Ryan flicks the button of Brendon's jeans open and pulls down the zipper. Brendon has a momentary flash of uncertainty as he tries to remember if he put on new boxers, but—
Yeah, he did.
“Mint?” Ryan asks. Brendon blinks down – down at Ryan Ross, Ryan Ross on his knees, on his knees for Brendon, about to suck Brendon's cock, and fuck, Jesus, Brendon needs just a few seconds before he regains his ability for coherent speech. They're still holding hands, somehow.
“I like colors. And, like, black satin was out.”
Ryan's soft laugh feels amazing against Brendon's cock, even through the cotton of his boxers. Brendon can't quite stop his hips from twitching forward hopefully. It brings another laugh from Ryan, surprised and delighted, and Brendon would protest this treatment if Ryan didn't choose that moment to pull Brendon's boxers down in one swift movement, returning instantly to grip the base of Brendon's cock with one hand, exhaling over the head.
Brendon nearly chokes on a curse.
It makes Ryan flick questioning eyes up at him. Then he tilts his head, smirks and focuses back on Brendon’s erection. Brendon blames the fact that it’s been long, way too long, long enough to feel like years since another person touched his cock that he comes apart so easily.
Ryan, he notes distantly, is good, yes, but not perfect, definitely not; he doesn’t quite manage to swallow Brendon all the way down even though he clearly tries, and he seems somewhat unssure what to do with his hand at first, until he finds a rhythm – down, pull back with his tongue flickering out against the vein on the underside of Brendon’s cock, swipe his tongue over the head, and slide back down. It’s, maybe, not perfect, but oh God, it sure feels like it.
“Where the fuck have you been all my life?” Brendon gasps out. His eyes are squeezed shut against the clinical, too-bright light, and he’s still gripping Ryan’s hand, the tightness possibly painful now. He consciously relaxes the fingers of his other hand in Ryan’s hair, doesn’t try to force anything, just goes with it, goes with Ryan’s rhythm and the soft, wet noises that sound almost obscene against the backdrop of muted music. It sounds like the Cabbies took the stage, and Brendon couldn’t care less.
Also, if he thought it felt amazing to have Ryan’s laugh ghost over him, it feels like perfect bliss to feel the vibrations of it around his cock.
“I’ve been around,” Ryan says when he pulls back. Brendon slits his eyes open wide enough to catch Ryan’s smile. “Today was right place, right time, I guess.”
“Fucking right.” Brendon lets his chin sink to his chest when Ryan moves back down. The porcelain feels icy against his burning skin, but he still leans more heavily onto the sink because he’s afraid he could lose his balance otherwise, and that would just be embarrassing. Also, it might cause Ryan to stop, and that’s just, no, not acceptable at all. Brendon massages a light circle into Ryan’s skull. His spine is sizzling, the brightness of the light bulb just a distant echo in his mind.
He comes without warning, jerking his hips forward into Ryan’s mouth.
Oh, oh, wow, God. The only reason he stays upright is because the sink supports his back, and because Ryan’s free hand is tight on Brendon’s waist as he swallows. Swallows. Brendon’s body painfully tries to come again at the sight.
“Sorry,” he forces out as soon as he locates his brain, and his tongue. “Should have warned you, sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Ryan doesn’t look bothered in the least. Quite the opposite: he leans in to tongue Brendon’s softening cock, licking a few more drops off the head, and that’s kind of hot and kind of uncomfortable, so Brendon’s torn between twitching forward and away at the same time. It’s sort of a compromise when he limply slides to the floor, the tiles cold and hard now that he’s kneeling on them. Ryan’s knees must hurt.
“Thank you,” Brendon says. He doesn’t wait for a reply, just covers Ryan’s mouth with his own, slowly urging him back against the wall as he settles between Ryan’s thighs. When he pulls away, he glances down to find a quite impressive bulge in Ryan’s pants. “Problem?”
“Gonna do something about it?” Ryan retorts. He probably means to sound wry, but there’s an edge of breathlessness to it. His voice is rougher than before. Brendon likes the thought that it’shis fault, a reminder of his cock sliding down Ryan’s throat.
Okay, that’s possibly not a healthy way of looking at things.
“Anything in particular you’d like me to do?” Brendon asks. His third-date rule is blown to hell either way, so he might as well enjoy the ride. He wouldn’t mind fucking Ryan right now. He would let Ryan fuck him, too. Multiple times. Until someone comes knocking on the door, or they’re consumed by hunger. Sooner or later, Brendon thinks he’d like to move things to a soft, comfortable bed.
Ryan’s leaning back against the white-tiled wall, legs bent at the knees, thighs spread wide to make room for Brendon. His naked torso is lean, his arms more muscular than Brendon would have expected. He makes quite a picture, and Brendon can feel the first interested twitch of his cock again, resting soft between his legs now, jeans and boxers shoved down to his knees. He’s fairly certain he looks stupid, but Ryan doesn’t seem to think so.
Ryan’s cheeks are flushed, lips parted slightly. “Whatever you feel like.”
“Got somewhere to be in the next, oh, three days or so?” Brendon asks.
Ryan’s grin is quick, easy, but his muscles are tense under Brendon’s touch. It’s somehow gratifying to feel Ryan’s flat stomach tauten as Brendon slides his hand lower. Ryan’s jeans are tight, and it’s only with some difficulty that Brendon gets them open, drawing Ryan’s cock out through the gap in his boxers, and oh, what anice cock it is, heavy and smooth in Brendon’s hand, thick and fairly long. It might take some adjustment, but Brendon totally wouldn’t mind feeling that inside of him sometime in the very near future.
He finally shrugs his own shirt off his shoulders, moving back in to rub Ryan’s cock against his stomach while Ryan watches with wide eyes, biting down on his lower lip, breathing only in short, quick gasps. Brendon waits for Ryan to look at him before he crouches down, sliding back on the tiles until he can kiss the tip of Ryan’s cock. Ryan smells warm and dark down here, and his muscles tighten even though he keeps his hips still. Brendon appreciates the effort.
He turns his head to nibble on the inside of Ryan’s left thigh. “Tease,” Ryan mutters. Brendon presses his smirk to the smooth skin.
“D’you use lotion?” he asks, just before sucking another patch of skin into his mouth, closer to Ryan’s cock now.
Ryan’s eyes look faintly drugged, but he manages something like a raised eyebrow. It looks crooked, like he had to practice for a while. “Why, that a bad thing?”
“Not at all,” Brendon says. “It’s cool. Like, soft. I like it.” He tickles his fingers from Ryan’s kneecap to his groin, pausing to cup Ryan’s balls, then swiping only his thumb over the head of Ryan’s cock. It’s slick with precome already, a little sticky and gleaming. Ryan really does have a nice cock. Brendon thinks about telling him, but he’s not sure Ryan would appreciate the dirty talk. Also, there’s probably no way of saying this that doesn’t sound like something lifted from a cheap porno.
“Well, um.” Ryan’s breath hitches in his throat. “Good.”
Brendon grins and shuffles up on the tiles, cool against his bare stomach. He exhales over Ryan’s cock, feels it twitch against his palm, and he almost forgot how much he enjoys this side of things, too, the power it gives him, drawing it out for the other person, playing and pushing. Ryan’s definitely a great instrument, trying to hold back, but not quite successful in faking patience.
Brendon inhales deeply and swallows Ryan down in one long, wet glide. It’s more difficult than he remembers and he has to stop way before his nose is touching Ryan’s pubic hair. Either he’s out of practice, or it’s because Ryan’s somewhat larger than anything Brendon’s worked with so far. The choked noise Ryan makes doesn’t sound as if he’s about to complain, though.
Brendon pulls back slowly, breathing through his nose. Ryan’s scent is something he could get used to, he thinks. The noises, too. Also to Ryan’s voice and Ryan’s fingers on his jaw, just the ghost of a touch, oddly tentative.
Brendon lifts his head to find Ryan’s eyes squeezed shut, blocking out the white light. The familiar tune of a Cab song hums in Brendon’s bones, and he rests his hand against Ryan’s stomach, says, “Hey. Hey, Ryan. Look at me.”
Ryan’s eyes fly open, startled.
Brendon smiles. “You can, you know? Fuck my mouth, I mean. If you want.” He likes the way it sounds, all sexy and suave except for his failure at full sentences, but hey. Ryan blinks at him, looking almost dazzled, unfocused.
“How d’you know my name?” Ryan asks. His voice is hoarse.
Brendon jerks away. “What?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m asking.” Ryan’s still sprawled against the tiles, legs still open invitingly, his face flushed, hard cock hanging out of his pants. His eyes have regained some of their focus, though.
Brendon meets Ryan’s questioning gaze. The startled confusion he sees there is probably mirrored on his face. This is… It’s not…
Fuck.
Ryan is—Ryan has no fucking idea who he is.
The realization hits like a punch, and for a moment, Brendon has difficulties breathing. Then he rolls to his feet, quickly, almost tripping with his pants and boxers still tangled around his knees. He pulls them up quickly, haste making his fingers clumsy and slow, grabbing his shirt off the floor.
“Hey,” Ryan protests, looking utterly out of his depths now. “Hey, what?”
Brendon’s already at the door, twisting the key in the lock, and he doesn’t look back before he spills out into the corridor, a barely coherent litany of stupid, stupid, stupid, rushing through his brain. He works on his shirt with trembling hands, hardly pausing to check if all buttons are done up the right way, and then he makes it through the crowd, pushing towards the exit, progressing much more quickly this time since he doesn’t really care where he plants his elbows or if he steps on any toes. It would really fucking help if everyone could just move out of his fucking way, thanks a bunch.
The fresh air of a late spring night is a relief. He turns without much thought as to where he’s going, walks three blocks without noticing his surroundings, pushed forward by a mixture of anger and embarrassment.
When he slows, it’s because he notices that the street stretches silent and empty before him, the gurgling of the river not too far off, a long row of streetlamps leading the way to the bridge. There’s a fire burning below, old newspaper and sticks in a barrel, the usual makeshift heater of homeless people seeking warmth.
Brendon stops on the bridge. He leans against the banister, staring down at the river moving dark and sluggish underneath him, and takes a few deep, long breaths. He can’t see the fire from here, only the warm glow that radiates from the flames, the breeze blowing a hint of gasoline his way. The low sound of voices mingles with the river’s steady murmuring. Fortunately, his phone is still in his pocket; there’s something to be said for tight jeans.
He digs it out and selects Jon’s number from his address book. In the dim brightness of the display and the next streetlamp some steps further down, it takes him longer than usual to find the right keys to spell out, jst made out w/ ryan. trns out he had no clue it was me
There’s no reply for a minute or so, while Brendon continues staring down at the black water. His head is slowly clearing, the damp heat of the bar leaving his thoughts. Stupid, yeah. But there’s a good chance Ryan is still oblivious, a good chance Ryan will chalk the whole thing up to Brendon being a random reader, someone who recognized Ryan from a talk show or the picture on the inside of Behind the Sea, just a random reader who ran in embarrassment once exposed as a fan. Which Brendon is, in a way. Was. Whatever.
He feels a cheap sense of satisfaction at the thought that at least Ryan didn’t get an orgasm out of it – not unless he took care of himself once Brendon was gone, long, slender fingers wrapped around his cock, hips pumping, keeping an ear out for footsteps in the corridor, maybe even hoping for Brendon to—
Alright, stop that.
Brendon props one elbow on the banister, the metal harsh against his skin where the paint is flaking off. He takes his phone out once more to send copies of his message first to William, then also to Gabe, for good measure.
He doesn’t feel like going back, so he moves on, crossing the bridge towards where he knows a subway station is located. It’ll be another ten minutes walk and the trains don’t come all that often anymore at this hour, a quarter to ten, but as long as it helps him burn some energy, he doesn’t mind.
The most unfair part of it all is that he’s not even sure he’s allowed to feel quite so betrayed. Well, certainly allowed, but justified?
Ryan never made any promises to him.
The phone buzzes against Brendon’s palm, Gabe’s reply, and just as Brendon opens it, it buzzes again. Probably William, this time. He pictures them standing next to each other in the Angels & Kings, shoulders overlapping, both texting him. He’s seen it happen. ‘Dud,’ Gabe wrote, that sux. His loss, tho. Need a hug?William’s message is in the same venue, only with better spelling. I could try to beat him up, if you want. Otherwise, the offer of -kiss and make it better- is always open.
There’s still nothing but silence from Jon, which is weird, but not unheard of. Jon is scatterbrained sometimes, and he doesn’t always take his phone with him when he goes out. Also, he’s having dinner with Spencer.
Holy shit, Brendon should have thought of that sooner. Now that he finally does, his brain cowers at the idea of Jon showing the message to Spencer, or of Spencer accidentally reading it over Jon’s shoulder. Oh, fuck.
Brendon is not going to think about it. He’s just… not.