See me tomorrow

It's a small cabin, and Brendon is very loud. There's nowhere Jon can go to get away that isn't outside. When he stretches out on the couch on the first floor, he can hear the thumping above from Ryan's bedroom on the second floor. He can hear it over the music, so Jon thumbs his iPod off, closes his eyes, and listens.

Jon likes to watch them together, especially after. He likes to watch them write songs together, too, play video games, fight over pancakes, and sleep, heads on shoulders. There's still so much Jon doesn't know about this band, these guys, but once he finally figures out Brendon and Ryan, Jon is sure everything else will make a lot more sense.

He hears a rustling in the kitchen that is probably Spencer in the fridge again. They're not writing or playing or recording right now, which means Spencer doesn't know what to do with himself. Jon stuck his head in the door on his way downstairs, asked if he wanted to smoke up, but Spencer said no, so Jon chose his iPod and the couch instead. He'll save the joint he rolled for later, when Brendon and Ryan come down, before they get back to the music.

"You're such a perv." Jon snaps his eyes open at Spencer's voice, at Spencer bending over the back of the couch and poking Jon's belly. He reacts, curling away and swatting at Spencer's head, but he's already gone. Spencer's already gone back upstairs, and Jon can't hear the thumping anymore either. But he hears laughter on the stairs, then sees Ryan crossing the floor to the kitchen.

"Ready to get back to work?" Jon asks, pushing himself up to peek over the couch.

Ryan has two beers in one hand when he turns around, bumping the fridge closed, but he's not escaping upstairs with Spencer. He holds the beer out for Jon and joins him on the couch.

"What are you listening to?" Ryan asks, and Jon has this moment of sheer terror that Ryan knows, that Ryan hates him, that Ryan's going to kick him out of the band, and he didn't even get to make a record. But Ryan isn't looking at Jon, he's looking at Jon's iPod, thin and silver in Ryan's hand and giving up all of Jon's secrets.

"I'm working through the Js," he explains.

Ryan nods, shoving one earphone in and offering the other to Jon. They slouch down on the couch, heads falling together because they're connected by the white cord, and Ryan plays Johnny and June.

"He made his best music when he was with her," Ryan says. He's not really talking to Jon. He's thinking out loud, and Jon is only lucky enough to be in this moment with Ryan. "They fought and fought, and they did their own albums, but that all fell away when they shared the microphone."

Jon doesn't speak. He doesn't nod. He watches Ryan scrolling through the songs, going past the Js to the end of Jon's library, then all the way back to pick out the next duet. This is Ryan sharing something with Jon beyond music. It's not the first time Jon's felt he belonged with these three guys--that came early. But this feels like Ryan telling Jon that he feels it, too.

Of course Jon isn't the one Ryan shares a microphone with.

That's the one coming downstairs, the one trying to give Spencer a piggyback ride, taking two steps, and buckling.

"Jonny," Brendon says, righting himself. "Spencer told me a secret." He hurls himself over the couch and squeezes in between Jon and Ryan, pulling the music out of both their ears.

"What secret?" Jon asks. He narrows his eyes in Spencer's direction, who's claimed the chair on Ryan's side of the couch.

Brendon cups his hands around Jon's ear and whispers, "Weeeeeeeeeed."

They all heard that, and they all laugh. Jon pulls the perfect joint from his shirt pocket and holds it up for Brendon to see. Brendon makes a trumpet noise and raises his hands above his head. Jon takes that as a sign to spark up.

He takes the first drag, closing his eyes to enjoy it alone, but he's not. Not anymore. Jon has Brendon's arms around his shoulder, and he can hear Ryan making Spencer take the iPod and, "Listen to this, Spence, you have to listen to this." Jon passes the joint to Brendon next, who has to show up Jon and take the smoke deeper and hold the smoke longer. When he's ready to let go, Brendon leans away from Jon and into Ryan, opening his mouth and sharing the high.

AWAY

They always do this in Brendon's bunk. Ryan's is a mess, pieces of paper and presents from fans. It's not that Brendon doesn't appreciate the same, but what's he supposed to do with a hundred teddy bears. He's seen what hoarding does to a man. So they do this in Brendon's bunk.

There's only the illusion of privacy, but on tour with four guys and a few dozen more of crew, Brendon will take it. On tour, that curtain separating his bunk from the bus is everything. It's just enough to make the bunks feel like a bed where Brendon can spread Ryan out and have his way.

"What way is that?" Ryan asks. He flexes his fingers on Brendon's biceps, holding him up while they kiss.

"Lots of making out."

"Yeah?" Ryan tilts his head back into the pillow. The marks Brendon's made on his neck are deepening. He runs the tip of his tongue over the indentations from his teeth. Tomorrow the marks will be red, and Ryan will wrap himself up in scarves to hide them, but Brendon will know what's underneath.

"Then I slide our hips together like that," and he does. They're both in boxers, so it's good, a thin layer of cotton and Ryan.

"That's my favourite," Ryan gasps.

"Really?" He didn't know that. Ryan never said. Brendon redoubles his efforts, and every roll of his hips makes Ryan's breath catch in his throat. To make up for his silence, Brendon makes the noise. He grunts in Ryan's ear, nipping the lobe and kissing his sideburns.

Bunk sex is something to be negotiated. The first time is awful. No one knows where to put their hands, and feet hang over the edge. A few more times means experience, and now Brendon knows to let Ryan get undressed first and that the blankets and pillows do more good shoved in Spencer's bunk below. He knows, too, that being on top means being the one most likely to fall out of bed. But still, on top.

It's where Brendon gets to take charge. He has Ryan pinned to the mattress below him, legs spread and holding Brendon in. Ryan slides his hands up and down Brendon's arms, down to his wrists, then back up to his shoulders. A quick squeeze at his neck and then Ryan is holding Brendon's face, and they're kissing again.

Even in the diffused light behind their curtain, Brendon can turn his head and see the words written on Ryan's skin. He can kiss there, too. Experience tells Brendon that Ryan likes that, and the low keening sound, too, which Brendon isn't too quick to muffle.

They try to keep quiet because it's the bus and because they value their lives. Brendon's always pressing his open mouth against Ryan's skin, clapping a hand over Ryan's shouts. It kills him every time because nowhere else does he get to hear that. It makes him shiver, makes him hard.

They've lapsed back into something lazy. Brendon's still on top, and neither of them are doing any work. Ryan's hands have fallen away.

"Don't fall asleep on me," Brendon whispers, a joke in Ryan's ear. He laughs, too, when Ryan does.

With eyes closed, and taking in deep, slow breaths, Ryan looks it, but he's not asleep yet. He's waiting. He's waiting until he feels it. "Until it feels right," Ryan says. When it's right, Brendon will feel Ryan's ankle twist in his, and the other leg come up around his thigh. Keep moving, keep sliding, and they'll both moan out loud when things line up. Ryan gets them going; Brendon takes them home.

"I, I, I," but Ryan never gets the sentence out. Brendon never gets to hear what Ryan wants to say because it's lost in their orgasm, no words, but sound buzzing on Brendon's skin where Ryan bites him back. A mark to match his own.

Bunk sex isn't easy because it's still sex, and it's still them. Brendon only teases Ryan about the rules when he knows he can get away with it, because they're not actual rules, just Ryan's Way and Brendon's Way. Getting them both to work together is a tough thing, but it can be easy in such a small space with a curtain between Brendon and Ryan and the rest of the world.

"Do we have to do this here?" Ryan shifts under him.

He doesn't bother looking up, perfectly content with his view of the TV over Ryan's stupidly flat stomach and achingly sharp hipbones. "Do what?" He licks his lips, tastes the last of the Cheeto dust, wishes they had more. "When's the next stop?" He spies a smudge of orange on Ryan's skin, tilts over to lick it.

"Stop," Ryan squeaks and bucks under him, cracking his hipbone into Brendon's nose. It fucking hurts and Brendon hates it when he forgets how ticklish Ryan is, because he knows, he knows damn well, and he should remember and if he had remembered his head wouldn't hurt right now.

"Ugh, I'm getting another beer," and he does, he gets a nice, cold bottle and holds it to his nose until his nose hurts in a different way, a way like he ate too much ice cream too quickly, so instead he pop the cap and drains half. It helps.

"I'm hungry." Ryan's staring at him.

"Yeah?" he's not but he's a nice guy. He spies a Snickers in the mess on the kitchen counter. "Here, babe," he tosses it at Ryan. Ryan misses the catch and it smacks into his cheek. "Ha!"

Ryan glares at him as he bites into the bar, glares until the chocolate peanut magic happens, until Ryan's blissed out expression makes Brendon happy in a ridiculously fond way, makes him happy just to see Ryan happy.

"Good?" he asks, bending low over Ryan to grab a bite.

"Exactly what I wanted," Ryan's tongue darts out to catch some chocolate. Brendon's joins it, and their proper kissing begins with laughter.

"Good?" he asks sometime later, laughing at himself as he closes his eyes and tips his forehead against Ryan's.

"Shut up," Ryan is delightfully warm under him. The A/C's up high tonight and the contrast makes him shiver. "But, seriously. Do we have to do this here?"

"They claimed the bunks fair and square," he reminds Ryan. And Jon and Spencer had claimed the bunk area, fair enough, but Spencer's threatening "We just want to fuck in peace, OK?" also keeps Brendon away.

"Like right here is virgin territory?" he snorts and pats the couch cushion. Ryan wrinkles his nose in response. "You're such a weird prude sometimes," he informs him.

"What's so wrong about me wishing we were back in your bunk?" Ryan tries to shove him off from where he's resettled in a sprawl, touching Ryan every place he can, holding him in place with his weight.

"Nothing. Except the fact Jon and Spencer would be having happy funtimes right above us and I don't think the band needs to go to a place like that quite yet." Ryan rolls his eyes, as if Brendon's the unreasonable one here.

"We could be quiet." Ryan counters.

"Ryan, you're never quiet," he reminds him knowingly, quietly, and Ryan blushes a reply.

"We could wait?" Ryan has the audacity to say this after he's undone Brendon's belt, has him halfway unzipped.

"You could wait," he grunts back after Ryan's warm palm is wrapped all the way around his dick. "I'll wait with you after you get me off."

He thinks about it, spreading Ryan out in the limits of his small space, spreading Ryan out in the way you only can in a bunk. He could get Ryan to turn over, fuck him if he waits with Ryan, which is looking less likely by the second as Ryan wets his fingers and returns to work.

He fights it, fights coming, fights to keep the dream of Ryan's heels digging into his lower back and walls on three sides keeping them pressed together enough they can barely move.

But he loses since he's a little tipsy and Ryan knows exactly how to curl his wrist action, exactly how to whimper and suck on Brendon's tongue until Brendon opens wide and gives Ryan what he wants.

"Don't make me wait," Ryan's in a hurry now, pulling at his belt buckle with the un-jizzed hand, his eyes large and frenzied. "God, Brendon, please," Ryan's pushing at him and it's a little annoying because he has to change plans but that's OK since Brendon loves it when Ryan asks, pleads.

Jon grabs him around the neck and drags him off stage.

"Wait, wait, Jon, Jon." Brendon ducks out from under Jon's arm and climbs back up the stairs. "They're still shouting our name. They're not done yet."

"But we are," Jon says and pulls Brendon away. He thinks it's his job to keep an eye on Brendon. Jon keeping an eye on Brendon is a lot like Jon getting drunk with Brendon, which is why he doesn't fight Jon's hand on his wrist and actually leans into Jon as they work their way through the narrow halls to the dressing room assigned to the band. Despite Brendon's detour on stage, they're the first ones to arrive.

Jon asks if he wants the first shower. They're both a mess. Jon's blinking the sweat from his eyes, and his shirt has lost three buttons. Brendon takes pity and shoos Jon into the tiny bathroom.

As he listens to the water, Brendon strips, toeing off his boots and untangling cords to get out of his shirt. He's down to his underwear and digs through a pile of clothes for some sweats before he gets rid of those. That's what he's wearing, grey sweats, too big. His feet are bare, and hair slicked back, when Ryan and Spencer walk in. They're talking until Ryan looks up and meets Brendon's eyes.

Spencer turns neatly and walks right back out. "I think I lost my headband," he calls over his shoulder. It's on his head, but Brendon's not going to say anything.

"Jon's in the shower," Brendon says, stepping forward. Ryan steps back, into the door Spencer's pulled shut, and there's nowhere else to go. Brendon stretches up, watching Ryan's eyes following his hands, to the ceiling, then back down to unbuckle Ryan's belt. He kisses the corner of Ryan's open mouth, but Brendon doesn't tease anymore than that. He gets down on his knees.

The skinny jeans give him some trouble, but Brendon yanks them down far enough. He doesn't want to rush this, but they don't have much time before Jon is done. Brendon wants to be done before that. Ryan doesn't like to make a scene.

Ryan's ready. Grinning up at him, Brendon says, "You're ready," because it's a revelation every single time.

He rocks forward, rubbing his nose against Ryan, hard under his briefs. Brendon nuzzles him, sucks him through the cotton. He brings one hand up to hold Ryan steady around his thigh and the other pulls his erection out through the slit of his underwear.

Above him, Ryan barely makes a sound. Brendon can hear tiny panting breaths and just the first gasping syllable of his name. Ryan never makes it to the end. He's trying to keep quiet, keep still. Brendon leans back to watch Ryan's face, tight and tense, every twitch connected to the movement of Brendon's hand on Ryan's cock.

He works the head in his palm, rough and twisting around the tip, then long, smooth strokes. If he holds Ryan in a loose fist, Brendon can take the rest in his mouth, suck the head of Ryan's cock, focus, and get him off fast.

He can do that with Ryan like he can't with any random pick-up. With a guy in New York or a girl in London, Brendon has his best moves. He puts on his show.

Ryan knows his moves, has seen his show, and they do that, sometimes, but this is an arena dressing room with Jon in the shower, and Brendon doesn't know if he can still hear the water or if it's the rush of blood in his ears. He can do this dirty and fast with Ryan because there will be more time for slow.

Fingers clench in his hair like a signal. Ryan's ready, revelation, and Brendon holds him tight, too, until Ryan's come, and Brendon has to pull away to swallow. He only coughs a little, but it's OK if Ryan sees that, too.

Ryan helps him up, smiling, rubbing Brendon's lips with the calloused pads of his fingers. His other hand sneaks down to squeeze Brendon through the sweatpants.

"These are Jon's, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Brendon tells him. He kisses him, tongue still stinging with salt.

It's not the best show but it's decent, a solid performance on their part for an appreciative crowd, except Brendon can't remember any one specific moment from the show. He can't remember what city they're in, even. He feels like something mechanical in need of service, a wind-up doll nearly unwound.

Brendon's favorite part of the Midwest, and he suspects they're in the Midwest, is that every damn hotel has a pool, even the rinky-dink ones. He doesn't know why and he doesn't care, just knows that a smile coupled with a wrinkled brow often get him late-night, post-show special access. And for the rest of the times there's Zack and his finely honed disregard for things like locks and respectable hours.

"A good soak and I'll be a man again," he promises Zack, who gives him a look that substitutes for the many, many things he could obviously say in response. "Right, right."

He turns all the dials on for the hot tub but forces himself to swim a few laps before he jumps in. He's still got too much energy, three hours out from the show. They're far enough into the tour that his schedule's fucked, his body and his mind fighting over when and how long he should be awake.

Swimming until he's gasping for breath and feeling the burn is one damn good way to force his body to understand his mind just might have the right idea. When he stops, arms crossed on the cement poolside, Ryan's sitting in a pool-side chair, watching him. His hair is slicked back, still wet, and he's wearing a huge tshirt and baggy shorts that clearly aren't his own.

"Hey," he hoists himself up until his arms lock.

Ryan waves. Sometimes he gets all quiet after shows, lost in his own head instead of in the crowd. Brendon tries to show him you don't have to do that.

"Gonna join me?" Ryan makes a face, an indecision face. His arms are starting to shake now, not much but enough he thinks he should maybe stop soon, maybe not show off in whatever way he is. He kicks back and swims to the little pool ladder.

"OK, c'mon," he shepherds Ryan towards the hot tub, purposefully leaning over Ryan to drip on him, make him move. Ryan makes another face but gets up. "At least soak with me."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Ryan tugs his tshirt off. Brendon's seen him shirtless and naked dozens of times, if not hundreds, but he's still surprised at Ryan's rail-thinness, every time. Ryan hates it when he says anything, especially when he jokes, but damn.

It makes him want to be careful with Ryan, but Ryan doesn't often let him be careful. He pushes at Ryan's thigh with his toes, keeps Ryan aware that he's there and awake and willing. The water and the bubbles work their magic, on him at least, until he's relaxed and floating, sweat dripping down from his hairline.

"Brendon," Ryan pokes him, hard and in the shoulder. "Don't fall asleep, you'll drown."

He opens his eyes and Ryan is right there, eyes soft and tired. "Can we?" he asks and Ryan kisses the corner of his mouth, an exploration and affirmation.

It's hot, almost too hot, and his fingers are already pruney and soft. When he touches Ryan it feels different.

"Here," he wants but doesn't want to choke on water, so he guides Ryan up to sit on the edge, pulls Ryan's shorts down along the way. They're not bathing fabric, they're thick, waterlogged cotton. They want off of Ryan's hips, he helps them in their journey.

Ryan's ready for him, but Brendon's not surprised, not this time, not after adrenaline and hot water and hotter touches. He wants this slow. The texture of the tub is rough under his knees but he's buoyed by jets of water and gripping Ryan's ass through the wet cotton, he barely feels it.

He goes slow, teases himself and Ryan, stays down until he's forced to swallow. Ryan's hands slide through his hair, can't find purchase on his shoulders. Ryan stays still under him but moves his arms over him, pushing and slipping and scratching.

He doesn't want to be the douche that comes in the hot tub so he speeds up, needing Ryan to be done. Ryan agrees with his plan, coming with a muffled, rough cry.

It's too hot now, so way too hot, but pushing Ryan out of the tub isn't working. He crawls out to Ryan's side. Ryan is leaning back on his wrists, shivering slightly. Brendon imagines heatwaves rising off of them. It doesn't take long for Ryan to stop shaking, to pull himself out and curl with Brendon.

"You wanna finish up in the room?" Ryan tilts his head up, gets his mouth close to Brendon's.

"Yeah," Brendon tells him. He kisses him, tongue still stinging with salt.

Jon is very excited to show them Chicago. None of them have the heart to tell him they've visited most of the places he insists they go, and they all have fun, but when Spencer wanders off with Jon when Jon starts talking about Tom and pizza and his parents, he and Ryan share a look of pure relief and joy.

Except then they don't know what to do with themselves. One full day on their own before tour descends again. They should be doing laundry or shopping or, he doesn't really fucking know, press or design for the next tour or something. "Something to keep this machine rollin', if you know what I mean," he high fives Zack, on his way past for the fifth or eighteenth time.

Ryan gazes impassively at him as he continues talking about what they should be doing. Ryan has a book clutched loosely in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. He's been especially reserved as the tour's worn on, silently unsubtle as Brendon's indiscretions piled up. "It's a new dawn," he likes to tell Jon, on the nights Jon's too wired from playing his first shows in years to sleep, on the nights he and Jon and Spencer watch late-night television until it's only infomercials and Spencer's creepy ability to accurately guess the price of crap sold on television left in the lounge.

Ryan's sleeping a lot. Less than before Brent left and Jon came, but still a lot, and still more than the rest of them. Jon's joked Ryan's a vampire-in-training, provoking the first real, honest smile Brendon's seen in a while.

"How do we 'keep this machine rollin',' Brendon?" Ryan's both devastatingly serious and painfully mocking.

"We fucking forget it's a machine," he flicks his own forehead, duh ringing out in the gesture.

He can see Ryan's about to ask a bullshit follow up question that Brendon will have to bullshit a response to when his phone chirps. Spencer reset every single damn setting, ascribing ringtones to people as if he were the arbiter of some mysterious taste and ranking.

He fumbles it open and is greeted by Katie Kay and Dusty's drunken shouts of encouragement, inviting him to a bar, well kind of a bar, if a dance studio in a friend's house with an open door policy and a penchant for cases of wine could be considered a bar.

Ryan still doesn't drink but Brendon has a secret weapon. "Yeah, Amanda's going," he tells Zack absently and soon they're in a car, zooming along and trying to follow Brendon's handwritten directions.

It's a chaotic mess of a party and he loves it. He gets to dance and sing along and shake his hips and people clap along and join him but no one asks him for an autograph and there aren't any lights flashing in his face. Katie winds her arms around his neck, whispers encouragement in his ear, then drops her hands to his sides. She's patient as she tries to explain how he should drop his hips and roll his belly and Brendon plays along at learning. It's fun and funny and Brendon knows he'll forget all of it but it doesn't matter, everyone here knows what it's like to put on a show.

Even Ryan, especially Ryan, but he stands out awkwardly next to those fluid of limb and under the influence of some social lubricant.

Still. "All the world's a stage," he says solemnly when he grabs Ryan's hand. Brendon leads him, shows him what he's learned and gains a huge amount of appreciation for the demonstrative hands that didn't touch awkwardly or get sneaky. He doesn't mean to but half of his help to Ryan becomes holding his hipbones in place as Ryan tries to move his belly.

"That's distracting and not quite working," he concludes. Ryan's face doesn't fall but he tries to roll his hips again. Brendon groans.

"Then show me," Ryan whispers in his ears on a lean forward, a softer whisper than he should be able to hear but strong enough Brendon can feel it down his spine.

He pulls Ryan into a corner, moves to Ryan's side. He nudges Ryan's feet apart and pulls Ryan this way and that, explaining how the moves are supposed to work, until Ryan claps a hand over his mouth and shoves Brendon behind him, backs into him and pulls Brendon's hands around until they rest warm and low on Ryan's belly. He doesn't fight his urge to cradle the span of Ryan's ribcage.

"I'm not here for the show," Ryan huffs hotly at him, leaning far back enough for a kiss.

"That's a fucking lie," he starts to say, but it gets lost in Ryan's mouth.

He doesn't want to leave the stage, but Zack has plans or something, as soon as Panic's set is done. "What's the point of a music festival," Brendon asks, "if you never get to see any music?"

Spencer agrees. "I'm with Brendon. Why do we have to talk to these people? Can't they just watch us play like everyone else?"

"It's one interview, a question a piece, let's say, then you're free, and I'm in the beer garden." Zack stares them down. He waits until Brendon nods, then he turns and leads them down through the stage. Brendon glances back, forlorn, at the roadies setting up and testing mics.

The tiny pink-haired girl asks more than four questions, but they're easy ones. She's looking for reactions more than answers, a slip of the tongue from a lead singer sweating and exhausted and cornered backstage. Brendon leans into Jon, holding each other up, and lets Ryan do all the talking.

"These kinds of shows are for fans of music, and we're fans, too. We're just as excited to see the line-up as you guys are." That wasn't true, strictly. Ryan had complained on the flight overseas more about Coldplay-as-headliner than Coldplay-as-music. He just knew the kinds of things the interviewers liked to hear. Ryan was good at that.

When the questions are done, after the four of them have crowded around the tiny pink-haired girl, her camera man, and the sound girl for a picture, Brendon turns right around and heads back to the stage. He's too early for Coldplay, but just to hear some music that isn't his own is enough. Brendon doesn't know how much he wanted that until he trips and falls and can't be bothered to move from his new spot backstage, on a spare piece of riser. He can hear the crowd singing along from there. He lets them sing him to sleep.

"What are you doing down there?" Ryan asks.

Brendon fumbles for his cellphone to answer, but it's not in his pockets because usually he leaves it with Zack, of course, before a show. Brendon doesn't have his cellphone, yet Ryan says again, "Brendon? Are you OK?"

When he drags his eyes open, Ryan looks perfect, standing in front of him, slightly damp from his shower. Brendon feels gross, and suddenly doesn't feel sure that getting back to the stage for music was more important than getting soap and water.

No, Brendon decides. He can hear singing somewhere behind them. This was worth it.

Ryan stares down at him, confused. "What is this about?" he asks. He does a quick glance around, the same one Brendon does out of the corners of his eyes. They're kind of hidden, they're kind of alone, they're kind of piled up with the rest of the equipment, and both seem to decide in the same moment to go for it. Brendon decides, smiles up at Ryan, who steps in close between Brendon's open legs.

Brendon likes this. There's something hard poking into his back when Ryan leans him over for a kiss, but he can stand it. He's making out with Ryan on stage, which is something Brendon's thought a lot about, and maybe it doesn't happen quite like this in his passing daydreams and late night fantasies, there are enough elements for Brendon's satisfaction.

There is the lights and the sound, the low level chatter of people working, and the constant reality that they might be caught. There is the crowd, always watching. The soundtrack isn't what Brendon would pick, but it works. There's Ryan, too, the surprise. He's the one piece of this situation Brendon's created that cannot be replaced for something else. It doesn't work otherwise.

"Are you close?" Ryan asks, then diving back in to bite Brendon's lower lip. It makes Brendon's cock twitch in his tight jeans. He nods, frantic, when Ryan doesn't let him go to speak. "Yeah," Ryan agrees. He slides away from Brendon, down off the box they're on to the floor.

Ryan works fast, jeans open, cock out, mouth familiar and oh so good. They never do it like this, and Brendon barely has time to enjoy the moment, his real rock star moment, before he's coming down Ryan's throat, letting himself shout out loud because they're all listening to the headliner, anyway.

He doesn't question, when Ryan gets like this. He doesn't question because he doesn't want to tempt fate, doesn't want to ask if this is real or something Ryan will question later, will possibly regret. It's shitty of him but it's shittier of Ryan to be this person in this moment and then later decide he wasn't, like deciding changes what he did and what he was.

Ryan's covering him enough that if someone came by they could shrug it off. Brendon could spill the beer to his left and magically the situation would change.

But he doesn't want that. Not when Ryan is being this person, blowing him frantically with music washing over them.

"C'mon, Ryan," he's still loose-limbed from coming but he's determined, pulling weakly at Ryan's shoulders. He wants Ryan in his position, listening to the crowd and the song, coming apart under his mouth.

"Yeah?" Ryan's eyes are dark, his mouth, wet. He doesn't bother responding. Of course.

Ryan wants to be lower, more hidden, all the way on the ground. He could complain about his knees but he doesn't, crawls after Ryan until they're half under a riser, only their legs sticking out. Everything's shaking around them, from the sound and from the jumping.

"You have the best ideas," he tells Ryan. Ryan's lips twitch. "I'm going, I'm going!" He feels his way down Ryan's body, crawls backwards awkwardly, trying not to put his knees or palms in any bad places.

Ryan's tenting his trousers already so this he does palm, but without the weight of holding himself up. Ryan's trousers aren't skin tight but they're not normally loose, either. He rubs and gropes through the fabric until Ryan smacks him on the forehead lightly, then he carefully loosens everything until he can tug it all down just enough for Ryan's dick to break free.

"I'm free," he trills, leaning down to lick. He licks down the side, sucks the head in and hums. "Freedom tastes of reality," he pauses to tell Ryan. He can tell Ryan doesn't get it but it doesn't matter, Brendon will make him get it.

He goes back to his work, goes down as far as he can and hums again. Ryan's feet stutter on the ground next to him, close to controlled but not quite. It's Brendon's cue to press his forearm down over Ryan's thighs, hold him in place. They don't have enough maneuvering room for Ryan to do that.

They don't but also Brendon likes this, keeping Ryan under him and in the moment. He knows Ryan well enough, knows Ryan knows his moves well enough, so he doesn't use them. It's not that he uses Ryan for practice it's just that he likes trying everything first with Ryan, for good or for ill.

He's glad they're done, there's no more singing to be done today, because Ryan's unashamed to buck into his mouth, thrust deeper even when Brendon's down, down, down. Ryan's still skinny but strong, will always be skinny but strong he thinks, and his core strength is too much for Brendon's arm muscles, as proud as he is of them. Brendon's strong but Ryan's fucking his throat, Ryan has more to fight for here. Brendon likes it when Ryan fights.

He pulls off when he gags. "Fucking unsexy," he gasps, running his forehead across the tight skin on Ryan's hip. Ryan's dry as a bone. His forehead leaves a wet streak on his skin.

He can hear Ryan's groan over the roar of everything, a groan that is two seconds away from Ryan begging. "No, it is," Ryan tugs on his hair, harsher and sharper than he expects.

"Why Ryan Ross," he says after he licks at the tip. "Do you like me gagging for it?"

"Don't be a tease," Ryan takes himself in hand, aims the head at Brendon's mouth. "Don't."

"Can you imagine what this looks like from out there?" he presses his cheek to the length of Ryan's cock, nods a few times to feel the contrast in heat and texture. "Don't jizz on my ear."

"Brendon!" Ryan slaps his cock once against Brendon's cheek, a resonant smack quickly swallowed up by a feedback squeal. It's too stupidly porno and too stupidly good at the same time. He waits for Ryan to do it again then he opens up, swallows him back down.

Ryan finishes seconds before the band does and for a second it feels like the crowd is cheering just for them.

When he wakes up in the morning, Ryan is already on top. He's naked. He's whispering "happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday," into Brendon's hair, his neck, his pillow. Ryan's not heavy but he's warm, cradled between his spread legs. He can't see the covers and he's cold everywhere Ryan isn't covering him.

"You're my gift?" he asks, closing his eyes again. "Can I unwrap you later?" Ryan's not a morning person, neither of them are morning people. It's just not fair, waking Brendon up early on his birthday. "When the sun's up?"

Ryan half-slides off of him, lips at his ear. "The sun's up. There's room service next door." He follows Ryan, curls an arm around to keep him and his warmth close. Ryan's half-hard against his hip. "I'm already unwrapped," Ryan adds, like Brendon might have missed something like that.

"Hmm," he runs his hand down to Ryan's ass, gives an experimental squeeze. "So you are." Ryan's arm tightens around his neck and he starts rutting softly against Brendon's hip. "Who's fucking birthday is it?" he wonders.

"Yours," Ryan mutters, stilling.

"Don't stop," he grips Ryan's ass again. "That's a good present." It's easier, half asleep and with his eyes closed, to take everything Ryan's giving and still ask for it.

"Cheap," Ryan laughs in his ear, resumes his gentle motion. It feels good. He could be happy with this, easily. But it's his birthday so he figures he can ask for a little more, too.

"Not so cheap," he knocks his chin against Ryan's forehead. "Not today."

It would be so easy to fall back asleep, even with the distraction Ryan's providing, easy to slip back under the heavy drag of closing his eyes and sleeping til it's time to leave for the next town, the next gig. Ryan hasn't mentioned him forgetting the words to Downpour, he's hoping Ryan never will, as a type of birthday present. Brendon had limited himself to beer and sunlight as his drug of choice, in self-recrimination. Also because hangovers on your birthday are never fun, as he'd learned last year.

"I want a birthday fuck," he decides, opening his eyes again. Ryan kisses his neck, soft and lush, open mouthed but not sucking. Brendon doesn't always knows when Ryan'll agree, it's nice to be absolutely certain.

"I can do that," Ryan starts to pull away. He whines and clutches. "I have to get stuff, chill." Ryan presses a large hand against the center of his chest, right over his sternum, holds him down and in place even after he's gone off.

He gets cold while Ryan's gone off to rummage, leans over the side of the bed to drag the blanket back up. It's not within his reach.

"That's perfect, yeah," Ryan's voice is close. He jumps.

"What?"

"The view." Brendon wiggles around until he's stomach down in the middle of the bed.

"Better?"

"For what given value of better?" Ryan slaps his ass softly. "Only better cause it's interactive." He giggles into the pillow. Only Ryan, he swears.

Ryan's careful with him, slow but not in a tentative way. A way where Ryan has time so he takes it. Brendon's in that place, too. They might be swimming upstream against molasses but they're doing it together.

He spreads his legs further, gets some traction under his knees. He's not sure he really wants to work at it but he's ready to do so, if he needs.

Ryan sinks in slowly then stays, doesn't move. He's laid out on top of Brendon and buried inside him at the same time. Brendon shifts, tries to resettle Ryan, but Ryan clings, unmoving, staying buried deep and holding Brendon down by the weight of his presence.

"Ryan," he's shaking now, from excitement and the desire to move. "Ryan, please."

"Shhh," Ryan gives him one good thrust. "Just pretend you're falling back asleep." He thrusts again, shorter and less forceful. "But don't," Ryan gasps out the word and Brendon hangs his head down between his forearms. Ryan sounds abjectly desperate. "Don't fall asleep."

He doesn't know how he could, with Ryan so intent on claiming him, keeping him open and waiting. Ryan's moving at a pace Brendon can't sense but he's close, and he's willing to let Ryan get him there.

"Ryan, take us home," he throws back over his shoulder, relaxing every muscle he can. He spreads his arms out wide and gives his tension to the mattress, to Ryan, to the world. They can take it, take it all. "Ryan," he keeps telling the mattress between gasps. The mattress doesn't listen but Ryan does.

Sitting on the dressing room table, bare feet dangling, Brendon watches the rest of the band get ready first. Well, he watches Ryan get ready. Jon is slouched on the couch with his bass. He's already sweating through his shirt, but he won't bother to change before they go on. On the other side of the couch, Spencer won't even think about getting dressed until moments before they step on stage.

Brendon should be doing something to get ready. There are vocal warm-ups and finding the boots he lost on the bus last night, but he likes watching Ryan do his makeup. He likes waiting for Ryan to do his, too.

Careful and precise, his hands trace each line and the birds become clear. Brendon likes the birds. He even likes them at the end of the show, running down Ryan's cheeks, yet still determined to fly.

Ryan is quiet while he works. Brendon doesn't interrupt. The only sound in the room is Jon, picking out a familiar tune that Brendon finally pins down as the Sesame Street theme song. He swings his feet in time. His eyes are on Ryan's hand wrapped around the eyeliner (Ryan's eyes are on the mirror), so Brendon jumps, just a little, when Ryan's other hand falls to his knee to stop Brendon's fidgeting.

"Sorry," he whispers. Ryan smiles up at him, and the birds are flying.

Zack opens the door, breaking the quiet. Brendon sees him do a quick sweep of the room, the same way he checks every time, everywhere, and thinks no one notices. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "The hallway's pretty clear. You guys wanna hack?"

Spencer's up, then Jon, leaving his bass on the couch and looking for shoes. Ryan and Spencer have a conversation in the mirror, which amounts to Ryan saying, No, and Spencer rolling his eyes. He asks Brendon, too, with his eyes. Behind him, Jon and Zack are pretend boxing.

"Ryan's gonna do my makeup," Brendon says. Spencer shrugs, and then they're gone.

Ryan's hand finally wavers. He looks up, forehead creased. "I am?"

"Of course. Ryan, you always do my makeup."

"And you haven't learned anything yet?"

He's done, and they're alone in the room. Ryan pushes away from the mirror, stretching a bit because he's been sitting. Brendon watches his shirt pull at all the tight places. Sitting back against the mirror and opening his legs, Brendon drags him in between. He holds Ryan in with his knees.

He's learned how Ryan likes to kiss. Hard and all-out, and Brendon likes that, too, but he keeps his hands low this time, for fear of smudging. They kiss with lips only, too careful, before Ryan gets frustrated and decides, "After the show."

"Or during?" Brendon says, eyebrows up. Ryan brushes the joke away and Brendon's hair off his face.

"All right." Ryan reaches a hand out to find his makeup bag and an eye pencil. He puts one hand on Brendon's chin to keep him still, one kiss on his cheek. "Ready?" he asks. "Look up."

Eyes up, Brendon can't see Ryan, but he feels him. The sharp press of the eye pencil doesn't make him cringe anymore, but Brendon may never get used to it. The makeup is Ryan's thing, not his. Brendon doesn't need it, the costumes, the sets, any of it, to put on his show. His persona doesn't come with props.

Ryan does his work without looking at Brendon. Without seeing. Brendon tracks his eyes, and Ryan is efficient, giving his attention to only what needs to be done. Brendon lets him do that, long enough, then he gets bored and grabs Ryan's ass.

"Behave," Ryan warns, leaning back, but Brendon's thighs have him caught. His face goes thoughtful, staring at Brendon and his work. Brendon doesn't bother with the mirror. He'll wait until they're on stage and the fans tell him if he looks good.

"Done?"

Shaking his head, Ryan reaches for something else from his bag. He's not done yet. He's still between Brendon's legs, at perfect counter height. Brendon drags his hand around to cup Ryan in his pants. He's not hard, but there's not really time. This could be fun, right here, Ryan bucking into his hand, watching himself in the mirror over Brendon's shoulder. Maybe Brendon bends over, and they watch each other. Maybe Ryan finishes up, and Brendon pulls his hand away, and they can't stop looking at each other when the guys come back to get ready, and maybe both him and Ryan go on stage hard.

Maybe it's the best show of the tour.

"I know, I know, I know! I've got it!" Spencer snaps his fingers in Ryan's face. Brendon loves it when Spencer does shit like that because he's the only person Ryan will let get away with it. "Let's have a reunion tour!"

"I can see it now," Jon sits up on the couch, raises his arms like he's conducting an orchestra. "The dancing girls." Arms out. "The fields of flowers onstage." Arms in. "The makeup." Arms widespread. Jon flops back down with a laugh and Spencer nods approvingly.

Brendon bites his lip, bites back his laugh. It's funny, yeah, but maybe not. It's hardly the worst idea they've had today but it is the most mocking, the most self-mocking.

"Brendon could probably still wear those little outfits," Spencer pauses on another circuit of the room, snaps in his face. He bats Spencer's fingers away. He could, and Ryan could, but they'd look pretty fucking strange, now.

"You'd fucking flop out of the lace-up pants," he pokes Spencer's belly.

"This is pure love," Spencer covers his gut with his hands, morphs into a hand-heart he pushes into Brendon's face. Fucking Spencer.

"Food love," Jon supplies and Spencer goes over to have some type of dual-action thumb war.

"I suppose it doesn't matter that we've never split up?" Ryan finally weighs in, but it's tentative.

"Not really." Spencer either wins or loses with one hand, sketches something in the air in Ryan's direction. "But we could pretend we did, that this is our epic reunion tour." Spencer loves fucking with the fans, has only grown more blatant about it as time's gone by.

"Hmm," Ryan's noncommittal but Brendon sees interest in his eyes. He lets himself start to get excited.

"We could do a farewell tour first?" he wonders. "Or split the tour, a Farewell then a Reunion, half us-now, half us-then." Spencer's nodding before he finishes.

"Say Goodbye then Say Hello?" Jon sounds interested now, not just amused.

"Now you fuckers get it," Spencer stops pacing, stands in front of Ryan. They trade a long look and then Spencer's sitting next to Jon on the couch, whispering, and Ryan's trying to pull him into the studio's bathroom. Something's decided, he thinks.

"But I had the comfy chair," he protests. Ryan bumps their shoulders together.

"What do you think, really?" Ryan doesn't look at him as he asks but Brendon finds his eyes for a response.

"I think you'd still look good in makeup." He reaches up to brush the corner of Ryan's eye. Ryan smiles, so he keeps running his fingers over the crow's feet there. "I think it'd be good for us."

"Yeah?" It's still weird, to see Ryan this full of self-doubt, to see Ryan show them this self-doubt, and he begins to suspect Spencer had a plan all along. Take Ryan back to a time when he was uncertain but they made it through, made it past, made it better. Take them all back to that time, to the brash confidence of their youth.

"You'd still do my makeup?" he thumbs the arch of Ryan's cheekbone and Ryan smiles.

"Haven't you learned anything yet?" Ryan hooks a thumb into his front jeans pocket in return, and they slide into a kiss tinged with nostalgia. It's not soft but it's familiar. Kissing Ryan is like slipping on an old sweatshirt, one he's left at the bottom of a drawer but hasn't washed, one that's stretched out and smells familiar.

He backs Ryan up against the counter, hoists him up gently until Ryan's thighs part, until Ryan's resting on the counter but leaning on him. "Do you remember?" he asks, between kisses to Ryan's jaw, his throat. "How we did this?" he pauses to loosen Ryan's tie, unbutton his shirt, kisses the pale skin exposed. "How we didn't do this," he has to add, but Ryan doesn't stiffen under his hands. Old wounds, healed over.

"We could dress like the men in the boat." Ryan scratches his hair, near the back, exactly the spot to make him twitch through his laughter.

"We're not that old," he objects. He feels Ryan's smile under his mouth. He rocks forward and Ryan rocks back, slow and sweet.

The more noise he makes, the more Brendon gets to shut him up with his mouth. It echoes, too, the noise in the bunks. The thin curtain can only muffle so much. It can't hide forever what happens in Ryan's bed when they can steal time away.

It starts when Brendon climbs in. They were watching movies in the back lounge, and when Jon called intermission to get more snacks, Ryan disappeared. He does that. Brendon doesn't mind, and, as Spencer points out, it's preferable to listening to Ryan complain about the movie he didn't get to pick.

An hour later, when Jon and Spencer continue with the sequel, Brendon finds Ryan in his bunk and climbs in. He's on his stomach, one book, one notebook, both laid out in front of him, pen stuck between his teeth. There's not much room beside him, so Brendon lays on top.

"Do you have to?" Ryan groans, grunts as they arrange body parts. He clocks Brendon's jaw with a shoulder, and Brendon's knee slips and bangs Ryan's hip. It takes some doing to figure out how they fit together tonight. No matter how many times they do this.

But when Ryan lays flat, his head turned and rested on his arms, when their legs rest beside each other, it works. When Brendon is already hard, in the curve of Ryan's ass, it's his favourite place to sleep.

"You're not sleeping here, Brendon."

"No," he says. He works one hand underneath Ryan to open his shirt and get him naked. "Not sleeping. Not yet."

Ryan pushes up, just enough. They get his shirt unbuttoned and his tie all the way off. Brendon does the pants, too, while he's there. Ryan lays flat again. He's leaving tonight up to Brendon.

Shirts off, skin on skin, Brendon could just sleep here and be happy. Kissing between Ryan's shoulder blades, really not more than brushing his lips where Ryan feels softest. He chases the goosebumps with his tongue, lower, across, following the straight sharp lines that make up Ryan. He's not made for cuddling, but Brendon has learned where to touch that doesn't hurt.

He watches, and he makes his plan of attack. He watches closely how Ryan breathes. Curling one hand around Ryan's side, Brendon holds it there to feel when Ryan stutters and shakes. That's a sign, and Brendon pushes forward.

They don't often talk about who does who and what when. It happens when Brendon wants it, and Ryan wants it, too. If someone has a condom or if they're alone, then maybe they'll go a little further. Tonight, they're on the bus, they're cramped, but, among the crap Ryan keeps in his bunk, Brendon finds what he's looking for. Leaving kisses as he bares more skin, Brendon pulls Ryan's pants down. Then his own, pushed just around his thighs. Hunched over in the tight space of the bunk, his back pressed to the ceiling, Brendon jerks himself fast. When he's hard enough, he rips the condom open with his teeth and rolls it on.

Brendon lays himself on top again. He wraps his left hand around Ryan's side again, and, after sucking quickly on the fingers of his right, he presses inside Ryan. He feels for that stutter again. It speaks louder than anything Ryan might say.

"You're ready," Brendon decides, and, for once, Ryan doesn't argue. For once, Brendon just wants to fuck without questions about what does it mean.

He goes slow, first, rolling his hips into Ryan. Hitching himself up, trying to find the right angle, the leverage he needs to get his cock deeper, to make Ryan ask for more, Brendon slips, and they're hands slide into one another. He's so close; he can feel it in his belly and shaking his his thighs. They jerk Ryan off together. Brendon wants to get them both there.

There are footsteps outside, and all at once Ryan goes stiff. "No, no, no," he whispers, but Brendon cuts him off with a kiss. It's not over yet. They can make it to the end. Brendon will get them there.

When Brendon cleans up and Ryan turns on his side to give them both room, they're face to face and smiling, but Brendon still doesn't know what he's supposed to say.

They stick to hands and that's fine by Brendon. He's fine sticking to hands, especially since they're good at it, and he's fine rolling into his own bed or bunk after, pulling on shorts after his breath's back. Ryan doesn't push him out, he doesn't wait for Ryan to push him out, he just knows he should go. They've set the boundaries silently. Mostly they work for Brendon. He's not going to complain when there's the occasional makeout and handjob, OK? He's not that guy.

He knows what Ryan likes, now. Knows Ryan likes it different at the end than at the beginning, knows he needs to make Ryan jerk him first whenever he can, knows Ryan is really good at falling asleep right after, even though he will fight it to jerk Brendon off. Brendon finds Ryan's sleepy action cute, sure, but he's the one good at staying awake and alert after, it just makes sense he gets to claim first orgasm, time and time again.

So he knows a good thing when he has it, even if he only has it on certain nights, at certain times. He can't tell, it's not anything about the quality of the show or anything Brendon says or does, it's just some nights they can't take their eyes or hands off of each other.

Tonight's one of those nights. Ryan's eyes heavy on him during an interview, Ryan's arm around his shoulders as they walk. He wants it, knows maybe before Ryan does that it's a night they'll end up gasping soft words into each other's mouths. He can tell these things. He's never been wrong, when he guesses.

"Hey," Ryan ducks, knocks his head into Brendon's. They both still have tonight's makeup on, Brendon's a light charcoal smear around his eyes, Ryan's the broader, less indistinct remnants of purple

"Hey," he smiles at Ryan before, during and after his response, smiles as bright as he can, until it hurts his cheeks.

"Hey," Ryan smiles back, happy and mischievous.

"Oh fucking Christ," Spencer puts his sunglasses on, steps away from them.

"Whatever, guys, here are your room keys," Zack gives Brendon two keys. He double checks the number and heads off. Ryan follows him.

He's right, but they refrain from jumping each other as soon as they get into the room. They putter, instead, with the TV blaring. They claim bathroom space through toiletries and Ryan hangs up two of his shirts.

"Hey," he says again, sitting on the edge of his bed, watching Ryan move. Ryan sees him watching, smiles.

It's everything familiar and nothing out of place, drifting from kisses and touches to Ryan straddling him and jerking him off at the same time.

"That's really hot," he tells Ryan, knowing that it won't save him from anything.

"Thanks," Ryan grins down at him, an actually pleased grin. Ryan's dick is right there, past Ryan's hands and their deliciousness. He might as well, right?

He does, and it turns it into a competition. Ryan's twisting his hand as he strokes and Brendon's trying to hold both of them still enough to get off, keeping them still other than their frantic pace. Like most of their competitions, it spurs them on. Before he knows it his come is decorating both of their chests and Ryan's is joining.

He doesn't wait until he's cooled down, he goes to get a washcloth. He slides jeans and a tshirt back on, comes back with another washcloth to help with the mess on Ryan's chest.

"No, stay," Ryan tugs on his hand. "I'll buy you pancakes in the morning." Ryan says it through a post-coital yawn, a yawn that means he'll be asleep shortly.

He's frozen, not sure what Ryan's asking. It could be simple, it could be huge. Ryan doesn't look like it's huge, curling up into himself and naked under the covers, but Brendon doesn't have that certainty.

"C'mon, Bren," Ryan throws back a corner of the blanket with another yawn. "Don't make me ask again. And pancakes."

Brendon laughs, one short bark. "Pancakes, right."

"Down at the hotel cafe," Ryan turns his head into the pillow. "But only if you stay."

That's the best invitation he's going to get, he knows. "Ryan's going to buy me breakfast," he says to himself as he pulls off his tshirt, repeats it as he pulls his jeans back off and tucks himself up behind Ryan. Ryan's radiating heat, so much heat for such a skinny dude. He puts his hand on Ryan's hip. Ryan snores and he bites back a laugh. "First time for everything," he decides.

When they play Rome, they get one free hour. After the radio interviews, the afternoon shows, before more radio interviews and the meet-and-greet, Brendon has an hour to see the city. He goes out on his own, or rather, he goes out with Shane and Zack, but leaves Ryan behind. Ryan, and Spencer, too, would have plans and schedules and landmarks to check off lists, and Brendon just wants to see. Jon could come--Brendon would let Jon come--but he's crawled back into the hotel bed, and the minutes are falling fast.

It's crowded. There are people and scooters and sculptures jutting out of walls to navigate around. Zack takes point, Brendon walks in the space he leaves behind, and Shane is close by, because, even over the conversations he doesn't understand, Brendon can hear the shutter clicking.

It's an hour, so it can't be about museums. He doesn't know how close they are to the water or down from the mountains. It has to be about the city and the people.

"And the food!" Brendon spots a cheese shop on the other side of the street. He darts out in front of a man with a moustache on a mint green Vespa. The man raises a fist and shouts something Italian, but Brendon's made it across and has his nose against the window.

It smells like the best pizza he ever ate. That was in New York (Jon thinks it was in Chicago). This is going to be even better. This is going to be Italian.

Past the condensation on the window, Brendon can see the men in white uniforms folding and folding long threads of mozzarella. A heavy hand falls onto his shoulder.

"Dude, no running in the streets. What's the rule?" Zack stares him down.

"No running in the streets."

After the three of them have eaten at least Brendon's weight in fresh, soft buffalo mozzarella, Zack steers them out of the shop and back to the hotel.

Brendon asks, "Did you take lots of pictures, Shane? I don't want to forget anything," and Shane holds up his camera. The other arm he slings around Brendon's shoulders, and they stumble down the stone streets like drunk boys celebrating a World Cup win. Brendon's just celebrating Rome. It's almost enough to have made it here, but he made it here with his best friends, and now they're going to play some music.

Shane lets him go when they get off the elevator. Zack only glares a little before going to bang on Jon's door to make sure he's out of bed. Brendon goes to find Ryan.

He's coming out of the bathroom, wrapped up in towels. Ryan reports, "Spencer and I got lost and dirty."

"And Jon slept through the whole thing."

When Ryan unwinds enough to laugh, it's a surprise. It shakes his shoulders and Brendon forward. They fall into the kiss together, then Ryan drops his towel, then Ryan drops. Naked, his back against the wall, Ryan kneels in front of Brendon, eyes blinking one, two, three when he stares up.

"I like you a lot," Brendon says. "Down there," he adds.

Ryan gets straight to work. They don't have much time, so it makes sense that he'd rip Brendon's pants open and pull them down to his knees, boxers lagging behind. The shock of it makes Brendon go hard, then Ryan's hand, harder. He's panting, and his hips thrust forward almost beyond his will.

Better than Ryan's hand is Ryan's tongue. He laps up all the precum leaking, and he licks his lips after. He bites his lip when Brendon is looking. Ryan sucks him so good.

Brendon doesn't say that. He's said too much already. His ears are pounding with the blood rushing through his body, the words, and the heat of Ryan's hands on his thighs, mouth on his cock. It's not only a warm wet place for Brendon to shove himself into. He closes his eyes and he can still see Ryan, kneeling at his feet, sitting by his side, sharing his microphone.

He can see Ryan. It's not always different when they're on tour, but it's not always like this at home, either.

It comes fast--Ryan did warn him. Any minute now, Zack will be waiting outside, Jon, Spencer, Shane growing impatient by the elevator. So when Brendon comes, it's a relief, but that's not to say he wants to let go.

"Will you let me do you?" Brendon asks. Ryan's standing on sure feet, confident in his skin and nothing more. Brendon's feeling shaky. He slides a supporting hand down Ryan's chest, his stomach, and palms his half-hard cock.

"I'm good," Ryan whispers, kissing a line down Brendon's neck. "In the shower, before," he tells him. Brendon likes that image. He likes that a lot.

"What?" he whines into his pillow at the second tentative poke to his shoulder. "It's no longer my birthday so it's fair to wake me whenever you want?" Yesterday had been a rock concert, today it's Ryan. The glamor of his birthday is already gone.

"I was thinking something else," Ryan mumbles at him. It doesn't sound like Ryan's awake either, but--

"Oh," he turns his head in Ryan's direction when he receives another slick nudge at the crease of his ass. "Are you really waking me up just to fuck me?"

"It's an extended birthday present," Ryan nudges again but--

He rolls to his side, away from Ryan. "An extended birthday present?" he wiggles his eyebrows until he realizes Ryan's eyes are closed The room's barely lit, just spillover from behind the curtains, which means it's early, earlier than he'd thought. "Ryan," he reaches over to poke Ryan's shoulder. "Did you wake me up to fuck me or to kill me with bad metaphors?"

Ryan's nose crinkles. "Oh god," he says thickly. "I didn't mean it like that."

"But you didn't want to waste a perfectly good erection?" he can't help but laugh.

"Let's just sleep, then," Ryan rolls closer to him, chases him finally. Brendon sucks in his stomach when Ryan's hand lands on it. Ryan scratches his nails in, like a cat exploring his space, and Brendon wants, suddenly.

"No." Ryan flexes his fingers again again and he jumps. "Let's do it again."

Ryan's eyes finally open. "Yeah?" he licks his lips.

He squirms over until he can lick Ryan's lips for him. "Yeah." Ryan's eyes are still sleepy but he kisses like he's awake. He kisses like he knows what he's doing, knows what he's doing to Brendon. They're the same age again and it's stupid but Brendon likes it, feels they're on more even footing for this half of the year. It's not like it really matters but it's one less thing separating them.

He's not in danger of falling back asleep into the kiss and Ryan doesn't kiss like he is but Brendon figures the faster they get this done the faster he and Ryan can curl up and nap until it's time to head to the next town, the next sight, the next show.

Ryan's hands move slowly across his skin, not doing much other than gripping and squeezing. He doesn't pay much attention, focuses on trying to make Ryan whimper only through judicious use of his tongue, but Ryan wins the unplanned game when he presses the tip of a finger against Brendon's hole. He hadn't realized how close Ryan was, or how slick he'd still be, left over from the night before. He hadn't realized how much it would turn him on to have Ryan playing idly with him.

"Mmm," Ryan breaks the kiss. "Fuck, condom."

"Fuuuuuck," he groans and nudges back into Ryan's fingers, two now, deep and curling lightly. They'll have to break apart, he doesn't want that. "What about just this?" he asks. He gropes for Ryan's dick. It's there, ready, and Brendon issues it a silent apology. "I can definitely blow you, after."

"After?" Ryan's voice is teasing but he knows what Brendon is talking about. He must, he adds a third finger and dips down to tongue the shell of his ear.

"Yes, fucking after," he huffs, reaching to pull Ryan closer. Ryan laughs in his ear and starts a rhythm with his fingers, something more like fucking and less like stretching him, holding him open to remind him of earlier.

Ryan chuckles darkly in his ear and speeds up again. Brendon hooks his knee around Ryan's hip, pulls himself closer. There's not a lot of room to maneuver but they make it through the reshuffling without giving up their connection.

It's not the type of thing he enjoys often, asks for often. That might have to change. Rubbing against Ryan's nip, feeling Ryan, hard and ready but waiting for Brendon's signal? That's addictive, he could get used to that shit.

It's like Ryan knows when his concentration is wavering, too, when the kissing and the memories start to overlay the present, the specific. He knows when Brendon's losing concentration, brings him back with a thrust or a twist, or with a kiss, sweet or biting. "I like you a lot," Brendon admits. Ryan pushes him again quickly but stays deep. "Down there," he adds, shivering.

It's bad, when they finally have sex. They do it in Ryan's bunk, which makes no sense because there's no room in there with all the teddy bears and unicorns and other stuffed gifts from fans. But Ryan's bunk is the bottom bunk, and that's as far as they get when Brendon kisses him and pushes him backwards. No one takes control, but Brendon gets them to a soft spot to land.

"Can I?" Brendon asks and falls sloppily onto Ryan's cock. He gags and has to keep trying. He keeps missing, grabs hold of Ryan with both hands, but he doesn't expect Ryan to come so soon. Brendon gets it in his eye.

He flails blindly, looking for somewhere to smack Ryan and clipping his chin.

"What the fuck, Brendon?"

"What the fuck, Ryan?" he shoots back, rubbing his eye in a pointed gesture.

Ryan kicks him off the bed with a vicious twist of his pointy hips. Landing with a hard thump, Brendon falls back onto the bus floor. He doesn't move for an hour, at last, not until everything stops hurting.

They don't try it again until the tour ends, and they're back home in Vegas.

They haven't even kissed since that night when Brendon drives over to see Ryan's new place. He brings food and knocks and hopes that it hasn't been a week since Ryan called because of some mistake.

"Oh," Ryan says. "Hello."

Brendon nods. "That works," and he pushes into the house.

It still feels silly that they have houses. Ryan nearly cried at the end of the tour when Zack finally made him chuck the stuffed animals. Then they all laughed at him, of course, and Ryan punched all of them in the arm (Brendon harder than everyone, he's sure). That Brendon went home and spent a week in his sweatpants eating cereal and watching cartoons is not the same thing at all.

But now that he's here, in Ryan's house, with Ryan waiting for the conversation to start, arms crossed, Brendon doesn't feel like they're people who have houses. He still feels like those fumbling kids who can't figure out a blowjob in a bunk.

"We have to try it again," he explains. Ryan almost laughs--Brendon can see it on his face.

"Why don't we stick to the making out?" Ryan says. "You know, over the sweater." He says it with a smirk. Brendon follows it with one of his own, and he thinks Ryan's impressed.

They move into the kitchen, and Brendon remembers the food. Ryan even has plates in his cupboards. Quietly, they serve up rice and noodles and enough soy sauce to turn everything slightly brown. They eat at the island in the middle of the room.

It feels like someone's parents are going to come home and break up the date, except that they're not. Brendon and Ryan's parents aren't looking for them. In this house, they are the parents.

Brendon cracks a fortune cookie from the bag and holds out the half with the fortune sticking out. Ryan snorts, but he takes it. He reads it to himself, then out loud for Brendon, but it doesn't really matter what it says because they both know it'll end in bed.

Brendon's already there, so they try it again. "There's more room," he says, following Ryan up the stairs, "and fewer stuffed animals. No way someone's walking in on us."

"Though Spencer is known for dropping by unannounced," Ryan says, grinning back at Brendon when they finally get to the bedroom door.

"It'll be better." Brendon's wearing two shirts, and he pulls them both off together, dropping the tangle onto a chair next to Ryan's bed. He shimmies out of his jeans and boxers, shoes and socks. When he looks up, Ryan, on the other side of the bed, is watching, his hands stilled on his shirt buttons. "And when we get it better here," Brendon says, crawling across the mattress, "we'll know how to make it good on the bus."

He nuzzles that big bulge in Ryan's pants. That's what he wants first. He wants it in his mouth, and he wants to make it good.

"Up, Brendon." Ryan pulls him under his armpits, but he kisses him when Brendon kneels up on the bed. "Over the sweater," Ryan laughs, even though they're both naked to the waist, and Brendon's hands slide back down to Ryan's belt, reaching inside to pulls his soft cock hard.

Ryan's vicious with his teeth, biting Brendon's lips raw, then soothing over with his tongue, but what does Brendon care when each sharp kiss goes straight to his cock. It's been longer than a week since they last had sex, and Brendon knows it. He doesn't come in his pants like a kid, but that's only because he took the pants off first.

"You're wound pretty tightly right now," Brendon tries to make it casual. Spencer looks wound tighter than a fucking toy top, whether or not he acknowledges it, and he has no desire to be around when Spencer pops. Or blows. Or whatever. But if he could help, well, he wouldn't say no to that. "If me or this fine snacky snack can help then we're devoted to the cause," he adds, when Spencer doesn't respond.

Spencer finishes packing the bowl, puts the book with everything atop it on the bedside table. He stacks a pillow behind his head, tries to get in a better position to smoke. "It's not band related." Which is Spencer's lame way of saying he doesn't want to talk. When has it mattered if it's band related or not? They're not fucking robots.

"We don't work nine to five, Spence," he spins his phone between two fingers, nips at Spencer's fingers when he's done with his hit. His phone had been flashing a new text message but Spencer holds the pipe out to him. He leans in, seals his lips around the glass, bats his eyes at Spencer. Spencer sighs exaggerratedly but lights for him, pulling away to shotgun off of him. It's not a kiss, it's something they've done hundreds of times before, but it somehow feels like a secret when it's just the two of them.

He checks his phone. come downstairs we have music, from Jon. "Hmm," he pokes Spencer. "Whaddya think?"

"I think we'd have to put on pants." Spencer sighs. Spencer's turned into the always-half-naked dudebro in a frat comedy. Brendon's been documenting it. Someday Spencer will stop and then he'll be blackmailable.

"Pants could be worth it," he argues, stretching his toes toward the ceiling.

Spencer looks between his computer and the television. "Fine, jesus," is the best Brendon figures he'll get so he takes it. Spencer puts on pants that don't fit him and that Brendon's pretty sure Spencer knows don't fit him so he spends the rest of the walk down to the hotel bar trying to convince Spencer to go jeans shopping with him. Spencer used to love jeans shopping, he's sure of it. "A piano bar," is how Spencer greets Ryan, kicking his stool. "This is what you got us out of bed for?"

"Spencer!" he grabs Spencer's arm, squeezes warningly. Ryan and Jon had looked so delighted when they walked in, he doesn't want any crabby. It's too early on the tour to get crabby. "You swore you wouldn't tell," he whines just enough to make it a joke. Spencer rolls his eyes and settles into Jon's side.

Ryan's fingers curl warm and possessive around his hip, pull him decisively into Ryan's orbit. Ryan spends some time whispering in his ear, ending with, "but first you have to play me a song," and he smiles. Ryan must've smoked up, too. They're smushed together like peas in a pod. He gets that expression now.

Jon's whispering something into Spencer's ear. Spencer's face is slowly relaxing. Ryan doesn't look at Spencer, keeps breathing close to Brendon's ear and--oh! He closes his eyes when Ryan traces his dick softly through his jeans, cups him gently at the end. "Have a beer, Spence. Watch Jon. Don't let him dance." Ryan grabs his elbow and his collar, guides him up and to the piano. He automatically sits, scoots back until he's at the right angle and positions his fingers, barely noticing Ryan sitting next to him until he looks at Ryan for a cue, but Ryan just smiles back and puts one warm hand on Brendon's thigh.

He doesn't know what he wants to play, what Ryan wants him to play, but Spencer's lost his worried look and Ryan's hand is creeping lightly up his thigh. This piano bar thing is already magical. He flicks his finger against the gigantic cognac glass holding a paltry collection of dollar bills.

He lets muscle memory takes him and is wrapped up in the nostalgia of the Intermission before he knows it. Ryan's grip tightens and softens, meanders higher on his thigh. He loops the song over itself, slowing down and humming along shallowly, to focus. Ryan's hand is all over the place, the sweetest and most taunting tease he's had in a long time.

"Keep playing," Ryan whispers. "I'll tell you when to stop."

"Ryan's gone all European," he tells Spencer. Spencer stares blankly at him. "No, really, I think Europe's been a bad influence on him. We should have kept him on the bus." He makes a locking gesture with his hands. It looks like something else but he knows Spencer gets it.

They both turn to look at Ryan, across the green room. He's standing with Jon, picking through a plate of veg. He's wearing two scarves and a beret. Brendon misses the fingerless gloves. Those were kinda sexy, at least. The beret just makes him look like a wannabe foreign exchange student. "Right," Spencer flips open his phone. "I'm on this."

Brendon sits down with his laptop and ponders his brilliance. The hat problem will be taken care of and he'll be clean of it. Pretty good work for a Thursday morning. Next thing he knows the room is empty but for him. "Zack?" he calls, looking around. How did he end up alone?

Ryan strolls in and locks the door behind him. He's on longer wearing a beret. "What?" he asks and Ryan turns on him.

"You," Ryan points, one threatening finger. Brendon finds it ridiculously sexy. He shuts his laptop.

"Me?" he points exaggeratedly at himself. He's caught, but he had his bases covered, so he at least gets to play. Ryan moves until he's standing over Brendon, tall and annoyed and beautiful to Brendon.

"What was so bad about the beret, really?" Ryan grabs the ends of his scarves in either hand, pulls them taut to either side. It looks like an invitation to Brendon, all that open space between Ryan's hands.

He leans forward to put his laptop on the table, purposefully brushing his cheek against Ryan's thigh. Ryan shivers in response, he can feel it. He takes advantage of the position, responds with his mouth hovering near Ryan's dick. "Ryan, the beret made you look retarded. Europe is a bad influence on you."

It works he's at a good angle, he thinks, cause Ryan doesn't look upset. When he curls a hand behind Brendon's neck, kneading lightly, holding him where he is, Brendon knows Ryan's thinking about something other than the damn beret. He's thinking about something Brendon is thinking about, too.

"I still think you owe me an apology for destroying my beret," Ryan tugs, as if the subtext weren't obvious. Brendon goes, follows the hot curve under Ryan's pants with his lips, then his fingers.

"However could I apologize to you, Ryan Ross?" He says it heavily, gustily, purposefully, near the head of Ryan's dick. Ryan's hand threads further into his hair, pulls his head back. He's gazing down at Brendon with an amused look.

"I'd love to shoot all over your face right now," Ryan says it meditatively, abstractly. "But you have that interview, so I'll be nice."

Brendon thinks about nice as he tugs Ryan's pants down, Ryan helping ineffectually. "There is very little about this that's nice," he decides, as he maneuvers Ryan's dick out of his briefs.

"That's pretty nice," Ryan gasps when he starts kisslicking, wetting. He still can't get over how skinny Ryan his, what a slip of nothing he is. His hand can curl all the way around Ryan's hip. He curls it around Ryan's dick instead, getting into it. His angle on the couch is weird, he might as well pull out all the stops, make this memorable since he wants it to be fast.

"Fuck," Ryan gets both hands on his head, holds him still to thrust. He's expecting it and he's showing off so Ryan finds no problem in smoothly thrusting down his throat. He maybe starts to gag but he swallows around it, shoves it back down, focuses on keeping his jaw open instead. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Ryan keeps muttering and Brendon feels giddy with the power of this, of thrilling Ryan.

"Brendon, interview," Zack hollars through the door, pounding a few times for emphasis. Ryan speeds up. Brendon holds on for the ride.

He expects Ryan to want to come buried deep but Ryan pulls nearly out, floods his tastebuds. He scowls up at Ryan, who's petting his hair with a dazed expression. Brendon can forgive him a lot for that expression, the taste on his tongue and the raspiness he'll have in his voice.

Ryan slowly sinks into the couch next to him, just as Zack starts knocking again. "See you later," Ryan's still, exposed and sated next to him. He hates Ryan.

"You planned this." He gives his poor, neglected dick a little squeeze, a little promise for something later.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Ryan's eyes are closed, his head against the back of the couch. Brendon licks his lips, tastes Ryan again.

"Well," he stands, cricles the couch to head to the door. "Farewell for now, or some shit like that. I will have my revenge." He kisses one of Ryan's cheeks, upsidedown, then the other, purposefully making them wet kisses, not the tiny little French-style pecks Ryan's been giving people.

"Oh, ew," Ryan figures it out after he's mostly to the door. "Brendon, seriously?"

"That's not my revenge," he clarifies with a grin. Ryan's scrubbing at his cheek with the end of one scarf.

The day of a show, it's all about being lazy. Jon's theory is that you have to be a slug, so you can be a tiger on the stage. He explains this theory again when they're crowded in the dressing room and passing two fat joints around the circle. It makes more sense now.

If Brendon wants to lay on the floor with his feet in Jon's lap and his head on Ryan's crossed legs, it's because he has to go out there and sing, and he has to make it through the night. Not to be left out, Spencer has laid himself opposite Brendon and every time Jon takes a hit, he ducks down to let the smoke out over Spencer's mouth.

Ryan passes the second joint Brendon's way. His smile is soft and happy, and he can't keep his eyes open. Brendon just wants to reach up and brush the hair off Ryan's forehead, but the angle's awkward, and when Brendon lifts his hand, he ends up smacking Ryan on the chin.

"Sorry," he says.

Ryan shakes his head. "No problem."

There's an hour before the show. Brendon has decided he's not going to move until then. On Spencer and Jon's side of the circle, there are snacks. A case of water sits on the table above Ryan's head, and, in Jon's shirt pocket, two more hand-rolled joints. Jon says they're for after the show. Brendon can wait, if Spencer passes the Pringles his way.

"Ryan."

"Brendon."

He holds up the can. "Do you want a Pringle?"

Ryan doesn't want a Pringle. He leans his head back as he breathes the smoke in deep. His neck is so long. Brendon watches each twitch and twist. He watches Ryan's long fingers hand the joint off to Spencer, then he butts his head into Ryan's stomach to get his attention. He wants those long fingers in his hair. Brendon wants Ryan touching him more. It's not enough.

"Like that," he says, when Ryan's hand falls to Brendon's head. He lifts into the touch to encourage it. Brendon closes his eyes and drifts, a little. Everything's warm, and he's tingly all over. Lazy, but not tired, which is good because they go on soon. Sooner than that, they'll have to get up and get ready.

When his feet thump to the floor, Brendon jerks back to reality. Ryan's hand pauses, a moment, then resumes its petting. Jon and Spencer are getting up. That's why Brendon's feet are no longer resting on Jon's knee.

"We don't have to get dressed yet, guys." Brendon cranes back to look into Ryan's eyes. "Right? We still have time."

"I don't think they're going to get dressed, Brendon." Ryan speaks slow and emphasises his words. He giggles, too, which only gets a louder scoff from Spencer.

Oh. Brendon gets it. "We should do that, too." He taps a beat on Ryan's knee.

"Get dressed?"

"Get the opposite of dressed," and their smiles grow wider when the door clicks shut.

Brendon rolls over and presses his face into Ryan's flat belly. There's no belly there at all, really, but that doesn't stop Brendon nuzzling. He pushes Ryan onto his back. They're under the counter now, laying between chairs, navigating their way to something comfortable. Brendon sits himself between Ryan's legs, resting his elbows on Ryan's thighs. It's perfect for Brendon to open Ryan's shirt and kiss up from his belt to his ribcage. He's not too far away that Ryan can't still pet his hair and rub rough fingers over Brendon's cheeks.

It's perfect--the position, the timing, Ryan's mood--so Brendon rips his pants open and pulls Ryan, not yet hard, out of his underwear.

With everything else moving slow and lazy, Brendon doesn't want to disturb the moment. He goes slow and lazy, running his tongue up, then back down, the long shaft of Ryan's cock. He does that again and turns it into a rhythm that has Ryan rocking up and saying his name. When they're both deep into that groove, when Brendon thinks Ryan might be too far already, Brendon stretches his lips and takes Ryan in, all in.

He's careful of his teeth, but Ryan rubs Brendon raw and pushes painful at the back of his throat. It's like a lungful of smoke, held in too long and coming back up because he can't hold it in anymore. Brendon likes it, he wants it, but he can't hold it in anymore.

They had a stupid fight at the end of tour. Not anything they haven't had before, wouldn't have again, but he didn't call and Ryan didn't call him and now it's been a full month, a handful of careful texts, and Spencer and Zack treating them both like they're brain damaged. Jon appears to be ignoring it all, just another reason Brendon's glad he has a Jon Walker in his band.

It's a one-off concert and they're not even that far from home but they tour-up, go through every conscious and unconscious ritual they have. He and Ryan meet and rehearse and laugh and plan like nothing's wrong, like Ryan never threw a shoe at him and told him to grow up, like Brendon never slammed his hand into a wall and told Ryan to get the stick out of his pretentious ass.

For all the months of nonchalance and ambivalence the show is amazing. He has his band behind him and the crowd in his palm and he shakes, he rattles, he rolls. He makes every damn second worth a million bucks, makes a million kids' night. He sing and he strums, he croons and he claps and when he goes over to share Ryan's mic Ryan leans right into him, walks into his space. Ryan doesn't stop when their knuckles brush, doesn't retreat even when Brendon hops backward. Ryan keeps coming at him and, yeah. He missed this.

At the end he's not ready to go but he's never ready, never wants to leave the thunder threatening to bring the roof down. They're still calling, he wants to give them more, but Ryan grabs his hand and laces their fingers together, pulls him off stage.

"Guys, that was amazing. It just felt right on stage." Jon pops the top off two Coronas. Brendon accepts his one handed. If Ryan isn't letting go he isn't letting go. "Seriously," Jon toasts them with the bottle after he's finished half of it in one go. Brendon's sure they all had their doubts after the somewhat strained rehearsal but he'd always known a live audience would make them get their shit together.

He watches longingly at Jon takes his button-up off. He and Jon are soaked, as usual, completely sweaty and disgusting. He drinks more beer, accepts more high fives, starts to feel disgusting as he cools down. Ryan looks bone dry and sanguine next to him, his tie still knotted perfectly. Brendon starts to hate Spencer for taking a year-long shower and hating Ryan for looking like he doesn't need a shower at all.

He's happy to shake Ryan's hand off and claim second shower, when Spencer finally emerges and Jon waves him in, on the phone. He tugs Ryan along with him, forgetting, then turns to shrug and smile at Ryan as he lets go.

Only Ryan follows him. "What?" he asks when Ryan walks in when he's naked. Ryan gives him a look which, yeah, ok, it was kind of a stupid question.

"Easier this way," Ryan shrugs, starts undoing his tie. He doesn't respond. He's not the one that needs some kind of excuse.

Brendon steps into the shower on his own. If he's first he can rinse everything off, pretend he and Ryan are starting this fresh and that this isn't just the start of another on phase that will have its inevitable, depressing end.

"Hey there," Ryan almost falls over when he steps in behind him.

"If I weren't here you would have fallen or died, no lie," he pulls Ryan so they're facing each other, the water hitting his back. He needs the water more than Ryan does.

"I want to try something," Ryan smirks at him. He nods, not knowing what Ryan wants to try. Except Ryan goes down onto one knee, teetering in the lack of space, then onto both, until he's at the right height to teasingly lick and pump and do a million things that Brendon appreciates, not a one involving throwing shoe wear.

"Oh god, this is a recipe for disaster," he curls over Ryan's back. He's going to fall or Ryan's going to choke or something, something will happen and they'll be in the newspapers and his parents will read about it and their Behind the Music will be exhaustive and embarrassing and with his luck Ryan will actually drown and he'll have to tell someone that he loved every second of it, no matter how badly Ryan could be injured.

It's easy, in Vegas, to pretend not to be Panic at the Disco. Of course, it means staying away from the Strip, where the tourists are, because it's the people who live here who let them be. Besides, away from the Strip is where all the real music is anyway.

They're at a club to see a band on the recommendation of Spencer's sisters.

"Is this what the kids are listening to?" Ryan asks. He's not impressed. He's standing up in the balcony with Spencer and they're mocking the band. Brendon, at least, came here to have fun.

"This is fun!" Spencer insists. He and Ryan laugh when the guy singing lead trips over his mic cord.

Brendon has forgotten what the band is called, already, and, no, they're not very good. But Brendon claps at the end of every song, and he gives them long, loud, "Woo!" when the rest of the crowd isn't enthusiastic enough to fill the tiny club.

It's not only for them, but for them all.

"You're so mean," Brendon says, bumping his hip against Ryan's. They're are plenty of seats at the bar, and Ryan would be there now, peeling labels and shredding napkins, bored. Brendon made them both stand at the railing and the best view of the stage. There, they can watch the poor guys struggle, no tolerance yet for the heat from the lights and begging for breath after three songs. "Don't you remember?" Brendon asks. He holds his arms out over the meager mosh pit. "It wasn't that long ago."

"We didn't play this club," Ryan says. Then he cocks his head, thinking. "Did we?"

Spencer shakes his head. He always remembers.

"Then what the hell are you talking about, Brendon?"

"It's hard," he says. Brendon steps back. "I think you've forgotten how hard it is in the beginning."

Downstairs, even among this sparse crowd, Brendon lets himself be washed away. He closes his eyes to the sound, and he's swallowed up by the people, the people who love music. Brendon dances by himself and with anyone nearby who holds out a hand to pulls Brendon close. The music is fast and loud, but, underneath it all, there's a beat you can dance to.

Brendon dances to that beat.

When it's done, after the encore, but before the kids have stopped screaming and stomping and calling for one more, Brendon slips out of the tangle of limbs. He gets turned around and ends up in front of the stage, spins back through the mess, and there's Ryan, waiting for him at the edge of the dancefloor. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and he's leaning, nonchalant, against one of the thick wooden beams, but he's smiling.

"We were watching you out there," he says.

"I looked good, right?" Brendon makes it the kind of thing Ryan can't deny. He takes a step, another, then Ryan shoots a hand out to grab hold of Brendon's belt and reel him in. It's a tiny club outside the city, and it's emptying fast. Brendon decides a kiss is worth it.

When they kiss in public, and they do, sometimes, not only on stage, Ryan likes the simplicity of a closed-mouth press of lips. Fast and discreet, but it still means more than a peck on the cheek. Brendon likes what you can do with it--keep it clean or slip a tongue between your teeth, just a touch. He gives Ryan that touch of tongue now, in this corner where the lights haven't reached yet.

"Do you ever forget what it's like to be Ryan Ross?" Their lips move together, around the question. Brendon pushes against him to feel Ryan hard in his trousers. "Out there, with them, sometimes I can forget what it's like to be Brendon Urie."

Ryan's hands move up Brendon's back, curling over his shoulders, and one venturing further, up into Brendon's hair. He turns Brendon's head away from their kiss, and Brendon's lips follow the path across Ryan's cheek, down his neck, and he buries himself there in the smell of Ryan's skin and that sharply-drawn curve of his collarbone.

"You can't forget, Brendon." He sounds so serious, even after the beer, the music, and the joint they smoked during the opening act.

"Don't worry," Brendon says. He leaves a perfect red circle on the side of Ryan's neck. When they get home, he wants to take Ryan from behind and bite a line across his shoulders. Brendon likes to see those marks. Ryan cries out for more. "Sing me a song, and I'll remember it all."

There's no VIP. Brendon's not going to be the one to bitch about not being able to sit in VIP but Zack's got a distinctly unimpressed expression. It might be he's unimpressed with the venue in general. Brendon's sure it's not that he's unimpressed with Eric. Brendon, he will admit to himself, just might be the only one to actually care about VIP as VIP but Zack cares about their safety.

He might be a little hungover, whatever, he was just hoping for a show where someone would get him from a car to a backstage room to a VIP section and he wouldn't have to worry about anything but asking for more beer and where the bathroom is. He's allowed to feel lazy, they've been touring for eight months or some shit.

And he knows, he knows, that Black Gold have been touring longer, have been touring before, between and after when Eric tours with them but, damnit, yes. He's getting old and he's getting cranky and he really wants to be half asleep and watching infomercials, snuggled up with a Corona and a Ryan, but instead he's hovering behind Zack while Ryan claps along as Eric sings about having a breakdown.

"You're so mean," Ryan laughs at him when he whines, after the canned music has come back up and Eric's starting to break down his gear. "Don't you remember what it was like to be this small?"

He shrugs at Ryan. He doesn't, and Ryan shouldn't, because they were never really this small, not really. They were for maybe a day but even then Ryan treated it as if they were bigger, as if the physical space they occupied had no bearing on the space they deserved. Which. It doesn't, it never does, but sooner or later you start believing it, you're convinced that there's something about you or the other guy that really, actually determine what you make and how you do. Brendon knows better.

"That was really amazing," Ryan yells at him, louder than he needs to. Brendon winces, just a little--so obvious! Ryan hates being obvious!--but claps as loudly as he can between songs.

"I'm gonna," he jerks his thumb in the direction of the bathrooms. Zack raises one eyebrow but waves him off, continues to glower at the girls in fluorescent tights.

He splashes water on his face, not looking in the mirror. It feels good, better than he expected, so he goes under again, cups his hands and drinks before refilling and dunking. It wakes him up, enough that he starts when the bathroom door opens.

"You ok?" Ryan finger-crawls up his back. He shivers, looking up to meet his own gaze in the mirror. Yeah, he looks exactly as wrecked as he hoped he didn't.

"I'm good," he goes to dry his hands but there's only a hot air thingie. He holds his hands under, avoiding Ryan as long he can.

"Eric sounds good," Ryan sounds proud, like he's claimed another voice, another set of vocal chords.

"Yeah," he shakes his hands out, runs them through his hair to try to finish drying them.

"You're pretty hungover," Ryan's fingers are at his back again, rubbing in small circles.

"I guess?" he doesn't meet Ryan's eyes in the mirror. He's definitely pretty hungover.

"Aww," Ryan sounds indulgent, fond. He gets both hands on Brendon's back, digs in to really rub out the tension he's carrying. Ryan's hands are amazing, capable and soothing when Ryan's in the right mood, but Brendon doesn't feel he deserves it, isn't expecting it. Boy does he need it, though.

"Wow, Ryan," he tucks his head down, spreads his arms and braces against the sink. "Wow, seriously, Ryan," he groans when Ryan really digs into the knot in his left shoulder. "Oh, fuck yeah."

"Mmm, I like you like this," Ryan sounds amused. "Tired and cranky and under my fingertips."

He snorts. "You like me draped over a sink, more like." He wiggles his ass.

"Ha," Ryan kicks his feet apart, steps closer, close enough he has to actually lean on the sink, shift his weight. Close enough he can feel Ryan's heat. "That, too."

There are photographs of Brendon kissing Ryan. The fans like that kind of thing, Ryan learned early on. He learned to play it for attention and applause, for press, good or bad. It was an act to set them apart from every other band trying to make it out there.

The photographs of Ryan kissing Brendon are harder to find, though Ryan doesn't go looking for these kinds of things. Spencer tells him, every day, Don't Google yourself, but Ryan knows what he'll find. Half of the photos he posted himself.

The other half capture the act he and Brendon put on for the world for the sake of the band. Ryan keeps some of those photos on his computer. He doesn't know why. He keeps everything on his computer when they're on tour, so he doesn't need to justify a few fan photos.

Ryan's rooming with Jon tonight, but it's Brendon who walks in, finding Ryan on his laptop on the bed.

"Always with the porn, Ross." Brendon shakes his head, going for the bottle Jon left on the bedside table. He claims the empty bed and kicks his feet up.

"Why are you here?" He pulls the lid down on his computer. It's not porn, really, but it's not anything he needs Brendon seeing, either.

"Here in your hotel room or here in Florida?"

"Brendon."

"No, it's a good question. A very thoughtful question that I will have to lie here with this bottle of whiskey and think on. Do you mind if I lie here with this bottle of whiskey and think on it, Ryan?"

He's laughing now, and Brendon is grinning because he knows he's made Ryan laugh. He knows it's him.

"We don't have to drink, do we?" Brendon asks, but he's not actually asking. He's rolling onto his side, tucking his hands under the pillow, and watching Ryan across the bedside table and warm light of the lamp.

"No. We shouldn't." Ryan turns to look at him, then eyes front again. Ryan's still dressed and above the covers. He slipped his shoes off when he came in the room and hung his jacket in the closet, but Ryan hasn't even loosened his tie. He's put together, but the way Brendon is watching him, like Brendon wants to take him apart.

"We shouldn't. It should be easy," Brendon says, legs moving forward and feet down on the floor.

Ryan stops him with just his name, "Brendon."

He huffs a breath through his nose and lays back on the bed. "Fine."

"Jon will be back soon." Ryan picks up his computer again, lifts it open, bringing it back from sleep. Brendon takes a swig from the bottle, then digs into the drawers, for the TV remote probably. Ryan doesn't imagine he's looking for the Bible. "Jon will be back soon, so we shouldn't."

Brendon turns on Leno. Ryan checks his email and thinks he should update the site. They've been so busy on tour, it's been a few days. Jon posted a photo of a crowd, shot with his phone from the stage, but nothing since. He's startled when Brendon laughs. Flicking his eyes up to the TV, Ryan sees a cat food commercial.

"When do you think Jon will be back?" He looks right into Ryan. "C'mon, Ross. Don't use them as your excuse."

When the band is on stage, and Ryan is caught up in the music, mouthing the words that Brendon is singing, there are no excuses. Brendon stalks over to Ryan's mic, singing into his own, but for Ryan, for Ryan's words. There's no stopping him when Brendon's being that person that he is on stage. Ryan loves that person, a little, and every kiss is genuine.

Every kiss is genuine, but the people they are don't exist when the show is done. Their words and songs and kisses are captured on tiny screens and spread across the country, following the band like their most dedicated fans. Ryan searches them out the next day, studying the pixels for whos and whys, and Brendon is right here next to him.

All he has to do is ask, and Brendon would have an answer. Brendon's standing next to his bed now, looking down at Ryan like he doesn't even need the question. Ryan sets his laptop, and all those photos aside, and pulls Brendon down on the bed.

"Ross, Walker," Zack pounds on the door. "Stop stalling, the kids are waiting."

Jon gives him an apologetic glance and inhales the last of the joint. It was a thin one, thin and reedy and Ryan could have crushed it easily but he didn't, too aware of the fragility under his fingertips.

Jon flushes the roach and washes his hands. Ryan straightens his tie in the mirror, brushes his hair to the side. He likes to know exactly what he'll look like in the meet and greet photos. It's easier to remember his face will still be his, not theirs, even after they take away their frozen moments of him.

Jon catches his gaze in the mirror and salutes, an irreverent and fond gesture. Ryan motions him out of the door first, smiling. Jon seems to know the days he needs a moment, a smoke, a talk.

"Are we ready to do this?" Brendon's wearing sunglasses, slouched against the wall with his hair a disarrayed halo. Last Ryan saw Brendon he was groaning and asking for more sleep, or barring that a beer and a coffee. Ryan had left him with a water.

Ryan doesn't mean to but he pauses to take in Brendon's outfit. He's wearing black jeans, stretched tight but still held up with the metal-studded belt just barely peeking out from under his favorite suggestive tshirt. He'd look brash and confident, like he likes, except he's curled into his black jacket, pale and hunching into his crossed arms. He notices Ryan looking, shakes his shoulders out to stand tall and grins lewdly. Ryan knows he's not ready.

He looks at Zack. "A minute?" Zack nods and herds Spencer and Jon down the hallway, waiting for them with just one shoulder visible.

When he turns back Brendon's folded back in on himself, curled into the wall. "Say whatever you need to say, Ross."

Oh. "No, I," he licks his lips. He doesn't want to lecture Brendon. "You look good."

It's not how he meant to do it but it makes Brendon laugh, the brutal twist of his lips softening, parting. "Oh, really?"

He rests his shoulder next to Brendon's on the wall, bends his knees until he can look up at Brendon. "Yeah." Brendon's paler up closer but he smells like soap, cleaner and fresher than body spray. Showering is important. "You can nap?"

"Yeah," Brendon shakes his head again, hair whipping into Ryan's face. "Yeah, let's do this."

Brendon's slipping into being that person, that person he is for other people, so Ryan stops him with a hand on his cheek. "Hey," he licks his lips again, leaning closer when Brendon mimics him. "Hey," he whispers before he licks Brendon's lips. They kiss gently, all lips and tongues, small movements that feel bigger than they have any right to.

He gets a twinge from hunching, straightens and pushes into the kiss, and Brendon takes it, rolls back into the wall and pulls Ryan with him. His fingers slip under Ryan's jacket and pull at his shirt, tug it out of his trousers, but he doesn't do anything more than spread his hand wide and possessive over Ryan's lower back. Brendon tried to deepen the kiss, to dirty it, but Ryan keeps it soft, teasing.

"Guys," Zack snaps his fingers. "It'll only be worse for you the longer they wait. I can kick the kids out but then you whine at me and blah blah blah." Ryan doesn't have to look over to know Zack's expression. He takes one deep breath, one last taste of Brendon, and steps back to adjust his clothes.

Brendon shakes his hair out again and when he's done he's that person, ready to perform. Ryan follows him, high-fives Spencer on the way down the hall. With the taste of Brendon on his tongue it's easier to go through the routine. He keeps thinking he can feel Brendon's hand still warm on his skin until they're standing next to each other and he does feel Brendon's touch when he wraps a long arm around Ryan's waist. They each have an arms around a fan's shoulders but Brendon's fingers dig into his hipbone, an obvious invitation Ryan won't ignore.

Zack takes the photo, third or fourth from last in the line of fans waiting, watching their every move. Brendon doesn't drop his grip after, between. He keeps Ryan close, leaving the next fans few options. They both dart for Spencer anyway and Brendon laughs into his ear. Ryan starts to blush.

"Brendon," he twists lightly. Brendon's hand goes away. His waist feels cold.

"Say cheese," Zack deadpans. Brendon's fingers slip into his back pocket, dig in when the flash goes off.

"I know you like him." Ryan shoves Brendon over at the piano to join him on the bench. "But do you think he'll fit in?"

Brendon laughs and follows it with a plinky melody on the high end of the piano. "Are you actually asking me? Do you want an actual opinion?"

"This is big."

"Yesterday was amazing, Ryan." They played their first show with Jon on the drums, and Ryan can't stop the debrief running through his head. Brendon bumps him out of his thoughts. "I don't know what you're worried about," he says.

Ryan doesn't know what he's worried about either. Spencer will be weird for a while, but that's more about Brent than about Jon. It's more about Spencer. He'd be weird about anyone coming into their band. And Brendon loves Jon. That much was clear their first tour with The Academy. Ryan likes him a lot, but he has to be sure Jon fits on stage, in the studio, not just on their bus.

"We have to be sure of him," Ryan says. He stills Brendon's fingers on the keys. It gets Brendon to look at him. "We don't get many chances at this."

"Look, I know Jon is awesome, but he's not going to take down the whole band with his drumsticks. In fact," Brendon stands up. "He's going to take us higher than we've ever been."

Ryan wrinkles his nose. "Is this about pot?"

"Ooh, good idea."

They untangle themselves from the piano and each other. Ryan follows Brendon up the stairs. He seems to know where he's going. There are times when Ryan will watch Brendon bounce off the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and then become single-minded in his goal. A new song, a door that locks, a simple drag off a joint, Ryan finds himself following after.

Brendon's room is the biggest--this is his house. It's also the neatest. Everyone else is living out of suitcases and laundry baskets, but here, Brendon has time and space enough to make homes for it all. Ryan wishes he did the same on the bus, but one room in the whole country feels like victory already.

It means that when Brendon looks around his room and says there's no more weed, Ryan believes him.

"Is that what you and Jon did all last night?" Ryan asks.

"We were bonding." Brendon guides Ryan to the bed with his hands on his hips. "You want him to fit in, right?"

He pushes Ryan back, waits until he stops bouncing, then Brendon kneels between his legs. There's lots of room to spread out, but Ryan likes to tuck in. He likes to wrap his arm around Brendon's neck and pull his head down to Ryan's chest. He likes the rumble when Brendon speaks.

"Bands replace their drummers all the time. It took Nirvana a dozen guys before they found Dave Grohl." He's unbuttoning Ryan's shirt while he's talking. His fingers are rough and smooth and make Ryan shiver. "But I bet you we're luckier than them," Brendon says, kissing between Ryan's nipples.

"We better be," Ryan says. They both go still and quiet.

"Nothing like that," Brendon says, and he pushes up on his elbows for a kiss.

Brendon says not to worry, things won't change that much, but Ryan knows better. It doesn't matter if Jon plays drums, bass, guitar, or is up front singing, he's a part of this band now, and the path they were on has shifted. Ryan needs something to hold onto, and Brendon is right here in his arms.

"We're going to be OK," Ryan decides, pressing his face into Brendon's neck and breathing deep his skin.

"Didn't I say this already?"

"Maybe." Ryan smiles, and they go back to the kissing.

They're just getting somewhere, just getting Brendon's pants undone and Ryan's shirt all the way off, when a loud cheer rises up through the open window.

"What the hell?" Brendon rolls off Ryan and the bed to investigate. "Looks like we're missing the party," he tells Ryan over his shoulder. They do themselves back up as they head down the stairs.

Everyone's in the backyard, crowded around a makeshift firepit. Spencer holds up a bag of marshmallows, and Jon is whittling branches. "Is this a bonding thing?" Ryan asks, claiming the chair next to Spencer. Brendon negotiates with Zack for some beers from the cooler he's guarding.

"This isn't bonding," Spencer says. He shoves a marshmallow in Ryan's mouth. "This is just our band."

There's a piano bar. Jon and Ryan, escaping their hotel room and seeking fresh air, get lost in the halls and wind up downstairs. Jon decides he wants a drink, and that's when they discover that the bar is actually a piano bar.

"Dude!" Jon slaps a hand on Ryan's shoulder. He massages his neck too hard and leans too far into Ryan's space. They might have smoked a little earlier. "Dude, you should call Brendon. He could play us a song."

Ryan uses Jon's Sidekick. It's a loud night in the bar, so he texts Brendon come downstairs we have music. Then he orders a round of four, and they wait. Ryan holds Jon back when he tries to get out there to dance.

"Have a beer, Jon. Have a seat." The guy on the piano isn't even playing anything good.

Brendon is dragging Spencer behind him when Ryan spots them at the door. They're talking, maybe arguing. Jon only had a little joint, found in the folds of his wallet, but Ryan thinks, now, they should have invited the guys into the hotel room bathroom where they smoked it. The tour's barely started, and Spencer needs to chill out.

Ryan just likes to watch Brendon's fingers when he holds the smoldering roach to his lips. He likes to watch Brendon's lips.

"A piano bar." Spencer doesn't sound impressed. He kicks Ryan's stool. "This is what you got us out of bed for?"

"Spencer!" Brendon gasps, clinging to Spencer's arm. "You swore you wouldn't tell."

Ryan laughs, because he's supposed to, but he also wraps his hand around Brendon's hip and pulls him away. He pulls him in close and, mouth at his ear, reminds Brendon what he can do in bed. "But first you have to play me a song."

He nods, brushing his cheek against Ryan's lips. They're touching all down one side, drawing in towards each other until they're bellies are touching, too. Brendon's jeans are tight, and Ryan traces the bulge there, first with his eyes, then a finger, then his palm. They haven't kissed yet--that would be going too far.

"Have a beer, Spence." Ryan nods towards the line of bottles on the bar. "Watch Jon. Don't let him dance."

The piano player is on a break; Ryan hadn't noticed. The music fades into the background if it doesn't catch in his heart. But it's the perfect time for Brendon to steal the bench and play something good. Something new. Something for Ryan.

There in a Radisson in Michigan. They might never be here again, and even if they do come back, these same drunks and dancers won't be here. It's the freedom of the tour. Ryan and Brendon on tour get to be a little more than usual.

He sits next to Brendon on the piano bench. He could be the pageturner, if there were pages to turn, but Brendon knows all the notes. Ryan lays his hand on Brendon's thigh instead. The muscles move when he shifts himself comfortable and tighten when he plays.

Ryan recognises it completely. It's not a classical piece, and it's not Billy Joel for the crowd. It's their own "Intermission," because Brendon is only playing for Ryan.

For Brendon, Ryan flexes his fingers, digging into the denim. He scratches lines the length of Brendon's inner thigh. He traces those lines higher, watching Brendon's face, intent on the music, his fingers on the keys, but he's grinning, too. Brendon doesn't look at Ryan because he thinks Ryan won't do it. He's calling Ryan's bluff and daring him at the same time.

"Keep playing," Ryan whispers. "I'll tell you when to stop."

The piano is right out in the open. It's not particularly special, just a shiny baby grand, but the Michigan Radisson wants to show it off. There's nowhere Brendon and Ryan can hide, except in plain sight.

Ryan finally moves his hand where they both want it. He squeezes Brendon through his jeans, and the song doesn't miss. Each note follows after the one that came before, and Ryan follows that rhythm, too, rolling the heel of his hand into Brendon's erection, curling his fingers under. The jeans are tight. Brendon is trapped. Between the piano and Ryan's hand, there's an orgasm, silenced by their song.

"They're on their way back," Spencer says from behind his laptop. He's staring at his phone, typing some kind of reply. He doesn't sound pleased.

"Yeah?" he puts down his book. Jon pauses his movie, looks up from his laptop. Solo interviews can get weird.

Spencer nods then shakes his head. "Sounds like it was bad." If it was bad enough for Zack to text Spencer, it was pretty bad. Zack's protective of them, sure, but also mocks them when they can't handle the minorly bad ones.

"Um." He closes his book, trying to figure out how to get them out of the room.

"Jon, wanna go get a beer with me?" Spencer shoves his laptop in his bag. Jon hooks two bottles of beer out of the minifridge, salutes Ryan with them before he cradles them under one arm. He grabs two more before Spencer grabs him and they head out the door.

He wonders about texting Zack for more info. It would be nosy but it would help, if he knew what way the interview went badly. Was it a question about the band or a question about Brendon. Ryan's better at dealing with the former. Even he's on the far side of the wall for the latter, for some questions.

But he doesn't, in the end, he waits and prepares. He doesn't know if it'll go that way but he stashes a condom and some lube in the couch cushions. He changes, getting half into his show outfit. Brendon likes this shirt, he knows. They have time, before the show, but not a lot of time.

Brendon breezes in as if nothing's wrong so Ryan lets him have that fantasy. He waits on the couch with his book open on his knees. He's waiting for Brendon to settle down, to finish browsing the food and wandering, starting conversations he doesn't continue.

"What up, Ross?" Brendon finally collapses on the other end of the couch, slumping down. He looks small and uncomfortable. He looks unhappy.

He knows he'll just have to throw away his pride here, to cajole Brendon in a way he normally wouldn't. He crawls over from his end of the couch, swings a leg over Brendon's, settles down, sloping in until their foreheads touch. Brendon's arms come around him, automatically supporting and cradling his weight.

"I was thinking I could make it up to you," he kisses Brendon's mouth, a peck to wake him up. "You know, from earlier." Brendon looks at him blanky until he kisses one cheek, then the other, then he laughs, hard enought to rumble Ryan.

"Make it up to me so I can't take my revenge?" Brendon's teasing but he's interested, one hand already working at Ryan's buttons.

"Sure," he agrees absently, helping Brendon free him of his shirt. He starts to shrug it off but Brendon stops him, pulls the shirt open but tells him to leave it on. He smiles. He knew it. He slips back, stands up, starts to unbutton but stops to pull Brendon out of his tshirts instead. It's fun pulling Brendon's clothing off, always. He slips in and out of it so easily, so comfortable with the flesh underneath.

Brendon pushes his jeans off, kicking off his shoes, and Ryan steps out of his trousers. Brendon stops him before he crawls back over, pulls Ryan down next to him instead, silently. Brendon touches him, explores his skin, runs his hands everywhere he can. Ryan lets Brendon maneuver him how he wants, lets Brendon hitch his thigh up and hook his arm over the couch. He doesn't think Brendon has a plan but it doesn't really matter.

It's too cold in the room to stay naked for long, but maybe not with Brendon touching hands all over him. "Bren," he finally whispers, when Brendon circles his thumb and forefinger around one of his balls, and it shakes Brendon out of his own head.

"Yeah, sorry," Brendon kisses him but he shakes his head, clears Brendon away.

"Don't be sorry," he says it firmly. "Just tell me what you want."

Brendon looks at him as if he's just asked for the secrets to the universe. It's not, it's not that hard.

"It's not hard," he reminds Brendon.

Brendon grins, a joke grin. "Oh, I certainly think it is," he shifts forward to nudge his dick against Ryan's thigh. Ryan sighs and nudges back, not laughing at the joke.

Maybe what Brendon wants is to not-want, to not-ask. He can do that, he thinks. He kisses Brendon, then keeps pushing and kissing and rubbing until Brendon's the one under him, straining up for kisses and legs spread wide. Brendon looks happy, now, and eager. Ryan was right, Brendon wanted this, wanted Ryan to decide.

They had a stupid fight at the beginning of the tour. Spencer would say that all their fights are stupid, but they're not. It's only that Brendon goes quiet, and Ryan avoids him, and their fights drag on far longer than they should because no one will deal with anything.

But it's not only Ryan's fault.

"This time," Jon says, "it's kinda your fault."

It's an amazingly hot day, so they're outside, sitting in the plastic lawn chairs set up outside the bus. Jon wants to get some astroturf to lay down when the whole tour is parked like this. Maybe they'll have a barbeque later.

"He just--"

"No, he didn't. He tried to talk to you in Topeka. You blew him off to go shopping with Eric and Spencer." Jon's right. He usually is, especially when it comes to Brendon. "You guys always do this. You turn tiny things into big things. It's fucked up."

Brendon would say it's a flair for the dramatic. The thought makes Ryan laugh out loud.

"No, you're right," he says, waving off Jon's look. "It's my turn to talk to him."

"Make this right," Jon warns. "I don't like how it feels on stage."

He stubs his cigarette under his foot and heads back inside. Ryan isn't done, so he lights up another. He smokes the whole thing by himself, and he's still sitting there, butt burning down to his fingers, when Zack comes back to the bus, Brendon right behind. Ryan doesn't know where they went, and there are no bags as clues.

He tries, "Hey," and that gets their attention. Zack can probably see the tension in the space between them because he gets out of the way and fast. Brendon's there, waiting, so Ryan tries, "Can we talk?" next.

Nodding, Brendon claims Jon's spot. He pokes at the cigarette butts that have piled up with the toe of his sneaker, then kicks them aside. Ryan pretends that he's waiting for Brendon to get settled, but he doesn't know what to say.

"You haven't touched me since we left LA." Brendon's voice is an accusation, and Ryan has to take it.

He rests his arm on the chair, palm up. Ryan has to take it, everything Brendon wants to give.

Brendon rolls his eyes at him. He reaches across, and they slide their hands together. "You're such an asshole," Brendon says.

"I know."

The show that night is their best so far. Brendon is on, open, and electric. He plays everything out to the crowd tonight, except when he's over on Ryan's side of the stage. It gets to where Jon actually says, in a mid-song lull, "I'm getting lonely over here, boys." Brendon rushes over to tip Jon over with a hug, but he's sharing Ryan's mic again when the chorus comes around on the guitar.

When they get off stage, Brendon grabs his hand, and just that touch sends a frisson of something up to Ryan's chest. He lets Brendon drag him away and into a dark corner, under the scaffolding and behind a big red door.

"I forgot it can be like this," he says, in the seconds before Brendon kisses him. Ryan's thinking about Brendon standing at his back and leaning over Ryan's shoulder, while he plays, to sing for the audience. During "Behind the Sea," he sat on the edge of the stage, feet dangling over the edge, right in front of Ryan while Ryan sang his song.

Ryan's also thinking about what Spencer said about fighting as foreplay. He says they only do it for the sex, and sometimes Ryan thinks he's right. The way Brendon's crowding him against the wall, pressing a knee between Ryan's legs and up, it feels like both. Ryan fights back.

He uses his hands on Brendon's ass to guide him in and hold him there. He's something hard, yet yielding, for Ryan to rub against. He's into it, and they bite at each other's mouths, and they kiss. They kiss faster, keeping up with their hips, more more more, until they both spill over and slow right down.

Ryan slides his tongue over Brendon's mouth gone slack. He wants just one more kiss. He hasn't had nearly enough to get him through the day.

It's almost quiet in the back lounge. He was watching a DVD and reading a magazine and drifting in and out of sleep during both. Everyone else was in the front lounge, playing Guitar Hero. Ryan can hear the dull thrum of music drifting down the corridor.

He wakes up when Brendon drifts in, too.

"What are you watching?" he whispers, stepping carefully around Ryan's feet and curling up on his left.

Ryan glances up at the screen. It's black and white. "I don't remember." He presses the heel of his hands into his eyes. He feels when Brendon pulls the open magazine off his lap and tosses it aside.

"Oh, well." Brendon rubs his cheek on Ryan's shoulder. "I bet it's good."

They watch to the end, even through the credits and to the copyright screen. Ryan feels lazy, not quite tired, but happy to lean against Brendon with his eyes closed. He should feel tired. It's the middle of the night in the middle of America. The next city and the next show are coming up fast, and Ryan's barely come down from the last one. Brendon, at least, has finally crashed. Ryan doesn't want to wake him up.

"He come back here to sulk?" Jon asks, smiling in the doorway.

Ryan lifts his head. "What?"

"Zack was on his game tonight, and Brendon punked out halfway through 'Sweet Child O' Mine." He steps into the room and rummages through a pile on the counter, stacking CDs in a tall pile as he goes, then holding up his SideKick in victory.

Ryan tries not to squirm while Jon watches them. It's not anything unusual. Brendon is, more often than not, found leaning, hugging, sitting in the lap of any one of them. Ryan's never talked to Jon about it, but, it's obvious, he knows. He smiles goofy at them.

"So if he was acting weird--you know, weirder," Jon adds, pointedly, "that's why." He flips the screen out like a salute and is typing while he's walking away.

Brendon wasn't acting weird. Not that Ryan noticed, but, as Spencer delights in telling him, he's not very good at that kind of thing. When Brendon came back to the lounge, he wasn't pouting. He wasn't exactly typical Brendon after a show either. It's a very atypical Brendon who sits quietly with Ryan and watches a movie he didn't pick out himself.

Slowly, not wanting to wake him too soon, Ryan turns and lowers them on the couch, more comfortable than the awkward angle Brendon's twisted himself around to sleep against Ryan. Despite his best efforts, Brendon snorts awake when Ryan tries to slide his glasses off.

"Sorry," Brendon rasps, clearing his throat, then apologising again.

"I'm the one who woke you up."

"No, I shouldn't have fallen asleep." He rolls back against the couch on one elbow, stretches his other arm up high and yawns. Ryan can't help but yawn back.

Brendon tries to sit up. Ryan stops him with a hand on his side, fingers tightening in Brendon's shirt and dragging him back down. They come together with an oof, chests colliding, but it doesn't hurt because Brendon is already laughing.

"Wait," Ryan says. He curls his hand around Brendon's jaw, calming him, then kissing him. "No, wait." Ryan shakes his head. "Let's not wait."

"You're acting weird." Brendon squints down at him. He's holding himself up, bare inches from Ryan's mouth now, breathing back and forth, and when Brendon closes his eyes, Ryan does, too.

It's not weird--it's making out.

There are a lot of names Ryan can give this. He doesn't often think of his relationship with Brendon as a relationship, not even when they're pressed together on a couch on the bus and kissing instead of getting some sleep. He only knows that he likes it, and it hasn't fucked things up yet, and even if it did, Ryan knows they could get an album out of it before it killed them both.

He only knows that Brendon feels like nothing when he's on top, except when he wants Ryan to notice him and grinds down, makes Ryan thrust up. They kiss for them, not the audience, with tongue, and it gets dirty, but ends sweet, and Brendon grunts and groans and is never quiet. Ryan is never still, palming Brendon's ass, hooking their legs together, and biting Brendon's lip to make sure he can't pull away. Not until Ryan's come, at least.

When Ryan comes, he lets out all his breath. Then he draws in again, the smell and the taste, and Brendon's frantic sounds.

"You're not going to wait anymore," Ryan tells him. He drags one hand up to clutch tight at Brendon's neck. "You don't have to."

Spencer sits with him while he does his makeup. Spencer doesn't, normally, doesn't have the patience for just watching Ryan as he transforms and prepares himself.

But Spencer's chatty tonight, content to sit and talk, poking at Ryan's brushes and tubs of color. It's easy to talk to Spencer, easy to be Spencer's Ryan while watching himself put on Stage Ryan. He aims for something a little more than what he's done, tracing imperfect lines that he embellishes and adds on to.

Spencer fills him in on the twins, on Ginger's co-worker's daughter who's "just so nice, she keeps telling me, like I don't know enough nice people??" Spencer sounds as outraged as he always does when he talks about his family, the same fake-outrage he wears until someone ignores him long enough for it to fade.

Spencer's careless with his words and his posture, sprawled on the couch with his shirt untucked as he dribbles information in messy verbal spurts. He's not storytelling, he's gossiping, and Ryan has to take a moment to appreciate the fact that Spencer really doesn't care. Ryan could tell him where every camera in the room is, could tell him to choose his words and to tell an actual story, but he doesn't need to since Spencer doesn't care and he doesn't want to because changing Spencer would change Ryan.

He's still buzzing with happiness and pride when Spencer falls silent. This, he knows, after the constrant stream, is a bad thing. And sure enough when Spencer talks again it's slower, obviously planned, heading in a direction. Spencer with an obvious plan is never a good thing. He gets around to Brendon and the show and their distance only after eight feigned questions getting them closer. By the time Spencer asks, Ryan is smirking at himself in the mirror.

"OK, I get it Spence," he says and he does, really, but he doesn't need the push.

"Do you?" There's nothing he hates more than Spencer being right about something this huge and this pointed. "Do you really, Ryan?"

"Spence," he glares in the mirror, one eye finished, not at himself. Spencer huffs and stands.

"Just fucking talk to him, ok?" Ryan nods, not looking at Spencer in the mirror, looking at his own eyes as he holds his hand steady. Spencer snorts and storms off.

"Diva," he mutters fondly. He gets his Sidekick out to photograph his face as it is. He never recognizes himself, in the middle. He knows who he is at the begining and at the end. Right now he's in limbo.

"Spencer said you wanted me?" Brendon crashes in through the doorway, oblivious. He's already wearing the clothes Ryan convinced him to wear but he's nothing close to Ryan's, not yet.

"Spencer said that, really?" he flicks over a menu, texts Spencer that he's an obvious and heavy-handed dumbass.

"I can go," Brendon points a thumb over his shoulder, but it's mocking, knowing he's wanted. Ryan always loves that Brendon can do that, can live through identity after identity without scars from any slipping through.

"No," he snaps the Sidekick closed, beckons to Brendon. "No, Spencer is right about one thing, at least."

"Yeah?" Brendon steps into the room, steps closer. Ryan beckons again and Brendon gets it, shuts the door and slides into Ryan's space without a hitch in his expression.

"Yeah." He pulls Brendon into a careful kiss, aware of the now-dry makeup on his face. They can't do much but Ryan can fix this, a part of this, for now at least. He can't not, with Spencer throwing it in his face and making him take another look.

Brendon's quick to get into it. He kisses carefully back but thrusts against Ryan's hip with force, with a sweet, demanding tempo. Ryan likes knowing the tempo, knowing what it must mean to Brendon.

"You wanna blow me?" he means it as a joke but Brendon's eyebrows go up. He reads it as a dare, Ryan realizes as Brendon's knees hit the ground, and it's just like Brendon to want to win a competition.

Brendon knows what he likes well enough that it runs the risk of being a very short blowjob. They have the time for it to last longer but Ryan likes giving into Brendon.

HOME

They write a song in the morning, and Brendon sings it the rest of the day. He answers the phone singing it, and when he passes Spencer off to Ryan, Spencer says, "He did the drum parts with his mouth."

"Obviously, Spence, you'll be doing that when we get into the studio."

"You guys get anything else done? I'm flying in tomorrow. Jon's coming Saturday."

"Hey." Ryan stands up even though Spencer can't see him. He carries his mug into the kitchen for something to do now that he's on his feet. "Brendon and I wrote a song over Lucky Charms. What did you do today?"

"Everything else?" Spencer huffs.

"We pay people to do that for us, you know?" Ryan huffs back. He rests his hand on Brendon's back, bent over in front of the fridge again. Spencer runs down his list--there's probably an actual list--ending with his flight information again, the same numbers Ryan has on a Post-it on his laptop and, looking up, he can see it written on the fridge, too. "I'm not going to forget you," Ryan says, cutting through Spencer's litany.

"It's happened before."

"It happened once, and I paid for your taxi."

Brendon's standing now, still in the open fridge door, and eating from a can of frosting with his fingers. It makes Ryan wince, but Brendon arches his eyebrows like he thinks it's sexy. Ryan misses whatever Spencer says next, but he hears the "See you tomorrow," and just gets in his own goodbye before Spencer hangs up.

"What did he say about the drum parts?" Brendon asks.

Ryan shakes his head. He'd kiss him, but he'll wait until Brendon's done with the artificial chocolate.

"I was thinking," Brendon says, following Ryan up the stairs. He turns once to look, to check that Brendon left the frosting in the kitchen. He's not picking up any instruments with sticky fingers either. "How about we write a whole album of songs about food?"

Ryan say, "No." He doesn't have to think about it. Brendon shrugs and tries to get through the door, but Ryan's not letting him in. "Go wash your hands."

"You're such a little bitch," but Brendon goes.

This room used to be where Ryan would sleep when he came out to LA, but he doesn't sleep in here anymore. Guitars sleep in here, pieces of drums, and the very first Casio Brendon got for Christmas. They have studio time booked for recording the album, but they'll make the music in here first.

Crossing the room, stepping carefully around the instruments, Ryan pulls the curtain aside and ties it up. There's just enough light left to make everything golden. It feels like a good time to write a song, so he picks out an acoustic and picks it up. Something scurries away and back into the shadows.

Ryan jumps a clean foot. "What the fuck?"

"What? What?" Brendon runs into the room. Ryan doesn't know what to say. He stares, on hand holding up his guitar. "What?" Brendon asks again.

"There's something in here."

"Like a ghost or something?" Brendon claps his hands over his mouth. "Is is John Lennon?" he asks through his fingers.

"It's a bug, Brendon." Ryan feels so silly, this bug thing. It's not even the bugs themselves he hates, but the way they lurk, waiting to surprise you.

Brendon's grin is wide and toothy. "You want me to kill it for you?"

Ryan tells him to shut up and goes to sit on a drum stool in the corner with his guitar. He plucks it and tunes it and watches Brendon get down on his hands on knees.

"Now you can never break up with me. I sing your songs; I kill your bugs. What would you do without me, Ryan?"

He doesn't let himself think about that. Every album could be the last they make together. Every song, every bowl of Lucky Charms, the last, and all the history behind them won't be able to predict the end.

A muffled thump shakes Ryan out of his head. "Got it," Brendon announces, still half obscured by a Rickenbacker and two identical bass guitars.

"What was it?" Ryan asks. He thinks the words come out nonchalant.

"Some kind of beetle?" Brendon has a flip flop in his hand when gets up off the floor. He's not wearing flip flops, so he must have found it under the pile of instruments. Grimacing at the mess on the underside, Brendon tosses it out the door and into the hall.

"A beetle?"

Brendon's forehead crinkles, but then he laughs a single, "Ha!" getting the joke. He points at Ryan. "Told you John Lennon was in the room." He sits cross-legged in front of Ryan, who sighs, then joins him on the floor. Ryan still has the acoustic in his lap, but he's used to it--they both are--and kissing over the top is easy. Their fingers grope for each other and find, instead, the strings, and they pick out a discordant tune.

Brendon's still asleep when he wakes up so he doesn't. He closes his eyes again and rolls closer and tries to make himself go back to sleep. There's too much light and he can smell coffee so the sleeping doesn't take but Brendon's warm and still next to him, breathing evenly but with a soft hitch, and Ryan enjoys being still with him, the scent of him.

Spencer knocks once, a perfunctory gesture before opening the door and barging in, two cups of coffee cradled in one hand. Ryan gives him a little wave, raises a finger to his lips. He doesn't want to wake Brendon. Spencer nods and hands him a cup, then climbs onto the foot of the bed and starts whispering, telling him about the script changes to his new project with Shane. Ryan nods and smiles and suggests again they change the protagonist's first name.

Jon wanders in with his own cup of coffee, two dogs on his heels. He's still jetlagged, or so he tells them, and he spreads out on Spencer's other side, until they're a four-a-bed band. Ryan gave up on shushing Spencer and Jon two anecdotes before but they're all quiet enough, since Brendon keeps sleeping.

Spencer gets up and gets them more coffee. Jon steals his spot, spreads out into both spots really, and Ryan sits up against the headboard for the ensuing shoving match and taunting fight. Predictably, this is finally what wakes Brendon.

"Are we leaving my bed anytime today?" Brendon grumbles, head half-buried under a pillow. Jon refused to give him his coffee.

"I say we don't leave the bed until we write a song," Ryan pets Brendon's head while he rethinks through his idea, which he recognizes now as at least slightly flawed. He and Brendon can do that when it devolves into guitars scattered around the room and arguments solved by blowjob, but trapping Spencer and Jon on the bed isn't a great idea.

"Does this mean I have to listen to Brendon trying to do the drum parts with his mouth again?" Spencer's horizontal, feet hanging off the end. Ryan pries his coffee cup away, gives it to Brendon.

"No," he responds firmly. "It was a silly idea." He knows he cannot deal with Spencer being an indignant bitch, not on a day that's started so easily. "You could go make us breakfast instead."

"Those aren't remotely alike," Spencer grouses but starts to get up. Spencer loves showing off his cooking skills, has never thought of hiding his pride. Ryan likes that, appreciates that Spencer is still that person.

Jon trails after Spencer, his hands full with the coffee mugs that had littered their bedroom.

"You realize I'm naked under here, right?" Brendon throws back the covers.

"You always sleep naked," he responds and pulls the covers back over Brendon. "I'm sure they knew, too. No one cares."

"I care." Brendon throws them back again and this time Ryan gets the point: he's half-hard.

"Did you have good dreams?" He squints over at Brendon, nods downward. Brendon tries to twitch the blanket back over his dick, now even fuller. "For fuck's sake, stop pretending you're coy, jesus." Brendon might play at being modest but he's certainly not, not with any regularity.

Brendon grins a little tease of a grin and beckons Ryan closer. "Indignant is good on you," he tells him before he pulls him in for a kiss. It's not fair, Ryan won't remember a rebuttal, but the kiss is worth forgetting what he'd been thinking about.

Brendon starts jerking himself off early in the kiss so Ryan takes over, slows him down.

Spencer and Jon tromp by. Spencer calls out to tell him where they'll be going and when they'll be back but he doesn't look in the door, not that Ryan can tell. Wise decision.

"We really could write a song before we get out of bed," Ryan tells Brendon. Brendon twitches under his touch.

"Sure," Brendon arches into his hand, thrusts up to meet him. "Or you could fuck me, and we could save the damn songs for the studio." Ryan pauses. That's a pretty good plan.

"That's a pretty good plan," he tells Brendon, nudging his legs apart. "I like the way you think."

Ryan has only seen pictures, but he tells Spencer he loves the house. First, they showed him the tiny and sterile photos on the realtor's website, then later, bright and colourful portraits that Jon took after the weekend away from recording they needed to see the houses on their short list. Jon said, "That's the one," even before Spencer said it, holding his laptop above his head for Ryan and Brendon to see. He seemed so sure.

It's not just buying a house, Ryan gets that, which is why he sits and listens and lets Spencer think things out loud. But he's made the decision, that much is evident.

Ryan sits in the back and watches Brendon play Halo. "What do you think?" he asks.

"I think I'm gonna kick this guy's ass." He does, but that wasn't what Ryan was asking. Brendon knows that, too, because the next thing he says is, "It's a great house." He turns around on the floor. "You don't like it?"

"It looks nice," Ryan offers.

"Just wait 'til we're there," Brendon says. He pauses the game to join Ryan on the couch, to lay his head on Ryan's shoulder, just enough contact to slow Ryan's beating heart. "I bet it'll feel like home."

Ryan doesn't feel it yet, but Spencer does. He knows that. He can see it on Jon's face and in the way Spencer moves through the space. They stay in the house their night in Chicago, the tour half over and all of them needing to feel a little bit of home. Jon's always been willing to share some of his.

There's no furniture, so they're camping out in the biggest bedroom upstairs, four sleeping bags lined up in a row. They eat Chinese food on the living room floor, trading boxes back and forth across the circle the four of them make.

"How does it feel?" Brendon asks. Spencer's in the middle of a mouthful of beef and broccoli, and Jon takes a pull on his beer so he doesn't have to answer. Brendon grins. He points his chopsticks between them, and he doesn't ask again because he gets it. Ryan leans forward to steal the lemon chicken from Jon, and when he sits back, his knee is touching Brendon's. It's not an accident.

They linger over the food and finish the case of beer. Mostly, they talk about the shows and how the tour is going, but then Ryan catches Spencer looking around the room, and then he's saying something like, "I want to put shelves there" or "We might need to buy another couch." When they've all gone quiet, Jon pushes up off the floor to go make coffee. Brendon helps Spencer clean up, and Ryan wanders. He wants to see the rest of the house.

He walks upstairs, running a hand along the walls. They'll need to be painted before Jon's photos go up. He peeks in each bedroom, mentally measuring closet space, and looking out the windows for the view. Ryan tries to guess what each bedroom will become, where they'll sleep, where they'll work. He tries to guess which bedroom will be his.

In the biggest bedroom are the four sleeping bags where Zack left them. Ryan rolls each one out and lines them up across the floor. When he lays down, Ryan lays across all four.

"Claiming your territory?" Brendon asks, standing in the door, then coming in when Ryan rolls over to look.

"I think it's too late for that," Ryan says.

Brendon kneels at Ryan's hip. He pushes Ryan's shirt out of the way and kisses the bared skin before laying down in front of Ryan. Brendon wriggles back until Ryan drapes an arm over to still him.

"You already picked out your room, didn't you?"

Ryan laughs into Brendon's hair. "I did not."

"Don't lie." Brendon lifts Ryan's hand to his mouth. "I want the one on the left."

"I like that one, too."

He pulls Brendon back, spreading him out on the sleeping bags, smiling into a quick kiss, then crawling down to undo Brendon's jeans.

"Funny how these things work out," Brendon says, his voice wavering when Ryan pulls him out of his boxers before they settle into a rhythm together.

"Oh, fuck," is all he can say. Brendon's found the perfect angle and it's too good for him to care about anything other than making Brendon thrust in again and again. He doubts Brendon will stop but he likes the excuse to tug at Brendon's hair. It's shaggy now, like Brendon grew it just for Ryan, just so Ryan could have something to hold onto while Brendon fucks him.

And this fuck, it's exactly what he needs, exactly what he hadn't realized he needed. He's stretched and full and Brendon's fingers keep their tight grip on his hips, rocking him the right way.

"Fuck," he whispers, squinting down at Brendon. The sun's hot on his back. If he'd realized he'd be naked outside he wouldn't have done anything differently but if he burns he'll blame Spencer, make Spencer get that aloe he thinks is magical and spread it on Ryan's back eight times a day.

"You need to fuck," Spencer had told him, shoving a condom in his hand. "You and Brendon need to chill the fuck out and get this out of your system."

He couldn't look Spencer in the eye. "He flips out at Jon and I get the lecture?" He hadn't wanted to talk about sex with Spencer.

"This is not a fucking lecture, except for the way I'm lecturing you about fucking." Spencer's smile was far too self-delighted. "I'm just saying, you're going to talk to him either way. I'm like your military commander, preparing the troops." Ryan had closed his eyes to block out Spencer's stupid smile. "Look, just remind him he was in this band before you and Jon discovered the joys of getting high and gazing soulfully in each other's eyes."

He'd kept his eyes closed even after Spencer had patted his shoulder and wandered off, thinking about the last time he and Brendon had kissed, long ago enough that it feels hazy and indistinct in his head.

He leans forward the best he can, pulls Brendon in by his hair, gets himself a kiss, a reminder. "You taste good," he tells Brendon, when they break apart. "You always taste good."

Brendon's eyes go soft even as he fucks Ryan harder. It's a fitting blend.

He doesn't think Brendon will last much longer and even if he does Ryan likes getting fucked even after he's come. His cock's nearly ready without any urging but he gives it some love anyway, circling it loosely and letting Brendon's thrusts drive him in and out.

He comes all over Brendon's chest, a little giddy to be doing so even as it starts to happen. Brendon grunts a final time, fucking into him faster. He clings on for the ride, ignores the sounds he doesn't like.

And then it's just the two of them slumped together in a deck chair, panting. He snags Brendon's tshirt to clean up but doesn't, lets himself rest in the circle of Brendon's arms. "We should do that more often," he informs Brendon.

Brendon doesn't respond, but his fingers are gentle in Ryan's hair. "My ass is going to burn," he grouses. Brendon obliges him by covering his ass with one huge hand. "Thanks."

They doze off together, long enough later the sunlight's started to fade, long enough they break apart with a disgusting sound, a sound that makes Brendon laugh, something high and jittery.

"Wanna stay out to see the stars?" Brendon offers him. It's a sweet suggestion, after everything else. He takes Brendon up on it, throws enough clothes on to stay warm. They set the chair back down until it's horizontal and curl up togeher, holding hands and staring at the sky. "This is surprisingly wholesome," Brendon tells him. Ryan thinks about it.

"Yeah, only, if you start filming now, after I've fucked your brains out," he squeezes Brendon's hand.

"You change gears so nicely, baby," Brendon hasn't taken his sunglasses off so Ryan takes them off for him.

"Mine," he says, waving the sunglasses around, purposefully in Brendon's face, purposefully double talking. He slips the sunglasses on and rests his head on Brendon's shoulder, finding the perfect place between soft and hard. "Mine," he repeats as he yawns.

margariiiiiiiita time!! Brendon texts him. He frowns down at his phone, is halfway through texting where? when an email comes through with a picture of the tequila bar on the pier they discovered last week so he switches to what about spencer?

He's nearly there before he gets a response. making his own fun. yr one drink behind, hurry up. He doesn't answer, focused on avoiding the damn pedestrians on the pier's carpath. He slips on his sunglasses and pats himself down for his wallet and heads out, blinking at the sun's strength. There's wind and salt on his tongue when he breathes in. He made the right decision, he did, leaving Vegas.

"Amigo Ross!" Brendon calls when he walks in. The waitress sitting in Brendon's booth stands up, ushers him over, a eager smile accompanying her flirtatious inquiry as to what's his pleasure. Ryan's glad he smoked up in the car.

He tries the mango margarita, on Brendon's recommendation, but prefers the strawberry one Brendon's nursing as he lets Ryan catch up. Brendon doesn't mind when he swaps their glasses, just orders another round for the table and scoots closer to Ryan.

Ryan insists they order food, something other than midday drinks on an empty stomach. Brendon scoffs but eagerly dives in to the huge tray of nachos that appears. Ryan laughs as Brendon sings along to Bon Jovi on the radio, smirks silently as Brendon rebuffs the waitress and then another waitress and then a bartender. "So solicitous," he mutters to Brendon. "Who next, the manager?"

They talk and gossip and drink and slump into each other, trading soft, affirming touches under the table. "This is nice, good idea," he tells Brendon and Brendon beams at him, leaning in close. Ryan stops him before he gets too close. They're not drunk enough to make out in a bar, he doesn't think. They're close.

"Thanks," Brendon whispers in his ear instead, a hot burst of air ghosting past him. Brendon settles a hand low on his back when he shivers, runs it up and down slowly as they keep drinking.

"Brendon," he says warningly when his hand sneaks under Ryan's shirt. Brendon scratches blunt nails down his spine in response. Ryan orders another drink with a flush in his cheeks.

They split this drink, raspberry, slowing down as the tables start to fill up around them. He can't look at Brendon, now, pressed up close against him, but they continue talking, half nonsense. Brendon finishes the drink as he finishes the story about Travis tricking him into cutting his hair while they were both stoned.

He's wheezing a laugh into his hand when Brendon whispers it, low enough Ryan could ignore it if he wanted to. He doesn't want to.

"Here?" he asks to clarify. "Now?"

"Come and meet me," Brendon stands without looking at him. His back feels cold where Brendon's hand dragged slowly away.

He waits a minute, checks his phone, then slides out and adjusts his collar. The bathroom's down a short hall, a one-stall deal they can lock

"You came," Brendon doesn't fuss, drops to his knees as soon as Ryan locks the door.

"Not yet," he helps Brendon with his buckle.

"God, I've been thinking about this since you walked in," Brendon scratches his hip as he pulls everything down, making him jerk. "No teasing," Brendon promises, before sucking him in quickly. His lips meet his fingers on the first bob and Ryan gasps. Brendon's pulling out the serious skills.

Ryan's completely entranced, watching Brendon's cheeks hollow out over and over. His hair's too short for Ryan to find purchase so he presses his hands behind him against the wall. Brendon pulls off and licks his lips and Ryan twitches, close. Brendon smirks and leans back in, telling him to, "fucking put some work into it already," so Ryan accepts the challenge and thrusts in counter time to Brendon's efforts. It makes quick work of his resistance and he taps Brendon's forehead just before he comes. "Fuck," he tells the ceiling.

Brendon doesn't seem to want to wait for him, is jerking himself quickly by the time Ryan's ready to think about reciprocating. Brendon waits to make sure he's watching before he comes, hitting the wall between Ryan's legs. "You're cleaning that up," he tells Brendon.

Ryan lets Brendon take care of paying the bill. He stays in the bathroom, splashes water over his face twice as he smirks at himself in the mirror. When he comes out Brendon's finished, standing by the door and sucking on a mint.

"Meet you back at the house?" Brendon asks as they stroll.

"Let's walk down on the beach." He'd rather not drive quite yet, rather Brendon not drive either. Brendon rolls up his jeans, tries to roll Ryan's trousers up. There's no give in the fabric, no stretch to the cut, but he doesn't stop Brendon from trying. He doesn't mind getting covered in sand.

"Look," Brendon points as they start down the stairs. Two pelicans are pressed together, watching their progress. "

By the time he's gotten his phone out of his pocket to take a picture the darker one's jumped up on the rail, is gaping and chortling at Brendon. Like us he thinks. They know when there's a camera.

When he wakes up in the morning, Brendon is already on top. He's naked. Ryan is wearing the t-shirt and shorts he went to sleep in. The blanket is on the floor now. That's what woke him up.

"It's too early for plans," he says.

Brendon ducks down to kiss Ryan, but what he's really after is under the pillow. When he straightens, stretches that long lean body away from Ryan's touch, Brendon presses a half-squeezed tube of lubricant into Ryan's hand.

"No plans," Brendon says around a yawn. He reaches the end of his stretch and collapses like something boneless onto Ryan. "Just fuck me."

"I'm tired." He lets his eyes slide closed. He scratches his morning beard against Brendon's, tiny shivers making him groan, and, still blind, Ryan finds his earlobe with his teeth. He tugs and bites until Brendon grabs both sides of his head and drags Ryan's mouth away, capturing it with his own.

"We can do this tired," Brendon insists.

They trade sucking kisses back and forth, not violent in the early morning, but Ryan does like teeth. He likes after, too, when Brendon's lips are red and swollen. Ryan watches the colour fade and the swelling go down, and that's when he's ready to be marked again.

Letting Brendon's lip fall from his mouth, Ryan rubs it with his fingers. He gets caught up in the touch, the rough wetness of Brendon's puffy lips, and he wouldn't have stopped if Brendon hadn't made the next move.

He curls his tongue around two of Ryan's fingers and sucks him inside.

"Now you inside me," he groans. Brendon rests his forehead on Ryan's shoulder. He arches his back and his ass in the air. He's making this so easy for Ryan.

Ryan's fingers are wet, from Brendon's lips, from Brendon's mouth. They leave an invisible trail down the curved line of Brendon's back. Ryan draws swirls and writes lyrics along the way. Brendon does the same with his tongue on Ryan's neck.

Brendon snuffles against his neck, too, like he's settling in to sleep. His hand, previously rubbing tight circles around Ryan's hardening nipple, has come to rest, palm down and curved over Ryan's collarbone. It's still, like Brendon. All Ryan can hear is a low whining in his throat, then a pornographic gasp when he slides the first finger inside.

"You don't have to do it hard," Brendon explains, barely awake, yet giving instructions. "You just have to fuck me, Ryan. Ryan. Ryan," each one softer than the last, despite Ryan growing more insistent. He uses the lube when he adds the third finger.

He stretches Brendon easily, familiar movements and a path well-worn. They don't often spend a lot of time on foreplay. When they want to fuck, they fuck. If Ryan wanted to kiss Brendon and stroke his back, they'd make out instead. That's why there are different names for different things--so people know what you want.

Brendon wants to be fucked. He's going to have to move. This clinging sprawling position just doesn't offer the right angle.

"Get up there." Ryan says it right in Brendon's ear. He turns his head to whisper it and blow a cool breeze over the surface of Brendon's skin. Ryan rubs his fingers over the goosebumps, too.

Brendon's voice is shaky (Ryan's fingers are still deep inside his hole, turning, twisting, relentless), but he tries for firm. "That isn't an order. It's not an order if I want to ride you, too. Remember?" Their hands twine together when Brendon pulls Ryan out, a brief moment that gets goofy grins from both of them. Quickly, not wasting any time, Ryan wraps Brendon's hand around his cock. He says, "Hold me," while reaching back for a condom before they get too far ahead.

"Back where we started the morning," Brendon pants. Ryan is hard and ready. He falls up, Brendon, down, and their meeting in the middle makes them both shudder. "Remember?"

Barely, but Brendon's up there to remind him. He supports himself with his palms flat on Ryan's chest, and Ryan helps with his hands on Brendon's ass, but they're both doing to work to set the careful cadence. Not yet, not yet, because Ryan's staring up at those red, wet lips, and he won't let himself come until he's kissed them again.

When they finish the third record, no one can really believe it. Sitting in Brendon's car in the studio parking lot, they listen to the new songs in the new order. Ryan needs to hear how they sound through the car speakers.

"What do we do now?" Jon asks, but he's not really asking. Ryan glances up to the rearview mirror. He can see in Jon's eyes what his idea of plans for the rest of the day are. This car is all wrong for hotboxing.

Brendon's behind the wheel, using it as his percussion, dancing in his seat to the last song. "The perfect ending," he says and plays the whole album from the beginning. This is the third time.

Ryan reaches across to touch the back of his neck, run his fingers down the line of Brendon's jaw. He doesn't miss a beat. He actually turns into Ryan's hand, an invitation onto his dancefloor.

"Let's go get a drink. Somewhere Brendon can dance."

"Yes! Oh!" Brendon agrees, strapping in. Jon's up for it. Spencer nods when Ryan looks back, and Brendon's already started the car. They're going. There's no arguing with Brendon in the driver's seat.

They pick somewhere big, somewhere to get lost in. Spencer looks it, too, eyes darting around the club, back to the door, like there's something else he needs to be doing. He won't be happy until they're back on tour. Grabbing the bartender's attention, Ryan motions for two more beers and puts one in Spencer's hand.

"This is what you need to be doing," he tells him. He knocks their bottles together in a casual toast.

There's no room at the bar to do more than shove in to get your drinks and shove your way back out. Spencer finds a hole in the crowd, and Ryan grabs the back of his shirt to stay close. "Thought you wanted to go dancing," Spencer asks, as they make their way off the pulsing dancefloor. All Ryan's looking for is an empty piece of wall to lean against.

"No, I just wanted to watch."

Spencer would be happiest upstairs in the VIP lounge, but Brendon and Jon are out there somewhere. There's good service in VIP, but never a good view. Down here, where Ryan has to fight for his space and his beer, is about the music.

Jon breaks free of the dancefloor first. He looks more tired than lost, it's takes him just one wobbly spin of the room to find them. His face lights up, and he heads over. Ryan laughs when Jon steals Spencer's beer, but Jon isn't finished. He grabs Ryan's right out of his mouth, and the bottle's empty when Ryan lunges to grab it back.

"You're buying the next round," Ryan tells him.

Jon shakes his head. "You're going out there to dance." He waves his hand in the general direction of the music.

"Oh, Jon." Spencer puts an arm around Jon's shoulders. Ryan sneers because he knows what Spencer's going to say next. "I don't think you want to see Ryan dance."

"You both suck," Ryan says. He squirms out of Jon's attempt at a hug and escapes to the bar. Ryan needs a beer. He doesn't need this. He came for Brendon, anyway.

The music sounds like the same song that was playing when they came in. Generic synthesisers with the occasional voice warbling through a machine. It's not at all what Ryan would choose, but there's a beat you can dance to.

Brendon is easy to find. He's in the middle of the people, the boys and the girls and everyone in between. He's in the middle of everything, and he doesn't even see. He's caught up in it. Ryan never lets himself get caught up in it.

One dance, Ryan decides, and he reels Brendon in with a hand on his belt.

"You're dancing?" he shouts, surprise in his voice and on his face. Brendon lights up as they piece themselves together, hands on hips, chests touching, knees knocking. It's a awful song, but an easy beat, and when Ryan slides his cheek against Brendon's, he hears clearer what Brendon is actually singing to go along with it. He's singing a new song, the one Ryan picked for the single.

Brendon doesn't taste like anything when Ryan kisses him, a little sweet, a little salt. He makes the kiss slow, lazy tongues exploring each other, but when Brendon figures out Ryan was drinking beer, he goes for it. He tips Ryan back even, hand on his back, palm sweating through the thin fabric, and their legs get tangled up. It's Brendon's tongue in Ryan's mouth, and Ryan's thigh rubbing on Brendon's crotch.

It's not dancing because Ryan doesn't dance. It's just a kiss to say, we did it, we made a record, and I'm glad I made it with you.

"I completely jinxed myself, didn't I." Ryan doesn't expect an answer. It's quiet and still around him and he's been alone for hours.

"Did you?" Brendon asks softly behind him.

He's not looking at Brendon so it's easier to answer. "I think I did." He strums, notices he's out of tune. "It feels like I did." He pauses to tune, plucking through the process faster than he could a year ago, two years ago. That's progress, that's something. That's hard evidence he can get something right, musically.

Brendon still hasn't moved into his field of vision. He can hear Brendon moving around, probably straightening he the chair he kicked over before he stormed out. Spencer and Jon had treated it like he's just left to get food, like a drive to town was convenient and not normally a multi-hour group activity.

"This is my life, Brendon." He strums, now he's in tune. He can't hear anything in it, anywhere to go. He's back at E, after D and then B didn't work.

"Are you still trying to find the melody for the words?" Brendon's edged into his peripheral vision. He looks terrible.

Ryan focuses on his fingers, on telling his fingers what to do. They, at least, obey. "Yes."

"I could try that last one again," Brendon sounds falsely optimistic, a tone Ryan's heard before but never like this, never about the band, always about his parents or his shitty apartment or something he didn't mind being lied to about.

"I think," he has to pause, the words thick and sticky in his throat. "I think this isn't working."

"Ryan," Brendon touches his arm. He hadn't realized Brendon was that close. "Ryan, when was the last time you slept?"

He can't remember. "It doesn't matter." He strums again. It's perfectly in tune but there's nothing there. He twists a nut, ruining the tuning. "It doesn't matter."

"Ryan, gimme the guitar." Of course Brendon would want it, would want to tune it himself, make it right after Ryan's screwed it up.

"Like you can do so much better." He jerks the strap over his head, shoves the rebellious electric at Brendon.

But Brendon doesn't tune the guitar, doesn't play it. He rests it, face down, and Ryan starts. That's a mistake, that's bad. Brendon did that on purpose.

"Hey there," Brendon wraps him up in a hug, warm and loose and smelling like smoke. "We're going to do this, we are."

"OK," he's not sure but he won't ruin it for Brendon, he won't. He wraps his arms around Brendon in return but refuses to let himself cling..

"How about you come nap with me?" Brendon offers. He nods.

They make their way upstairs slowly. Brendon doesn't let go of him, he doesn't let go of Brendon. They don't get undressed, when they find Ryan's room. Brendon tips him back on the unmade bed, slowly, but doesn't get him naked.

"I'm cold," he tells Brendon. "We're napping together, right?" He reaches for the covers.

"Yep," Brendon closes the door, comes back and wriggles his way next to Ryan under the covers. They're both wearing jeans, heavy and dark, and the rub of contrasting denim keeps him shifting against Brendon. "None of that," Brendon stills him, two hands on his hips. "Napping."

"I wasn't!" he protests, because he wasn't. He wasn't, but it's not like he wouldn't. "But, here," he kisses Brendon.

It's not a great kiss, with Brendon locked up tight next to him, not responsive but not rejecting. He keeps trying, keeps going. That's the only thing he has left for him, he can't not try.

He doesn't rub, doesn't aim for anything more than Brendon's tongue curling with his, and slowly he gets what he wants. He gets Brendon's tongue curling with his, then curling against it, no more sly tongue, hidden from Ryan.

They're touching all over but all he can feel is his mouth. His mouth and Brendon's mouth have the important conversation. He puts his fingers on Brendon's jaw, to feel it move, to feel their kiss.

It goes on forever, steady and comfortable but not mindblowing. It goes on until Brendon stops it, turns his head away from Ryan's mouth. "Sleep, Ryan," he says, licking his lips. "We should sleep."

"Where are you going?" Ryan yawns. Brendon doesn't look at him. He's picking things up off the floor: shirts, shoes, shorts. He already has his jeans on, so he must be naked underneath them. "Brendon, come on."

"No, I think I'll just go home." He's not mad. He's not anything. He speaks to Ryan's bedroom door with as much indifference as he would have for a taxi driver or a waiter.

"You don't have to go home." Ryan rolls onto his back and stares at the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. He stares until there are spots in front of his eyes.

There's nothing to do when Brendon gets like this. He won't fight back. He'll lay there and wait for the sun to wake Ryan up, for Ryan to groan and stretch, still sore from last night, but the good kind. It's the kind of sore Ryan likes to carry through the day, a reminder. But when he stretches into Brendon's space, intent on a morning kiss, he gets Brendon's cheek, then his ear. Then Brendon's up.

"What did I do between last night and right now?" Ryan asks, but he's more likely to get an answer from the room.

"We're not getting anything done holed up in here." There's an electric guitar perched on the foot of the bed, two more and an acoustic on the floor, and a keyboard under the window. They had been trying to write when Ryan decided sex would work out better than a song. "We're wasting time."

They were good at wasting time. They were good at the sex. It was everything else, the stuff they didn't talk about. The music was supposed to be more important than everything else, and they could never figure out how to talk about that either. Not without conversations turning to yelling, and yelling turning to someone walking out the door.

Ryan sits up in bed, his back against the wall, and he pulls his knees up to his chest. "We can take a break," he nods. "Work on some things alone?"

Brendon's sitting on the chair next to the door. He's getting dressed, not looking at Ryan, but shaking his head. "Let's wait until we're in the studio, OK?"

"You don't want to write until we're in the studio or you don't want to see me until we're in the studio?"

"Yeah," and Ryan knows which question he's answering. Brendon's sure when he says it. Brendon's never sure of anything.

There are a dozen half-songs hanging between them. The melody's are too short, and the words, too long. Ryan's fingers keep slipping, and Brendon won't sing it the way he's supposed to. The dischordant sound is there when Ryan stands, when he crosses the room, when he slams Brendon against the bedroom door.

Ryan's naked, but Brendon took the time to get dressed. Still, he's the one who shivers and submits, dropping his head and arching into Ryan's chest. "We know how to do this," Ryan says, into Brendon's neck. "Don't we?"

Brendon fights, a little, enough to make it good. He rubs frantic against Ryan, harsh denim on his sensitive cock. Once Ryan gets Brendon's jeans unzipped again, he hits back, squeezing too tight through Brendon's boxers and making his cry out loud. That sound he gets right, every time.

Brendon chokes out, "Stop," and Ryan stills his hand. He holds Brendon in his soaked boxers, just holds, but that's enough to make him come because he was already there. It's awkward and messy. Ryan's hard. He takes a step back and uses his hand slick from Brendon to get himself off.

He stands tall and straight, close enough to feel the warmth coming off Brendon's body. But Ryan doesn't touch. He doesn't let Brendon turn around. He places his other hand flat against the door, where Brendon's head has come up. It's the only part Brendon can see.

But Brendon can hear. Ryan makes it loud. He grunts every time his hand rubs over the head of his cock, and the sound of sex gets louder when everything gets wetter. When Ryan knows he's close, he goes up on his toes, a tight spring of energy. When he lets go, he does it all over Brendon's ass in those jeans.

Ryan's not waiting for Brendon to acknowledge Ryan's not speaking to him. Brendon never acknowledges these things, on either side. Never indicates he knows Ryan's angry, never tells Ryan when he gets angry. Brendon gets polite and Ryan gets silent and that's about that.

"Did I tell you you needed to fucking fix this or did I tell you you need to fucking fix this?" Spencer locked them in a bathroom. He won't let them out until they're done with this bowl and they've talked about their feelings. Ryan sneers at the thought.

"We're fine," he tells Spencer. If they both know he's lying it's not a lie, is the way he figures. He takes one more quick hit before handing the pipe back. "We'll be fine, really," he forces out, trying not to exhale.

Spencer inhales, holds it and glares back at him. "You're not fucking fine you two are four minutes away from having Jon and I play telephone with every damn thing you say."

He smiles at the thought but Spencer doesn't smile back. "It's not like that Spencer, we're fine." There's a sharp knock at the door, a quick one-two. He leans over to tamp out the bowl and when he stands back up it's Brendon over his shoulder in the mirror, not Spencer, flushed and rumpled.

"Did they?" he turns to look at Brendon instead of looking in the mirror.

"Certainly looks like," Brendon won't meet his eyes. It pisses him off, a hot lick in his belly, that even in this small space Brendon could act like he's not here. He purposefully crowds Brendon when he goes to knock on the door. No one answers.

"Spencer!" he tries again, pounding now. This is fucking stupid.

"And Zack," Brendon mutters.

"Fuck, seriously?" He jiggles the handle of the door. Nothing.

"Yeah, so," Brendon swings his arms, one of his gestures Ryan doesn't understand. It builds on the tightness in him, the part of him that wants to push and needle.

"Yeah, so." He shoves Brendon, backs him up against the sinks. "Let's take advantage of it, right?" He's echoing what Brendon first said to piss him off, nearly a week ago, and he can see Brendon gets it. He doesn't touch with anything but his hands, leaves Brendon room to wiggle away. He doesn't.

He unbuckles Brendon's belt, slowly, pulling it tighter before he opens it. Brendon hisses but doesn't move, stays so still next to him. He doesn't move on to Brendon's jeans, pushes his tshirt up instead, shoves the fabric until it's bunched up and wedged under Brendon's armpits. His nipples are hard.

He wants Brendon trapped, wants Brendon his. He fits his hands on the sink, on either side of Brendon's waist, not touching but not giving Brendon space, and he leans down to lick one tight nipple. Brendon doesn't move, doesn't react, so he switches to the other and bites.

"Fuck." Brendon does what he doesn't expect. He curls a hand around the back of Ryan's head, holds him in place. Ryan obligingly bites again, harder but quickly, tongue soothing before he bites again, and again. Brendon starts jerking under him with every bite, quick, sharp little bucks that barely brush Ryan, until Brendon whines and grabs his hair. "Too much," he gasps, but Ryan has to bite one last time. Brendon really bucks this time, fists his hair and pulls his head back. It hurts. It makes him want to bite again. "Sadistic little fucker,"

Brendon tries to keeps him at a distance but Ryan has plans. He unbuttons and unzips Brendon quickly, both of Brendon's hands hot on his head now, no longer grabbing but mapping, moving. Brendon slips a thumb into his mouth and he bites.

"I don't want you sucking my dick with that mouth." Brendon thrusts the thumb in farther. Ryan bites again, pulls down Brendon's boxers.

"I wasn't going to." He unbuckles and unzips himself, pushes their dicks together and curls a hand around. He doesn't think he could get Brendon to turn around for him, not when they're testing each other. There's just enough precome to make it work.

"That looks good," Brendon whispers. He follows Brendon's gaze down and, fuck, yeah. He tugs Brendon's hand out of his hair and curls it around the other side, until they're working together at something instead of against each other for the first time in weeks. "You fucking narcissist," Brendon says, out of nowhere. Ryan shuts him up with a kiss, a biting bruising kiss. Like Brendon's one to talk.

Ryan didn't know what to ask yesterday when Brent phoned to say he found someone who can dsplay guitar. Apparently, Spencer met him at Brent's house last week. Ryan didn't bring it up at lunchtime, and neither did Spencer. But he's done holding out and now Ryan just wants to know what Spencer knows. "Have you met this kid?"

He nods. "Brent thinks he's crazy."

"Brent thinks everyone's crazy. What does he play?"

Spencer shrugs halfway before he's back in the game and slamming his taxi into Ryan's Corvette. They need to get to rehearsal anyway. He's not dead yet, the car spinning out on the slick virtual roads, but Ryan tosses the controller aside and lets Spencer have the win. He'll be insufferable the rest of the night, but so will Brent's new friend.

"He's, like, religious or something." Spencer turns off the TV and the Playstation. "He probably plays the organ and sings like a choirboy."

Ryan grabs his coat off the back of the couch. He shoves his arms in the sleeves and pulls it tight around his body. "I'm the lead singer."

"Yeah, yeah," Spencer says and goes into the kitchen to ask his mom for the car keys.

He's a weird-looking kid, long legs, long arms, gangly. "Brendon," he says, sticking a hand in Ryan's face, like this is a job interview. He's wearing corduroys and horizontal stripes.

Ryan nods. He says, "Hey," then wanders away to find his guitar where he left it, beside Spencer's drums. They almost have a new song. Yesterday, Ryan and Spencer skipped last period because Ryan wanted to work on it. The words keep running through his head, but it doesn't sound right yet. It still sounds like every song they covered when they were 13.

He plugs into the amp and watches Brendon fiddling with his guitar strap. "Do you play the organ?" Ryan asks. It's kind of a joke, but Brendon's eyes go wide, and he shoots a look at Brent, sitting in a chair off the the side, hunched over his bass.

"Sometimes." Brendon's pulled himself up straight, facing Ryan down. He's figured out that much at least. "Also, piano, guitar, bass. You want me to go get my accordion?" He holds his chin up like a threat.

Ryan says, "Yes," because he wants the kid off balance. He can't tell if it works.

They play the song once through for Brendon. He stands at the front to watch all of them. Ryan sees his fingers stretch and move before the second verse, and he's playing along before the song is over. Brent's right; he is crazy. But maybe there's something here.

Ryan leads the way through a string of covers--Blink, MCR, Fall Out Boy, from the first album, too, just to see if Brendon's paying attention. He keeps up, even adds a little flourish here and there and never where Ryan's expecting it.

When Ryan calls a break, Spencer keeps playing, showing off, not any one song. Ryan glares his way, and Spencer twirls his sticks back in Ryan's face, finishing with a cymbal crash. He doesn't finish; he keeps a low steady background beat, but he's done with Ryan. He motions Brent over to the drums and recounts how he kicked Ryan's ass earlier.

"You write that?"

"Why?" Ryan twists towards Brendon's voice.

He's cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt. With his glasses off and bangs brushed aside, Ryan can actually see his eyes. "I'll bring my keyboard tomorrow," Brendon says, nodding away again. Then he readjusts his guitar, and plays with the melody. He plays it faster than Ryan likes.

"No, wait," Ryan says. He turns so Brendon can see his fingering. "Watch."

Behind them, Brent and Spencer pick up the beat, too. They play until the chorus comes around, and when the chorus comes around, Brendon starts singing. Brendon has the words already. Just low. Spencer won't hear it over his wall of sound drums, but Ryan's standing right here in front of him, and he can hear Brendon.

"Louder," he says.

Brendon looks scared, but he does it. He even slows the tempo, and now it's starting to sound like it sounds in Ryan's head. Spencer crashes them home, then they all stand there, waiting for the reverberations to stop.

"Hey!" Brendon spots him across the yard when he pokes his head out. He ducks back in but he bets Brendon is on his way across he lawn now. For the first time ever he wishes Pete's shed locked from the inside. There's not even a handle to grab, since the shed latches from the outside, but he digs his fingers into the frame anyway, expecting the tug Brendon gives it. "Hey! Let me in!" Brendon yelps from the other side, less amused sounding.

"My hiding spot," he gets his lips close to the seam, says it quietly in case anyone's listening in. He doesn't want to talk to Brendon if it'll blow his cover.

"Ryan the point of the game is for you to let me in there!" Brendon tugs on the door again and it gives under his tenuous grasp, flying open. His eyes had readjusted to the dark, all he can see is the halo of light spilling out around Brendon.

"No, the point was to hide," he pulls Brendon in and closes the door again, pulling it shut with a firm tug. Pete's shed isn't meant to latch from the inside, which is probably a good thing.

"It's not hide and seek, Ryan!" Brendon immediately turns back to the door, discovers what Ryan discovered. There's no peephole, it's completely sealed and dark from the inside. "Well damn."

"Yeah."

"You suck at tactical games." Brendon fumbles blindly for him, grabs his arm, his shoulder, touches his face . "Also, at remembering what the game is."

Brendon has one hand in his hair, one on his chest. "I know what the game is," he laughs. He knows what this game is. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, he's able to find Brendon's mouth on the first try.

Brendon laughs into the kiss, doesn't take it seriously until Ryan makes him take it seriously, nudges him back against the shed wall and gets his tongue in to explore. It shouldn't be this hard to make Brendon make out with him, jeez. He pinches Brendon's hip.

"Ow, what?" Brendon whines but curls his tongue just so, just for Ryan. "We can't have long, Bronx'll find us."

Ryan somehow doubts that Bronx will actually find them, shoved in together at the back of a shed Ryan's pretty sure Pete forgot exists. He unbuckles Brendon's belt instead of responding.

"Seriously, Ryan, that would make us the worst babysitters in the world. I refuse!" Brendon's head is knocked back against the wall.

"Brendon," he focuses on unzipping Brendon, too. "There are, like, three people here to watch Bronx. He's not going to find us in a forgotten shed."

"You make it sound like we're in a horror movie." Brendon works with him, though, doesn't impede his progress.

"Those always end badly," he agrees. "This is going to end happy." He kisses Brendon again. He can taste ice cream and weed. It's a pretty excellent combination.

He's happy again Pete invited them over. Bronx has grown quickly, he likes being able to understand Pete's happiness and his pride, and it wouldn't mean as much to Ryan without Brendon there to appreciate it, to high five Bronx and talk to him seriously, like everything he says matters. Ryan's not great with kids, they make him overthink.

And he could overthink this, too. Brendon's ass under his hands, Brendon eagerly kissing him back, he could think about it more than experience it but he won't, he'll make sure of that.

"You have a condom?" he tips his forehead against Brendon's, squeezes Brendon's ass. He's not strong enough or the right kind of rock star to lift Brendon up by his ass but he's thought about it.

"You didn't plan ahead?" Brendon sounds dubious. "Luckily, I'm a boyscout." Brendon's fingers fight for room with Ryan's fingers until Ryan realizes the condom must be in his back pocket.

"I'm not sure boyscouts are always prepared to get fucked," he waits for Brendon to finish and pushes down his jeans, not all the way, not even to the knee. Just enough to give him room to work. He sucks his own finger really quickly, just wetting it.

"You'd be surprised." Brendon bites his earlobe when Ryan pushes in. He groans into the touch, lifting up on his toes to urge Ryan on. Ryan appreciates, Ryan wants further on.

"OK, we need to get out of bed now." Ryan tries to roll away, but Brendon has him around the waist. He has his fingers curled under Ryan's boxers, and he's not letting up. Instead, Brendon ducks down, scratching his nails through the coarse hair on his way to Ryan's cock. "Brendon, really."

"Quickly," he says, his voice rough on Ryan's neck. "Then I'll let Spencer have you."

It's only lunch, and Spencer had invited Brendon first because Brendon was the one who answered the phone. But then Brendon decided this had to be some kind of best friends time. "We're just going to end up talking about you," Ryan told him, and Brendon grinned wide. Ryan couldn't be sure that wasn't exactly what he wanted.

Brendon's got him halfway there, so Ryan lays back against his chest and lets him. Ryan rocks forward into Brendon's hand, moving steady and smooth. The whole thing feels lazy, with the sleep-warm sheets and late morning sun, and when Ryan comes, it's an all-encompassing wave.

He breathes out a long sigh. He hums a sound of pleasure against Brendon's lips on his neck. Ryan doesn't want to move anymore. He doesn't want to be anywhere but this pile of limbs that feels like home.

"OK, we need to get out of bed now." Brendon decides this and punctuates it with a smack, after he wipes his sticky hand on Ryan's boxers.

"Nice," Ryan says, pushing off the bed, crossing barefoot to the bathroom. He slides his boxers off as he walks, wiping himself down before tossing his boxers back at Brendon, still in bed. He just has time for a shower before Spencer gets here.

Time has been a little loose lately. Ryan keeps forgetting what day it is, and he's often surprised to pass a window and see sun where he expected the moon or the moon where he expected the sun. They're caught up in the middle of that amorphous time between records, even before they've decided to make a new record. Jon's in Chicago, Spencer's in Vegas, and Ryan and Brendon are staying in a tiny house in the hills above Los Angeles.

They're supposed to be writing, but the two of them have never written well together. They do other things well, so Ryan doesn't mind. He'd rather wait for Jon. And now Spencer's staying out here. He'll get them back on track.

"Hey!" Brendon calls out from the bedroom. Ryan's just turned on the water, adjusting it back and forth until he gets the temperature he wants. "What do you think about organ music? Somebody's giving one away for free on craigslist."

Ryan pokes his head around the open door. "Where are you going to put an organ in this house?"

"We don't really use the dining room table," Brendon says, looking over the top of Ryan's laptop. He's propped himself up with all the pillows and shoved the blankets to the floor. Ryan can see his bare legs, pale against the dark sheets and crossed at the ankle.

They're not having this conversation right now.

When he's under the hot water, Ryan can't hear if Brendon's still talking. Just the water, and it's a welcome respite. After he lathers up, shampoo and soap, Ryan stands, eyes closed and head down, letting the water pound his back and shoulders until he's clean and nothing hurts. He's trying to decide how long he can stay in here before Brendon comes in when Brendon comes in.

"Spencer's here."

"What?" Ryan shakes his hair dry as he steps out of the shower. Brendon's wearing jeans now, but he's still barefoot. "I didn't hear the doorbell."

"No," Brendon smiles, "you wouldn't. Not with those sex noises you were making in here." He crowds Ryan into the towels to kiss him, tongue and teeth and the barest touch of his knuckles on Ryan's cock. "Go on," he says before anything can get started.

Ryan watches him in the bathroom mirror while he brushes his teeth. Brendon bends low at the waist to take his jeans off, unnecessarily, but he knows Ryan is looking.

"Get the fuck down here, Ryan!" Spencer's waiting downstairs. Ryan was almost ready to get back in the shower for round three, or maybe it's four, but Spencer won't wait long. He's probably already outside the bedroom door.

Dried, dressed, and looking for his keys, Ryan is ready to leave when the water stops and Brendon, dripping, steps out of the bathroom. He stands there, for Ryan to see, not touch.

"See you later?" he asks.

Ryan says, "Yes."

Brendon shouting, "Oh!" is the first thing Ryan hears stepping through the door. "They're back!" he adds, and he's not talking to them.

"What is he doing?" Spencer asks, as if Ryan has any idea.

"You guys, Jon's on the computer," Brendon shouts, again.

Spencer drops his keys on the hall table. "I guess Jon's on the computer."

He's waving, too, when they get to the living room. Brendon's on the couch, holding up his laptop for them both to see. Spencer shouts, "Hello, Chicago!" while Ryan offer a quiet, "Hey." It's always weird that Jon is here, but not here.

They join Brendon, one on each side so they can see. Jon has ducked out of screen, and when he comes back, it's with Dylan in hand. They all have to wave again.

Ryan asks, "Are we doing this for all the pets, Jon?"

"Nah." He settles his cat onto his lap. "Just the ones I can reach without getting up."

"He booked his flight," Brendon says, nudging Ryan for his attention. "Finally," he adds, pointedly towards the screen.

"I just needed some time away from you, man," Jon laughs.

Spencer shakes his head. "Don't we all."

"All right." He presses his knee to Brendon's because the laptop is in the way of where Ryan would usually put his hand.

"It's an early morning flight," Jon continues. "So who volunteers to pick me up from the airport?"

Brendon calls, Not it, first, then Spencer, and Ryan barely gets his mouth open. They all suck, and he tells them that.

"Well, if it's just too much to ask," Jon says, and he pouts.

"You all suck," Ryan says again.

They get back on track to music when Brendon tells Jon about the organ he found on craigslist, and he sings a bit of song he's already written for it. Ryan has another new guitar. Jon tilts his laptop down so they can watch Marley, tail thumping, at his feet. Then they wrap up because Spencer doesn't want to get caught in traffic, and it's already time for dinner in Chicago.

Goodbyes are said without incident, only because Ryan cuts Brendon off before he breaks into a chorus of "I can't live / if living is without you." Spencer heads out, and they're left on the couch, knees still touching. With the laptop set aside on the coffeetable, Brendon turns to Ryan and asks, "Wanna make out?"

It's late afternoon, between albums, off tour, in a house that loves the sunshine. Ryan has his favourite people close by, and one of them in his lap, on his lips, not waiting for an answer. Ryan has one for him anyway because Brendon deserves that much.

"Sure."

Brendon leads. He's already on top. He slides his hands up to Ryan's shoulders, around his neck. It makes Ryan shudder as Brendon traces the hard knob at the top of his spine. Maybe it shouldn't be an erogenous zone, but, under Brendon's hands, everything is. There are the callouses on his long fingers, and Brendon is always too warm, but it's more.

It's that he knows what to do to Ryan to draw out sounds he's never made and words he's never said. Not like this at least.

He doesn't kiss Ryan, not right away. Close enough to feel the puffs of air on his chapped lips, but Brendon stops him when Ryan wants to lean forward and take his mouth. Just a taste, that's what he needs. Ryan likes to look, he likes to touch, and Ryan loves the way Brendon smells after they get off stage.

"Let me," but Brendon shakes his head. "Please," and Brendon pulls away until Ryan relents and grabs him by the collar, begging for hands back where they were.

Brendon knows Ryan like he knows any instrument. He gets better the more they practice, but, with Brendon, there was something there already. He was good the very first time.

They don't kiss until Ryan sets his hands on Brendon's hips and pulls him down, thrusts up at the same time. Between denim and everything else, they can feel each other hard and wanting. Ryan can feel Brendon jerk, and then he feels his tongue, and it's so much of what Ryan wants, all at once, he reaches up, greedy for more, and they both fall into the couch.

Brendon's still on top.

"Tiiiiime for a Jonfire!" Brendon says it announcer-style as he and Jon enter the house. He's surprised, he thought it would take longer to get back from the airport.

"It's a little early in the day for a Jonfire," he responds, standing up to hug Jon.

"Pfffft," Brendon waves a hand. "It's, like, almost two. By the time we fortify ourselves and collect enough wood and call Spencer and order nachos it'll be dark."

"Brendon makes a very fine point," Jon opens their hug up, pulls Brendon in. It's been too long, they're all a little clingy.

"My points are always fine, baby," Brendon says into the space between them and they break away groaning.

Brendon's not wrong about the flow and order of the day. They don't order nachos, they go out for them, collecting Spencer along the way. They order a few rounds or margaritas to go with their food. Jon insists on showing them all the photos of Marley and the cats on his phone, the same photos he's already emailed them. Brendon and Spencer recount their adventures in surfing, exaggerating wildly he's sure. Ryan stays sober enough to drive them all home, only to take everyone back out when they check the wood pile Eric bought and stacked around the back porch before he went on tour. While they're out they get more tequila, just in case, which turns into half an hour in the liquor store, Jon and Spencer each with carts.

Jon and Brendon take charge of assembling the wood while Ryan and Spencer roll joints side by side on the couch. It's not like Spencer's been far away but it's different, it always feels different when it's all of them under one roof.

"Ryan, the honors?" Jon asks from the doorway, Brendon hanging off his shoulders. He goes out to light the fire but asks for help, makes sure they all have a hand in getting it lit. Spencer lights an entire matchbook and tosses it on top, crowing.

Spencer and Jon disappear, leaving him and Brendon standing by the fire, guarding the nascent flames. He smiles when Brendon leans over to sneak in a kiss. He smells like tequila and woodsmoke.

When Jon and Spencer reappear it's with a cooler, full of beer and ice. Ryan covers his face with his hands but doesn't say anything. It's better than the damn beer hat he finally had to ask Zack to accidentally destroy. It doesn't fit with the aesthetic he and Eric have worked to create but he's learning to let these things happen. Like the singalong Brendon starts. The joint Spencer hands him helps.

The fire's burnt down low, hot and dark coals sparking only occasionally, when he catches Brendon's eye. They're on opposite sides, Ryan sitting with Jon and the guitars, Spencer asleep on his back on the long couch, snoring. They've been drinking for half the day, he feels drunk and hungover at the same time. It doesn't sit easily on him, but would be worse without the second round of Spencer's perfectly tidy joints.

"I'm getting some water," he stands, catching Brendon's eye again.

"Yeah," Brendon stands, too.

"Bring me back a beer?" Jon doesn't look up from where he's trying to take a phone pic of his toes. Ryan and Brendon share a look before Brendon grabs him another out of the cooler. "Thanks!" Jon grins at them, wide and happy.

Brendon's palming his ass before they're through the door. Ryan wants to at least make it out of sight, make it somewhere comfortable.

"Been thinkin' about this," Brendon mutters into his neck.

"Yeah," he reaches back, gets his fingers wound in Brendon's belt loops. "C'mon." He pulls Brendon with him into his bedroom. His mouth feels full and acrid from drinking all day. Touching Brendon feels almost like someone else is doing it, someone with his fingers but a half second behind. It's slow and awkward, when they finally get naked. They can't get their timing to sync until Brendon shoves him back onto the bed, crawls on top.

"Stop thinking," Brendon tells him, exasperated. He nods solemnly, agreeing. He can stop thinking and let Brendon take charge, he can. Brendon grins down at him and it's easier already.

Brendon's not sure if the songs are coming easier at the Palms, or if it only feels easier when compared to the time in the cabin. It doesn't feel like they've been stuck in a studio all day. It feels like they're making music.

"Why don't you sing it the way I wrote it?" Ryan asks through the headphones. Brendon decides he's not looking at the booth. He's tucked himself and his microphone into the corner of the studio.

He doesn't even turn around to shoot back, "Why don't you write it the way I sing it?"

Everything's different this time, not just Jon, but all of them. He might as well be singing Japanese they've jumped so far from where they started. Brendon might like singing in Japanese, he just has to get used to it, and there's been no time. He thought he had Ryan figured out, as much as anyone who isn't Spencer Smith can figure Ryan out. Brendon knew enough to sing his songs, and now there's this.

"It's too many nouns, Ryan. Not enough verbs." He was going for a joke. He doesn't mean to sound as petulant as he probably does, but the day was going so well. Now it feels like the cabin again.

There's only silence in Brendon's headphones and the low level electronic hum. Then he hears Jon. "Do you want another rehearsal? Or Spence and I could come in there, play your backing live?"

"No, no, I'll get it." Brendon pulls the headphones off, shakes himself out, then slides them back on. "OK. Go."

When they finally let him out, Jon has a high five, and even Spencer's smiling. "It's gonna sound amazing," Jon tells him, then he looks to Spencer who adds, "Amazing."

Brendon can't stop nodding. At the end there, it really started to sound good, and he was already putting together the live show in his head.

"So, when we get to the chorus," he says, turning to explain his vision for Ryan, he can't find Ryan. Jon turns his attention to the floor when Brendon whirls back around. "Did he even stick around to hear me finish?" he asks Spencer.

"He's probably on the roof, waiting at the van." Spencer says this like he knows, and maybe he does. Brendon hates that Spencer's usually right. He grabs his jacket and tries to remember which way to the elevator.

When Brendon steps out into the parking lot, he has to find the van before he can find Ryan. It's a dark and clear night, and Brendon can even see some stars peeking through the light pollution. He sees the van, walks around it one and a half full times, and no Ryan. But there is the sound of an out-of-tune guitar somewhere above his head.

"Ryan?"

"I'm here," he drawls.

Brendon jumps, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and he can see the guitar and Ryan's hands on the guitar and Ryan's hat pulled down over his face. "Why are you on the roof?"

"The ground was cold."

On his next jump, Brendon catches the side and pulls his chin up over the edge. "How did you get up there?" he asks, the question descending into a grunt as Brendon's fingers strain and he falls back to his feet.

"Climb over the windshield." Ryan's voice is muffled under his hat, and he's strumming absentmindedly on the guitar.

"Yes. Right. Is there room for me?" His shoes squeak on the way up, and his hands are sweaty and slippery, but Brendon makes it up.

Ryan's moved over to make room, pushed his hat out of his eyes. On their sides, there's room for them both, and the guitar between their feet.

It's late. Brendon doesn't know how late, but he feels it. He turns his eyes up to the sky, and he sees it. He looks back, and Ryan kisses him. It's dry and off-centre, but it's Ryan kissing first.

"Did you hear it?" Brendon asks. He doesn't want to. He wants Ryan to offer. It's not a high five, that's why Brendon has Jon Walker. Ryan comes with words.

"You got it," he says, smiling against Brendon's lips and pushing his tongue inside. Brendon leans back to take the weight of Ryan's kiss and remembers to breathe when Ryan pulls back to say, "I knew you'd get it."

There's no point in fighting. They're making out on top of a van on the roof of the Palms on a beautiful clear Las Vegas night. Brendon can enjoy this, Ryan's hand slipping up under his shirt, cool fingers circling his nipples. He pants into Ryan's mouth, pulls him closer with a leg over his hip, and they rock together until Brendon feels warm all over, and Ryan's eyes are shining.

Spencer crashes them home, then they all stand there, waiting for the reverberations to stop.

"Did you hear it?" Ryan asks, turning to look at Spencer. Brendon wipes at his forehead, trying not to look as sweaty as he feels, trying not to look like he's dying for an answer to the question. Spencer rolls his eyes. Brendon can barely see him do it, since Spencer's head is tipped back so he can chug a Vitamin Water, and he can't tell if it means Spencer heard or not.

"Of course I heard it." Spencer caps the bottle and tosses it at Brendon. "Sounds like you got it."

"Got it?" he fumbles the bottle but covers for it, starts tossing it hand to hand and then end-over-end. He has good balance. He thinks he could take up knife throwing. He doesn't think it shows his hands are still shaking.

No one answers. Ryan won't stop looking at him, little darting glances up from his guitar as he tunes it until it's out of tune. He offers to tune it for Ryan without thinking about it. Ryan scowls and takes the guitar off, turns his back to him.

He looks over at Brent, a little desperate to figure out what's going on, what this all means. He wants this, has wanted it since Brent first mentioned it, but he's not going to beg for it. Brent's grinning at Spencer, leaning over the kick drum to poke him in the shoulder.

"So what do you think?" Ryan turns to him, meets his eyes, doesn't look away. He doesn't know this dude but he knows this is it.

"I think we're gonna sound amazing," he smiles as wide as he can, telling himself he believes it. Ryan nods, one firm gesture, and suddenly Spencer's challenging him to a deathmatch on the N64 and the guitars are being put away and now he's not here to audition, he's here to hang out.

He drinks too much Coke and eats too many cookies and crows too loudly the one time he whoops Spencer's ass but it's awesome and perfect and tomorrow he gets to come back with his keyboard and they'll play, sure, but Spencer's also talking about the new extended edition of Lord of the Rings.

"Is it always like this?" he asks Ryan on the drive home. He's late, he'll be in trouble, but he really can't care. He has a band. He has a band and maybe friends.

Except Ryan doesn't answer. He'd dropped Brent off first and ignored Brendon's offer to walk home from there, but he's not talking with him.

Something comes on the radio that he likes. He doesn't know what it is but he touches the knob, wanting it louder. He's about to turn it up when he stops and looks at Ryan. "Do you like this?" he asks.

"It's ok." Ryan follows his direction to turn left but he pulls over, turns off the lights, before they get to his house. "Look," Ryan turns to him. "We're going to be better."

"Yeah?" he laughs as he says it and he knows that's wrong. "Yeah." He tries again, nods seriously when Ryan glares at him. "Of course."

"If you don't believe you don't have to come back tomorrow." Ryan puts the car back in drive, turns the lights back on, eases forward. "Your choice."

"I got it." He says it strongly, confidently. "I just," he shrugs. "I don't listen to a lot of radio."

"Yeah, it's all shit." Ryan shoots him a grin, a grin like he's in on the secret instead of keeping one or not allowed. He grins back at Ryan and asks Ryan go around the long way when Queen comes on and they both reach to turn up the dial.

"This is good," Ryan nods at the radio. "We could be like this."

They're stopped outside his house. He drums his fingers on his knees. "Like this?"

"Yeah, why not?" Ryan smiles encouragingly at him. "This is epic, right? We can be that."

Ryan doesn't know, he doesn't think. Doesn't know what he's saying, not all of it. "We can be like that, sure. Epic."

"They're going to start their own drum and bass duo, aren't they," Ryan asks but not really. He's amused, Brendon thinks, amused and just a little jealous. Spencer won't actually get that upright bass he's joking about, they both know, and he highly doubts Jon actually wants a 27 piecer.

"It's OK, Ry," he pats Ryan on the head. "They won't make BFF bracelets without you."

So, of course, after that, everywhere they go it's Ryan'n'Jon, Ryan'n'Jon, in the way it used to be Ryan'n'Spencer. And, yeah, it is a little worse. He understood Ryan'n'Spencer, saw it the first time he met them, knows you can't fight that type of thing.

And Spencer, well. Spencer doesn't seem to give a shit, so Brendon tries not to care either.

"It's cool, it's all cool," he explains to Spencer. Spencer nods and passes over the pipe. It's one of Spencer's nods that means he isn't paying attention, at least not to Brendon, but it's not like he actually cares about Ryan and Jon in the first place so whatever.

It's not until they're recording that it's any type of problem, and even then he knows his problem isn't with Jon, not really, so after he yells and storms out and doesn't look at Ryan once the entire time he knows he's in for it. That was shitty of him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" is how Ryan starts, so, yeah.

"Nothin', nothin'," he insists, waving it off. He has his sunglasses on and he's sitting in the sun, waiting, ready to take his lumps. Mountain air is good for you, right? Restorative. "I'll apologize, it was me, it was just a thing."

Ryan glares at him, hands on his hips and oh-so-defensive. Brendon knows the look, hasn't seen it in a while.

"Seriously, it's cool, man," he smiles pacifyingly up at Ryan, willing Ryan to believe it and drop it.

"It's not," Ryan's closer now, close enough Brendon has to tilt his head back, far back to look up at him.

"Ry?" he shakes his arms out. The ecstasy is starting to kick in, he feels like perfectly cooked spaghetti. He laughs to himself. Human spaghetti! "Seriously," he tries again. "I'll apologize and it'll be fine." Ryan doesn't say anything but he drops down into his chair, half smothering him. "This is not the way I want to go," he tells Ryan, but his hands have their own mind, want to touch.

"You're being an idiot but I understand," Ryan says it quickly, not looking at him. It's nice of Ryan, but he doesn't care, he's cool.

He mutters some type of reply and kisses Ryan instead. He can't always have this but he knows he can have it now.

And have it he can. Ryan tastes bitter, like the end of a bowl, and the kiss is careful from both sides, their wariness showing, but ripens and rises the longer they go on. And go on and on they do, tongues curling and questing, Ryan's sharp little teeth nipping at his neck, his lips stinging from the faint stubble on Ryan's chin.

It's good, so good. His skin feels alive, joyful at being pressed up against Ryan, and Ryan spends a long time combing his fingers slowly through Brendon's hair, exactly how he likes. It's a kiss of legend, familiar and hot at the same time. He doesn't want to be calmed by it but he is, because he has this now, Ryan eager under his hands, has had it and will have it again, too.

"Want me to fuck you?" he asks. He's polite, but he wants.

"Yeah," Ryan bites his neck, harder than before. He bucks up and it changes, gets frantic and fast. "My back pocket," Ryan gasps into his ear and, fuck, Ryan planned this or hoped for it.

"That's hot," he snags the condom and pushes Ryan back. "Take off your fucking pants already." Ryan's unsteady on his feet, tripping into the chair twice after Brendon's already naked and waiting. Brendon kisses his hip where he bumped it and Ryan grunts and pushes his head back, then his hair back off of his forehead. He's in the right place so he kisses the tip of Ryan's dick, too, but that's not what they're doing here.

He rolls the condom on and uses the hint of extra lube to stretch Ryan. It's maybe not enough but Ryan's not telling him to stop or slow down, didn't bring anything else with him, and Ryan's nails digging into his shoulder feel good.

"You tell them to stay away from the windows?" he grabs at Ryan's hips, trying to pull him down further. Ryan has the sexiest little half-grin, his eyes slitted and his thighs tense. He doesn't want to make Ryan do all the work so he thrusts up, bracing himself against the chair, and Ryan throws his head back and twitches, keeps twitching every time Brendon does it again.

"Oh, fuck," is all Ryan says, over and over, and Brendon congratulates himself on fucking the wordsmith to incoherence.

He spends his whole night with one marshmallow. Brendon watches him, Ryan carefully toasting the outside a golden brown, peeling a thin layer off the outside, and eating it before returning the marshmallow back to the fire.

"How many times can you do that?" Brendon asks. Ryan is single-minded in his task. Brendon can't even get Ryan to make him one. All of Brendon's marshmallows have come out black. Spencer lets him eat the rest straight from the bag.

After a few joints and a few songs have gone around the bonfire, people start to disappear. Some of them are sober enough to drive home, but Brendon figures most of them are crashing on his living room floor. It's a nice clear night in Vegas, the stars are out, and the fire is smoldering dark red. Brendon figures he'll crash out here.

Jon is already snoring in his lawn chair. Spencer shakes him awake when he takes the guitar out of Jon's lap.

"Where are you going?" Ryan asks them.

"You can thank me in the morning," Spencer says and slides the back door closed behind them.

He's always missing things between Ryan and Spencer. The years have taught him to watch closely. There's something like a glint in Spencer's eye, and it's nothing to do with the fire.

Ryan sees it, too, because he turns back to Brendon with a scowl. "So annoying."

"Because he knows when you want to have sex?"

"Brendon!"

"What? I want to have sex, too," he tells Ryan.

Spencer had left a blanket on his chair. Coming around the fire, Brendon grabs it. He snaps it up in the air and lets it fall on the damp grass, not too far away from the heat of the coals. They're hidden enough by the firepit, the chairs, and everything else that's been left out.

"Out here?" Ryan asks when he finally notices Brendon on the blanket. He's propped up on his elbows and when he rolls his eyes, the rest follows.

"Yes, Ryan. Right here." The last time they did anything outside, it was on tour, it was hot. Brendon remembers the air thick and their shirts sticking, but he doesn't remember exactly where they were. It was quick, Ryan on his knees that time, Brendon's fingers sliding through his hair and never getting a decent grip, but he came, and so did Ryan, later.

Tonight isn't hot. They're not on tour, and they can take their time. No one's watching--Spencer will make sure of that. The fire's burned low. All the marshmallows have been eaten. There's nothing but melted ice in Zack's cooler. Brendon stays quiet, Ryan's eyes on him. They're both waiting, maybe.

On the blanket, on his back, Brendon tries to put the stars together into familiar shapes. He thinks he knows the Big Dipper, but Ryan's better at this stuff than he is.

"Follow the brightest star," Ryan says, low in his ear.

"I'll remember that," and when Brendon turns his head, he catches Ryan's mouth. They both taste sweet and, underneath that, smoke and charcoal. They push back and forth, Ryan's hand on Brendon's hip and Brendon's hand on Ryan's shoulder. With a bite, Ryan wins, distracting Brendon just long enough to push him onto his back and climb on top.

"Now you want to do this," Brendon says. He grins up at Ryan, who already has both their shirts undone. "Now that you get to be on top."

Ryan is grinning, too, kissing Brendon's chest, his neck, chin, before finding his mouth again. It's all distraction, though, from Ryan's real goal. He slides his hand easily into Brendon's open jeans where he's already hard. Brendon's not even going to complain about the cold, not when Ryan strokes him like that.

"I don't suppose there's anything in that cooler to help us out here."

Brendon groans. There isn't. They brought beer and marshmallows to the bonfire, not condoms.

"I can run inside," he says. He could. He will. Brendon will go in there with his pants unzipped and trip over his best friends to get Ryan a condom. "I can do that," he tells Ryan, even if it means Ryan has to pulls his hand out of Brendon's underwear.

"We're good," Ryan decides, pushes Brendon back down on the blanket, and sucks him down. Brendon doesn't remember how many beers, how many joints, even how many songs went around the bonfire, but it's just enough. They're loose and happy, even as the night gets colder. Even as Ryan gets louder, takes Brendon deeper.

Brendon holds back, trying not to thrust, but it's so good, so warm. He pulls up the grass in his fists and nearly loses his composure, when Ryan backs off. Not far, just to lick. Then he's sucking Brendon again, licking, pulling on him with a tight fist, single-minded, and when Brendon comes, it's on his own belly.

Running his fingers through the mess, Ryan asks, "How many times can you do that?"

Ryan's staying with him while they pretend to think about planning to make the new album. It means coffee on the balcony in the morning and then walks with the dogs in the canyon. They eat lunch on the beach.

"No, Brendon, put the phone down."

"What?" He hides it against his chest. "Jon texted me."

"He did not. You're taking pictures." Ryan drops his head in his hand. He glares across the table at Brendon. That's the best photo Brendon gets all day, the sun and the water in the background, Ryan and his permanent skepticism staring Brendon down.

"It's a good picture?" He turns it so Ryan can see the screen, but he's waved away. Ryan's already moved on, back to lunch. Brendon decides to leave the french fries on Ryan's plate alone. He knows to only push so far in one afternoon.

He knows to leave Ryan alone when they get home, too. Ryan goes upstairs, and he doesn't invite Brendon to join him. After opening the windows and letting the dogs out to the backyard, Brendon actually does get a text from Jon. News about the weather in Chicago--can u believe the snow as if Jon can't believe it either. He wants to know if they've killed each other yet, so Brendon texts back n. It's the only thing he can say for sure.

When he reaches the landing, Brendon can hear the music. When he's outside the door, Brendon knows it's Ryan playing something brand new, and he knows he shouldn't go inside. Not yet.

Brendon sits outside, in the hall, back against the door. He thinks maybe he can even feel the reverberations from Ryan's amp turned up too high. It doesn't sound at all like their music, but it does sound like Ryan.

When he almost has the melody down, just as Brendon can put some words to the music, and before he tries to sing it out loud, the door opens and he falls into the room. Ryan stands over him, Fender strapped to his chest.

"I was sure this kind of thing only happened in the movies," Brendon says. He sits up, rubbing the back of his head, more act than injury.

"This isn't a movie, Brendon."

"I know that." He picks up a bass, hoping Ryan sees it for the offer it is. "Although, if this were the movie of my life, I'd want you to write the soundtrack."

That gets a smile, even if Ryan tries to pretend he's tuning and hide it. "Is that your apology?" he asks.

Brendon gets a slow beat going. "Is it working?"

Ryan plays over top, the same melody as before, but slowed down to match. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. They play together until it's dark, the dogs are barking for dinner, and Brendon didn't get any of that down on tape, but he'll remember.

There's no need to put things away. The instruments have laid out all week, waiting to be picked up, taunting. It's how Brendon guilts himself into making music rather than lying on the beach or playing with his dogs all day. He sets the bass in its stand, watches Ryan unhook himself from the amp, then lead the way out of this makeshift studio. Brendon's hungry again and wondering if he can get Ryan to agree to pizza again, when he's pulled off balance, away from the stairs, and slammed up against the wall.

"Here?" he gasps. "Now?"

Ryan says, "Now," and he really means it. He presses his lips under Brendon's left ear, while with his right hand, Ryan reaches around to get his pants down. They don't last long against the wall. Brendon tries to help, widen his stance, prop himself up, but Ryan has something else in mind. He drags Brendon into the room they're sharing and bends him over the bed.

Brendon waits. He gets comfortable, pulls his shirt off because Ryan only pushed it up until Brendon's armpits got in the way. He leaves his jeans open and hanging off his hips. He figures Ryan will want to do the rest of that. Head pillowed on his folded arms and his ass up in the air, Brendon isn't just waiting. He's taunting.

He can't see what it looks like, but good, he guesses. When Ryan comes back, fingers slick and curved just right, Brendon settles in for a bit more of that. He likes Ryan's kisses on his shoulders, but then they become bites. He likes Ryan's fingers inside, but then, almost too soon, it's his cock. The shock of it races them both to the end, Brendon crying out. Ryan stays quiet, not even a word of approval muffled into Brendon's skin.

Their days always end up here eventually. It's this and music and they haven't killed each other yet. That's what Brendon knows for sure.

It's a party at a beach house, which is nice. Brendon doesn't know anyone, which sounds awful, but it's not. It's almost like being a couple, Ryan holding his hand and kissing his cheek when Brendon gets them drinks. It's like how it is when they're alone, but they're not.

When it starts getting dark, Ryan gets caught up in a conversation about bluegrass, and Brendon decides to wander. He needs another drink anyway. They've long lost Jon, and someone needs to do something about the music being played.

Later, the party winding down, Brendon leaves an empty red Solo cup on the record player and goes looking for someone he knows. They all seem to know him, but he doesn't know their faces or their voices. It can't only be the beer to blame.

"Bren!" He spins and nearly falls down. "Brendon!" he hears again--Jon?--and then someone catches his arm and puts him on a couch.

"Hi, Jon." He smiles. He knows Jon.

"You're having a good time." Jon's neck smells warm and smoky. He smells familiar, and he doesn't pull away when Brendon tries to kiss him. Not like Ryan.

"Have you seen Ryan?" Brendon asks. It's been days.

"He went outside," Jon says, fluffing Brendon's hair. It feels nice. "Spencer called, and it's too loud to talk in here."

Over Jon's shoulder, through the people milling around the living room, Brendon can see Ryan on the porch, through the glass doors. He can see Ryan's back and his ass in those skinny trousers, bent over the railing.

"Spencer called?" The conversation is only just catching up to him. "Why did Spencer call?"

"Because he's still in Las Vegas, remember?"

Right. "I do, Jon. I remember."

Jon laughs through his nose. "How about you try to sleep a little? We'll head home soon."

"This isn't our home?" Brendon slides down Jon's shoulder. He ends up in Jon's lap.

"No, Brendon. This is LA."

He closes his eyes, but he doesn't sleep. Jon's fingers in his hair is nice, and the music is turned low, and there's lots of room to stretch out. Then someone who Jon calls Tom lifts Brendon's feet to join them on the couch, and they talk about someone who Tom calls Sean, who maybe makes music, too. Brendon's having trouble following the conversation.

"Ryan's taking too long," he says and rolls off of them and onto the floor. He stands, waits a moment to make sure he can stand, then Brendon tries to walk. Easy.

Jon grabs his hand. Tom asks, "You OK, man?"

"Just need some fresh air."

It's quiet outside, too, the sound of the waves and of Ryan. That's definitely Spencer on the other end of the phone. Ryan sounds like he sounds when he's talking to Spencer.

"You know you're not on vacation anymore," he's saying. "Jon and Brendon and I have already written four songs." He turns and sees Brendon standing there, watching, and Ryan smiles. "I told Brendon he could play drums on this record."

They both laugh, and Spencer probably is, too, but in that sarcastic Spencer way. Brendon tucks into Ryan's back. He can hear Spencer telling Ryan how much he sucks, and Brendon is close enough that he can say, "Love you, too, baby," and Spencer can hear him.

"Yeah," Ryan says, switching his phone to the other ear. "He had a little to drink."

Warm and smoky, Ryan smells just like Jon. They must have smoked up earlier without him, while Brendon spent his night arguing with the guy doing the music. Awful taste. Ryan tastes good under Brendon's tongue. He squirms a little, against the porch railing, but he also presses back into Brendon.

"Spence. Spencer. I have to go."

That's all it takes. A wet, slightly-tipsy kiss under Ryan's ear, and he's putting his phone away. He's turning in the space Brendon's arms make on either side of him, and he's kissing back.

"I like you like this," Brendon says. He tilts his head and licks his lips. Ryan does the same, at the same time, both of them tasting each other. Brendon wants another taste. Brendon wants more than a taste, of course, and he can feel what Ryan wants, too. It's easiest to rub against each, but no one's watching. People are leaving, and the people who aren't are passed out drunk or they're Jon, and he already knows.

It could be easy to get off like this, Ryan's back against the water, Brendon's, against the house, kissing, touching, rutting, coming. Brendon decides he's up for a little more. The chilled ocean air has sobered him right up. If no one's watching, Brendon's getting down on his knees.

When he wakes up the fire's out. The fire's out but the lamps are on and he's still curled with his head in Jon's lap. Jon looks to be asleep, too, but if Brendon's waking up from the cold then Jon'll wake up soon as well. "Jon," he wriggles his head and pokes at Jon's thigh. "We should go inside, it's cold."

Jon wakes with a start. "Wha?"

"We fell asleep," he rocks his head back to look at Jon. "We fell asleep and now it's cold. We should go inside. It's cold." He shivers, for the affect.

"But pretty." Brendon doesn't think Jon is anywhere close to awake. He struggles to his feet.

"But cold, Jon, how are you not feeling it? Let's go inside, where Ryan and Erik have beds and shit."

"Good idea," Jon yawns, a huge yawn that makes Brendon tamp down on his sympathetic yawn response. If he starts now, before he's properly warmed up, he could strain something. That's what he tells himself.

They make it inside, holding on to each other. Jon stumbles to the couch and is facedown, asleep and snoring before Brendon can protest.

"Fine," he tells Jon's snores. "I'll go sleep with Ryan."

But when he gets there, Ryan isn't sleeping. Ryan is on the phone and on his computer and Brendon is still cold and tired. "You're my Goldilocks in one," he mutters as he climbs in. It doesn't make sense. He doesn't need it to. Ryan makes a face at him. "I know, it's so sad when I'm cold," he agrees.

Ryan's still on the phone but hasn't said a word. Maybe he's not on the phone, Brendon thinks. Maybe he's holding it up to his ear for fun, or to fuck with Brendon. Maybe Brendon's taking too long to get his clothes off, if he's not in there and warm yet and hassling Ryan to get off the phone.

"No, Spencer." Ryan lifts the cover for Brendon as he starts talking to Spencer about song names. He nestles down next to Ryan, careful not to disturb his laptop. It's warm along Ryan's side and he can have his say on the names without being too obvious about it. He kneads Ryan's thigh on the ones he likes, bites his hip on the ones he doesn't. Bites too hard, maybe, when Spencer's series of puns gets ridiculous. It's time for them to stop. It's time for Ryan to pay attention to him. "Ow, fuck," Ryan slaps a hand over his mouth. "Seriously?"

Ryan goes on talking to Spencer, in a lower tone. He takes his hand away from Brendon's mouth shortly after but, still. It's operation: Ryan Will Rue The Day.

He pushes himself further down the bed, completely under the covers. Ryan's skin is right there, all pale an exposed. It's a perfect place to taste. Ryan squirms under his tongue but still doesn't fucking hang up.

"What do I have to do, blow you?" he leans further over, nips at Ryan's dick. Ryan's not hard but he's not soft. He's talking to Spencer is what he's doing. "Hang up," he asks, he threatens, as he kisses again, kisses where Ryan's growing harder for him.

"Brendon, jesus," Ryan pushes his forehead away but he's persistent. He wants. If they could, he'd get down on his knees. He can't, not when they're on a bed and Ryan's on the phone, but he tucks it away in the corner of his mind.

"What?" he strains against Ryan's hand. "Can't a man just give a blowjob to warm himself up?"

"I don't think it works that way." Ryan closes the laptop. "Bye Spence," he says, then Ryan's shoving all of the technology to the other side of the bed. "If you're going to blow me, blow me," Ryan spreads his legs. Brendon slips between them. It's maybe too warm but Brendon won't complain until he's done, when he can be on top and make more of the calls.

Ryan grabs at his hair, helps him set a pace. It's hot, really hot, when Ryan decides to show him what he wants. By the speed and the depth and the gentle tugs, Brendon thinks this is one of those times.

Spencer's a control freak about the sound board. Not the mixing, he'll happily let any of them tinker with the sound. Instead, the organization, the cleanliness. They were all expecting it. The studio's in Spencer's house, after all, and Shane still tells them the stories from the film, the first and last time Spencer and Shane locked themselves in a house to do all the post-production themselves.

So, yeah. Brendon is definitely taking a perverse kind of pleasure in fucking Ryan over Spencer's pristine console. Ryan's actually bent over for him, all the way bent over, braced on the controls with his legs spread wide. It's a sight he's not used to, a sight he loves, watching Ryan roll into and away from his thrusts, watching Ryan's arms strain, push the dials and slide out of place. He imagines he can see the notes.

He slams in extra hard because he can. Ryan gasps and arches and he stops, runs a hand down Ryan's back. "Shhhh," he reminds him. Ryan shivers under his touch and gasps quieter, more of a pant than a gasp, something wetter, probably something open-mouthed.

They're recording. Generally, they're tracking well, on their own and staunchly independent for the first time. Spencer insisted he'd learned enough in Pro Tools, they didn't really have anything to lose. They're happy. They have the songs in their heads and in their hearts and in their fingers and Brendon really is so stupidly happy with his band, his crazy, brave band. They're recording it and they're doing it the way they've always talked about doing it, on their turf and their time.

But they're also recording, right now, and Brendon wants to see if he can layer it in on a track, not an official track, just something he can write around. So they can't be obvious.

Ryan's shaking under his fingers, small tremors in the muscles of his shoulders and thighs. He leans forward to kiss where he can, kiss the salty stretch of skin. He wants to show Ryan he appreciates this, but he can't say it. He couldn't say it without the microphone, either, that's not the way they roll, but it's quieter in his head, not being able to say it. He has to show it.

"Ah, ah!" Ryan ruts back against him and he grins into Ryan's skin. Ryan wanting more but not having to say it, not being able to say it, is still Ryan wanting, Ryan pushing.

It's more difficult than he expects, fucking without making noise. He's hyper alert, listening for every sound. He has to go slow or not push all the way in, to avoid the overt sound of skin slapping. He focuses on grinding, on circling his hips. Ryan rises up on his toes so Brendon does as well, tries to get the angle above him to thrust down, not just in.

He'd been alone, he'd been content to fiddle with feedback and the looped sounds of his own experiments, when Ryan had shuffled down, wrapped in an old blanket, a blanket he recognized from the Smiths' house. They hadn't talked about it, not really. Ryan had egged him into it, dared him to layer in something real, something he wouldn't, something private. There's nothing more private than this, nothing more real.

"Please," he hears, Ryan jerking and shuddering under him. It's incredibly soft but there's nothing to swallow the sound, nothing to stop it from reaching his ears. He curls around Ryan, pants into Ryan's shoulder. He can't make it, can't continue, if Ryan's going to beg. It's just too much.

He works a hand around, tries to jerk Ryan off, but it sound too loud, too obvious. He slows down, until the sounds are discreet, but he can't help but think the pace is agonizingly slow.

Ryan doesn't seem to mind. He's thrusting, into Brendon's hand, back on his cock. Ryan's doing most of the work, caught between Brendon and the board. Brendon appreciates that, god he appreciates that.

"Thank you, thank you," he whispers, as softly as he can. Ryan must hear him, Brendon refuses to think otherwise with Ryan's dick jerking in his hand. Ryan stills under him, sinks further into the board. Brendon keeps his hand curled loosely around Ryan's softening dick as he speeds up his thrusts, racing after Ryan.

Brendon has to hurry to get home before heading out to meet Ryan at the skate park but he does it, he makes it. He could've gone straight to the park but then he'd be waiting for Ryan, like he doesn't have anything better to do, which is both untrue and would make him appear uncool, but he'd also needed to change into his skinny jeans, the ones he can't get away with wearing to school but he can sneak out of the house in.

He skates up and Ryan's late, nowhere to be found. He should have known, should have relaxed. He's cool, he's confident, he isn't anything close to nervous, right? So he practices his kick flip. He doesn't practice often enough to be good but he's got killer balance, he figures it back out quickly enough. He doesn't fall, at least. The dudes on the other side of the park don't make fun of him, at least.

A car door slams and he kicks out on his last attempt. He hadn't realized Ryan was driving up, not skating up.

He relaxes when he sees Ryan's skateboard tucked under one arm. He's never seen Ryan ride but they've talked a lot about it. He skates over to meet Ryan, stops before it might look like he's trying to skate around him. That could look rude.

"Hey," he pushes his glasses up his nose, wishing again for contacts. Ryan's hair is extra emo today, hanging in his face. He reaches up to feel his hair, wondering what he'd look like with it long. There's no way he could grow it out now, but maybe after he's out of the house.

"Hey," Ryan jams his hands in his jeans pockets, his hair swinging forward to obscure even his eyes.

"Thanks for meeting me." He takes a deep breath. "I have some news."

"Yeah?" Ryan isn't looking at him, is looking at the ground.

"Yes." He picks up his board, hugs it to his chest with one arm. It means he's shorter than Ryan again. "And it's gonna affect the band."

Ryan's shoulders stiffen but he's looking at Brendon. "Yeah?" Ryan's tone is even fainter, even most lost inside his chest.

Ryan's looking at him now, he can tell, but he doesn't want to look back until he's done. He tries to breath evenly, to slow his heart rate down. "Yeah, I'm," but he gets knocked on the shoulder as the kids from the other side of the park go by. So, yeah, maybe they were making fun of him.

He and Ryan end up out in the grass. His shoulder hurts, all of them catching him with their elbows in the same place, but doesn't want to say anything to Ryan.

"So your news?" Ryan's watching the wannabe skater dudes go further and further into the distance. He's turned away from Brendon, unreceptive, but Brendon has to say this.

"Yeah," he clears his throat, looks around for other potential interruptions. "I'm moving out."

Ryan takes a step back, a wrinkle of a frown between. "You're what?"

"Don't worry, I'm going to find a job around here, and I can still rehearse most of the times we do now, I just, y'know," he shrugs, hoping Ryan will get it. "It wasn't working."

"You're moving out of your house?" Ryan sounds incredulous. "That's." He reaches down to pick up a rock. Brendon watches him heave throw two rocks, as far as he can but not further than Brendon could throw, he doesn't think. "That's huge," Ryan says quietly as he bends down to pick up more rocks.

"Yeah." He reaches for a few rocks of his own. He throws his just after Ryan, in the same direction, and they always seem to land at the same time. "But I have to."

"Is it." Ryan turns to face him, finally, gets in his space. "It's not fucking cause of the band, is it? Are they kicking you out?"

His heart swells at Ryan's tone of outrage. "Not exactly." He shrugs, runs a hand through his hair. "We just have some incompatible views, y'know?"

"You fucking freak," but Ryan says it with admiration, awe. "You really believe in the music that much, don't you?" Brendon hears believe in me, knows he's not wrong.

"Yes," and now he's the one that can't look at Ryan. He goes for a few more rocks, throws them on his own.

"Brendon." Ryan grabs his elbow. "Brendon." He looks over. "Thank you." Ryan shakes his arm. He looks at it, at Ryan, at it in a daze. "Thank you, ok?" Ryan shakes it again, leaning close. He isn't expecting Ryan's mouth on his, warm and firm and implacable, but he goes with it. It isn't his first kiss but it's the first one he cares about, because it's Ryan and it's lifechanging and he's ready for it.

They shove into the booth. Brendon goes first, hugging the wall, stepping carefully around the microphones and all the wires. He finds his headphones, the pair adjusted to his head. Spencer put coloured tape on all of them--Brendon's is pink.

He leans back against the wall to wait and watch Ryan get himself settled. First, he checks the door is closed, then he picks a spot to the left of Brendon. They never stand where they can see each other when they're working.

"What about," Brendon starts. Moments away from recording the vocals, and he's still running the arrangment through in his head. "What if we both sing the last line?"

Ryan nods. "We can try it a couple of ways." Despite the nod, it's not agreement. It's Ryan's idea of compromise.

They sing it three times: Ryan's way, Brendon's way, and the producer's way. It's not right, but they should be able to get something they can work with. Ryan seems happy with that. Brendon bangs the back of his head against the wall.

"Say something," Ryan says. "Don't just stand there."

"No, that's exactly what you want. You want me to stand there and sing and not even think about the words coming out of my mouth. That's not how a band is supposed to work."

"Fuck, Brendon." Now he's smiling. "You don't have to throw a tantrum."

Brendon yanks his headphones off, pulling harder when they get tangled, and making things worse. He tries to turn away, around in the space, but something's wrapped around his ankle, and he loses his balance and lands against the wall again. Ryan's right there, closer than he was before.

"What is this?" he asks. Ryan has a hand on Brendon's back. "I really hope you're not riling me up just to make the sex better because we're not doing that here."

Ryan holds him still, unwinding the cords and putting them away. Then he untangles himself. Brendon should have known that Ryan would want to do it in the studio, at least once. He should have known fighting about arrangements would get him hot.

"Let's do that here," Ryan says, low in his ear. Brendon cranes his neck to kiss him and tries not to think about who's listening in.

"This might be the stupidest thing since the exclamation mark."

It sounds like Ryan agrees, because he laughs and digs his fingers into Brendon's hip to turn him around. The microphone is still in the way. The best way to do this is flat against the wall and hands, probably. There's not room for even one of them down on his knees.

On the wall, their hips touch, shoulders pressed warm against each other. Ryan is just that touch taller, enough that Brendon notices, but not enough that it makes things awkward. He's still the right height for Brendon. He's the right height that when Brendon reaches over to unbutton and unzip his pants, reach inside his boxers, and wrap his hand around Ryan's stiffening cock, he's not stuck holding his hand at an uncomfortable angle. He can close into a loose fist and draw his hand and Ryan's cock up, then down, and he doesn't have to sprain his wrist to do it.

Ryan matches him, for the most part. He opens Brendon's pants, and he jerks Brendon hard. Funny that their rhythm doesn't match up.

But when Brendon starts breathing shorter and shorter, when his neck gets loose and his head lolls to Ryan's shoulder, when he wants to cry out, but doesn't dare with the microphone so close, Ryan lets go.

"What are you--" Brendon starts, even as he feels Ryan's hand skimming across his belly to his back. Then lower. "Oh," Brendon breathes out. "I know what you're doing." Ryan always did have a thing for Brendon's ass.

Ryan's hand is warm now, and when he slides one long finger down to Brendon's hole, it's not a surprise. It doesn't make him jump. He groans into the touch, lifting up on his toes to urge Ryan on. Deeper, deeper, he thinks. He doesn't say it, but Ryan gets it.

Brendon pulls Ryan faster, makes his strokes longer. They don't have a lot of time; they don't have a lot of space. Brendon wants to come. Ryan doesn't argue.

"So," and Brendon looks up at the word. "I'm not going to apologise," Ryan says. He's wet, and he smells of smoke. Jon had dragged him out of the studio when the shouting started, and Brendon can see now where they went and what they did. Brendon and Spencer just sat on the lumpy couch, waiting, but Spencer wrapped his arm around Brendon and let him slump in for a while, so it was nice.

Then Spencer decided they need time alone to "work things out." His words, not Brendon's.

"I wouldn't have accepted your apology, anyway."

"Good."

He stands in front of the couch. He doesn't sit. "See, Brendon? We can agree on something." Ryan picks up a guitar and wanders back into the studio, behind the glass.

Brendon didn't know that was agreeing.

He goes out to the hall and finds Jon and Spencer just outside the door. They're sharing a cup of coffee between them, and it looks like Starbucks, not the brown water that comes out of the vending machines here.

"Back to work, slackers," he tells them.

Despite the non-apology and the break that came with it, no one can focus, and they don't get much more work done. They don't even get one more song before the studio pulls the plug on them. It's abrupt, just like Ryan. Some things they pack up, and others stay here for the night. Tomorrow will be better.

During the drive back to the house, Ryan sits up front, quiet, playing with the radio. He finds some call-in show, and no one in the van complains when he leaves it there. Brendon shoves in all the way at the back. Jon sits with him, that careful smile in place. He keeps watching Brendon, then faking something interesting in the window over Brendon's shoulder.

"This is silly," Spencer says. He's talking to everyone, and Brendon gets that. He falls in love with Spencer a little because Spencer gets that, too. He'll talk to Ryan. Brendon's not doing it.

The studio's bad enough, but they're also staying at Brendon's house while they finish the record because nobody ever learns. There's space, but no privacy. Ryan picked the guest room next to Brendon's. Sometimes he knocks, and sometimes he doesn't, and when he doesn't is always when Brendon expects him.

Jon says it gets better on tour, and he's right. It does get better, and the band spends most of their time on tour, so Brendon won't complain. He'll keep it inside, and when it all comes out in the vocals, and Ryan notices (because Ryan notices things), Brendon will shrug and let Ryan figure it out. Brendon's only singing his words.

"How about a bonfire?" Jon asks, bounding up the driveway and slamming himself into the door when he tries to do a spin on the landing. Brendon helps him up and unlocks the door.

Ryan begs off the fire, the beer and the smoke, and heads upstairs. It was one line in one song, and they'll get it right tomorrow, Brendon's sure, but Ryan's going to sulk all night until somebody talks to him.

"Spence, you have to talk to him," Brendon begs. He kneels on the wet grass and offers up the lit joint.

"I don't." Spencer shakes his head, but he does take the joint. "I'm not the one not getting laid tonight."

"Fuck." Brendon pulls himself up. Spencer's right. Fuck.

He goes back inside, passing the stairs for the kitchen. A snack, maybe, before he starts up the stairs. Brendon can't be sure how long this will take. It's never the same fight twice with them. They go loud or quiet, and sometimes in the same insult. If they're together, it's worse than if it's just on the phone, but writing and recording beats all. Those knock downs are epic, and Brendon always feels a little guilty when the stuff that leaks onto the album is the best stuff of all.

Brendon takes a bag of Cheetos up the stairs with him. He remembers that he didn't like Ryan's lyric, but, right now, Brendon can't remember why. It might have had something to do with cadence or maybe adjectives. When he reaches Ryan's door, closed, he could knock, but Brendon sits instead. He sits with his back straight and the Cheetos in his lap.

Lifting one hand, Brendon skims the solid wood with his knuckles, then taps, once. "Hey, Ryan?"

He waits, and he crunches, and then Brendon hears, "Yeah?"

"I'm coming in."

Ryan moves to California after Brendon does but Ryan doesn't want to live with him. He wants to live with Eric and he doesn't ask where Brendon and Shane are living. Brendon had thought Ryan was following him out to California, that it was the start of something different, something new, but instead it was the same old story, verse who knows at this point: Ryan fucking falling for someone else's art, for someone else's music. For someone else.

He and Shane never talked about it. About Ryan. It's not like he and Shane were ever actually together, ever serious. They just lived together, right, and sometimes it was convenient, and sometimes Brendon was on tour and sometimes Shane was there and sometimes that was convenient. It wasn't a thing. Shane never told Regan and Brendon never told anyone, so Ryan should never have been a thing.

Ryan might never have been a thing but it still nearly killed him to walk in on Shane and Ryan, he can admit that to himself, as emo as it sounds. They were just holding hands but he could see it, could see the spark between them. He'd watched Ryan and Shane put together the damn book, he'd known what was coming. Shane and his lens had always been predicable.

Ryan had taken Jon, had taken Eric, had always had Spencer. He'd had enough, when he needed it, he didn't need to chase after Ryan and his trail of best friends and musical friends and bohemian friends.

"It's just," he can't look at Ryan as he says it. "It's just. I really just thought Shane was mine." He'd thought Ryan would let him have Shane.

"You can't own another person, Brendon." Ryan's stoned, he thinks. Not taking this seriously.

"I know, I'm not being stupid," he sounds defensive, weak to his own ears. He just wants out of this fucking conversation, jesus. "I didn't mean I was claiming him, pissing on him like a dog or some shit like that. I just meant --"

"You just meant you wanted to be the only person in this band he thinks is worth being friends with?" He can't read Ryan's tone and that's worse, somehow. He bangs his head back against the wall behind him, wishing he'd never started this.

"No, of course not," he closes his eyes and exhales, hard and cathartic. "I just."

"You what, Bren." Ryan sounds closer.

"I just wanted something that was mine." He says it and let's it stay out there on its own, alone and desperate sounding.

"Bren," Ryan must be close, he's whispering but it's loud. He wishes he could feel Ryan's body heat. Wishing it seems to bring it into reality, Ryan pressing warm and firmly against him, pushing him back into the wall. "Bren, you remember you have us?"

"Yeah, but," he swallows, startled when Ryan kisses his neck. "But you guys all have something more, I thought it would be cool if I had that, too."

"Jon and Spencer have disturbingly well adjusted families," Ryan sounds as grudging as he sometimes feels, it makes him lighter. "And you and I have the band."

He wants to argue but he wants to kiss Ryan more, to tell him he agrees, understands. Thinks he understands, at least. They do have the band, they both need the band. They both need the music.

"Ryan," he opens his eyes when questing after the last place Ryan's mouth was doesn't work. "Ryan, make music with me."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Ryan's eyes are older than he thinks, in his head, but this is a moment for looking again, for making new memories.

"Sometimes," he laughs. He doesn't want to fuck or get fucked, he wants to feel, wants to be with Ryan on this. Wants to be Ryan's. Knowing that, it's easy to shuffle into Ryan's space, to kiss him with the want he wants Ryan to know he has. And Ryan's never been the best at understanding, or at least he's never been the best at acknowledging he's understanding, but in this kiss he can feel Ryan's want, he knows it. In this they're together.

"What the hell is this?"

It's not exactly the response Brendon was looking for. He grabs Ryan's hand, and Ryan struggles a bit because he's not wearing shoes, but Brendon drags him down the walk to the car. "It's a cherry red convertible sports car, Ryan. You're supposed to go, Oooh."

"Just, Brendon, tell me you didn't buy it."

"Jeez, of course I didn't buy it." Brendon reaches in to unlock the door. He holds it open for Ryan. "Just get in the damn car."

They stare each other down. Ryan breaks first. "Am I allowed to put shoes on first?"

"Yes, fine."

Brendon waits for him in the car. It's good to remember that just because Ryan breaks first doesn't mean you win. Sometimes it only means that Ryan's bored and ready to move on to the next thing. Brendon stays close, hoping to be that next thing.

It's a sunny day in Vegas, which isn't unusual, but it still feels like it's been forever. The last time Brendon was home it was cold, then he was on tour where it was colder, and now he just wants to drive in the sun with the top down. He wants to do that with Ryan.

"All right," Ryan says. He's done more than put on a pair of shoes--he's added a jacket, a scarf, and a hat. "Where are you taking me?"

Brendon hadn't thought that far ahead. "It's not the destination--"

"Then let's get this journey on the road."

He only has the car for the day. Brendon figured he'd take it out of the city, off the streets and onto the highway, where he could really drive the thing. He's never had anything this fast. It was going to be a test drive. Brendon would try on being rich and famous. He wanted to see if it fit.

Then the car steered itself to Ryan's house, and Brendon decided to turn the day into a different kind of adventure.

Ryan doesn't play with the radio. There's enough sound between the engine and the road. There's enough sound that Brendon doesn't know if Ryan would hear him at all.

"You want to get dinner?" he asks. Ryan does hear him because he turns away from the road and the burnt orange desert. Brendon risks just a quick glance to check the look on his face. Confused is what it looks like.

"Right now?" Ryan asks.

"Now works," Brendon stammers. "Or any other time you have free."

"Brendon." He reaches over and puts a hand on the back of Brendon's neck. Ryan squeezes him once, then scratches up into his hair. Brendon goes all shivery. "You don't have to take me out on a date."

The way it comes out, Brendon knows Ryan meant him to blush and protest, maybe laugh. "I know it's not a date. How can it be a date if we're not dating?"

With renewed interest on the road ahead, Brendon sits forward and out of Ryan's touch. He wants to turn back. This car was a stupid idea.

He pulls over instead, onto a wide shoulder, kicking up dust all around them. He could get out and walk into the desert, but it's hot, and he thinks Ryan gets the point just sitting in this car on the side of this road.

"You wanna do it in the backseat?" Ryan asks.

Brendon tries not to laugh--he doesn't want to give Ryan that--but then he looks, and Ryan's licking his lips and his top two buttons are undone. He keeps watching while Ryan squeezes through the seats and squirms until he's comfortable, and that's when shoes and hats and shirts start falling over onto the passenger seat.

"Huh." Brendon yanks his t-shirt over his head before making his own way into the back. The backseat is tiny, which makes sense because the car is tiny, but so is Ryan, and Brendon fits right on top of him. He sits back on Ryan's thighs, helping Ryan unbutton his pants. "This isn't dating?"

"I didn't say that." Ryan doesn't get that it's time for sex now. He still wants to talk. "All I said, Brendon, was that you didn't have to ask."

Ryan breaks away from the kiss first. It wasn't Brendon's first and it wasn't his best but it was his most honest, and he can see echoes of that same feeling in Ryan's eyes, can see they're both on the verge of getting spooked.

"C'mon," Ryan lets go of his elbow. "I'll give you a ride home." Ryan still hasn't dropped the skateboard curled under his arm, turns and starts walking instead, his shoulders pulled up past his ears.

Brendon doesn't care, is giddy with the freedom of telling someone, telling Ryan. He hops on his board to skate slowly next to Ryan on the way back to his car. He's taller than Ryan like this and he likes that.

Ryan doesn't try to talk so he doesn't either. The way he figures it, he said his piece earlier, confessed and received his absolution. He licks his lips, tastes Ryan. His blessing, even.

They go slower as they approach the car. There was never any rush, other than the sun starting to sink lower on the horizon, and now Brendon wonders if Ryan has anywhere to go. He can't invite Ryan back to his house, not when it's only his in a temporary way, a play-by-our-rules way.

"Do you want to," he peters off, not really knowing how to finish that. Does Ryan want to what? What can he offer?

"Yes," Ryan sounds relieved, terrified, elated. He sounds like Brendon feels. He's agreeing to something Brendon doesn't quite understand. Or, he doesn't understand until Ryan opens the door to his car--the back door, instead of the front door. He motions Brendon in with little fanfare but Brendon's down, he's sold. He's game.

He crawls in, shoving his board to the floor and turning over so he's stretched out nicely. He smiles when Ryan looks at him. He can do this, he can play this part.

Ryan crawls in after him, over him. "Hi," Ryan smiles down at him, still careful of where he puts his hands, his knees. Ryan's not used to the rockstar tactics and planning, which is nice 'cause Brendon's still the guy that looks over Ryan's shoulder and sees something foreign and complicated.

But Ryan does kiss him again, kiss him first. Ryan licks his lips and ducks down, until their lips are pressed together, but there's still a gap, a separation, between this kiss and the last kiss, between a thank you and a fuck-yeah, let's go for this kiss. Brendon wants that, he wants the fuck-yeah vegan, optimistic, I'm-fucking-going-for-this vibe.

That's not him, though, his idea or this tentative bullshit. He jostles Ryan so he can't hold himself up, works his tongue into Ryan's mouth until he's aching with it, hopes Ryan is aching too. He can't sell it as the real thing, maybe, because he's still not sure what the real thing is, but he has this to give to Ryan, his honesty and his desire.

And Ryan's desiring back, he can feel it in every part of Ryan under his fingers. Ryan's shaking, maybe shivering. Ryan's a slip over him and he's not uncertain but he's shaking and he's responding to Brendon as if this is real and that means it is real, real enough.

"Could I?" he pulls back enough to say and he doesn't know what he's asking but he asks anyway, asks because he's sure he'll be given what he needs to be, just as he has been every time he's needed something of Ryan. Ryan nods, his shivers getting stronger, and Brendon lets his hands roam to where he hadn't dreamed of, to the skin under Ryan's tshirt and the curve of his ass and he surprises himself, groaning when he gropes Ryan and Ryan grunts and gasps for him.

"Wow," he laughs. "Wow, I want to hear that again."

"Shut up." Ryan gasps it, shoving his head down between Brendon's and the back of the seat. They're surrounded by the detritus of Ryan's life, by jewel cases and napkins and crumbs, but he has his hand on Ryan's dick, even though Ryan's jeans, and it's stupidly amazing.

"Ryan," he squeezes gently and Ryan thrusts down, into his hip and whimpering softly in his ear. "Oh god, Ryan," he holds on for dear life as the tempo speeds up.

"It's not their first time doing this," Spencer explains around a mouthful of cashews. It's maybe not something he should be talking about but, whatever, they've known Claudius for a decade, he's ignored bigger secrets than Brendon and Ryan kissing in the recording booth.

Claudius raises an eyebrow and flicks a dial. His expression says volumes but his mouth stays shut.

"They won't ruin anything in there," he tries again.

Claudius shrugs. "Are they going to make you sing again this time?" he asks it lightly, giving Spencer an out.

"Yeeeeeah, probably," he shrugs and scratches his hair. They've made him sing on every album. His protest is largely an act, now, an act he gives because it's expected of him. Sometimes the early traditions are the best, and Ryan's earnest lecture on being in a band where everyone has a voice is less rehearsed and more heart-felt now. "It's good for us, y'know?"

Claudius smirks, not looking at him. "Some compromises are easier than others."

"Hey, now," he stands to stretch. "Brendon's going to argue against drop-c even if Ryan blows him in there." They laugh because it's true, are still chuckling when Brendon appears. He's seriously tousled and grinning his little boy grin, the one he still uses to get himself out of trouble.

"You, uh. Kinda turned the intercom on."

"Oh, did I?" Claudius re-flicks the dial from earlier. "Odd."

"Busted!" he crows. It's no more than they deserve but he knows Ryan won't come out until he gets an all clear. "How about we break until tomorrow?" Brendon's still standing there with his fingers shoved in his pockets, a faintly humored look on his face. Spencer's not fooled. "You're still idiots," he says to Brendon. He reconsiders, flicks the dial and says it again, for Ryan.

Claudius says his goodbyes, clears out quietly and with an amused air, while Brendon wakes Jon up from where he'd fallen asleep on the couch. Jon groans and berates them all for letting him fall asleep wrong. Brendon delights in calling him an old man, withered up and worthless, which provokes a wrestling match on the floor. Idiots.

Ryan's still hiding so he goes to look. Except he's not hiding, when Spencer finds him, he's studying some sheet music, one hand on a keyboard. "Ry?"

"Just a sec," Ryan twitches a shoulder at him, distracted. "Brendon finally got some of this shit written out."

A burst of pride hits him as he watches Ryan work out Brendon's potential melody line. It's easy to joke about Ryan and Brendon's staggeringly inept sexual timing, it's harder to take their hardwon ability to compromise and make it funny, something to brush off or aside.

"Yeah?" he asks. Ryan smiles distractedly at him.

"Yeah," Ryan stops, waves a hand at the keyboard. "Didn't mean to keep us all late." He has a faint blush on his cheeks.

"Oh, Ryan Ross. You have got to be kidding me." Ryan blushes even harder and Spencer just can't let him get away with the polite fiction. "Tracking is over for the day, believe it or not, at least in part because you and our lead singer were screwing around in here."

"Oh, really?" Ryan doesn't look at him. "Well, y'know."

"You two all done in here?" Brendon saves Ryan further teasing, popping in with a distracted air.

"Yep," he nods and pushes away from the wall. "Let's go get Thai food."

"My fingers do hurt," Ryan agrees. He snorts in response. Ryan, jesus.

He pauses by the door, looks back to see Brendon cupping his hand around the back of Ryan's head as he darts in for a kiss. It's not a shocking moment but it's more than he normally sees. Ryan insists they're not paranoid, just discreet, and it makes sense to Spencer. They've spent more time off than on, and more time insisting that what they have doesn't need to be defined than admitting they were either off or on.

It's not jealousy, he doesn't think, that makes him ache faintly as he watches, but it's more complicated than pride.

"Food now?" Jon stumbles into the doorway, rubbing one eye. Spencer slings an arm over his shoulders.

"Food now," he confirms, and guides them away.

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