Ends at the shore

by rossetti, sloganeer

Summary:

If the story's fake, does that mean we're fake, too?

Notes:

If you've been following ljcomm=diedandreborn as we've been writing, you'll know all the bits of this story. Jon and Ryan make music and tell stories. This isn't an epic romance, it's a pieced-together story of two dudes, three albums, a handful of blowjobs, and too many pots of coffee and joints to count.

Jon loves Tom, he really does. Jon loves Tom and he loves touring and if you ask which he loves more, well, he'd never tell. He'd never tell since he doesn't know, doesn't believe you can love a person like you love the road.

Jon loves Tom and he loves touring but he's not ashamed to say he's hiding from both. He hasn't had a chance to play in a while, to play and not worry about re-tuning, to play and not worry about if he should grab a camera to record someone else playing.

He sits halfway down the stairs between a hallway and an emergency door and it doesn't work. He plays as many pieces of Treehouse as he can bear to but it all feels old, simple. Tom's moved on and Jon's moved with him but not quite, not really.

Jon leaves the guitar and sneaks off to find a drink. If he plays his cards right he can usually talk himself into a sixpack at the decent venues.

He's close to desperate when he tries Panic's dressing room. They're always quick to give away alcohol left for them but they're never terribly nice about it.

There's no one there and only one beer and Jon's almost gone, almost escaped, but the door to the bathroom is cracked open just enough for Jon to have the perfect angle to catch an eyeful of Ross's dick and it stops him in his tracks. He's never much worried when he's compared himself but clearly that's 'cause he's never compared himself with Ross.

He can't see everything in the mirror, has to shift from foot to foot to form a comprehensive image in his head. It starts to feel creepy before he's realized he's creeping closer, but at that point he has no deniability so he takes another step.

Ross is staring at himself in the mirror. The angle's not right for him to be watching what Jon's watching, he's staring into his own eyes. He's using something really slick, really shiny, and Jon's fascinated at how Ross never goes past the head, always leaves at least a peek of flushed, bright skin showing.

Jon opens his mouth to quiet his breathing, steps even closer. If Ross catches him he has no clue what he'd say. At this point he'd be happy not to say anything, to replace Ryan's hand with his and watch Ryan bite his own lip until it's swollen and shiny, bite it harder than he's doing now.

Ryan stops and Jon thinks he's been discovered but Ryan doesn't look away from his reflection. He cups his dick close, presses it into his flat belly and Jon nearly chokes when he realizes Ryan is taking pictures on his Sidekick, half hidden from Jon's view. He sways back and forth, trying to put together more of what Ryan is doing, and when he swings back the second time Ryan is looking at him.

Ryan doesn't react but there's no way he doesn't know Jon is there, he's looking into Jon's eyes in the mirror. Jon freezes, completely unable to move until Ryan starts jerking himself again, quicker this time. Ryan bites his lips and lowers his head and looks at Jon through his lashes and Jon steps closer yet again, until he could push open the door but doesn't. He finds an angle where he can see Ryan's face in one eye and Ryan's hand jerking his cock faster and faster in the other and he watches, he watches until Ryan's eyelids start to flutter and then he hisses his approval. Ryan's eyes open wide at that, and he starts to come but Jon's gone, Jon's leaving the beer on the table and he's heading back for the stairwell. He'll prop the emergency door and have a cigarette and re-tune Tom's guitar and try to forget.

-

Jon hates Tom, he really does.

"He told me I'd find you here," Ryan says. He looks so small next to the door, not even big enough to hold it open. He's not looking right at Jon, not making eye contact anyway. Ryan steps into the concrete stairwell, and they both jump when the door falls shut. Loud, and they're separated from the rest of the world.

Ryan waits for Jon to speak.

"Do you smoke?" Jon asks, holding out his stub of a cigarette. "I don't remember."

He still doesn't know, because Ryan doesn't say. He takes the cigarette from Jon's fingers, and when he does, they touch. Jon doesn't jump this time, but a shiver travels down his spine. Ryan looks down at the guitar in Jon's lap while he sucks the smoke down, then turns away to blow it out. He does it three more times until Jon's cigarette is gone.

"Sorry," but Ryan isn't really sorry. He didn't really come here for a smoke, either. He sought Jon out. He had to find Tom and get Tom to give up Jon's location. This was a mission for Ryan.

"You need help with a guitar?" He's giving Ryan a start, an excuse. Anything to cut the tension in this concrete bunker. That was Jon's last smoke.

Ryan shakes his head.

"You need help with--" Jon doesn't want to say, Your dick, so he just shrugs a shoulder in the general direction. Ryan's wearing pants now, which makes this easier. Then Jon's glance flicks over to the bulge of Ryan's Sidekick in his front pocket, and the flush of memory comes back. The pictures are still on there.

"Do you need help, Jon?" His voice is sure of itself, even as Ryan's hands clasp and clench before he tucks them in and crosses his arms. He leans back on the bare grey wall. He's waiting for Jon again. He's waiting for Jon to make the move he couldn't back in Panic's dressing room.

Jon's careful when he sets Tom's guitar aside. He lays it on the ground, too afraid that if he props it up, it'll be forgotten and fall down the stairs. Jon keeps his feet planted. He touches himself outside his jeans first, not sure about this or where Ryan's decided to spring the moment on him. There's a window in the door, stairs going up and down, and too many bands and associated crew running around the venue for Jon's liking.

He should have done this in the dressing room when he had the chance. Ryan was ready. He wanted it, Jon thought. He wanted it, Jon knows, now.

There's no doubt what Ryan is offering. Not his hand or his mouth, but his presence. He's watching Jon's hips moving, and he must see Jon's mouth fall open. Ryan must see it all because there's nowhere for Jon to hide here. He can't pretend this isn't happening.

So he opens his jeans, and he pushes them down until they pull tight on his thighs, but he can get his hand all the way around his cock and pull it up into the cool air. Everything crackles, with want and fear. It's so loud, except no one's said a word.

Jon goes fast, tugging hard, remembering how Ryan did it in the mirror, and mimicking those moves. He usually likes long long pulls that can drag on forever, but this time Jon pays extra attention to the head, twisting his hand and rubbing his rough palm over the sticky tip. It speeds everything up, Jon's hips, his breathes, and when he looks up through his fluttering lashes, he sees what it does for Ryan, too.

He's stepped away from the wall and towards Jon, careful, too, of the guitar, and that makes Jon smile like crazy when he finally comes, into the cup of Ryan's hand reaching out.

-

Ryan uses cold cream to take the makeup off. It works better than anything else, particularly on the liquid eyeliner, and he uses it after he showers now, too.

"Beard burn," Brendon says, pointing both fingers at Ryan's reflection.

"No." He twists up out of his chair, shaking off Brendon's octopus arms. "It's the water in this city. And the soap in this hotel."

"It's the kissing Jon Walker on other people's buses."

"Who's been telling you lies?"

Brendon shrugs. He follows Ryan out of the bathroom and back into their room. He switched their bags and taken Ryan's bed, so Ryan switches back. Flipping on the TV and flopping onto the nearest empty space, Brendon doesn't seem to care where he's spending his night.

It's just one night in Indianapolis, but Ryan unpacks, hanging shirts in the closet and using the drawers for his pants. This whole tour is a string of just one nights, and this small sense of order Ryan can hold for himself carries him in to the next.

He dresses in the bathroom while Brendon narrates infomercials on mute.

"This guy's really dumb, Ryan. Come see him try to flip an omelet."

One more check in the mirror, and Brendon's right, Ryan can see it there. A little red, but not as much as yesterday, and it'll be gone by tomorrow. Ryan's going out with Spencer tonight, and probably Brendon, and Zack, ten paces behind, and he might not see Jon at all. They're going to hear some music, because it's odd how little Ryan gets to do that on a great big rock and roll tour.

Spencer's knocking when Ryan steps out, and he probably has been. Brendon's pressed his ear to the door. He can't hold in the laughter.

Ryan reaches around and through, Brendon ducks and dodges. Despite the dance, someone finally gets the door open. From the look on Spencer's face, Ryan wouldn't be surprised if he did it with his mind. "Brendon, why do you taunt him?"

His smile is defiant in front of Spencer. "Because he's so easy." The last word goes up in a little song.

"I've changed my mind; he can't come." Spencer grabs Ryan's hand and drags him out the door, but Brendon's not far behind. They come to a silent truce in the elevator, and Ryan knows it's going to be a good night.

Brendon tells the lobby that luck will be a lady tonight, and he tells the doorman that ladies don't blow on other men's dice, and when they're in the line outside the club, and he's telling the girls in front of them that luck can be a gentleman, too, a voice in the crowd joins him.

"Oh," Spencer groans, "you're kidding me."

Jon and Brendon do a doubles act the rest of their wait in line, and then they dance inside. Jon had looked back for Ryan, but he'd nodded over at Spencer because he made a promise he wouldn't lose his best friend in Indianapolis.

When they come back around on the dancefloor, though, Spencer is talking to the merch girl about the band, so Ryan reaches out and pulls Jon down into his booth. "I didn't think I'd see you the rest of the night."

"It is treacherous, true," Jon pants in his ear. "A long and arduous journey home."

"Enough talking," Ryan says, and Jon agrees. Jon's even the one to lean in first and crash their lips together, but it might just be him losing his balance. Ryan can't hold him up, so he lets himself fall onto the seat and he lets Jon kiss him under the table. Jon is so messy, sweating already, and scratching his way across Ryan's cheek to bite his ear, and Ryan wriggles underneath him, but he doesn't try to get away.

-

"This is like the oldest cliché in the book," is how Ryan greets Jon at the airport. "Replacing our drummer, for god's sake? Everyone's going to say we're just copying MCR." Ryan flips his sunglasses down from his forehead, revealing an even more asymmetrical haircut than Jon remembered.

Jon carefully tucks his iPod away into his backpack while he considers what to say. "Well, uh," is as far as he gets before Ryan waves one hand at him dismissively.

"Not your issue." Ryan shrugs. "Let's go." Jon follows along, glad he only packed a backpack.

"Yo!" Spencer greets him from behind the wheel. "You ready to practice? 'Cause we're heading straight to the practice space."

"We have provisions," Brendon waves from the passenger's seat as he and Ryan crawl in. "And we're going to need 'em."

"Yeah?" he smiles. He's pretty nervous but trying not to show it. These guys called him, after all.

They do have a bag of provisions, but they stop at a 7-Eleven on the way. He and Spencer debate the merits of different Slurpee flavors -- Spencer is dead wrong that banana is worth trying -- and they stock up on every Cheeto product possible. It starts to feel comfortable again, he starts to recognize the dudes he liked on tour.

But when they get to the studio it gets weird again.

"So, Brent took his kit with him," Ryan nudges the kick drum with his toe. "But we got this one. If it doesn't work, well," Ryan's eyes cut to Spencer.

"It'll work," he says. "I'll make it work." He smiles but it feels too stretched out, possibly lopsided. Brendon smiles back.

He takes the kit completely apart and puts it all back together, how he likes it. It takes a while. Spencer stays and chats with him. He learns that Spencer is really good at throwing Cheetos up and catching them in his mouth midair.

Ryan comes and goes a few times, his expression progressively tighter and tighter. "I'm almost done," he offers the third time Ryan wanders in.

"It's cool," Ryan tries to smile, he thinks. It's pretty unimpressive.

They play. It doesn't go very well. In fact, when they start, well, it's pretty bad. As much as he's listened to their songs on repeat on his iPod they're still complex songs, still full of time changes.

Ryan never takes the mistakes out on him. He'll tell Jon what he should be doing, but his arguments are always with Brendon or Spencer.

It gets hot. It gets late. They play "Lying" more times than he's ever listened to it, total, and he's about ready to ask if he needs to request a bathroom pass when Spencer calls a time out.

He's surprised when Ryan joins him outside, his own cigarettes in hand. "I thought you didn't smoke."

Ryan shrugs. "Filthy habit," he says as he lights up. He stays on the other side of the concrete path.

Jon grunts in response, not knowing how to read this Ryan. This Ryan has an infinite number of edges and Jon's not into cutting himself open just to watch himself bleed. He's onto his second before either of them speak again.

"I'm always a little happier when Orion's watching over us." Ryan pulled off his gloves about halfway through the cigarette. He doesn't look like he remembers there's anything lit in his fingers, staring raptly into the sky.

Jon doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know any constellations. He knows what the Big Dipper is supposed to look like but he's never been able to find it in the sky. But he looks up. "I thought there'd be more light pollution."

"Ha," Ryan drops the cigarette, scuffles over it as he walks over to Jon. He gets right up into Jon's face. He's worried Ryan's about to tell him he's gone, it's not working, when Ryan kisses him.

He doesn't kiss back, doesn't open his mouth, doesn't respond. He doesn't know how, but this feels like another of Ryan's tests. Ryan's not touching him anywhere, doesn't push for access to Jon's mouth. When he pulls back, he doesn't look relieved or knowing. He just looks tired.

"C'mon, one more hour," Ryan orders, turning to go inside.

"Ryan?" he wonders.

"I just had to check." Ryan opens the door. The light that spills out breaks the silence between them and the stars.

-

"I like the middle bunk," Ryan tells him seriously, as if he's imparting one of the truths of the universe. It's funny, but Jon doesn't think Ryan would appreciate him laughing so he damps down on the smile he can feel stretching across his face.

Jon can sleep anywhere, especially anywhere on a bus. "OK." He throws his bag on the bunk over Ryan's. "Is this good for me?"

"Yeah," Ryan's eyes flick up to his bag. He still has last night's eyeliner smudged heavily around his eyes, his hair is a wild bird's nest, completing the look Jon recognizes from Pete. "Yeah, you're above me."

"Yeah," he doesn't know what else to say that doesn't involve snickering. It's not his place, yet, to do what he wants, but he's given Ryan an out. It's Ryan's place to say something, if this isn't OK. Or Ryan will get Spencer to ask him to move, he guesses, but they're here, and standing across from each other, and Ryan is looking him in the eye. He figures this is fine.

Ryan turns away from him, unzips his bag, pulls out a journal and his iPod. "Do you have anything you like to put up?" Ryan fiddles with his notebook, flips through it a few times, unevenly. Jon can see the postcards and pictures inside, tacky with tape and slowing down the process. Jon wonders if he should go, let Ryan nestle into his bunk on his own.

"Naw," he replies honestly. Ryan keeps flipping through the book, the set of his shoulders awkward, so he keeps talking. "I like to collect things through the tour, y'know?" He pulls his curtain open as far as it'll go. "It's like a blank slate up there, I'll add postcards and photos and whatever."

Ryan's stopped fidgeting, is looking at him seriously. "Yeah?"

"I'll make a memory of this tour," he offers, and Ryan smiles, a slow, careful smile.

"That sounds good," Ryan shoves his journal back in his bag, picks up his iPod. "What are you listening to?"

It feels like a test, but Ryan doesn't respond like it's one. He's not listening to a lot right now, but he has a lot on his iPod. He pulls it out to show Ryan his OC playlist. "It's not the best music, but it makes me think of my favorite parts of the show."

Ryan's eyebrows have disappeared into his fringe. "Is it really a good show?" he asks, tentatively.

"Well," he shoves his hand through his hair. "Yes and no?"

"It's just melodrama, right?" and there, now he can hear the disdain Ryan's holding back. Not that Jon's seen him watch anything much better with regularity, but Jon knows their music, knows that Ryan could take the opportunity to judge.

"Naw," he smiles easily. "It's more than that, but it's like anything, you get out of it what you want to get out of it. It's fun, and it's good, and sometimes it's bad."

Ryan takes a step back, discomfort written across his face. "Sorry."

He doesn't want to push, not too far, not yet, but he can stlll ask, "for what?" Ryan shrugs, his part of the conversation done.

"You know." Ryan shrugs again, and Jon forces himself to swallow down his irritation, reminds himself that Ryan's nineteen and the creative lynchpin of his band.

"It's cool," he says, meaning it. Ryan smiles, but not at him, vaguely at Jon's bunk instead.

"Cool, yeah." Ryan straightens his shoulders, pulls a hoodie out of his bag. "Let's go find Spencer," he says, turning toward the front of the bus. He could brush by Jon, but he doesn't, rests one large hand on Jon's arm instead. "C'mon," Ryan smiles at him this time, really at him. Jon smiles back and turns, follows Ryan to where Brendon and Spencer are already trying to set up Guitar Hero on the flatscreen.

-

Ryan looks bone dry from what Jon can see, even under three layers of costume. Jon is close to sopping wet, drenched in sweat and a touch of beer -- a tiny bit, really, due to a stupid accident on his part (swigging during one of Brendon's random jokes, cue spit-take) -- and Ryan is completely unsweaty, shrugging out of his button-down without a pit stain in sight, and he's not even wearing anything under it.

"How do you do that?" he can't help but ask.

"What?" Ryan turns just his torso, skin stretching tight across his shoulders and belly. Jon can't help but peek.

"Your," he waves in the direction of Ryan's wardrobe. "You barely need them washed."

Ryan smiles a haunted smile. "Brendon and I balance each other out." He turns back, reaches for his tshirt.

"No, no," his words are enough to stop Ryan but he also finds himself with a hand on Ryan's side. He can feel two of Ryan's ribs under his fingers, where they're spread out. Ryan's skin is warm and dry, soft under his fingertips -- Jon stops himself when he realizes he's been petting Ryan's side. "Uh," he stops running his fingers over Ryan's skin, stops memorizing the hills and valleys, but doesn't remove his hand.

Ryan's eyes are closed, his breathing shallow. Jon fits his other hand on Ryan's other side, sweeps his thumbs in to meet near the middle, in the hollow under Ryan's ribcage. Ryan's breathing picks up as Jon runs his hands downward, drags along the skin until his thumbs settle over Ryan's hipbones. He pauses there, waiting to see if Ryan stops him.

Ryan doesn't stop him.

Jon digs into Ryan's hipbones for a brief second before tracing his path back, until his hands are curved around Ryan's ribs, thumbs brushing in the dip under where they meet. "You're so tiny," he whispers, and Ryan's breathing speeds up. He steps closer, gets a better angle to reach further around Ryan on his next sweep. The tips of his middle fingers meet in the center of the dip in Ryan's lower back, the only place Jon's felt that's sweaty. Jon can't help but notice that Ryan's nipples are hard. He doesn't say anything but he licks his lips, acknowledges to himself that he wants to say something.

Jon switches from touching with the pads of his fingers to scratching with his nails on the next sweep and Ryan's head falls back, his angular jawline surprisingly soft from this viewpoint. Jon doesn't stop himself from leaning in to bite Ryan's Adam's apple, but he switches to sucking softly right away, knowing somehow that Ryan's not looking for markings.

When Ryan makes a noise he feels it under his lips. He sucks harder, but backs off right away. He can feel the hitches in Ryan's breathe under his lips when he runs his nails up Ryan's back.

Ryan hasn't laid a hand on him and Jon knows more than enough to know this is a bad idea. But he doesn't want to stop abruptly, make this a thing he's pulling back from, so he gradually decreases what he's doing, pulling back from sucking at Ryan's skin to just pressing his lips into it, switching back from using his nails to the pads of his fingers. He pulls back in stages, until he's left with his hands splayed wide over Ryan's ribcage. He stares at his fingers and wills himself to pull his hands back, break the connection.

He doesn't want to.

"So, yeah," Ryan speaks with his eyes closed. "I sweat less so Brendon can sweat more."

"Yeah," he lets go. "Yeah, of course."

-

Jon's acting weird. He's always weird, to be fair, but, before, Ryan could write it off as the effects of the road, being the new kid, Brendon's bad influence. That thing after the show was new. That's what Ryan tells Spencer in the back lounge as the bus drives through the night.

"Did you guys kiss?" Spencer asks.

"I don't think so." Ryan shakes his head, rubbing his cheek against Spencer's shoulder. Spencer has the remote, but he's just flipping channels, really. The TV is muted. Spencer's other hand is on Ryan's head, and the touch is so different.

After the show, and barely off the stage, Ryan can still hear the fans. He can still hear the feedback when Jon touches him.

Here, on the bus, Spencer combs Ryan's damp hair with his fingers. He follows it with a smack. "You're such a loser." Then he wraps his arm around Ryan's shoulder and pulls him in closer. Ryan knows this. This makes sense.

Jon doesn't. Not yet. But Ryan keeps poking and Jon pokes back, and they circle each other, and there's a familiar outline Ryan recognises. He's working at filling it in.

Tonight, Jon caught him off-guard. That's what Ryan tells Spencer before Spencer decides he's had enough.

"I'm not helping you bang our bass player."

Ryan pushes him away. "Hey!"

"I'm sorry." He throws up his hands. "It's just that I can see where this conversation is heading. I'm not ready for it to head there yet."

"Well, if you have to know, I'm not either."

"Good."

Ryan narrows his eyes. Spencer was the last to say yes to Jon, but he came around quickly. He may not go for the piggybacks or the meandering jam sessions, but they get along. Ryan hasn't seen anything to suggest otherwise.

"But." Ryan waits for Spencer to look over. "You'd be OK if we did, right?"

"If Jon wants to take you off my hands, I'd be ecstatic." Spencer pulls him back in and Ryan only resists a little. He's still keyed up from the show, or Jon, at least. He can feel it in his fingers and his knees and just under the skin.

Spencer turns the sound up because they're done talking. Ryan closes his eyes, hums when Spencer's fingers crawl back up to his head. He slips down into Spencer's lap, and he must sleep, because it's Jon's lap when Ryan wakes up.

"Oh. Hi."

"Hi." Jon gives him a tired smile. "I came back to watch some informercials, and Spencer told me I had to take over."

"He's very demanding, isn't he?" Ryan stretches and rolls over to sit up on his knees. He scrubs his scalp, trying to fix his hair, stuck up on one side. Jon looks away, down at his hands, when Ryan catches his staring.

"Was that weird?" Jon asks. "After the show?"

"Yeah, but," Ryan shrugs. "I like weird." Jon smiles at that. "In case you haven't noticed." He sits back against the arm of the couch and digs his toes under Jon's thigh. It makes him squirm and jump, move out of the way, then back in Ryan's space.

"Spencer also told me I have to kiss you." His breath is warm under Ryan's chin. "He told me you never make the first move."

Ryan's all ready to be indignant and explain that Spencer doesn't know what he's talking about and how this band is where it is because Ryan made the first move, but it's lost in the slide of Jon's mouth, the rough feel of his tongue, and the beat beat beat of his heart under Ryan's hand.

-

Jon carries the camera on Ryan's first official Jon Walker Tour of Chicago. It's not like he hasn't seen everything already. Jon wants him to taste the best pizza in the world, which Ryan has tasted, and see Navy Pier, which Ryan has seen. He's seen the photographs, too, but Jon takes more. He takes some of Ryan standing in front of culturally significant things, statues, trees, then some of the two of them together. Whether they get any of the culturally significant things in the background, Ryan doesn't know. Jon won't show him.

"I know what the shot looks like," he tells Ryan.

"You're just that good?"

Jon raises his chin. "I don't need to have the camera in my hands to see the shot." Ryan stares at the camera in Jon's hands, strap around his neck. "Fine."

"Hey." Ryan steps forward. He puts a foot between Jon's. It's a surprisingly warm January day in Chicago and there are a lot of people at the Pier, eating junk food, yelling at their kids, and Ryan wants to kiss Jon, but he won't. Not here.

They stand together like that, Jon's back against the railing and Ryan between his thighs. He's watching Jon's hands instead of his face. He's waiting for Jon to take another picture.

"You wore this for my camera, didn't you?" With his head, Jon is gesturing to the medallion around Ryan's neck. It was on a gold chain when he bought it, but Spencer teased him, mercilessly, until Ryan swapped it for a thin black cord. He just liked the shape.

He thought Jon might like the way it shone in the sun.

He leads Jon away from the rail. Jon follows, and Ryan likes that. "I don't need to see your photos."

"But you want to."

"But I don't need to."

Jon cuts their tour short. He sits across from Ryan on the El--more pictures and a new roll of film. Ryan watches Chicago outside the window. He could pretend he doesn't know what Jon is doing, that's not the point, really. Jon likes to take the photos; Ryan likes to have the photos taken.

Back at the apartment, Ryan walks ahead, shedding his hat, his scarf, his coat, his jacket. The shoes and pants come off in the living room. Ryan sits on the couch in his briefs, waiting for Jon to catch up. He rubs his knees warm and watches Jon fumble and fall in the tangle of his jeans.

"I'm fine. No problem." He crawls over to Ryan, naked, holding up his camera for one last picture and Ryan can't hold back his smile. "That's the one," Jon tells him in the moment before they kiss.

Hands free now, Jon dives in. He's tactile, but always so gentle with Ryan. Ryan likes it, he won't lie, and he knows it surprises Jon every time when he doesn't break. He likes Jon on top, on the couch, Jon's lips firm and insistent and leading this kiss. Not every Jon Walker Tour of Chicago ends like this, only the official ones.

"Wait. Hold that. Right there." Jon pops up. Ryan turns on his side and rests his head on his arms to watch. At his feet, Jon is playing with his camera again. He balances it on the arm of the couch, glancing back at Ryan again and again and making adjustments. His smile goes stupid when he knows that Ryan knows what he's doing.

"Self-portrait of the artist," Ryan says.

Jon falls back beside him. "With boy," he adds.

When they kiss, Ryan keeps his hands off Jon's face. He wants the camera to see everything. He doesn't hear the camera click, he doesn't know what part of their kiss it caught, Jon pulling Ryan's lip in his teeth or Ryan rubbing his nose in Jon's beard. He hopes the camera caught it all.

-

Ryan closes the book on his lap with loud thump. "I want to see Lake Michigan." He drops the large, glossy photo book back on the coffee table.

Jon looks up from photographing Clover and Dylan. They're snuggled together on a recliner. Every time one of them moves the other readjusts, they just keep ending up curled around each other even further. It's adorable, he wants a billion pictures, one to capture every small movement. "OK."

Ryan stands and puts his jacket on.

"You mean now?" Clover yawns and he zooms in closer, the hard click-click-click not phasing her, one ear twitching away from him while her tail flicks toward him.

"Yes," Ryan says firmly, but he sits again, watches quietly while Jon switches lenses and finds a new angle.

"Any particular part of Lake Michigan?" he wonders after he switches on the blue filter. His cats look good on a blue filter, he knows this to be true.

"Uh," Ryan scratches his head. "All of it? How big is it?"

"It's pretty big." He caps the lens and rolls over, noticing the dust bunnies under the couch on the way. "Any particular reason right now?" He folds his hands over his stomach, decent protection against cat claws. Dylan seems to like kneading his stomach when it's exposed, and sure enough he jumps down shortly after Jon settles on his back.

"I want to see Chicago," Ryan shrugs.

"Ryan, take off your jacket," Jon suggests, curling one finger around Dylan's paws. "Take off your jacket, loosen your tie, smoke another bowl and chill the fuck out."

Ryan shrugs obligingly out of his jacket, draping it carefully over the back of the couch. He's smirking at Jon but not saying anything. He loosens his tie slowly, tugging gently and making small adjustments. If Jon didn't know better, he'd guess Ryan were looking in a mirror. He keeps flexing his fingers, pulling the lip of his collar down, smoothing the now-messy tie knot. "I just don't want to miss anything," Ryan mutters as he unbuttons his top button.

"You won't," he promises. He feels lucky he has Dylan on his belly, something to focus on other than Ryan. Dylan's fur is soft and short under his fingers, a cloud of hair gathered around his knuckles. He needs to brush him.

Ryan picks up the pipe on the table and takes two quick hits. He tries to offer it to Jon but the angle is too awkward, he doesn't want to shove the creature comfort off. He shakes his head, pointing at Dylan, but Ryan sees the opportunity. After the next hit he leans over and breathes the smoke out at Jon. There's too much room for it to be fully effective.

Ryan slides off of the couch and onto the floor, nearly bringing the couch cushion with him. "Careful," he chuckles. Ryan gives him a this is serious business look and tokes again. This time he doesn't just get close, he nudges Jon's mouth open with his nose and presses his open lips softly to Jon's. "That's good," he whispers up when Ryan pulls back. Ryan hasn't gone far, is staring at Jon with wide eyes.

"Yeah," Ryan whispers. "Here," he does it again, this time slipping the tip of his tongue along Jon's lower lip. Jon's starting to feel tingly and stretched out from the weed. It's nice, a warm cat in his hands and Ryan pressing slow pot kisses into his mouth.

"We're on vacation," he tells Ryan. It's very important, now, to make sure Ryan knows. "We don't have to go anywhere."

"I know," Ryan kisses him for real this time, no smoke in his mouth. "But I wanted to see what you love about this city."

"Lake Michigan probably isn't one of those things," he admits, arching up to capture Ryan's mouth before Ryan can lean down to him. "I like this better."

-

When Ryan turns twenty he doesn't want a party. He doesn't want anything.

They're in New York getting ready for the VMAs, trying on clothes they get to keep for nothing more than a photograph. Jon never knew it worked like this, that simply showing up could get them so much.

Jon was expecting some type of party, something unofficial maybe, a get together in a room at the hotel if nothing else, but Ryan doesn't want anything. He doesn't want a party, official or no, and he doesn't want to drink, that's for damn sure.

Ryan's eyes have been hard and set all month, harder than even his mouth and Jon can't even remember what a real smile looks like on Ryan. He figures it's the only way Ryan's keeping back whatever he's feeling in the wake of his father's death, and he knows that Ryan wasn't feeling particularly settled before that terrible night.

He knows he doesn't know Ryan well enough to know what emotions Ryan is hiding but he also knows that he can hang out with Ryan, listen to music with him, and it doesn't hurt either of them. So he doesn't care that Ryan doesn't want a party, doesn't want anything, he's going to have his beer and watch some baseball and sit next to Ryan while Ryan sews something onto his shirt. He can do that and not make it weird, he know he can.

He doesn't say a word as it gets later, closer to Ryan's birthday. He watches the clock tick over and opens another beer, only his second. The game's over and they're watching some late night crap but he doesn't want to shut Ryan out by putting on his headphones.

Late, later, Ryan throws the shirt onto the floor and covers his eyes with his hands. Jon moves over to Ryan's bed but doesn't say anything. Ryan's fierce all the time but fiercer when he's backed into a corner.

"I never thought I'd make it past nineteen," Ryan's saying it to himself but he's saying it for Jon. "I didn't," Ryan sobs and he can't not touch Ryan but Ryan's so tense, so unapproachable.

"Hey, hey," he touches Ryan's knee as softly as he can. "Everyone has that age." He swallows when Ryan curves towards him. "For instance, I'm not going to make it past twenty three." Ryan sobs again but it's half choked-back laughter, too. With Ryan curving toward him he stops looking unapproachable and starts looking just fragile and that Jon can touch, that Jon can do something about.

Ryan gives under the slightest pressure, lets Jon arrange him so they're curled together imperfectly. Ryan doesn't try to hide his tears or fight them. The leak out and Jon brushes them away every once in a while. They don't talk but Jon doesn't stop moving, doesn't stop touching. Ryan calms underneath his hands and then starts touching back, feeling the outline of Jon's collar bone, the width of his hips, the expanse of his shoulders.

It moves from being affirming to being arousing before he's quite figured out what's going on. Ryan knows, he can see it in the sweep of his eyelash and the jut of his lower lip. Ryan's the one to change it and Jon can't, won't say no. Ryan licks a line of tiny, precise kitten licks up from Jon's neck, giving him time to think about it, just enough time for him to realize he's in this with Ryan wherever it goes.

Ryan's kiss is strangely familiar. It's not like kissing someone he's never kissed before. He remembers Ryan's test kiss from all those months ago but that's nowhere near the same galaxy as this kiss, this desperate kiss Ryan's giving him and taking from him.

Jon can tell when Ryan gets confident in the kissing, when Ryan realizes he's in control. He pushes Jon's shirt up and scratches at his belly and smiles into the kiss when Jon jumps.

Jon gets to taste, to feel Ryan's smile and that's more than enough for him. Ryan gets them naked faster than Jon thought he would and nudges Jon up the bed, until he's sitting up with Ryan balanced over him.

Ryan licks his palm as he looks into Jon's eyes. Jon licks his lips and nods and licks Ryan's other palm when Ryan offers it to him. Ryan leaves it up after he thinks he's finished so he licks between Ryan's fingers, keeps licking as Ryan fits his other hand around both their dicks. Ryan smiles defiantly at him and switches hands, offering Jon the first as he wraps the slicker one around them. He rocks up into Ryan and licks, lowering his head so he doesn't have to look in Ryan's eyes.

Ryan switches one more time, clearly daring Jon again, and then gets down to it when Jon doesn't say anything. He jerks them roughly, awkwardly, at times pausing to thrust, leaving Jon with one-sided sensation that's amazing in its own way.

Just before he comes Ryan gets a weird look on his face. Jon leans forward to kiss him, closing the space between them and changing the angle. He can't see it but he feels it when Ryan's ready, feels it in the change in Ryan's kiss and the warmth spreading up his chest. Ryan slumps into him then tries to straighten himself, tries to pull his weight off of Jon. He laughs and pulls Ryan closer, squeezes Ryan's ass 'cause he can. Ryan looks awkward perched above him but Jon ignores it, closes his other hand over Ryan's and squeezes Ryan's lax grip tighter, until it's what he needs to finish, Ryan on his tongue and Ryan over him and Ryan gripping him. Ryan smiles tentatively at him when they're done and Jon laughs. "Here's to twenty," he says giddily.

-

Ryan's giving him a look across the elevator. Brendon's half-asleep and on Spencer's shoulder. Spencer's on his phone. Jon's just trying to keep himself together.

So they haven't actually talked about it, but Jon knows Ryan wants to try. Himself, he's pretty happy with the blowjobs and the rubbing against each other and Ryan's hands. Ryan's hands are excellent, long-fingered, callused just right, a little cold, but never sweaty, and Jon could be happy the rest of his life if he never got anything more than a handjob from Ryan Ross.

Obviously, Ryan's looking for something more or else he wouldn't be teasing Jon with the room key over his shoulder. Jon is supposed to room with Brendon tonight. He's waiting with Spencer when Jon finds his way back down the hall to his own door.

"I can take him," Spencer says. "Gimme the key."

"Are you sure?" Jon wants to be sure. "I know you had him last hotel." He doesn't want a cranky Spencer on their hands tomorrow morning.

"Just go already." Spencer's already cranky, trying to keep Brendon on his feet and get the door unlocked.

Jon looks at Brendon, who beams back. He might be half drunk, too. "You're good, buddy?" Brendon's hugs are the best, and Jon doesn't need any more answer than that.

"I'm gone!" he announces to Spencer and Brendon and the whole hotel. Maybe they're all half drunk. The tour's only half over. They're kind of home and kind of on the road, passing through Vegas on their way out west. They could have camped out at someone's house, but the hotel brings them breakfast in bed. The hotel has a nice big bed that he and Ryan can share and a shower for later. They have a room, and Ryan's left the door unlocked.

Jon steps in, quietly, but he's not expecting Ryan to be asleep. He's hoping he didn't read that look wrong.

"I was waiting," Ryan says, coming naked out of the bathroom. Jon's turned to lock the door and Ryan steps up behind him, slipping his fingers under and pulling Jon's shirt off.

"Impatient?" Jon asks.

Ryan kisses the back of his neck and hums a yes. Jon lets him do the undressing, then the guiding to bed. He pushes Jon face first into the pillows, and Jon laughs a little, bouncing.

"You have plans," he says. He watches Ryan over his shoulder, leaning over his satchel on the other bed. Ryan holds up a brand new bottle of lube and an unopened box of condoms. "You do have plans." Jon rolls over, props himself up on his elbows.

"I know we haven't talked about it." Ryan climbs up on the bed, putting himself between Jon's knees and the lube and condoms on the pillow. "But have you thought about it?"

"I guess," Jon admits. Sometimes, when he's in the shower or his bunk and he needs something quick to get him off, Ryan's ass is a go-to fantasy. But Jon already knows, can see in Ryan's eyes, that it's the other way around tonight. It's Jon's ass that Ryan is asking for. "OK," he says. "Let's try it."

Ryan leans forward with a quick peck for Jon, then guides him onto his belly with a hand on his shoulder. Ryan kisses the back of his neck again, like earlier, only now it's coupled with those excellent hands running up and down his sides, just hard enough that it doesn't tickle. It's all pleasure, running through his skin and straight to his cock.

Jon keeps his face shoved in the pillow. He doesn't want to watch; he doesn't want to come, not yet. He listens to the sounds of Ryan ripping open the condom, popping the lube. It's cold. Jon jumps, and Ryan apologises. He keeps muttering, Sorry, sorry, when he bumps his knee with Jon's and when he pushes his finger in too far, too fast.

It's not good at all, but Jon can't say it. After Ryan finishes, it even hurts when he pulls out.

"Maybe we can try it again?"

Jon nods. He stares up at the ceiling and lets Ryan curl in close. He lets Ryan kiss him and touch him, and Jon can finally come.

-

Jon stops carrying his camera after Shane joins them full-time on tour. He doesn't ask to use Shane's, either, it makes Ryan suspicious when he notices, which isn't for a while. Jon doesn't seem to care about Shane taking photo or video of him, like he has with other people. He'll use Shane's camera if Shane asks him to or even if he casually hands it over, but he doesn't carry his old, beat up camera case with him everywhere. Jon stops meticulously cleaning his lenses after he's past his munchie phase but not onto his let's-play-music-now! phase.

It takes Ryan a few searches through the bus to even find the road-worn, roughed-up case, far older than the glossy DSLR Jon purchased after his second or third official Panic paycheck. It's shoved under Dan's bunk and under a layer of dirty clothing. Ryan knows the story of how Jon found it at an Army/Navy surplus in downtown Chicago, knows how the story's changed every time Jon's told it, thinks about how Jon's stories have changed as he unsnaps the clips.

It takes him a few tries to get the lens attached to the body of the camera, and then it feels too heavy in his hands, like he might drop it if the bus takes a corner too quickly, so he hides it away in his bag, decides to practice only when he has sure footing.

He takes it out when Jon's not around, practices, takes endless photos of the bus as he figures out what all the buttons do, what the different focal lengths mean. At first he deletes every photo right after he takes it, makes sure there's no sign he's been using the camera, just in case Jon finds it. But Jon's not looking, so he doesn't find out.

Ryan gets braver, taking photos where Jon might find him, leaving them all on the camera. They're not great photos, not anything he wants to see if Jon likes. But he's comfortable with Jon's camera, comfortable enough to finally take it out one day and shoot Jon while he's asleep. And then after he does it once, he does it again.

He ends up with a whole series of photos of Jon asleep, sometimes sleeping restfully, handsomely, sometimes not. In a few Jon looks downright ugly, the shadows under his eyes exaggerated.

Of course it's when he's trying to get the series off the camera that Jon finds him. He needs Jon's help, anyway, he was going to find him, show him what he's been doing, but it feels worse to get caught.

"That's me," Jon says in a mildly surprised tone, coming back to their hotel room after Ryan thought he'd left for an interview.

"Yeah," he turns awkwardly in his chair, pulling one knee up to his chest.

"Tell me about it later?" Jon digs through his bag, pulls out a hoodie.

"Sure," he waves goodbye, puts the card back into the camera.

They don't, though, not really. Jon browses through his photos once, smiling but not commenting. He shows Ryan his favorite photography sites, says the camera is Ryan's to use whenever he wants.

It's not what Ryan was expecting, what he wants. So he starts getting obnoxious about it. He pulls the camera out whenever he's around Jon. He emails Jon his favorite photos, as long as they're not of Jon.

Jon takes it all with relative good humor until the day he won't let go of the camera even after they're in bed. Ryan wants to get a photograph of the way Jon folds his hands over his heart when he sleeps on his back, but Jon balks since they're naked.

"I don't," Jon folds his arms under his head, sighs noisily. He hasn't tried to take the camera from Ryan, has just asked him to stop. "You know I don't like being the subject."

"But you've stopped being the artist." He holds the camera up to his chest, over his heart, aims the lens at Jon, Jon stretched out under him and relaxed from two joints and a delightfully slow blowjob.

"I don't need to," Jon stretches slightly, flexing his biceps and arching his back. Ryan can't help but take the photo, hopes he captures the warmness of the light from the bedside lamp.

He looks at it right away, though he'd intended to wait. "You know exactly what the camera is seeing," he tells Jon. "You made the shot better." He flips back to the one before, notes how it's not bad, but not as good as the one Jon was expecting.

"I don't need to have the camera in my hands to see the shot," Jon says it like he's just now realized it's true. Ryan clicks the camera off and leans down to kiss him.

-

His bunk is papered by the end of the tour. Chicago postcards from his brothers and photos from Tom, so he doesn't forget home. But, mostly, it's pieces of the tour Jon puts up on his walls. He picks these things up, napkins from that BBQ place with the awesome coleslaw, a flyer for a one-man show called !, and the crossword from a Boston newspaper. This is what Jon's first tour with the band looks like.

He picks up pieces of Ryan, too. Not only the jackets and socks and hats he leaves in Jon's bunk, but the other pieces Ryan shows him. He drew a hangman on that napkin from that BBQ and stumped Jon with the word "flustered," while they waited for their food. On the back of that flyer, Ryan wrote the first scene to his own one-man show called !. He and Ryan did that crossword together, in the dressing room. It was the first time Jon gave in and let Ryan do a little eyeliner.

Jon is careful taking his souvenirs off the wall. He doesn't need them, really, to remember, but he likes holding something in his hand and calling it a memory.

When Ryan walks in, he stops at Jon's bunk. His bunk is right below, but he's looking up at Jon. He rests his hands on Jon's feet and lets the flip flops fall, finally, to the floor. Jon whispers, C'mon, and Ryan gets up in the bunk with him, pulling the curtain back all the way to sit next to Jon, both their feet dangling over the edge now.

"Did we ever get 34 across?"

Jon nods. He passes Ryan the crossword. "I asked Spencer."

"Cheater."

Jon takes the worn newsprint back and slips it into a Spin magazine from November. Ryan leans back, and Jon thinks he's trying to start something. Jon's all for that, setting his papers aside and leaning into Ryan. That's when he sees what Ryan sees and why Ryan's not turning into Jon's kiss.

"Are these yours?" he asks. Ryan's hand goes up to the Post-its on the ceiling of Jon's bunk. "Why haven't I seen these before?"

"They kinda new. Just some words that keep running through my head."

"Is there music, too?" Ryan's got that look, not quite a smile, but Jon knows he's going to get lucky. He knows he has the right answer.

"Yeah," Jon says. "There's music, too."

"OK." Ryan turns them in the bunk so Jon's on his back and there's room between his legs. "I'm going to blow you now."

"Yeah," Jon says.

Ryan's blowjobs are very straightforward. Jon might be his first; they haven't talked about it. There's nothing wrong with straightforward when Jon's shorts come down, his dick is hard, and Ryan's mouth is warm and wet. Ryan knows when to go deep and when to go fast, and Jon knows when he's going to do which, too. It works pretty well, the two of them together. They get things done, and Jon likes it a lot.

He's deep right now, deep down Ryan's throat, and Jon just holds. He keeps his hips still, wanting so much to move, but he waits for Ryan. He touches Ryan's hair, long on top, and Jon can grab hold, but he waits for that, too.

He lets out a long low groan when Ryan pushes his cock out, coughing, but going down again. Now, he moves, and Jon moves. With both hands curling in Ryan's hair, Jon thrusts up, cock tight between Ryan's red lips. He has to look away, above, and that's when he sees those words again, scribbled on yellow Post-its when Jon started to think that maybe this band thing would work out after all.

-

Their thing is going outside to smoke and watch the stars. The sky up at the cabin is amazing. There are no lights, nowhere, except for the smoldering tip of Ryan's cigarette and the flickering flame of Jon's lighter. He fidgets, snapping it open and closed, until Ryan's hand comes down to douse the flame.

"Why are you nervous?"

Jon hates watching Brendon and Ryan fight over bars and measures. He tries to follow Spencer's bass lines, but he's bobbing his head, half in his own world most of the time, and Jon isn't allowed in. Shane didn't stick around long, and Jon can't blame him. It's not the best time to be a band. He can't help but notice that he's the variable.

"You didn't have this much trouble with the last album, did you?"

Ryan chuckles. He's turned on the porch swing and kicked his feet up into Jon's lap. "Brent hated being in the studio. No, wait, that's not true. He hated being in the studio because it was so far away from home. So maybe we should have known," he sighs. Ryan stretches his long arm out to let Jon take a hit. He holds it and Jon leans forward, licking his lips first and pressing them against Ryan's fingers. "It's not you, if that's what you're asking."

"It feels like me."

"It doesn't feel like anything." Ryan leans back, dropping his head on the wooden arm of the swing. "That's the problem."

It feels like a band, which Jon hasn't had in a long while. He's spent more time lugging drum cases than actual drumming in the years since high school, following his friends around with a camera because they asked him to. Then jumping on planes and flying into the desert because these kids asked him to, and Jon said, the first time he met Panic at the Disco, They're going to be big.

He tells Ryan that story now, what Jon heard that first show, watching in the wings with William hanging on his shoulder, both of them taking bets on Brendon keeling over dead. But he never did, Spencer never lost the pace, and Ryan sang every word, even if it wasn't out loud.

"I knew you were gonna be great," he says.

Ryan's dropped the joint, or smoked the whole thing, Jon lost track. He pushes his way further into Jon's space, claiming his lap and then Jon's mouth. Smoky and sweet, Ryan kisses him like the very first time, but Jon knows how to kiss back. He knows how Ryan likes it, and there are things Ryan does that Jon likes, too, things he does just for Jon.

He sucks down Jon's neck, below the collar of his shirt--a distraction while Ryan's trying to get the buttons undone. Jon slumps down on the bench, planting his feet heavy on the porch to keep them from swinging to far. He unbuttons his own jeans because he knows where Ryan's headed.

Ryan's headed down, and he groans when Jon's hands drop on his head and tangle in his hair. Jon's only trying for encouragement, but Ryan takes it as Now, now, now, and he sucks Jon in, all the way.

He bucks his hips up, apologises with words and hands, and once Ryan starts that familiar bob up and down, Jon gets himself steadied. He tips his head back on the bench and watches the stars sparkle and swirl, and he's coming before he knows.

With his head fallen tired on Jon's lap, Ryan whispers, "You're going to make us greater than great."

It's so much more than Jon was expecting. He's only the drummer.

"Hey." Ryan perks up. He's pointing at the sky. "There he is. Looking down on us." Jon knows exactly where Orion is now. He doesn't need Ryan to point him out, but he likes Ryan's arm lined up against his own and Ryan's hand wrapped around his, reaching for the stars.

-

"We should really try having sex," Ryan pants just after he's finished.

Jon squirms up to kiss Ryan, purposefully thrusts his tongue into Ryan's mouth before he's swallowed. It's his way of making a point. Ryan's lax and warm under him, but he moans into the kiss and sucks on Jon's tongue. Jon likes the way the moan spreads between them, the way he hears it in his ears and feels it on his lips and in his chest.

He breaks the kiss when it's time, lays his head on Ryan's chest. Ryan's hard little nipple is just in front of him, making him go cross-eyed when he tries to focus on it. He closes one eye and pinches. Ryan jerks once under him, grunts and swats at Jon's hand.

"We did just have sex," he finally says.

"No, yeah," Ryan shifts under him. "I mean we should try, like," he waves one hand in the air over them. Jon closes his eyes, already dizzy enough from being hard and cross-eyed and on top of Ryan. Ryan's other hand creeps up the back of his hair, cups the back of his head. Jon always forgets how large Ryan's hands are until they're curling halfway around his skull. "Fucking."

"What?" he shifts his head backwards. If he opened his eyes he'd be able to look at Ryan's face from this angle, he thinks. Ryan starts scratching at his scalp lightly. He fucking loves that, it's not fair, Ryan knows that.

"I mean I think I'd like to fuck you," Ryan says it slowly.

"Mmm," he's dubious. "Remember last time?" They'd tried, one hotel night. It had been pretty terrible. Limbs everywhere and uncoordinated thrusting and Jon wasn't nearly prepped enough. They're so good at the rest of this, Jon's so happy to have Ryan's skin under his fingers, he doesn't really think they're missing anything.

"I think we could make it work," Ryan sounds contemplative but determined. He laughs into Ryan's chest.

"How about I fuck you?" He tips his head further over to kiss Ryan's nipple. "Your skinny little ass."

"Sure," Ryan says but he sounds far away, somewhere behind his throat.

"How about you help me out right now and we figure the rest out later?" Ryan murmurs happily under him in response. He pushes himself up, leaves his hands on Ryan's chest as he settles his weight across Ryan's hips. "Here, c'mon, gimme a hand."

He thinks about it while he rocks into Ryan's loose fist. He thinks of himself rocking back onto Ryan's dick, about Ryan in him but under him, and he starts rocking faster, liking the thought of Ryan, so much Ryan. Ryan tightens his grip as Jon rocks faster, until he's grinding down but lifting upwards, chasing the extra tight squeeze Ryan gives him when he gets far enough up, the approval squeeze.

"Yeah, OK," he leans further over Ryan but hunches to stay centered. Propped up on one elbow, Ryan's watching his hand on Jon's dick. "Ryan," he leans over to try to kiss him. "Ryan, next time you should fuck me, yeah."

Ryan's eyes gleam darkly and his grip tightens. It's slick and tight and Jon knows he's pretty much just humping into Ryan's chest and fist. Ryan's hipbones keep brushing his inner thighs and his knees hurt and Ryan licks his lips and Jon's gone, just gone. Jon comes in quick streaks, admiring the way they collect near the nipple he claimed earlier.

"It'll be good," Ryan whispers into his hair after they're curled together under the covers. "I'll make it good."

"I know," Jon kisses him quickly.

"It won't be like it was in the hotel, we're in my house now and we have time and my bed and --" he kisses Ryan, cuts off the stream.

"I know," he repeats. "We're not on the road, we're home." Ryan nods, his eyes crinkled happily.

-

"No," Jon shakes his head exaggeratedly when Ryan offers to help him up. "No, I'm good here."

Ryan stares dumbly down at his outstretched hand. "Really?"

"Don' wanna move," Jon rolls onto his side on the floor. Ryan nudges him with a toe and Jon just moans and waves at him.

It's possible they've had a bit too much to drink. "I'm going to bed," he announces. Jon stays curled on the floor. "Jon. I'm going to bed, Jon," he tries again. Jon groans but doesn't move. That's his answer, he figures.

He stumbles down the hall. The hardwood floor is slippery under his feet, he slides into one wall and then another. Spencer starts to pass him, bleary eyed and rubbing his belly. "Yo," Spencer stops, touches his elbow. "Hangovers in the morning?"

"Yeah," he agrees.

"Cool," Spencer yawns and shuffles off in the other direction, one hand over his mouth and one hand scrubbing at his hair. Ryan waves goodbye and keeps one hand on the wall, trails his fingers against the bumpy finish as he walks down the hall.

The bed isn't warm without Jon. Ryan tries to throw the blanket so it folds in half but it just leaves one of his legs hanging out. He sighs and fusses and burrows until he's a warm little heap under the blanket.

He's not actually asleep when Jon stumbles in. He's too drunk to fall asleep, his thoughts racing but lazily so. He's awake enough to voice his complaint when Jon tries to crawl into the bed and ends up pulling apart Ryan's cozy den of blanket.

"No fair," he pouts when Jon's grinning face appears. "I got the bed all warm for you and then you ruin it."

"Oh!" Jon switches to looking concerned. He flicks off the lights then carefully tucks the edge of a blanket around Ryan's curled back before tucking himself in next to Ryan's front. "Hi!"

He can't help smiling in the darkness, smiling at Jon. Jon, so close Ryan can feel his skin and his warmth without reaching out. "Hi."

"Are you naked?"

He nods even though he know Jon can't see. Jon can feel. "I always sleep naked."

"Hmm," Jon's hands feel broad and strong as they explore his skin. When Jon scratches his short nails at the small of Ryan's back, he hears his own breathing hitch. "That's a lie."

"What?" he whispers.

"You don't sleep naked in your bunk," Jon responds reasonably, too reasonably. Ryan uncurls his hands from under his head, reaches for Jon.

"Does it matter?" he traces Jon's face in the darkness, the dip and curve around his eyes, the coarse hair on his chin.

"Not really." Jon finds his nipple and runs the flat of his thumbnail over it, and again when Ryan jumps. "But if you slept naked in your bunk it'd feel like a constant tease." Jon ends this statement with a pinch and Ryan grunts.

"Roll over," he pleads.

Jon does and it speaks to Ryan's state that he doesn't care that Jon pulls all the covers with him. He's thankful he can flick the blanket out of the way and push Jon's thighs apart

He has to fumble for the lube on the nightstand, in part because he refuses to take both hands off of Jon. Jon rarely just rolls over for him, no bargains or caveats. Ryan's excited, he's not going to lie.

Jon doesn't stay still for him but doesn't move so much Ryan can't tell where he is, so much Ryan can't slide another finger in without difficulty. He can hear Jon's little murmurs of appreciation but he feels too far away so he rolls Jon onto his side and curls up behind him, curls his fingers into where Jon's still stretched open for him. Jon gasps and shoves back, further onto Ryan's weird, long fingers.

"Shhh," he tells Jon. "Do you want more?" Jon whines and nods, Ryan can feel both. "Don't worry, I got you," he whispers as he teases the head of his cock between his fingers. "I got you."

-

Jon wakes up when Ryan whips the covers off, and the sharp bite of cold morning air makes his skin tingle.

"No, no, no." Jon rolls his head on the pillow. "Close the window."

"I didn't open the window." Ryan's looking down at him with a vest in his hands. He's still naked, at least as best as Jon can see through the fogginess surrounding his head.

"Close the goddamn window. I'm freezing." He just barely gets the last word out before his throat closes up, and he's coughing. This isn't just a hangover.

Rolling himself over and over in the blanket, Jon makes a warm space in the middle of the bed. He jerks when Ryan reaches out, then lets him get a hand inside to feel Jon's forehead. It feels different than his mom, but that's because it's Ryan.

"I'm cold," he croaks out. Ryan nods.

Someone knocks at the door, and it must be Brendon because he comes right in without Ryan or Jon telling them to.

"Spencer is making waffles!" he announces, bright and shiny. Jon groans inside his blankets, and then Brendon whispers, "What did he drink last night?"

"He's sick," Ryan explains.

"Aww, JWalk." The bed dips, and Jon feels Brendon roll him on his side and spoon up behind. "Want me to cuddle you?"

Feeling fragile, Jon just nods. He's halfway to warm now, and Brendon's hand comes over to rub his belly through the blankets. Ryan watches them, that vest still in his hand, and then he disappears from Jon's line of sight. Brendon is humming and rocking, and Jon quickly falls back to sleep.

The next time he wakes up, he's warm. Too warm now, and Jon has to kick and fight to get out of his blankets. He's alone in the dark room. The curtain has been drawn across the window. On the bedside table, there's a tall glass of water, condensation gathering on the outside, and two tiny pills next to it. He swallows them down and sits up to drink the whole glass.

His head feels clearer now, and Jon can hear music coming from downstairs, muffled, but it's there. He should get down there and play; it's his job after all, and the whole reason they came up to the cabin.

Jon rolls up to sit on the edge of the bed, hissing when his bare feet touch the could hardwood floors. He takes a deep breath, psychs himself up with a few choice words, then pushes up to stand. It doesn't last long. He falls right back down onto the bed.

"Nice," he says to the ceiling.

Jon tries again, carefully, and this time he makes it to his duffle bag for a pair of socks. Then he makes it to the door, he makes it to the bathroom, and by the time Jon tries the stairs, he's feeling better.

"You missed the waffles," Spencer says. "I'm not making more."

Jon sees Ryan roll his eyes, even from across the room. "I know you better than that, Smith," Jon says. "I know there's a plastic-wrapped plate in the fridge."

"All the burnt ones," he says, and follows it with a rim-shot.

Jon goes for the orange juice first, in the door, and he sees the plastic-wrapped plate at eye level, beside a box of Capri Sun. Jon reaches for it--Spencer lies, they're not burnt at all--but his stomach turns at the thought of food. He'll have to save them for later.

"How are you feeling?" Ryan puts his hand on Jon's back, and Jon leans into it, using Ryan for balance.

"Better. I think."

"We're just messing around, you don't have to worry." He's wearing his acoustic on his back. Jon realises this when he turns around to press Ryan against the counter and bury his face in Ryan's neck. Ryan's hands come up to Jon's back, and they stand there, swaying a little, but Jon can't figure out if it's him or something else entirely.

"No," he says, pulling away. "I'm gonna go grab my guitar."

He tries to get away, but Ryan gets hold of his wrist. "Jon, really. Just take it easy." There are lines on Ryan's face, lines Jon has never seen before. So he nods, and he twists their hands so they're palm to palm, and he lets Ryan take him back to the living room. Jon makes sure he has his orange juice.

"Hey, guys," Brendon says, standing in the middle of the floor, finishing up the tuning of his guitar. "Listen to this."

-

He only realizes how he's grown to expect Ryan around the corner, Hobo underfoot, days of sleeping in and nights of writing music, when it's over.

It's cold in Chicago, of course, but Jon's shift from fall to winter has been wearing a hoodie over his tshirt during the day and not just at night, maybe a sweater from time to time. He keeps forgetting hats and scarves and coats and boots, most definitely boots, until he opens a door and the frigid wind brings tears to his eyes.

His mom's made cookies again. They're good, not like the time he and Ryan burned the ones you buy in a tube.

"Honey," his mom's standing in his bedroom doorway and it feels disturbingly like high school.

"Hey, yeah," he pulls his headphones off.

"Dinner in an hour?" She looks worried. It's probably because he's spent more time in his room calling his bandmates than playing with his brothers' babies.

"Cool." He smiles and he can see it's more genuine in the way she relaxes. "Sorry," he offers, shrugging.

She smiles indulgently at him. "It's nice in the way it reminds me of when you were younger." She laughs when she finishes. "It's weird in the way it reminds me of when you were younger." They both laugh then.

"I'll be down," he reassures her.

"I know," she pulls the door shut behind her.

He slips the headphones back on and goes back to reading the book Ryan gave him before he left.

Ten more days and they leave for London. He gets his mom's cooking, far preferable to Ryan's tendency to rely on Spencer, Spencer's mom, and Jon's foraging skills, and he gets Chicago and his cats and it's really kind of stupid that he wants to be back in Ryan's condo with the empty kitchen and one dog and it's like Ryan knows because that's when the phone rings.

Ryan's calling to ask him where the trash can bags are.

"Under the sink?" he guesses. He's not sure.

Ryan doesn't hang up as he roots around. Jon enjoys how his voice gets fainter and stronger as he talks to himself. Ryan talks to himself more than Jon would have imagined, if Jon had imagined it. He sings to himself, too, little snatches like a soundtrack of his life.

Jon's listening to Ryan singing under his breath when he realizes he's homesick.

"Ryan," he says, but he's not sure what he wants to say. Except, "I miss you," covers it, even though it leaves him feeling self conscious.

"I miss you, too, Jon," Ryan states it quite seriously, presumably to impress upon Jon how much he means it.

"I mean," he starts again but they haven't talked about it and he doesn't want to talk about it. They don't need to talk about it. "I really can't wait til London."

"What do you think the weather is like in London?" He knows Ryan wants to buy a new coat so he tells him it'll be cold, they'll all need new sweaters and scarves. He doesn't like shopping the way Ryan and Spencer do, in that way it lets them be discerning and carefree at the same time, but he's not one to judge.

They talk until his mom calls him down to dinner. As he's apologizing to Ryan and asking if he can call later, if Ryan has plans, there's a moment where it gets awkward, where he worries he's made it awkward.

But then Ryan says, "Please do, Jon, I'm used to your voice as I fall asleep," but he says it as if it's nothing profound, nothing that takes Jon's breath away.

"Yes," he promises. "Of course.

-

When Ryan wakes, he finds Jon in his room. He blinks a few times, just enough to make sure he's really awake, but doesn't stir. Jon's playing slowly, with concentration, something Ryan's never heard.

Jon wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow.

Jon looks sad. He wonders if Jon is sad or if he's not, if Ryan's projecting. He'd like to think he knows Jon well enough to know his moods from his expressions but Ryan's not sure, not really. He doesn't ask often enough to be sure.

But he's tired of keeping his emotions from Jon, he thinks. He's tired of pretending they're something separate, something unaffected by how Jon is, who Jon is. He'll keep doing it if Jon wants to, needs to, but he's pretty sure he'd much rather have Jon there, let Jon know, even on the inevitable days they'll not work.

"Jon," he whispers and Jon looks up, unsurprised Ryan is listening, watching. "Are you sad?"

Jon shakes his head, doesn't stop playing. He picks up the pace slightly, moves from complicated chords and a slow rhythm to something easier, more soothing. Ryan finds himself smiling.

"Jon," he sits up for this question. "Do I make you happy? Enough?

Jon stops playing. "Is that," he plucks twice, discordantly. "That feels like a trick question."

Ryan shakes his head, because it's not, or at least he doesn't mean it to be. Jon makes a face like he's sipped nonalcoholic beer by accident.

"I'm happy," he tells Jon, then forces himself to be more precise. "You make me happy." It leaves him breathless to say it, to be honest in a way that leaves him vulnerable. He pulls the comforter up over his shoulder but leaves his head poking out, to look at Jon.

"Thank you?" Jon's staring at him like he's declared he wants Jon to sing lead on all their songs now. He wants Jon closer. He fluffs open the comforter. Jon takes the hint.

"You make me happy," he repeats when Jon's next to him. Jon had stripped his shirt off on the way, shucked his jeans next to the bed and crawled in wearing just his boxers. Ryan is naked and touching Jon, his knees pressed against Jon's and their hands wrapped together.

"I didn't think we made each other anything," Jon says it uneasily.

"I want." He squeezes Jon's hand. "But not if I don't make you happy."

"You do," Jon says it immediately, reflexively. Ryan can't decide if he wants more reassurance. "I just," he rolls Ryan onto his back, slips between Ryan's thighs. "Can we try this?"

Their first attempts at nearly everything hadn't gone well, most likely because their first attempts at nearly everything started after they were high or drunk. He doesn't want to say no but he's never had a good experience, not at that. He reminds himself he's tired of keeping his emotions from Jon, so he tells him, tells him all of it.

Jon's clearly surprised, and just as clearly angry. Ryan finds himself amused, not apprehensive, spreads his legs further to see Jon react. It's gratifying, Jon's hiss and thrust.

"You don't even know how good it can be, do you?" Jon rears back, onto his knees, and pushes his boxers down. He's hard enough to be flushed dark and straining upwards. "You tell me if it's not good," Jon sounds commanding as he leans over Ryan to get the lube.

Jon knows what feels good, Ryan trusts him. Jon takes his time about it, about stretching Ryan open. He's not content to let Ryan ride this one out, he makes Ryan tell him if it feels good or not, every new trick or angle he tries. Ryan doesn't blush at first, when the attention is pleasant and doesn't interrupt, but Jon keeps asking as Ryan keeps liking it, until it feels every time Jon withdraws only to play with him, to spread him further or to rub a thumb behind his balls, is just an excuse for Jon to wring a confession out of him, a confession that Jon's hands prying him open is better than he ever thought it would be.

He croaks out a desperate plea for Jon to fuck him already and it does the trick, gets Jon slicking himself up. With how long Jon's been playing with him he wouldn't think Jon's cock would feel so huge inside him, but it does. It feels huge and hot and it goes deeper, so much deeper, than anything else has. He's straining up at Jon but trying to stay relaxed when Jon starts thrusting.

Jon doesn't waste time, doesn't wait for a signal Ryan's ready. "Please, yes," he hears his own voice before Jon grabs his knees, pushes him up and further open. It's just shy of violent when Jon starts driving into him and Ryan loves it, can't imagine why he hasn't given Jon this before now.

Jon's grunting his name on every thrust and Ryan understands, now, the seductive power of being the one opened up and taking, the one split open. It's short work with his hand on his own dick before he's coming between them, twisting his legs when the pleasure is cresting over him, but not twisting so far he can escape Jon's hold.

Jon doesn't pause but doesn't last much longer. He gasps Ryan's name again before one last thrust that bangs Ryan's head against the headboard.

Ryan catches Jon when his arms give out, rolls them onto their sides. Jon slips out and Ryan shivers, still feeling open and wet and like he could go again but not quite.

Jon smacks a kiss at him, clearly not one for coordinated motor function this soon, and Ryan slings his leg over Jon, wincing at the stickiness everywhere.

"Welcome home," he holds Jon's head still to kiss him.

"You do make me happy," Jon tells him when they pause.

"I know," he's surprised to know it, but it's true. "Thanks."

-

They celebrate laying down Northern Downpour the same way they've celebrated finishing every song: smoking up and calling for room service. Spencer's working his way through the Palms' menu. He fills out the little evaluation card every time, but Jon's never seen him send one. Brendon orders the tuna melt every time, without fail. Jon's pretty sure he does it so he can breathe tuna breath into all their faces when they're happy and less likely to complain.

Ryan can't stop talking about how great he thinks Jon's melody is. Jon's pretty sure that if he looked in the mirror he'd hate how red his cheeks are, which is why he doesn't look in a mirror if he can help it.

Mostly, he can't believe the lyrics Ryan crafted for his hook, in less time than Jon has ever seen him commit to a final version of anything. If he's honest with himself, he's a little freaked at how easy it's been to write and record since they left the cabin. It's been a night-to-day transformation. What happens when dawn catches up to them?

"Hey," Ryan bumps his shoulder into Jon's.

"Hey, hey," Jon replies. Ryan smiles back at him, a huge, stoned smile, but also a secret smile.

"Let's go up on the roof." Ryan nods meaningfully, raising his eyebrows, but Jon can't figure out the meaning.

"OK." He doesn't need to know Ryan's deeper meaning to want to join him.

They don't take their guitars this time but Ryan's still wearing the fedora. Jon plucks it off of his head in the elevator and perches it on his own head, at an angle. Ryan smiles indulgently at him, happily.

They wander alone, far away from the elevators, past the bulk of the cars. The casino never closes, not that Jon can tell, but there are hours it's less crowded, and not all when the sun is down like he would have guessed. It must be late, far past midnight, past shows letting out and clubs turning on the lights and whatever else happens in Vegas on a random weekday night. He doesn't think it's a weekend.

He's surprised he can tell how late it is until he thinks about the number of times he and Ryan have come out here to watch the lights.

They go as far as they can go. Ryan perches on the squat retaining wall, hitching himself up in a surprisingly graceful move. Jon can tell he's a little precarious though, so he steps closer. Ryan steadies himself on Jon's shoulder.

He turns around, backs further into the V between Ryan's legs. Ryan's palms press down on his shoulders briefly before Ryan's arms wrap around him. They watch the lights and the stars and the cars in silence.

Ryan's fingers don't stay still. They skritch at the collar of Jon's tshirt, press into his neck to check his pulse, comb through his beard, which is long enough Ryan can really get a grip on it. Jon pulls his head away when Ryan starts tugging. "Stop," he half turns, far enough he can see Ryan still smiling at him. "What're you smiling at?"

"We wrote a song," Ryan's hands cover his eyes. "You and me, Jon, we wrote a song."

"A good song," he says into the darkness. Ryan's hands are hot and dry, pressing into his eyes heavily.

"A really good song," Ryan whispers into his ear, making him shiver. Ryan starts to kiss and nibble on his ear, tugging at the lobe with his teeth, but he doesn't drop his hands. When he pulls back Jon whines in disappointment but Ryan's just switching to the other ear.

He must be wired lopsidedly because on this side it's amazing. Ryan's breath on his neck as he bites Jon's ear, runs his teeth around the shell -- it's all more than enough to leave him constantly shivering and hard, gripping Ryan's knees.

Ryan takes his time about it, switching back and forth. He seems to figure out Jon's weird wiring and spends more on that side, growing more devious. He sucks the skin under Jon's ear into his mouth, swirling his tongue around then biting. It's too much, Jon twists around in Ryan's arms for a kiss, not a simple one a complicated one, one that keeps going and changing. One Jon stops trying to control after Ryan's legs lock behind his back, holding him in place.

They make out on a warm Vegas rooftop until the horizon betrays the time, and then they make out some more. Ryan sighs and mumbles something about heading inside, finding a bed only after the entire valley is dusted a light pink. Jon's tired and proud and elated and horny and he says yes.

They make out some more, hands above the waist, but as the sun comes up, Ryan's hands go down, down, down.

"Maybe we should go find a bed," Ryan whispers wet in Jon's ear, and Jon says, Yes.

It's not like they head inside right away. Ryan has to pull himself away. Jon has to stand up, and they both groan getting up off the ground. But Ryan's not cold at all, and the aches are only the good kind. It's not like they can leave before they get a look at that sunrise.

They stand for a long time on that roof, watching the sun and how it makes even the shiniest city more golden, before Ryan realises they're still holding hands. Jon had pulled him up and he hasn't let go yet. Ryan grins, he squints against the light and leans into Jon's side. It feels like Jon is going to start singing any minute. He's already humming.

"Bed, Jon." He sneaks his other hand over to rub Jon's belly. "Bed."

"Sunrise, Ryan."

They watch until the light peeks above the highest building, their reward for a good night's work. One of their best night's work since coming down the mountain, and now Ryan wants to spend his day in bed with someone who knows what that struggle takes out of you.

"You'll do fine," he says and drags a confused Jon down off the roof.

The hotel is just waking up. Ryan guides them around housekeepers and bellhops, their carts and morning coffee, and he presses Jon against the mirrored walls of the elevator to kiss him. The world slowed down on that roof with Jon, but they didn't stop. Ryan gets them back on track with his tongue, licking slowly along Jon's lips, and his hands, tracing the line of Jon's back.

He plucks the keycard out of Jon's pocket and leads the way to the bed. Sitting on the edge to untie his shoes, Ryan watches Jon find the Do Not Disturb sign and hang it on the door. Then he locks the door, kicks off his own shoes, and stalks over to the bed.

"Can I?" he asks, "This time." His hands fall heavy on Ryan's shoulders. Jon nudges Ryan's knees apart, steps between them, then hoists him up the bed.

"I won't stop you."

"No, you won't." Jon rips Ryan's shirt and jacket off together. Ryan gets tangled for a moment, then snaps back when he's free, falling onto the bed. He lays there, arms out, waiting for Jon to prep him, but Jon pulls him back up instead. He pulls Ryan back up in his lap. Ryan hangs on this time. He throws his arms around Jon's neck and hangs on, if that's how Jon wants it.

Jon wants it now, obviously, no time for kissing. He thrusts his hand down the back of Ryan's trousers, but he doesn't get too far with the belt cinched up. He growls and pushes Ryan back to get him undressed.

"I like you like this," Ryan pants. Jon all rushed and in charge. It's not something Ryan gets this early in the morning. It's not something Ryan gets much at all. But something big happened last night when they finished that song. Something big happened for Jon, and Ryan gets to be part of that.

When Ryan's naked, Jon smiles down at him, kisses him once, sweetly, then turns him over. Ryan can feel it when Jon gets off the bed. He waits, while Jon steps out of his pants, and while he goes looking for everything else they're going to need. He can feel it when Jon comes back, too, when he kneels between Ryan's legs, spreads them almost too wide. Ryan can really feel it.

Jon's slick fingers find their way to his hole, pressing and pushing, as Jon lays just beside Ryan on the bed. He puts his mouth right next to Ryan's ear. He asks, "You want this?" Jon always asks.

These days, Ryan always says, Yes.

-

"Because, y'know, he's so fucking --," Jon blows out a thick cloud of smoke, looking aggravated and amused at the same time. "He's so fucking Ryan."

Spencer nods. He knows Ryan, he knows how Ryan is. Ryan is very Ryan. That's really the best way to put it. Ryan is fucking Ryan is so fucking Ryan.

Jon's been talking for a while. Spencer couldn't stand watching him mope around after Ryan had gone to clap along while his acoustic hippie boyfriend played for teenagers in a parking lot again. His other acoustic hippie boyfriend, Spencer supposes, since Jon was there first.

They all like Phantom, sure, but after Ryan had popped back on the bus for, "a drink for Alex!" Jon had fucking wilted like a night blooming flower in the desert sun. Spencer's not sure the good pot is enough, this time, but he's willing to give it a good old college try.

"You should tell him," he decides, pointing at Jon's face. From this angle it almost looks like he could put his finger up Jon's nose. "Tell him you want to make beautiful music with him. No, tell him you want to make beautiful music babies with him and that he's wasting his fertile youth with other lads."

Jon's pinched expression reminds Spencer that Jon hasn't known Ryan since he was five. Spencer would nearly use the word constipated, except not since Brendon's somewhere around.

"Trust me," he looks around, trying to find Brendon. "Ryan will make your beautiful music baby dreams come true." There Brendon is, back in the bunks with Shane.

Spencer nearly misses Jon's, "he already does," because he's waving Brendon over, but after he's exhaled and passed the joint to Brendon he pats Jon's head.

"Aww, Jon." Jon's hair is really soft. "It's OK, he loves you, too." Brendon chokes on his exhale, starts laughing. Spencer claps him on the back and he calms down soon enough.

"I," Jon's eyes are comically huge, size-of-the-moon joke huge. "I didn't mean --"

"Shhhh," Spencer puts a finger to his lips. Brendon mimics the motion, leaving the two of them sitting there with their hands in front of their faces like idiots. Spencer doesn't have anything else to say. Except, wait, he does. "Ryan," he points at Jon again. "Ryan loves things and leaves things, yes. But not bandmates."

"Oh, burn," is Brendon's contribution, but he's nodding.

Spencer turns his head to look at Brendon and notices Shane standing in the doorway. His camera is at chest level, aimed at Brendon. "We all like getting obsessed with things." Spencer can't think of anything more obvious or more true, in this moment.

"I think I'm going to go find Ryan," Jon stands. Shane's camera doesn't waiver.

"No," Spencer pulls on Jon's hand. "He'll be back, just chill. Here, you can pick any of your crappy DVDs, we can watch that."

"You're a good friend, Spence," Brendon shoots little gun fingers at him. "Very sensitive, very caring."

"Shut the fuck up and go fuck Shane," he flips Brendon off and Shane nearly drops his camera. He kicks his feet up so he's lounging on the couch. "Jon and I are going to cuddle." He opens his arms but Jon just stares at him.

"Ooh, the jealousy ploy, eh?" Shane's disappeared and Brendon's standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

"Seriously," he tells the room. "When does Ryan not come back to us?" Both Jon and Brendon grin at him like he's making a joke, but he's not. "He'll be back," he shrugs. "He's ours." He points at Jon's face again, meaning it this time. "Just make sure he knows he's yours, too, OK?"

-

"Quick, quick, go, go!" Brendon barrels down the hallway, making shooing motions with his hands.

"What?" Ryan steps back into his hotel room, into Jon, onto Jon's toes.

"Ow, hey," Jon pokes him.

"Not me, Brendon!" But Brendon's run past them, not pausing to stop or explain.

"Uh," he peers around the corner slowly. "There's nothing."

Jon pokes him again so he starts out into the hall, and that's when Spencer and Zack round the corner, water guns in hand.

"Oh, fuck," he rears backwards, steps on Jon's toes again. They stumble together, just far enough for Ryan to slam the door shut. They know from experience you don't get in the middle of any type of fight between Brendon and Spencer, especially if Zack is on one side.

"So," Jon's still got an arm around him. "What shall we do?"

Ryan snorts and turns into Jon's embrace. "Did you orchestrate this?"

"Me?" Jon's eyes go wide. "Of course not!"

"I'll believe you this time," he pokes Jon's chest. "But if it happens again," he trails off and shakes his head as he starts to unbutton Jon's shirt. "You have to admit this is pretty suspicious timing."

"I admit nothing," Jon smiles as he shrugs out of his shirt. "I'm just really lucky."

"Aww," he lean down to kiss Jon. Ryan had been reading a book, sitting next to Jon as Jon efficiently restrung his favorite guitar, at Ryan's request. Jon's never said no to this particular task but he has bargained for certain return favors. This time it was supposed to be a blowjob, but Brendon had called demanding they meet him in the lobby before soundcheck.

"We don't have long," Jon reminds him, into the kiss, and Ryan breaks off to laugh.

"You're worried I'll forget?" he smiles at Jon's focus on getting his own jeans undone. "I won't forget."

"No, I know," Jon look sheepish as he gets his jeans and boxers pushed down to his knees. "But our call time hasn't changed."

Ryan raises an eyebrow but drops to his knees. By the sound of Jon's indrawn breath, he wasn't expecting that. Ha, Ryan thinks.

Jon's not quite hard yet, confirming his thought that Jon had been expecting at least a little more foreplay. He can feel Jon's hands hovering around his head, unsettled. He gets a solid grip on Jon's hip and a firm one on the base of Jon's dick and leans in to lick softly, trying to get Jon hard enough to suck.

"C'mon Jon, call time hasn't changed," he teases when pulls back to blow gently on the wet streaks he's left.

Jon meets his eyes and cups the back of his head, inching closer. Ryan continues his teasing licks and sucking kisses until Jon's grip on his hair tightens, tries to holds him in place. He makes Jon work for it, doesn't open his mouth far enough until Jon's tried thrusting into his mouth a few times unsuccessfully.

Jon groans and tilts Ryan's head back. They both know there's an angle around here that'll work, if they can find it. Ryan's not convinced this is it but Jon's calling the shots now.

He drops his jaw and lets Jon in all the way, closing his eyes. Ryan would never say that Jon just uses him, but sometimes Jon gets like this, pushy and demanding, and it's rare enough that Ryan loves it, loves encouraging Jon in small ways. He traces the tip of his tongue back and forth when Jon's all the way in, sucks at the head when Jon's almost all the way out.

He flexes his grip on Jon's hips when his jaw starts to weary, his throat starts to strain. He won't push Jon off, not yet, but he can't keep this up for much longer if he doesn't want to pretend he has a cold onstage tonight.

Jon's thrusts speed up and his grip on Ryan's head tightens. It's just shy of too much but he knows this means it'll be over soon, so he sucks in air when he can and pushes himself forward, trying to swallow. He knows Jon loves that, Ryan's throat working when he's buried deep. And sure enough Jon's panting and loosening his grip and Ryan's swallowing, swallowing, swallowing.

"Me," he coughs out after he pulls back. "Me, Jon." He leans his forehead on Jon's hip. He's hard, so hard, hard enough that he hates his favorite trousers right this moment.

Jon's roughly petting his hair and wobbly on his feet, but that's fair since Ryan hasn't moved either. He knows there can't be much time, they might already be late, but it's worth it, so worth it, even more worth it when Jon drops to his knees and kisses Ryan desperately as they both work at Ryan's belt.

"You," Jon says when he breaks the kiss. Ryan can feel Jon's heartbeat under his fingers, where they're resting against Jon's wrist. He can feel Jon's heart beating in sync with his.

-

"Your tongue tastes really good," Ryan smiles dopily at him before ducking in to lick back into his mouth.

"Mmm," he agrees, and sucks on Ryan's tongue. If he thinks Ryan tastes good and Ryan thinks he tastes good, it's a good tasting cycle. Ryan whimpers when he sucks hard, so he sucks even harder, until Ryan shakes his head and pulls away. The slick pop when Ryan's tongue escapes his mouth makes him want to do it again, and again.

"That hurt," Ryan sticks his tongue out, curls it up until it almost touches his nose. "Wow, my tongue actually aches." He wags his tongue at Jon. "That's amazing."

"Lemme help you with that," he kisses Ryan's tongue, which is weirder than he thought it would be, but it's worth it to feel Ryan smile against his lips.

Ryan turns the tables on him after a few minutes of back and forth, sucks Jon's tongue into his mouth until Jon whimpers from the pain, from the painfully warm and tight suction on his tongue. It really, really makes him crave Ryan's mouth around his dick, but not right now. He's too fascinated with Ryan's lips on his lips. Ryan gives before he has to pull back, softens the intensity of his hold on Jon's tongue, but then he starts flicking his tongue against Jon's, little teasing touches that are more amusing than they are sexy.

"Hey," he realizes Ryan's been keeping his eyes open when he opens his own. "Why are you looking?"

Ryan shrugs and licks his lips. Jon's lips were chapped before they started but Ryan's lips are chapped and there's a halo of red, irritated skin around his mouth. Jon knows he should feel repentant, knows it's his beard and mustache and insistence that have given Ryan's mouth the bruised look it has, but he loves it. It makes Ryan's mouth his, in some way.

He hadn't expected the surge of possessive desire he feels when he thinks mine, he's not used to feeling like the guy that claims and claims fiercely. He thinks he likes it.

"When you suck my tongue like that it makes me want you to get your lips wrapped around my dick." Ryan's lips round into a perfect circle as he takes a deep breath in and out. "Yeah, it makes me want to ask you to blow me for, like, a really long time."

"Yeah," Ryan licks his lips.

"Yeah," and they kiss, again, kiss forever. He doesn't feel any need to make it go further, which is strange. He hasn't felt this content to just sit and kiss someone, no thread of wonder if the other person is getting bored, no need to take it beyond kissing, since before he'd had his first handjob.

Ryan seems to agree. They've been doing this long enough his hip is numb from being rolled onto his side but Ryan keeps happily licking and swirling and making the cutest little appreciative sounds.

"Just this, tonight," he murmurs when they've paused to catch their breath. "Just kissing."

"This, yes," Ryan's hand curls warm against the back of his head but doesn't try to move him, just holds him in place. He chuckles into the kiss when it starts again.

"We should get some face lotion or something," he realizes when they're starting to drift off, when Ryan's responses have faded to delayed reactions.

Ryan doesn't move when he gets up, doesn't stir as Jon gently starts smoothing the lotion on his chin. His mouth opens wider as Jon awkwardly spreads the lotion on his upper lip. Jon leaves him with a lotion mustache in part because it's difficult, more difficult than he expected, and in part because he loves the way it looks. "Tomorrow," he whispers as he reaches over to turn off the light.

-

"If the story's fake, does that mean we're fake, too?" Jon doesn't pass the joint. He just lowers it in his fingers to Ryan's mouth and lets him draw the smoke in.

They're lying in the back of the van, legs hanging out the open side door. Jon's flip flops dropped to the ground or he kicked them off. He's up on the seat, and Ryan's on the floor. They've lost the guitar, the cameras, Brendon, and Spencer.

"The music isn't fake," Ryan says.

"You're right." Jon gestures with the joint. It flies over Ryan's head while Jon says, "You're so right, Ryan." He laughs and moves his mouth around the words. "Right, Ryan, Ryan, right."

It's hot. Ryan feels around for a water bottle. They had a whole cooler in the back, tossing bottles up when anyone asks. Spencer starting saying, "Bottle me," when he wanted a drink, then Jon, then Ryan joined in because it made Brendon sputter and scowl.

The first bottle he finds is empty. Another, under the passenger seat, has a few mouthfuls of tepid water left, and probably swimming with Spencer's backwash. But it's hot, Ryan's hot, and you can't be squeamish about sharing germs when you're in a band. He downs the bottle and licks his chapped lips.

"Any left?" Jon asks.

"Too late," Ryan teases.

Jon has rolled onto his side, chin propped up on one arm, to glare down at Ryan on the van floor. "I guess you're too late to help me finish this joint." Holding the last little end tight between his thumb and forefinger, Jon sucks in hard and long, until Ryan's sure he has nothing in his lungs but smoke. Jon pinches the butt out and tosses it out the open door. His eyes are wide and watery, and just when Ryan thinks he has to let it out, Jon lowers himself off the seat and onto Ryan, his mouth over Ryan's open in surprise, and the smoke blows out between them.

"Nice?" Jon asks, a little raspy.

"Nice," Ryan agrees.

Jon's already there so they might as well kiss. When he doesn't make a move, Ryan leans up to meet that goofy grin of his.

"How much time do you think we have?" Jon asks, wetly.

"Enough," so Ryan takes his time. There's no need to rush. Jon opens his mouth and lets Ryan in, tongues touching, trading back and forth. Everything is blurry, so Ryan closes his eyes. One hand on the side of Jon's face, sweaty palm against the roughness of his beard, Ryan leads the kiss, guiding Jon to the right, then the left, noses out of the way so they can go deep.

Jon puts a lot into kissing, even when he's high. He makes noises and grabs at Ryan's hair, his shirt. He moves, flails, and because they're cramped in the space between the front seat and back, on the floor of a VW bus in the middle of the desert, Jon's flailing quickly turns into Jon's rutting and Ryan's hands pulling him close.

They'll get there pretty quick, especially with Jon backing off Ryan's mouth to pant and grunt in his ear. Ryan scratches over the skin bared by Jon's shirt riding high, and when he hears Jon go, "Oh, oh, oh," he comes, too.

Ryan knows better than to try to talk before he's ready, but something about the weight of Jon on his chest and the laughter bubbling up between them makes him say, "That isn't fake either."

Jon agrees. He nods into the curve of Ryan's neck, presses his mouth against the heated skin there, and says, "You're so right."

They sacrifice a bottle of water and one of Ryan's bandanas to the clean up and are mostly put together by the time everything starts again. Brendon asks if anyone else wants to drive, except it's in that way that they all know he doesn't want a real answer. Spencer asks if Ryan wants to sit up front, but it's in that knowing tone that only best friends have.

They're in that van for another five hours, and they are fake, Jon's right. The only way Ryan makes it through is to hang on to what he knows is real.

-

It's Spencer and Brendon's fault. Jon will repeat this until everyone believes it and anyway it really is their fault. They're the ones who snuck off with the camera crew and left Jon and Ryan alone in the back of the VW van.

Admittedly, leaving the door open was definitely Jon's fault. What was he supposed to do, though, with no air conditioning? It's not like he'd planned on actually giving Ryan a blowjob in the middle of the desert on a hot summer's day with half their band and a film crew something like two hundred feet away.

He has his suspicions about Ryan's machinations, to be honest, but he's not the type of guy to point a finger at the guy nearly caught blowing him. And anyway, it's Spencer and Brendon's fault. They left them alone in the back of a hot van in the middle of the highway. Jon had been leaning into Ryan all morning, infatuated with Ryan's absorption in their fake little storyline for MTV.

"Hey," he'd whispered. Ryan had smiled at him, indulgently and happily. The poor camera guy. Jon sincerely hopes he was as unaware of the undercurrents in the van as he seemed.

Ryan's cheeks are flushed bright red but he's calm, now, as he sits at Jon's side. He knows Ryan's upset, knows Ryan's grousing already about how long to Vegas and how hot he is. It's nothing too or obnoxious but it makes Jon very, very aware of the space between them, the lack of it, of Ryan's warm thigh pressing against his own.

"Anything you want," he tells Ryan and he means it, after their careful back and forth and then Ryan's not very careful blowjob, it seems like the best thing he could offer Ryan, not in trade but in compliance.

But Ryan gets hungry and demanding after Jon's offered him a proverbial blank check. Jon gets worried, except the worry is muted inside of an enormous wave of lust that passes over him.

He and Ryan play a song together and share some fries and the guys are there, he knows, his guys and the other guys but Ryan's happy to prod him and needle him anyway but seems to enjoy it even more with an audience. Which, ha. He'll blame Spencer and Brendon but he knows Ryan, knows what an audience does for him.

They're hot and sweaty and pretty gross when they make it back to Ryan's. Everyone seemed to think it had gone well but Jon was pretty far over it, their fake roadtrip hastily documented while their real one rolled inexorably closer, uncaring at the time being eaten up by pretentious storytellers.

Jon's always been of the belief that shower sex is dangerous and ill-advised but he's also given Ryan a blank check so they try. If anyone's shower could accommodate them and Ryan's unpredictable ways and make it fun and not weird, not dangerous, well, it's Ryan's shower. Jon loves it, has claimed it in ways, but his natural resistance to the dangerous, dangerous world of shower sex has kept him away.

It's memorable, Jon's hair plastered to his forehead as Ryan pushes in. It's memorable and it's separate from their dry-as-dust flirting and games earlier, from Ryan's (Brendon's, Spencer's, he swears!) cat-and-mouse game earlier. This is not what he expected from today but he likes it, dear god, as Ryan pushes him against the shower and holds him still. Ryan takes his time and takes Jon, takes Jon and Jon's time and it's a moment, a memorable moment, that Jon will think back on in other places, at other times, all less memorable and involving less amazing sex with Ryan, and he'll be happy just to have had it.

-

Brendon declares he and Shane are going to, "a party, any party," before he heads in for third shower.

Ryan had beat them all, sneaking in without declaring first, but he'd done it in a way that just amused them all in its non-sneakiness. Spencer wandering in after Ryan to chastise him and reemerging dripping wet is worth every second Jon has to sit here, cooling in his own sweat. It's OK, he has a beer.

Spencer's stretched out on the couch, shirtless and with his laptop balanced on his belly. He gives Brendon a thumbs up without looking after Brendon's dramatic announcement and goes back to watching something on Hulu, clearly not in on Brendon's wild party plans.

Jon thinks about it during his shower. He hasn't gone out in longer than he can remember but he's not desperate to or anything. He's still undecided when he spots Ryan smudging on eyeliner.

"You're going?" he asks without thinking when he's standing behind Ryan in just a towel. Ryan's scrubbing at his right eye with the corner of a towel while Jon's scrubbing at his hair.

"No," Ryan picks up another color, starts smudging slowly. "I'm just re-learning the art of eye liner 'cause I feel like it."

"Sure," he settles his hands lightly on Ryan's hips. Ryan's not quite fully dressed, Jon enjoys the heat coming off of Ryan's hips. "Then I'll just head back to the hotel?"

Ryan twists quickly, stops Jon from moving with one hand on his chin and swipes the eyeliner quickly over his eyes. Ryan hasn't cared about makeup in ages, so Jon's confused. Ryan doesn't say anything, just turns back around and reaches for a new pencil.

"Should I, y'know," he whips the towel off and nudges in behind Ryan. He's hard enough Ryan has to be able to feel it.

"What?" Ryan asks steadily, but his hands shake subtly as he raises the eyeliner.

"Damnit," he pushes Ryan further into the sink. "Should I come with you? Should I get all prettied up like you?" He nudges Ryan's knees apart under as he speaks.

"Shit, Jon," Ryan goes down onto his elbows, leans closer to the mirror. "I thought we'd go out, not fuck in the dressing room bathroom."

"Why don't we do both?" He pulls Ryan's hips away from the sink just far enough to get Ryan's pants undone. "I fuck you here, you fuck me there?"

Ryan huffs out a choked laugh as he lifts his face. "I didn't mean we'd fuck out, I meant to actually go out." Jon loves Ryan's red, rounded cheeks, a sure sign he's happy.

"Naw," he reaches for Ryan's toiletries bag. "I mean, sure, let's go out. But you know we'd end up fucking either way."

Ryan laughs again and he's surprised. Ryan's normally pretty serious and solemn after things get going. He's surprised until Ryan tells him there's lube in his pants pocket.

"Can't you imagine it, us at a club, taking up a VIP restroom somewhere?" Jon whispers as he rummages through Ryan's pockets. "I'd fuck you so hard, to make sure all those people hear you."

Ryan makes a sound, a tiny sound but a sound Jon has learned to appreciate.

"You like that?" He's not going to bother with a lot of prep, but he gets his lube-coated thumb into place and pushes into Ryan quickly, unexpectedly by the jump of Ryan's hips.

"Yeah," Ryan sounds surprised. "Tell me more about the people."

Jon meets Ryan's eyes in the mirror. "This is going to be a thing, isn't it?" he asks.

"Whatever," Ryan rolls his eyes. "Fuck me like you mean it, like you know there's someone else to hear."

yeah, this is a thing he thinks, before he stops thinking at all, letting his mouth take over as he tells Ryan everything he'll do, everything everyone will hear. It's all fabricated but fabulous. Ryan keeps a loose grip on his dick and his mouth, hissing a series of increasingly desperate affirmations that leave Jon dizzy.

They never make it to the party.

-

"So I was thinking," Ryan says, over the water and pushing his way into the shower. Jon nearly slips and falls when he whips around at Ryan's voice. Ryan likes that he can still surprise him. "Since we didn't get to do this before the show."

"You wanna do it now, here, with Brendon and Spencer and, and Zack! Sitting outside the door?" He protests, but there's no room in the shower for Jon to get away. He's gripping Ryan's arms just to stay upright, and of course he doesn't complain when Ryan leans forward into a kiss.

"I guess I'll have to do it fast," and Ryan spins Jon back around, pressing him against the tile.

"Fast?" Jon chokes. He shakes the water out of his eyes and grins back at Ryan. Jon can still surprise him, too.

"Fast."

Ryan doesn't have to do much to get hard. He'll worry about Jon later. Right now, he reaches down to pull on his cock, then back out of the shower where he left a condom on the counter. Ryan thought this through, timing his moment, keeping Brendon distracted, even tearing the foil before he jumped Jon in the shower. It's even easier to roll on with wet hands.

Jon is being good, staying where Ryan put him, but he's raised his arms up to pillow his head against the wall. He's just the right height for Ryan. He's just the right height for Ryan to press his forehead between Jon's shoulderblades and press his fingers inside. Everything's wet, and Jon lets out a deep gutteral sound, but Ryan slips in easy.

They do it this way a lot. Not in the shower, often, but Ryan on top. He loves moving into and over Jon's bulk, and how when Jon's on his back and Ryan's between his legs, Jon wraps him up in crazy limbs, and Ryan doesn't want him to let go. Like this, in the shower, Ryan sets the pace. Ryan knows what he likes.

He likes the way Jon seizes around his cock when Ryan's barely inside. Every time, like Jon can't help it. One hand on his hip and the other tugging at the curling ends of his wet hair, Ryan pushes all the way. He watches Jon's mouth fall open, wanting so badly to scream out, but they're both too aware of what's waiting outside.

Never mind that the guys know what's happening in the tiny dressing room bathroom. Spencer demanded Jon take the first shower, claiming he smelled like a brewhouse, which was Brendon's dancing's fault, not Jon's. Jon was always soaked after a show, but he would gladly sit and wait for the last shower. He went gladly this time, and Ryan didn't waste the moment. He didn't look back at Spencer's completely inappropriate leer, either.

Jon goes up on his toes every time Ryan pushes in, back down with every pull out. The water is cooling, but Ryan barely notices, except each time Jon shakes his head like a dog and the droplets go everywhere. Ryan's own hair is fallen in his eyes and matted, but he can't spare a hand to get it out of his way. He doesn't need to see. He can feel everything he needs to feel.

It starts somewhere down in the tightness of his thighs. Ryan shortens his thrusts to get them there faster, not letting Jon get too far away, not letting him get too comfortable. His whole body goes tight, fingers digging into Jon's hip and ripping at his hair, Ryan comes like that, his mouth open on Jon's shoulder and the salty wetness there.

"Good?" Ryan asks. "That was good."

"Maybe if you let me come, too," Jon laughs, his voice as tight as Ryan feels.

"Oh. Right."

-

Spencer thinks he's used to it and OK with it until Brendon and Shane have claimed the front lounge, Jon and Ryan, the back, and Spencer is stuck in the empty bunks in the middle of the bus. He thinks about calling Haley, but they agreed they wouldn't, for a while, and it's barely been a month.

Everyone in his band is disgustingly happy, and Spencer's stuck on the bad end of a break-up with no best friends.

He figures, if he can't find them, he'll steal their stuff. Raiding Brendon's bunk, Spencer finds chocolate. He grabs Jon's iPod, but the prize of the night is tucked between the pages of the epic Ryan's reading at the moment. Spencer reaches back up to Jon's bunk for a lighter and enjoys his first hit.

He's nearly done with the joint, laid back on his bottom bunk, with the curtain pulled, with his eyes closed, with Billy Joel's 52nd Street, when there's a bump and a thump and someone saying his name.

"What do you want, Ryan?" Spencer pulls back the curtain, and Ryan takes that as an invitation. He rolls into Spencer's bunk, so Spencer makes room. He turns the music off, but leaves the earbuds in. Maybe it will keep Ryan from intruding too long. Maybe it will get Ryan back on his way with his handful of condoms.

"That mine?" Ryan asks.

Spencer nods because he's holding the smoke it. He says, "Yep," as he lets it out, then passes Ryan the last of the joint.

"Are you moping?"

"Nothing else to do tonight."

Ryan curls into Spencer's side. He blows the smoke out over Spencer's mouth. "You could come back and watch a DVD with us," he croaks.

"Not if you and Jon are going to be having sex at the other end of the couch."

"We'd wait until you were gone."

Spencer reaches over to pat Ryan's belly. "That's very considerate of you."

"All right." Ryan ducks out of the bunk, coming back with a soda can he drops the butt into. He sits up, ducked so he doesn't hit his head, and he looks back over his shoulder at Spencer. "Jon said you guys talked about me."

"We talk about you a lot."

"He told me you made a lot of sense. I told him that's kind of your job."

"Yeah." One of his earbuds falls out when Spencer rolls away and onto his back. He fits it back in and feels around for the iPod.

Ryan says, "Yeah," Spencer hears him just before he turns the music back on, a minute and a half into "My Life," and then Ryan's gone. He doesn't pull the curtain.

When the album ends again, Spencer doesn't put it back to the beginning. That whole joint seems to have worn off already. His mouth is dry. He gets up to grab some water from the fridge, tripping over someone's shoes and just barely catching himself before he makes a scene. Brendon and Shane are asleep on the couch with the TV on, so he needn't have bother.

He stands with the fridge open and drinks most of the bottle of water right there. After turning off the TV, Spencer wanders back to the bunks, walking past, and risking a glance to the back lounge, too.

They're not asleep. They're not doing anything too bad, nothing Spencer has to avert his eyes from. Ryan has his pants on, but they're unbuttoned and the zipper pulled down. He's facing Spencer, but not looking at Spencer. He's turned his head up to Jon, laid out behind him, and Jon's hand is down his pants. But it's quiet. It's not sex, as far as Spencer can see. It's something, though.

The look on Ryan's face is something.

-

Jon shouts, "Snow day!" as he comes back up the stairs, which is silly because they're in Vegas, not Chicago.

"You smoke up without me?" Ryan asks, when Jon gets back to bed. He has two mugs hanging from a finger, the coffee in a carafe Brendon stole from a Denny's, and a box of Cap'n Crunch under his arm.

"There is snow coming down out there, Ryan, I swear."

He kneels on the bed and lets the cereal drop. It's already open and spills out onto the duvet. Ryan holds the mugs out so Jon can pour the coffee. He's stuck holding them both while Jon settles back in bed, carafe on the floor on his side, Cap'n Crunch between them under the covers. Jon blows across both their mugs, then takes his own to sip.

"There's really snow," Ryan says, not to Jon in particular--the guy doesn't need encouraging--but trying out the words in his mouth. Snow, in Las Vegas.

"Not anything like Chicago snow, of course, but you guys do get marks for effort. Later, when I'm finished breakfast," Jon says through a mouthful of Cap'n Crunch, "we'll go outside for further tests. I only saw it through the window, but I don't think your Vegas snow can make a snowman."

"Then why do you need to go outside?" Ryan snaps the duvet up and over their heads. It pulls short at the bottom, and they both have to tuck their feet inside. Their knees bump, then slide together. Jon hooks his ankle around Ryan's to pull them closer. Ryan wasn't cold, exactly, but it's a good excuse to do this.

"You should write a song about the snow." Jon crunches loud and it only echoes more under the covers.

"A story of the sun falling in love with a snowman."

Jon laughs. "If you feel you have to write sad songs, sure." He moves closer to Ryan on the pillow. They're not touching yet, but Ryan's going to have to kiss him soon if he keeps this up. "I was thinking something closer to," and here Jon actually sings, "Baby, it's cold outside."

Ryan has to kiss him now. He waits for Jon to finish crunching, then rolls forward on the pillow. It's a sugary kiss, but Ryan doesn't mind. It's slow, just lips moving against each other, hint of tongue searching, then retreating. Jon hums the whole time. Ryan puts a hand on his chest to feel the rumbling. Jon gets that from his cats. It's how they show their love, and they've trained Jon well. He probably doesn't even know he's doing it.

Ryan breaks the kiss to sit up a bit, ducked over under the covers, and finishes the last gulps of coffee. He doesn't want to spill, and it's just easier to get rid of the mug.

"Get back here," Jon says, and they both curl in closer, tighter, pulling the covers with them until there's no air between them, only the breaths they share.

Jon's hands slide down Ryan's sides, but he's not trying to start anything. He's tucking in the duvet where it's not long enough and making Ryan's back cold. Then his hands come back up to frame Ryan's face, to move his nose out of the way so they can kiss deeper. His hands are warm, and their blanket fort is warm, and Ryan can barely breathe, and it's probably more Jon than anything, but he'll blame the bed.

They do go outside, later, after Jon's made him put on a half a dozen layers and promised that, after they make a snowman, they can get back under the covers.

-

Ryan doesn't play them off of each other, he doesn't, but sometimes Jon can't handle it when Ryan talks about Keltie. It's not a huge thing, him and Ryan, and he's happy that Keltie makes Ryan so happy, that their time together leaves him relaxed and with a happy crinkle to his eyes. He loves that Keltie is unphased by anything about Ryan, the occasional emotional outlashing, the crazy fans, the way Ryan just dropped in that he and Jon sometimes hook up into a conversation over pancakes.

They're good for each other and Jon likes that. Ryan doesn't play them off of each other, he doesn't, but sometimes Jon can't handle it when he calls Keltie when they're in bed.

He pops his earbuds in and tries to ignore Ryan talking about this leg of the tour. After fifteen minutes he puts on Christmas songs.

Ryan taps him on the shoulder. "Wanna talk to Hobo?" he hands the phone over and Jon gets an earful of Keltie's warm voice telling him to hold on and she'll get their darling. He rolls away from Ryan to make little noises into the phone, weirdly embarassed. Even though Ryan gave him the phone and does the same thing, Jon's still having to talk to his girlfriend and coo at his dog while Ryan's cold toes rest against his bare calves.

"Have a good night, honey," Keltie's voice is sleepy and quiet. He knows that, he knows her voice, and he finds it annoying he knows that, knows her voice well enough to identify her moods.

"Yeah, sleep well," he squeezes his eyes shut, furious at himself for being annoyed with two people who are so goddamn nice. He rolls back over and drops the phone next to Ryan's head. "Here."

"Jon?" Ryan's tone is tentative.

"Yeah," he inches one hand over Ryan's chest, because he can, because he's the one here with Ryan.

Ryan doesn't say anything in response. His chest expands and contracts under Jon's hand, faster when Jon scratches at his skin, slower when Jon kisses him. He stops fighting his urge to prove a point when Ryan stays still under him, acquiesces to Jon's demanding kiss.

"Go get the lube," he asks when he pulls back to see Ryan watching his mouth. Ryan nods.

He clears the bed while Ryan's in the bathroom, puts away Ryan's laptop and their phones and iPods. He clicks off the overhead light and turns on the bedside lights and pulls the covers halfway down, feeling obvious.

Ryan reemerges naked, pads his way to Jon's side and ducks down for a kiss. He keeps giving as Jon keeps asking for more in the only way he knows how, thrusting his tongue into Ryan's mouth with more force than usual.

Ryan guides them back to the bed, pulling on Jon's collar. They only break the kiss long enough for Jon to get naked. He watches Ryan scramble backwards as he strips his clothing off quickly. Ryan stops close to the headboard, his legs spread wide in a clear invitation he can't ignore. He crawls up after Ryan, bites his thigh, his belly, his throat before Ryan drags his head up for another kiss. It's familiar, too familiar and he starts to feel uneasy again.

"Where's the lube?" he asks, rising up to his knees, pushing Ryan's legs further apart.

"You don't need any," Ryan's blushing. "I'm ready."

They don't do this often. It disturbs him that Ryan might be using this as a conciliatory gesture but he wants it too badly to question it. He hitches one of Ryan's knees around his waist. Ryan arches into it, rolling his hips up, but Jon waits to push in until he's spread precome over the head of his dick. Ryan bites his lip as Jon pushes in. Ryan wasn't wrong, he's very slick, but it's still a slow journey until Jon's buried deep and gripping both of Ryan's knees.

He'd normally lean down on his hands, kiss Ryan as he fucks him, but he doesn't this time, stays up and rolls Ryan up to meet his thrusts. Ryan is helping in every way he can, curling up further and digging his heels into Jon's ass, but he doesn't want that, he wants Ryan doing what he wants, so he pulls out and tells him to roll over.

Ryan doesn't, at first, inhales and exhales quickly and blinks up at Jon, but then he gets it, pulls his knees in and rolls, lets Jon gets his hips where Jon wants them. He whispers, "yes, yes," as Jon thrusts back in easily, responds to Jon's every move.

His head stays down and Jon loves it, covers Ryan's neck with one hand after he fucks faster. Ryan groans and shudders and Jon holds him down harder, pressing more weight into it. All the tension leaves Ryan's back and he stops responding to Jon, stops moving except how Jon moves him.

It's what he thought he wanted but it unnerves him to see Ryan like this. It doesn't stop him from pounding into Ryan until he's long past ready, until he's just waiting to see if Ryan will come from this.

Ryan whimpers under him and it's enough, now, enough he can pull his hand back and pull Ryan's hips up and give Ryan a hand, give him something to thrust into. It's enough for both of them, and it's not the orgasm Jon expected, it's fast and unnerving.

He glares at the ceiling while Ryan disappears back into the bathroom, to clean up. When Ryan crawls back into bed he has a warm washcloth for Jon and a brief kiss.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," Ryan forces him to curl onto his side and spoons in behind him, pulling the blankets up.

Jon blinks into the darkness and waits. He reaches back for Ryan's hand, pulls Ryan's arm over him and nods. They will.

-

They don't, of course. Every time Jon has something he wants to say, Ryan has a song he wants to work on instead. Jon doesn't have anything beyond, "So..." anyway. He was hoping he could just get them started and Ryan would take it from there. Ryan's the one who knows words.

After a few days, and a few nights spent silently watching the bedroom ceiling, Jon drops the issue. Ryan hasn't passed him the phone in bed; he hasn't asked if Jon wants to talk to Hobo. Jon doesn't want to talk to Hobo. He wants to talk to his own pets, which is why he's flying home this afternoon.

"OK," Ryan says, mouth full of eggs. He's sitting at the island with his breakfast and the paper. He's skipped over the front page story about the shooting on the Strip for the inside Arts supplemental. His fingers stumble when he goes to turn the page, and that's when Jon figures Ryan's finally hear him. "Wait, what?"

"Thought I'd go home for a visit."

"But you've only been here a week." He reaches for his coffee mug, but doesn't drink, just holds it close and between both hands.

Jon doesn't know what to say. He turns for the stairs, heading up to get the bags he half-packed last night. He doesn't even know if Ryan will follow.

There are three guitars to take home; Jon's leaving the Start he bought the day they decided to make the album. They didn't have a name for the new band, but Ryan said they should have something new to commemorate. Jon will leave it here, for when he comes back. If he's staying with his parents or staying with Tom, he doesn't have the space for side projects.

"Were you able to change your ticket?" Ryan's in the doorway, not even a toe over the line.

"No."

"I don't understand."

Jon finishes emptying his side of the dresser drawers into his duffle. He steps on it to cram it in enough to zip up. "I've been here a month, Ryan, not a week. I miss my cats, and my mom's been phoning more than usual."

"We've been kind of busy, huh?" He clenches his fists in the pockets of his pants. He's looking at the wall above Jon's head and not anywhere near the closet or the dresser or the bags Jon's putting together on the floor.

"Nothing's done," Jon says, pushing up off the floor. He holds out a hand to pull Ryan into the bedroom. "We're just putting some things on hold, OK?"

Ryan shakes his head, walking them back to the bed. "You're a jerk for not telling me this."

"I tell you lots of things, Ryan." He flips him onto his back. Jon presses him down with his hips and with his hands. He holds Ryan by the shoulders and bites under his open collar. "You never hear."

He bucks up into Jon, willful, one of his thighs slipping between Jon's legs and connecting too hard with his too hard erection. Jon yelps right next to Ryan's ear, so he calls it even. Then he unzips and shoves his jeans down far enough and makes Ryan hold still, right there, while he rubs and ruts and gets himself off.

Ryan tries to kiss him, but Jon turns his head. Ryan puts Jon's hand on his dick between their bodies, but Jon won't make a fist.

"No," he says. "You have to wait for me to come home."

"But you're right here, Jon, you're right here." Ryan holds his head down, kissing Jon's hair, the only place he can reach. Jon just works himself against that thigh, warm and hard, and he's careful when he comes, not to get it on any of his clothes because he has to get to the airport. It's a mess of spots and stripes on Ryan's belly where Jon had rucked up his t-shirt. It's fine because Ryan can't come to the airport. He has to stay here or else Jon will stay here and forget why he's leaving in the first place.

-

Behind the door, Jon plucks out a familiar melody. Ryan presses his ear flat against the wood, trying to make it out. He doesn't want to disturb anything, but he has to knock because Jon doesn't know Ryan's here. Jon isn't expecting him.

Usually, when Jon comes home to Chicago, he stays in his old bedroom in his parents's house. He's never here long, deciding recently to spend more of his free time with Ryan in LA. When Jon stays in his old bedroom in his parents's house, Ryan doesn't stay with him.

"It's too weird," Ryan told him. He still can't tell how much Mr. and Mrs. Walker actually like him. Ryan holds up all parents to Spencer's, and that's never a fair comparison.

Except this time, Jon is staying in Tom and Sean's empty apartment. There were some hints dropped about how Ryan should join him, about seeing the snow and eating pizza. Ryan said, Maybe, and Jon said, OK, and after two days of Brendon leaving long rambly voicemails and Spencer not answering his phone at all, Ryan figures it's time to get out of LA. He got his ticket at the airport and a taxi into the city. He had to text Spencer for the address.

"So, yeah," he says, Jon still staring, open-mouthed, in the doorway.

"You can't do anything easy, can you, Ross?"

He moves aside to let Ryan in, pointing him down the hall to the room Jon's camped out in. It's the music room, of course, decorated with Tom's photos (and some of Jon's, Ryan thinks), guitars and amps and mic stands in the corner. Jon's sleeping on a folded-out futon and sleeping bag in the middle of the room. That's where Ryan drops his bags.

"What were you playing?" he asks. He didn't have to turn around to know Jon was there.

"You heard that?" Jon's hands reach Ryan first, sliding up under his shirt to his shoulders. It's a challenge with Ryan's coat and jacket, vest and scarf, paisley and undershirt, but Jon pulls it all off, and when he presses against Ryan's back, Ryan realises that Jon's naked, too.

He lets Jon buckle his knees and put him on the bed. "I don't know what I heard," Ryan gasps. Jon's fingers skim up and down his sides, teasing out goosebumps and little breaths from Ryan.

"You do. You heard it." Jon kisses a row across Ryan's shoulders. It's minor distraction from his hand, drawing down, down, popping the button of Ryan's pants. "Sing it for me, Ryan."

Ryan closes his eyes. He won't look at Jon's hand. He presses his face into the mattress, afraid he won't last as soon as he opens his mouth.

Jon speaks right in his ear the next time, "Sing it." He jerks Ryan harder in his pants and rubs his own erection against Ryan's ass.

"I once had a boy," Ryan sings, and Jon barks out a laugh. "Or should I say, he once had me."

They both kind of lose it. Ryan barely has the strength to hold himself up, so he doesn't. He sinks onto the bed. It's not something Ryan gives up often, and Jon takes it. He shoves at Ryan's pants to get them down, and there's more grunt and cursing as Jon gets his sweatpants out of the way. There's a short pause, and Jon's not touching. He's thinking, about getting up and looking for a condom, Ryan realises. But they're both so close, almost there, and Ryan doesn't want him going anywhere, so he reaches back, blind, grabs whatever skin he can, and says, "You don't have to stick it in to get me off."

It's more true than Ryan expected because when Jon wraps one hand around his cock and the other tugs on his balls, Ryan comes with a shout that he can't stop. It might have been Jon's name. His ears are ringing.

Jon takes a little more time, making careful thrusts between Ryan's cheeks. Every move has purpose, and if Jon could have held out longer, Ryan might have been ready for another round.

Instead, he rolls them over on the futon before Jon's completely gone. He's not sleeping in the mess, so sleeping on Jon will have to do.

"Isn't it good?" Jon asks, eyes closed and a brilliant smile.

Ryan kisses him quiet.

-

When Ryan rolls out of bed later and tries to get to the bathroom without tripping over the cats, he realises it's been two days and they haven't left the apartment. They've barely left the bed. Which is nice, actually. They can get a lot done in bed. They've written two songs, both of which Brendon has declared awesome, even over the speakerphone.

There are two framed pictures in Jon's bathroom. Two framed sunsets: Vegas and Chicago. They both make Ryan smile.

"When did you take the Vegas picture?" he calls out through the open door.

"First tour," Jon calls back before Ryan turns on the water to wash his hands. He steps back into the bedroom with a towel.

"Our first tour or the first first tour?"

"First first."

Ryan nods. "That's why I don't remember it. You were hanging out with Brendon that night." He crawls up the bed, straddling Jon with his knees and his hands. "Where did you two go?"

"The roof," Jon says, fingers digging into Ryan's hips to drag him down. They're both in boxers, both in Jon's ratty striped boxers actually, and Ryan can feel everything. Jon gets him in the right position to thrust down into Jon's thrusts up. Ryan lets him do the work. He does the kissing.

Jon's been lazy since the tour ended. His beard is bushy and his hair, curly. Ryan brushes it out of his eyes, stretching up to kiss Jon's forehead, one for each of his eyelids, then rubs his nose, and bites his lip. Ryan has just a few days of growth, but it's a rough kiss. It leaves his cheeks red and his lips chapped. It leaves Ryan wanting for breath. Jon steals it all.

This could all be over so soon. Ryan feels light in Jon's hands, riding on Jon's rhythm. He feels warm. Not hard, so much as swollen and sensitive. Every touch is too much and threatens to end it all. Ryan doesn't fight it--the end is the point, what they're both reaching for. But he lets Jon find it. He closes his eyes, holds himself up on his elbows, and finds Jon's lips saying, yes, yes, Ryan, yes.

"You're close?" Ryan asks. Yes. "Wanna come?" Ryan asks. Yes.

He shifts his hips up, and Jon loses hold. Only a moment, but it halts their rhythm and his eyes fly open. He stares up at Ryan, confused. Ryan grins down at Jon, then grinds down, their cocks coming together and pulsing together. Jon cries out, louder than Ryan's ever heard.

He's done, limp and lax. Ryan rests his head on Jon's chest and waits for his skin to stop tingling. Jon finds just enough energy left to turn them on their sides.

"Time for another nap," Jon murmurs behind Ryan's ear. He hauls Ryan in close, laying his hand low on Ryan's belly, and making sure they're touching all over. It would be so easy to fall asleep here, wrapped up in Jon and in his bed, the cats curled around their feet, everyone lazy in the afternoon.

But Ryan's so aware of their time off the road. It goes so fast. It just goes, and he never knows where. Ryan came to Chicago for Jon, but also for Chicago. He wants to see more than the inside of a pizza box.

"I don't want to miss the sunset this time," he says. He feels Jon chuckle, then he feels him pull away.

"All right, all right," Jon says. He holds out a hand to help Ryan off the bed. "You get the camera; I'll take the shower."

"How about I join you?" Ryan lets Jon reel him in and kiss him hard.

"You could do that. But it might be time for the sunrise when we get out."

"Lake Michigan, Jon. That's what I want to see."

Jon says, "All right."

-

Jon wakes him up with a kiss. It would be sweet if they were in a movie or if Ryan could smell some delicious coffee but instead he whines up at Jon and arches into stretching his shoulders and closes his eyes when Jon doesn't make being awake worth his while.

"Ryan," Jon shakes his shoulder. "Ryan, wake up." He opens his eyes and blinks up at Jon. It's not dark out but it can't be too late either since he feels exhausted and Jon keeps trying to wake him up.

"Mrrph," he rolls in Jon's direction. "Wha?"

He feels Jon get closer, feels Jon's breath hot on his face. "Snow day," Jon whispers, "snow day, snow day, snow day." Jon loves snow. Ryan lives in a desert, except for when he lives with Jon.

"Hmm," he gets out. He's having problems staying awake. "OK."

Jon laughs softly in his ear. "I'm going to go shovel. You sleep."

"Good, yes," he doesn't open his eyes.

He wakes again when Jon's frigid fingers touch his neck. It rouses him from a dream about singing snowmen.

"No," he rolls over, away from Jon's touch.

"Yes." Jon smells like strong wind and boy and wool and chocolate. He peeks over.

"Hot chocolate?" Jon nods but shuffles away from him.

"Yes," Jon backs away from Ryan's questing hand. "Yours is in the living room."

Annoying. He trails out after Jon, hitching his sleep pants up.

There's a fort blanket in the middle of the room. He can't help but boggle. "Jon?"

"Snow day," Jon hands him a hot chocolate of his very own.

He sips slowly as he eyes the fort. "Looks nice," he tells Jon. "Sturdy," he doesn't know what else to say. Well, except it really does look, "Comfy?"

Jon beams. "Yes!" He hits the lights and motions Ryan over. And why not? He shrugs and drops to his hands and knees to crawls in after Jon.

Jon used the light blue sheets, the fluffy ones that Ryan doesn't like as much as the flannel ones on the bed right now. But the light blue lets in the muted sunlight, pale and faded and matching Jon's tshirt. He looks right, in here, like he's home. He settles comfortably on his back, hands over his heart, and Ryan can't help but drape himself over the lump of Jon.

It's weird, being surrounded by sheets but to have none of them wrapped closely around you. They don't talk, they just breathe. Ryan's sleepy again, curled up on Jon's chest, but he can't go to sleep, he'll miss something. He'll miss whatever made Jon bring them here.

Jon squeezes his ass shamelessly and he squirms. "Not fair."

"Completely fair," Jon counters. "I shoveled, I made hot chocolate." He gets his fingers in a good spread on Ryan's ass, squeezes again, the type of pressure that'll leave bruises.

"You're right," he pushes himself off of Jon but is careful not to tug on any part of the precarious fort. "Help me with my pants."

Jon makes short work of both of their pants, gets everything pushed down enough for Ryan to thrust against his belly. It's not a good angle, he slips around more than anything else, but Jon sighs happily.

He decides it isn't working fairly quickly but when he sits up to try something new, he catches on the sheets. Jon hisses and grabs his ass, pulling him back down. "No!"

"Snow day, right." He hunches back over Jon, nudges Jon into gripping both of their cocks. Their foreheads touch and Jon shifts and it's better but it's not good, not yet. Ryan shifts, grinding down into Jon, and it's not just good, it's great until one particularly perfect thrust brings the entire fort crumbling down around them, hiding Jon's face from him and stopping Jon's wonderful hand.

"Bed, Jon," he bats at the ruined fort around him. "A bed that's not made of candy floss." Jon's voice is muffled but Ryan's sure he agrees.

-

"I think that's a bad idea," Jon says when Ryan's finished.

He stares at Jon, hurt. "But, it," he doesn't know what to say. Jon's never disagreed with him before, not about anything more important than what to have to eat or drink or listen to or, well, OK, Jon disagrees with him a lot but not about things he really wants, not like this.

"Terrible idea," Jon continues. "There's no way."

"We could rent--" Ryan tries.

"No." Jon shakes his head. "We're not recording the next album in Chicago."

"Fine," he stands up and starts to walk away. He's not sure where he's going but he knows he needs to get out of here.

"I understand you want to be nice to me or something," Jon continues as if Ryan weren't halfway out the door. He lingers on the other side, sure he's still within Jon's eye line. "But Vegas is home to the bulk of this band and I happen to like staying with you." He turns to face Jon but stays silent. Jon isn't smiling. "I appreciate it, I really do. But it's not worth it."

"You are worth it!" He's torn. If Jon's just going to be stupid he'd rather leave, but Jon's acting all reasonable, calm, like this isn't an argument.

"Ryan, the band doesn't need it." Jon sits up straighter. "It makes me really happy you want to do this for me, but do something for me that doesn't require dragging half our band away from their homes, k?"

Ryan nods tightly and turns to continue on his way. Jon lets him go, which hurts in its own way, but Ryan started himself on this walk, he'll take it just so he doesn't have to turn around.

He finds himself back in the music room half an hour later. He doesn't play Luna often, she's too nice a guitar to risk bringing when he's traveling. He indulges in cradling her in his lap while he's curled in the giant armchair, plucking out a minor-key melody.

"Hey." Of course it's Jon.

"Hey," he stares at his fingers, a habit he thought he'd broken long ago.

"Wanna, uh," Jon trails off and Ryan feels, for the first time, like he might not be the only unhappy one. He debates saying no, stretches the silence out.

"Sure," he sighs and then feels like a dick. Jon grabs a guitar, not a bass, and they noodle around long enough that Ryan's starting to feel like they could all put it behind them. He and Jon are better at being honest in melody than lyric. Their harmonies, time signatures, ideas for anything always clash when they're not being honest. Ryan's learning to be honest with himself, not just Jon.

"I had to," he starts without knowing where he's going.

"Yeah," Jon replies, as if it were a whole thought. "I just - I had to say no."

"Fine, yeah." He gets up to put Luna away, fusses with her since he can. Jon approaches but doesn't touch him until he's done.

"This wasn't an argument," Jon runs a hand from his shoulder down his back. "But we could go have some makeup sex."

"That's funny," he finishes snapping the last latch into place. "It sure felt like an argument."

"Naw," Jon turns him by his hips, not far enough they can slot together but far enough Jon can nip at his jawline. "It's just an excuse. We'd probably have had a quickie a while back if I hadn't shut you down so quickly. We almost have a schedule, have you noticed?"

He's noticed.

Teasing about Jon making it up to him would be too much, he knows. Jon doesn't need to make it up to him, it wasn't an argument. But still he pouts at Jon, a smirk-tinged pout, and taps where a watch would be on his wrist. "I do have a rather large clock."

-

The new album is all stories, and most of them are happy. Ryan's words are simple, even though the stories are still about boys and girls, about growing up and falling in love. It worked because Brendon's melodies were big and ambitious. Those songs would be the hits. Jon could hear it already.

His own songs are tending towards the quiet end. Well, they often do, but this time around, Jon's songs are sounding a lot like the African drums and the Spanish guitar Ryan puts on before they go to sleep. He took Spencer aside and asked if there was something he could do with percussion to make it sound like rain, and Spencer had looked at him sideways, but they figured it out.

"How did you do that?" Ryan asks, passing the joint to Jon. When he lets the smoke go, it collects into a long whispy cloud above them. Jon blows it away with his next hit.

"Ask Spencer, man. Sounds awesome, right?"

Ryan rolls into Jon to butt his head against Jon's shoulder, and when he rolls away again, he's stolen the joint. It was Ryan's, anyway. He rolled it. Jon just wandered outside to lay down on the wet grass. He didn't even know Ryan was there.

Little white buds in his ears and the joint between his long fingers, Ryan must have been out here hours if Jon lost track of him. He thought he had holed up with Brendon downstairs in the tiny closet they were using for vocals. He thought they were working on something amazing (or killing each other), so Jon and Spencer walked up to the main drag for Tiger beer and bowls of pho as big as their heads.

"We should get back before there's blood," Jon had said. They were lingering, and soon Jon wasn't going to be able to walk at all without assistance. Spencer said, "They can clean up their own mess," and ordered them another round.

But Ryan was out here, in Brendon's backyard, and listening to their new tracks, over and over and over. Jon can only hear the bass, a little drums, and the high points of Brendon's voice. He can't quite make out which song is which yet, not from the sound coming out of Ryan's earphones. It's like being on the El without his iPod and straining for something, anything, even if it's only a buzzing he knows must be music.

He's not sure he'd recognise his own music seeping out of the iPod of the girl on the subway next to him, but he knows Ryan isn't listening to anything else during this session. It's not a rule--Ryan tried to make it one, but they all protested--it's just Ryan. He's writing simple stories for this album, but they have to be his own.

"This one's my favourite." Ryan spoke like picking up an earlier conversation. It's still early days, none of the tracks officially done. Jon's not playing favourites yet. He rolls over to Ryan this time, landing half on top, his leg falling between Ryan's. He picks up the iPod from where it's resting on Ryan's chest to read the title. "Track 04," of course. Some things have names on paper and in heads and during fights. Some things have names highlighted in the pages of favourite books, but nothing has a name on the computer yet.

"Lemme hear it," Jon says, and maybe Ryan can't hear him over the song, but he offers one of the earbuds, anyway. He pulls Jon down to fit it in, and kisses him to the beat of the song, their song, the one that kind of sounds like rain.

-

He loves Spencer's house. His mom drops off cookies, and Spencer never forgets to buy beer. Jon has a bed and a bathroom all to himself. It's a week into writing the new album, but he's not used to being here and not at Ryan's.

The thing with Ryan (and Jon only ever calls it a thing, in his head, out loud) makes even less sense now than before. Now that they're single, Jon thought it might be easy.

"Jon?" Spencer knocks and pushes the door open at the same time. "Not to sound all mom on you, but it's 2 o'clock."

"I'm awake."

"Are you getting up?" He's standing at the foot of Jon's bed now. "We have to be a Brendon's soon, and you really need a shower, dude."

Jon hums a yes. He kicks off the covers, but doesn't get any further. Even Spencer's ceiling is nice, none of that stucco crap like at Ryan's house.

"I know we're not supposed to talk about it," Spencer says, crawling up the bed to lay next to him. "But, Jon, you know Ryan's kind of a dick. You know that, right?"

He snorts into Spencer's shoulder.

"He's my best friend. I love the guy, but he's not exactly reliable. We're going to show up over there," Spencer tells him, "get drunk, smoke a bowl, play a few songs that we still haven't finished, and Ryan will try to blow you in the bathroom like he hasn't ignored you for a month."

"Did Ryan ever blow you, Spence? He's really quite good."

Spencer puts his hands on both sides of Jon's face. He stares at him until Jon bursts into laughter.

"Yeah," he says, "I thought it smelled funny in here."

Pushing up off the bed, Jon collides with Spencer, slides down his face to his lips. He's not even sure about what he's doing before Spencer is pulling away.

"No, Jon, we can't do that."

He nods. He really does need a shower. "How about the joint I left in the bathroom?"

Spencer laughs. "Yeah. OK."

They lay in the bathtub, one at either end, their legs meeting in the middle, and the joint passes easily between them. Spencer's going to have to drive because Jon can't feel his feet.

"He did blow you." Jon points his finger at Spencer until Spencer gives him the joint back. "I can tell."

Spencer doesn't say yes or no, but he's Jon's room and board and ride to work, so he doesn't push. They pack the dogs and cats into Spencer's car because there's no way they're coming home tonight. It's Friday, Jon thinks, and they might not come home all weekend. Ryan has 32 song titles on a big piece of paper in Brendon's living room, and there's only 3 songs to match. They've been at this a week, but it feels so much longer than that.

Jon's not sure how long they stand on Brendon's doorstep. Inside, there's noise, music and Brendon's soaring voice. The guitar doesn't really sound like Ryan.

"What the fuck? Why aren't they answering the door?" Spencer's foot is tapping a mean rhythm on the concrete steps.

"Did you knock?" Jon asks.

"I thought you knocked," Spencer says. Jon shrugs. "Jesus."

Brendon lets them in, hugs for Jon and Spencer and the dogs, too. "We're making a record," he announces, and Jon isn't sure that's for him or Boba. Spencer leads Brendon back to the car to help with the rest of their stuff, but Jon is drawn into the house. He follows that guitar, which doesn't sound like Ryan, but it is Ryan.

"Sounds good," Jon tells him, even though he isn't sure yet.

Ryan looks up from the strings. "Hi, Jon." He speaks slowly, or maybe it's Jon's ears that are slow. Ryan sets his guitar on the stand next to his chair and walks across the room to stand in front of Jon. He puts his hands on Jon's face, familiar, and Jon leans in. He barely knows he's doing it. He probably shouldn't, because Spencer's right, Ryan's a dick, but, God, he knows how to kiss.

-

"So," Ryan stirs his coffee slowly.

"So," he repeats numbly. He doesn't want to talk about it and Ryan is generally crap at making people talk about stuff. But they both know where this conversation is going.

He pours himself another cup of coffee instead.

"Well, uh," Ryan shifts on his chair. "My ass is pretty sore."

Jon knows he shouldn't but he smirks down at the table. He thinks his coffee cup covers most of it, but. Still: rude.

"Jon?" He looks up. Whoops. He was thinking of Ryan's ass, of Ryan still under him last night, of Ryan's fingers on the back of his neck before that, as he and Keltie planned their next vacation. Ryan's fingers had been soft and moved on their own speed.

"Yeah." He feels like a douche but he's going to make Ryan say it.

"What's wrong?" He looks up and Ryan's a little flushed, but not unappealingly. He probably had to force himself to ask. Ryan hates confrontation but he's not afraid of it.

"Just," he adds another sugar to his coffee. "You stopped with me."

Ryan doesn't respond. Jon's not sure it makes sense out of his head, but it feels right. It feels like when a band decides to take a break and when you know the break will last a while and you'd better just be goddamn happy you saw them that one time on tour. That's probably the best you'll ever get and you didn't know it at the time.

He doesn't have time to wait to become the thing that comes along next. He's sure that'll happen, someday, that he'll be Ryan's once and again and eternal, too. He doesn't have to be Ryan's every day, he really doesn't, even if he is most of the time anyway. He knows he can't hold onto Ryan, OK? He knows that.

Jon's not quite sure why he's so certain but he'd never tell, even if he did figure it out. After this right now comes some more of this, maybe slightly different, nothing is really going to change that.

"Just -- Ryan?"

Ryan's already looking at him. "Yeah?"

"Just don't call her when we're in bed," he says it quickly, like pulling off a band-aid.

Ryan nods slowly. "I'm sorry, Jon." He says it like he means it, that's enough for Jon. More than enough.

"I know. I'm sorry, too." He shrugs at everything, nothing. "That was kind of shitty of me."

It's Ryan's turn, now, to smirk. "Maybe," he stands slowly, stretching and wincing obviously. "But it was fun, too."

Jon somehow came out of this conversation with everything he would have wanted: No Keltie In Bed and Ryan climbing into his lap to kiss him.

"We suck at this," Ryan informs him when they stop to drink coffee. Ryan's is lighter than his but they both taste like coffee, dark and sweet on both their tongues.

"If something sucks," he can barely keep it together to finish the sentence with a straight face, "it should be sucking my dick."

"Your dick?" Jon's worry disappears at Ryan's cry of fake outrage. "What about my dick?"

"I dunno." He scratches his beard. "Apply to Spencer for sanctuary?"

"Sanctuary?" he laughs. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"You must obey the rules, Jon." Ryan slides off of him and onto the floor, spread-limbed between Jon's knees. He sweeps his hands up Jon's thighs, holds him open as Ryan starts to lick at the fabric over his dick.

It's amazing how good it feels, how unexpected, how carefree. Theirs was a fight without words, without accusations. It was a fight of humor but that doesn't make it end right.

"I need to learn to trust in fate," he tells Ryan.

-

"You made it," Ryan says, handing Jon a beer. "How does 24 feel?"

The party's a little bigger than they planned, but Spencer says that's what Ryan gets for letting Brendon do the inviting. Spencer picked the club and hired the caterers. It was Ryan's job to make sure Jon actually showed up.

"This is too much," he said, eyes wide, still in shock from the surprise and everyone he knew yelling, Happy birthday, Jon! as they walked through the door. He had squeezed Ryan's hand so tight in that moment.

People are still saying, Hello, and Happy birthday, slapping Jon on the back and making him promise to do a shot together. Ryan tells all of them, Later, and leads Jon down the hall, near the coat check. It's not quiet, but it's empty.

"Do you hate surprises? We couldn't decide if you would hate the surprise. I always knew I could never throw Spencer a surprise party--he'd punch me in the face--but I thought..." Ryan doesn't know what he thought, actually. The band hasn't had enough birthdays with Jon. That was why they had to do this, and do it up big. With Spencer turning 21 last year, and Jon wanting to stay in Chicago, Ryan nearly forgot to even phone him up and say, I remembered.

So maybe this party was a little guilty, but it was Brendon, too, inviting everyone he found on Pete's phone, and Spencer, spending past their budget and announcing open bar.

"I don't hate surprises," Jon said, finally. He was leaning against the wall with his head cocked back. Ryan stood across from him, not on the other wall, but not touching Jon, just in case. He waited, and when Jon started talking, he started reaching for Ryan, too. "I don't recognise most of these people, but I don't hate surprises."

"Brendon invited them."

Jon laughs, catches himself, then starts up again when Ryan does. Ryan falls into him, their chests heaving together, Jon's hips and the wall holding them both up.

"You can be my first," Jon is saying, saying to the dirty ceiling above and stretching his neck long to let Ryan attack him. "You can be my first of the new year."

Ryan decides, yes, he'll be the first. He wants to be all of Jon's firsts. He makes a ring of red around Jon's neck, where he can't cover it up with his t-shirt. He makes Jon shiver and lose his footing with just the tip of his tongue.

"First blowjob?" Ryan asks against Jon's lips.

"Yeah," Jon breathes. "I've been waiting all year."

After a quick glance to the state of the floor, Ryan decides it's worth it and gets down on his knees. It's hardwood, and not the same bouncy underflooring of the dancefloor, so he might be regretting this in the morning. But it's Jon's birthday, and Brendon brought his friends, Spencer brought the beer, and Ryan didn't even get him a present.

He gives Jon a short squeeze through his pants before unbuttoning him and pulling his dick out through the slit in his boxers. It always takes a little something to get Jon hard, a hand or Ryan's mouth. Ryan gives him both, his dry hand circling Jon's dick and his tongue licking the head. He gives Jon something nice to thrust into, and adds the swirl of his tongue because it is Jon's birthday.

They're hidden enough from the rest of the party that Ryan doesn't worry too much about what he looks like, cheeks bulging, hands clasping on Jon's thighs. They're hidden enough from the music and the singing that Ryan can hear the sounds Jon is making, the grunts and the moans and the high keen of a whimper when he shoots down Ryan's thoat.

Ryan holds him still and licks Jon clean. He's careful when he tucks Jon away and readjusts himself when he stands. Jon's eyes are closed, and he's smiling, almost on the verge of laughing again.

"24 doesn't feel all that bad," Jon tells him.

"Think you might want to try 25?"

-

"What did you bring me?" Jon always makes the first cup, but he gets Ryan to go downstairs and make the second. Ryan gets creative after that first shot of caffeine wakes him up. He comes back to bed with a big mug just for Jon and birds drawn in his cappucino foam.

Jon sips carefully. "So that's where they went."

"Hmm?" Ryan rubs his lips along Jon's bare arm. He's fussing like Clover does, looking for just the right spot to settle into.

"Your birds," Jon says, as Ryan worms back under the covers. "Your birds are in my coffee."

"I know. I put them there."

"You put them there for me." Jon can barely see Ryan anymore. The bed isn't big enough to hide in, but Ryan burrows down further into Jon's side. "Hey," Jon whispers. He sets his coffee aside and slides down to catch Ryan with a kiss. That gets a smile at least.

The bed isn't really big enough for anything more. It's not even a bed. Spencer came out to LA first and got the big air mattress. Ryan's is skinny and short, and it's not made for two, but when Jon comes out, this is where he sleeps.

He could do without Spencer's teasing, heading up to his room after a long night, a big bowl, and telling Ryan and Jon to "Sleep well!" The thing squeaks at the most inopportune moments. Brendon keeps winking at Jon, then pouting when Jon won't give up details.

Ryan's completely under the covers now, and Jon follows after him. It's not squeaking. The mattress must know how long Jon's been away. Jon's going to make the most of this.

"You running away?" he asks. But Ryan is like that. It can all be a bit much. Jon knows he's a dork, but it's Ryan. It's all three of them, really, when Jon's being sappy, but it's Ryan he gets to make out with. "Listen to that," he says, rolling them over on their sides. "No squeaks."

"Well, c'mon." Ryan pushes at Jon's sweatpants, getting them down past his hips before Jon takes over and Ryan gets naked himself. It's hot under the covers. Jon's sweating already, and they haven't done anything yet.

He throws the blankets away and, immediately, little goosebumps dot Ryan's skin. Jon watches them, traces his fingers behind them as they spread. Ryan breathes heavy. His eyes fall closed.

"Don't worry," Jon tells him. "I'll make you warm."

He covers Ryan again, with his body this time. Their legs slide together, and Jon is careful not to be to heavy on Ryan's hips. He holds Ryan's long arms above his head, kissing the words on both wrists before kissing Ryan. Jon keeps his eyes open, but Ryan's stay closed. He stays still, used to all those nights when they couldn't dare make a noise.

Their stomachs touch when Jon breathes in. It's cold now without the covers, and it kind of tickles, and Ryan laughs. Then his eyes fly open, and he stares up at Jon, muttering, "Sorry, sorry, it's not you."

"There's no apologises during sex," Jon tells him.

Jon presses them together all over. He lets Ryan's arms up, and Ryan wraps him up. It means Jon can't pull away, but he's not going anywhere, not when Ryan's getting hard against him and Jon can get him harder with a simple touch. It's his fingers pressed against the pulse points on Ryan's wrists, around Jon's neck. It makes him sigh and arch his hips, which only makes Jon grind them together harder.

He sucks a spot on Ryan's neck. He groans in Ryan's ear, and when they come together, Jon says, "I made you warm."

-

His hands are on Ryan's skin and in a way it's like the first time and in a way it's like every time.

His hands are on Ryan's skin and they look right there, tanned in contrast to the paleness of every part of Ryan. Ryan's not like Spencer with his near permanent farmer's tan or Brendon with his summer-shirt-off tan that takes forever to fade, Ryan's a permanent shade of winter. Jon has no clue how he grew up in a desert.

He hums "A Hazy Shade of Winter" as his hands roam. He and Ryan still do this, sometimes, and not just after a show anymore, which is nice. They do this when Jon doesn't have to worry about getting caught or wonder if this is just something they do after shows.

It's not something they just do after shows. Nor is it something they just do when they're stoned, though the sense of touch is pretty amazing when time is drippy and Ryan is lax. When
they're high it's not just fun, it's inevitable, but he's never able to coordinate his hands and the movements and the pressure.

Ryan had put on something that sounds like old school World Music, something he'd listen to on headphones at the Virgin Megastore and like but not enough to buy. There are no vocals but he thinks he can hear a waterfall.

"When'd I become your private masseuse?" he wonders under his breath. Ryan doesn't twitch.

He loves it, he always has, but that doesn't mean he can't grumble a complaint from time to time. Ryan's skin is still impossibly dry, even on hot days when Brendon's changed his shirt a few times and Jon is considering changing his.

Ryan rolls and sits up, stays between Jon's legs and leans back on his wrists. Jon doesn't remove his hands, just follows along with Ryan's motion. It leaves his hands on Ryan's nonexistent belly.

Ryan doesn't say anything but he raises his eyebrow. His hair is sticking up and his cheek has wrinkle line imprints from the sheets. He's hard. Jon can feel his dick brushing between his thighs.

He's still stretched from earlier so he takes the implicit dare and raises himself up, gets himself over Ryan's cock. He raises an eyebrow back at Ryan and Ryan helps him with one steadying hand on his hip and one hand holding his dick steady. It's more of a stretch than he expected, after the morning.

Ryan's greedy today, holding Jon still after he's settled all the way down, trying to control Jon's pace after he starts to ride. He smirks at Ryan and sets his own pace. It's never his favorite, like this, getting fucked and also doing all the work, waiting for his thighs to start protesting, but it is enjoyable watching Ryan's growing frustration at not having much control.

He's stayed upright, trailing his fingertips over Ryan's skin in an echo of their earlier touch bonding, but when Ryan starts slamming his hips up to meet Jon, not just lifting suggestively, he pushes Ryan's shoulders into the mattress and really rides him, shifting his weight between Ryan's dick and his shoulders. Ryan won't break, Jon knows this.

Ryan looks a bit like something's hit him. He's gripping Jon's forearms and gasping in counterpoint to Jon, still trying to thrust into Jon even as Jon's sure his hipbones must be aching. He gives in, snarls down at Ryan and tells Ryan to fucking jerk him off already.

It doesn't take long, and he can see Ryan enjoy the way Jon changes his rhythm according to the pace Ryan sets. He doesn't know what he hits when he comes, doesn't care that it's going to be all over both of them because Ryan's being sloppy. Ryan jerks him through it then squeezes him tight, tight enough he hisses and stills and squeezes back and that's all it takes. He knows it's good, knows it has been good, when Ryan's eyes flicker open and closed and he stutters out a tiny cry.

He kisses Ryan before they both fall asleep, since this is the type of situation where they definitely will. "Always a happy ending," Ryan mumbles when he stops and he snorts and flings an arm over Ryan's heaving side.

-

"Yo, Jon, move your ass." Zack ruffles the curtains of his bunk. "Let's go, let's go."

He rolls his head out and hangs over the edge. Zack is upside down. "I changed my mind. I'm not going."

Zack pushes his sunglasses up, checking for the things Zack checks for. He flips them back down. "You and Ryan are on your own, then, but don't leave the bus."

Jon salutes, "Yes, sir." He grunts his way back into the bunk, readjusts the curtain, and gets comfortable again. He's been trying to read this book Ryan gave him, but he hasn't got too far. Passages keep drawing him back, and Jon pours over the words, picking out his favourites. He wonders which were Ryan's favourites.

Ryan's still on the bus somewhere, which is odd. On the plane, he sat with Jon and his notebook and wrote lists and maps of all the places they needed to see, the pilgrimages he needed to make. They made their plans, and then Ryan slept, his head on Jon's shoulder. Jon couldn't sleep at all, and now he's in his bunk on their bus where he sleeps even less. No way he would have been able to keep up with Brendon tonight.

His Sidekick buzzes in his jeans like coincidence with a sad-faced text from Brendon, like he only just figured out Jon isn't joining them. Jon sends back u dance 4 me, then flips the phone closed. His book is still open on his stomach, but he knows his brain's not up for it tonight. Jon flips his phone open.

He sends a simple where r u rubs the screen clean with the hem of his t-shirt while he waits for Ryan's reply.

on the bus is what he gets. It makes Jon smile.

mee 2. Then the phone rings.

"Why are you still on the bus?"

He shrugs one shoulder, rolled over on his side and facing the wall. "Tired."

"Why aren't you asleep?"

"Because you're on my phone." Jon drops his flip flops over the edge of the bunk. The thump, one, two, on the floor. He wriggles his jeans to a mess at his feet. He's not planning anything, just getting comfortable.

"Come to the back," Ryan says.

"Nah, I don't think so." Then Jon actually yawns. It surprises him and comes out loud.

Ryan laughs over the phone. Jon thinks he can hear it in his other ear, too. "So I guess you don't want to have phone sex."

"Why would I want phone sex when you can come up here and blow me for real?"

"Or you can come back here and let me fuck you." It doesn't matter what Jon says, Ryan's never fazed. And he always has a comeback.

"Ryan."

"Jon." That sharp tone of voice makes Jon go hard in his boxers. His free hand flies to his cock in surprise. Ryan speaks again, lower. "You're not really that tired, are you?"

"Does that get you off?" he wonders. "Being contrary?" Jon is still undressing, still getting comfortable again in these tour bus bunks. Jon wasn't home that long, really, but the memory of his childhood bed is a powerful. He'd like to fuck Ryan in that bed someday. So much more room than this bus. Though they're alone. Jon shouldn't complain. Ryan would probably complain.

"That's not being contrary, Jon."

"Yeah? Than what is it."

Jon swears, he swears he can hear Ryan's smug smirk in the silence. It stretches out, Ryan stretches it out, and Jon slips his hand under the elastic of his boxers to jerk himself off, only the sound of Ryan's voice saying, "That's foreplay."

-

"A day off in France!" Brendon punches the air. Spencer insisted they review the schedules before the tour started this time.

"A day off in France," Ryan repeats softly, under his breath. He pronounces it what Jon assumes is the correct way, but it's also the snotty way, with the long A cutting off in a sibilant C.

"Start prioritizing your list," Jon smiles over at him, and he can feel that it's goofy. "For Fraaaaaaaance," he draws it out mimicking Ryan's pronunciation and Brendon follows suit a moment later. It's an instant joke, Spencer picking it up next, then Zack. Ryan blushes but joins in, laughing.

Jon wasn't kidding and Ryan took him at his word. There's a list. Spencer wants to shop with Erick and Brendon's hungover and locked in his room with Shane. Jon convinces Zack to trust them on their own. Zack's not lax when they tour out of America but he is less paranoid. He looks nearly relaxed this time 'round and Jon wonders what type of local hookup he found. Zack's always less tense when he doesn't have to worry about sneaking their stash into new countries.

Ryan has a map and a journal and carefully written directions. Jon doesn't actually think to ask where they're headed until he and Ryan have been on the train for twenty minutes, when he starts to get bored with looking out the window.

"Versailles," Ryan answers, flipping over a page in his journal quickly when Jon looks away from the window. "We've never had more than an afternoon before, there was no way." He shrugs and Jon wonders.

It's huge. Jon can't even figure out where he is on the map most of the time. He trails Ryan around the inside bits until Ryan sighs and suggests they meet up in an hour in a courtyard he circles on Jon's map.

Jon can take pictures outside so he does. Stonework and windows and puddles and fountains, it's all fascinating. The hour passes faster than he thought it would and he's late, but Ryan doesn't mind. He's sitting in the shade, writing again. Jon takes a picture of him every two steps, not hiding his approach, the last five shots a slideshow of Ryan's dawning awareness, the last one Ryan mugging for the camera.

"Wanna play Musketeers?" he swings a fake sword at Ryan. Ryan shakes his head and presses his lips together, but Jon knows he's amused.

"Do you think we can eat in the gardens?" Ryan starts flipping through the pamphlet.

He shrugs. "No harm in trying."

It ends up they're not just able to eat in the gardens, they're encouraged to. Jon's mangled attempt at ordering lunch earns him a sympathetic look and a menu in English. He orders by pointing and smiling.

They wander without purpose, further and further away from the hulking center building. Ryan swings the bag of food in a long arch and hums, snatches of songs they've been writing as they tour. Jon drops back to try to capture his easy gait and relaxed shoulders.

Ryan wants to sit in the sun but Jon thinks they'll burn, so they sit in the sun for half their sandwiches, lying next to each other on the trimmed grass and making up cloud animals. Ryan turns his head and smiles, his sunglasses slipping off his face, and Jon doesn't stop himself from budging over for a kiss. Ryan doesn't stop him.

He gets up when Ryan gets up. They keep walking, wandering off the main path, then off the smaller path. Finally Ryan turns and smirks at him before leading him through a row of shrubs.

"Tell me we can't get arrested for this," he says when he steps through to find Ryan unbuttoning his shirt.

"If you're quick, we probably won't get caught," Ryan laughs as he says it, hands on his belt. Jon backs him up against a tree, changes his mind and pulls Ryan around to the other side before dropping to his knees. He's over-sensitive to every noise he hears, wind in the trees and the persistent sound of water fountains, but Ryan doesn't quiet his moans until Jon nips at his balls and smacks his thigh.

Ryan quiets down and grips Jon's hair, heading for a finish. He must have been thinking about this for a while, he'd been hard before Jon had finished pulling him out of his boxers and it doesn't take long overall, not really.

He stays on his knees with his head pressed against Ryan's hipbone, when Ryan's finished. Outside, near people, it's Ryan's thing more than it's his but there's something calm and beautiful about this moment.

Until they hear voices, and then Jon's scrambling to his feet and buttoning Ryan's shirt while Ryan pulls his pants up. They finish just in time, Jon stepping away to grab the food bag just as a security guard pokes his head in. Jon waves a soda at him, smiling feebly. He can't tell what the guard says but he's pretty sure Ryan owes him about a billion sex favors.

-

Versailles was Ryan's thing, so, as they head back to the hotel, he asks what Jon wants to do. "We have time," he insists.

"I'm good," Jon tells him. He's snapping photos absent-mindedly, trailing behind Ryan, then jogging in the street to catch up.

"We're in France," Ryan says. Then, "Fraaaaaaaance" because he knows it'll make Jon laugh. "There has to be something you want to do."

He makes a show of thinking, holding up traffic in one of the busier arrondissements until Ryan grabs his wrist and gets them moving again. They're walking because Jon wanted to, but there must be something else. "You want to see Montmarte? Hey, Chat Noir?"

Jon scrunches up his nose. "Does that mean cat?"

"It was a famous club. Picasso drank there." Ryan pulls his journal and his maps out again. He's sure he marked that one.

"Should we get a cab?" Jon asks, twisting around.

"Do you even want to go?"

He shrugs. "Do they have food? I'm still kind of hungry."

"Jon." Ryan could get annoyed. They're in France, surrounded by architecture hundreds of years old, people speaking a whole different language, art that survived the wars, and Jon doesn't care. Ryan could get annoyed, but Jon doesn't care about the difference between Paris and LA. He's just happy to be on tour with the band and playing music. Ryan wants to be more like that. Priorities. "Teach me how to be like you, Walker."

Jon's face goes weird, confused.

"Never mind. Forget the Black Cat. Let's go buy you a waffle."

Jon's still confused, but he doesn't argue when Ryan takes his hand. "They make them with Nutella," he tells Ryan.

"I think those are the crêpes."

Ryan has the money, but they both stand in line, to the side of the tiny white truck. The red sign says, Gaufrettes, and they do sell them with Nutella, but Ryan gets one with just the icing sugar instead. With a skewer in both sides, it's easy to break into two, right down the middle. Jon will end up eating most of Ryan's, but later, after they turn down too many narrow alleyways and get lost under a tall apartment building with blue shutters. Jon eats while Ryan checks the map. He didn't mark this one.

"Quiet," Jon says. It's hot, but all the shutters are closed. It's a mostly residential street with no shops, except for the barber's pole on the corner. Jon leans against the brick wall while he waits for Ryan to figure this out. He's quiet, too, talking pictures one-handed until he's finished his waffle.

Ryan joins him against the cool brick. "All right, I don't actually know where we are, but I think we go this way." He draws his finger along a thin line of road to show Jon.

Jon pushes off and he's already leading the way. "Sounds good to me."

"Wait!"

"What? You want to call in one of your sex favours already?" He leans back against the wall, sideways, crowding Ryan and putting a hand low on his belly.

"My what?" Ryan laughs.

"Empty street, no one looking." He teases his tongue along the line of Ryan's lower lip. He's smiling, too, and Ryan can't help it. "I could give you a blowjob."

"Didn't you already?"

"Handjob, then? Is that French?" Jon wonders aloud.

Whether it's French or not, it's happening. Jon pulls Ryan's belt open, then his pants, and the zipper. But he's not in any kind of hurry. He moves slow, exploring, like Ryan is new ground. A new city, and Jon might still be the same Jon, but Ryan can't ever be the same Ryan. He has never been Ryan in this place before, and Jon is familiar, his hands tracing a well-worn path, but everything else is a memory Ryan's taking home with him.

-

Jon can't argue when, gearing up for the next album, all three sit him down and tell him they're recording in Chicago.

"Guys, really."

"Nope," Brendon says.

"We're doing it," Spencer adds.

Jon looks up at Ryan with narrowed eyes. There's nothing Ryan can say, so he smiles.

It starts snowing the day after they land in Chicago. They get a lot of work done, holed up in the rented loft. There's nothing else to do but smoke up and drink hot chocolate and write odes to the cold.

Jon keeps the curtains closed in their room because he says it keeps in the heat. Ryan wants to see the city, so he pulls a chair up to the window and sits between the curtain and the glass. There's just enough room for him and his guitar and a new song he's playing with.

"Why don't you just name the guy Ryan?" Jon surprises him, and he gets tangled up in the curtain. Jon pulls it back, grinning down at him. "You're not being subtle."

Ryan shakes his head. "It's not about me."

"Sure." He sits on the windowsill. "It's all right if the songs are about you, Ryan. That's kinda how it works."

"No, I know."

"It's all right if they're about me, too." Jon's grinning. "You owe me for this." He's playing with Ryan a little, but that's OK. They have two months to make the record. They can spend a couple of days like this, Jon's hands on Ryan's knees and his eyes lit up like morning.

"I do?" He lets Jon take the guitar and watches to make sure he treats her gentle. Ryan's already halfway out of his seat when Jon turns back to help him up.

The glass is cold and makes Ryan hiss when Jon spreads him against the window. But his back is warm, and Jon's hands are so eager.

They have an amazing view. Ryan can see Lake Michigan from up here, but, best of all, no one can see him, as Jon strips off his shirt and pants. No one can see how Ryan's head drops back to Jon's shoulder, and no one can hear the moan he lets escape when Jon reaches around to stroke his dick. Unless, of course, they live across the street, or they're Spencer and Brendon standing outside the door and eavesdropping, no one knows what Jon is doing to him behind this curtain. No one knows how it makes Ryan feel and what it means.

Not even Jon.

"I didn't plan this," Jon says, sucking his mark on Ryan's neck. "God, I didn't grab anything. I'll just--" but Ryan stops him. He puts his hand on Jon's on Ryan's dick.

"Don't go. Don't stop. Jon, don't stop."

"We'll just do this, then, yeah?"

"Yeah," Ryan moans, stretching it out long and needy. He urges Jon's hand back to movement, then reaches up to grab his hair. There's not enough of it for Ryan to use, but Jon gets the picture. He presses his face back into the curve of Ryan's shoulder and bites down hard.

Hands free now, Ryan uses them to brace himself against the window and pushes his ass back for Jon to rut against. There are no words now about Ryan being a skinny little bitch. Jon just grips him hard, rubbing himself through his jeans on Ryan's naked ass, and Ryan's not complaining as long as that other hand keeps moving.

They never really find a rhythm. There's not enough space with the chair, under the curtain, and Ryan will never admit it, but he's worried Jon's going to slip and fall on Ryan's guitar. So he gets them there fast, moaning just a little too loud, for Jon, and telling him, "Yes, yes, it's so so good," because it is, and Ryan doesn't always say it out loud.

Ryan comes first, cheek pressed to the cool glass, and he hates himself, but he waits until Jon distracted with getting himself off, frantic at Ryan's back, before he says, "The songs are about you."

-

"You're not helping things, Jon," Brendon says. "Usually you help things. Have you heard what he's making me sing?"

They had escaped into Spencer's room for the night. He's the only one who has a lock, this dollar store thing he bought and takes everywhere they go. It attaches to the handle, and keeps most everyone out who Spencer wants to keep out. Zack can slam right through it, but Ryan can't, even with the extra weight of his guitar on his back.

He's driving everyone crazy. Somewhere along the line--and Jon isn't sure exactly when it happened, he wasn't paying attention--this became less about hanging out and making an album and all about making an album. They haven't watched a stupid foreign film in weeks, and Ryan actually refused to join them for a smoke on the balcony.

"He's driving everyone crazy," Brendon says.

"Why me?" Jon whines. "Make Spencer do it."

Smoke winds around them when Spencer opens his mouth to join the conversation. "Just go down there, say you're sorry, and take one for the band, Walker."

"Fine." Jon rolls onto his belly and pushes up off the floor. He only falls once. "But you guys have to let me back in if I come running and screaming up the stairs."

"Of course," Spencer says, but Jon doesn't like either of those smiles.

He makes a detour through the kitchen, grabbing a beer, then reaching back for another. He doesn't hear guitar. He doesn't hear the TV, though Ryan's sitting on the couch, remote in hand.

Jon stands at the end of the couch, not sitting just yet. He'll wait for Ryan. "What are we watching?"

"We're not watching anything. I'm watching the news." Ryan stares straight ahead. "You three are hiding."

"Well, yes." Jon sways forward to hand Ryan the beer he grabbed for him. "But--"

"Sit down, Jon, before you fall over."

Jon huffs, then falls onto the couch out of spite. He falls into Ryan. He means to throw his leg over Ryan's lap, but bashing their heads together is an accident. "Sorry," he says. Ryan reaches up, and he rubs the bump on Jon's head instead of his own. Jon lets out a long sigh.

"I'm sorry, too." Ryan turns off the TV and throws the remote aside.

Jon wasn't expecting that at all. "Really?"

"I'm sorry I'm the only one in this band interested in making music."

"Oh, is that what we're doing?" Jon slides over and into Ryan's lap. Ryan keeps his head down, eyes focused on his hands playing with the buttons of Jon's shirt, everything pulled tight, and Ryan slips his fingers into the gaps. "Why don't you write us something we can play?"

Ryan lifts his chin, defiant. "Why don't you?"

"Why don't you?" Jon says, into his mouth.

"Why don't you?"

Ryan bites, and Jon just barely gets away. He doesn't get far, of course, because he's still foggy, and Ryan's hands are holding possessive at his waist. Ryan's fingers are tucked in between the elastic and Jon's skin, a little cold, but Jon likes that shiver. It runs up his spine, and he arches his back out as it does.

Jon gets him back, kissing when Ryan tries to speak. He's done with the fighting, even if Ryan isn't. They'll do this now, write the song after, coax Brendon downstairs, and get this album back on track. Jon can take one for the band, if Ryan is his one.

The kiss is different than ones previous. More deliberate, Jon thinks, but that's probably the pot. It's probably the pot that makes him think he can get them naked right here in the living room, but Brendon and Spencer are locked upstairs. God knows what they're getting into.

Jon figures, one time won't hurt the couch.

Ryan wriggles out from underneath, his pants down around his ankles now. He kicks them away and doesn't tell Jon where he's going. Jon stays on the couch, on his back, using both hands to keep himself hard for when Ryan comes back. He brings condoms when he does.

He chooses the big blue recliner, instead of the couch this time. Jon has to twist his neck around to see him. Ryan's not saying anything, not asking Jon to join, not even demanding. He takes his erection in his own hand, pulling just a few times before tearing the condom open with his teeth, and rolling it down. He's preparing himself, because he trusts that Jon will be there when he's ready.

There's plenty of room for Jon. Ryan's a skinny guy in a big chair, and Jon's knees fit almost comfortably on either side. Ryan has lube, too, cold when he rubs his fingers around Jon's opening and inside. Jon feels awkward, looking for a place to put his hands, and whether he should kiss Ryan already or wait until he's done.

But then Ryan's inside, and everything fits, and everything is warm, and Jon thinks maybe he could write a song after all.

-

Jon makes coffee every morning before they head into the studio. He says it's not a big deal, that grinding and brewing one pot of coffee a day is nothing for an ex-pro like him, but Ryan still finds it magical: every morning, without fail, fresh water from the filter, the coffee grinder humming to life sometime between when Jon wakes up and when he showers, except for the days he stands, hair dripping, waiting for the first cup. Ryan likes to be in the kitchen those days, watching Jon watch the coffee pot, trying to pretend he's not pissed at himself for forgetting to start the coffee before his shower.

Jon is not a morning person. That's good since Ryan isn't a morning person either, even when morning is past noon and there's nothing to differentiate working days from non-working days. They still get up, drink coffee, eat food, play music, smoke up, watch movies and generally make a case study for four-person-co-dependent behavior together. Ryan's pretty happy. He wonders if they could just record this album forever.

After they finish "Behind the Sea," Ryan decides it's unfair that Jon's always the one making coffee. Ryan should make coffee sometimes, he's sure of it. It's his house, after all, that was his coffee machine even before Jon started living with him, he's confident he can brew some coffee.

It takes him a couple of days' trial to manage to wake up before Jon, and then he has a crisis trying to figure out where the filters are and has to pretend he's just getting them out for Jon.

The next morning he's ready, he's prepared, and he's set three different alarms to wake him up before Jon Walker. It works, too, and everything goes smoothly. Water, ground up beans in a filter, pressing the on button. He goes to see if Hobo's awake.

When he comes back there's a dark, syrupy looking puddle around his coffee machine, dripping seadily onto his floor. There's also an unshowered and confused looking Jon Walker scratching his beard.

"Uh," Jon steps out of the puddle and onto the sink mat. "Did you try to make coffee?"

"There's some in the pot," he can see it from here. There's not much, but there is some in the pot.

Jon doesn't look at him. "Yeah," he draws it out, sounding doubtful. Jon leans forward and pops open the filter compartment. "I think you might've used too many grounds," he says carefully. Ryan can see past the steam into the little basket. It's a gloppy mess of grounds and water. "And maybe you didn't grind them enough."

"Yeah," he agrees, making note for the next time. "Starbucks?"

"I don't need to shower today," Jon tries to leap over the puddle, misses and splashes Ryan's ankles. Ryan takes a step back before he and Jon do the awkward you-first-or-me dance in the hallway, then he follows Jon back to the bedroom, watching Jon's ass the entire way.

"Does coffee taste better when you make it naked?" he wonders.

"No," Jon sounds like he's about to lie through his teeth as he digs around in his bag for something to wear. It's a pride point, now, between them. Jon always wants to feel like he could wander back from where he came, Ryan's trying to get him to shove the bag in a closet and use some damn drawers. "Not drinking it. But if you brew it naked it certainly does.

"Hmm," he thinks about how he's going to call bullshit, decides he wants something else. "I like your naked coffee."

"You like me naked," Jon digs out a button down to go with his jeans, holds it up for approval. Ryan shrugs.

"Yes, yes I do," he pulls off his shirt as he walks over to Jon, takes the button down away and throws it back in Jon's bag. "C'mon, let's go make coffee in bed."

Jon doesn't budge when he grabs his hand and pulls him toward the bed. "That's the worst metaphor ever, why would you think I'd sleep with you right now?"

"I made you coffee," he tugs again and Jon follows, laughing.

-

"How many corridors can one hotel have?" Jon wonders.

"I don't think we're in the hotel anymore," Ryan replies. He has sunglasses on and he keeps stopping to turn around but the corridor behind them looks exactly the same as the corridor in front of them.

"How can we not be in the hotel anymore?" he stops and knocks on one of the pillars, rapping firmly with his knuckles. It hurts. He hopes it's concrete. "What makes a hotel not a hotel?" he questions, turning to grin at Ryan.

Ryan grins back, the grin he uses when he can't tell if he thinks Jon's funny because they're stoned or 'cause Jon is funny. "We're lost forever. For good." He waves. "Farewell."

He wants to put the back of his hand to his forehead, to pretend to swoon, but he doesn't. "We'll never see daylight again." He grabs Ryan's tie, pulls him along. "Don't worry, I won't eat you."

"Oh," Ryan sounds thoughtful. "I suppose that's good."

Jon's used to the backside of venues, non-descript walls and floors and wiring, but he's really fucking lost. Ryan has absolutely no sense of direction, he's no help.

"I don't understand how someone hasn't found us," Ryan offers about ten steps later.

Jon thinks about it. "I don't think it's been that long, all told."

"Zack's gonna yell," Ryan sighs.

"Naw," he grabs Ryan's hand. "He's soft on you."

Ryan stops. "Soft on me?"

"Yes," Jon tugs on Ryan's arm. "Zack is most definitely soft on all of us."

They keep wandering, hand-in-hand, until they manage to scare a woman with a room cleaning cart. She eyes them warily and guides them back to the service elevators. They try to convince her they can find their way from there but she doesn't believe them, rides the elevator up with them, her arms crossed.

"We're not spies," he offers as they get off the elevator. Her eyes go wide as the door slides the rest of the way shut.

"I doubt she thought that," Ryan's halfway down the hall already.

Jon jogs to catch up. "You never know."

"Hey, guess what," Ryan knocks on a door.

"That's not our room," he speeds into a sprint and zooms past Ryan, slows down after he's around the corner. Ryan stumbles coming around the corner, his shiny shoes slipping on the carpet. Jon offers him a hand and stops him from knocking on another door, shaking his head. "I have a key," he reminds Ryan.

"Hey, guess what," Ryan crowds up behind him as he starts to open their actual hotel door.

"What?"

"We can have celebration sex!" Ryan means it, too, he can tell by the way he stays by Jon's side even after they've made it into the room.

"Celebrating not dying in a deserted hotel hallway?" he reaches back out for Ryan's tie, loosening it after he pulls Ryan in for a kiss.

"Sure," Ryan reaches for his belt.

"That's the stupidest excuse ever," he says after he peels back two of Ryan's layers.

"I think surviving is a perfectly appropriate reason to have sex." Ryan can't get his belt undone but doesn't stop trying, cinching Jon's jeans tighter and tighter.

"Ryan," he lets go, takes a flying leap backwards onto the bed. "Stop talking." He rubs his head where he hit the headboard.

Ryan's trousers drop off of him after he unfastens the belt. Jon gets to working on his own but stops when Ryan crawls up over him. "No, you stop talking," Ryan thrusts his thumb into Jon's mouth, pulls his jaw open gently.

-

Jon lets him. He bites down on Ryan's thumb, of course, but he lets Ryan in. His hands stop on Ryan's hips on the way up, over both their heads, and Jon reaches behind to grip the headboard. He grins around Ryan's thumb, sucking it in further, swirling his tongue over the pad, and staring up at Ryan with those eyes that know exactly what's going on.

He even knows where Ryan was going with this.

Ryan doesn't have to ask. He pulls Jon down by his jaw and shuffles up Jon's chest at the same time. He plants his knees on the outside. Jon still has that stupid grin on his face, so Ryan does something about it. Ryan shoves his cock in there, and they both let out grunting noises. Jon's are just a little muffled.

It's not nearly wet enough, but it's warm enough, and Jon's mouth is big enough that Ryan isn't afraid to really thrust. He cradles the side of Jon's face, moving his fingers compulsively on the scratchy beard he's let grow long. Ryan's doing all the work here, but if he didn't, this whole thing would just fall apart. Jon can be very lazy when it comes to sex. He won't suck Ryan if he doesn't feel like it, just open his mouth wide.

They're hands are sweaty together on the headboard. Jon keeps slipping until he finally lets himself fall to the mattress. His mouth loses Ryan's cock, just for a moment, then Jon wraps his hands around Ryan's ass and pulls him in. His lips are stretched and shiny, and his eyes are watering. Jon's looking up at Ryan under his lashes and waiting for Ryan to start again.

Ryan gives him one deep push, deep enough that Jon gags and his throat forces Ryan out. Right back in, and Jon takes it. Their rhythm goes stuttery. Ryan focuses his eyes on the orchids framed on the wall above the bed. He guides them by touch, both hands gripping Jon's ears tight and pushing down, down, and every time Ryan pulls back, Jon's hands are on his ass and pulling him back in. Jon's tongue is rough, and everything is finally wet enough, and when Ryan knows he's there, he pulls all the way out and shoots all over Jon's face.

"That what you wanted?" Jon croaks. His voice will be like that most of tomorrow, too, and Ryan loves the sound. He wants to shove his cock down Jon's throat, then make him record a song for the next album.

"Can't do that in a bunk." Ryan sits back on Jon's chest. He bends down in a sharp arch to lick the shine off Jon's lips.

"Can't do that where anyone can walk in," Jon smiles. He's still dressed, t-shirt pulled askew and pants unzipped, but Jon is completely indecent. His mouth is so red, even the beard can't hide all they've been doing. But Ryan doesn't want to. He wipes the worst of the mess away, getting Jon to lift up and take his shirt off and uses to it get him clean. There's come in his hair, too, and Ryan just rubs that in.

"I want to do that again," he says, curling up on Jon's chest. Ryan runs a hand down, through Jon's chest hair, down the line leading into his pants, which Ryan realises are sticky, too.

"You gotta give me a week." Jon lays his hand on Ryan's head. It's so big and warm. "At least. Seven days."

"But what if it's not a hotel night?"

"Then eight days." He's taking in big long breaths. Ryan lets himself rise and fall with Jon. He could fall asleep right here. "But if we have to wait nine days, I might just shove you in the bus bathroom and fuck you over the sink."

Ryan presses his smile into Jon's skin. "Spencer wouldn't like that."

"Spencer can suck me."

"No," Ryan says. "He can't."

-

Ryan's a little possessive.

Jon loves it but he's sore. "Ryan," he's close to whining when Ryan's hands settle on his hips. "It's only going to be a week, I won't forget about you, I swear." Ryan's fucking hard against his lower back. Again, jesus.

"I know, I know," Ryan cuddles in close, shifting his hands until they frame Jon's ribcage, his fingers spread wide and hot and grasping.

"I also won't forget about your dick," he leans forward into the kitchen counter. Ryan sways with him, chuckling dryly into his hair.

"I know," Ryan repeats but doesn't retreat. Jon rolls his eyes and continues making them sandwiches. He called a timeout for food, precious food, and Ryan couldn't counter that, not with his stomach rumbling.

Jon wants to eat standing in the kitchen, Ryan wants to eat in bed. Jon puts his foot down -- he's the one who'd end up getting fucked with crumbs under his back, no way. They settle on eating on the couch, watching the trail end of some documentary Ryan's been making his way through. Ryan sits close up next to him, in his space. He figures he might as well milk it after he's finished, puts his plate on the side table and his legs over Ryan's lap, curling in the space between Ryan and the arm cushions.

Ryan continues touching him, switching focus to Jon's legs. Ryan explores with the hand not holding holding his food, touching his knees, his calves, his shins; tickles his feet until Jon kicks, unrepentant.

Ryan oofs and tries to tickle him again. He kicks again, lightly nudging his toes over Ryan's dick. Ryan takes this as encouragement. He hands Jon his plate, waits until Jon sets it down, then drags Jon further over his lap by pulling on his legs.

Jon's surprised Ryan has the upper body strength to manhandle him. It's hot, he won't lie, and gets even hotter when Ryan presses hard against his chest, presses until Jon slides down the couch until he's staring at the ceiling.

Most of his weight is resting on Ryan now, and his legs feel lost on the other side of Ryan's bulk. He'd be worried if Ryan didn't look so pleased as he slides Jon's pants off.

Ryan doesn't have the angle right to really suck him but he has enough room to hunch over and suck at the head of Jon's dick. He feels Ryan push a finger into his mouth next to his dick and he groans. There's only one place that's going.

Ryan pushes Jon's leg over until Jon has to find purchase on the coffee table. He's spread out unevenly, almost awkwardly, but Ryan's supporting him just enough.

He's still sensitive from the two times Ryan fucked him this morning. He's sensitive and he's slick and Ryan didn't really need to get his fingers wet but he did. Ryan teases him, tracing lightly around his hole but not pushing in. "Ryan," he whines, trying to push down into it.

He feels Ryan's teeth around the crown of his cock and he bucks up. Ryan thrusts two fingers into him when he's done, quirking them up and rubbing unerringly in the spot immediately.

"Oh god," he realizes that Ryan's not even going to fuck him one last time but is going to make a point anyway. "Ryan," he bucks up again and Ryan adds another finger and thrusts in harder, farther.

Ryan's barely sucking him now, but he's teasing around the head, dipping in to angle his tongue and probe at the slit. He's perfectly positioned to catch everything when Jon comes, tongue flicking around the mess, and Jon's not sure how he feels about coming this quickly.

"Fuck, you've made your point," Ryan doesn't take his fingers out of Jon, keeps fucking him smoothly.

Ryan frowns at him, swallows exaggeratedly. "That wasn't my point," Ryan's fingers still. Jon is thankful, he's feeling sensitive. "I didn't mean for you to come so soon."

"Oh?" he gasps when Ryan shifts his hand and starts finger fucking him again.

"Don't worry," Ryan leans over to lip at his soft cock. He twitches, it's too soon. "I'll just wait until you're hard again. He groans as Ryan twists his wrist, finds a new angle. "Then I'll fuck you," Ryan says to his dick.

Jon pants and gropes for Ryan's head. His cousins should get married every weekend, Jesus.

-

Ryan makes the mistake of not letting Jon say goodbye until they're at the airport.

"Now what are you gonna do?" Brendon laughs. He's hanging off Jon's neck and smacking kisses on Jon's cheek. He's making a scene, is what he's doing, and Ryan sees a group of girls hold up their cameras. Ryan has Jon's acoustic guitar in its case, and he trails behind the rest of the group. Spencer carries Jon's big duffel, not because he particularly wanted to, Ryan knows, but because he wanted to see Jon wrestle with Brendon. Brendon isn't carrying anything, and neither is Jon.

He'll be back before the tour starts. He'll be back with lots of time, even though there's nothing left to plan. But he has to go back to Chicago because his mom demands it, and even though Ryan doesn't know that, he gets that.

"Checking in over the phone isn't good enough for her," Jon explained last night. They all stayed up too late, drifting away to their own rooms after dinner, then coming together again in the middle of the night, sitting on kitchen counters, and drinking the last of the beers in the fridge. Then Brendon wanted cereal, and Jon asked for pancakes, and Spencer conceded that it was their last night in the house.

Only Jon would be leaving because, "My mom needs to see me to know I'm really alive," he said. "She doesn't believe me otherwise." But when Jon left, it wouldn't be the same, not with just the three of them. Ryan should have let him say goodbye.

"Brendon, you have to let him go." Spencer drops the bag and steps forward to help Jon untangle himself from Brendon's long limbs.

"Goodbye, Jon," Brendon cries out. "Don't forget to write." One more hug, then Brendon lets him go, willingly this time. Ryan stands back, still holding Jon's guitar, waiting for Spencer to say goodbye. He whispers something else in Jon's ear because Jon laughs and nods when they pull apart.

"We'll wait outside," Spencer says, dragging Brendon behind him.

"Bye, guys," Jon calls after them, waving. He hasn't stopped smiling, and Ryan feels like crap for not wanting him to go.

"So, say hi to Chicago for me."

Jon chuckles. "I will." He tips forward on his toes and brushes his lips across Ryan's cheek. To the girls with the cameraphones, it'll look like Jon leaning in for a hug, so Ryan drops the guitar case between them and reaches up to pull him in. It's an awkward angle, and Jon's feet get caught on his guitar, but, somehow, Ryan holds them up.

"The cats, too," Ryan tells him. "And Tom. Tell him they have to play in LA now."

"OK."

"Then you have to come home." He lets his arms fall back down to his sides. He watches Jon step back to shoulder his bag and dig out his boarding pass.

Jon says, "OK," he smiles and waves, then turns to head out. They don't talk about this when it's happening, and they don't talk about it when it's not. It's just that, lately, there hasn't been a lot of time when it's not happening. Spencer still says it's the music that gets them hot, but they're done the album, and Ryan feels hollow watching Jon walk away.

"Wait. Jon. Your guitar." Ryan bends down to pick it up, but when he straightens, Jon is just watching. He's not moving to come and get it.

"I'm not gonna have the time. You should hang on to it. Take it back to the house and write me a song." Then he throws Ryan a silly salute and disappears up the escalator.

Ryan shifts the guitar to his other hand, stumbling just a bit under the weight and trying to weave through the crowd. He finds Brendon and Spencer arguing on the sidewalk, but Ryan doesn't hear them. He already has a tune in his head.

-

Ryan sings from his chest, sings from his soul. He's been making peace with his voice, with its limitations, and right now it sounds pretty damn good.

The music crests and he sings along louder, raising his arms over his head, toward Spencer's giant speakers. He loves Spencer's house. Spencer always has great music and tasty snacks and lots of hot water.

When the song ends he's breathing deeply and happily, floating along to the music. God he loves music. Music's great.

He tells Jon's feet about how great music is. Jon stayed on the couch when Ryan slid to the ground so now his feet are Ryan's, his domain. Jon keeps his feet pretty, he has to if he's never going to wear shoes. Ryan knows this because Jon has theories.

Jon's feet move after Ryan finishes telling them how great music is. Jon's head joins his feet, or maybe he moves his feet, Ryan's not sure of anything except Jon's huge, velvety brown, crinkly happy eyes. He traces Jon's eyes as they smile more, as Jon tells him about how he loves music, too! Isn't it great that they all love music?

"It's so great," he agrees, and then he kisses Jon. Jon lets Ryan kiss him sometimes, especially days like this when they make music and play music and talk music and love music. And when they share a few bowls of a new delivery.

Jon touches him like he's fragile, delicate. He handles Ryan like Ryan might break and he won't but he likes that Jon thinks he might, because what if he will and he just doesn't know it yet? Ryan shivers and Jon pulls him closer. He's not cold but Jon will make sure he won't break.

Jon has perfect kissing lips, Ryan thinks. He doesn't know quite what makes them perfect but he'll keep kissing Jon until he figure it out, he's dedicated.

His head starts to get tired so he props it up on Jon's arm. They kiss like they're about to fall asleep, slowly and in fits and starts, sometimes just breathing. Ryan's decided he's ok with falling asleep here, really, he has Jon's arm to keep his head cushioned, but Spencer tells them they're not allowed to, not in the middle of his living room.

Jon whines and Ryan kicks but they start moving quickly enough. Spencer's not above shining his reading lamp in their eyes or pouring water on them, they've learned this from experience. Spencer's got a weird sense of humor.

Spencer's left condoms in the middle of the guest bedroom bed and Ryan's amused. They're the cheap type, the type you can get for free at some shows, the dry type. Jon blows one up until they're laughing but can't get it tied into a balloon condom without letting out half the air. It looks pretty pathetic alone on the bed, Ryan can't help but frown. "Sad condom," he tells Jon.

"Well," Jon pulls the covers back, sending the limp-dicked balloon condom flying. "You know the best way to make a happy condom?"

Ryan can guess but he'll give Jon his setup. "What's the best way to make a happy condom, Jon?" He jumps onto the bed, on his knees.

"Jizz it up," Jon lisps unintentionally, Ryan can tell by the frustrated look he gets when Ryan starts laughing.

"No, no," he straightens from where he'd fallen over laughing. "That's a funny joke."

"It is, isn't it?" Jon smiles happily at him.

"Let's make happy condoms, Jon," Ryan's shirt gets caught on his head as he tries to pull it off. Jon helps him out of it, removing his tie. Huh. He should have remembered he was wearing a tie.

"Why would Spencer leave us condoms but not lube?" Jon frowns at his handful of condoms.

"Spencer's a sick fuck," he reaches for Jon's belt. He doesn't open it, like he was planning, he just grips it. It's shiny.

Everything's liquid-fluid. Ryan likes this, wants to keep this, liquid and Jon and happy condoms. He tells Jon and now it's Jon's turn to fall over laughing and yes, yes, giggles and sex and belts. Yes.

-

Jon writes him letters.

They're not even apart that long, all told. They've been apart longer, they're apart for less time than they've been away from Keltie and Cassie while they're on tour. But Jon writes him letters, what amounts to a stack of them, when Ryan puts them all together. A small stack but a stack nonetheless.

He's not going to wrap a ribbon around them and keep them in an attic for his grandkids to find. They're not love letters, not really. Letters might not even be the word to describe them. They're observations, written on napkins and receipts and scraps of paper, enclosed in envelopes or shoved in books wrapped in brown paper and shipped with a colorful corner of stamps.

Ryan's favorite is a copy of Fleurs du Mal in French with a flattened Starbucks cup holder stuck between pages 92 and 93. It has Ryan's favorite espresso drinks written on it, in chronological order. Some are from before Jon met him. Ryan had never thought that Jon's idle conversation had been anything more than a way to pass the time. A few are are something closer to actual letters, if not in form than in content, but Ryan's grown use to the minutiae of Jon's thought patterns.

So there's nothing to wrap in a ribbon that wouldn't fall out. But he has a cigar box and when he shakes it it sounds more full than empty. He likes shaking it. He's added a few things that remind him of Jon, a button and a pebble and a lighter.

The last letter is the only one that's suggestive so of course it shoots past being sensual or teasing and is just a list of the places Jon's thought about blowing Ryan. There are addenda and one rough attempt at a sketch. Ryan's maybe read this one more times than the others.

He's maybe written a response it was too late to send, since Jon was flying in. Ryan knows today is a day in the lower teens of the month, and it's a Tuesday, which is why Spencer is the one picking Jon up, or so he tells Ryan when he calls from the airport.

Spencer is a really good friend. He repeats this when Spencer drops Jon off but doesn't come inside. Jon knows all about how Spencer is a good friend, doesn't need Ryan to tell him, but they stand there talking about Spencer in Ryan's front hallway until Ryan can't stand it anymore, until he crowds Jon against the hallway table and kisses him. It feels like it's too soon but it feels like he should have done it as soon as Jon walked in the door.

They fall back into it easily, as if it hasn't been weeks, as if Ryan hadn't agonized over whether or not this is something they could start again without a warmup period.

He has a bed less than a hundred feet away (he thinks, he's pretty bad with spatiality and distances) but he sinks to his knees on the cold stone entryway, eager to prove something but not anything.

"I read your letter," he tells Jon as he tugs Jon's jeans down, just enough and no further. He likes knowing Jon wouldn't be able to step away from him without difficulty. Jon grunts something in response as Ryan takes him into his mouth. Jon is gratifyingly hard. He's done something different with his personal grooming but Ryan can't tell what from this angle, not with his eyes shut and his mouth most of the way to the base of Jon's cock, his fingers idly exploring. He rolls Jon's balls in one hand, trying to figure it out, but stops caring after Jon slips a hand into his hair. Jon cradles his head tenderly but not passively. He cards his fingers through Ryan's hair and thumbs at his sideburns and explores the dips at the back of Ryan's head, the dip Ryan forgets he has until someone takes the time to remind him.

-

A List Of Places Sir Jon Walker Has Thought About Blowing One Ryan Ross

1. the house in LA, but more particularly, the pool, you on the edge
and me in the water, between your legs, your suit pulled down just
enough, and everything still tastes like too much chlorine.

2. my bedroom in my parents's house in Chicago, your back against the
headboard and my Bulls sheets clenched in both your fists, my feet
hanging off the edge.1

3. in the middle of a show, while Brendon has them occupied on stage,
and I can drag you into a dark corner, just for a minute, just long
enough, that's all the time I need.

4. in a bathroom stall, doesn't matter where.

5. in the air, on a plane, over the ocean, in those tiny bathrooms
with not enough room to kneel, and my back is pressed against the
door, groaning and threatening to pop open any minute, but not before
you come.2

6. at the window, after breakfast, before email, where you can see the
view, where I can see you.3

7. outside, on thick grass, under the trees, in the shade on a sunny
day, maybe just the backyard, but how about we did it in a park
somewhere? I've thought about that.

8. listening to the B-side of Let It Be, the last five songs, the last
15 minutes, and we'd make it last that long, too.4

9. up on the roof, at night, maybe, so we can see the stars and we can
decide what we want them to mean, and it might be cold, we'll need a
blanket, we'll need coffee and a joint for after, to watch the smoke
curl up into the sky.

10. in the recording booth, after you've sung your part, and everyone
else has gone home, and you sing it once more, just for me.

11. sweaty, after I've kicked your ass in the driveway, H-O-R-S-E, and
all I've got is the H, you let kiss you against the garage door, and
it slides open, we duck inside, and I prop you up against the
workbench, find something soft to kneel on because I'm only wearing
shorts and the concrete is greasy and cold, but you want it right now,
and so do I.

12. on the couch, while you're still watching some movie that I don't
understand, and I'm watching you, and it's so easy to tip you over,
crawl on top, though you'll complain, it won't last long because
that's how good I am.5

13. in bed, actually, because I'm not done yet, but my knees can only
take so much. Our bed.

14. not in the shower, but right after the shower, when you're still
slippery and I can't grab hold, but you'd stand still for me because I
ask you to, and I lick the drops of water off your thighs and where
they collect in your bellybutton, and then your cock.

15. when you're writing, distracted, not listening to a word I'm say,
and it's a surprise when I bounce on the bed and kiss you and rub you,
and you let me, despite those words I see behind your eyes, swirling
and forming and wanting to come out, crying out when I touch you.

16. where they can see us, or maybe where they can hear us, you,
little gasps and moans I don't want you holding in.6

17. a dusty trail in the middle of nowhere, sun beating down, we've
eaten all our snacks and drunk all the water, but there's a rock at
the top of the hill, the perfect place to stop and rest and my mouth
doesn't feel so dry anymore.

17. in the bunks, stretched head to toe, toe to head, you're holding
the curtains closed because they're only playing Guitar Hero, and
someone could walk back here any moment and hear the noise you're
making.

18. the next stop, wherever it happens to be, but we'll be there
together.7

 

Addendum

1. Chicago
Bulls Denim Bedding

2. 30 000 feet = 5.681 806 818 2 miles, so, technically, it should be called the Miles High Club.

3.

4. I've Got a Feeling, One After 909, The Long and Winding Road, For You Blue, Get Back.

5. Jules et Jim. It's about love, I know that.

6. You make a lot of noise.

7. I wasn't there at the beginning, but I'll be there at the end.

-

"I can't," Ryan pants into his neck. "Not anymore."

"Nooooooo," he whines. It's embarrassing, his voice comes out high and needy, but Ryan continues to disappear anyway, removing his heat and his bulk. Ryan can't fucking just stop fucking him, except he has and he can. Jon rolls to find Ryan and finds him with his chest heaving as he stares at the ceiling, flat on his back and lips dry and chapped. Odd, every time he's kissed Ryan today they've felt fine. "Hey, hey," he tries to remember how to make his hips work. "Why not? What?"

Ryan groans and pushes up onto one elbow. "How many times do you think I can come in a day?" He's only partially hard now and Jon looks longingly at Ryan's dick, remembering its former glory. Monday's their only free day any given week this tour and still occasionally a travel day, meaning he wants this while he can have it, even if Ryan does have a point.

"One more time, at least?" he tries hopefully. Ryan snorts and turns to curl up on his side. Jon scoots in close, until they're echoing their earlier posture, but in reverse. "I'll stay right here until you're ready," Jon kisses behind Ryan's ear.

"No pressure," Ryan replies drily.

"None whatsoever," he kisses behind Ryan's ear and on his neck and even his shoulder. Ryan stays loose and relaxed as he progresses, planting his kisses and nips only as far as he can without having to do any real work.

He gets sloppy and lazy. Jon shoves a knee up between Ryan's legs, rolls Ryan further onto his belly so Jon can tease. Ryan laughs and squirms and takes measured breaths as Jon touches him, running his hands over Ryan's ribcage and legs and hipbones, pausing to rest his hand over Ryan's heart a few times. Jon understands Ryan wanting to pause and not just for tiredness' sake. It's affirming, to have his hands on Ryan like this, when he's buzzed from coming and loose in his own skin from being fucked open twice.

He still wants Ryan to fucking just finish fucking him already. It wouldn't matter at this point how long Ryan could last or how good he'd make it for Jon, it would just mean they're back on schedule and Jon likes his schedule for the day. They're past coffee and joints and onto fucking for the second time (they started early on the schedule, he had to make up for them just falling asleep the night before).

Really, he thinks that that he just needs to get fucked again and that will fix everything. He tells this to Ryan and Ryan huffs out a laugh, a sleepy one, which means Ryan was on the verge of falling asleep under Jon's hands, which Jon would ordinarily love but Ryan has something to finish here.

"Jon," Ryan says it firmly, a hint of annoyance in his tone. "Get back on your hands and knees and shut up."

He nips at Ryan's shoulder before he rolls over. This sounds like it could be good.

Ryan stands up after Jon's ready and situated, stands up and walks away from the bed and Jon stays where he is, hyper-alert and listening for Ryan's movements. He jumps when Ryan's hands clamp around his ankles and drag his legs further apart. The times he can get Ryan annoyed and intense are really good times.

Ryan doesn't stop after opening his stance, he pulls Jon down the bed, forcing Jon's arms to drop out from under him. He's still struggling to get his arms to support him again when Ryan thrusts in, no prep or warning, just a slick, hot, and smooth presence. Jon knows this is going to be a spectacular end to a decadent day.

-

When they do finally finish, when Ryan's spent and Jon is satisfied, it's dark outside, and they've probably missed dinner.

"Nah," Ryan says. "Spencer would have phoned to yell at us. We've got time."

He's not moving, though. He's at the end of the bed, hands and head fallen over the edge. Jon can just see the up and down of his chest.

"Shower?" Jon suggests.

"Probably," Ryan says. "You go. When he calls, he'll want to yell at me, not you."

Jon flails around on the bed until he finds a place to kiss Ryan, his bare belly. "You're a pal," he says, then stumbles into the bathroom. He turns the water on as hot as it will go and gets right in, no clothes to strip off. He's so sore all over. Jon turns and turns and turns in the spray, making sure each tender spot gets a moment under the pounding heat.

There's no soap, so Jon uses the shampoo all over after scrubbing his scalp. Everything's gone long and curly again, and if he had more time, Jon would buzz everything off. But he doesn't have time. They have to meet Brendon and Spencer before the show tonight. The tour stopped in Vegas late last night, and Jon and Ryan still haven't hooked up with the guys.

It was just supposed to be some songs that they'd probably release online, but then Ryan said they should come up with name, then Pete heard the tracks during one of Ryan's sleepovers, and suddenly Panic at the Disco had an official side project. Now Jon and Ryan are touring without Brendon and Spencer, and Jon can't get over how weird it all is.

Maybe that's why the day off schedule is so important. As long as Jon has that time alone with Ryan, he can get through the rest of the week missing half his band.

Ryan comes into the bathroom while Jon is at the sink, dripping on the floor and brushing his teeth.

"Oh, Spencer had some words for you, too, Jon." He runs his fingers across Jon's shoulders as he moves to the shower. "Even Brendon got in there."

"Did you tell them we just couldn't possibly, not tonight?"

Ryan turns the water on, says, "Ouch," and throws an odd glance Jon's way when he feels how hot the water is. Jon shrugs and spits toothpaste in the sink. "No," Ryan says. "They're picking us up. Spencer doesn't trust either of us."

Jon slicks his hair back and combs through his beard with his fingers. He really does need a trim. "I'm getting dressed," he tells Ryan, over the water. "Hurry up."

Their set is even more pared down than Panic ever got. All the clothes Jon has with him are jeans and t-shirts and the one blue striped button down he wears on stage. They're all wrinkled, stuffed into whatever bag is closest when they're headed out the door and onto the next town. Suddenly his shower feels irrelevant, pulling on last night's jeans and a black t-shirt showing the least stains. Spencer's going to kill him.

Ryan steps into the room looking near perfect, even straight from the shower. He ignores Jon and goes for the closet, clean clothes and on hangers, even. Jon doesn't remember Ryan doing that last night.

"You really suck," Jon says as Ryan pulls on a crisp green coat. "You know that, right?"

"I think you look good," Ryan tells him, crowding Jon against the front door, the framed in case of fire directions digging into his back. He fists Jon's shirt and pushes it up enough to skim his fingers over Jon's belly, making him jump and shiver. They kiss, three short pecks before someone knocks and Brendon shouts, "Helloooo!"

"We can't," Jon says. Ryan slides his fingers out of Jon's pants. "Oh, God, why can't we?"

"Because our band is here," Ryan smiles, and Jon remembers the best reason to get out of bed.

-

"Tell me about the people!" Ryan has to yell over the noise of the club, noise, not music. He yells right in Jon's ear, slouched down in the booth and tucked neatly into the curve of Jon's arm.

They're telling stories. Brendon's gone to find the waitress with the pink hair, the one Spencer has decided is farm girl from Kansas with a dream to open her own hair and nail salon. Ryan caught the fish painted on her long fake nails and agreed with Spencer's assessment.

Ryan's guy has danced past their booth three times tonight. Each time, leading a different girl around the floor. But he knows how to dance--it's not a pick-up. Twice the music's picked up right in front of their table, and twice he's thrown his partner up and over his head. Like that swing dancing that was big when Ryan was a kid (and before that, too, of course, but he remembers that brief time when wearing a hat and tie was the thing to do).

He's dressed in a hat and tie and suspenders, too, and that might be why Ryan picks him, but he's not thinking too hard. Ryan decides his name is Roderick, and cribs his story mostly from the red shoes fairy tale.

"Can't stop dancing," Jon sings, cribbing his own lines from Kate Bush.

They're not dancing tonight. Only Brendon has the energy left for that. They're drinking and telling stories, and sometimes Ryan leans up to kiss Jon. Spencer has abandoned the game to grab another round at the bar.

Now Ryan wants Jon to tell a story. "Tell me about the people," he says.

"They look pretty drunk," Jon tells him.

Ryan says, "I know that," elbowing Jon's side. He reaches up and grabs Jon's hand resting on his shoulder and pulls that arm tighter around him.

"They're looking for love."

He nods. "Yeah." He says it quiet, under the cacophony, and there's no way Jon can hear, but he knows.

"They're going to find it, I think. This is the kind of place you can find love." Jon's right hand is tangled up in Ryan's left, but the other sneaks across into his lap. Jon's not looking for love--not tonight--but that's OK because neither is Ryan.

He cranes his neck, looking for a kiss. He's looking for Jon's lips on his, teeth that know just the right kind of bites, and the warm wet weight of Jon's tongue against his own. The awkward position starts to hurt after the first minute, and Ryan's polyester trouser cause him to slide further down the vinyl banquette. But Jon has hold of him.

This is the kind of place Ryan could get lost in, but he has one hand in Jon's and he doesn't get far, even buzzing like he is. Jon drags him back up and onto his lap.

"All right," Ryan says, "but just kissing."

"They're not watching us, Ryan." Jon licks a line up his cheek to where his sideburns start. He says in Ryan's ear. "They're looking for love, remember?"

"That doesn't mean you get to fuck me on the table." But Ryan does shift down against Jon. He does run his hands up Jon's arms, to his broad shoulders, and across to link behind his neck. He does kiss Jon because that's allowed.

"How about under the table?"

"Later, OK? Later."

Jon sneaks his hand between the buttons of Ryan's shirt, fingers cool on his skin after being wrapped around the whiskey glass. They're both hard, Ryan can feel that, but Jon is good. As long as Ryan keeps coming back for more kisses, Jon is good.

"I want you to tell me more about Roderick," Ryan whispers once when they pull apart.

Shaking his head, Jon says, "He's your story."

"Yeah, I know. But I like the way you tell my stories."

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of diedandreborn