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Brendon wraps his arms around himself in vain attempt to keep the chilly November wind from sinking into his bones. He knows that he should’ve brought a jacket with him, but everything was so heated he sort of forgot to grab one as he walked out of the front door, and he had an overbearing amount of dignity that would not, under any circumstances, allow him to go back into the house.
He doesn’t have a clue as to where he’s headed. All he knows is that he needs to get as far away from home as possible. He’ll walk to goddamn Idaho if he has to in order to feel some sort of comfort. He turns back to glance at the small, white building as the night swallows it up the further he walks. He’ll miss the house itself, as he grew up there, but he certainly will not miss his family. Not at all.
His parents are the entire reason why he’s walking the streets at midnight anyway. They threw him out. He was sort of expecting it though. Firstly, his curfew was at nine, and he completely pushed that to the back of his mind, and secondly, he had went to a party and drank a whole lot more than he should’ve. When he came stumbling into the house, his parents waiting by the stairs, his drunken mind had been up for an argument, and his parents were not happy at all. After ten minutes of screaming about how much he despised the religion that was pushed upon him and how ‘I just wanted to be a teenager for one goddamn night,’ his father had physically shoved him towards the front door, and he didn’t hesitate in flinging it open and walking right through it.
He knows that it was a stupid thing to do, honestly. He’d take it back if he could, but he most definitely can’t, so now he’s got to deal with the consequences, which are not so fun. It’s probably somewhere around fifteen degrees, the wind is blowing roughly through his already messy hair, and he can just barely make out white specks of snow hitting the tips of his solid black boots.
Brendon is pretty sure that he’s going to get fucking hypothermia, and he’s not even sure that his parents would care at all. He’s just about to go home and beg, down on his knees and everything, for their forgiveness, when he walks past a dimly lit gas station. He doesn’t recognize it so he knows he must be on a route he’s never taken before, and it looks shady as hell, but he can’t even force himself to care. He’s just so cold, and the only thing he wants is to feel the artificial warmth of a heater. Without another moment’s hesitation, he walks towards the tiny building.
The inside of the gas station is just as bad, if not worse, as the outside. The shelves are stacked unevenly, and all of the items are generic brands. The floors are linoleum, and underneath the layers of grime and mud, Brendon thinks they’re supposed to be white. The entire place smells of overcooked meat and alcohol, and he admits that yeah, he’s sort of scared because there’s a big burly man with a thick mustache standing behind the counter, glaring at Brendon with dark eyes. He thinks that the guy has probably maybe been to prison before.
But fuck, at least the place is warm.
Brendon begins walking around the gas station, pretending to be mildly interested in the items for sale. He doesn’t want the big man behind the register to know that he’s just sucking up the free heat. He has a feeling that he wouldn’t get any sympathy at all.
While walking down an aisle that contained beef sticks, car batteries, and flashlights, Brendon sees a tall boy in an awful floral scarf, dark brown pea coat, dirty white pants, and too-big-for-his-feet combat boots. Brendon smiles slightly at the unusual clothing. He wonders if the boy has very few clothes, or if he is just expressing his unique style.
“You have a staring problem.”
The voice is unfamiliar and sort of bitter, and when Brendon looks up from the stained white pants, he sees that the scarf donned boy he is staring at is the one who said it. His brown eyes are half-lidded, mouth turned down into a grimace.
“I’m sorry,” Brendon begins, “I was just admiring your clothes.”
The boy rolls his eyes, flicking his hair to the side in the process, and says, “Not all of us can afford your polo shirts and name brand pants.”
Well, that answers Brendon’s question about whether the outfit was intentional or not.
“No, I didn’t mean that in a rude way. I do like your clothes. They’re…different,” Brendon tells him, and he means it, because it’s not often that people show who they really are.
“Oh,” the boys says, eyeing him skeptically. “Thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome. I’m Brendon.”
“Cool.”
Brendon waits for the response that tells him what the stranger’s name is, but it never comes. He just shrugs and goes back to looking at the beef sticks. In his peripheral vision, he notices the tall boy slip a small flashlight and a pack of batteries in the oversized pocket of his coat.
“That guy is gonna beat the shit out of you if he catches you,” Brendon says, his voice hushed and serious. He doesn’t want to see the skinny boy get hurt because it’s bound to happen if the burly guy catches him.
“He won’t catch me,” the boy says so confidently that Brendon almost believes him. Almost.
“What if there are cameras hidden around? If you go to a) jail, or b) the hospital, I’m not helping you. I don’t even know your name, for Christ’s sake-“
“Its Ryan,” the boy snaps, “and if you keep your fucking voice down, he won’t catch me.”
Brendon frowns and glares at the stupid car parts on the shelf in front of him. Ryan, he decides, is not a very nice guy. He huffs and turns on is heel, storming out of the gas station. He does the whole ‘dramatically leaving and slamming the door thing’ too often, he decides.
~
A few hours later, and Brendon is sitting on a cold, stone bench in the middle of a park he’s never seen before in his life. He can’t feel his fingers or his toes, and two hours ago, that would’ve scared him, but now he can’t bring himself to care. He’s been staring off into the darkness of the night for God knows how long, and there are dried tears on his cheek, partially frozen from the cold air.
The snow has been relentless. It’s up to Brendon’s calves now, and he’s got a sneaking suspicion that it’s trying to freeze him to death. But honestly, Brendon thinks that death sounds pretty nice right about now. He’s barely keeping any body heat in his faded New Found Glory shirt, he’s got no money for a hotel, and no friends that he can call. Going back to his parent’s house isn’t an option. He’d have to walk at least two hours to get there, and he’s not willing to do that, not with the snow sinking into his shoes and socks, freezing his toes.
He debates on going back to the gas station. It’s only a twenty minute walk away, maybe thirty in the snow. Chances are its closed now though. He left it hours ago. He sort of wishes he hadn’t.
In the back of Brendon’s mind, he’s thinking about what would happen if someone, most likely a stranger, found him dead on this very bench come sunrise. It’s cold enough for him to freeze to death overnight, and he knows by now his fingers must be purple. If he does survive, he wonders if he’ll have to get them cut off. He thinks it would be awfully hard to play piano, then.
His thoughts are interrupted by a soft crunching of footsteps in the snow. He doesn’t have his glasses with him, but he thinks he sees a figure with a small light approaching him. He briefly wonders if it’s God himself coming down from the almighty Heaven to tell him to get his ass home, but then he shakes his head and laughs at his own stupidity. He checks his shitty flip phone to see that it is exactly 3:20 in the morning. He wonders why someone is walking towards him at exactly 3:20 in the morning. He just shrugs and accepts that he’ll possibly be murdered.
A few more steps and fifteen mini heart attacks later, Brendon sees that the figure looks fucking familiar, and then he recognizes the ugliest goddamn scarf in the world and he knows.
Ryan shoves his tiny, stolen flashlight into his coat and sits next to Brendon as if the stone bench is not as cold as ice. He crosses his legs, back straight, one foot deep in the snow. He’s got this calm, collected look on his face as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, sticks one in his mouth, and lights it. Brendon watches as Ryan takes a drag so long it seems as if he’ll finish the death stick right then and there.
“You’re an idiot,” Ryan says after a moment.
Brendon gives him an incredulous look. “How am I an idiot?” He asks, voice cracking a bit from not being used in a while.
“You’ve been sitting out here in the snow for hours. You’re an idiot,” he says again, as if to make a point.
Brendon raises his eyebrows and huffs, watching as his breath appears in front of his face, nearly matching the color of the cigarette smoke coming from his left. “How would you know that I’ve been out here for hours?”
“My friend Jon lives right across the street from this park. I saw you sitting out here, laughed about it, took a nap, then came out here to call you an idiot,” Ryan says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“You knew I was out here hours ago, and you didn’t come out to see if I was okay? You couldn’t even bring me a fucking jacket or something?” Brendon asks, almost yells, because really, where have all the caring people in the world disappeared to?
“Well you aren’t my responsibility.”
Brendon almost punches that stupid ‘I don’t give a fuck’ look off of his face. Almost.
“You’re lucky I don’t believe in violence,” Brendon hisses.
Ryan shrugs and smiles slightly. “That’s a shame. You probably have a killer right-hook.”
“So what did you come out here for?” Brendon asks, anger bubbling inside his stomach. “To make fun of me? To laugh at me for not having a place to go? To rub your stupid fucking pea coat in my face?”
Ryan laughs, fucking laughs, and flicks his cigarette into the snow. “No. I came out here to see if you’d like to come stay at Jon’s for the night. You look a bit cold.”
“Fuck off,” Brendon spits, venom in his voice clear as day.
Ryan stands and brushes a non-existent substance off of his coat. “Okay. Have it your way then.” He takes a few steps, walking away from the bench.
Brendon sighs and looks down. He tries to clench his hands into a fist but can’t because goddammit, he can’t even feel them, so just this once, he decides to swallow his pride.
“Uh, yeah. I’d like to stay at Jon’s for the night.”
Ryan hardly stops walking at all as he calls, “Well come on then.”
Brendon jogs to catch up with him, nearly tripping over his water-drenched boots that sink into the snow like cinder blocks.
~
Brendon is relieved to find out that he does not have frost bite or hypothermia. He knows this because apparently Jon is going to school for his nursing degree, and he assures Brendon that ‘You don’t have to have your fingers cut off. Don’t be so dramatic.’
Overall, Jon is pretty nice, and Brendon thinks that it’s exceptionally kind of him to allow a stranger to spend the night in his house. And best of all, he doesn’t have to sleep on the lumpy couch in Jon’s overcrowded living room. He does, however, have to share a bed with Ryan.
Brendon refuses to say that he hates Ryan because hate is a very strong word, but Brendon knows for a fact that he does not want to spend more time around Ryan than he absolutely has to.
Ryan has proved to be a somewhat compassionate human being by making Brendon a cup of hot chocolate, but that’s only because ‘I wanted one too. Don’t think I’m going out of my way to cater to you.’
By 5:00 a.m. exactly, after two cups of hot cocoa, Brendon’s eyelids are practically glued shut. Every time he closes them to blink, it’s an immense struggle to open them back up. Ryan notices this and ushers Brendon up the stairs (he only trips twice) and into a small guest bedroom with a tiny bed.
And Brendon doesn’t even mind that the bed was probably made for a five year old child because he’s so tired and the pillows and blankets look inviting, so he strips out of the baggy t-shirt that Jon leant him and falls face first onto the mattress.
Ryan groans and nudges Brendon with his foot, muttering something that sounds a lot like, “move over you fucker,” but Brendon is too tired to be sure. He feels the bed dip in slightly, and a moment later, a warm body is pressed up against him.
“This is so uncomfortable. Scoot over,” and Brendon knows what Ryan said this time only because the other boy’s mouth is basically attached to his ear due to their close quarters.
Brendon huffs something and moves over an inch before draping a not very appreciated arm over Ryan and falling asleep.
~
It’s been three weeks exactly, and Brendon is still staying at Jon’s house. Apparently, Brendon’s ‘big goddamn mouth and sassy nature’ is just too much to throw out in the cold. Jon picks on Brendon a lot, but the younger boy doesn’t mind. He appreciates everything that Jon has done for him.
Ryan has been staying with Jon too, and Brendon isn’t exactly sure if he lives here or not, but he’s often missing during the day time, only to return once the sun sets.
Jon doesn’t make Brendon pay for anything, but he does make the younger boy tend the garden for him. Brendon doesn’t mind because he thinks the flowers like him a whole lot, and when he announced that to Jon and Ryan one evening, Jon gave him a small smile while Ryan just rolled his stupid brown eyes.
Brendon still isn’t sure why Ryan hates him so much. He sort of thinks that the older boy hates everyone, but he realizes that isn’t true because Ryan is really nice to Jon. Brendon sort of wants to sit down and ask Jon why he’s hated so much, what he did wrong, but he doesn’t. He’s not sure if he wants to know.
Brendon also is very curious as to where Ryan goes during the day. Brendon notices that Ryan manages to slip out of the house before everyone wakes up, and he doesn’t even come back in time for the delicious dinners that Brendon has taken upon cooking.
Brendon wonders what would happen if he simply asked Ryan where he goes. He thinks he’d probably get punched in the nose.
~
Sometimes curiosity just cannot be sated by being pushed into the back of the mind. Brendon has been trying for weeks to ignore Ryan’s daytime disappearances, but he just has to know.
On day forty-four at Jon’s house (he’s been counting. He owes Jon exactly forty-four presents now), Brendon wakes up at five o’clock in the morning. He sees that Ryan is still sound asleep beside him, which is an odd thing to witness as Brendon never sees him in the morning and rarely stays awake late enough to see the older boy fall asleep before him at night. He watches as Ryan’s chest rises and falls slowly, softly. His eyelashes fan across his cheeks, and they look longer when they aren’t surrounded by brightly colored makeup and intricate designs.
Brendon doesn’t mean to be creepy, honestly, he doesn’t, but before he knows it, the glowing green digits on the alarm clock read 6:00 a.m. And then Ryan wakes up.
Brendon doesn’t know if it’s because his body is so used to waking up at 6:00 every freaking day, but he finds it creepy that Ryan just rolls over, opens his eyes, and sits up as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. No alarm goes off. The entire room is silent, save for their breathing. But he just wakes up, like his body has internal alarm clock or something.
Ryan doesn’t notice that Brendon is awake at first. He stands up, quietly moving around the room and slipping on clothes. Today, it’s a white button up, a red vest, blue jeans that practically stick to his pale skin, and of course, his brown pea coat. It’s too cold to go outside without one of those things.
It’s not until Brendon sits up a little and clears his throat that Ryan notices him. He jumps at least a foot in the air when he does.
“What the hell are you doing awake?” He asks, voice laced with sleep but still bitter. Brendon can’t even find it hurtful though because the scratchiness of it is just so different from Ryan’s normal voice.
“I just wanted to know where you run off to so early every day,” Brendon says, fluttering his eyelashes a little to keep Ryan from being too harsh on him.
“It’s none of your business,” the brown haired boy replies, pulling his boots on.
“Are you a drug dealer or something?” Brendon asks.
Ryan scoffs. “No. Don’t be stupid.”
“So you’re a mobster then.”
“No, I’m not.”
“A prostitute?”
“No!” Ryan says, an incredulous look on his face. “It’s none of your business what I do throughout the day, okay?”
Brendon sighs and sits up completely. “Can I come with you?”
“No, you can’t. Hang out with Jon today,” Ryan says.
“I hang out with Jon every single day. I’ve gotten to know him like the back of my hand. I hardly talk to you though,” Brendon pouts, and he’s genuinely upset because he knows that somewhere inside Ryan is human and has feelings too, and he sort of just wants the older boy to open up to him.
“You’re not coming with me, and that’s final,” the brown haired boy says after a moment, but his voice is softer now, and Brendon wants to know why. He doesn’t ask though.
A few minutes later, Ryan is grabbing his cell phone and walking out of the bedroom as if he hasn’t just had a conversation with Brendon at all.
~
Brendon is pretty fucking sure that he has never been more bored in his entire life. Jon’s at work because apparently in order to pay for things like school and food and rent ‘you have to have a job, Brendon. Money doesn’t just grow on trees.’ Well duh. Brendon knows that it doesn’t. He just kind of wishes it did.
Its only noon, so Jon won’t be home for at least three more hours. Ryan never, never, comes back this early, which means Brendon is stuck all by himself. It’s not like he can’t leave the house because he can, whenever he wants, Ryan makes that very clear all the time, but he just doesn’t want to. Its cold outside and he doesn’t have a coat or any clothes (he’s been wearing Jon’s), and he’s also scared that he’s going to run into his parents if he steps over the threshold. He knows that the thought isn’t very plausible, but he doesn’t want to chance it. He’s only seventeen, and if his parents find him and decide that they want him to come back home, he won’t have a say in it at all.
And he doesn’t want to leave Jon’s house. Not at all. Its cozy and warm and he’s happy here, he really is. He feels like Jon actually cares about his well-being. And on those days when he’s cold and he doesn’t even have to ask Ryan to make him a cup of hot chocolate, the older boy just does, yeah, those are the days when he thinks that maybe Ryan cares a little, too.
~
The day Brendon has his first soda is also the first day of Spring.
He’s been staying at Jon’s house for around four months now, and he realizes that while he knows a lot about Jon, the older boy hardly knows anything about him. So there Brendon goes, spewing off facts at the random, and Jon nearly flips the kitchen table when he says that he has never, not once in his life, had a single sip of soda.
Right after he says that, Jon grabs his cell phone and dials a number, putting the thing on speaker. After three rings, Ryan’s muffled voice echoes throughout the kitchen. “Why are you calling me, Jon? Is there an emergency?”
“Yes!” Jon exclaims. “There is a very big emergency! I know you’re in the middle of something important, but you need to get your scrawny ass here now.”
“Alright,” Ryan sighs, “I’m on my way now.”
There’s a click indicating that the call has ended. Brendon frowns and furrows his eyebrows, watching as Jon hustles around the kitchen, slipping his shoes on. “What’s the emergency?” Brendon asks.
“You,” Jon begins, “have never had soda. That is the emergency. I’ll be right back.” And with that, he’s gone, front door swinging closed behind him.
Brendon pouts and sits down at the kitchen table. He doesn’t know why Jon is making such a big deal about his non-soda drinking. He honestly doesn’t mind only drinking water or fruit juice.
Brendon’s still pondering over Jon’s strange behavior when he hears the front door open and close. A pair of feet practically sprint towards the kitchen, and then he sees Ryan standing there, hair messy, chest rising and falling in quick spurts.
“Where’s Jon? What’s the emergency?” He asks, panting considerably.
“Uh,” Brendon rubs his neck sheepishly, “I’ve never had soda.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Okay, that’s great, I don’t care. Where the hell is Jon and what is the emergency?”
“That is the emergency…Jon told me that never having soda ever is a critical emergency.” Brendon mutters quietly.
Ryan stands completely still for at least five minutes. Brendon begins to think that he’s turned into a statue when he finally moves, taking one step towards him. His eyes are squinted, and they’re deadly looking, even with the bright blue makeup surrounding them.
“I ran for fifteen minutes straight to get here just for you to tell me that this so called emergency is you not ever having soda?” The brown haired boy asks, pointing a finger accusingly in Brendon’s direction.
Brendon nods once, the movement sharp. Ryan’s voice is low and smooth, and he sounds so angry. Brendon can’t say he blames him.
And fuck, he’s just accepted the fact that Ryan is going to kill him right then and there when Jon goddamn Walker comes walking into the kitchen with two brown bags tucked under each arm. He places the bags on the table and smiles at Ryan. “Good to see you buddy.”
“You made me come here because this little fucker has never had soda?” Ryan hisses, aiming his glare at Jon.
Jon nods and grabs five cups from the cabinet over the stove. He places them each on the table in an even line before pulling five different sodas out of those stupid paper bags.
Brendon looks at each of them and reads the names. They all sound odd and they don’t look very appealing at all. Still, when Jon pours each one in separate cups and orders Brendon to try all of them, he doesn’t turn them away.
As Brendon picks up the first cup, he thinks it has Mountain Dew or something like that in it, he notices that Jon, and Ryan too, who’s facial expression has changed from extreme anger to curiosity, are watching him intensely. He feels himself blush as he tips his head back and swallows the soda like a shot of alcohol.
Brendon scrunches up his nose and sits the cup down on the table. “I don’t like that one. It tastes like cancer in a bottle.”
Jon full on laughs at that, and even Ryan cracks a genuine smile.
Five minutes later and Brendon has decided that Dr. Pepper is definitely his favorite drink ever.
~
It’s an excruciatingly hot day in June when Ryan approaches Brendon on his own volition.
Brendon is sitting in the back yard on Jon’s baby blue porch swing. He’s admiring the flowers that he planted a few weeks ago. He’s becoming a pretty good gardener, if he does say so himself. Jon’s at work, and he thinks Ryan is gone doing whatever it is he does during the day until he hears the back door open and he sees a familiar lanky figure walking towards him.
Ryan flicks his hair out of his eyes and takes a seat next to Brendon. He crosses his legs and pulls out a cigarette, and Brendon’s mind flashes back to that cold night in November when Ryan practically saved his life.
Both of them are quiet for what feels like forever when Ryan finally puts out his cigarette and speaks. “Brendon, why were you out that night? Why weren’t you at home?”
It takes a second for Brendon to understand what Ryan is asking, but then he says, “My parents kicked me out. Apparently, no son of theirs is going to be ‘atheist. That’s an abomination. A shot at God himself.’”
“Oh,” Ryan says, “that’s stupid.”
Brendon nods because, “Yeah. It really is.”
“I never asked you about that. I should’ve.”
“Yeah. Maybe you should’ve.”
“But you know Brendon, sometimes bad shit happens to good people. Sometimes we just have to suck it up and deal with it. But things will get better. Most of the time they do. You know?” Ryan tells him, and Brendon shakes his head a little because he doesn’t know. Good people shouldn’t have to go through so much. Shouldn’t have to fight for happiness. He doesn’t tell Ryan that though. Doesn’t think he needs to.
“Remember when you asked me where I go during the day?” Ryan asks a few minutes later.
Brendon nods because he does remember, and he still fucking wonders.
“Well, do you want to see? Where I go, I mean,” Ryan asks, and his voice is calm but drone, almost as if it’s really no big deal at all.
Brendon swears he’s never smiled so brightly in his entire life.
“Of course I want to see. Just let me get my shoes,” he says, standing up and walking back inside. He sprints through the house once he has the back door closed and is sure Ryan can’t see him. He can’t remember where he put his stupid shoes, so he just slips on a pair of Jon’s, which are too big for him, but he’s too excited and eager to care.
When he walks out back once more, Ryan is standing, waiting for him. Brendon does a little hop-jog-thing over to him because he’s just so goddamn happy, and Ryan raises his eyebrows and questions the younger’s sanity. Without saying a word, Ryan leads Brendon away from the house and down an unfamiliar street.
As they’re walking in silence save for the clonking of Jon’s too big shoes, Brendon thinks a bit. He isn’t too worried about running into his parents because he’s eighteen now and he can gladly stay with whoever he wants, thank you, and he’s grateful for that. He really does care a hell of a lot about Jon, and even Ryan, who is no longer completely ignoring his existence.
Brendon remembers the first day he met Ryan as if it happened just yesterday. He remembers Ryan stealing flashlights, and he remembers thinking that he was going to die on a park bench in an unfamiliar neighborhood. He wonders if he would’ve really died if not for Ryan. Probably, he thinks to himself, I owe my life to that asshole.
He smiles a little. He’s really fucking thankful that it was Ryan who found him that night. Yeah, the guy was a dick, he still is, but he has his moments.
About twenty-five minutes later, Brendon and Ryan are standing at the front gates of a cemetery, and it’s safe to say that the younger boy is really, really confused. This can’t be Ryan’s happy place. This place is so far from happy. It’s at the opposite end of the spectrum.
But Ryan doesn’t say anything, so neither does Brendon. He just willingly follows Ryan further into the graveyard, only stopping once they reach a small tomb that’s weathered and moss covered. Brendon is squinting, leaning forward slightly to try and read the name, but Ryan saves him the effort by saying, “My father is buried here.”
Brendon is silent for a moment before saying, “Oh. I’m sorry.”
Ryan just sits down on the ground directly in front of the tomb, and Brendon follows suit. The two of them sit in silence for what feels like an eternity before Ryan opens his mouth and speaks again. “He died a few years ago.”
Brendon nods once to show that he’s listening and asks, “Do you miss him?”
“No,” Ryan chuckles bitterly. “I…I know I should. Kids are supposed to miss their parents when they pass away, you know? I don’t think I miss him though.”
“Why do you come here every day then?” And Brendon is genuinely curious because if Ryan doesn’t miss his father then why does he spend most of his day sitting in the over grown grass in front of his tombstone?
“I feel like I owe him some sort of respect. He was a shitty guy, and I spent so many nights in the hospital with him, but I don’t know. I just think that he deserves to know that even if nobody else comes to visit him ever, I still do, you know? It’s strange because I know he can’t fucking hear me or see me or anything but…even though I hated him, I can’t just forget about him. He’s family. He’s the only dad I ever had.”
Brendon nods because he sort of understands where Ryan is coming from.
“I practically lived there. The hospital, I mean. The nurses even knew my name. It was embarrassing. I didn’t like him because he was embarrassing. He just couldn’t get it together, and I could never understand why. I still can’t,” Ryan explains, and his voice is so small and fragile sounding. He’s got his knees pulled up to his chest, hair falling in front of his eyes, a few pieces sticking to the crows near his temple that were probably so delicately painted by skilled fingers.
At this point, Brendon doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to make Ryan feel better. He’s not even sure that Ryan wants to feel better, but he thinks back to how his mom used to hug him whenever he scraped his knees while riding his bike, and without a second thought or another moment’s hesitation, he scoots over a little and pulls Ryan into his chest.
For a second, he feels Ryan tense, and he thinks that the older boy is going to literally kill him and bury him right here in this goddamn graveyard, but then all of the tension in the older boy’s muscles melt away. Brendon takes that as a good sign, so he holds him tighter and rubs his arm for good measure.
~
Its dark by the time Ryan decides that he and Brendon should probably be getting back to Jon’s house. The stars are out, Brendon notes, and God it’s been so long since he’s really just stopped and looked up at the night sky. It’s beautiful, breathtaking, and he just wants to stay here on the cool grass and look at it forever.
But then Ryan is tugging on his sleeve, muttering something about how tired he is, so they stand and walk out of the cemetery. On the walk home (Brendon has decided that Jon’s house is home, for now), Ryan pulls out a flashlight, the same one he stole from that shady gas station, and clicks it on, illuminating the sidewalk in front of them. There are no streetlights, and its completely dark except for that thin beam of light.
“Is that why you stole that thing?” Brendon asks quietly, voice echoing through the empty night air.
“What?”
“Did you steal that so that you could see on your walk home every evening?”
Ryan nods and says, “I went back and paid the guy a few weeks later. As soon as I got the money, I paid him.”
“I knew you were a total softie, Ross. You can’t even properly steal a flashlight,” he jokes, nudging Ryan in the ribs gently.
Ryan cracks a smile at that, but its off, not completely sincere. Brendon just pretends like he doesn’t notice.
~
Brendon has been to Ryan’s father’s grave exactly three times since the first visit. Ryan often lets him tag along, and Brendon’s much too happy to keep the older boy company.
Tonight, though, he isn’t with Ryan. The older boy woke up early and left, completely ignoring Brendon. It was odd, really, but the younger kept his mouth shut.
It’s only when he walks downstairs at too-early o’clock that he realizes that something is off today. Spencer (Jon’s new “friend”) and Jon are sitting at the tiny kitchen table, talking in hushed whispers. Brendon knows that it isn’t nice to eavesdrop, but he can’t help it.
“I’m just worried about him, Spence. It’s July 28th, and he always goes out and does something stupid on this day every single year. Makes me wonder if he really does miss his dad, you know? I mean, you don’t just make a point to fuck up your life on a particular day every year for no reason. After the stunt he pulled last year, I’m scared to leave him alone…” Jon says.
“I know, but you have to let him make his own decisions, you know?” Spencer says, placing a comforting hand on Jon’s knee. Jon just sighs and nods.
For the rest of the day, Brendon worries. He spends a good hour pacing the small guest bedroom. He’s pretty sure that today, July 28th, is Ryan’s father’s death date. That would explain why Ryan was so touchy this morning. It still doesn’t answer the one question ringing through Brendon’s ears; What did he do last year that has Jon so worried?
~
Its exactly 1:09 in the morning on July 29th when Ryan finally comes home. Brendon knows because he stays up to wait for him. He knows he’s arrived when he hears the front door slam shut and footsteps making their way up the stairs.
Brendon has experienced the effects of alcohol first hand, and he has seen many, many drunk people, but he has never seen, nor has he ever expected to see a drunk Ryan. Not in a million years. And to top it all off, the older boy is crying, eye makeup smeared everywhere.
Brendon jumps up from the tiny bed and envelops Ryan in his arms because it’s the first thing he thinks to do. The older boy hiccups once before crying into Brendon’s shoulder.
He clings tightly to the younger boy as if his life depends on it, and maybe at the moment it does.
After a few minutes of keeping Ryan upright, Brendon decides to move him over to the bed. The two of them sit down on the lumpy mattress together, and Ryan is still sobbing, choked, agenizing noises climbing up his throat and making themselves relevant throughout the bedroom. The noises that escape Ryan’s mouth are so pained and broken that Brendon almost wants to cry. The sobs are the only thing sounding throughout the entire house, and it seems as if the darkness of the room swallows them up as soon as they’re prevalent.
It takes about an hour for Ryan’s cries to die down into nothing more than tiny whimpers. He’s still clinging to Brendon as if the younger boy is a lifeline, and Brendon doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s digging his fingernails into his shoulder. Brendon has never seen Ryan this broken, not in the eight months he’s known him. It’s strange, he thinks, because he’s never seen the vulnerable side of Ryan. It hurts Brendon, physically sends a twinge to his heart, to see the older boy like this.
A few more minutes go by, and Brendon thinks that maybe possibly some cool air will sober Ryan up a bit, so he stands and walks down the stairs, keeping a steady grip on Ryan the entire time.
Its unusually chilly outside for July, but maybe that’s to be expected on a day like this. When Brendon sits down on the ground, tugging Ryan down next to him, and looks up at the sky, he notices that the stars are hardly visible at all. He can’t make out any constellations, and it’s strange to him. The stars have always been there, always have been the one constant thing in his life, but they’ve let him down now.
The wind blows fiercely and Ryan curls into his side, slipping his hands under Brendon’s shirt because his chest is so warm and exactly what he needed. Brendon shivers at Ryan’s icy touch, but he doesn’t shy away.
Turns out, cold air is actually pretty good for helping people sober up because fifteen minutes later, Ryan is talking, and he’s hardly slurring his words at all when he says, “I promised myself that I wouldn’t be like him. I don’t like drinking. I don’t.”
“Then why did you go out and get drunk?” Brendon asks, and his tone isn’t accusing or mean. He just wants to know.
“Because I don’t like feeling, either,” Ryan answers, voice cracking on the end.
And Brendon knows what Ryan means, because there have been times in the past, and there still are times when Brendon would rather drink the strongest bottle of alcohol he can find just to forget for a little bit. To forget about his family, or rather, lack of.
He sighs quietly, but he’s sure that Ryan doesn’t hear it because the wind is blowing and it’s sweeping away everything. Every tear, every breath, every unspoken word.
It’s quiet for a long, long time when Brendon finally, finally gets the nerve to ask, “What did you do last year on July 28th?”
Brendon feels Ryan stiffen, hands tightening their already tight grip. The older boy doesn’t answer for a long, long time, and Brendon thinks that maybe he pushed it too far this time. Maybe Ryan doesn’t trust him enough to answer, or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk about it.
But then the older boy takes a small, shaky breath and says, “I slit my wrists.”
And no, Brendon wasn’t expecting that. Not at all, because it doesn’t make sense for Ryan to try to kill himself over a man who caused him so much pain. From what Brendon has been told, Ryan’s dad, well, father, was far from caring and loveable. And fuck, it sort of angers Brendon that Ryan tried to end his own life because of someone that didn’t even care.
“Why. Why would you- Ryan, why would you do that?” And Brendon’s voice is so quiet, so unstable, that he feels like it’s going to break, physically break, just like his heart already has.
“It was my fault. I should’ve kept an eye on him, you know? I shouldn’t have let him drink as much as he did, and he- fuck, he must’ve cared a little bit about me. He must have, right? But I didn’t- I didn’t even bother with him half the time. I should’ve spent the night with him in the hospital, I should have- I should have spent more time with him. I hated him, I fucking did, but maybe. Maybe he didn’t hate me as much as I thought he did,” Ryan says. His eyes are glassed over, face emotionless, and now more than ever, he looks his age. His eyes have bags under them from lack of sleep, and the glint of green that is usually mixed in with the brown of his iris’ is no longer there. He looks small, breakable. It scares Brendon.
“None of it was your fault, Ry. You can’t. You can’t think that because it’ll wear you down. It’ll kill you. You can’t blame yourself for something that was out of your control,” Brendon tells him, and the younger boy wants to cry because Ryan doesn’t deserve to feel sad and guilty. He doesn’t.
Ryan just shakes his head and takes in a breath that catches slightly, and Brendon knows. Brendon knows Ryan doesn’t believe him, but he wants him to. He needs him too.
So Brendon pushes the other boy away just enough to look into the elder’s eyes and places his fingers under Ryan’s chin. Brendon is gentle, more careful than he’s ever been when he tilts the older boy’s head up ever so slightly. He’s scared he’ll break Ryan because the older just looks that frail.
When he pushes his lips to the corner of the older boy’s mouth, its soft, friendly. Brendon doesn’t want it to be, God, he wants it to be more than that, but he knows that Ryan is in no state of mind for that now. And subsequently, a moment later, he draws his lips away and places another chaste kiss to a different place, Ryan’s forehead, before curling back into himself completely.
He doesn’t look over at Ryan for a few minutes. Maybe he’s scared because he thinks that he might’ve pushed it too far, or maybe he just doesn’t want to see the depressing look in Ryan’s eyes. Either way, he stares forward into the black abyss that is night time.
It feels like hours, but in reality can’t be more than five minutes before Ryan speaks, voice quieter than it was before. “Let’s go inside, B.”
Brendon nods and stands up, grabbing Ryan’s arm because the older boy is still a little dizzy, shaky on his legs, before walking inside. The two of them go up to the guest room and lay down on the tiny bed that they’ve grown so, so used to. Brendon finds the dip that he lays in and wraps his arm around Ryan. The action is warm, welcoming, and Ryan scoots closer to Brendon, taking in the younger boy’s sweet scent.
A few minutes later, they’re both asleep, Ryan snoring loudly and Brendon drooling on the older boy’s arm. Its virtuous, the cuddling and whatnot, and it’s the best goddamn sleep either of them have gotten in a long, long time.
~
Ryan doesn’t talk about that night, the night, for a few weeks, and Brendon doesn’t bring it up. He doesn’t want to make the older boy uncomfortable, and he isn’t even sure that Ryan remembers everything he told Brendon.
But when they’re sitting in front of Ryan’s father’s tombstone, the topic of that night comes up, and they both know they can’t avoid it forever.
“I’m sorry, you know,” Ryan says, “about getting fucking wasted. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have just expected that you would take care of me. It was a selfish thing to do.”
“I would’ve taken care of you though. I did. I’d do it all over again, too. I’d sit outside with you every goddamn night if you wanted me to, Ry,” Brendon says honestly, because he would. He will, if Ryan needs him to.
Ryan nods because he knows, he really does. He knows that Brendon is too kind, too gentle of a person to let him stumble around the house, drunk and upset, without offering some kind of assistance. Nonetheless, it doesn’t ease the guilty tinge in Ryan’s gut. Nothing ever will, he thinks.
Brendon seems to know exactly what Ryan is thinking because a few seconds later, he’s got both arms wrapped around the older boy, holding him close to his chest. He doesn’t say anything, just lets the calm beat of his heart and his even breathing be enough.
Neither say anything at all for the rest of the time that they’re at the graveyard, which is probably maybe a few hours. Even when they stand up to go back to Jon’s house, to go home, they’re both quiet, but it isn’t the upset kind of quiet. It isn’t the regretful or depressing kind of quiet. It’s the safe, comforting kind. The words that have yet to be said are dancing on the tips of both of the boy’s tongues, but neither say anything right now. They are too content. Too happy.
And Ryan thinks that it’s probably the first time in a while that he’s felt like this, and he knows, fucking knows it’s because of the dark haired boy walking beside him.
~
It’s mid-August when Brendon decides that enough is enough.
He’s scared for Ryan. Truly. He is.
The older boy hasn’t been sleeping much, instead staying at the cemetery from six in the morning till nearly three the next morning. He hardly gets three hours of sleep, Brendon notes, and even Jon has noticed the boy buying excessive energy drinks.
The two decided that there needs to be a family meeting, an intervention, and they even decide to have Spencer attend because he’s become quite close to all of them.
It’s hard to catch Ryan because the older boy is hardly ever home, so they all decide to stay up late one night. Spencer is having a hard time keeping his eyes open, and Jon feels as if his eyelids weigh as much as cement, but at 4:27 a.m. sharp, Ryan pushes through the front door.
And Brendon can’t help but laugh, really, because when the elder walks in, his hair is disheveled, and he must jump at least a foot in the air at the sight of all of them sitting on the futon in the living room.
“What. What’s going on? Why are you all awake?” Ryan asks, and his voice is shaky, nervous sounding. He must know what’s coming, Brendon thinks.
“We’re really worried about you, Ry,” Jon says, rubbing his tired eyes.
Ryan sighs, and even in the dark of the living room, Brendon can see the older boy roll his eyes. “Worried? Seriously, you’re stupid. All of you are. I’m fine.”
“You aren’t fine,” Spencer says, “You’re majorly depressed. That isn’t fine.”
“I’m not depressed, Spin,” Ryan scoffs. “I eat, I sleep, I shower. I’m alive, right? Isn’t that all that counts?”
“But you aren’t living, Ry. Sleeping for three hours, waking up, and spending the rest of your day at a fucking graveyard isn’t living. Its wasting your life away trying to change things, trying to make things right. And for what, Ryan?” Brendon says, and his voice is gentle, less threatening than Spencer’s, or even Jon’s.
“I just. You don’t get it. None of you do. I’m trying to make my father understand that I care, you know? Even if I didn’t always act like I did,” Ryan explains, but none of it makes sense, at least not to Brendon.
“He’s dead. He can’t hear you. There isn’t anything you can do to make things right. Why would you even want to?” Brendon asks, because seriously, Ryan has no reason to even feel like he needs to better things between him and his father. His father was an asshole. At least, that’s what Brendon’s gathered from Ryan and Jon.
“He’s still my- my father, Brendon,” Ryan says as if that’s supposed to clear things up.
“But he hated you, Ryan. Don’t you get that? He hated you and spending your entire life at his fucking grave isn’t going to make him love you any more than he did before he croaked.” And Brendon’s sort of angry now because Ryan just doesn’t understand. His father is dead and he was a worthless fucker anyway, and Ryan shouldn’t- he shouldn’t be wasting his life trying to make things better.
“Yes, you fucking asshole, I know that,” Ryan hisses through clenched teeth, “but at least I feel a little better at the end of the night, okay? At least I can sort of sleep without dreading waking up the next morning, you know?”
Brendon stays silent, doesn’t say a word, because he doesn’t know. He really doesn’t. Maybe Jon and Spencer know, but if they do, they don’t say anything to elucidate their understanding.
A few seconds later, Ryan turns on his heel and heads right back out the front door, and not Spencer, Brendon, or even Jon chase after him.
~
It’s about 6:00 a.m., just a few hours after the intervention, that Brendon decides to go find Ryan. It isn’t much of a search though because he knows exactly where the older boy is.
It’s chilly outside, cold for August, when Brendon arrives at the graveyard and sees Ryan laying in front of his father’s grave, curled into a pitifully tiny ball. Brendon is quiet, tries to even keep his footsteps hushed, when he walks towards Ryan. He sits behind Ryan and places a hand on the small of his back, and Ryan doesn’t even have to look to know who is there.
~
Brendon refuses, absolutely refuses, to let Ryan leave the house for the next few days.
And Ryan, to say the least, is not amused.
Brendon wakes up at some ungodly time in the morning and sits in front of the front door, waiting for Ryan to wake up and come downstairs.
And ten minutes later, he does.
He gives Brendon a weird look and a thoroughly unimpressed eye roll when he spots him, and nudges him slightly with the toe of his boot. “Move.”
“No,” Brendon says simply.
“I have to go, and I don’t have time to deal with your idiocy today Brendon, so if you’d kindly get the fuck out of my way, I’d greatly appreciate it,” Ryan spits bitterly, but Brendon doesn’t budge. He’s not. Not gonna let Ryan waste his life. He will not. “Come on. Seriously. Just let me out.”
“How about you stay and hang out with me and Jon today?” Brendon offers.
Ryan just glares at Brendon and mutters a quiet, “fuck off,” before stomping back upstairs, managing to wake up a very sleepy and very irritated Jon.
The next morning when Brendon does the same thing, sits in front of the front door, he’s almost sure that Ryan is going to punch him in the face.
“I don’t want to spend another goddamn day with you!” Ryan yells, really yells, and Brendon flinches but doesn’t budge.
“I can’t let you hurt yourself this way RyRy. Sorry buddy,” Brendon says coolly, masking the hint of ohmygodhe’sgoingtokillme that is so prevalent in his mind.
Ryan groans and throws the first thing in arms reach (which just happens to be an ashtray) at Brendon’s head. And fuck, it hurts, and Brendon is pretty sure that he’s bleeding, but he is not moving. He is not.
So Ryan screams in frustration and walks back upstairs, and Brendon sort of wonders why Ryan hasn’t just tried to leave through the back door, but the thought quickly leaves his mind when his head starts to pound.
~
It’s around noon on the day of the Ashtray Incident that Ryan to decides to emerge from his shared bedroom. He walks into the kitchen, barely glancing at Jon and Brendon, before making a cup of coffee. He looks better, Brendon thinks, probably because he went back to sleep after having that hissy fit downstairs, and Brendon sort of doesn’t mind the fact that he took an ashtray to the head because he’s glad that Ryan is no longer facing sleep deprivation.
Jon is pretty pissed that Ryan attempted to decapitate Brendon earlier, and he’s even more pissed that Brendon refuses to be upset about it. He doesn’t look at Ryan at all, just stares into his cup of coffee, and so Brendon knows he’s got to be the bigger man and speak up. “Your, uh, makeup looks really good today, Ry,” he says, adjusting the white bandage that Jon wrapped around his head earlier this morning.
“Thanks,” Ryan mutters, eyes trained on the floor. The entire kitchen, hell, maybe even the entire goddamn world is silent for a few seconds until Ryan finally says, “I’m so sorry about your head, B. I was stupid. I was. I was being a little bitch, and I know that you’re only trying to help me, and I’m really, really sorry.”
Brendon stands then and hugs Ryan tightly because it’s okay. It is.
~
When Brendon kisses Ryan, it’s an accident. A complete and total accident. Sort of.
Pre-kiss, during one of the Spencer-Brendon-Jon man talks, Spencer specifically says, “I don’t care if he’s begging for it, Brendon. Do. Not. Kiss him.”
“But,” Brendon argues, “I want to. I’ve been- fuck, I’ve been wanting to for the past six months, Spin. I don’t know how much more I can take.”
“Trust me, it’s for Ryan’s own sanity. He’s having trouble enough not going out and visiting the cemetery every day. He doesn’t need the stress of your stupidly big lips on top of all that,” Spencer says, and Brendon groans because he just wants. Wants to kiss Ryan so, so badly.
It’s September now, nearly an entire year since Brendon moved into Jon’s house, and every single day he feels like it’s a struggle to just keep his hands, or his lips, rather, to himself. Ryan is just so pretty, so delicate, and Brendon thinks, no, he knows that a kiss could put all of the older boy’s broken pieces back together.
“What if he kisses me though?” Brendon asks.
Spencer scoffs, and this time, Jon speaks. “He won’t, okay? Trust me. Ryan’s a slut, but he’s not gonna kiss you. He’s much too feminine to do that.”
Brendon huffs and crosses his arms before standing and exiting the living area. He walks up to his stupid bedroom where stupid Ryan is laying on the stupid kiddy bed looking stupidly perfect.
“Hey Urie, what’s got your balls in a twist?” He asks, and Brendon is so frustrated that he just wants to punch him, or kiss him, or both.
“Nothing,” Brendon grumbles, sitting on the end of the bed.
“Oh, come on, spill it,” Ryan encourages, crawling towards Brendon. And no, no, he just can’t do that because the innocent look in his eyes and the tiny smirk on his face is too much and Brendon can’t. Can’t handle it.
“C-Can’t,” Brendon whimpers, turning away from Ryan. He understands what Spencer was telling him and he can’t, he won’t, put any more stress on Ryan.
But then fuck, Ryan is right there, sitting crisscrossed, hazel eyes wide and curious, lips open just a bit, all pink and plump and-
Brendon has to, so he does. He turns a quarter of an inch and presses his lips to Ryan’s, and he doesn’t mean to come off desperate or needy, but he knows he does. Ryan doesn’t seem to mind though because a second later he’s kissing back like his shitty goddamn life depends on it.
Brendon is breathless. He’s dizzy, lungs crying out for oxygen, but he won’t pull away from Ryan. He doesn’t think he can. The older boy’s lips are so soft against his own, tasting of coffee and citrus and Brendon just wants more.
But then there’s a cough and a girly scream from the doorway and stupid Spencer Smith’s voice fills the room with, “Really, Brendon? You couldn’t even make it ten minutes without breaking the rule that I made?”
And Brendon has to pull away to laugh and also because he doesn’t want to die from lack of oxygen, and when he looks up at Jon and Spencer, they’re laughing quietly too. Even Ryan’s dull eyes have a hint of poorly hid amusement in them, and Brendon doesn’t think he’s been this happy in a long time.
~
Brendon is sure that if he doesn’t find some self-control soon, his lips are going to fall off.
It’s been two whole weeks since The First Kiss, and all he’s been doing is moving his mouth against Ryan’s, eating, showering, sleeping, and moving his mouth against Ryan’s some more.
It’s become so much of a problem that Jon has to physically force them apart because ‘its two in the goddamn morning and I’m tired of hearing your slurps and moans. Go to sleep.’
But fuck, Brendon doesn’t even care because kissing Ryan is so good, electric, and whenever they’re lips are moving together, in sync with each other, he feels on the top of the world.
He notices that Ryan smiles a lot more now too, and that makes his heart melt because all he’s ever really wanted is for Ryan to be happy, and even Jon and Highly Irritated Papa Smith can’t be mad at Brendon for that.
~
It’s a month later when Ryan and Brendon put a label on their odd relationship.
They cuddle and kiss and give each other heart eyes more than Jon can stand, so it’s when Spin comes over one day and the four of them are watching a movie in the living room, Ryan and Brendon sharing quick looks every five seconds, that Spencer says, “For fuck’s sake, just make it official already.”
And so Brendon smiles and kneels in front of Ryan, taking the older boy’s hand and dramatically saying, “Ry, will you be the peanut butter to my jelly, the cheese to my macaroni, the Spencer Smith to my Jon Walker?”
Ryan giggles at that, fucking giggles, before asking, “So, are you, like, asking me to be your boyfriend or your prematurely used sex slave?” That earns Ryan a sharp punch in the arm from Spencer and a glare from Jon.
“Nice try Ross, but pb and motherfucking j don’t have sex, so your dig at Jonny Boy and I makes no sense at all,” Spencer informs him.
“Well you don’t see what goes on in the cupboards, Spin. They could be getting it on,” Brendon proposes, and Ryan laughs at that.
“Yeah maybe, but I fucking doubt it, and anyway, that’s beside the point. Ryan, answer Brendon’s question because I can tell by the sweat on his stupid bushy eyebrows that he’s worried you’ll say no,” Spencer says.
Ryan glances at Brendon, a tiny smile on his delicate, rosy lips before saying, “I presume that you’re asking me to be your boyfriend, and since I’ve only been sucking face with you for, oh I don’t know, about a month, I’m going to say yes.”
Brendon grins and does a dumb victory dance which causes everyone, including his boyfriend, to groan and roll their eyes fondly.
~
When Halloween rolls round, Brendon is absolutely positive that he’s never seen Ryan so happy in all the time that he’s known the boy.
Ryan is running, literally running, around the house, throwing on articles of clothing, styling his hair, and adding the finishing touches to his make up to complete his totally original and homemade fox costume.
It’s the cutest thing, really, the way Ryan is so excited, rambling on about how they’ve got to hit every house in the neighborhood and then make it to ‘Alex’s Halloween party. Its epic every year. Seriously.’
And so that’s how Brendon ends up dressed as a mummy, walking down the kid crowded streets alongside Jon, Spencer, and his boyfriend, who is definitely the cutest fox he’s ever seen.
~
It isn’t until early January that Ryan has a meltdown again, and this time it’s because he finds one of his father’s old photographs.
It happens sometime around midnight, and Brendon is almost, almost, asleep when Ryan throws something across the room. Brendon sits up and clicks on the lamp, blinking against the brightness. “Ryan?” He asks, voice scratchy, worry laced deep within it, “Is everything okay?”
Ryan just cries and shakes his head, tears streaming down his pale face, and Brendon sighs because he hasn’t seen this side of Ryan in a while. Not since before they became a couple. He reaches out to grab the older boy and tug him into his side, hoping to provide some warmth and comfort.
The two lay there on the cramped bed, Ryan sobbing, Brendon running his fingers through Ryan’s hair. He glances across the room and sees the remains of a glass cup lying by the door. With a shake of the head, he decides that Ryan really, really needs to control his anger or sadness or whatever the hell pops into his head at the thought of his father.
Brendon doesn’t want to give up on Ryan though, and he knows he never will, so he holds the older boy tight, whispering words of comfort in his hair and praying to no one in particular that Ryan stops crying. He hates when Ryan cries. It breaks his heart every time.
Eventually his prayers are answered because Ryan’s sobs die down into tiny whimpers and soft pleas of, ‘I just want to forget,’ and, ‘Please make me forget, Brendon. Please.’
And who is Brendon to really deny Ryan what he wants, what he needs, in a time like this? So he turns his body a bit and presses his lips to Ryan’s, moving them steadily, carefully, as to not break the fragile boy in his arms.
That seems to be enough for Ryan because a moment later, he’s kissing back like Brendon’s lips are the only that he’s ever kissed in all of his life.
~
When Ryan and Brendon finally, finally, save up to get a bed, a real bed with an actual big mattress, they’re both ecstatic. Ryan’s been saving every penny he could scrape up from his newly acquired job at a coffee shop, and Brendon has also been contributing with the money earned from his part time job at a library downtown.
They go to pick out the bed on a cold February evening, but they’re able to ignore the bitter wind chilling their fingertips. The two hold hands, small smiles on both of their faces because they’re so excited.
The mattress store is practically empty, which is really no surprise to either of them, so they take their sweet time testing out every single bed in there. Both of them start on opposite ends of the store, bouncing, rolling, and snuggling into each mattress.
“This is so unsanitary,” Ryan calls out, already on his fifth bed.
“Maybe,” Brendon replies, “but we have to find the perfect one, Ry.”
And so they keep testing, much to the manager’s dismay, who is watching them with a glare from behind the front counter.
When they meet in the middle, both boys resting side by side on a foamy, off white mattress contained in a dark wooded bedframe, Brendon cannot suppress the groan that slips from between his lips. “Ryan, oh my God Ryan, this is amazing. We need this one.”
“It feels like a cloud, Bren. A cloud,” Ryan says, eyes closed.
“It feels like the Jesus I absolutely do not believe in weaved a goddamn mattress out of his metaphorical beard hairs,” Brendon says, and Ryan laughs at that but nods in agreement.
After fifteen more minutes and a call from the manager to, ‘buy the damn thing or get out,’ Ryan and Brendon both split the bill fifty/fifty and have the new bed delivered to the Walker-Ross-Urie residence.
And neither boys can contain their smiles when they take a cab home to follow the delivery truck and see that their new sleeping quarters is all set up, nice and pretty up against the far wall.
It’s midnight when Ryan and Brendon really test out their new bed, both laying on top of it in only their boxers. They have their eyes closed, not because they’re tired, but because damn, it feels amazing, and they could definitely get used to this.
Brendon pulls Ryan close to him, draping his arm over the smaller boy, and places a quick kiss in the older boy’s hair. “Mm, you smell like apples, Ross.”
“You smell like sugar, Urie,” is the reply he gets.
“It’s because I’m so sweet,” Brendon replies.
“I refuse to answer that and fuel your big ego even more,” Ryan states, and Brendon can’t help but laugh, really laugh, at the ridiculousness of all of this. Not more than a year and a half ago, he was sat outside in the snow, cold and possibly close to death, and now, well, he’s living with his best friends, one of whom he’s in love with, love, and he really can’t believe his luck.
~
Ryan’s drunk, and still drinking, at 3:07 in the morning and Brendon is scared.
Jon left to spend the night with Spencer, and when Brendon came home from his stupid library job, Ryan was sitting at the kitchen table, a half full bottle of vodka in his hands.
And that’s exactly where he still is, except the bottle is close to empty now.
Brendon is trying to pry the drink away from Ryan because he knows that Ryan will regret this tomorrow, knows he’ll compare himself to his alcoholic father. But fuck, the older boy isn’t letting go of the alcohol, and he’s getting really mean and Brendon does not like this side of him at all.
“Please Ry,” he pleads, “please give me the bottle and we’ll go up to bed and get some rest.”
Ryan shakes his head and stands up, wobbly on his legs. Brendon reaches out to offer some sort of assistance, but Ryan just shoves him away and glares at him. Brendon doesn’t know when he suddenly became the bad guy, but Ryan’s drunken rage has all been aimed at him.
“I don’t want to go to bed, asshole. I want to drink. That’s why I have this,” he says, holding up the bottle, and his words are so fucked up and slurred that Brendon can hardly understand him.
“You’ve had enough of it. Give it to me,” Brendon reaches for it, which apparently is a stupid move, because the next thing he knows, Ryan's shoving Brendon away with more force than the younger boy would’ve pegged the elder to even have. “Please baby, don’t do this. Just come to bed.”
“I don’t want to come to bed. I don’t- fuck, who even are you? I don’t even know you,” Ryan garbles.
“I’m Brendon. It’s Brendon, Ry,” the younger boy clarifies.
“No, I know your name, idiot. But you know my entire life, my entire goddamn backstory, and I don’t know anything about you,” Ryan hisses, eyes dark.
“Well I’ll tell you about me, then,” Brendon says, rushed and frantic because the look Ryan is giving him is terrifying.
“I don’t care to know, really. I just- you know who I am. My father was a drunk. I’m one. I’m one too, right? I’m an alcoholic.”
“No,” Brendon assures him, “You aren’t. You hardly drink at all. I promise you that. You are not your father, Ryan.”
Ryan takes another swig of the vodka before throwing the bottle across the room, narrowly missing Brendon’s head. “I hate you,” he spits, and his words are still a jumbled mess, but they break Brendon’s heart. “I hate you so much. You did this. You made me feel like this.”
“I-I don’t know what I did. Can. Can you tell me?” Brendon asks, voice small, eyes filled with tears.
“You made me happy! I don’t even- even deserve to be happy Bren. But you fucking did it. You made me feel alive again. Why did you do that?” And now Ryan sounds genuinely confused. It makes Brendon’s heart break.
“Whoever told you that you don’t deserve to be happy,” Brendon starts, “is a goddamn liar, Ryan. Do you understand that? You deserve to be so, so happy.”
“I’m a fuck-up,” Ryan says matter-of-factly, slumping against the wall.
“Yeah, you are. Fuck, you really are, but you’re my fuck-up,” Brendon says honestly.
“Do you love me Brendon?” Ryan asks, a quiet hiccup escaping his parted lips, and Brendon smiles, tears spilling over the brim of his eyes.
“Course I do. I love you so much,” he says, and he knows that Ryan won’t remember any of this in a few hours, but the answer seems to sedate the boy for now, and Brendon sighs in relief when Ryan agrees to get some sleep.
~
It’s their six months anniversary when Ryan and Brendon both return to the house after a romantic dinner, giggling and practically glued to each other.
Jon is sleeping on the couch, phone in his hand, and Brendon thinks that he must’ve been talking to Spencer when he fell asleep. Brendon raises his pointer finger to his lips to indicate that Ryan needs to stop giggling adorably unless he wants to wake up a certain Jon Walker, and Ryan gets the hint, quietly tiptoeing up to the bedroom with Brendon.
When they make it to the bedroom, Ryan shoves Brendon against the wall, and Brendon had absolutely no idea that Ryan could take control so easily. It turns him on more than he ever expected it would.
A second later, Ryan’s lips are on Brendon’s, teeth pulling at Brendon’s full lower one, and for the first time in forever, a needy growl forms in Brendon’s chest and slithers up his throat, erupting through the room.
Ryan’s lips only leave Brendon’s for a second to mumble, “bed,” and then they’re back again, nipping and sucking and pulling. He maneuvers the two of them to the big bed and Ryan goes toppling backwards, dragging Brendon with him.
The younger boy releases a breathless giggle as Ryan nips at his neck, which, in Brendon’s defense, is really ticklish, okay. Ryan makes marks down Brendon’s throat, stopping to suckle his Adam’s apple, and nope, that’s it, Ryan’s clothes need to come off now.
It’s simple at first, removing the shirt, because it’s only a button up, but the jeans are difficult as hell, and Brendon begins to think that they’re fucking painted to Ryan’s skin.
“Take them off Ross,” he demands, voice low and scratchy. Ryan shivers and closes his eyes for a moment before wriggling out of the jeans and tossing them to the floor. Brendon takes off his own clothes, which put up no fight at all, and leans down to attack Ryan’s chest in kisses.
Ryan’s wiggling and pushing his hips against Brendon’s thigh, and he’s making these little sounds that travel straight to Brendon’s dick.
It’s only a few seconds later when Ryan is pushing Brendon away to reach in the drawer of the bedside table to grab a tiny bottle. Brendon’s eyebrows disappear somewhere under his mop of dark hair.
“Need you to,” Ryan pants, breathless, “fuck, you know what I need you to do, Bren. Please.”
Brendon just nods nervously and shakily takes the little bottle from Ryan. He’s never done any of this with another boy, hell, he’s never done any of this with anyone, and he’s scared that he’s going to mess up somehow, or worse, hurt Ryan, or-
“Stop thinking so much. I know this is new to you. Just do what I tell you, okay?” Ryan interjects, leaning forward once to kiss Brendon softly.
“Okay, I mean, I k-know what to do. Spencer told me-“
“Please don’t mention Spencer when we’re about to have sex.”
“Right, sorry. Wait, we’re about to have sex?”
“If you’d like to.”
“I’d definitely like to.”
“Well that’s all great and dandy, B, but now I’m gonna need you to actually get to it before I explode.”
Brendon laughs timidly at that and uncaps the lube, squirting some on his fingers. It’s cold and sticky and just gross and Brendon wonders how the hell Ryan can stand having this stuff inside of him.
He doesn’t have much time to think about it though, because Ryan is pushing his now bare hips towards Brendon, grabbing a fistful of the younger’s hair. “You’re fine Bren. Stop contemplating shit.” Brendon just nods because he doesn’t know what else to say, but fuck, he does kind of know what to do, so without another moment’s hesitation, he slides two fingers into Ryan.
And he was not expecting the older boy tense and cry out in pain.
Brendon stills completely, eyes wide. “Oh my God, I’m sorry, I thought that-“
“No B, it’s fine, but typically, you’re supposed to start with one finger,” Ryan explains through gritted teeth.
“Fuck, oh my God, Ryan, I’m sorry. I’ll take them out-“
“No! No. It’s okay Brendon. Just give me a second, yeah? I haven't done this in a while." Brendon nods and bites his lip, watching Ryan with worried eyes. After a few moments, he leans forward and places soft kisses all over Ryan’s face, and they make the older boy smile slightly. “You can move them now. Slowly though.”
Brendon does as Ryan says, at first only pulling his fingers out a quarter of an inch before pushing them back in. Once Ryan starts panting, forehead slick with sweat, he pulls out almost all the way and thrusts them back in at a different angle. Ryan makes a quiet noise in his throat, but it isn’t the reaction that Brendon wants.
He scissors his fingers before pulling them out and pushing them in again, harder this time, and when Ryan arches his back and lets out a soft, ‘oh,’ that’s exactly what Brendon wants.
He does it again, angling his fingers to hit the same exact spot, and Ryan moans, loud and throaty, hand pulling a little at Brendon’s hair. Brendon closes his eyes for a second because he wants to keep the face Ryan’s making right now etched into his mind forever.
It’s a few minutes later when Ryan nearly screams and pushes Brendon away. “Did I do something wrong-“
“No Bren, I just. I need you to not use your fingers anymore,” Ryan tells him, panting heavily. Brendon is confused for a moment until he understands, and then he wants to punch himself in the face because he really is an idiot.
The younger boy slips out of his boxers before looking around for a condom because he thinks he remembers Spencer mentioning something about them during the sex talk they had and-
“Bren, stop thinking so much, yeah? The condoms are in the drawer,” Ryan says, making Brendon blush as he pulls one out and tears open the wrapper. Ryan is watching him with big hazel eyes, needy and anxious and Brendon almost cries out right then because Ryan is just so perfect.
Once Brendon manages to get the condom on without too much of a struggle, he angles himself up to Ryan, using his elbows to hold himself up. He can feel his own heart jump into his throat as he barely pushes into Ryan before stopping. “Am I hurting you?”
Ryan shakes his head and pulls at Brendon’s waist, urging him to just keep going because he needs him to. And Brendon does just a moment later, edging all the way into the older boy.
The pair is still for what feels like hours and it takes everything Brendon has not to scream because Ryan it all tight and hot around him and he’s seeing white splotches now because nothing has ever felt this good.
It’s when Ryan moves, pushes back against Brendon, that the reality of the whole situation slaps the younger boy right in the face. He’s losing his virginity, and it’s scary but at the same time it’s not, because this is Ryan, this is the boy he loves, and he can’t even imagine doing this with anyone else.
Brendon pulls out nearly all the way and pushes back in gently, carefully, because Ryan comes off as so delicate, always has. But then the older boy is writhing beneath him saying, “Come on Bren, I’m not made of glass,” and Brendon is pushing harder now because that’s just what Ryan wants.
He feels long fingers curl around his shoulders, blunt fingernails digging into his skin, and it’s so much but not enough at the same time, so he pushes in faster, gripping Ryan’s waste hard enough to leave bruises, but he doesn’t think the older boy even minds.
It’s when Ryan comes, white hot and sticky between them, that Brendon loses the little self-control he has and comes too, low, guttural moan filling the bedroom, the entire house. Brendon pulls out of Ryan, slips off the condom, and tosses it in the trash before walking to the bathroom, hips naked and swinging. He grabs a cloth to clean himself and Ryan up with and returns to the bedroom to see that Ryan is curled up into a tiny ball, eyes drooping heavily.
Brendon smiles and leans down to wipe off Ryan’s chest before tossing the rag aside and joining the other boy in bed. Ryan scoots closer to Brendon and snuggles into the younger boy’s chest, cool puffs of air escaping his cherry red lips. “Thank you,” he mumbles, quiet and low.
“For what Ry?”
“For showing me that I deserve to be happy,” is all Ryan says before he falls asleep.
~
There are times when Ryan still freaks out, still has a meltdown and has to hold on to the kitchen counter for dear life.
But most of the time, he’s okay because Brendon is right there, has been for five years now, and that’s all Ryan really needs. Brendon cares, honestly, he does, and he doesn’t think that he’s ever loved anyone more than he loves Ryan.
It’s one night when they’re sitting out on the front porch, Ryan, Brendon, Spencer, and Jon, the stars shining brightly above them, that Brendon realizes maybe, well, probably, getting kicked out of his house at the tender age of seventeen was the best thing that’s ever happened to him. And it’s then that he remembers what Ryan said so many years ago, back when they were all still broken and mourning in their own way; ‘sometimes bad shit happens to good people. Sometimes we just have to suck it up and deal with it. But things will get better. Most of the time they do. You know?’
And Brendon does know. He does.