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i.
When they came back from the cabin for a breather, a return to civilization, they had five finished songs, and several more that were nebulous, and just needed time and a little work to rough them out, give them shape. Ryan wishes they could have stayed until they'd done that, but then they all had stuff to do, people to spend time with.
Only, he doesn't. His girlfriend's away, so he plans to spend the next week or so trying to get his apartment in order, doing grown-up things. (He thinks about calling Spencer, but this is Spencer's time with his girlfriend and his family, right, and Ryan's not that dependent on his band. He's not. His fingers itch with the need to pull out his sidekick, but they agreed, a couple of days off, and he can do that.)
On the second day, though - he's barely had time to look at the proto-songs, much less work on them - he's woken up by a loud honking outside, down on the street. He lies in bed until he realizes that the obnoxious honking beat is approximating 'chopsticks', which means it's both his problem, and that his neighbors are going to hate him.
"Jesus," Ryan says crossly, standing on the curb (he's pulled on yesterday's shirt and jeans, and he hasn't brushed his hair), "why didn't you just call me, asshole?"
Brendon shrugs and says, "More fun."
Brendon says, "Get in," and his fingers tap impatiently on the wheel like it's a keyboard.
Ryan could say, no, I have to work on the demos, no, I have stuff to do, are you crazy, but instead he stands there, fingernails pressing blunt into his palms, and tries not to grin too hard. It's surprising how unsurprising Brendon's sudden appearance at his door really is.
"Where are we going?"
Brendon grins maniacally wide. "That'd ruin the whole thing, dude, the whole poetical metaphor of the journey."
Ryan stares at him until Brendon says patiently "Dude, if I tell you, it'll spoil it."
Ryan tilts his head. "And you don't know."
"Plus, I don't know," Brendon agrees. "Get in the car, Ross, where's your sense of adventure?"
ii.
They drive straight for a couple days, down the expanse of Interstate 15. Brendon takes weird delight in taking off-ramps and going on pointless side trips, even veering cross-country; eventually, though, he always finds his way back onto the Interstate. Mud clings tenaciously to the tread of the Audi's tires, and its gleaming metal bodywork is smudged and clouded into obscurity with choking red dust. There is dust in Ryan's eyes and every time he swallows, he can taste it thick on his tongue.
Brendon doesn't say anything more about the trip. When Ryan asks him, he shrugs it off, eyes on the road stretching ahead, and says things like "I don't know, adventure, Ross? Live a little."
When they cross the state border into Arizona, Ryan can't help himself any longer. "Is there a point to this?"
Brendon opens his eyes wide and says, innocent, "The journey is the point, what the hell, did you sleep through all those years of English class?" And then, "Why the fuck not?"
He tries to bring it up again, miles away from Nevada, just after they've stopped at a gas station. Brendon buys enough junk food for himself to feed a party of kindergarteners, but he also buys Ryan a pound of gummi bears and his favorite juice.
Ryan gets as far as "So, if you want to talk-" when Brendon interrupts, "Oh, I love this song!", wide-eyed. He reaches past him, new tattoo red and black on his arm, and turns up the volume until Ryan can't hear himself speak, the thread of his voice lost in the thump of the bass.
Brendon sings happily along to the radio until the song changes, and then sits back a little, flicking a glance over at Ryan out of the corner of his eye.
Ryan doesn't ask again.
iii.
It's an adventure, a boy's own, even, and once Ryan stops worrying, stops trying to get Brendon to talk (maybe there's actually nothing to say), stops trying to be all fucking sensitive, he thinks with disgust, it's more fun. He sucks at the talking, anyway.
Spencer's able to get Ryan to talk, to tell him anything, but he doesn't really have the patience to deal with Brendon when Brendon doesn't want to share. Jon, Jon wouldn't keep asking, would just be calm and friendly and talk about, like, his cat, maybe tell a funny story about Bill or Pete back in the day, one that probably involved gratuitous nudity. He'd just do that, calm as milk, and Brendon would tell him what was going on, like it wasn't a secret at all. Jon Walker had weird, weird powers that mortal men knew not.
(Pete, not that he'd be first or even, like, eighth in the line up of people Brendon might tell stuff to, would still be better at this than Ryan, would still worm whatever was going on with Brendon out of him, easy as anything. Pete would do it by talking about himself, laying himself bare, talking about relationships that imploded and crises of the soul with high dramatics and probably funny voices, strangely serious but with humor; and Brendon would just be compelled to share in return - or at least Ryan was, whenever Pete tried that.)
Jon or Pete, then, or even almost anyone, would be better than Ryan for this.
Ryan wonders if Brendon dragged him along on his little journey of self-discovery, practically kidnapped him, because he knew that Ryan sucked at this sort of thing.
iv.
The first night, they sleep in the car, and it's almost like the old days, roadtripping with Spencer and Brent in Brendon's ridiculous old van. Almost, because there's decidedly less leg room in Brendon's new car (Ryan's Mercedes would be a much better roadtrip vehicle, he thinks self-righteously, although then he thinks about dust and wear and hulking thieves and decides that he's glad it's snug in its garage in Vegas).
When Ryan wakes up, his knees are uncomfortably pinned by the dashboard, and his neck would like to have some strong words with him.
Brendon stretches luxuriously next to him, vertebrae popping. "Dude, hotel tonight."
"Hotel?" Ryan says, "the closest thing you're going to find is a cheap rattrap motel somewhere, unless you want to get off the highway and drive into the city."
Brendon wrinkles his nose. "Nah. We're staying close to nature, right."
"Right," Ryan says. "No, what?"
"Ryan," Brendon says, "Ryan, if you feel you need a bed tonight, I can make that sacrifice. We can find you a motel, princess."
"Uh-huh." They both know it's Brendon who's really dying for a proper mattress. The way he winces and twists his neck back and forth says it all. "You're a giver."
v.
On tour, Ryan usually shares a hotel room with Spencer, but sometimes with Brendon. Not as much as before the night on Truckstops and Statelines when Brendon came in sloppy with drink, his eyes huge and dark, and Ryan looked at him across the room, and thought, fuck.
That night, Brendon pulls smoothly into the parking lot of a cheap little motel. The sad neon sign declaring 'Pink Shell Motel' blinks pathetically on and off, the fluorescent tubing humming sinisterly. He beams proudly.
"Nice," Ryan says, "very nice, Brendon. Good job."
"You're just saying that."
"Yeah."
The place isn't any better looking inside, cinderblocks coated in scungey yellow paint which could only be described as formerly cream if you were feeling charitable and were squinting in a certain manner.
"One room," Brendon says happily, leaning in and folding his arms on the front desk, "two single beds, please."
Ryan stares at the lino (Lino. Seriously), and wonders suddenly what the bored-looking clerk thinks of them. They have no luggage with them, after all, and Brendon tells her to put the room under the name of Mr and Mr Ramen, and pays all in cash.
vi.
They find a greasy spoon a couple of yards down the road for dinner. Brendon sets off purposefully, Ryan trailing behind him, then slows, wrapping an arm around Ryan's waist, thumb sliding through his beltloop. ("I hope you're going to feed me," Ryan said sternly, "you'd better." "Jesus, think about your girlish figure, Ross. So demanding.")
There's a little store next to it still open, and they buy toiletries and toothpaste. Brendon buys a new shirt, a girl's one, and a guy's one that hangs huge on him.
"Stylin', right?"
"Cutting edge," Ryan agrees, and grabs a girl's one for himself. The shopkeeper eyes them and their purchases charily over her hooked nose, and Brendon beams sweetly at her and slides his arm around Ryan's waist again.
"You're an asshole," Ryan hisses at him under his breath as they walk out, but there's no real venom to it.
"You love it," Brendon assures him, skipping along the pavement back to the motel. "I'm funny."
"Hmmm," Ryan says, and sighs in a martyred fashion as Brendon stops in the lobby to raid the vending machine. "More sugar?"
"I'll brush my teeth, mom," Brendon assures him guilelessly, and they actually do, once they get back to their room.
My life is so glamorous, Ryan thinks, staring into the mirror, but then he hasn't brushed his teeth since Las Vegas, and it's utterly, completely, totally time.
They jostle for space over the grimy sink. Brendon tries to hold a conversation at the same time, and Ryan rolls his eyes at him, no. He finds himself watching Brendon's mouth, though, watching as he licks toothpaste away from the corners of his lips.
"See?" Brendon says proudly, reaching past Ryan for the shaving foam. "Told you. Do you think the tv in our room works?" His breath is sweet and overwhelmingly minty.
"It probably just has bad porn," Ryan says, nearly dropping his razor. "Like, really bad stuff with handlebar moustaches and, I don't know. Midgets."
"That's the best kind," Brendon says, tilting his chin, "- the tacky moustache porn. Not the midgets. I don't have a midget thing."
"I did not need to know that," Ryan says in horror. "You didn't have to tell me that." He rinses off his razor. "Bad, expensive porn."
"Hmmm." Brendon looks thoughtful.
"No."
"But- "
"No."
"So bossy, Ross," Brendon says sadly, and then leans in, right into Ryan's personal space and runs a finger down his cheek. "That's better. Smooth."
"I," Ryan says, swallowing. "Thanks. You're a freak, you know that?"
"So I'm told." He sighs lustily. "So I'm told."
There is porn on the tv, after all, but Ryan kicks Brendon until he changes the channel over to ancient sitcoms.
"This is the best roadtrip ever," Brendon declares, sprawled out on his bed, as women in heavy eighties eye makeup and extreme shoulder pads scream and slap each other across the face. One of them tears at the other's hair with long red talons, and he beams contentedly. "The best."
Ryan grunts irritably. He turns off his sidekick with a definite wrench, because someone made him leave the house without his charger, and he doesn't want it to run down. "When are you getting over this Kerouac thing, already?"
Brendon just grins, and Ryan pulls off his dirty t-shirt and throws it at him. It hits Brendon squarely in the face; he pretends to clasp it to his chest as a token, ("What's this? Clothing, falling from the heavens?") and despite himself, Ryan laughs.
"Oh, now," Brendon says, putting the t-shirt down, "that's better. You don't laugh enough, Ryan, you know." He looks oddly serious.
"Fuck you," Ryan says lightly, and Brendon reaches across and tugs gently on his hair.
"I mean it."
"Brendon." Ryan shuts his eyes; he's so close.
"I thought you were supposed to be the smart one," Brendon sighs, and Ryan thinks about leaning away, he does, but then Brendon's lips brush his, sweet and hesitant, and he has suddenly trouble breathing.
It's such a bad idea. It's such, such a bad idea, an idea truly worthy of Brendon's cracked-out little brain, but Ryan kisses him back anyway, suddenly harsh and rough.
vii.
Ryan knows much better. He does, but he ends up making out with Brendon on top of the suspiciously stained hotel bedcover, hands tight on his shoulders like Brendon's his only anchor, hips canting against Brendon's palms.
He bites down on Brendon's earlobe gently, sucks; he shudders satisfyingly against him, and Ryan feels pleased until he realizes that Brendon's fingers are carefully working his fly open.
"Hey," Ryan says, "I don't, I don't think," and the hands go still.
"Yeah?" Brendon looks at him, eyebrows slightly raised, eyes wide and dark, and his bottom lip looks bruised, swollen into unusual redness. Ryan thinks, I did that.
"No," he says, his hands sliding up Brendon's back, "No, that's actually. You know. Knock yourself out."
Brendon laughs, a little roughly, and then he curls his hand around Ryan's dick, jerking him off slow and steady. Ryan shuts his eyes so he doesn't have to watch Brendon biting his lip, rocking himself off against Ryan's hip.
Afterwards, it's suddenly, fantastically awkward. And sticky. Ryan wishes he'd gotten his jeans all the way off; Brendon's are still zipped up, and Ryan winces, hopes that his boxers got the brunt of that, because they can at least rinse those in the sink. Probably (fuck, they're going to have to find a laundromat).
"Shit," Ryan says, and "fuck. Fucking, fucking, fuck."
"Mmm," Brendon says, nuzzling his shoulder, "shush." He curls around him, still nuzzling, like Ryan's his girlfriend or something.
Fuck.
"Brendon," he says, trying to shove him away, but Brendon's half-asleep already, and Ryan's not far behind.
viii.
Ryan wakes up next to him in the morning, still curled around him fast as a limpet. He manages to pry Brendon away enough to sit up, leaving him drooling peacefully into the thin hotel pillow. He sleeps with his mouth open and one hand tucked under his cheek, like a child, and Ryan watches him helplessly for a few minutes before getting up and taking a shower.
The water runs for a long time.
ix.
Ryan's standing over the bathroom mirror carefully lining his eyes with pencil when Brendon walks in. He leans against the door frame, grinning, hips cocked out a little. "I swear, you could find makeup in fucking Antartica."
"It was in my pocket," Ryan explains, and flicks his eyes over to meet Brendon's in the mirror.
"You wanna… you wanna climb into my lap and do me?" Brendon asks easily, still cocky, hips out, but part of his bottom lip vanishes between his teeth.
"I," Ryan says, and smudges his left eye. "Do you think that's really a good idea?"
"Do you?" Brendon asks, and Ryan doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know if he wants to say Brendon, don't, bad idea or Brendon, please. He says nothing, watching Brendon's reflection.
He doesn't say anything until Brendon tucks his chin into the curve of his shoulder (Ryan's taller, so Brendon has to rock forward slightly, up, weight moving from the balls of his feet to his toes) and turns his head; presses his mouth to Ryan's neck, open and wet and messy.
Ryan moans, and when Brendon's hand comes to rest on his hip, he rocks back against him. 'Hey," Brendon breathes, his other hand curving around to rest on Ryan's stomach, fingers slipping past the waistband of his jeans, rubbing the soft skin of his stomach soothingly.
They stand like that for a few seconds, Brendon's mouth on Ryan's neck, until Ryan breathes out slowly, covers Brendon's hand with his own, and pushes it roughly further into his jeans.
"Fuck," Brendon says, and they fumble at Ryan's fly together; it takes them a ridiculously long time to get his jeans open, an eternity of stuck zippers and clumsy fingers brushing and getting in each other's way. And then, when they're open, when Brendon's fingers are finally where he wants them -
Brendon starts to laugh. Ryan makes an annoyed sound and wriggles back against Brendon's cock where it's hard in his jeans, and Brendon chokes mid-chortle. "Sorry," he splutters finally. "You're just - you're just not wearing any underwear, man." He's smirking now, and his fingers have started stroking Ryan's cock slowly, teasing. "Slutty, I love it."
Ryan shoots him a filthy look in the mirror - asshole, asshole, asshole - but then Brendon does something with his thumb that makes him writhe, and he turns his head to kiss him hard. Their teeth clack and his lip stings, but he doesn't fucking care.
Brendon keeps jerking him off slowly and methodically, though, and Ryan hates that Brendon can occasionally summon up patience, although only when it serves a greater aim.
"God," Brendon says into his neck, nudging him, "can you see how hot you look? This is so fucking-" he does the thumb thing again, and Ryan closes his eyes, drawing in hoarse, shallow breaths - "god, I want to fuck you."
"You can't," Ryan says automatically. He opens his eyes when Brendon snatches his hands back; he looks chastened. "It's just - we don't have any - stuff."
"Oh." Brendon coughs. He looks slightly pink, and Ryan briefly entertains the appalling and unlikely - but fucking hilarious - idea that he's managed to embarrass Brendon into blushing. The illusion doesn't last long.
Brendon chews on his lip, squirming slightly, one foot tapping staccato against the dingy carpet. Ryan's shared a bus (fuck, a van) with him too long not to recognize Brendon with a guilty conscience.
"You didn't, tell me you didn't," and Brendon grimaces, cutting his eyes over to the plastic bag curled on the dresser in the bedroom.
"And I'm the slutty one?" Ryan asks dryly. "I just go without underwear - for actual laundry-related reasons - and you go out and buy condoms and - did you buy lube? Yeah. Case rested. Asshole."
"Seriously, don't think of it like that. Think of it - think of me as a boy scout. I'm just prepared, I'm very prepared," Brendon croons hopefully.
Ryan rolls his eyes. "Fuck you."
"I was thinking kinda the other way around- "
"Oh, fuck you," Ryan says, half-laughing.
Brendon's lower lip vanishes between his teeth again. "I guess that could work. Maybe."
"Brendon," Ryan says calmly, "I am not actually going to - we're not going to- " Brendon slides a hand up slowly his thigh, inching toward his dick, grown painfully hard just at the thought, and he shudders all over, stopping. "We're not," he says again, not actually like that, I'm not, this hasn't counted, that would, and settles on "It's not a good idea."
It sounds weak, and it doesn't help that heat at just the thought of it is burning along his cheekbones and coiling in the pit of his stomach. He stares down at his feet, empty hands curling uselessly at his sides.
"Hey, come on," Brendon says, pulling him into the bedroom. When Brendon grins, he displays a large amount of white teeth. Ryan blames them for distracting him with their shininess - who can think strategically when they're being blinded? - because Brendon manages somehow to pin him messily to the mattress. Ryan tries to throw off his leaden outflung legs and arms, bucking his hips; Brendon's breath is hot on his collarbone, and for a few seconds, it's like every other stupid wrestling match they've ever had.
"Hey," Brendon says quietly into his ear, hands finding Ryan's wrists. "Just let me try the convincing, okay?" He brushes his lips lightly to the tip of Ryan's nose. "Please?"
Ryan's used to refusing Brendon the things he wants. Jon caves whenever Brendon widens his eyes, or pouts, or, worst coming to worst, throws himself dramatically on the floor, slams doors, retreats to sulk in his bunk. Spencer gives in to Brendon when it suits him and is superhumanly steadfast when it doesn't. Brendon has gotten better at gauging when Spencer can not and will not be moved, and generally respects his refusals (except when it's for things he really, really wants). Ryan can say no to Brendon. He's not as good as Spencer at sticking to it, but he can say no, he really can.
"…okay," Ryan says, and he regrets it already, he does, "yeah." Brendon kisses him painstakingly slowly, licking his way gently into his mouth, and "Fuck," Ryan breathes, arching up into him. His dick is hard as hell, pressed between their bodies, and the way Brendon's rocking against him, he could come just like this, still wearing his jeans.
"Yeah," Brendon says, "that's kind of the idea," and Ryan punches his arm, because god, how lame.
He lifts his hips obediantly, though, when Brendon tugs his jeans down, past his ankles, away, and bites his lip when Brendon pulls his own t-shirt off, kicks off his own jeans. He likes Brendon's back naked, likes running his hands over it as Brendon kisses him; that's okay, that's almost hypnotic, even, and when Brendon untangles himself and grabs the bag off the dresser, he's breathing hard and god, so ready for it, for something.
"Can I-" Brendon whispers, and Ryan shuts his eyes, arching his spine just a little, and says "Yeah, yes."
x.
Ryan gets up straight after. He likes post-coital snuggling, he actually does, but that's always meant girls. He doesn't think - there's something weird about lying there with Brendon, their heartbeats still slowing, sweat drying on their skin. When Brendon looks at him, he can't think of anything to say; he goes into the bathroom instead, and locks the door.
In the mirror, his lips look swollen. Brendon kisses harder than any girl Ryan's ever dated, so forcefully - stupid Brendon - that it makes it hard for him to think. He stares at himself, tilting his head back and forth (Brendon's given him hickeys just under his jaw, how junior high is that) and flinches when he catches his own eyes in the mirror. They're huge and dark, and slightly smug, some flicker of pleasure still there from earlier, from cataloguing its trophies, and he really doesn't want to think about that.
Or about home, the band, her, normal life. He stares at his hands for a few minutes, and then splashes his face with cold water. It's a shock against his skin, but it helps him think a little more clearly. He gets dressed in the bathroom, crumpled jeans and the cheap cotton t-shirt they bought yesterday, and when he opens the door, Brendon's dressed, too.
"Hey," Ryan says, bumping his fist against Brendon's in greeting. "Where are we off to today?"
Brendon looks at him, tilting his head. "I don't know," he says after a few seconds, "the poetical metaphor, remember? You can't fuck with that."
"Yeah," Ryan says, and grins.
xi.
"Brendon," Ryan asks, squinting at the road signs, "why are we in Utah?"
"We're not in Utah," Brendon corrects, gesturing with a soda can, "or, if we are technically, in a physical sense, in Utah, it's only as a transitional stage on our Journey Of Life."
"If you get metaphorical with me, I'll smack you," Ryan says levelly, and Brendon rolls his eyes.
There are sore places on his hips, not bruising yet. Ryan keeps running his tongue over his lips and trying not to look at Brendon's mouth, the curve of his jaw. It's hard.
It's especially hard when Brendon tilts his head back, trying to drain the last drops of soda from the can. Ryan places a steadying hand on the wheel. "Careful."
"I'm always careful," Brendon says, a cheerful and blatant lie, and looks at Ryan then, quick. Ryan smiles at him, and Brendon grins back.
"I'm going to pull over here, okay."
The car skids a little, sudden, across the road, and Ryan's fingernails press into his palms.
"What? Why?" he asks stupidly.
Brendon turns his keys, and the engine dies. "I just want to take a look at something, c'mon."
Ryan finds himself following Brendon over to the edge of the road. The road cuts high into a hill; below them are plains and plains of flat landscape, lit by bright sun, and Ryan can see as far as his eyes can stretch.
"Is this it?" he asks. Not dismissively, because now they're standing there, shoulder to shoulder and looking, just looking, it's strangely peaceful, and he can see why Brendon would want to stop.
"Mostly," Brendon says, turning his head, and then he kisses him. He tastes sweet and sticky from the soda. Ryan worries about being seen, but the trees shelter them from sight of the road and Brendon's hand is soft on his jaw, so he lets himself forget about that and just, relax.
At his hip, Ryan's sidekick buzzes, once, twice, thrice. He ignores it. Then Brendon's goes off, buzzing irritably. Ryan pulls away, and Brendon pulls out his sidekick and glares at it, turning it off.
"Probably Spencer. Or Jon."
Ryan nods. Ryan doesn't say, her. "Fuck," he says suddenly, "I hope it's not the label."
"Nah," Brendon says. "We'll have to be missing for like, way more than a week before Pete releases the hounds. He's all busy right now. Distracted." He waggles his eyebrows, and leans in to kiss him again.
"Don't," Ryan says, turning his head.
xii.
In Provo, they stop for the night at a Motel 6, which manages the dubious feat of being even more insalubrious in appointments than their original dump.
"Can I kiss you now?" Brendon asks, pushing the door open (the hinges squeak), "or was that 'don't', like, a 'don't ever'," and Ryan looks down at his hands.
"You have the worst timing of anyone, anywhere," he says, and it's a complaint and a statement and a yes.
xiii.
Ryan feels guilty enough the next day to turn his sidekick back on. There are messages from Pete, messages from her, messages from Jon ("r u ok! did sum1 kidnap u 2 or do u need bail?!!" Ryan types back "y," deliberately obscure.)
Mostly, there are messages from Spencer. Ryan flicks a look at Brendon and says, "I'm going to call him."
"Okay," Brendon says, casual, but his knuckles are slightly waxen on the wheel. Ryan wants to say, Brendon, talk to me, ask what's with the tattoo, what's with the trip, what's with the *sex*, but they've already established that Brendon isn't going to talk to him about it. He'll fuck him, hands steady on his hips, and last night he even let Ryan fuck him, head thrown back on the pillow; but talking, jesus. Ask for the moon.
"Spencer," Ryan says into the sidekick. "Hey."
He holds it away from his ear for a few seconds.
"Hey," he repeats, "it's only been a couple of days, we're both cool, everything's fine."
Pause.
"Mmmhmm," he says, "look, I'm sorry we didn't call or leave a note, but - we're totally working on the songs - Spence, Spencer, the reception here's for shit. I'll call you later, okay?"
Brendon raises his eyebrows. "Smooth."
"Shut up," Ryan tells him, "I don't see you doing the talking."
"I have you for that," Brendon agrees affably. "That's why I let you come."
"Let," Ryan scoffs.
"Should we go on towards Canada, or take the Interstate 90?" Brendon asks, squinting. "I think that one goes to New York. Eventually."
xiv.
In Montana, Ryan insists, on the principle of the thing, that they play rock paper scissors to decide who gets fucked tonight. It's easy to win against Brendon; he doesn't have tells so much as giant, blinking indicators, and he's over fond of rock ("Hulk smash!"), except for the rare occasions when he chooses scissors ("I vill cut you, beeeetch!").
Ryan chooses scissors, every round.
"Wow," Brendon says, blinking at him, "you have like, no luck tonight, Ross. But," he grins, "you're totally still going to get lucky."
"Damn your superior skill," Ryan laments, deadpan, and kisses the corner of Brendon's mouth.
xv.
Brendon doesn't ask Ryan which direction they should go, after Montana. The next night, they're back in Idaho, and the next, somewhere near Salt Lake City.
"You're like some weird sort of a homing pigeon," Ryan says, and Brendon shrugs.
"Maybe I just wanted to go to California after all, shut up."
xvi.
Ryan used to think about it, sometimes. Not a lot, back then; but sometimes. When they were still in high school, when Brendon was still the good Mormon boy Brent had dragged along to practice, guys, this is Brendon, he's in marching band, he plays guitar. Brendon used to beam gawkily out from behind huge, clunky frames; but at practice, when he sat down at the piano, his face smoothed out, and he sucked in his cheeks and concentrated. Ryan liked to listen, to watch. Some nights, when he crashed at Brendon's apartment, they watched old cartoons and Brendon fell asleep on his shoulder.
In Maryland, recording, they fought. They fought a lot, shadows purple under Brendon's eyes (under his own, probably); tried to hammer out bridges and hooks on the anvil of argument. Brendon's face crumpled when Ryan hissed, jesus, it doesn't go like that, why don't you fucking get it, and Brendon's hands had curled hard around his wrists and Ryan forgot to breathe.
They used to share hotel rooms together more, before Jon. Jon was so affable that no one minded rooming with him, and he claimed not to mind sharing with any of them. Back in the Brent days, though, they mixed it up more. And it was still just thinking, until one of the nights Brendon came back from The Academy's bus grinning broadly, slightly askew, and collapsed on Ryan's bed. It had been stupid, just normal fooling around, Brendon's breath hot and alcoholic on his cheek as he tried to put him in a headlock; and then more so, Brendon's mouth trailing stickily across his cheek as Ryan shut his eyes. They only made out, just that, but they hadn't talked about it after, and they never have. Brendon had already been, then, some distance removed from the kid they'd first met; but some things he had yet to shed. He's working on it now, though, tattoo still raw on his skin.
Ryan means what he said a few days previous. Brendon's timing sucks.
xvii.
"What're you thinking about," Brendon mumbles against Ryan's thigh, which he's using as a pillow.
"Nothing," Ryan says, and it's nearly true. "The new album, I guess."
"Fairytales," Brendon says breezily. "Can we write a song about Puss In Boots? I like him."
"You like the Shrek version," Ryan corrects him, "and that's totally not what we're doing here, you know that." He pets Brendon's hair absently. "More grown-up, and modern, and there are no cats."
"You'll make Jon sad."
"We can thank Dylan in the liner notes," Ryan says heartlessly. "No, I was thinking, maybe, we should write one song about doomed lovers."
Brendon says, "Huh." And then "Doomed, seriously, Ross. I think you listened to too much My Chemical Romance in your formative years, it's warped your tender mind."
"Yeah," Ryan admits, "probably," still lazily stroking Brendon's hair. It's late afternoon and they have nowhere to be; they could drive on to another town that night, if they wanted. Or they could stay here, boneless and comfortable, until morning.
xviii.
They stop for coffee in Littlefield, Arizona. Brendon's still twitchy about going into populated areas, preferring to check into dumps after nightfall and get food via drive-thrus and deserted diners, so they find a store on the main drag and buy baseball caps and cheap, tacky sunglasses.
"I," Brendon says ponderously, wiggling his eyebrows at Ryan over the plastic frames, "am a master of disguise. Cunning and stealthy, with a million different secret identities! Also, a master of disguise."
"Right," Ryan agrees. Brendon's hat says 'World's Best Grandpa'. "You're a regular chameleon."
It's startlingly new, startlingly nice, to just drive instead of being driven. There's no schedule but their own; they get to places when they want and to go to bed, and get up, when they choose. Ryan likes that almost more than the sex. Almost more than wearing their disguises and walking back to the car from the coffee shop holding hands, and trading sips of coffee back and forth.
They stop for the night in that town even though it's barely noon, and Ryan doesn't look at Brendon, at all, when Brendon tells the clerk in that particular hotel that they'd like a double room, please, yes, one bed is fine, great.
Ryan lets him fuck him, and Brendon spends a ridiculously long time afterwards kissing and sucking at the insides of Ryan's thighs, leaving a careful trail of little red marks climbing from his knee to his groin, like a ladder.
"That's enough," Ryan says finally, sitting up. He throws a leg over Brendon's lap, and pushes at his shoulders until he leans back onto the bed.
"No it's not," Brendon says, pouting.
Ryan kisses down his stomach. "Mmm," he licks along the crease of his hip, "I think it kind of was."
"You could be right," Brendon agrees hastily. Brendon, Ryan's found, becomes very agreeable when he's being sucked off.
They fuck again, later that night, and Ryan just. It's a cliché, it's stupid, but he doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't want to have to wake up, cool down, and after they're finished, when he's pretty certain that he couldn't come again for anything, he persuades Brendon to fuck him again, because. This way, he can just get briefly lost in the slide of their skin, the way Brendon frowns like driving into him requires intense mental effort, the way Brendon is so fucking clingy afterward, winding himself around him even though it's so hot they're both slick with sweat and the blankets have been tossed aside.
He doesn't want to wake up.
xix.
Ryan turns his sidekick back on when they hit the road again late the next afternoon. His inbox is filled past capacity. (hey, one of Jon's texts reads, if u need hlp seriously cll me. evn if u've killd bden and hddn the bdy. where r u?)
"Hey, Spencer," he says. They cross into Nevada, and Ryan has to tear his gaze away from the marks on Brendon's neck. "It's me."
"Are you guys okay?" Spencer asks quietly.
"Yeah," Ryan says, "we've just - it was kind of a roadtrip thing, sort of." He can hear Spencer draw breath, probably to fuel a barrage of questions, where the fuck have you been, what about the album, why didn't you stay in contact, people have been worried, how irresponsible, Ryan can imagine them already. He doesn't want to think about any particular people who might have been worried, not with Brendon looking over at him and biting his lip nervously. "I'm sorry," he says quickly, before Spencer can say anything, "it was kind of a dickish thing to do, but." He grins at Brendon. "He practically kidnapped me off the street, Spence, there was nothing I could do."
Brendon sticks his tongue out at him.
"We'll talk," Spencer says ominously.
"I know," Ryan sighs. "It was - look, we needed to do it, I promise. We're going to be back tonight."
xx.
"We don't have to go home yet," Brendon offers as they get closer, 'we could just. Drive past. Turn towards California. Or fuck, Mexico. Tijuana."
"Keep on driving," Ryan says, and it's dreamy, testing, not a command. "What, road trip across America?"
"We have money," Brendon shrugs, "we could make it so they couldn't trace us." He grins. "Go on the lam."
"Road trip," Ryan says, "we could visit every state. Properly. Not on tour."
"Except Hawaii."
"Except Hawaii," he agrees. "We could just drive. Just us, and the car. Our own deadlines. We could take stupid detours all day. Eat at every crappy diner, stay in every dumpy motel between here and the coast -"
"I could fuck you in each of them."
Ryan looks at him, and it's dark, dark enough that he can only make out the expression on Brendon's face when the street lights paint it with brief splashes of amber, with magnesium flares, sudden and fleeting. Brendon's eyes are huge and dark in the bursts of light, face strangely solemn, but he's not looking at Ryan, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"You could," Ryan says, and then, "we could, Brendon, we could," and Brendon takes his right hand off the wheel, fumbles for Ryan's. He twists his fingers around Ryan's, and Ryan squeezes them tightly.
"So, home it is," Brendon says, taking the off-ramp for Vegas, "Spencer's going to be wicked pissed at us."