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There are piles of books forming a small circle around him, papers fluttering in the breeze, and sunlight filtering through the larger-than-life windows. Ryan keeps his head down, though, tucked into his chest, and all but ignores the scenic view which had demanded his attention the moment he'd walked into the vast room. Of course, the mountains and clouds and nearly blinding sun had caught his eye first, until he'd heard someone mention books, and the pull on his body had been nearly magnetic, then, as his gaze slipped past the windows and towards the bookshelves. He could smell it immediately, and he wondered how he'd missed it. The musty smell of old books, of leather bindings. Comfort. He'd claimed the room and no one had argued-- not even Brendon, though he'd stared longingly at the piano-- and isolated himself for hours, reading book after book after book. Now, sitting on a small rug closest to the windows, Ryan finds himself captivated by Dickens' A Christmas Carol. He's read it before, of course, but it’s Christmas, after all, and he feels the need to read it again. And though the air that surrounds him is still and silent, he can hear the soft hum of voices from downstairs, and he smiles softly as he reads.
They'd rented the cabin from an old man in Switzerland who treated them like they were his grandchildren instead of strangers who were apparently in some band he'd never heard of. He can't remember who suggested it first, but someone had mentioned Switzerland and that had been that. Ryan can’t think of anywhere more beautiful to spend the holidays. And the company-- well. Ryan can't think of anyone else he'd rather be with at the moment. He doesn't see them very much during the day, but Brendon's voice, and Spencer's eyes, and Jon's presence... well. That’s enough, isn't it? It always will be.
He sighs softly when he hears the familiar creak and sigh of the wooden steps leading to his room. When the footsteps are close enough that he can no longer ignore them, Ryan looks up, but keeps his gaze locked on anything but Brendon. He can tell each band member apart by the sound of their footsteps by now, a skill that has served him well more than once. Instead of greeting the younger boy, Ryan looks over onto the frozen lake below the cabin, covered by snow, and shivers. No matter how warm it is inside, Ryan always feels cold when he looks out. He smiles slightly as he listens to Brendon move his books a bit and then sit down, leaving only a few inches between them. His band mate is silent for longer than Ryan had thought possible, and then warm fingers are tugging his hands away from the book, and Ryan finally lets himself turn towards Brendon. Brendon grins; his lips are chapped from the cold, and somehow still manage to look delicious.
"You've been outside," Ryan states, because there’s no question about it, and cocks an eyebrow sharply. He glances outside briefly, taking in the sea of snow and the wind howling in the trees. When he looks back, Brendon is pouting, and he has to stop himself from leaning forward and swiping his tongue along the seam of those lips, feeling the cracked and dried skin for himself. Brendon's lips curl at the heat in Ryan's eyes, and he shifts closer, bumping their shoulders.
"Yeah," he finally says, softly, and it takes Ryan a moment to remember what he’s talking about. "All I did was open the door, though, 'cause we're basically snowed in. Jon says we might have to ski our way out..." he grimaces and shakes his head and Ryan has a brief flash of Brendon trying to ski. He snickers at the image, knowing Brendon would sooner slide down a hill on his bare ass than successfully learn how to ski. Brendon's fingers tighten around his own. "Anyway, I've been ordered to bring you down for dinner. Spencer made this-- this... it's got a really weird name, and I think he only pretends to know how to say it, but it's got like, baby cow and-- he made me some cheese fondue, though, and I think he's got some chocolate for dessert." Brendon waggles his eyebrows suggestively at this and Ryan's stomach tightens. He licks his lips and nods.
With Brendon's help, he’s up, stretching his arms and legs, trying to get rid of the stiffness in his back. They carefully step over the piles of books and papers, and Brendon doesn't let go of his hand until they’ve reached the piano. Ryan grins as he watches Brendon slip onto the bench and settle his fingers over the keys. He's heard Brendon play more times than he can count, and he knows that Brendon sneaks into this room at night to play softly after Ryan has finally retired to his bedroom. Sometimes Ryan recognizes the songs, but mostly they’re small melodies Brendon makes up, or old classics that Ryan can't put his finger on. Now, though, Brendon plays a song he’s more than familiar with. Moonlight Sonata has been his favourite since the first time he'd heard Brendon play it, years ago. The haunting melody is beautiful, of course, but what Ryan likes most about it was the way Brendon's fingers move so confidently, the way his body sways slightly with the music. If he hadn't already loved Brendon more than anything in the world, this picture would have done it right away.
In the kitchen, Spencer and Jon are already sitting at the small table, their heads close together as they whisper to each other. Ryan smiles when Spencer's eyes land on him, a light blue that should have been cold, but never is. He sits next to his best friend, Brendon sitting on his opposite side, and grabs Spencer's hand under the table. He doesn’t think he could ever grow tired of Spencer, no matter how long they've known each other. Sometimes, Spencer’s the only reason he survives. He locks eyes with his best friend one more time before slowly moving his gaze to Jon's smiling, open face. Ryan flushes, suddenly feeling too hot, and ignores the socked-foot on his ankle and its teasing, deliberate movement.
"What's this?" Ryan croaks, motioning to a dish in the middle of the table. Spencer mutters something that could be in another language, or could be no words at all. He frowns, obviously annoyed that he can't pronounce it correctly, and then slips his hand out of Ryan's grasp to serve himself. "It's just veal, and it's cooked with cream and white wine and mushrooms, but I made some without mushrooms, so don't you make a face at me, Ryan Ross." Ryan quickly schools his features and lets a smile play on his lips. Spencer hadn't even been looking at him. He hears Brendon chuckle beside him and turns in time to see him attacking the cheese fondue with bread and steamed vegetables, the hot, creamy, cheese sauce sometimes missing his mouth and chasing tongue to dribble from his lips onto his chin. One of them groans, and Ryan isn't sure if it’s Spencer, Jon, or himself. Or maybe all three. Brendon looks at them, eyes wide and questioning, before shrugging to himself and licking his lips. He eats like he hasn't had a decent meal in weeks.
They've never spoken about this-- this-- whatever it is. Ryan can feel it, though, and it is terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He sees the looks all four of them exchanged, and they say much more than words ever could. It’s- complicated. He's kissed Brendon, and Spencer, and Jon. Individually, and it was always just a kiss. Nothing more and definitely not as a group. Not together in some weird, fucked up, relationship. He wants it, though. After he'd gotten over the shock of it, after he'd calmed himself enough to think rationally. And with the way he can read the three of them, he knows the others want it as well. But how do you talk about something like that?
Dinner is relatively quiet. Spencer asks Ryan what book he's been reading, and Ryan tries not to think about the fact that he wants to dig his fingers into his best friend's hips until there are bruises. He certainly doesn't think about the fact that he wants to lick Brendon's lips and then watch them stretch around his cock, or that he wants to feel Jon's beard scratch against his chin, drag down his back, and then scrape against his ass. Preferably all at once. He doesn't think about any of that. Nevertheless, once dinner is finished, he hurries to help with the cleaning so that he can retire to his room as quickly as possible and emerge himself in his book. When he’s reading, he doesn't have to think about anything, because he is somewhere else. He’s someone else.
No matter how hard he tries to ignore them, Ryan can still hear his band mates talking downstairs, likely in the living room, the three of them crammed on the one couch. He smirks when he hears Brendon whine about something, the sound echoing off the high ceilings and making Ryan's breath catch in his throat. He goes to bed that night with a knot in his throat, wishing things could be easy, if even for a day, and forgetting that it is The Night Before Christmas.
***
At 4am, someone jumps into his bed. Ryan stiffens and then groans out loud when he hears Brendon chuckle softly, as though he’s trying to be quiet. "Ge' out my bed, asshole," he grumbles, voice thick with sleep. Brendon snickers and burrows into Ryan's side, pulling the covers tighter around them. "It's Christmas," he whispers, and his lips are so close to Ryan's ear that he can feel damp warmth against his skin. He shivers and it is not from the cold. He isn't surprised that Brendon is up so early. If the world thinks Brendon’s hyper on other days, they've never seen him on Christmas. His body thrums with energy and he wiggles around every few seconds, clearly unable to stay still. Ryan hides a smile in his pillow. It’s no secret that Brendon loves this holiday. They all do, of course, but sometimes Ryan gets sick of Christmas, and Spencer gets sick of it with him, and Jon watches them, worried. But Brendon always smiles. It isn't that he doesn't care about Ryan and his sulking, he just can't bring himself to stop smiling. Not for the world.
"Why are you up so early?" Ryan finally asks, turning his face away from Brendon to yawn. Brendon snuggles closer, pushing his nose into Ryan's disheveled hair. "I wanted to be the first thing you saw. Even before your books, and the windows and the mountains and the snow." Ryan rolls his eyes at the words and finally shifts onto his side, smiling more than he’d thought possible for being woken at 4am. Brendon's fingers curl around his neck and outside the snow falls softly, and everything is almost perfect. "Are Jon and Spencer up?" Ryan asks, and Brendon shakes his head, smirking suddenly. Before Ryan can groan or protest, Brendon has pulled him out of bed and is leading the way to Spencer's room, making sure to walk very carefully. Even so, the wooden floorboards creak beneath their bare feet, no matter how lightly they tread.
Brendon opens the door to Spencer's room slowly, and Ryan listens to it sigh, holding his breath. When he looks up, it’s to see Brendon's shocked face. "What?" he whispers, pushing passed Brendon and into the doorway. Spencer’s in his bed, sleeping, with Jon by his side. They aren't curled into each other, but on separate sides of the massive bed. Ryan can see, though, that Spencer's arms is stretched out, his fingers curled and barely touching Jon's shoulder. He bites his lip to hide a smile. He stares at his best friend for a moment before shaking his head and taking off at a run to launch himself onto the bed. Both of its occupants wake with confused groans. "It's Christmas!" Ryan announces, and if that’s reason enough for Brendon, it’s enough for him, too.
"We hate you," Jon grumbles, and Ryan forgets about Brendon, still standing in the doorway.
***
Ryan only has the chance to go back to his room sometime late that afternoon. He sits at the desk, clears a small space, and writes in a notebook with a pen that is running out of ink much too quickly. They'd exchanged gifts, silly little things that meant less than the smiles on everyone's faces. Ryan got books and scarves and multiple-paged letters from both Spencer and Brendon, and he’s going to read them both tonight, in the privacy of his bedroom. Now, though, he needs to write and he needs to read a book. He needs to immerse himself in someone else's life, even if only for a few seconds or minutes or hours. He’s going crazy. In the real world, where he isn't stuck in a cabin with the three people he loves and respects most, he can forget the thoughts about kissing them, feeling their heated skin under his fingers. Here, though, he can’t. His only escape is the books he reads, the books lining the walls invitingly. The pen and paper help him, too, but he finds that all he can write are rambling thoughts, things he never wants to see on paper, things that should never see the light of day. Things that are, surely, further proof of his insanity.
The sound of footsteps pulls him out of his thoughts and he gasps as though he's been drowning. Brendon and Spencer and Jon. Most likely coming to tell him off for escaping their clutches, and their talks about what they would do once the vacation was over. Ryan doesn’t want to think about that, not just yet. He likes it here, despite everything. He likes the books and the room and the windows. He likes listening to Brendon play the piano until he falls asleep. He likes Spencer’s cooking, and his blue eyes, and the fact that he looks more relaxed here than he’s been in months. He likes Jon’s not-so-secretive glances at his band mates, as though he’s still trying to decipher them. Out in the real world, it's easy to miss these things. Ryan doesn’t want to leave.
When he looks up, it’s to see the three of them standing at the top of the stairs, staring right back at him. Brendon’s grinning and bouncing on the balls of his feet, arms straight at his sides, clearly trying not to move and failing. Both Jon and Spencer have their arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and Ryan has to look away. He smooths out the paper he’s been writing on, repeatedly, nervously, trying to get rid of a wrinkle that does not exist. He tries to think of what he could have done. He doesn’t like it when Spencer’s angry, because it doesn’t happen a lot, and when it does happen, there’s a damn good reason. The same applies to Jon. Ryan knows that he and Brendon fly off the handle easily, over simple things, just waiting to throw a tantrum. But this is different, and he doesn’t know what he could have done to get this reaction. He clears his throat and dares to look up, but keeps his eyes on a spot on the wall near Jon’s shoulder, hands fidgeting restlessly on the desk. The tension in Spencer’s shoulders lessens and he seems to slump forward a bit, rolling his eyes.
“We’re tired of waiting!” Brendon announces, only to have Spencer cuff his head lightly, muttering under his breath. Ryan’s eyebrows furrow and he stares at Brendon, and maybe his heart is beating out of his chest. He thinks about asking waiting for what? but one look from Brendon tells him exactly what he means, and if Ryan is being honest, he’s tired of waiting, too. When he finally lets himself look at Spencer, the boy is smiling; a smile Ryan doesn’t think he could ever ignore. Not that he’d ever want to or anything, but...
Jon is the first to move. Brendon is headstrong and does things quickly, without thinking, but Jon is sure of himself and he is the first to move and Ryan cannot breathe. When Jon leans over the desk, both hands coming to rest on the smooth wood, Ryan swallows, but his heart keeps jumping into his throat, wanting to come out and hand itself over to all of them on a silver platter. He doesn’t think he would mind.
“I’ve wanted to fuck you over this desk since we first walked into this room, with all your papers and books and pretty words scattered around you,” Jon’s voice, all low and rough, scratches at Ryan’s skin, makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand, his stomach tighten and his insides melt. Ryan tries not to think about what else Jon can do, if only his voice has such profound effect. He’d thought that Brendon’s voice would be the one to undo him, but this... it’s almost scary what this voice could do. “On the desk, Ross,” Jon adds, and the tone leaves no room for argument. The second Ryan stands from his chair, Brendon scampers from the room and Spencer sags against the wall, visibly relieved. Taking a deep breath, Ryan lifts himself onto the desk and then looks at Jon for further instructions.
“Now take off your shirt, and make it slow, because Spencer’s been going on about watching you for about as long as I’ve known him, and we’re going to do things right tonight because I’m not sure if we’re ever going to do this again,” and Jon’s voice sounds sad here, like the prospect of never again having all four of them in the same room, ready to take this huge leap together, is far too discouraging. And it is, really, when Ryan thinks about it. But for now the real world does not exist, and in this room, with the books and the make-believe and the anything is can happen, they are going to jump together and not look back. Ryan pops the first button on his shirt, eyes immediately seeking out Spencer, and when he sees his best friend’s gaze locked on his hands, he slows his movements considerably, makes sure to touch every inch of skin as it’s exposed.
Brendon appears again as Ryan’s shirt slips from his shoulders, pools around him on the desk. He licks his lips and Ryan’s breath catches under his scrutiny, heat gathering in his stomach and dipping lower until he forces himself to close his eyes. When he opens them again, Brendon is sitting on the piano bench, and Spencer has come closer. Jon is still standing beside the desk, smirking, and puts a hand on Ryan’s chest to push him down, until he can feel the unforgiving wood against his back. It’s surprisingly warm, but Ryan shivers against it, watching as Jon circles him slowly, hand still holding him down. As if he would dream of going anywhere now.
Jon’s hand trails down his chest, deliberately scraping his thumbnail against Ryan’s right nipple, and he smiles delightedly at the whimper it incites. Too quickly, his hands are on Ryan’s belt, unbuckling it with ease and pulling it out of the loops, Ryan’s hips rising to help the process. “You have to do everything I say,” Jon warns, though he is still smiling lightly. “Or I may have to use this,” he jokes, holding up the belt, and maybe it’s not really a joke. Not if Ryan doesn’t want it to be. Jon is flexible; is into anything his partner wants. Well, almost anything. He smirks and throws the belt aside, looks back at Spencer who is steadily getting closer. They stare at each other for a moment, and Ryan knows that they’re communicating only through meaningful looks, and he wonders when they learned to do that. After a second that feels like an eternity, Jon disappears from his view and suddenly Spencer is there, hands on the waistband of his jeans.
Spencer is the first to kiss him. As his face gets closer, Ryan panics. Worst case scenarios flash behind his eyelids, and he doesn’t remember closing his eyes. The lips, though, those he remembers. Their familiarity allows Ryan to breathe freely again, and the worry is gone. This is Spencer. This is his best friend, this is someone he has known most of his life, and who has been his rock. Ryan has put Spencer through a fuck load of bullshit, has yelled at him, called him names, cried on him, and shown up at his house in the early hours of the morning, and Spencer has always accepted him. He has kissed these lips before, but this is different, somehow. They are still soft and yielding and demand nothing that Ryan can’t give. Spencer’s hands find their way to his neck, sliding up to cup Ryan’s cheeks as he parts his lips and this is the first time Ryan has felt the slide of Spencer’s tongue against his own and it is amazing simply because this is Spencer. Ryan cannot think after that.
Dimly, Ryan registers the sound of clothing being removed, and he moans at the thought, arching into Spencer. The fact that this is really happening suddenly hits him and he pulls away, panting slightly, and nuzzles into Spencer’s neck, dragging his lips against the smooth skin. “Fuck,” he groans, because there are suddenly hands on his waist again, and they aren't Spencer's, but his pants and boxers are slowly being removed and he's never been more turned on in his life. He whines pathetically when Spencer pulls away, a smirk playing on his lips, and Ryan wants to bite them.
Someone else moans, and Ryan drags his gaze away from Spencer to look at Brendon, bent over the piano, eyes closed and head thrown back and Ryan thinks that this, this is a thousand times better than any porn, and that maybe all he wants to do is watch his band mates for the rest of his life, because Jon’s tongue is fucking Brendon’s hole relentlessly and if Ryan died now he would be happy. He watches them until he can’t stand the sight of it anymore, can’t stand the way Brendon’s hips move unsteadily, the way he groans as he tips his head back and looks at Ryan from the corner of his eyes.
Ryan lets his own head fall back, thudding painfully on the desk, and he grips his cock hard enough to hurt, because this can’t end soon, he won’t let it. He wishes he could close his ears along with his eyes. The sounds Brendon makes-- fuck. It’s like that time Brendon sang Slow Motion and did that moan-y, whine-y, thing near the end and Ryan could have come right then, from that sound alone. And now Brendon is making sounds that should be illegal, and they’re because of Jon’s tongue and Jon’s mouth and Jon’s fucking beard, and Ryan doesn’t even want to think about that.
The moans stop abruptly, and Ryan is torn between being relieved and desperately wanting to hear them again. He has no time to really think about it, though, because now Jon is standing near him again and this time he is holding a condom and lube, and Ryan groans out a litany of curses at the sight. He lets Jon pull him roughly so that his lower body is hanging off the edge of the desk, and several pieces of paper come along with him, tickling his skin and fluttering to the floor. The corner of a book digs into his hip and he moans softly, legs falling open. He doesn’t register anything until Jon’s finger pushes its way into his body, cold and slick, and when he lifts his head, Jon’s hair between his thighs is the only thing he can see. “Christ,” his breath hitches and he rolls his hips. “Fuck, fuck me—Jon, your—“
“Fuck him with your tongue, Walker. He’s gagging for it.” Brendon. Ryan can fucking hear the smirk in his voice, but it’s true and he moans gratefully, letting his head fall back onto the desk. He hears Jon chuckle before he feels the scrape of his beard against the inside of his thigh and his hand is back on his cock in an instant, gripping the base, and he moans loudly at the first swipe of Jon’s tongue. Jon’s hands are on Ryan’s thighs, lifting them and pulling them apart, and he pulls back to examine his work. Ryan’s hole clenches and he shudders, whining pitifully for Jon to doitagaindoitagaindoitagain. Jon is standing again, though, and thrusts two fingers into Ryan, and Ryan moans loudly enough for the sound to echo off the ceiling.
“Jesus,” Jon grunts, and really, Ryan doesn’t think today is the day to be saying that, but he only moans again because he can’t quite bring himself to care. Too soon and altogether not soon enough, Jon’s fingers are easing out of Ryan’s body and Ryan tenses in anticipation as he watches Jon roll the condom over his cock. Closing his eyes, he feels hands grip his thighs and his ankles come to rest on Jon’s shoulders and—and Jon is the first to fuck him.
He holds his breath until the head of Jon’s cock has forced its way past the first ring of muscles, and tries desperately to relax. And suddenly there are hands on his chest and hands in his hair, and lips are on his and it is familiarity all over again, but different this time because this is Brendon and maybe the one time they’ve ever kissed, it was only a quick peck, nothing more. He half-sobs into Brendon’s lips, and then there is Brendon’s tongue and Brendon’s hands in his hair. He arches up off the desk when Jon takes the distraction as the opportunity to bury himself in Ryan’s ass, groaning against Brendon’s mouth and bringing his hands up to tangle in thick hair.
“Bren—Brendon, Ryan wants you to suck his cock,” Jon pants, thrusting slowly and steadily into Ryan’s body, and apparently he’s still the one giving the orders. Brendon smirks against Ryan’s lips before pulling back and licking a trail down Ryan’s body. Ryan’s eyes snap open and he lifts his head slowly, watching as Brendon drags his lips along the underside of his cock, all pouting and slick with spit. He groans, doesn’t think he can quite handle watching anymore of that, because, seriously, he’s going to come and that’s not happening, not yet. Does Brendon really have to be this talented with his mouth?
If Ryan were in the right state of mind, he would notice the way Jon’s hips falter from time to time, the way Brendon’s teeth sometimes scrape against his flesh, and the altogether rather embarrassing noises that come out of their mouths. He would notice the slight awkwardness in Spencer’s stance as he stands off to the side a bit, watching his best friend being fucked by his band mate. But Ryan’s not in the right state of mind—or any state of mind, for that matter—and when he does notice Spencer, it is only to motion him forward and twist his body awkwardly to wrap his lips around Spencer’s dick and hollow his cheeks as he bobs his head forward, one hand coming up to rest on those hips. He's dreamed about these hips, and he thinks that he grips them tighter than he probably should. But moving his head strains the muscles in his neck until he can barely move, and he urges Spencer's hips forward with his hand. It takes a moment for Spencer to register, to let himself thrust into Ryan's mouth. But then his hands are in Ryan's hair, holding him still, and Ryan is dragging his tongue along heated flesh and choking just a little bit and it's perfect.
Ryan barely hears the sounds of sweaty, heated, skin, pushing and pulling and slapping, over his own muffled moans. He can hear Spencer over him, moaning softly, and Jon swearing in that low-rough voice, and Brendon breathing harshly through his nose.Ryan tries not to think of the real world.
He is the first to come. Not surprising, with Brendon's lips around his cock, taking him deeper and then pulling away to swipe his tongue over every inch; with Jon thrusting into him, the pace erratic now, his face leaning on Ryan's calves, his beard scratching Ryan's skin. He barely has time to register, and then his thighs are shaking, stomach tightening, and he arches into Brendon's mouth, tries to breathe but can't.
He thinks he must have lost a few seconds, because when he can feel anything again, Brendon's hand is lazily fondling his balls, and he's slurping and sucking at Ryan's cock and-- fuck if Ryan could do it, he'd come again. When Brendon pulls away, Ryan realizes that Spencer has backed away slightly, and is fisting himself with a desperation Ryan has never seen. When he comes, Ryan's gaze is pulled to his face, and his mouth is open, head thrown back, and mostly Ryan just sees that long neck, that convulsing throat. Spencer moans sharply and then sags forward a bit, swaying and smiling and leaning over to give Ryan a kiss.
Ryan whines when Jon pulls out. He pulls away from Spencer's lips to shoot Jon a confused look, but the bassist only smiles, takes Spencer's hand and disappears from view. Brendon is helping him off the desk, and Ryan only now can feel the dull ache in his back, but he ignores it because Brendon is kissing him again and it is slightly bitter, but Ryan bites those lips and wants to leave a mark. He follows Brendon to the piano, and he can't remember ever seeing the boy this quiet, and his pupils are huge, completely dilated. He sits on the bench and pulls Ryan into his lap, whispers something against his lips. Ryan doesn't get it until he gets it, and suddenly he's easing down onto Brendon's cock and he is biting Brendon's lips and jaw to keep from making too much noise. Not that there's anyone who doesn't want to hear it, but Brendon is being quiet and Ryan doesn't want to be the one to ruin the moment.
When he is sitting in Brendon's lap, and Brendon is fucking inside him, he shudders, wraps his arms around the boy's shoulders. He moves slowly, raising himself up and then sinking down as he listens to Brendon's moans, mingled with Jon's swearing on the other side of the room. The noises Brendon makes are enough to make his knees weak, his brain shut-off. He has never heard anything more beautiful, never. He chokes on a sob when Brendon flexes his hips, brushes against his prostate, and then they are kissing and Ryan doesn't want it to end.
His slow, deliberate movements wrench whimpers from Brendon, and he moves his hips as best he can, setting a faster pace, burying himself deeper. Ryan presses his cheek against Brendon's, one hand in his hair, whispers to him. "Brendon, Brendon, Brendon," it is all he can say, all he can think.
When Brendon comes, he is completely silent, and Ryan can only wonder how that's even possible. His whole body shudders, and Ryan holds him tighter, kisses his ear, his jaw, his mouth.He carefully lifts himself, slipping off of Brendon, and Brendon is suddenly gathering him in his arms, carrying him to bed.
Brendon is the first to tell him he loves him, after the whole ordeal, just when Ryan is starting to think again, starting to worry. He whispers it, nose pressed in Ryan's hair, hand curled around his neck. Ryan hides a smile in his pillow.