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    1. jakob 6 yrs ago
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Brendon, on the other hand, was so informal with his way of speaking that it was just a little bit precious to listen to. Odd, though, considering he seemed like the one who should be so well-spoken. Although... all things considered, Ryan doubted he came from 'old money;' it's not like people like them got much of an inheritance, not when they were open about themselves. That was beyond attractive to consider: Brendon being self-made. Ryan wasn't much for sentiment, listening to peoples' life stories and so forth, but really he wanted to know where Brendon came from, how he got where he was now, what he did when he wasn't just the mysterious presence both headlining and in the background of his own luxurious party. He was attractive, gorgeous, showstopping, of course and obviously, but still - his personality was enticing, too, rivalling all of the physical temptation with a fire. From the bizarrely casual way he spoke to the way he, for whatever reason, chose to blend in when he could easily be the center of a room, Brendon was intriguing.

Fancy seeing y- Yeah, yeah, it's not like they didn't have all night (and knowing how long it took for these places to clear out completely, they had even more than that), but Ryan was still quick to get to him, immediately going for his mask. Maybe that in itself was an odd move to make, considering when people were in their exact position, seeing the other person's face didn't quite matter. But Ryan had familiarized himself with Brendon's before, so he was fairly aware that it was something of a view to behold. He'd apparently rendered him silent again and was almost afraid he'd even made Brendon hesitant, apprehensive, like maybe his speed was intimidating, but clearly this was a good silence. Not at all. Ryan's smile was soft, pleased by how easily Brendon went along with him at any given point. You'd think someone used to fame and fortune would have gotten a little uppity, hard to get along with, but it seemed like Brendon's charisma won out over his class standing. Once again: intriguing.

He'd have the sense to feel a bit self-conscious by Brendon's close examination of him, this first time so near to him, but it was hard to when he had such a comforting countenance as a whole. Anything he said was returned smoothly, anything he did was welcomed naturally... and lifting his mask off, Brendon did just the same, without fail. Some curls fell back into place against his temple now that there was no cover in their way, and Ryan swore he felt the most clichéd he ever had in his life. Here he was, barely put together, the stereotypical criminal from a storybook, directly opposite the clean, pristine image of Brendon, no faults in sight. Yeah, cliché, but he just felt lucky Brendon didn't reserve any judgment over the deal. Anyway. His memory hadn't fooled him. Nothing restrictive over their faces any longer, he could freely admire, and, yeah, he remembered the soft brown eyes, the little eyebrow scar, the lilt in every feature. It should probably be embarrassing that the best word that came to mind upon seeing him openly again was 'dreamy,' but really. The accuracy.

I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. In his pause, Ryan grinned briefly, fast and amused - he didn't realise he'd be interrupting. In any case, he let his thumb stroke over the fabric of his shirt, distantly registering that, yes, this felt very right. Like two puzzle pieces fitting together. You’re just my type. Ryan raised his eyebrows somewhat, surprised. He didn't peg Brendon as someone to really look for romance - or whatever - this far below him, but sure. Not that Ryan was very self-deprecating, usually, he just wasn't famous or even unimaginably rich, no matter how successful he'd become in his business. "Convenient. I believe you've singlehandedly defined my type." He dropped his brows, smirking again, because he couldn't help it. He tilted his head at Brendon, and - YoucancallmeBrendon. Seriously. He didn't understand having this effect on someone like... not Mr. Blake, or Sir, but Brendon. He liked that. But they were in the same boat, so. He laughed with Brendon, albeit without any of the nerves, far more enthusiasm in it. Please.

"Brendon it is," Ryan conceded, his voice airy. He chewed his lip, considering. When was the last time someone called him by his first name? Well. Chosen first name. Still. "You can call me Ryan." He said it pointedly more slowly, dipping his head while he openly teased Brendon. It took Brendon a while to actually follow his directions and talk, which he supposed he should've seen coming, but. He really did want to know. So this is what you’re doing, is it - y’wanna kill me. "I prefer the term 'ravish.'" Ryan spoke against his skin, smiled, breath warm just below his ear. He considered, briefly, allowing him a break, but he probably wouldn't be able to stand one himself. I, uh, I’m a musician, I- Ryan felt Brendon's hand in his hair, his heart skip dangerously, and that was dumb because it was truly such a small gesture, but it was sweet, so fond for people who'd barely even spoken. And could barely keep up with speaking now, apparently. He hummed gently, encouraging him, showing he was listening.

I play music- Well, those are kind of the same thing, but Ryan didn't bother correcting him, just laughed softly in the curve of his shoulder. And- I’m a fool for gorgeous men like yourself. And that one barely counted. Still, he didn't call him on it. It was flattering, anyhow. Ryan didn't get 'gorgeous' much. He pulled back, one hand sliding further to brace flat aganst the small of Brendon's back, supporting him, the other curling over the hand he had white-knuckling the sink behind him. "Is that so? You've made me lose all sense, myself." He paused, spared a glance around, at where they were. "Clearly." His gaze landed back on Brendon and he rested there for a second, searching. Pretty confident that there was no going back now, Ryan closed the space between them, ducking his head a bit until he could kiss him slow. Christ, it was by some fluke that he wasn't the one completely incoherent right now, because this was far too easy to relax into, almost fully leaning into Brendon before he caught himself.

He only eased up once he had to catch his breath, and he barely did when he tried to speak again. "I can already tell you're going to be trouble for me," he breathed, laughing, because jesus he'd never be able to get him off his mind. And, really, he had other shit to do, though at this point none of that really mattered to him at all. Unavoidably, he had to plant another quick, wistful kiss on Brendon's lips, before a tangential thought led him astray again. "You are going to give me the grand tour at your next party, aren't you?" Double entendres. Their forté. A bathroom meetup every time just wasn't much of a choice locale.
Ryan himself was careful about his identity, though not overtly so. He definitely should be, all things considered - he was a criminal, for Christ's sake, and oftentimes interacted with people in that same legal standing. He wasn't stereotyping, just 'guessing' that they wouldn't take well to him. It was cold, hard fact, and he knew because when they became lousy with all their own shitty, homemade liquor, that's when any typical anti-Prohibition radicalist became comfortable saying whatever the hell they wanted. Actually, for most, the bullshit started even when they were sober. Typically Ryan could nod along in hearty agreement as if he truly did believe the 'fucking fruits were ruining the bar scene.' It was a little odd, because some 30 years ago things changed and people were more open about all of this - drag balls had become more well-known, frequented by people not in the community themselves, gay literature was increasingly successful despite the public understanding what world it came from.

But those times were fading away because, somehow, bar owners of 'normal' clubs felt that the new competition would hurt them and working-class men felt like their familial hierarchies could be threatened, whatever. Ryan didn't much care. He lived life secretively anyway, his sexual preference only part of that. Hell, he barely told people his real name. There were plenty of masks he could throw on to protect not just his sexuality, but also his controversial career path, his customers, his business partners. Ryan had plenty to hide. He couldn't imagine what Brendon went through. In New York it wasn't as bad as other places - there were still drag shows that weren't quite as underground as they probably should be to stay safe, still speakeasies hosted by and for the gay and therefore 'othered' community, still dive bars that openly labeled themselves as specifically gay-friendly if not -only. It just wasn't as easy as, say, ten years ago, and both of them were far too young then to really participate or even know to be part of it. Well. Maybe not Brendon. He was as 'fruity' as they came. He'd probably known from birth - not that Ryan would make that joke to his face.

Maybe, though, he had a good enough sense of humour anyway. Ryan had taken a strong liking to him already. He was confident but proving a shy streak, what with spluttering at a simple wink, and honestly, Ryan wasn't even that slick. He watched Brendon's recovery with a fond smile, wishing they had no masks so he could admire in full the hint of little crinkles around Brendon's eyes whenever he had a full grin on - yeah, he definitely bookmarked that image the last time they saw each other, and the tiny preview through their covers didn't do it enough justice. Should be. Confidence back. Ryan wasn't sure which version he liked better. Either way...

Grand of you to say, sport. 'Sport.' Ryan was familiar with the nickname though it wasn't all that common, but it rolled off of Brendon's tongue in a particularly charming way, sweet and friendly. And, actually, not quite as belittling and 'father-to-son' like in the way it came from others. He smirked at the tiniest amount of contact from Brendon, the little nudge of his foot, and really it seemed like a nothing gesture, but after a while of living closeted he'd become adept at recognizing these minute nonverbal cues. Not like they had a lot of options. So Brendon was interested. For good measure, he made a passing comment about Dallon's bar, the audience specifically. He absolutely is. And what’s even better is that he doesn’t even know it. Ryan imitated his sympathetic look to a T. Maybe he could start up a straight-passing bar to balance things out, poor Weekes.

Even despite all their little secret signals, Ryan invading his space more than he had been was a risky move, and he was greeted with open arms - specifically, Brendon's leg coming to rest against his, like their time of interaction totalled up to more than a couple hours, tops. Fortunately, too, because Ryan tended to jump the gun. He didn't have all the time in the world. Wonderful. That voice. He knew Brendon was a singer, but really, he didn't realize a range like that could be so fatally attractive. I make time. Oh. He had a way with words, too. Interesting. Ryan let the silence linger, his gaze returning to his glass while it seemed both of them retreated to their thoughts, and suddenly Brendon was preparing to stand. Apologies, old sport, I’m just going to the restroom. Right, so Brendon caught his drift, earlier. If it was anything else, he'd naïvely believe the excuse. The way things were going, this was nothing but a proposition. I won’t keep you waiting long. Brendon brushed his arm in passing; Ryan kept his drink in hand, smiling casually. Yeah, definitely on the same page.

For a few moments, Ryan just observed the place, listened to the sound of distant conversations, glasses bumping behind the counter, barrels still being carried in. Some fucking luck he had, seriously. This was the first break he'd caught in a while. After a suitable amount of time he placed his emptied drink down, walked to the bathrooms, leaned against the door as he closed and locked it. Ample space, too; seriously, some higher power was supporting them. He grinned at Brendon unwithholdingly now, immediately coming close and backing him against the sink, hands finding either side of his face. "You don't mind...?" And he didn't wait while asking, just lifted the mask from his face gently, set it on the porcelain so he could study him more closely. He figured the hair was a touchy subject, as pristine as it looked, so he carefully drew his fingers through the strands at his temple, framing his features just to admire for a moment. "When I saw you for the first time, I didn't think I'd be lucky enough for someone this handsome to... be interested." Be gay, actually. Usually it was just the attractive guys that were, in fairness, but Ryan never got to meet them anyway.

Clearly wasting no time, Ryan pressed even closer, aligning his body with Brendon's and slipping his hands down to his waist as if it were a natural fit. "Mr. Blake, to be perfectly candid, usually I become better acquainted first." He looked at him as if he was reconsidering. Really, though, there was no question. "I can multitask. Tell me about yourself - I like the sound of your voice." And he wouldn't mind hearing more of the range, but they sort of had all the time in the world in here, plus if he kept Brendon talking while he explored, well. He'd learn. In any case, they didn't find this arrangement to talk, so Ryan searched his face briefly for any apprehension before finding his way to his jaw, planting delicate kisses while working just the top couple buttons of his shirt, making space on his neck for the same attention.
It wasn't a total shock, or anything, because Ryan had at least a cent of faith in their relationship, to say the least, but the fact that Brendon's reaction was a stunning, showstopping, shy smile and not a complete 180 in mood almost decimated Ryan. It was a fucking relief, but at the same time, exactly what he'd expected in the back of his mind. Expected or not, Ryan was the luckiest motherfucker alive. You just officially made that the best sex I’ve ever had. Ryan laughed, cutting himself off only to kiss Brendon as deeply as he could in the briefest of moments, wishing he wasn't so rushed on trying to get words out so he could draw that time out. Hey, it worked for me. Ryan smiled weakly, because, sure, he thought that now, but he was getting another proposal whether he liked it or not and it would be goddamn perfect. Not this mess, for sure. They touched all the time, attached at the hip, and yet the dance of Brendon's fingertips over his skin was electrifying. And at least it wasn’t cliché, right? Ryan sighed at himself, his ridiculousness, and bumped his head back against the headboard in defeat. "I suppose," he said dramatically, before raising his head again and smiling at Brendon.

Ryan followed Brendon's grip to his hand, realizing only then that all of his fingers still adorned a stupid amount of rings. He rolled his eyes, already guessing the answer he was going to get. You’ve got enough, I think. He smirked, ignored that, continued on his own train of thought as if there'd been no teasing to think of. "Engraved. They'll match." His smile was small, private, watching Brendon's face and then the kiss he planted on the back of his hand. Again. So fucking lucky. Hand free, he switched it around, took Brendon's in his own and replaced a ring from his to place on Brendon's delicately. "Here's a placeholder, for now." He turned his hand over once, and though it wasn't much, just a plain band, he liked the idea already. Brendon in a ring he'd given to him. Asked in public, answering 'I'm engaged,' so on. Fuck, when Ryan got one, he'd abandon all the others; he was ready to ramble about Brendon more than he already did. And he'd get invitations to do so. Even better.

He was stuck in his thoughts when Brendon ground down against him, and he dropped his hand with surprising speed, pursing his lips to suppress any real reaction. He cleared his throat as Brendon spoke, unsettled. So, I’ll think about it. Jerk. Ryan lost his breath when Brendon caught his lip between his teeth, tilted his head obediently with the guidance from his hand. 'kay, maybe he was a little versatile. If you propose to me again, in a different position. Ryan nodded his head to the side, practically dizzy, until he could kiss him proper, nose brushing his cheek. "Hm, maybe later," he teased back, barely a centimeter from his lips. "I've got a headache." The furthest thing from true, because Ryan felt pretty much weightless (despite the weight of Brendon, all over him, comfortable), but he thought he was funny sometimes. Enamoured, he rested both hands behind Brendon's ears, cradling his head and tilting back just to study him for a moment. This was it. This was the man he was going to marry. His wonderful weirdo. He exhaled on a smile, wishing he could communicate through just a look exactly how sickeningly in love with him he was, because he certainly couldn't do it with words - and that was his craft, his gift.

Ryan lowered his hands, let them settle around Brendon again, just holding him secure. Honestly, he felt like fucking thanking him, like he was some lost soul that'd been saved. Maybe that was a little true, even. He didn't want to wait to propose again, didn't want to wait to get married, he wanted to do it here and now, but the last time he'd jumped the gun like that - maybe twenty, thirty minutes ago, give or take - he'd sorta messed up the moment he dreamed of almost nightly. So he ignored the impulse to elope. "I'm gonna do it again, you know. Second take. You won't have a clue. Totally gonna blow this proposal out of the water so you don't get to tell anyone about it." He regarded Brendon very seriously. Hard to do, given the circumstances. "Which you're not allowed to do, by the way. This is seriously not the grand gesture I had in mind. I'm gonna blow your mind, baby." Maybe he was hyping this up a little too much. Maybe not - he'd go to the ends of the Earth for this idiot.

About telling anyone. Ryan was sort of worried about that. Spencer had taken something of a liking to him, because with time, he realized Brendon was actually in this for real, not just a sideshow - but that didn't mean they were best friends. Six months wasn't enough for Ryan's life to not be in danger if Spencer learned he'd proposed on the spot. His management, they'd be pissed about his image changing, not that he was much of a 'player' but he looked at least unattainable, in a way, and marriage made him definitey unattainable in a practical sense but it wasn't sellable. Plus that whole 'unprofessional' part, but Ryan had kind of worked them off of that edge over time. And the fans... he saw the critical response enough, the whole articles about Brendon, nitpicking and wondering if he was in it for the money, for the fifteen minutes (six months, come on) of fame, for anything but actual love and dedication. Brendon rarely said a single thing about it, but Ryan was sure if he was in his position he'd be bothered by the treatment, by the public eye that he didn't sign up for. Sure, there was a sliver of positivity, like when his work was recognized or he got caught in an interview beside Ryan at awards shows and it captured his personality or people just thought he was as gorgeous as Ryan did. Whatever the case, it was a delicate balance between obscene, unfounded amounts of disapproval and celebrity-level adoration and acceptance.

It wasn't all that fair. Five minutes in to confirming their engagement, Ryan wanted to announce it to the world, and he was worried about the impact it'd have on his fiancé.
In your way 5 yrs ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
The weirdness turning into a fond familiarity did, in fact, ring true. Yeah, maybe they were a weird pairing, all things considered - their history of strife, of lust, of everything in between, definitely not a lot of friendliness except spottily, infrequently until now - but that didn't mean anything to Ryan. He gradually gave less of a fuck what anyone would have to say, should they come out about all of this, or just start being open about what was going on. He saw Brendon across a room of people, and it was no longer 'avoid that trouble,' more something affectionate, magnetic, like Brendon was a buoy, the only light he knew in a sea of nobodies. Cruel, sure, but in comparison, he really didn't bother talking to other people now (save their immediate circle, 'cause they all had aspects of him, too, thank god). It was definite - none of this was scary save for the newness, should they jump into anything with... labels. An idea they fervently avoided, usually. But anyway. Ryan got scared of most anything if he was unsure of himself enough. This wasn't anything to worry about.

Still, this all seemed so distant when Brendon was acting the way he was, like he honestly couldn't care less whether or not Ryan was in his life. Which, y'know, Ryan might be able to let go had he not dug himself this deep and now he definitely needed Brendon around. They weren't codependent, not quite, but Ryan knew he'd subconsciously labelled Brendon one of his closest friends by now, something beyond the obvious default 'close friend' criteria Brendon had fallen into just by being in his old band. If all of this came crashing down, he'd at least be depressed about it, and that was a hefty understatement. He thought all of this, but here Brendon stood, completely casual after a few weeks of bare minimum contact - or that much, by Ryan's sort of (sort of? very) needy standards. Actually, he looked somewhat amused. Ryan felt the blood rush to his face, not anger but embarrassment, a rosy color settling over his cheekbones, along the bridge of his nose. He almost looked away, but the staredown seemed to make better points with Brendon.

You need to like, catch up on a lot of shit. Ryan screwed up his face a little, not quite offended but confused by the redirection. Okay, this totally wasn't the plan, but sure. By asking me, your secret ‘lover’, let’s say - we could say something else, really, but Ryan pursed his lips and shut up, with some effort - to watch Netflix with you, alone, you’re implying- you know what, nevermind. Ryan shook his head, rolled his eyes, he got the gist. Seriously, what a useless phrase. Why was he so into Brendon if he knew about this stuff, actively used it enough to have to explain it - whatever. Ryan mustered up the intensity enough to almost back Brendon into a corner, almost interrogate him about what the hell was going on, and then he felt defeated. Worse, he couldn't tell whether it was because of Brendon's insistence on staying away from him, or if he had worn himself too thin trying to cover both of their allotted spaces for a willingness to continue whatever was going on between them.

Brendon pressed further away from him, closer to the cold metal behind him, and Ryan seriously was sick of pursuing nothing. He considered walking away completely, let this conversation stay incomplete 'til he wasn't so stupidly affected by everything. I’m not stringing you along. Sometimes, I just don’t wanna fuck. Is that too difficult for you to believe? Ryan lifted his head and stared at him incredulously. Seriously? Brendon was the one who brought up fucking. Ryan had wanted to watch a movie. In fairness, that was a miscommunication, but when would Ryan ever use slang that wasn't years out of date? Either way. He couldn't believe what Brendon took him for. "Sometimes I don't, either, Brendon. I didn't think it went against your precious fucking rules to want to be your friend." Ryan paused, chewing the inside of his cheek, realizing that was sort of stupid to say out loud. They rarely called each other friends, as much as it happened in Ryan's head - maybe it was somewhat unfair to expect Brendon to participate in all of that.

Brendon worked himself up into the offensive, straightening up and crossing his arms, and, shockingly, none of the 'I'm over being angry because he's so dropdead gorgeous' passed through his head. No, Ryan was actually bitter, actually hurt though he wasn't certain he was anything close to a 'victim' here. In truth, he wasn't sure what the hell was going on anymore, whether they were anything anymore. Nothing. Just wanted you to be a little riled up for next time, that’s all. Ryan's messy thoughts stopped circling like a storm and he stared at Brendon, at a loss for words. Riled up for next time. Brendon shunned him on the off-chance their 'next time' might be a little more intense. Right, pin accusations at Ryan with 'sometimes I just don't wanna fuck.' Right. He shook his head after a few moments, blinking at Brendon. Walking away, once again, sounded like a great option.

Instead Ryan was moving closer, intent on messing with Brendon's head the same way he'd been messed with, because evidently their competitive streak never died. He angled himself until he could work his minimal height over Brendon again, push at his elbow until he could uncross his arms for him and hold him against the side of the bus. "Which is it, Brendon, 'sometimes I just don't wanna fuck,' or you want me to fuck you harder? We've got a hotel right behind us, and go fucking figure, your genius plan worked. I'm pissed at you." Ryan lifted his hand to brush against his jaw, featherlight, and from a third party, it certainly looked like a tender, intimate moment. Funny, that. He paused, inhaled, searching Brendon's face intently. "So pick."
Ryan wasn't worried about the prospect of actually being engaged to Brendon (and then eventually marrying him, holy shit); it was just. What if his answer wasn't really yes? Ryan would have to wait longer if Brendon even ever wanted to get married and, god, they had never even had a conversation about marriage, maybe they weren't ready, maybe his stupid impulsive behavior with Brendon - totally Brendon's fault, by the way, because he was way too easy to be completely, wholly infatuated with, or something more meaningful beyond that - was finally going to come back to bite him in the ass, whatever. But. There was also the chance that he did mean it. He did mean it, and they'd be engaged, and that was the fucking dream, really, but Ryan would probably propose again at some point. Did two proposals cancel it out? Whatever. Third time's the charm, then he could have an actually good engagement story rather than 'I popped the question about five seconds before climax, thanks for asking.' Though in all fairness that was about as romantic as their story of meeting, in a shitty LA bar.

Anyway. He had to address it, at some point, so he started testing the waters, and Brendon seemed a thousand times more chill than he felt. Ryan was almost calmed by the little kiss at his jaw, almost charmed into nonchalance by the easy way he drew his fingers through his hair. Almost. Hey, baby. God. It took everything not to abandon the following conversation and divert into a weird confession of love triggered only by the sound of his voice just then. He continued. So. Ryan felt self-conscious, stared right back at Brendon for a second before he started to turn his head slightly, swallowing and looking at the wall past Brendon's shoulder. Before y’say anything. Oh. He looked back, hopeful. You’re fucking astounding. Really not the time. Ryan still lost his breath, close to laughing with Brendon but only managing a smile. "You're telling me." That was, uh, incredible. Seriously, Brendon could make a career out of how talented he was at saving a situation, changing the subject to something wildly different. But Ryan ignored where his gaze had landed, shut his eyes and moved on.

When he opened them, Brendon had the nerve to look like he didn't know what Ryan was talking about, and Ryan could have killed him, really, watching him laugh and shrug innocently, but fuck, he loved him so much. Seriously, please let it have been a real yes. Ryan shut his eyes again as Brendon planted a garden of the gentlest kisses along his collarbone, calming down a little. Y’gotta be more specific, babe. Things were said, but are you referring to 'fuck me harder' - and about there was when Ryan cringed beyond the point of no return, his hand falling from the back of Brendon's head to the mattress, defeated - or 'will you marry me?' Okay. Alright. So he did hear. First of all, fuck Brendon for bringing that first part up, really, right now, when his nerves could have given him, like, a heart attack, probably; second, how was he so comfortable saying the latter out loud? Ryan couldn't even repeat the question. Well. Probably when he was in the right setting, a planned situation, but not immediately after fucking it up immensely. He wanted to marry Brendon, yeah, whatever, but he also totally hated him right now.

Well. Did you mean it when you asked me? Ryan opened his eyes, looked at him carefully. He wondered what Brendon thought. Would anyone ever not mean it if they proposed to Brendon? Seriously, Ryan was just glad he got there first. He bit his lip, carried them upwards along the pillow a bit until he could sit up more, was holding Brendon against him with a hand curled round his shoulder. He smoothed his thumb over the bone there, searching his face, because he was so scared that he'd messed up beyond repair. "I meant it," he confirmed, voice more certain than even he'd anticipated. "I didn't exactly... I mean, in all of my dumb imaginary scenarios, this was not one of them, but I meant it." Please say you did too, holy shit, six months is nothing but we've got a lifetime ahead. Ryan's gaze dropped to his lips momentarily, a split between avoiding eye contact and maybe admiring, and then he offered up a sidenote. "I'll get a ring, even." He grinned, deathly nervous, but maybe that could finish up the deal.
Ryan had made a grave mistake.

In truth, it wasn't really a mistake, because this idea had lingered in the back of his mind for some time now. Actually, like three days after he and Brendon had met. Just, he had a few different plans for how it would go, and a lot of them were classier and more well thought out and more considerate of what the rest of their time together would be like as a result of how it went, so on. Also, it wouldn't happen in the middle of, uh, fornication. Granted, they were pretty good at that, but still. Things like this had to be a whole occasion, as far as Ryan was aware.

Basically, he'd proposed.

If you could call it that, anyway. The words 'will you marry me' just sort of came out in the heat of the moment, y'know, and at the time he didn't even fully register the scale of that fuckup, and maybe Brendon wasn't responding to that question specifically but Ryan definitely heard a 'yes,' and it wasn't until afterward, recovering, that he realised the depth of the situation. That afterglow quickly became the very opposite of the familiar warmfuzzy feeling. On one hand, there was still the chance that Brendon had accepted, and that meant he really did like him enough for that; on the other, even if he had accepted, it could be that he, too, was just fired up at the moment, and hadn't meant it at all, and then they'd have to have the most uncomfortable conversation of all time. Ugh. He had no idea why Brendon stuck around with his complicated ass.

But he couldn't leave it for too long or else they'd have a much longer awkward period. Brendon's head was against his chest, arm thrown across his waist, and Ryan's hand was rested against his back, the other folded behind his head against the pillow. He'd been staring up at the ceiling for maybe five minutes, just letting his breathing even out, pretty sure Brendon was dozing off but not totally sure because he could not look at him, beyond embarrassed. Seriously, if he left this, it'd just get worse. Or maybe he could wait until Brendon said something... which he wouldn't. Brendon only ever made a fuss about petty shit and this was so real. So. There was another option, to just never, ever talk about it, but then maybe in, like, a few years, when he tried to propose again, Brendon might bring it up. And then he'd be embarrassed all the fuck over again. (And maybe Brendon even fucking forgot. But he wasn't going to risk it.)

"Hey, Bren," Ryan said tentatively into the quiet, his hand sliding from Brendon's back to curl through his hair, trying to get his attention. "So." Pause. Holy shit. He didn't plan this conversation either. Ryan sucked in an audible breath, searching the ceiling like there were lines written there for him. "So, uh, what I said -" Another pause, and Ryan seriously thought he was going to die. He'd rather do that than talk about this, anyway. "Some... things were said. Did you... Did you mean. That?" Ryan cradled his head a little, shifting up until he wasn't lying totally horizontal, just his head propped up somewhat, and he could look at Brendon uncomfortably. "'Yes'?" Actually, it was less of a yes and more like a yeah, totally, or something along those excitable lines, but still.
We probably look a little out of our minds. Brendon's holding onto me like I'm the last person on Earth, like I'm his lifeline, and maybe I am a little bit that last one, but really. We're not even thirty, and here we are, Brendon close to tears in my arms, both of us so, so conscious, all the time, that this could be our last year together. Maybe we won't even last that long. I hate everyone who's never doubted they'll grow old with the person they love. Since high school, neither of us had that guarantee. When we promised each other we would, when we made our confident vows, I'm fairly sure both of us knew the truth. Hey, at least for a while there it looked like our chances were good, but evidently wellness was a fickle thing. Happiness, almost, except with our situation, I'm happy he's even here. I'm happy I got him out to the sea, this salty air, and I guess my standards have lowered considerably.

We're a picture of, 'what troubles might young lovers have?' And here's the answer. We're not invincible. We never were.

He's smiling at his feet. He's perfect. Well, you always were a romantic. I'm proving him right as he says it, my fingertips cradling his jawline in a gentle effort to bring his face up, catch a glimpse of his smile. Whoops. I smile back at him and shake my head fondly. I’m just proud to say that I’m the one who took your ‘seeing the sea in real life’ virginity. I half laugh, watching the skyline and then eyeing him in my periphery. Shockingly, Brendon was usually the one with jokes filed away, despite everything. "Charming way to put it," I mumble, then wait for the next obvious punchline, and surprisingly Brendon doesn't say it. After a moment I go for it myself, try to meet his goofy humour. "...You took a lot more than just that, though?" I'm grinning so hard I can't even say it with confidence, nudging him as lightly as I can without having to worry about making him lose his balance. We're so stupid.

I know he's annoyed by my help, or frustrated at the very least, not at me but the circumstances themselves. But I catch his hand anyway, gaze dropping from the dim horizon to our feet as we meet the water, our skin stark against the foam, sand swirling as we knock it out of place. I can tell he's cold, too proud to say a word about it, and there's no room to move closer to comfort him. All of this, though, even if it's chilly as hell, is better than the dismal hospital room he's trapped in, so I hold out rather than taking us back quite yet out of worry. We've got a little less than an hour and a half now. Not all the time in the world, but I take what I can get.

Somehow he can read my mind. I can feel his defiant look, even when I keep my eyes straight ahead. Don’t. I continue anyway and suddenly he's in front of me, I'm forced to look at him, his pale skin illuminated by the blue all around us. After a moment of his close inspection I drop my head a little, eyes slipping shut, letting my hair fall over my forehead. 'Stop.' His hands cover my chest and I place one of my own over them, lifting my head and sucking in a heavy breath. No. His voice... we speak as if he's already gone. I tighten my grip around his hands. He's still here. With my optimism, I'm still sure he's never going to be gone. That, or it's just too unimaginable an idea to grasp, him not being in my life. Whatever the case, I'm naïve enough, in love enough, to still have hope.

I have nobody to blame but myself. I purse my lips and shake my head at him slightly.

It kills me to even think about, but I'm almost angry at him, way back in my subconscious. Why did he have to... A relapse - multiple, contributing relapses - is out of an addict's control, I know, I know that better than anyone. But why, that's all I ask. Why Brendon.

All you’ve ever done is love me, and- and you stuck to our vows, can you believe it, in sickness and in health- I love you- I fumble with him, a tiny sound escaping me as he moved to embrace me again, and I weakly catch him in my arms. When we kiss it's hard to stay straight, and both of us sway because I'm supposed to be the pillar of strength and I'm not nearly strong enough to uphold that role. I recover after a moment, holding the back of his head close, his waist flush to my body. I love you. I search his gaze, and this close up, I know there's still life there. He looks sick, but he's still Brendon, still the same person I've known my whole life. My best friend. I don't even have to say it back. I just breathe out, more steadily, and I turn us around still holding him close until he's the one who can look out at the fading sky. I bury my face in his shoulder, press light, whispered kisses to his skin.

Close to his ear, I try to speak again after an extended pause, my voice as hushed as his had become. "You're going to be okay," I say, and I fully believe it. I've never felt so strongly about anything in my life. "I know it. Trust me. I'll be right there next to you, the whole time." I round him until I can hold him from behind, arms round his waist, keeping him secure and hooking my chin over his shoulder. I study the skyline again. I can barely see the sun anymore. "It's beautiful."
I know. Ryan caught the look and raised an eyebrow at Brendon. Sad about that, aren't we? Hey, Brendon had good luck. Sometimes Ryan sent him pictures of random shit with half of his face unintentially in the background. That was more than, like, his own mother ever saw. It’s a damn shame. It's not that Ryan wasn't confident, or had some unimaginably low self-esteem, he just didn't think he was much, and definitely didn't think he deserved this kind of reaction from someone like Brendon. Brendon. Look at him. It's like he was fuckin' hand painted. He smiled at him, uncharacteristically shy because of his behavior, before letting his gaze fall to the floor. Yeah, they weren't keeping many secrets from one another, definitely not even trying all that hard anymore.

Brendon seemed genuinely fearful of even the mention of Spencer. Ryan suppressed a laugh, totally respectful. I know. I’m trying to stay in his good books, but- hey, it’s your fault. They all think you give me special treatment ‘cause you’ve got a constant boner for me or something. "Hey-y," Ryan cut in, grinning as Brendon's reserved laugh escaped him and he glanced away. Okay, he was right, but why say it so brutally honest like that? In any case - what Brendon said was the truth. Jon didn't have a huge problem with it, just thought it was cute he'd found some new, fun obsession, and had a grand old time making fun of him for it whenever he found the time. His label, on the other hand, stuck around way more after shows to make sure he stayed on track (and whenever he saw a familiar face he artfully dodged them to get to makeup & dressing rooms). Spencer was similar, but not quite; he worried, and then he thought Brendon had bad intentions (what was Ryan, some sensitive, broken spirit?Thanks, Spence), and then he acted fairly cold - probably to make it easier for whenever Spencer assumed Brendon would be out of here.

"But, you're right. I'll just start acting like I hate you. That'll work, right?" Ryan quirked the corner of his mouth. Obviously an impossible task. See: my last comment. Shut up. Ryan wondered if he'd ever be correct between them. Yeah, you think you’re slick. You need to find a better resting place for your line of sight than my ass. Funny he should say that, because Ryan's line of sight had, in fact, found Brendon's ass again, and he looked fairly comfortable with the irony, hands tucked in his pockets and back at an easy slant. "Good thing you have plenty of assets for me to look at otherwise. Hey, assets." Still not even glancing up, because hey, it was all out in the open now anyway, Ryan laughed halfheartedly and shrugged his shoulders a little.

Brendon's worryingly nonchalant proposition had now pretty much invaded his head, and Ryan took way too long to recalibrate back to his, uh... smooth? self. Not quite. Something like that, though. You’d be skipping all the way to the best part, though. God bless Brendon fucking Blake. Always falling right into step with him. Holding hands? Ryan stayed maintaining his gaze for a moment before thinking about that himself, eyes dropping briefly to his hands. Well, maybe. Right now, he had a few too many plans to keep track of. Y’know you could’ve had me from day one right? Of course you’ve fucking won me over. Dumbass. Ryan laughed openly, already leaning in midway through the last sentence, kissing him for a few counts before he actually removed his hands from his pockets and wrapped them around Brendon's waist. A few more moments and naturally one hand drifted to hold Brendon's, and he sort of smiled against his lips, pulling apart just an inch to speak. "Look, we're holding hands. Getting through a few steps all at once."
Part of Brendon's allure - and he had a lot of it, make no mistake - was that he had taken up a dream of sorts that Ryan himself vied after for a long time. He wasn't going to drop everything to chase it now, not when he was making so much money and had a good reputation already with his new business and the life of a star began with nothing but pennies and struggles, but Ryan had previously entertained the idea of being a musician himself. All he had been was a pianist in a shitty bar, occasionally flexible enough to visit other places if they scraped up enough money to convince him to make the trip, but he'd looked up to people like Hank Williams or Little Richard or Texas Alexander. He'd never anticipated being, like, Brendon-level famous, but as long as people were listening to his original music, all would be well. He had a lot of that sitting around, as a matter of fact. There were journals of lyrics lying around his apartment, entire music sheets scribbled down, tucked away within the presets folder he used to have in front of him while he played.

He supposed he wasn't much of a singer, anyway. It wasn't a loss to the world that he didn't pursue these vague fantasies, and besides, he never made much of a move to do so before this, anyway. He was just waiting to be 'discovered' for his talents at the bar - a passing daydream where some professional would buy a drink, watch his playing at a distance, care more about the instrumental notes than they did about whichever singer had taken the stage that night. Then they'd approach all mysteriously, drop change into his tip jar, ask whether he had representation already and would he like any? Though ambitious, Ryan generally expected things to be handed to him on a silver platter. The only thing he'd ever truly taken initiative in doing was this, and that was because he had a good-sized, unused bathtub in his shoddy place that could carry a metric fuckton of homemade liquor. So. This was easier.

While Ryan spoke to him, Brendon touched a finger to his lips, almost like a direction, and Ryan's gaze passed over them a couple of times wistfully. No problem being a little obvious when you've got a lot of power in your hands, it seemed. He pulled away slightly, though, at Ryan's touch, and Ryan drew back himself, straightening his back and allowing his own soft smile to grace his features. That’s sir, to you, Mr. Rowe. Ryan sucked his bottom lip between his teeth as if it would help at all to suppress his widening smile. Alas, it didn't do him any favors. "Almost didn't recognise you, sir," Ryan repeated, his voice dropping an octave, winking with as much subtlety as he could muster. Well. After this conversation he'd be able to recognise him in any lineup, mask or not. His attention just kept dropping to his mouth, jawline, everything distinctive.

And, frankly, I’m offended, old sport, I really am. Here I was thinking I was... well... unmistakeable. No question about it. He was. Even Ryan was upset that it took him a minute. Hey, he hadn't been able to really look at Brendon, what with him disappearing into the depths of his enormous home all night. I recognised you. Some faces are difficult to forget. 'Tell me about it' passed through Ryan's mind. He was sure the fact that he was the only one here who looked like an overgrown preteen helped the situation, but he wasn't about to sabotage the apparent good impression he was making. "I'm flattered," he said simply, charmed. His gaze followed Brendon's glass in mini-toast, looking fonder by the second. I try, Mr. Rowe. 'That's sir to you' replays in Ryan's head, and for a moment he considers imitating Brendon, but he probably can't pull it off. Odd. Seems like the presence of someone pretty much unimagineable has struck into his confidence. "You succeed."

Did you know that he -[/i] Ryan's gaze follows his gesture. He openly stares at the inattentive Dallon, wondering if maybe he notices the look, he'll eventually spill all the details about Brendon. No luck. - is invited. He just thinks he’s too good for me. Ryan smiled brazenly. "I wouldn't worry too much about his attendance. He is known for being the 'discounted' bar in town, after all." Ryan cast another pointed look Dallon's way. Please spill, idiot. Nothing. Brendon shifted closer and Ryan, in turn, naturally matched his movements, dipping his head and regarding him more closely. I’m thinkin’ of keeping you, alright. Ryan inhaled slowly, his expression flat, eyes basically all but exposing him. Really he shouldn't be messing around with a famous musician. But also, fuck it. I like the way you operate. Brendon's attention was surrounding him, Ryan only, and he could feel small if it wasn't so complimentary. He moved slightly closer again, thinking maybe he could offer 'discounted' drinks, too, fuck. He'd change his policy for this guy any day. He looked playful for a moment, sucking in a breath before speaking nonchalantly. "Appreciate it, sir."

We’ll have to get better acquainted sometime, though. Ryan paused, thoughtful. He invaded Brendon's space a little, perching his foot over the bottom rung of Brendon's barstool, knee nearly braced against his. "I've got all night, Mr. Blake, I don't intend on spending it alone. You don't have any plans yourself, do you? You seem like a busy man." Please don't have any goddamn plans. Ryan was familiar with this building. Clean enough for some stupid escapade.
Where’s here? I spare a glance at him. He figures it out. I can’t help the tiny victorious smile that arises.

Brendon, he’s all about rhythm. He lives it. When he was in his studio, he produced instrumental tracks back to back, seemingly no end to his feverish talent, his head brimming with ideas on a constant. He walked with a full-body swing, jaunty, timed by his own natural beat, never stunted like the rest of us. He played piano without having to read the sheets, without the stupid stickers on the keys I still need after a while without practice, beautifully, flawlessly, effortlessly. Brendon, he’s all about rhythm, and as I help him from the car, I watch his chest start to rise and fall with the sound of the waves crashing ashore, and I have probably never loved him more than I love him in this moment.

He’s barely himself these days, because it’s hard to be him, and this is just. So Brendon.

He goes to hide away in my chest, but I take the opportunity to look at him for a moment, careful. Barely himself, but it’s him. I’ve memorized his face by now, have had it for years, but I still have to take a minute, appreciate him in an environment other than pure white and plastic grey again. Thank you. It’s then that I pull him in, fingers curling around the back of his head, hold him close where he’d intended to go moments earlier anyway. I haven’t properly hugged him in a while.

He’s colder than I anticipated.

I remind him about my birthday while I pull away, shrugging my coat off while he nods, and he’s smiling, radiant, brighter than day, more hopeful than life. It’s not cold, and he’s probably covered up enough, but I still gingerly wrap my coat over his shoulders before throwing my arm around his waist again. I remember, you’d never seen the sea before. I laugh softly at the irony. ”Despite all of the songs about it. And growing up on the West Coast. I’m a walking contradiction.” It takes willpower to look away from his fond expression, the most tender man I’ve ever known. I’m not saying it’s not going to happen, I just thought the stakes would be lower. But. I always figured he’d outlive me. It takes more willpower to pretend this is not what occupies my mind on a 24/7 basis.

I walk us forward.

I’m not sure why we’re relying on my uncertain, unsteady steps, my shoddy guidance, but I’m more carrying Brendon than I am holding him. So it makes sense.

We’re getting closer to the water so I start kicking my shoes off, one heel helping the other, and after a moment I’m barefoot, stooping and rolling up mine and Brendon’s jeans’ legs to avoid the water. Our fingers are locked with no chance of breaking and I can feel his gaze on me, most of the time, comforting but somewhat a source of pressure. I can still only think, if only I’d have fucking said something. If I’d have asked. If I hadn’t brushed it all under the rug, because Brendon said he’s okay, so he must be okay. This isn’t all his responsibility, still, and I knew that. I learned that in my first round of Al-Anon groups, forever ago, when my dad said he wanted to try. The first time, anyway.

I missed it too. I blink, once, twice, finally turn my head to see him again. I miss everything. Everything. Because now he has nothing.

I look away reluctantly. The upside-down ‘V’ of a seagull flies in the distance, wavering, inverting with every flap of its wings. The sand, it’s greyer than pictures depict, the water touching it closest less foamy and cerulean and more green, soapy looking. There’s can tabs everywhere, but otherwise the litter’s not so bad. No one else, not a soul, is around, though I suspect the two misshapen figures far, far in the distance may be someone walking their dog. Any footprints they may have left near us, washed away. It’s almost as if Brendon and I are the first ones here, the first generation, Adam and, well. Adam.

The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up. The shortcut to closing the door is to bury yourself in the details.

This is how we must look to God.

”Brendon,” I say distractedly, muted, and my hand is so, so tight on his. I’m not talking directly to him, I’m addressing the sea, the one that has no telltale facial expression or hollows in its cheeks from a disease I ultimately contributed to. ”Brendon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything sooner, I just.” Self-deluded. I take a breath. It is nowhere in tune with Brendon’s, the sea swells, just a lone, panicked, misplaced chord in the middle of an easy rhythm. He must have thought I didn’t even care, when I wasn’t stepping in. ”I let you down, baby.” I hear my voice falter, and that’s a good point to shut up.
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