Archive of Our Own

Ryan’s never been good with words, just never felt much need for them – not growing up surrounded by talkers and gossips. When your father runs a bar, you never lack for noise or company.

When your father yells, you learn to be silent. When your father drinks, you learn to hide. Ryan learned.

Took Ryan some years before he realized he preferred silence and solitude and the gentle touch of pen to paper to just about anything else. It took even longer for him to find a way to get it – in a city, many miles away. There he came alive among friends who’d hang around when he wanted them to and leave him alone when he didn’t, at a college where they let him write all he wanted, even told him he was good, said,  You have talent, Ross. Could take you places.

Many years and many miles, but only two words to bring him back: 

He’s gone.

They meant his father, and they didn’t mean he’d taken off for a drive.

He’s gone , the lawyer told him over a phone crackling with static.  You gotta do something about the bar.

Ryan wipes down the chapped wood with a damp towel, pours a gin and tonic (heavy on the gin) and slides it across to Spencer. Spencer wraps his hand around the sweating glass and raises it to his lips, taking a large swig.

“You gonna play with us later?” Spencer asks, lowering the glass to the bar. 

Ryan shrugs. All his muscles ache, coiled tight beneath his skin.

“Jon says he’s gonna make Cash pay for the last time,” Spencer says. “Big time.”

“Jon says a lot of things,” Ryan says, and tosses the towel onto the counter behind him.

Spencer’s eyes are bright and curious, but Ryan doesn’t feel like talking. 

“If it’s slow, come join us, huh?” Spencer persists. “Even though you’ll kick our asses. It’s fun to kick our asses, isn’t it?”

“Not much of a challenge,” Ryan murmurs, a smirk nudging at the corner of his mouth. 

Spencer snorts.

“All right, hot shot,” Spencer says. “I’ll see ya.”

He takes his drink and a beer over to a table in the corner where Jon and Cash are sprawled out, Cash’s ridiculous red leather cowboy boots kicked up on a chair beside him. Cash makes vivid and obscene gestures with his hands, and Spencer laughs, whole body shaking. 

Ryan turns away.

“You got any good beer in this joint?”

Ryan glances up to see a guy with dark tousled hair and wide brown eyes staring at him. He’s got his hands pressed palms down on the bar, and he’s looking up at Ryan expectantly.

“What can I get for you?” Ryan asks.

Ryan can tell a lot about a person by what they drink. People who are looking for fancy microbrews don’t belong in a place like this one. Messy Hair Guy, with his well-fitting plaid shirt and tight jeans and dusty black boots, is probably playing cowboy. Seems like the thing to do out West. Ryan’s seen a lot of his type pass through. They’re often good-looking but they’re all the same – think they’re hard, rebels, God’s gift, and aren’t any of the above.

“You got Corona?” the Messy Hair Guy asks. “And while you’re at it, a shot of tequila would be nice. Whatever kind you got.”

Ah. The just-get-me-drunk kind. Ryan can work with that. It’s why he’s here, after all.

He pops the cap off the beer and slides it across the bar. The guy reaches for the beer so eagerly that their fingers brush when he grasps the bottle, and lifts the beer to his mouth. Ryan watches the line of his throat as he swallows. He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until the guy sets the beer down and holds out his hand.

“Brendon,” he says. “I’m Brendon.”

“That’s nice,” Ryan says.

Brendon pulls his hand back, face falling.  Why do you got to go kicking the puppies?  Spencer always asks. Ryan feels a pang of remorse.

But it’s not his job to feel bad for strangers. He pours a shot of Cuervo, filling it to the brim, and places it carefully on the bar.

“Enjoy,” he says flatly, and flips a towel over his shoulder, turning to put some glasses in the dishwasher.

Things pick up for a few hours, and Ryan’s busy making drinks and polite conversation. People know Ryan’s not much of a talker. His regulars don’t usually try to engage with him, but every so often a new girl will walk in and start babbling on about how isn’t it just so  homey  in here, so nice, really, and isn’t he a doll to keep this place up so well? She’ll bat her eyelashes at him and Ryan’ll give her the most genuine half-smile he can muster, then retreat to the supply room until she finds something (someone) else to occupy herself with.

Around one in the morning the place starts emptying out. This isn’t much of a late-night town, and Ryan’s bar isn’t close enough to any college to catch much of a university crowd. He’s grateful for this – the last thing he needs is to get stuck serving a bunch of douchebags his own age.

Jon and Spencer are holding court in one corner of the room, playing a rowdy game of draw poker. Ryan looks over and sees Cash is gone and Brendon’s taken his place. Brendon seems to be enjoying himself, drinking the beers that Spencer puts in front of him and laughing at Jon’s dumb jokes. 

He must be a terrible poker player , Ryan thinks, eyes flickering over Brendon’s expressive face. 

At two Ryan decides he’s going to close up and approaches their table. Brendon’s nowhere to be seen, but Spencer and Jon look about ready to move in, surrounded by empty bottles and glasses and half-eaten baskets of onion rings and fries. There’s hardly space on the table for them to lay out their cards.

“You assholes got any place to go home to?” Ryan asks as he clears glasses from their table. 

“I got a wife,” Jon says, staring at his cards like he’s trying to burn a hole through them with his eyes.

“That a yes or a no?” Ryan deadpans.

“Such a cynic,” Jon says, shaking his head at Ryan. “Why don’t you believe in love, Ryan?”

Ryan’s got so many answers to that question; they’d be here all night. 

“Well, you’re definitely cut off, buddy,” he says.

“We’ll be out of your hair soon,” Spencer says. “We were just gonna—”

“—play one more hand,” a voice comes from behind him. 

Ryan turns to see Brendon standing there, thumbs tucked into his belt loops. His lip curls slightly as his eyes skim up and down Ryan’s body. 

“You want to play?” Brendon asks.

Brendon smells like beer and cigarettes and something sweet, cinnamon sugar. Ryan wants to lean in closer, inhale. His stomach tenses.

“I gotta close up,” Ryan says.

“Just one more game,” Brendon says. His eyes are soft, his words slightly slurred. “Spencer says you’re quite the player.”

Ryan’s dad taught him how to play poker before he taught him to ride a bike, but that doesn’t mean Ryan has much love for the game. 

“I gotta—”

“C’mon, Ryan,” Spencer wheedles. “There’s nobody here. One hand. We’ll help you close up after.”

“I’ll help you close up,” Brendon says, eyes bright, and Ryan’s grip tightens on the glasses he’s holding. 

He dumps them into a nearby bus tray with a clatter. 

It’s just a game , Ryan thinks, and sits down at the table.

Spencer deals. Ryan’s about to discard two when he feels Brendon’s palm, warm on his thigh.

What the fuck , Ryan thinks, but doesn’t know how to shrug Brendon off without drawing Jon and Spencer’s attention to what’s going on. 

When it’s Brendon’s turn to discard he lifts his hand from Ryan’s thigh. Ryan breathes a sigh of relief, but the second Brendon’s got his new cards he lets his hand drop to Ryan’s thigh again. This time it’s higher, and Ryan can feel him spread his fingers, pointer running lightly over the fly of Ryan’s jeans. Ryan swallows a groan, eyelids fluttering shut. 

When he opens his eyes Spencer’s shooting him a questioning look across the table. Jon leans forward on his elbows and says, “Hey, no coded looks at the poker table, psychic twins.”

“I’m not—” Ryan protests, and Brendon chooses that moment to let his hand climb still higher, thumb sliding along Ryan’s belt and coming to rest over the cool metal of the buckle.

“I fold,” Spencer says, narrowing his eyes at Ryan.

“Fold,” Jon says.

“Check,” Brendon murmurs. 

His thumbnail catches on the skin just below Ryan’s belly button. Ryan exhales.

“Ryan?” Spencer crooks an eyebrow.

“Check,” Ryan says. His voice sounds strange. He swallows.

“Call,” Spencer says, and Brendon lays down a straight flush.

Ryan can feel heat prickling his skin. He lays down two pair.

“Nice, Brendon,” Spencer says.

“Beginner’s luck,” Brendon demurs.

“I want a re-match,” Ryan blurts out, then wants to slap himself. 

“I could be convinced,” Brendon says. 

His palm is lying flat against Ryan’s groin now. Ryan can feel the heat of his hand.

“I gotta head out,” Jon says, eyes darting between Ryan and Brendon. “Like I said, I have a wife.”

“Hey, you know, me too,” Spencer says. “I’ll catch you later. Nice to meet you, Brendon.”

Brendon raises his hand from Ryan’s lap and gives him a wide smile. “You too, man. I’ll see you around.”

“Sure thing,” Spencer says, and practically drags Jon out the door.

Brendon chuckles. “Those two are subtle.”

“You mean like you?” Ryan says, pushing back his chair and standing.

“Hey, now,” Brendon says, putting his hands up. “You didn’t object.”

“You’re an asshole,” Ryan bites back.

“You want another hand?” Brendon says. He’s smirking. “I mean of cards.”

“I know what you meant,” Ryan mutters.

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, what the hell they’re doing, but Brendon’s looking at him with embers in his eyes. It’s been awhile since somebody’s looked at Ryan like that, awhile since Ryan’s wanted to return the look.

He sits down across from Brendon this time. “You deal.”

Ryan wins. Of course he wins. Ryan never loses, except for when he’s being unfairly distracted.

He lays out his cards with a smug smile. 

“Full house,” he says. “Beat it.”

“I can’t,” Brendon says simply. 

Ryan rises from the table, but Brendon reaches out and catches Ryan’s wrist, tightens his grip. 

“I saw you, you know,” he says.

All of a sudden Ryan’s very aware that he’s alone in a bar late at night with a man he hardly knows. Brendon could try to kill him.

“Earlier, I saw you,” Brendon says. “Watching me.”

“I wasn’t…” Ryan starts to say, but trails off when Brendon stands, walks around to where Ryan’s sitting and sinks to his knees between Ryan’s spread legs.

He places his palms over Ryan’s thighs, curling his hands in the denim, and leans down, biting at the seam of his jeans just under Ryan’s knee. Ryan exhales, startled. 

“I liked it,” Brendon says. 

Brendon’s eyes glimmer in the low light of the bar. His lower lip is full and pink, cheeks flushed from drinking. Ryan reaches out and presses his hand against Brendon’s cheek. Brendon bites his lip. When he runs his fingers up the seams of Ryan’s jeans to where they meet at his fly, Ryan’s already so hard he can’t breathe.

“I don’t usually—” Ryan says, but he doesn’t know why he’s explaining anything to Brendon. Brendon’s certainly not asking him for explanations.

“I’m only here for a couple nights,” Brendon says softly. “I’m with the rodeo.”

Oh, fuck , Ryan thinks as Brendon unbuttons his jeans, sliding one hand inside. Figures he’d get a real cowboy one of these days – the just-here-for-the-night variety, no less.

Brendon’s got Ryan’s cock out in seconds, fisting it at the base and flicking his tongue over the head. Ryan moans, clenching his hands into fists, and Brendon fastens his mouth around his cock and sucks.

“God, Brendon,” Ryan pants, and Brendon pulls back and says, “You can pull my hair if you want.”

It doesn’t last long after that – Ryan comes with his fingers threaded through Brendon’s hair, fucking his mouth. Brendon swallows around Ryan’s cock and wipes the back of his hand across his lips, eyes shining. His mouth curves into a crooked smile.

Ryan staggers to his feet. He can see the line of Brendon’s cock, a sharp ridge in his tight jeans. He pulls Brendon up from the floor and manhandles him into the bar, then lifts him onto it.

“This doesn’t seem very sanitary,” Brendon breathes, but Ryan’s already got his hand down Brendon’s jeans, tugging his cock out. Ryan covers Brendon’s mouth with one hand, muffling his moans as he jerks him off with the other. Brendon bites Ryan’s hand when he comes, nearly falling off the bar. Ryan’s feeling none-too-steady himself. 

“Jesus,” Brendon says, blinking, trying to get his eyes to focus. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Shut up,” Ryan says, lowering his eyes. 

Brendon tilts Ryan’s chin up with one hand. “Hey, don’t be mad,” he says. “Thank you.”

Ryan doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“I gotta go clean up,” he says softly, and Brendon nods.

In the bathroom Ryan washes his hands and his face. When he looks at himself, his breath catches. His cheeks are pink, his eyes bright, his lower lip red from biting. He looks…satisfied. It’s not a look he’s used to seeing in the mirror.

But when he walks out into the bar, Brendon’s gone.

Six weeks later, and Brendon is back. Just passing through. No rodeo in town this time – he drove his dusty pick-up from someplace miles away because he wanted to  stop by, say hi . That’s what he told Ryan, anyway, before he wrapped his fingers around Ryan’s wrist and pulled him into the supply closet and stuck his hand down Ryan’s pants.

“You want to stop?” Brendon hisses into Ryan’s neck. 

Ryan had a chance to appreciate the way Brendon’s faded, dirt-stained jeans clung to his ass before Brendon attacked him with his eager mouth and fingers. He’s rutting against Ryan’s thigh, hard through his jeans, hands everywhere. Brendon still smells like the rodeo: earthy, salty sweaty, like cigarettes and horses and adrenaline rush.

“No, no, but we can’t do this here,” Ryan says, flailing out one arm and almost knocking over a case of Old Grandad. “This is my bar, I can’t leave it unattended just because—”

“—I want to fuck you,” Brendon says softly. 

He’s making a very convincing argument for this idea with his hand on Ryan’s cock.

“Christ,” Ryan whispers, head falling back and hitting the wall. He doesn’t even feel the impact he’s so worked up, sex thrumming through his veins like the bass line of a blues song.

“I want to fuck you against a wall,” Brendon continues. “Want to hold your hands above your head until you beg me to touch you ‘cause you can’t touch yourself.”

Ryan squeezes his eyes shut, shivering all over. Brendon’s strokes are slow and methodical, as steady as his voice. He never speeds up, even when Ryan thrusts up into his fist, seeking the friction.

“Keep talking,” Ryan gasps.

“I want to play cards with you and your friends,” Brendon says, “and jerk you off under the table. But you can’t let them know, so you have to be quiet. Quiet just like you talk, Ryan. Act like nothing’s going on. I want to watch you try and hold back those moans, watch you bite your lip and get so tense you look ready to snap. I want to get you off in the middle of that bar surrounded by people, but nobody will know but the two of us.”

Ryan bites down so hard on his lower lip he draws blood and comes – on Brendon’s hand, on his own shirt and jeans. His vision goes white and blurry around the edges as Brendon strokes him through it, one hand clutching at Ryan’s hip, his mouth tracing the lines and curves of Ryan’s jaw.

When he opens his eyes Brendon’s staring at him, lips parted. He wipes his hand on a nearby dish towel, eyes never leaving Ryan’s face.

“That was worth it,” Brendon says, his voice hoarse. “Worth six weeks of jerking off thinking about you.”

Ryan’s throat is dry. He reaches for the fly on Brendon’s jeans, but Brendon moves away, a small smile playing over his lips.

“I can wait a little longer,” Brendon says. “You go tend bar, bartender.”

“But—”

“Might want to clean up a bit first,” Brendon says. There’s a devious light in his eyes. “Just sayin’.”

Ryan spends the rest of the evening serving drinks in a dizzy haze of sexual satisfaction, trying not to spend too much time with his eyes on the door. He thinks he’s doing a good job of hiding his improved mood, but Spencer is not fooled.

“Brendon was here before, wasn’t he,” he says, and Ryan nearly loses his grip on a slick glass fresh out of the dishwasher.

He doesn’t say anything, just turns away and pretends to be busy re-arranging the whiskey selection. He considers alphabetizing them. Jack Daniels. Jamesons.

“Your shirt’s inside out,” Spencer says nonchalantly, and Ryan looks down, momentarily terrified. His collared shirt and vest are exactly how he left them, though – buttoned, smoothed out, clean, no evidence of his and Brendon’s indiscretion in the supply room. He glares at Spencer.

“Busted,” Spencer says with a mischievous grin. Ryan just frowns.

Pete calls towards closing time, bubbling over with his usual combo of undirected energy and enthusiasm for the random and strange.

“We’re playing at this place, man – it’s a hole in the wall, but whatever, it’s cool, you know? Just to be playing somewhere ,” Pete says.

“That’s awesome,” Ryan says, and he wants to be happy for Pete and Patrick and Andy and Joe, wants to be excited that they’re making the band thing work for them. But part of him also wants to dig his fingernails into his palm just to feel the sting.

“You okay?” Pete asks.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” Ryan says, but he knows Pete knows he’s lying. Considering how long Ryan’s spent hiding his feelings, you’d think he’d be better at it, but his poker face only works on people who don’t know him well enough to catch his many tells.

“The bar is – the bar’s working out?” Pete asks.

Ryan traces a circle with one fingernail into the surface of the bar. Every morning he wakes up and thinks:  Hey, look, Dad, you died and I’m still cleaning up your mess.  

“Sure,” he says softly. “It’s working out fine.”

Ryan closes up late even though it’s a Tuesday and there’s nobody around. Spencer headed out early to have dinner with Haley, and today’s Jon’s one-year anniversary with Cassie, so he’s wining and dining her somewhere with a tad more congenial atmosphere. Ryan turns on the TV and watches the late night news, hears about a missing little girl and a dog show and a car fire on the interstate.

It’s two a.m. before he trudges upstairs to bed. He undresses in the dark, tosses his clothes onto the floor and slips between the sheets. He tries not to think about Brendon but does anyway, strokes himself and hears Brendon say  I want to fuck you , comes and sees the way Brendon’s eyes glinted when he whispered  nobody will know but the two of us.

Two and a half months go by. Ryan doesn’t think about Brendon much. 

That’s a lie. He thinks about him a lot. Even when he doesn’t Brendon shows up uninvited in his dreams, the soft, worn flannel of his plaid shirt prickling under Ryan’s fingertips, his slow smile burning between Ryan’s shoulder blades. 

Ryan mixes drinks, pours beer, talks to people. Spencer worries and Ryan shrugs him off; Jon jokes around and Ryan laughs so he won’t worry too. They play cards and Ryan wins. Sometimes he loses just to change things up, just to see things go another way.

Brendon returns to the bar on a Friday. Ryan’s closing up, counting out the cash drawer when he hears a rap of knuckles on the door. When he looks up and sees Brendon’s wide eyes and anxious smile, he thinks he’s hallucinating. He doesn’t sleep much lately. Doesn’t care much for his dreams.

He stares for a full thirty seconds, unsure of what to do. He thinks about nothing, only feels his chest tighten until he can’t breathe.

Then Brendon raises a hand and beckons. Ryan’s suddenly so angry he can’t do anything but open the goddamn door. He pushes back from the table with a clatter, marches over to the door and wrenches it open. Brendon’s standing there, loose-limbed and muddy, smelling like apples. The air’s warm and dry, and Ryan can see dust float feather light in the yellow glow of the streetlamps.

“What the fuck do you want?” Ryan demands.

Brendon reaches out, curling a hand in the fabric of Ryan’s shirt. “You,” he murmurs.

Ryan steps backwards and Brendon stumbles, then laughs. He’s inside the bar now, steadying himself on the door jamb.

“You’re drunk,” Ryan observes.

“Maybe,” Brendon shoots back.

“Good thing,” Ryan says. “’Cause I’m not serving any more liquor today.”

“Didn’t come for the booze,” Brendon says. 

He collapses into a chair, legs spread in a lazy sprawl.

Ryan closes the door with a snap of his wrist. “So what are you here for then?”

“I already said,” Brendon says. “You.”

Brendon’s voice catches on the word  you  like it hurts to get it out. Ryan wants to reach out and dig his fingers into the muscles of Brendon’s shoulders, feel the way they move beneath the skin. He leans against the bar instead and curls his hand into a fist, watches his knuckles turn white.

“Two months ago, when you left without even saying goodnight,” Ryan says. “You didn’t want me then, huh?”

Brendon slumps forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair.

“Of course I—”

“You think I’m some kind of easy, don’t you?” Ryan cuts him off. He can feel his voice rising along with the hairs on his neck. “You think when my bar is open for business that means I am too?”

“Well, I don’t know, Ryan,” Brendon says, lifting his eyes to meet Ryan’s. “I don’t know your last name. Do you know mine?”

Brendon’s words slice deep. Ryan lets the bar hold a bit more of his weight, grasping at the wood with his hands.

“Fuck you,” Ryan spits. “Leave.”

Brendon stands. He’s less wobbly on his feet now, more sure. He takes a step forward.

“I don’t want to leave,” Brendon says. “I don’t think you want me to leave either.”

He takes another step, and Ryan can smell him again, sweat and apple shampoo and liquor, spicy like cider.

“You don’t know…” Ryan says, but it comes out low and quiet, not loud and forceful like he wanted it to.

“I have an idea of what you want,” Brendon says, and he’s in Ryan’s space, invading it, surrounding him, everywhere, everywhere.

Ryan wants to say  no, no, this isn’t fair right okay  but Brendon is kissing him now, and this – they’ve never done this before, and it’s  good . God, it’s good. 

Brendon’s sloppy and rough, cups Ryan’s jaw with one hand and licks at his mouth like Ryan’s got a taste Brendon likes. He moans against Ryan’s cheek and pushes aside the fabric of Ryan’s shirt so he can bite down on his collarbone, then flick his tongue over the marks he leaves. 

Ryan’s trapped, sandwiched between Brendon’s body and the bar, but he could push Brendon off if he wanted to and he just – he just –

“You can be angry at me,” Brendon whispers against Ryan’s mouth, “but please let me fuck you.”

Ryan shoves Brendon then, pushes him until he’s against the wall near the window. He surges forward, bites Brendon’s lip until Brendon cries out, grasps Brendon’s hips with both hands and holds him away from Ryan’s body, keeps him against the wall.

“Maybe you could let me fuck you,” Ryan whispers.

Brendon’s eyes go wide. He makes a sound in the back of his throat, a stifled groan. Then he begins to unfasten his own belt buckle, fingers moving faster than Ryan’s ever seen him go. He pushes his pants down over his hips before Ryan has a chance to help, and Brendon’s not – he’s not wearing underwear. He’s hard, and as he palms himself with one hand he tilts his head back, revealing the line of his throat. Ryan can see him swallow as he strokes, eyelids fluttering closed.

“Don’t—” Ryan says, and clamps his hand down on Brendon’s wrist. Brendon’s eyes snap open. He’s breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling. 

“Don’t what,” Brendon says. His voice is flat but strained, like it’s an effort. 

“I’ll – Jesus,” Ryan says, and he’s undoing his own belt, shoving down his pants, using one hand to turn Brendon so he’s facing the wall.

“You are not fucking me dry,” Brendon says, and Ryan takes what he hands to him, slips on the condom, tries to breathe.

As Ryan slides into Brendon, his mind forms the words  dear sweet—  He loses the train when Brendon tightens around him. Brendon whimpers as Ryan thrusts in deeper, and Ryan steadies him with his hands on Brendon’s hips. 

“Am I—” Ryan starts to say, but Brendon interrupts with a gasp: “I like it when it hurts.”

Ryan closes his eyes, resting his hands at Brendon’s waist, moving inside of him, slow, purposeful, steady. He doesn’t want this to be over quickly, but he doesn’t know how to make it last. 

He can hear Brendon’s breath hitch when Ryan finally touches him, hand encircling his cock and stroking in time with his thrusts. Brendon’s breathing like it’s hard for him, like he has to think about it. He makes tiny, quiet sounds every time Ryan thrusts in, then exhales and reaches back and digs his fingers into Ryan’s hips and holds him there. They breathe together for one long moment, Ryan barely moving, hand pressed into the sweaty dip of Brendon’s back. 

Then Brendon murmurs, “Harder.”

Ryan can do this for Brendon. He wants to do this for Brendon, wants him to remember this tomorrow and for days afterwards, to think about what he’s missing.

Never again . This is what Ryan tells himself every morning he wakes up alone over the next two months. Never again will he do this with Brendon – no matter how good it feels, no matter how drunk Brendon is, no matter what he says. There are a thousand reasons why it’s a bad idea, but the number one is that Ryan doesn’t know Brendon, and Ryan is better than that. He is better than a series of one-night-stands, getting off without ever getting acquainted. 

He is better than that.

He doesn’t understand why Brendon gets to him so badly – what is he more than a walking cliché, a love ‘em and leave ‘em rambling man in his boots and faded jeans? Ryan’s out of practice; the good-looking ones didn’t used to throw him like this. Brendon’s not that special. He can’t even play cards.

But some mornings when Ryan’s in the shower, he looks down and sees the small crescent-shaped scars on his hips left by Brendon’s fingernails when he held Ryan close as they fucked. He thinks:  He didn’t let go.

“You got any good…” Brendon trails off when Ryan looks up. Their eyes lock, and the same stupid come-on line Brendon gave him months ago when he first walked through that door dies on his lips.

Ryan stares at him, unblinking, and doesn’t say a word. Brendon looks down at his own hands, and Ryan realizes Brendon’s fingernails are jagged and broken. Everything about Brendon looks jagged and broken; dark circles under his eyes, a fresh yellow bruise on his cheek, split lip. 

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks.

Brendon rubs his palm over the knee of his jeans. “Yeah, I’m – I’m fine.”

But when he shifts on the stool he winces, and Ryan thinks:  No, no.

“Spencer,” Ryan says, eyes not leaving Brendon’s, and Spencer nods and comes over, glancing at Brendon and then back at Ryan with wide eyes.

“Cover for me, will you?” he says, and he can see Spencer formulating a protest, some version of  what the hell are you doing, Ross?  written across his face. But Ryan’s already out from behind the bar and grasping Brendon’s wrist, pulling him along as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom.

Brendon sighs as Ryan seats him on the bed. All of the energy that was thrumming through Brendon the last time he was here, all the giddy excitement and drunken unsteadiness – all of it is gone. This Brendon is one Ryan has never seen before: he’s still, but this is not good. This is not a stillness born of calm.

“What happened to you?” Ryan asks. “You look like you got run over by a truck.”

Brendon shakes his head. 

“Just – you know, rodeos aren’t the safest places. Sometimes you get thrown.”

“You got  thrown ?” Ryan says.

Brendon looks up, and his eyes flash. 

“Yeah, Ryan. I got thrown, okay? Professional hazard. When you ride horses that don’t particularly want to be ridden, sometimes they throw you off.”

Maybe it was a dumb thing to say, but Ryan doesn’t like the edge in Brendon’s voice or the way his shoulders curl. Brendon’s not just angry. He’s lost.

“Can I maybe…” 

He stops. Ryan knows they’re not so good at talking. He reaches out and presses his hand to Brendon’s cheek. Brendon lets out a breath, a puff of air against Ryan’s palm.

“I think sometimes…I’m twenty-two years old,” Brendon whispers. “I can’t do this my whole life. There are no old rodeo cowboys, you know?”

“Yeah,” Ryan murmurs. 

He doesn’t say,  Some days I hate this bar so much I want to scream.  

Brendon rolls his shoulders, eyes narrowing to slits with the pain, and Ryan’s chest tightens.

“You can stay here,” Ryan says. “Tonight. You can rest here if you want.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything, but his hand finds Ryan’s, his fingers grasping Ryan’s and squeezing. Ryan can feel his calluses, scratchy rough.

Ryan knows something about taking care of people who are sick. He kneels at the edge of the bed and pulls off Brendon’s boots, tossing them aside. They land with a dull thump. He helps Brendon unbutton his shirt when Brendon’s hands shake, pushing it over Brendon’s shoulders and peeling it off his sweaty skin. Even in the dim light of his bedside lamp Ryan can see the bruises on Brendon’s chest and shoulders, the way the skin is splayed with yellows and blues and purples, pasts, presents, futures. 

“Lay down,” Ryan whispers. 

Brendon obeys, turning over on his stomach to reveal a whole other set of bruises and scratches. Ryan runs his fingers lightly along Brendon’s spine, touch soft. He can feel Brendon breathing, see the marks near his ribcage. As he touches him Brendon’s breaths get longer and quieter. Ryan watches the rise and fall of Brendon’s shoulders, traces the freckles sprinkled along his shoulderblades with the pads of his fingers. He knows Brendon is falling asleep, and he wants him to. He meant it when he said he could rest here.

He climbs onto the bed, lays down on his side and watches Brendon sleep, long, dark eyelashes shadowing his cheeks. He strokes Brendon’s back and listens, feels the moment when they begin to breathe together. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

Ryan wakes to the touch of Brendon’s lips at his temple. He opens his eyes and Brendon is staring at him, a small smile teasing at his mouth. He runs a hand through Ryan’s long hair, curls a strand around his finger. Ryan exhales.

“You’re so…” Brendon murmurs, but trails off into a kiss, pressing their lips together softly. There is no urgency in the kiss – it’s sweet and unrushed, as if they have all the time in the world.

Ryan breathes in Brendon’s spicy smell and thinks,  I don’t want to wake up.

But then his phone whirs on his bedside table. Brendon tenses like he’s been slapped. Ryan fumbles for it blindly, then flips it open.

“I can’t believe you left me by myself the whole night,” Spencer says. “That was a fucking shitty thing to do.”

“God, Spence, it’s early,” Ryan mutters. 

He’s still trying to wake up, to place himself.

“Yeah, well, you should be awake,” Spencer snaps. “You went to bed awfully early.”

“Can I talk to you later?” Ryan asks. “I’m sorry, okay, but—”

“He’s still there, isn’t he?” Spencer says. “Well, that’s a change, isn’t it? He stayed the whole night?”

Ryan’s cheeks are burning. He shifts into a sitting position, feet finding the floor, wood panels cool under his heels. “Spencer—”

“Oh, fuck, just—” Spencer sighs, then hangs up.

Ryan snaps his phone closed and tosses it onto the floor. When he turns to look, Brendon’s staring at him with wary eyes. The bruise on his cheek is darker this morning, a deep plum, looking worse before it gets better. Brendon shifts on the bed and winces, worry lines forming on his forehead.

“You have to leave,” Ryan says.

The words are out into the air before Ryan even knows what he’s saying. He can see Brendon’s hands curl in the sheets, knuckles bruised but fading white.

“I can’t do this,” Ryan says.

“Why?” Brendon asks, and God, he sounds like a little kid.

“Because you never stay,” Ryan murmurs.

Because I want you to,  Ryan thinks. 

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Brendon’s gone.

it's only fair to tell you now

Ryan tries not to think about Brendon. He keeps himself busy the only way he knows how – work, friends, aimless poker games that last late into the night. And yet anytime they play they always arrive at that moment when Jon and Spencer begin to look itchy, and Ryan knows they want to be at home with their wives, pressed up snug with them in bed, sharing their warmth. Ryan can’t deprive them of that, no matter how cold his sheets feel next to his skin.

He even tries dating other people. Meets a pretty girl at the bar named Angie who gives him a sweet, lazy smile and writes her number on his hand with Sharpie. Her eyes are the blue of faded denim and her lipgloss tastes like strawberry, but after three dates where they have pleasant conversation and share goodnight kisses at her doorstep, she wraps her tiny hand around his arm and squeezes and asks, “Honey, who is she?” 

Ryan knows he’s been made. He doesn’t bother correcting her, just apologizes and drives away.

Some nights he’s closing up with Spencer and catches his best friend looking at him with sad eyes. 

“Maybe you should try writing again,” Spencer says.

Ryan smothers a sigh, rubs at his eyes.

“I do try,” Ryan says.

He does try. Nothing ever happens. But that’s his whole life right there, isn’t it? He tries. Nothing happens.

“Maybe you need to try harder,” Spencer says softly.

On a busy Friday they run out of cocktail napkins and Ryan goes to pick some up from the drugstore, leaving Spencer in charge. He needs the air. It’s a cool, breezy night in the desert, and he watches the landscape peel by his car window: flat, flat, flat. Willie Nelson croons a sad song on the radio and Ryan hums along:  little things I should have said and done/I never took the time.

When he returns the bar’s still busy, though not quite as frantic as before. He watches through the windows: there’s a woman laughing, long laquered fingernails tapping against the bar, two men playing an enthusiastic and uncoordinated game of darts, motions softened by too much beer. Jon’s talking with Cash, who’s looking tipsy and belligerent on his bar stool.

The first thing he notices when he pushes open the doors is that the jukebox isn’t playing. He makes a note to go feed some quarters into the machine if people aren’t picking out their own tunes.

Then he hears the strum of a guitar.

Everything moves too slowly, like walking through water. Ryan turns and there he is: Brendon, crouched over a bar stool, knee bent with one boot-clad foot resting on the bottom rung, the other foot flat on the dirty floor. He’s wearing a red and white plaid shirt open a couple buttons and jeans ripped at the knees, and he’s got a cowboy hat perched on his head, tilted crooked. Ryan can see him furrow his brow in concentration as he strokes his fingers across the guitar he cradles in his lap.

The song is familiar, mournful. Ryan loses his grip on his packages of napkins, dropping them onto the floor. Brendon looks up. His eyes lock on Ryan’s and brighten like a TV going from black and white to color. He licks his lips and begins to sing.

Brendon places the guitar carefully down on the floor, props it against the bar and rises from the stool. Ryan realizes that he’s standing nearby, having moved closer with every note, drawn in like a moth to light. When Brendon reaches out and grabs Ryan’s hand he doesn’t even pretend he wants to move away.

“Please,” Brendon whispers, and Ryan cracks like dried skin.

Brendon says he wants to take him somewhere.

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” Ryan jokes, but Brendon stares forward, drives like he’s got an appointment he can’t afford to miss.

“I’m not—” Brendon starts to say, then stops. He rolls his shoulders and exhales. “Can we start over?”

Ryan swallows. Brendon glances at him, then back to the road, as if he’s afraid to keep his eyes on him for too long.

“Ross,” Ryan says.

Brendon looks at him with confusion.

“My last name,” Ryan says. “It’s Ross.”

Brendon smiles, a teasing turn of his lips, and Ryan’s throat is dry. 

“Ryan Ross,” Brendon murmurs. “I’m Brendon Urie. It’s good to meet you.”

They come to a plateau and Brendon pulls over, grinding the engine to a halt. He flicks the ignition and the dull rumble of the truck goes quiet, leaving them in silence with nothing to fill the space between them. Ryan wants to fill that space, to lean forward and touch his lips to Brendon’s chin, feel the burr of his stubble and smell his sweat.

“I’m sorry,” Brendon says.

Ryan folds his hands in his lap.

“I’m sorry I kept leaving,” Brendon says. “I couldn’t – I’m not used to—”

Feeling like this , Ryan finishes for him.

“You’re not used to wanting to stay,” Ryan says. “I’m not used to caring if people do.”

Brendon shifts so he’s facing Ryan and reaches out one hand, pressing it to Ryan’s cheek. His hand is cold, fingers studded with callouses. Ryan closes his eyes.

Together they build a fire using dry sticks they find scattered on the ground and amongst the trees. Brendon moves with the ease of a man who is used to sleeping outside, and Ryan follows his lead.

When the fire is crackling away Brendon produces a blanket from the back of his truck and spreads it out on the cold ground, then beckons Ryan over. Ryan settles onto it and Brendon wraps his arm around Ryan’s shoulders, tugs him close. He’s warm, solid and pliable. He buries his face in Ryan’s neck, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Ryan’s throat, and inhales.

“You smell so good,” Brendon whispers into his skin.

“I smell like a bar,” Ryan says, laughing.

Brendon pulls back and stares into Ryan’s eyes.

“I want to know everything about you,” he says.

Ryan’s heart stutters.

“Not much to know,” he says, voice thick and soft.

“There’s enough,” Brendon says.

They kiss, soft and slow, open-mouthed and sweet. Brendon traces Ryan’s lips with his tongue like he plans to draw them later.  Pen to paper.  The firelight makes Brendon’s skin glow, his lips purple-red and swollen. Ryan feels tipsy from the heat of the fire and Brendon’s mouth. He pulls Ryan closer until they’re all wrapped around each other, tangled in each other’s heat.

“Back here again,” Ryan whispers. 

He doesn’t know why he’s whispering. There’s no one around.

Brendon pulls back, and his eyes are sad.

“Not the same place,” he says, and threads his fingers through Ryan’s.

“I just need to know that when the sun comes up,” Ryan starts. “That you’re not going to—”

“Ryan,” Brendon interrupts. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere we’re not going together.”

“But how will you—”

“I’ve been saving,” Brendon says. “Went to look at this horse ranch yesterday. They’re gonna sell it to me for cheap ‘cause the owner likes me. I always wanted to raise horses. I can mostly afford it, and I’ll figure out the rest.”

“The bar,” Ryan says.

“What?”

“I can sell the bar,” Ryan says.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Ryan says. “I want to.”

Ryan can’t remember the last time he said the word want out loud.

Brendon’s eyes widen. “Are you saying—”

Ryan kisses him, feeling Brendon smile against his lips.

Brendon is so beautiful like this, cheeks flush red, mouth open, eyes hazy dark. When he moans he sounds like he’s singing.

Ryan licks his own name into Brendon’s neck, first and last, and kisses the smudge of a bruise on his shoulder. He thinks he’ll enjoy watching it fade away, fade and fade until it’s gone.