The Naked Truth [Ryden]

Nine: Kisses That Mean Too Much And Words That Don't Mean Enough

Ryan didn't think that Brendon would say yes. He thought that Spencer and Dallon were idiots, that there was no chance in Hell that Brendon Urie would ever go to dinner with anyone, let alone Ryan. And there was part of him that hoped that he'd say no, because how the fuck was he supposed to go to dinner with Brendon fucking Urie?

"Yeah, sure."

The second Ryan put the phone down, he screamed. The neighbors must've thought he was being murdered or something, but they didn't seem to care, because nobody knocked on the door. He couldn't have fucked his life up in a worse way. Going on a date-that-wasn't-a-date was stupid and idiotic and most of all he hated how the thought made his insides flutter.

And then there was the matter of what to wear, and he was really going to have to call Pete. He'd considered calling Spencer or Dallon, but they'd be no help; they'd suggest he'd go nude or something, and while that would be appealing for Brendon, it wasn't so much for Ryan himself, and figured he may get arrested for indecent exposure.

So Pete it was, then.

~

"You'll be -"

"I swear to God, Pete, if you'll tell me I'll be fine one more time, I'll make sure Mikey can't ever fuck you again." Ryan stared down his best friend, nerves right on edge and heart beating way too fast. This was all fake, a plan to make a fool of someone who'd been making a fool of everyone else for far too long, but the lump in his throat was telling him otherwise.

"I top, actually. And besides, you will be." He patted Ryan's shoulder, getting a death glare in return, and he kissed the model's cheek. "Go get 'em, tiger."

"I hope you get electrocuted by your favorite vibrator." Ryan grumbled, getting out the car, and he heard Pete laugh as he all but slammed the door shut.

He'd made himself get there early, but he could've been on time and gotten there before Brendon; Brendon was known for being fashionably late to everything. He told the waiter/concierge/front-of-house person thing that his name was Ryan Ross and he had a reservation for two, and please could he not let anyone in who looked like a journalist or a photographer. He was shown to his seat, wringing his hands together, and he took a shaky sip of complimentary water while he waited.

The minutes ticked by, making the anxiety worse and Ryan only edgier. He couldn't stop fiddling with his tie, borrowed from Pete, or his hair, which had been styled by Pete. He didn't know what to say, how to act; should he shake Brendon's hand? Hug him? Kiss him on the cheek?

He'd never been more nervous in his life.

And by the time Brendon did turn up, he was pretty sure there was no skin left on his lower lip.

The fucking asshole looked gorgeous, and Ryan couldn't deny that even if he wanted to. No man had ever looked better in a suit, and he was going to punch himself in the fact in a minute if he didn't stop staring.

"Ryan," he grinned, sitting opposite. "you look fucking amazing."

"Thanks." The elder felt his face heat up. "You look, um, great too."

"Just great?" The famous eyebrow-raise, the killer smirk.

"Ravishing." Ryan rolled his eyes, feeling the conversation get easier the more Brendon acted like a conceited prick.

"That's better. So," he clasped his hands on the table. "why'd you ask me on a date?"

"It's not a date. It's - um - the - our -" fuck, make an excuse! "The pictures from that photoshoot we did are out tomorrow."