***
Ryan likes to have his way.
And sometimes, most times, Ryan wishes Brendon didn’t know him as well as he does. In the beginning, when Brendon was still trying to figure Ryan out, still trying to map out his moods and plan accordingly, it was always easier to get Brendon to back off and let him be in control.
Now Ryan has to work for it.
And Brendon always loves a challenge. He usually catches on quickly too. Music and games and just about everything else in between. He learns the rules then turns them around, makes them his own, and Ryan’s left scrambling in his wake, out of breath and wanting all over again. It’s especially annoying when Ryan’s the one that taught Brendon the rules in the first place.
Brendon fidgets next to him, pressing into Ryan’s shoulder. He fiddles with his Sharpie, pulling the top on and off, flicking it against the edge of the table, generally being more annoying than usual. Ryan ignores him. Or, he tries to.
They’re waiting for the meet and greet kids to file in, which is sort of backwards, them waiting for the kids, but the usual routine has been pretty fucked for the last couple of hours. They’re late, behind schedule due to a random combination of confusion from the venue, bus troubles, bitchy hung over band mates, and pushy DJs.
Brendon left his can of Redbull in front of Jon, so he has to lean over into Ryan’s space to retrieve it. Ryan huffs and pushes at Brendon’s arm when he gets a shoulder shoved into his cheek.
“Stop being so antsy,” Ryan complains. God. He could at least try to control his non-existent attention span once in a while.
“I can’t help it,” Brendon replies, putting more emphasis on each word than is necessary. As in, there’s an actual reason why I’m being like this. Ask me. I dare you.
He squirms some more from his seat, knee bouncing almost rhythmically as he takes a huge gulp of his drink.
Brendon’s fishing. He wants Ryan to ask him about it, but Ryan won’t. He just won’t, because it’s probably something stupid, like— like he has to get back to the dressing room because they slipped in the latest version of Madden for the 360. The one he’s been waiting for forever to play when the thing probably came out last week, or— something equally as dire.
Instead of asking, Ryan scoots his chair closer to Jon’s, managing a few more inches of space between him and Brendon. Brendon just slides back in his own chair, legs sprawled out so his knee is still touching Ryan’s thigh. It bounces against him, making Ryan’s leg vibrate.
It’s subtle, but he moves his hips just a bit and his breath catches in his throat. Ryan raises an eyebrow at him, and watches him cough and shift some more to hide it.
Oh, okay. Ryan gets it. This he can work with. “You want me to get you a pillow for your sore ass, princess?” he says straight faced, eyebrows raised just slightly.
“Oh hahaha. Very funny, asshole, but no. That’s not even close to what the problem is. Well, maybe if we’re talking about proximity to the problem, but not—”
Ryan grabs Brendon’s knee to still the movement. It’s driving him insane. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re being extra—you.” The words slip out before he has a chance to catch himself. He didn’t mean to ask, really. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t.
Brendon smiles wickedly. “It’s not really much of a problem— per se.” Ryan doesn’t like where this is going, not at all.
He gets close to Ryan’s ear, and Ryan ducks his head away but Brendon just pushes closer, hums softly, making the back of Ryan’s neck prickle. “It’s more of a reminder, I guess.” His voice is darker, smoky, like how it gets when he’s about to whisper the dirtiest shit he can think of against Ryan’s ear.
