Tripping Down 12 Steps Into Malibu

We Turn To Our Fellow Men

Ryan dreamed about Brendon again last night. But there was nothing rated NC-17 about it. There was never anything rated NC-17 about his dreams when Brendon were in them. Not that he wouldn't want there to be. Brendon was admittedly a good looking guy. Which didn't mean Ryan automatically wanted to fuck him. Just because he was hot, didn't automatically mean Ryan wanted to have wet dreams about the guy. And that wasn't him saying that he would hate to. But also that didn't mean he wanted to. He just didn't.

There was nothing hard to understand about that!

The dream, on the other hand, was nothing short of confusing.

He was in a room surrounded by beautiful art pieces. Paintings. Photographs. Sculptures. All of different drugs. Crack mostly. Ryan never felt like more of a dope feign in his life. He was literally scratching the skin off of his arm just looking around.

Finally, he couldn't hold back anymore. He grabbed for one of the realistic sculptures. Praying that it was somehow smokable. But as soon as his hand touched it, it morphed into another hand. Brendon's hand. Suddenly everything in the room became Brendon. The painting. The stills. The statues. He was everywhere. In some sense, stopping Ryan from making a huge mistake.

Maybe he wasn't strong enough to fight this fight on his own. Maybe he should embrace Brendon's strange need to help him get clean. He could grudgingly admit that his need to light up wasn't as strong as it usually was when he was being annoyed by Brendon's presence. He was a good distraction. Sometimes.

Those were the thoughts running through his head as he laid in bed after the dream. He could hear his roommate's obnoxious snoring which meant it was probably too early for him to be awake. Still, he didn't want to risk going back to sleep with crack on his mind. Having a dream that would give him the urge to bust out of this place and return to dirty habits.

Ryan slid out of his bed as quietly as he could. Not completely thinking his next move through. He walked the few feet to Brendon's bed. Standing over him for a few seconds to make sure he was in a deep sleep. And then he slid into the small space at the edge of the bed. Pushing his body against Brendon.

His snoring came to an abrupt halt when Ryan laid his head on the pillow. His eyes opened a fraction of an inch. Just a wide enough to see the face in front of his. Ryan froze. His heart jumped into his throat as he anxiously awaited Brendon's next move. Best case scenario would be him closing his eyes and going back to sleep. Worst case scenario would be him freaking out and thinking Ryan was some kind of pervert for sneaking into his bed.

Brendon's eyes fluttered shut. Ryan exhaled harder than he'd like to admit. He let his own eyes close. He felt Brendon moving beside him. Sliding closer to the other end of the bed to give Ryan more space. Even though Ryan didn't really want space. He was okay with falling asleep directly under the man.

Now there was distance between them. Three inches of bed separated their bodies. Ryan opened his eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Brendon's coffee irises staring into his face. There was no sleep in his eyes anymore. He didn't even seemed confused to wake up to an unwanted visitor in his bed.

"Are you okay?" His voice was low and raspy.

"No."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

He closed his eyes once again. A small smile played along the corners of his mouth. A knowing smile. It made Ryan feel embarrassed. Now Brendon knew he was as weak as he said he wasn't. He had to run to him because he had a bad dream that was making him crave. How pathetic was that?

"You smell nice."

"What?" He wasn't wearing any cologne or scented lotion. Even his shampoo and conditioner were a standard soap smell.

"You smell nice." He inhaled as if to get another whiff. "You smell homey."

Ryan frowned. "Thanks?"

"Mm-hmm." He placed his hand on the small of Ryan's back. Sliding the frigid man closer to his own body. Getting rid of those pesky three inches of space. "Goodnight, Ryan."

"Night."

Ryan would never verbally admit how the small contact made him fall asleep more peacefully.