Tripping Down 12 Steps Into Malibu

Coffee

Brendon missed Ryan Ross more than someone would miss oxygen after holding their breath for an hour. He woke up in his empty bed (Dallon had to leave for work before his internal clock usual forced him to open his eyes) and thought of Ryan. His daily activities were plagued with thoughts of his former lover. Even the moments he spent with Dallon were infected with memories of his rehabilitation relationship. At night, when he laid in bed with the strong arms of the man who loved him around his waist, he remembered the way Ryan's shorter, thinner arms felt.

It wasn't fair to him and it certainly wan't fair to the man he was forcing to put up with his post breakup depression. But love wasn't fair. If he could stop his mind from wondering to that small part of his past, he would.

Or maybe he wouldn't.

While he and Ryan didn't have the ideal relationship, and an even worse breakup, he still enjoyed festering on the memories of when things were good. He fell to some of his lowest of lows with that man. He reached some of his highest highs with him as well. The good might not have completely outweighed the bad. But the happy moments changed him enough to make the rest of it worth it.

But that was all over now and Brendon was fine... Well he was going to be. Hopefully sooner rather than later. He couldn't take feeling half empty much longer. He couldn't handle putting Dallon through that.

Not that the man would ever complain.

No, Dallon was the most understanding human being in the world. He let Brendon be sad, let him mope, let him cry, even let him lash out a couple of times. All without judging him. He didn't even argue when Brendon suggested they put their romantic relationship on hold. The closest he'd come to showing his anger or annoyance was when his dark eyes would shine with tears. Usually, he'd blink it away or walk off before he thought Brendon noticed. But he always noticed. And he knew it was his fault. Dallon didn't deserve that.

Which was why he was going to surprise him with a home cooked meal. A small token of gratitude for the man who never gave up on him. Brendon wasn't the best cook. Hell some people might say he was the worst. Still he was going to try. If rehab taught him anything it was that effort was appreciated. So he pulled up a simple recipe on his phone and began sorting through the fridge for the listed ingredients.

He was pulling the carton of eggs from the shelf when there was a knock at the door. The two solid knocks were both unnecessary and unexpected. They had a fucking doorbell! The eggs fell from his grasp. He swore when he heard the sound of cracking. He picked up the eggs and sat it on the table without opening it to check the damages.

Brendon opened the door, showcasing his annoyance with the force he used to do so.

"Hey." Ryan waved sheepishly from the doorway. Brendon turned to stone under his gaze. His lips separated but words refused to be formed. Ryan's shoulders sagged slightly. He lowered his hand and took a step back. "I shouldn't have come here."

That kicked his mind into action. "No." Brendon could talk. Brendon could move. He held the door open wider. "Come in."

Ryan didn't budge from his spot. "Do you want to go get a coffee with me?"

"Yes." There was no need to hesitate. To pretend he wanted anything other than to spend time with the man who'd been invading his thoughts. Brendon stepped to walk out of the house. Ryan held up a hand to stop him.

"Do you want to put on some shoes first?"

The shorter man's cheeks flushed pink.

Ryan refused to enter the house while he waited for Brendon to grab his shoes and a sweater. Instead he waited in his car. Brendon glanced at himself in the mirror on his way out the door. He should have probably taken more time getting ready. This was his first and only time seeing Ryan outside of rehab. And he was doing it in an over-washed pair of jeans, his beat up converse, and one of Dallon's too big sweaters. While Ryan was wearing what looked to be a very nice suit. But he was too excited to waste time on his outfit choice. With a final run of his hands through his hair, he was out the door.