FEVERISH [RYDEN] [REPOST]

THERE IS MORE IN SILENCE THAN IN BREATH

They fell into each other, moaning and grunting, early twenties libido spilling onto their bed as Ryan collapsed onto Brendon's stomach, tucking his head into the nape of Brendon's neck.

"B, God."

"I needed that."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

It was her. She was it. Was, Jesus, what a beautiful word- past-tense, gone, never to be dealt with again, fucking Audrey left in shambles somewhere... because how pathetic do you have to be to fake a pregnancy?

"No."

Yes. I was going to be a father.

"I feel like we should probably drag Pete out of bed."

"We?"

"Team bonding."

"Maybe it can be a band event, then." Brendon jeered, pushing Ryan's bare shoulder off his own, teasing. "Show Spencer and Jon the blatant homosexuality of the industry we've dragged them into..."

"Homosexuality? What are you, a lawyer?"

"My parents wish."

With that, and a cracked smile, Brendon pushed Ryan off of him and onto his back, looming over him with all of his post-coital glory, glowing, dripping with moisture as he held him down.

"I don't wanna go into his shitty-ass apartment, besides, he likes you better..."

"Suck my dick, Ross. We're going. Help out a brotha, you know?"

"Brotha?"

Brendon raised an eyebrow, knocking his head into the mattress playfully.

"I'll kick your ass. Let's go."

Brendon stood up and pulled a discarded hoodie off the ground, advertising Ryan's ex-college.

"Please. Let me stay in bed. Let's not be the good guys for once-"

"It's just a knock on the door. It won't hurt."

"God, you sound like a Mormon. Sometimes I forget you grew up a little bitch."

That earned Ryan a dirty glare, and Brendon promptly stormed out. Ryan took this as his cue to pull on a pair of sweats, and trip as he fell into a sock.

That was the thing about George Ryan Ross III, he did that often- not the tripping, the bitching, the cutting into, the displaced contempt for his own catholicism.

It bore into his skin, the scorch marks from where they burned him- the way that thou hast sinned could hurt as much as an empty bottle.

He gets like this sometimes. Weirdly meta, lost in his thoughts, the sight of Brendon, ensnared in the formalities of his own self-hatred- it triggered him. It flipped his switch, pushed his buttons in a way that only his fellow Christian could do- how dare he give him that glare- Ryan practically raised him. Shielded him from what those people would do to him, the scratches they would make on his skin, the-

"Hurry the fuck up!"

"Coming."

Ryan hailed a cab.

Ryan had always had better "street" skills then Brendon- it came from where the wrap of his ratty scarfs sat as opposed to the knot of Brendon's stiff tie- Ryan knew which street had a roving crack addict just by a glance, whereas Brendon could run his hands over the firm wood of an apartment door and mutter whether or not the woman inside was on her knees (in both retrospects).