Entry tags:

brendon/ryan, brendon/ryan/spencer/jon, fic, jon/spencer, p!atd

[fic] Any Way You Want Me [3/3]
Okay, so, firstly: thank fuck it's completed! *cheerleads*

Secondly: I totally and utterly copped out and I AM SO SORRY, OMG. But, you know, the actual porn was causing me an aneurysm and that wasn't fun, so we get less actual sex and more - uh, insinuation? I don't even know. In general, it means that my angsting over this took so long that I understand if you decide to throw rocks at me, and also more canon cropped up in the dead-time. \o/ Yay for last minute inclusions! \o/

Title: Any Way You Want Me
Author: crayola123
Pairings: Brendon/Ryan, Ryan/Spencer, Jon/Spencer, and heavy insinuation that all four members of this band are gay and/or in love. And there's cabins. And stuff.
Rating: NC-17. What, there's still some sex, don't look at me like that. Just, not all-in-the-bed type. I'll be quiet now.
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters from here on in. Panic aren't doing this right now. ...Probably.
Summary: "I wouldn't mind sharing you, really." And, uh, Croatian babies. You know the drill.
Deds: frequencies for hand-holding and proof-reading and generally being sweet enough about this that I'm surprised she hasn't sprained something. woodenduck for beta'ing, prodding, and providing me with hilarious drunken conversations. *squishes*

Sending Postcards From Las Vegas (Wish You Were Here)
Where Are Your Boys Tonight?

Any Way You Want Me


Ryan is true to his word and goes home with Brendon the next day. It feels a little like he's stepped into the twilight zone; constantly travelling back and forth half-awake in the early hours of the morning or with his head lolling against the window of whoever's car it is as the day slips slowly into night. The only constants are Brendon and Spencer; pretty much the same constants he's had for the past few years, still here. And he could deal, you know, he could do that, as long as that itching, nagging feeling of something missing left, just for a little while.

Brendon is less mopey and a lot less annoying after the events of the previous evening, and Ryan plays along with the routine of kicking his shoes off and lolling across Brendon's bed, flicking through a magazine or two and talking vaguely about ideas, concepts, dreams of maybe-we-could interspersed with a couple of rounds of making out.

Brendon waits until the morning after before moving in again - and maybe it's just now that he's got a taste, or maybe just because he's fucked Ryan and Spencer's watched. Maybe after that his parents knowing doesn't seem like such a big deal - whatever it is, he pays no heed to Ryan's flustered protests, and joins him in the bathroom across the hall without word or explanation. Ryan shoots him a very pained look when Brendon flicks the lock on the door, and fumbles his fingers into one of the carefully pressed and symmetrically folded towels resting on the edge of the bathtub.

"Brendon," Ryan says, warningly.

Brendon just smirks and edges in nearer. He carefully removes Ryan's fingers from the towel, lets it fall to the floor and shifts closer, hands running with meaning around Ryan's waist. Ryan shrinks back because it would be bad enough if Brendon's parents weren't home, but they are, just downstairs, quite possibly making their beloved son and his friend some sort of breakfast at that very moment.

"We can't," Ryan says a little desperately, attempting to grab at Brendon's wrists and stop him in his struggles to pull off Ryan's pajama bottoms.

Brendon looks at him a moment before smiling crookedly and brushing off the resistance. He dives fingers into Ryan's waistband and slides his body in close. Breathes hot against Ryan's ear until he shudders, and murmurs, "But you're so fucking dirty," as if that's something people actually say in real life. He's grinning, the heat of his smile tingling against Ryan's throat, and Ryan doesn't know whether to laugh or run - all he knows is that Brendon's fucking mouth is right fucking there, and it is taking absolutely everything he has not to just give in.

"You steal all your lines from porn, don't you?" Ryan mutters in response, one hand coming in to rest against Brendon's shoulder blade as those lips start to kiss softly at his neck, his jaw line. Brendon's hand is coaxing at his skin, buried deep within the material of Ryan's clothing, and he is so, so close to falling apart, already.

"No way, man. I come up with this gold myself," Brendon says with a smirk, leaning up to kiss Ryan quickly, almost chaste. His voice drops lower, sliding cushy-soft and treacle-thick into Ryan, rough, dragging, and undeniably sexy. "It was so fucking hot, watching you," he murmurs, lips brushing Ryan's skin just barely, Ryan shuddering, trying to stop. "Fucking you, and watching you with Spence. I can't believe you just. You just did it." Brendon trails off, pressing his hips to Ryan's. He's hard, Ryan can feel it, can feel the desperation thicken the air as the teasing strokes along his cock grow a little tighter, a little harder. Brendon's voice, low, husky, again; "You felt so good, Ry. So good."

And it's not fair, really. It's pretty much dirty tactics because Ryan is a little over-sensitive at the moment as it is, not yet quite settled, and so maybe he needs a little extra touch, a few more bouts of hand-holding and comfort from the people he cares about the most. And so maybe, maybe Brendon is taking advantage, knowing full well Ryan won't say no (couldn't ever, really). Because Brendon knows how he works, knows what to do to make Ryan feel and forget, and to hell with it. To hell with the parents downstairs and to hell with Ryan's self-control - to hell with it all. Brendon makes it better.

"Okay, okay," Ryan mutters quickly, hooks one arm around Brendon's neck and pulls him in for a heady kiss, mouths pressing wetly with want, noses smushed up at the wrong angle but it doesn't matter - nothing matters, it seems, anymore.

Brendon's hand is still down the front of Ryan's pajama bottoms, and he's smiling into the kiss, grunting into it and pushing Ryan back in the direction of the shower, shedding clothing in the process. He's murmuring about how he's going to fuck Ryan, fuck him hard and he'll have to be quiet because Brendon's parents can't know, can't, but - but really, Ryan can make as much noise as he wants. Because deep down - deep down, Brendon doesn't care. He wants to hear him, wants to hear the way Ryan sounds, good and needy and all his.

Ryan tries, really, to be quiet. To keep it down, because not only is it Brendon's parents, but it's Brendon's highly religious parents - but it's damn near impossible, Brendon gripping tight to his hips and pushing into him with the spray of the shower raining down on their bare backs, and Ryan trying to gasp in breath after breath without getting a lungful of water (although he does now and again, and splutters through it, head bowed and hair clogging his vision). Ryan pushes his head to the tile and drowns in sensation, and Brendon whispers over and over how jealous everyone is, how jealous they all are that he gets to fuck Ryan, only him; how Spencer, you could see it in Spencer's eyes the other night, how he wanted to be the one fucking him, and maybe sometime soon he could, and Brendon would watch and fuck Ryan after, too. Because he could take it, Ryan could take it, Brendon knows he could, and maybe, maybe Ryan wants it, too.

Brendon swipes palms over the wet skin of Ryan's spine and kisses at his neck, whispers low in his ear just below the rush of the water, and Ryan's breath hitches and he whimpers, presses his forehead into tile and pushes back against the drag, the thick feel of Brendon in his ass. Brendon tells him how probably, probably Jon wants, too. Everyone fucking wants, and it's only Brendon who gets.

Eventually Brendon gives up talking, breath shifting and the movement of his hips becoming erratic, and Ryan's mouth forms the shape of a moan but he bites down on it. Brendon mutters no, no, go on, say it, and Ryan shakes sopping wet curls out of his eyes and feels his whole body switch to vibrate, so close yet so far.

"Brendon," he manages, barely. "Brendon," before it gets too much, before it's down to touch, taste, breathe, breathe, Brendon. Ryan grips fists into the shower curtain and presses his sobs of pleasure, of need, into the tile, Brendon's breath hitched and gasped against the back of his neck. He blinks through the spray, through sodden curls of hair and through the lust clouding his vision milky white to murmur something raw, something maybe he wasn't quite ready to let Brendon hear, just yet. Blinks up at the shower head and chokes on water and his own breath, his own words, on the hard push of a body against his, inside his.

Afterwards, Brendon rubs a towel through Ryan's hair and smiles at him, tells him to get dried and dressed because breakfast will be ready and it's not worth the trauma of missing that, not even for round two. Ryan mutters "you wish" and can't look at Brendon over his plate of scrambled eggs, but doesn't regret it for a second. Not even as he rubs the pads of his fingers into the bruises that match Brendon's prints on his wrists. Brendon's mom struggles to keep up a pleasant one-sided conversation.

Brendon smirks at Ryan as they sit together on Brendon's bed after and kicks Ryan in the leg, tells him to pretty Brendon up with some of that "MAC shit" that Ryan is always playing with. Ryan tells Brendon that he's an asshole but does it anyway, and for a second, it doesn't feel so far from home.

That is until Spencer calls, when Ryan still has one hand steadying Brendon's jaw and Brendon is blinking up at him, Ryan fighting over whether to continue with the blue eye shadow or just to lean in and kiss him senseless. Ryan answers with a slight waver in his tone - Brendon moving in to knead his hands into the tight muscle of Ryan's shoulders - and Spencer is telling him without a pause for "hello" that Ryan is due back at his house in the next forty-eight hours, please. Ryan fights the urge to groan, or sigh, exasperated, and settles instead for closing his eyes for several long, painful seconds and opening them again with the breathy reply of, "Yeah, Spence, that sounds great."

He thumbs the call off after another few minutes and sighs heavily, throws the Sidekick onto the bed and watches it bounce.

Brendon kneads a little harder, mutters, "Hey. Hey - Ry. Relax, okay? Just - relax."

That's easier said than done and Ryan wonders, wonders if Brendon even understands what this is like for him. Probably, definitely, not.

The silence hangs for a long, long moment and Ryan thinks back on the studio and the apartment first time round, and hopes for it to be both different and the same for this time. Wonders, somewhere, if they'll even make it through that long. They can take it, right? They can take it. They'll make it.

Brendon presses a kiss against the back of Ryan's neck, his nose dipping into Ryan's hair. He nuzzles in closer and says, "I'll miss you, you know, but if you want to stay there longer, that's cool."

Ryan knows how lonely Brendon gets out here on his own, and something pulls inside at the offer. It's the kindest thing anyone's offered him ever since they hit Las Vegas, and Ryan feels so grateful he thinks he might burst.

He settles instead for twisting on the bed and kissing Brendon hard, hands clutching his jaw, and mutters, "Thank you, I won't, I promise, I'll," over and over, until somehow it all makes some sort of sense.

Brendon just says, "Yeah," against his mouth and follows it up with, "Better make the most of it."

Ryan throws caution to the wind and lets Brendon fuck him twice over the next few days; once in Brendon's bed and the other on the couch downstairs. Ryan calls Brendon a dirty fuck for getting off on shit like that - just because his parents are out doesn't make it okay - but Brendon just tells him to shut up and kisses him wetly with a hand brushing Ryan's jaw.

Ryan tells himself that it's stupid to miss this feeling when Brendon pushes inside, and even stupider to miss the same three guys he's grown steadily sicker of over the past long few months. He's complained about each and every one of them and now - now, Ryan thinks, they aren't quite so bad.

-

Ryan worries that maybe it'll be a little weird seeing Spencer again, after. Because Jesus - his best fucking friend, seeing him like that. Strung out, drawn out, needy. Brendon fucking him, and for God's sake, that's not the kind of thing you're meant to share. Not with just anyone. That's for behind closed doors, locked away in the back of private thoughts. But - Spencer isn't just anyone.

Spencer answers the door with a mildly awkward grin. "Hey," he says, hiding a bit behind the frame.

Ryan hesitates on the step and answers with a stiff, "Hey," of his own. Their eyes lock and something flips in Ryan's stomach, and this is stupid, right? This is Spencer. "Can I come in?"

Spencer looks at him for another long moment before laughing. It's light, bubbling, and relief floods Ryan from head to toe. "Course you can, moron," Spencer mutters. He reaches out, grabs hold of Ryan's arm and drags him over the step. "I have a day of awesomeness planned. Are you ready for it?"

Ryan's arm is tingling under the touch and Spencer still hasn't let go, but Ryan chooses to ignore it. Instead he dumps his suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and follows Spencer through the kitchen to the back yard. The sun is out, glinting in hot, familiar rays, reflecting back off the green shrubbery and perfectly kept flowerbeds Mrs. Smith so lovingly tends. It hasn't changed in over five years, really, except for updates in color and a shitty attempt at a water feature set up in one corner.

Ryan settles himself next to Spencer on a small patch of shade on the patio, and leans back on his elbows, squinting. "And on a scale of one to ten how dangerous would this day of awesome be?" he wonders aloud.

Spencer looks as if he's considering it, scratching idly at his chin and tapping his foot into the sandy tiles. "Oh, fifty million."

Ryan nods, shrugs, deadpans, "Well yeah, that does sound pretty awesome." He says, "I didn't bring like, suitable clothes though, man, so. So either we keep it low key or you let me steal shit."

Spencer squints over at him and grins. "Oh my god," he says. "Oh my god, since when did you care about getting your clothes dirty? Dude. Dude, you are such a fucking diva, these days."

"Fuck you, no way."

"Yes way. What is it, Louis Vuitton? And where's your fucking Merc, anyway, you little shit; you've been holding out on me and Brendon, making us chivvy you back and forth. God." Spencer blinks up into the sun, grinning, the teasing falling flat on the tip of his tongue. "I know, I know, it’s being serviced, what-the-fuck-ever. Doesn't make you above a few scrapes and bruises, man."

Ryan sighs a minute and thinks, fuck it. He counts a beat or two in his head, remembers years and years of this and everything's so fucking the same, like nothing ever, and then, Spence. "I'll show you scrapes and bruises, dickwad," he says, and launches himself at Spencer as if they weren't following a script, playing out the same fucking scenario they have been since they were knee-high.

"Dude," Spencer says with heavy breath, Ryan half on top of him, and cuts off the rest of whatever he was going to say in favor of wrestling Ryan to death.

Later, Spencer gets Ryan a band aid for a small scrape he somehow manages to get on his knee (his pants don't even rip and Ryan boggles at how it even happened) and puts it on carefully, tongue sticking out in concentration to get it just right. Ryan smirks and watches him as he does it, winces a little when Spencer pats it down hard, because he's always been a baby when it comes to pain. Worse than Brendon, Jon says, and that's saying something.

And okay, so it's pretty much normal. Pretty much Spencer-And-Ryan, like nothing's changed, and maybe it hasn't. Maybe it was all a dream because Ryan's avoided TV and radio like the plague, hasn't been stopped for an autograph in days, has been dicking around in the middle of Spencer's street without security and - and it's surprisingly easy to go back, and forget.

"Imagine," Ryan wonders that night, into his pillow on the floor. "Imagine if - if right now, I was working in fucking. Fucking Starbucks."

"Imagine if I still filed charts," Spencer says on cue, looking up at his ceiling, one hand hanging absently off the side of his bed. "Except. Except no, wait, no, I'd have been promoted by now, right. Right, yeah. I'd be like. Like answering phones and shit, by now."

"Yeah," Ryan says faintly. The air feels too cold. He leans up on his elbows and looks at Spencer in the dark. "Do you think we'd still…"

Spencer looks right back for a long moment. He snorts suddenly, violently, breaking the silence with a quick laugh. "Ry, you really hate this, huh?" he says.

Ryan shrugs with a quick roll of his shoulders and says nothing.

"Hey," Spencer says, motioning to him. "Hey, come on. Always. Always, you know that, jeeze."

Ryan goes willingly because okay, he does know. And Spencer hugs him tight, mutters, "You and me, always, idiot," leaning half out of his bed, and it's a wonder he doesn't fall, clinging on tight to Ryan to keep afloat and Ryan clings right back because Jesus, it's Spencer.

And then Spencer's kissing into his hair, and Ryan's just clinging on tighter, moving in nearer, and the kisses travel down or across, Ryan's not really sure. Somewhere. They go, somewhere, and somehow they're at his ear, his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth - oh. Oh, Spencer's leaning over the edge of his bed and kissing Ryan, and Ryan's letting him, holding him tight. Spencer's hands are rough like sandpaper supporting at his neck, his chin. Ryan moves in closer, and Spencer shifts back, gives him room to climb onto the mattress.

When they're side by side Ryan pulls back enough to look at Spencer in the moonlight, the pads of Spencer's fingers still at his neck, his pulse. Looking at him and Ryan doesn't know what that look means - but what does it matter? What does it fucking matter, so he just breaches the centimeters of air and breath between them and kisses Spencer, because it seems like the right thing to do.

The kissing stops after a while but Ryan doesn't pull away. They fall asleep like that, curled into one another, breath mingling and pulse points overlapping, the beat of Spencer's heart in Ryan's ears, his dumb fucking Power Rangers quilt low across their waists.

The next day they go to the movies and watch films they've seen before. They buy popcorn and throw it at the kids skipping school in the row in front of them when they talk too loud. Ryan can't stop laughing and when the kids get angry Spencer acts tough (Ryan can feel his fingers trembling imperceptibly) and delivers several scathing retorts until their antagonists decide that it would be a better idea to keep quiet, after all. Ryan wonders if any of them own their CD. For the first time, he feels twenty years old.

They buy take out on the way home and Ryan stops Spencer with a hand on his arm when the girl on the till asks if that would be all. "No, wait," Ryan says, because they haven't ordered for Brendon or Jon yet, and this place, Jon would love it, except - except, wait, no. Huh.

Spencer is looking at him expectantly and Ryan goes a little flush, mutters, "Never mind, nothing," and takes his hand away.

Huh.

After the take out is eaten, there's nothing on TV and both of them decide they're kind of beat. Spencer's parents suggest a nice family board game to pass the time, but Ryan winces and Spencer says no (but thank you).

Ryan doesn't hesitate before climbing into Spencer's bed that night. Spencer pauses before climbing in after, but then they're kissing, hungrily, Ryan leaning up and needing it, god, Spencer bracing himself with one hand and mumbling, "wait, what, wait." Ryan doesn't let him speak because he just needs, Jesus, pulls back enough to breathe, "please, need you to, please," clutches at the back of Spencer's neck and says, "you can, just."

Spencer, for a moment, is almost hesitant, but then he's kissing Ryan again and pulling up his t-shirt, hands on fire; Ryan feels alive. Shit, and Spencer doesn't fuck him but he attempts a messy blow job; gives Ryan head in the bed they've shared, known, for as long as either can remember.

Ryan threads fingers through Spencer's hair and wonders why they haven't done this before, why it's taken a year filled with a lifetimes' worth of memories to make them realize that this, this could ever be.

"Yeah, fuck," Ryan hisses through his teeth, head thrown back, and shit. "Spence," lower, throaty, gripping too tight, Spencer choking but not complaining, not stopping, Ryan biting his lip just to be quiet. Ryan comes with a muffled sob, head twisted to the side, and Spencer gasps, comes up and spits into his hand.

"Sorry, I," Spencer says, voice too rough, coughs again and wipes at his mouth. He grimaces, reaches for a tissue and wipes off.

Ryan just concentrates on breathing, shakily, for a minute. "Don't, that was," he says instead, brings him down and kisses him. Spencer, Jesus. He reaches down with one hand and presses the heel of his palm against the front of Spencer's pajamas. Spencer grunts against his mouth and nudges his hips forward.

They wake the next morning with horrible bed hair and their hands inside each others' clothes. Ryan has a moment of "oh, shit," before Spencer is blinking over at him and smiling crookedly. Ryan slides a hand to the back of Spencer's neck and Spencer opens up for him, kisses him, and this is okay, this is sort of really nice.

That afternoon, Brendon calls. He says Jon is missing them all and that Brendon's parents have decided to go away for the weekend (too used to the house alone and their own space, and suddenly Brendon is home and privacy has gone out the window. Ryan says something along these lines to Brendon and Brendon says, "I don't care, as long as they go," and Ryan rolls eyes at Spencer who returns the gesture without knowing what it's about.). Brendon tells Ryan to be over his in an hour, tops, with Spencer and something edible, because Jon's flight should land at around six.

"Right," Ryan says. "What?"

-

Spencer drives them to Brendon's with this really old compilation CD blasting from the speakers. It keeps skipping on track seven. Track one is something quiet and acoustic, by someone with a rough, soothing voice and long sentences instead of words. Track eighteen has a lot of noise and loud guitars, and drums that sound like machine gun fire, and Ryan mimics the screaming during the chorus and laughs. Spencer laughs with him, but he's seen Ryan's t-shirt collection and knows full well that Ryan's own version of the CD has never been thrown out.

When they arrive at Brendon's they push the door open without knocking. Brendon is sitting waiting on the bottom step of the staircase, looking bored.

Ryan stops dead and grins at the sight, and Spencer bumps into him from behind. "Hey, watch it," Spencer grumbles.

Brendon beams at them both, staggering to his feet and outstretching his arms in welcome. "Guys," he murmurs, smiling. "Guys."

Spencer and Ryan share a look but let themselves be folded into a tight embrace.

"Spencer," Brendon says, turning sideways and kissing Spencer's cheek sloppily.

Spencer grimaces and pulls away, wiping the back of his hand over the spot. "Dude."

"And, and Ryan." Brendon turns in the other direction and clasps fingers around Ryan's wrist, the other hand brushing at his jaw. Brendon smiles and Ryan melts a little into it, and what the hell, he kisses Brendon first.

Brendon looks pleasantly surprised and pulls back grinning, keeping Ryan pressed to him tight. "And, and oh my god, soon we'll have Jon, too," Brendon hisses excitedly. "Oh my god, it's like Christmas."

Spencer tuts and rolls his eyes some more, although Ryan definitely notices the lingering glance he throws at the place where Brendon's hand folds against Ryan's side. "I have no idea what they put in the water in this house, but it's weird," Spencer says dryly. "Where the fuck is he, anyway? You said his flight was at six."

"I'm not weird. Just, interesting." Brendon grins wider, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "And I lied. Come on, Jon fucking Walker is coming all the way from Chicago. We have to make this a fucking party."

"Please," Ryan mumbles, barely audible. "No."

"Yes," Brendon says defiantly, squeezing Ryan tight. "Yes, we have to."

"Your mom will kill you," Spencer says, arms folded across his chest. "She will absolutely kill you, and we need your voice, man. Don't do this to us."

Ryan blinks at Brendon pleadingly. "Think of the band. Think of us."

Spencer snorts once. "Yeah, who'd Ryan have to fuck if you weren't here?"

Ryan winces but quickly turns it into a vicious "Fuck you," and twists away from Brendon enough to punch Spencer in the arm.

Brendon watches, his eyes glinting. "Well," he says slowly, watching the brief scuffle taking place in front of him. "You have a point, there." He pulls Ryan away from Spencer (who is retaliating by laughing), his arm scooping low around Ryan's waist. He presses his face into the side of Ryan's neck and breathes in deep. Ryan stops struggling.

Spencer eyes them both, frowning. "If you guys think you can just go off and fuck without me, you are sadly mistaken."

Brendon grins at him. "Don't worry. We'll wait 'til Jon gets here." He kisses Ryan's temple once, before pulling away, rubbing his hands together mischievously. "Now let's order some fucking take out." He trots off in the direction of the telephone, shouting questions as he goes: "What do we want? Chinese? Mexican?"

Ryan tries to mouth sorry to Spencer, but for some reason Spencer won't look at him.

Huh.

-

Brendon and Spencer are still squabbling over who ordered what when the front door is opened and closed. Ryan is hovering, trying to steal a little bit of everything, peering over Brendon's shoulder and trying to sneak his hand in between Brendon and Spencer's elbows. They're like that - Brendon trying to outsmart Spencer (which will just never, ever work, Ryan thinks) and Spencer gesturing wildly at one vaguely green-tinged dish, Ryan's chin resting against Brendon, his body pressed up against their backs - when Jon Walker walks in.

"Brendon," he says. "Do you - do you not hear doorbells?" He drops his bags on the kitchen floor and grins, cheeks rosed, eyes twinkling.

Brendon's head snaps up and clunks Ryan on the chin. "Jon!" he cries, as Ryan clasps his palm to the spot. "Jon fucking Walker, oh my god." Brendon subsequently runs over and attempts to hang himself from Jon's neck, arms wrapped tight, legs curling around Jon's. Jon's arms remain loose at his sides, his eyes wide but not surprised as Brendon clings on for dear life.

From behind, Ryan says, "Ow," rather pitifully.

"Hey," Spencer says brightly, food, and apparently Ryan, forgotten. His smile is wide, beaming - Ryan hasn't seen him look like that in weeks.

"Spencer," Jon acknowledges cheerfully, tipping his head as much as he can. "Brendon, I swear. I love you, but get off."

"Right, right," Brendon mutters, but he doesn't, not so much - just pulls back enough to replant his feet to the floor and fold his body easily against Jon's.

Jon's smile is benign and comforting, because this - this is just normal. Normalcy, again. Ryan breathes deep.

"I swear one of you fuckers was meant to pick me up from the airport," Jon says, a little dry, still smiling. "I swear. I had to take a cab. A cab."

Spencer raises hands in the air. "Not it."

Jon pats Brendon's head lovingly. "Brendon, then, huh?"

Brendon's response is muffled by Jon's t-shirt. "We were meant to be throwing you a party. I wanted to throw you a party." He glares out from where he is seemingly attempting to climb under Jon's skin and take up residence there. "They wouldn't let me." He points accusingly at Spencer and Ryan, snuggling up to Jon in self-defense.

Jon laughs and pats the top of Brendon's head. "Mean," he says, pulling faces in Spencer and Ryan's general direction. He smiles right after, though, his eyes glinting, and he looks fresher, brighter, as if he's had some rest and come back refreshed and - happy. "Ryan Ross," he says, tipping his head in Ryan's direction.

Ryan scratches at his own elbow and smiles back. "Jon Walker."

Jon keeps looking at him, grinning, for a long, long moment, and Ryan feels something twist in his stomach, a sharp burn of something and then an ache, a dull ache somewhere around his middle. Maybe higher, maybe lower, he's not so sure.

"Hey," Brendon says, suddenly, and Jon's head snaps away, looking down at Brendon pressed so close. Ryan lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding in one long exhale. "Hey, come on, we're not having a party but we did buy you take out. That's just as good, right? Right, Jon?"

"That's better," Jon assures him, squeezing Brendon's shoulder before carefully untangling them. "Spencer Smith, you eat my fucking order and I -"

"You'll what?" Spencer says with a slow arch of his eyebrow, but he hands the little foil container over regardless. When Jon's hand comes up to grab the side nearest to him Spencer leans over to follow, and ends up smushing his lips to the stubble of Jon's cheek, soft and chaste. "Hey," Spencer says, again, with a smile, before pulling back and handing over the meal.

Ryan is pretty sure that Jon should - god, be getting facial cramps or something from the size of his grin, but it's sort of infectious. Who knew Jon Walker could successfully remove his emo? They should have visited Chicago days ago.

The way Jon is looking at Spencer makes Ryan's stomach twist again, and he wonders mildly when exactly he started crushing on every single one of his band mates.

"Hey," Jon says, breaking Ryan out of his reverie. "Hey, Brendon. Take - take my shit somewhere, would you? Like - I don't know. Where am I even staying?" He doesn't look away from Spencer once.

"My mom set up the guest room, so. So I can put your stuff there, I guess. But, you know, if Spence and Ryan are staying… it doesn't even matter, you know?" Brendon eyes the rather large bags in the middle of his kitchen floor and pulls a face. "Ryan, help me, would you?"

Ryan sighs but goes forward anyway. Spencer and Jon are playfully elbowing each other over the rights of each dish to each person, and Ryan only just manages to stop himself eye-rolling himself into oblivion on his way past. He makes to grab one bag while Brendon grabs the other, nudging Brendon out of the door in the process.

Brendon makes it halfway up the stairs before sniggering, "Dude, I am so excited, you have no idea."

"Why?" Ryan asks as he clumps the suitcase up another step. He swears - he swears - that Brendon got the smaller one. "What? I mean - why?"

"Well, for one, I haven't seen you for like - for like forever." Brendon twists on the stairs, eyes flashing and grin entirely too feline for Ryan's liking. "And therefore we have to make up for lost time. And for two, Jon fucking Walker. I haven't seen him for like, forever and a day."

Brendon makes it up the last few steps before coming to a halt, just to the side of the banister to leave room for Ryan to follow after. Brendon stops him walking past with a hand on his arm. "Hey," Brendon says. "Hey, I missed you."

Ryan doesn't quite know what to make of the twist in his gut this time - if it's guilt, or love or want or just plain hunger. He would like to say the latter, but most likely it's a combination of the previous three. Fuck.

He smiles, a little pinched, and leans in over the (ridiculously heavy) bags to kiss Brendon, soft. "Missed you too," he mumbles, a little red. He ducks his head away from Brendon's smirk, and follows him the rest of the way down the hall.

Once Jon's things are properly dumped at the end of the bed, they both pause. Ryan looks hard at the sheets and Brendon looks hard at Ryan, before slumping down onto the mattress. "So," Brendon says, as he lies back, resting his arms under his head. "So, how many times did you and Spencer fuck, or was it just -"

"What?" Ryan interrupts, sharply. "We didn't. No, it wasn't. I mean."

"It's okay, you know," Brendon says, raising one eyebrow in amusement. "I did kind of, you know, say that you could."

"Yeah, but." Ryan sits down next to him, heavily, sighing in the process. He flops backwards, limbs splayed, head throbbing at the temples. "I just hate being back here, you know?" Like that's some sort of excuse.

"I know," Brendon says softly. "I know, we've been through this. It's okay, you know? It's Spencer. I don't care." He pauses a moment. "Okay, I care a little. But, you know, it's okay. It's cool. Do what you want." He snickers lightly, and it sounds a little off. "If Spencer's what you want, do him, what do I care."

"Oh, god," Ryan hisses at the ceiling, running one hand over his face in frustration. "Stop - for once in your life, Brendon, stop being a girl and just - stop making me feel so fucking guilty. I did not fuck Spencer."

Another pause, longer this time.

Brendon breaks it by laughing. "Dude, you absolute idiot. I - I fucking said you could - what are you, crazy? An open invitation like that? Either you're lying or you're - I don't know, but you have issues, Ryan. Spencer? Come on!"

Ryan elbows him, biting back on his own returning jibe. "Shut it, I don't fuck all of my friends, okay? Normally it's just you." Ryan pauses again, this time snorting lightly, because this is just stupid. "And, okay, so we made out. A couple of times. Maybe?"

Brendon laughs again, louder, poking Ryan's hip. He looks across at him, eyes alight. "And?" he prompts.

"And." Ryan shrugs slightly, wondering whether or not to tell, but Brendon is laughing about it, and maybe it's okay. Will be. Something. "And he, sort of, gave me head. You know."

"As you do," Brendon says knowingly, face strictly solemn for a moment before he breaks out into a wide grin again. "And?"

Ryan sighs, exasperated, and twists on the comforter, putting one palm out flat on Brendon's chest and raising himself up on one elbow to look at him properly. Brendon's smile fades just a little. "And I jerked him off, okay, so what? You can't hate me for it, you said I could."

"And he calls us boyfriends? The little fuck." Brendon smiles again, though, softer, and strokes a hand up Ryan's sleeve, pulling him back down to lay against him. "I told you, it doesn't matter. You need it, right? It doesn't matter."

"You're meant to get all jealous and shit," Ryan says, voice muffled where it's pressed into the curve of Brendon's shoulder.

Brendon runs his hand over Ryan's back, his shoulders, his neck, and sighs a little. "And who says I'm not? Someone just told me not to be a girl about this kind of thing. I just can't fucking win with you, can I?"

Ryan's stomach gripes again and he leans up on his elbows, looking at Brendon with concern. And okay, so maybe he fucked up just a little. "Brendon," he begins.

The door swings open, though, cutting off any further apology or plea for forgiveness, revealing Spencer and Jon - the former flushed pink at the edges and the latter swept up in hysterical laughter. Both come to an abrupt halt at the sight of Brendon and Ryan lying entangled on the bed.

"Oh, shit," Jon says, still smirking. "Are we interrupting?"

"I'm sorry, okay, it just slipped out," Spencer says in a rush, obviously aggravated, trying to pull Jon back with a hand at his collar. "I'm sorry, Ry, I'm sorry, it's just - Jon, shut up laughing for one second, would you?"

"No, I can't, never," Jon guffaws. He points at Brendon and Ryan accusingly. "You two I knew about. But Jesus, I go home for a few weeks and you three all fuck without me?" He starts laughing again, eyes alight, and Ryan wonders how Jon is merely amused and not freaking the fuck out.

Brendon snorts along with him (because it's Brendon) and curves an arm around Ryan's shoulders, pulling him closer, and Ryan doesn't fight it, doesn't even try. "Sorry Jon, I wanted to call you, but, you know how it gets." Brendon winks, starts laughing again. Ryan tries to decipher whether he feels embarrassed or merely annoyed at the fact that Jon knows and just interrupted them. The little -

Jon stops laughing long enough to whirl around and set accusing eyes, this time, on Spencer. "And you! I thought you were my comrade, Spencer, I thought you were my partner against them and their rampant fucking."

Ryan mutters, "Hey!" in indignant protest, but Brendon nuzzles into him and says, "Hey, he has a point." Spencer just looks incredibly sheepish for a moment before crossing his arms defiantly across his chest.

"They tricked me into it. I blame Brendon for it completely."

"Hey!" It's Brendon's turn to look indignant and pouty. "I didn't make you fool around with Ryan while I wasn't even there."

Spencer's body language becomes a degree or two less defiant. "Ah," he says, softly. "He told you about that."

Jon thwacks a hand against the bedpost and starts laughing again. "Oh my god," he gasps in-between. "Oh my god, this is like the best soap opera ever."

"Shut up, Jon," Spencer mutters. "Shut up, you're just - fuck off back to Chicago, if you're going to be like this."

Jon stops laughing. Instead, he looks shocked and a little hurt. "You don't mean that."

Brendon's expression mirrors Jon's to a T. "Say you don't mean that, Spencer Smith."

Spencer refuses to make eye contact with any of them, and Ryan feels guilt again, hot in his stomach, and decides that sleeping with best friends who have obvious feelings for you is not something he should put into practice on a regular basis. Except maybe with Brendon. And when it comes down to it, Spencer. Because Spencer - come on.

On second thought, he would not at all be adverse to Jon Walker being included in that equation, either. Jesus. He needs to stop this train of thought now.

"Spencer," Jon says, still looking mock-hurt, mouth set in a fine line.

He shouldn't look like that ever, Ryan thinks. Jon shouldn't look like that ever.

Jon pauses before continuing, mouth twisted a little to the side and eyes dancing. "Don't make me cancel on you," he threatens, softly.

Ryan's head whips up. Beside him, Brendon splutters out a, "What?"

Spencer glares at Jon full on. "You are - Jesus, I am surrounded by a room full of morons," he pronounces through gritted teeth. "Which part of 'let's not tell anyone, okay?' did you not understand, Jon?"

"The 'anyone'," Jon says easily, reaching forward to him, eyes twinkling. "Come on, Spence. Sometimes you are such a fucking girl."

"I'd really like to know what's going on right now," Ryan mutters from the bed, glancing to Brendon for further explanation.

Jon merely grins. "I'm taking Spencer on a date. Out on the Strip, you know." He slings an arm around Spencer's shoulder (Spencer looks menacingly at the carpet, but doesn't pull away) and looks at him sideways, fondly. "I always said I would, you know. Now's a good a time as any."

"Jesus." Ryan doesn't know whether to laugh or - or what, exactly. "Since when have… You know what? I don't even want to know."

Brendon laughs, elbowing Ryan firmly (maybe a little too hard) in the ribs. "Fuck you, I do! I want to know. Who blew who?"

"Jesus, Brendon." Ryan shoves him half-heartedly, and Brendon starts laughing again.

"Congratulations Ryan," Brendon snorts. "Your band is officially gayer than you."

"Oh, fuck off."

"I'm serious!"

Ryan sighs, and it, okay, it is kind of funny, when he thinks about it. "I know," he mutters, helplessly. He looks up, catches the edge of Spencer's mouth curving up into a smile, the way he leans against Jon, into the warmth of him like he was just made to order, and okay, okay. Maybe this is okay. "I know, alright, we're so fucking gay it should be illegal." He pauses again, Brendon sniggering against him, turning and wrapping his arms around Ryan's waist, his nose pressing into the dip of Ryan's throat.

"That's amazing," Brendon mutters into the spot just below Ryan's ear. "I love you."

And Ryan shivers, just a little, at the wet press of the words against his skin, squeezes Brendon back and for a moment he feels complete and not alone and not scared, and it's almost terrifying. That, alone, is almost terrifying, because he doesn't ever remember feeling so happy, so content and full, with such a long, clear road ahead and people like this all around him that matter so much and are here, right here, just for him.

"I know," he mutters back, smiling into Brendon's hair and breathing in deep. Relax. "Here," he says, arm hooked around Brendon and pulling him close, close, closer. "Here, come here, you guys, I'm happy for you, really."

"Uh huh," Jon says, dry, but there follows two dips of the mattress, and then they're all there, pressing up against each other and being, just being. A little piece of all of them touching a little piece of all the rest.

"So, Jon," Brendon says, after a moment, wriggling a little against Ryan and Spencer and Jon, to get comfortable amongst all the limbs and body heat. "So, did Spencer tell you? Tell you what me and Ryan are going to do, what the new plan is going to be?"

"Hm." Jon noses into the back of Spencer's neck, pressing a kiss into the short hair at the back of his skull. "No, he forgot to mention that part."

Brendon's eyes light up. "Oh, right, well it's awesome, see. See, we're going to adopt, and we're going to have just the one, you know, and I want a girl, you know, I want a little baby girl and I can just, I can be a Daddy, you know, how awesome would that be, really? But, you know, Ryan wants a boy, so - I don't know, we have to talk it through, and shit, but - but get this, right, it's gonna be fucking Croatian, right, and Spence is gonna be the godfather. How awesome is that, huh? How awesome is that?"

"That's pretty awesome, Brendon," Jon says through his laughter, voice muffled against Spencer's back. "What about me, though? What about the record?"

"Well. Well, I've thought about this, see, and I haven't talked to Ry about it, so. So don't kill me, okay?" Brendon pauses to glance at Ryan worriedly. Ryan merely rolls his eyes and motions with his hand to continue. "Anyway, so, I was thinking. We can't - I'm pretty shitty with like, useful things, things that you need to know, you know? And to adopt a kid - you have to actually know that shit, right? Like, how to cook, you know? And so, I was thinking, for the next record, how about we go stay in that cabin, Ryan? You know? The one we stayed in that time? How about we go there and write some fucking kick ass songs and learn some real life fucking shit, and then - and then, maybe. Maybe we can apply, or something. That can wait a year, right, Ryan? Think we can wait a year?"

Ryan catches eyes with Spencer and thinks, what the fuck have you created. He snorts though, runs a hand through Brendon's hair and scritches at the back of Brendon's neck. "I'm sure we can last that long, Brendon. I'm sure we can." The idea is actually sort of appealing, getting away from here, from the feeling of being alone-but-not-alone, to be in a place of equality where none of them know exactly what they're doing. Maybe, maybe that way Ryan will stop feeling quite so inadequate. Or something. God, a fucking cabin, Brendon has the weirdest fucking ideas.

"What do you think?" Ryan mutters, nudging Spencer, who is half asleep, with his shoulder.

"I like it," Spencer mumbles, sleepy and warm, head resting against Jon's. "We can build camp fires and make smores. I haven't had one since I was like, ten." He yawns. "I think that's a pretty good reason."

"I second that," Jon says from behind. The fond smile and glint of his eyes has yet to be removed. "My only question is why the fuck am I not a godfather, and - oh, right, how many bedrooms does this place have? This cabin?"

"You live in Chicago like an idiot," Ryan answers with a smirk, and their eyes lock again, lightning flash between.

"And it has like, two. Or three," Brendon interrupts. "From what I remember." He smirks over at Ryan, twists their fingers together and squeezes, tight. "But we could always do what we did last time, and just use the one."

"I second that notion," Jon says again, smile blooming into a full-grown grin.

"Thirded," Spencer mutters.

"Deal." Brendon glances back at Ryan. "This cool with you?"

Ryan smirks back, the press of all of them around him, so warm and so right, and he sighs again, content. "Well," he says, looking at Brendon dead in the eye, pressed so close yet never close enough. "I dare say I wouldn't mind sharing you."