Let's switch up recipients, shall we?

This is the latest in the ongoing challenge in my life to write a story for shaggirl that she actually likes. I sense this is not my moment of triumph.

Anyhow, she didn't really request a pairing, but she likes what I call "everyday" AUs, aka, HS, college, office, etc. This is what I came up with. It was written with love, dear. Always.

Title: Could Be Someone
Author: arsenicjade
Fandom/Pairing: bandom, Ryan/Brendon
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~10k
Warnings: None that I know of.
Summary: We're all just trying to get by.

AN: Yes, I know, Ryan would have just declared bankruptcy and said 'fuck it', even assuming he couldn't get the loans considered defunct. Go with it.



Ryan's father died two months and four days after he graduated from college.

It took Ryan seven hours to be quite certain--aside from his suspicions--that he'd been left more debt than anything else. He swallowed his pride, asked for a loan from Spencer's family to be able to afford a grave and a headstone, and quit his unpaid internship with the city newspaper. He'd majored in journalism rather than English as a compromise with his dad, and the internship was pretty prestigious--Ryan didn't think about the way his dad had looked when he'd told him. He needed to be angry right now. But prestigious didn't pay the bills, and even if Ryan had spent his years at UNLV tuition free, there had still been loans for books and room and board, and so far as he can tell, it's not unlikely that he's about to have creditors breathing down his neck for the mortgage his dad took out on the house, as well as the evident mess that was his father's credit card debt, not to mention paying the Smiths back.

The day after the funeral, Ryan applied for every entry-level job that paid more than minimum wage that he could find online, in the paper, and by walking down the street, paying attention to "Help Wanted" signs. He was called in for interviews with two offices where they were seeking out an office manager--Ryan had done work-study in the admissions office through most of college, and could give references for administrative jobs--and a job as a bank teller. The offices seemed nice, fairly laid back and young, but it was the bank who offered the most money, so Ryan filled out an I-9 and a W-4 and showed up Monday, seven am sharp.

The first couple of days were training days, and then he was put under the guidance of a "mentor"--i.e., someone who'd worked there a fuck of a lot longer than him. His mentor was actually pretty cool; a guy named Brian who was using the job to pay his way through an MBA while setting up his own music agency and had a multitude of tattoos hidden under his well-starched Oxfords. Ryland and Alex, the account managers who sat out front and set up CDs for people all day long, were good to talk to about music as well--even if they were more folk than Brian's punk--and Ryan's boss treated him with way more respect than any of the office managers at the University ever had, so all in all, it could have been worse. Ryan was always willing to work the days nobody else would--the morning of Christmas Eve, say, or other holidays when the bank was actually open, which brought him time and a half, and the pay was already decent. Brian even helped him find ways to consolidate his debt, make things easier on himself. Pretty much, if it hadn't been for the customers, or the paperwork, or having to work with money, or, really, anything that made him a bank teller, Ryan wouldn't have minded it so much.

As it was, he kind of hated it. He tried not to let it show around Brian or Alex or Ryland, who didn't love it, but found it kind of interesting all the same. On the thirty minutes he got for lunch break, though, he took his peanut butter and jelly, or tuna, or whatever had been the easiest to make the night before, and walked across the street to where there was a Petco. He sat for the half hour watching people try to get their dogs to tell them what kind of toy they wanted, or watching the dogs protest a visit to the vet or the groomer vehemently.

Sometimes, if Spencer didn't have classes that day, he'd come and join Ryan. He tended to bring milkshakes, or fries, or something to go with Ryan's steady diet of cheaply made sandwiches. Mostly, though, it was just Ryan, his sandwich, and the dogs.

*

Ryan wouldn't really have recognized either of the two guys who came into the bank except that they both had the Petco uniforms on and he'd noticed them before, on account of the fact that they were both noticeably short. They were laughing as they walked in, and the guy with the slightly softer face, lighter brown hair, pulled the other one to the desk where Alex was busy trying to catch up on forms. Alex and Ryland were forever behind on forms. Alex smiled up at them--more in relief, Ryan guessed, than anything--and said, "Afternoon, how can I help you?"

The soft guy--who was wearing flip-flops despite the fact that Ryan was pretty sure retail stores required close-toed shoes for their employees--said, "I'm trying to convince Brendon here that banks really are a better idea than a glass jar under his bed."

Brendon elbowed the guy, but not visciously. "That glass jar has totally gotten me through some hard times."

Alex grinned. "Tell you what. Take a seat, take a sucker," Alex offered up the candy jar he kept for children under ten who accompanied their parents on their errands. Brendon and his friend took a seat. The friend reached in, pulling whatever flavor came up first. Brendon took his time, pawing through until he found a red. Ryan approved. Alex said, "All right. You guys on your break?"

They nodded. He asked, "Half-an-hour?"

More nodding. He said, "Give me ten minutes to make you an argument of why my bank is better than your glass jar and another ten minutes to start you on the procedure to set one up."

Brendon looked at the clock. "Three, two, one. You're on."

*

Less than a week later, Ryan was eating his lunch--peanut butter; he'd run out of jelly two days earlier and neither tuna nor deli meats had been on sale the last time he'd shopped--when Brendon walked by and then backed up, smiling. "Hey, you totally work at my bank."

Ryan managed not to snort--mostly because that was seriously bad customer relations--and said, "You have an account with First Civic?"

"I have two accounts, checking and savings." Brendon came and sat down next to Ryan. "Hey, is that a peanut butter sandwich? Huh, I should try that. That shit's always cheaper than the jelly."

Two things passed through Ryan's mind: Alex was clearly a sales genius, and, "Off-brand. You can get it at the dollar store."

"There's a dollar store?" Brendon looked thrilled at this revelation.

"Yeah, it's kinda hard to find." Ryan knew. He'd only found it looking for his dad. He shut off the thought. "Y'know the liquor superstore off exit 29?"

"The one that always looks like Christmas?" Brendon asked.

And while Ryan had never really thought of it that way, because, well, this was near Vegas, lots of shit looked like Christmas, "Yeah. If you go behind the parking lot, there's a strip mall that's mostly dead, but there's a Dollar General there."

"That is the best news I've heard all day. And we even got an announcement that we're going to be stocking gourmet dog treats for Easter."

Ryan looked at him.

Brendon waved a hand. "People love that shit."

Ryan couldn't say why, but he said, "There's also a discount sewing store back there. Remnants and stuff, mostly, but sometimes they have, like, really nice things."

Brendon looked at Ryan for a long moment. "Wanna pet all the animals that are at the vet for the day?"

"Um. Really?" Ryan asked.

"Why do you think I work here?" Brendon asked, and stood, holding his hand out. When Ryan took it, Brendon pulled him up, saying, "Brendon Urie."

"Ryan Ross," Ryan told him.

Brendon said, "Good. Now I know who I can come to for all my checking needs."

*

Unless he was working overtime--also time-and-a-half--Ryan had Sundays and Wednesdays off. He generally used Sundays to sleep in and run any errands that had to be run. Wednesdays, though, were for going out to be with Spencer. Haley had moved up to college at the beginning of the year and they'd gone in on an apartment together, despite her parents not being crazy about the idea. Spencer's parents were willing to do pretty much anything that meant they ended up with Haley as a daughter-in-law, so that hadn't been much of an issue. Haley was usually there in the morning, when Ryan got there, but she tended to find an excuse to give them the day to themselves, and Ryan, in turn, tried to make sure she got the best rates on her CDs, ones that weren't being publicized or anything. She seemed to take it as the sign of love that it was.

Ryan's car--which he treated well, and all, but it was over the 200,000 mile mark, had been over the 150,000 when he'd bought it to drive out to college--broke down on the third Monday of March. Ryan tried everything he could think of to get it to start before giving in with a quiet, "fuck."

He called Brian, who came and picked him up and, after one look at him said, "No worries, we can find you rides. Just kick in a little for the gas, yeah?"

And since Ryan probably wasn't going to be able to afford repairs on his car any time soon he said, "Yeah, thanks," and, "Mind if I turn the radio on?"

"Just don't fuck with the station."

Ryan was fine with that. Brian had good taste.

*

Ryan called Spencer on Tuesday and asked, "You weren't planning on coming into town any time soon, were you?"

"Haley and I were gonna go down to her friend's place in Palm Springs for break, but we could--"

"No, no, I just forgot." Ryan closed his eyes. It had been a long day. A customer had gotten into a screaming match with him over a poorly-written deposit slip and there had been a somewhat serious discrepancy on his drawer that had taken the better part of an hour to figure out. "I just can't make it out there tomorrow. Or probably next week. Maybe for a while."

"You taking extra shifts?"

"Maybe. If they'll let me. Car's fucked up, and I need what I've got right now for the beginning of the month."

"Oh. Well, I mean, I could--"

"No," Ryan said. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the offer about to be made, but he still owed the Smiths for the burial and that was enough to be going on with.

"Ryan--"

"Can we argue about this tomorrow?" Ryan asked.

Spencer was silent for a long moment. Finally he just said, "I'm coming out there on Sunday. That way you don't have to bus to the grocery store, and shit."

Ryan couldn't say that wasn't a relief. The buses in Summerlin were absolute crap. He looked around at the mess that was his house. He'd wanted to clean it up and sell it, but the inspector had said that unless he fixed some serious issues, he wasn't going to get more than the mortgage, and there didn't seem to be much point if he'd just end up paying rent and the difference on the mortgage. "My place is a fucking pit."

"Yeah, because I haven't seen it worse," Spencer said.

That was true, but back then it had mostly been his father's fault. "Just giving fair warning."

"Consider me warned. I'll see you on Sunday."

They'd probably talk before then, but, "Yeah. Thanks."

Spencer made a noise that Ryan knew meant, "whatever, asshole," and hung up. Ryan went to sleep in his clothes.

*

Ryan couldn't swear to it, but he was pretty sure Brendon was taking his breaks at the same time as Ryan. Either that, or he had a lot of time to just fuck off and nobody in the managerial chain seemed to care. Ryan didn't ask, since it was pretty nice, having someone to talk to. Also, Brendon generally would sneak him in to pet the vet patients, which was a big plus in any day.

"You know what the worst day to work here is?" Brendon asked.

"Sunday?" Ryan guessed. Sunday seemed like the day everyone and their stepmother needed to run their fucking errands. It annoyed Ryan to no end.

"Saturday. They have the pet adoptions on Saturdays," Brendon said, looking completely forlorn, and oh.

"Yeah, that's kind of why I avoid it." It was one thing watching other people with their pets, or just other people's pets, but pets that could be his if he could just afford it? That way lied madness.

"Jon has two cats," Brendon said wistfully. Jon, Ryan had learned, was the guy who'd made Brendon give up his glass jar. Ryan had only met Jon once or twice, and he seemed like a pretty nice guy, but Ryan had to wonder what he had done, exactly to deserve luck like that. Brendon continued, "He lives with his girlfriend. That's what I need. If I had a double income household, I could so have a dog. Probably. I have a savings account, you know?"

Ryan also knew that Brendon's savings account held about a hundred dollars, but that was more than Ryan's, and Brendon almost certainly made less, so he wasn't going to throw stones. "You could look in Craigslist. There's always people looking for roommates."

"Yeah, you haven't noticed yet, because I'm totally charming in thirty minute doses, but I'm not the kind of guy anybody wants to live with." Brendon smiled as he said it, the same goofy smile that Ryan was getting used to, but there was something sharp underneath the words and Ryan knew when to leave well enough alone.

"You could always impregnate someone. Then she'd mostly have to take you on. Especially if she was Catholic."

"Impregnate a Catholic girl, huh?" Brendon looked to be considering it. "I like the way you think, Ross."

"Just make sure she likes dogs, first."

"Yeah," Brendon said, nodding his head. "Yeah. Do you think I could get her to take a questionnaire?"

Ryan smirked.

*

"Jon's in a band. Brendon invited me, I guess they're playing at Jitters. Cover's only five dollars, but I probably shouldn't even-- I talked to your dad, he looked at the car for me. He says it's probably gonna take at least five hundred or so." Ryan considered his choice of dollar cereals. It was a tight race between off-brand Rice Crispies and off-brand Corn Pops.

"Friday night? What if Haley and I came in and we all went? That way you'd have a ride." Spencer grabbed the not-Corn Pops and threw it in the cart. Ryan put the other box back.

"Spence--"

"I'm pretty sure the last time you got out of your house for something that wasn't work, errands or visiting me was my birthday party. Which was, like, seven months ago. Seriously, let me float you the five, just so I can be sure I'm not going to come in one day and find you dead in your house, being eaten by wild dogs."

"Unless your family ponies up again, that's the inevitable consequence of my death regardless, at this moment," Ryan said, and grabbed a tube of toothpaste.

Spencer smoothly ignored Ryan's well-delivered fatalism. "Besides, it's been forever since I've seen you interested in anyone."

Ryan stopped and Spencer all-but mowed him over with the shopping cart. "Ow," Ryan said, and, "What?"

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Ryan."

Ryan turned to look at Spencer, feeling frustrated and a bit like walking out, but it wasn't Spencer's groceries in the cart and there wasn't anywhere for Ryan to go. "Spencer."

"Seriously, you talk about this Brendon guy every time we talk. More than your coworkers. And you only see him thirty minutes a day. Some days."

Ryan gave the statement some thought and finally just said, "Huh."

"So, Friday night?"

"I told him to impregnate a nice Catholic girl."

"You've always had interesting ways of expressing your love," Spencer said fondly.

Ryan laughed. "Just make sure to bring Haley. I like her more."

"Done."

*

Jitters was pretty much the only indie coffee house/club type place to have survived the Starbucks invasion for an eighty-or-so mile radius. Ryan almost never went because all their coffee was imported and ridiculously expensive, but it was also the best to be found. Spencer bought him a latte and said, "Shut your fucking face," when Ryan opened his mouth to protest.

Which was of course when Brendon appeared from out of nowhere and said, "Dude, you have got to be Spencer Smith."

Haley turned away to laugh politely and Spencer asked, "Why do I have to be?"

"Because Ryan said you were the snarkiest man to ever live, and it is clear to me that Ryan Ross cannot tell a lie."

"Is it still clear when I tell you that he said you were the spazziest fucker he'd ever met?"

Ryan could walk home. It was only fifteen or so miles. Most of them were decently lit and somewhat populated. Brendon laughed. "He really can't tell a lie!" He threw himself at Spencer. "Hi, I'm Brendon."

"Yeah," Spencer said, from beneath Brendon. "I sort of caught that. And you."

Brendon giggled and let Spencer go, before introducing himself with perfect politeness to Haley. He said, "Hey, c'mon, Tom's saving our seats."

Tom, as it turned out, was Jon's best friend and, "Hey, um. Don't you take pictures for the paper?"

Tom looked at Ryan. "Wait. You were an intern with city, right?"

They shook hands and Ryan asked about some of the people he'd actually liked at the paper and then Jon's set started. Jon was the guitarist, with a tall guy who never once looked up from his instrument on the bass. Their singer/keyboardist was a pretty blond with a surprisingly dusky voice. Ryan couldn't see their drummer behind his kit, but Spencer was keeping time, nodding approvingly, and that was all Ryan really needed to know.

Their stuff was good and Ryan found himself closing his eyes, just listening, letting himself not think about the bank or bills or anything, just for a little bit. At the break he came out of his trance to Brendon's, "Hey, you want another coffee?"

The first one had been awesome, but if Ryan hadn't been planning on paying five bucks to get in, he wasn't going to blow it on coffee when he had a machine at home. Sure, Folgers wasn't quite the same, but it did the job. "No, thanks."

Jon was there, then, saying, "Yeah, he doesn't need another one, either."

"I was going for hot chocolate, just so you know," Brendon said with the utmost dignity.

"Oh, yeah, well that makes it better." Jon grinned. He asked Ryan, "So? What do you think?"

"Uh," Ryan said. "I mean. You're really good. I, yeah, I'm glad I came."

Jon introduced Ryan to Cassie, and then the rest of his band, Greta and Mikey and Nate, who was the drummer, and pretty cute once he came out from behind the drums. By the time it was all over, the band needed to be back for a second set and Brendon was setting a coffee down in front of Ryan. "Um, just the coffee of the day, because I didn't know--"

"I said--"

"Yeah, well." Brendon smiled. "My treat."

Even over Greta announcing the next song, Ryan could hear Spencer snickering. It wasn't easy to resist flipping him off, but Ryan did. He was an adult like that.

*

It wasn't until Ryan was bitching to Brendon about the fact that not one, but two of his guitar strings were broken that Ryan learned about Brendon being some kind of bizarre music savant. It came up because Ryan's lunch that day was tuna without bread, which was skimping a little even for Ryan and Brendon said, "How's the car?"

"Still fucked, but I think I can get it taken care of next month. Ryland helped me figure out a couple of places I could save, and I've been taking a few Wednesday shifts, so it shouldn't be long. I just kind of want to get my guitar back in working order, so, yeah."

"I didn't know you had a guitar."

"Yeah. Dad gave it to me when I was twelve. It's not the greatest or anything, but I try and keep it up." Ryan took a bite and didn't think about how his dad had kept it the biggest secret ever, and how much Ryan had wanted the damn thing.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Oh, just strings. Two, which, one sounds stupid enough, but two--"

"Oh, hey, I have, like, a million extra strings. Seriously. You should have just said."

Ryan raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know you played."

"Played what?" Jon asked, hauling one of the ten pound bags of dog food past them. "Which one of the quatrillion instruments Brendon plays have you just learned about?"

Then he was gone and Brendon was left glaring in his wake. He said to Ryan. "I like music. I work part time for a music store. I wanted to work full time, but they couldn't give me the hours, and a guy's gotta eat, so." He shrugged. "But yeah, strings aren't an issue. We get those fuckers for, like, a dollar."

Ryan considered this. "Okay. Thanks. You really play a lot of instruments?"

"I dabble," Brendon said. "It's not-- Jon always makes it sound like I'm some kind of prodigy, but I just had a lot of free time as a kid."

Ryan said, "Okay," because Brendon didn't seem to want to be pushed. "Maybe, uh, we could play some time."

There was a beat and Ryan was about to retract the offer when suddenly he had an armful of Brendon and Brendon was saying, "Awesome, Ryan Ross, that's totally fucking awesome."

Ryan bit his lip under the torture of being able to reach out and touch Brendon, but not take him for his own. In the end, he settled for patting Brendon's back a little. "Yeah. Yeah, it'll be good."

*

They decided to play at Ryan's because a) Brendon had a working car and b) Brendon's neighbors bitched at him when he tried to play, so all in all, it was just for the best. Ryan tried, desperately, to clean a little bit, let some light in, make it look like he wasn't living a life of sloth and misery. It must have worked because when Brendon came in he did a quick once over with his eyes and then said--sincerely, so far as Ryan could tell--"Wow, nice place."

"Thanks. You want something to drink? I've got, um, water and I think I've got one thing of frozen OJ left." Ryan opened the freezer and sure enough, there it was. His freezer was pretty barren except for a few microwave meals, so it was kind of hard for anything to hide.

"You know what's the best?" Brendon didn't stop to be certain Ryan wanted to know. "Defrosting that stuff just enough that you can eat it with a spoon."

"Huh," Ryan said, and took it out of the freezer, tossing it into the sink. "Meantime, water?"

"Giver of life," Brendon agreed.

Ryan grabbed two glasses and filled them while Brendon said, "I wasn't really sure what you'd wanna do so I brought my guitar and my Casio, but it's, y'know, whatever. And I can always go back to my place for my bass, or, yeah, I dunno. One of these days I'll take you to the store after hours where I can play a real piano and then we'll be talking."

Ryan didn't miss the wistfulness in Brendon's "real piano." He didn't comment on it, either. "I just thought we'd, y'know, maybe some stuff we both know. Maybe fuck around a bit."

Brendon nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that's. Awesome."

Brendon wandered into the living room, where Ryan had left his guitar. It had better acoustics than the rest of the house. Brendon asked, "You mind?"

To his surprise, Ryan said, "No," and actually meant it. He didn't regret it, watching the way Brendon handled the instrument with ease and familiarity.

Brendon asked, "Epiphone?"

"Yeah." Ryan shrugged. "It's not much."

"You take good care of her," Brendon said, distractedly, fiddling a little with the tuning nobs. He set her down then and smiled. "So, we play?"

Ryan sat down. "Have, like, a favorite?"

"Several."

*

Spencer found the notebook while he was hanging out, making Ryan help him study for his Econ final. He walked into the kitchen to grab the chips he'd brought as payment and asked, "You been writing?"

"Little," Ryan admitted. He didn't really want to talk about it, but this was Spencer, so he'd answer questions.

Spencer reappeared, sans chips. "That's... Okay, that's good. That's really good."

"Spence, it's not--"

"It is. A big deal," Spencer said.

"I just felt like it."

"Yeah, well. You haven't since your dad died."

Ryan flinched. For the most part, Spencer didn't say anything about it to him and Ryan, in return, kept his own mouth shut on the topic. He hadn't even been sure whose wishes he'd been honoring until just then. "I'm allowed to grieve."

"Ryan, I love you as much, if not more, than my sisters, but I swear, you're such a fucking asshole at times."

"Tell me something I don't know, Spence."

Spencer's mouth pressed into a hard line. "Okay. How about the fact that you loved him? That you never once had to say those words to me or to him for both of us to know."

"Spence--"

"No, my turn still. He knew, Ryan. And he loved you back and it's shit that you're twenty-two and he's dead, because nobody deserves that. And nobody's judging you for having loved your father, not even if he drank too much and he could be a mean fucker when he needed some more. Nobody's sitting there and thinking you're stupid, nobody except you."

Ryan pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes and willed them to stop burning, stop fucking burning. He could hear Spencer sighing, moving toward him, but somehow he didn't expect the arms that came around him, even though it was the only plausible thing for Spencer to do. Ryan lashed out, trying to hurt Spencer, to get away, hurt himself, he wasn't even sure, but Spencer seemed to expect it and just held on, held until the burning in Ryan's eyes was wet and harsh and Ryan's lungs hurt from heaving. Then Ryan collapsed, folded in onto Spencer, sobbing and messy, and Spencer said, "Yeah, just. Yeah."

*

Spencer made coffee when the worst of it had passed. He handed Ryan his with a roll of toilet paper, and Ryan sniffled and sipped his way through the last of it. He said, quietly, "When I write, I hear the stuff in Brendon's voice. That's-- That's what made me, y'know, start. Again."

"He sings?" Spencer asked.

"No, no, Spence. He's a singer."

Spencer took a sip and said, "Okay. That's good."

*

Brendon showed up at the door of the bank an hour after closing, knocked and made pathetic faces until, laughing, Ryan went to let him in. "Now you know the advantage of a glass jar."

"It never tells me my money's put away for the night?"

"Precisely."

"Clearly, you never met my glass jar," Brendon said, grinning. "You're off soon, right?"

"Brian and I just have to finish the last of the closing procedures."

"Okay, I'll just go sit in that chair and read your year old Newsweeks. There's bound to be something I missed."

"Way to keep on top of current events," Ryan said, and went to help Brian so that they could both get the hell out of there.

Once Brian had locked up, Brendon lead Ryan to his car. Ryan asked, "Where to?" but Brendon just shook his head, and that was fine. It wasn't like Ryan had plans. Brendon drove them to one of the nicer areas and stopped in the parking lot for a sedate, stately looking store with the name A Note to Follow. It was admittedly classier than the Guitar Center Ryan generally relied on for all his needs.

Brendon knocked at the back door and a guy in an actual cardigan answered. He said, "Don't get me in trouble, Bren."

Brendon held up three fingers. "Scout's Honor."

"Yeah, you're way too much of a sodomite for that crowd to have let you in," the guy said.

Brendon laughed and kissed his cheek teasingly. "Thanks, Patrick, for true."

Patrick turned to Ryan and said, "Ryan, right?"

Ryan nodded. Patrick said, "Keep him in check."

"Uh--"

"Okay kids. Later. Don't do anything that I wouldn't do."

After Patrick had left Brendon said, "What he doesn't know won't hurt him. C'mon," and took Ryan into the showroom.

There were instruments of all kinds, percussion and woodwind and string, but Brendon headed straight to the cherry wood Steinway grand. Next to it there was a Gibson acoustic on a stand and Brendon said, "Excellent. I asked Patrick to leave something nice out."

"Nice" was kind of an understatement. For a second, Ryan was afraid to touch the thing. Then his desire for it overcame anything else, and Ryan went to it, settling it in his fingers and did his best not to do something embarrassing, like coo. Brendon was running through some scales, stroking the keys in a way that caused Ryan to lower the guitar a little, because, fuck. Brendon asked, softly, "What's your pleasure?"

And that was it. Ryan hadn't so much as caressed another human being since Keltie had transferred to ABA in their junior year and he was only human, all right? He set the Gibson carefully on its stand and pushed Brendon back slightly from the piano. Brendon said, "Ry--"

But Ryan just said, "Keep playing. Whatever, I don't-- Just play."

Brendon had to reach a bit, but he did as told, over Ryan's head once Ryan had gotten to his knees and was working on the button to Brendon's jeans. Ryan got them open, pulled Brendon through the slit in his boxers and went down on him. It had been a while since Ryan had done this--Spencer and him had practiced, and stuff, sure, but that was in high school--and he choked a bit at first, but then he found the right depth, the right rhythm. Brendon's playing was completely erratic, but that wasn't the point, the point was the sound, the thought of his fingers against the white/black of the keys. That drove Ryan to palm at his own cock, hard enough to take the immediate edge off.

Brendon was making sounds in time with the plucking of the keys, not exactly singing, but not wholly not, and Ryan took him deep as he could manage, swallowing against the head of Brendon's cock, squeezing at the root with his fist. Brendon said, "Ryan, Ryan," and the sound of his voice made Ryan desperate to rub against something. He enjoyed not allowing himself, the almost-pain of holding off.

Above him Brendon jerked and Ryan backed off a little, enough to swallow. Normally he wasn't so much into that, or he never had been, but no way was Ryan having them mess up the Steinway, and there was something hot about it, about the vibration of the instrument at his back, the soreness of his knees, his desperation, and Brendon's surprised, quick panting breaths. When he was finished, Ryan pulled off, giving the head one last, strong lick. Brendon whimpered, but Ryan ignored it, tucking him back in.

Brendon was shaking and he had stopped playing to run his fingers through Ryan's hair. Ryan looked up. "I, uh, I didn't read the signs wrong, or anything, right?"

Brendon's eyes were huge and for a second he just stared at Ryan before breaking out into laughter. He pushed the bench back with his body so that he could get to his knees as well, somewhat atop Ryan. His kisses were messy, but sweet and Ryan had missed this, missed having his neck cupped in the palm of someone's hand, tasting someone on his lips. Brendon had all the same callouses he had, and the softest hair Ryan had ever felt. Ryan said, "Good," and "Brendon," and "Yeah, yeah," pressing himself into Brendon's thigh, but Brendon said, "No, hey," or something like that, most of it was lost in a kiss.

Brendon wasn't smooth about getting Ryan's pants undone--they had to break the kiss for a moment, then Ryan was dragging him back in--but his hand wrapped firm and perfect around Ryan and Ryan bucked into the hold, said, "Fuck," and, "please," and yeah, it had been way, way too fucking long. Brendon said, "Didn't think-- Jesus, Ryan," and kept his rhythm, pressing into Ryan, backing him against the pedal bars, and Ryan could feel the pressure of them against his back, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Brendon's hand, its backforthback.

Ryan said, "Yeah, just," and then gave in, tightening before going limp onto Brendon, who caught him with ease, stronger and more sturdy than Ryan would really have expected.

After a long moment, his fingers brushing softly at the skin of Ryan's back, just under the hem of his shirt, Brendon said, "I'm pretty sure Patrick wouldn't have done that."

Ryan laughed so hard it made his stomach ache.

Part 2