Archive of Our Own

ONE

Yoga is difficult for the one whose mind is not subdued. (Bhagavad Gita)

“Degenerates,” Ryan mutters. “My friends are all degenerates.”

He kicks the bottom of Spencer’s vintage Nike sneaker. It’s bright pink around the edges with a rubbery sole.

“Oh, go write a poem about it,” Spencer sighs, flinging one arm over his eyes.

“You want some?” Jon asks from where he’s sprawled out on Spencer’s bed. “There’s a toke or two left. Spence, where did you put the bong?”

Spencer makes inarticulate sounds and turns over on his stomach, pressing his cheek into the carpet.

“It’s good shit,” Jon says.

“I have class in like half an hour,” Ryan says, sniffing and wrinkling his nose. Spencer’s bedroom smells like weed and b.o. “Can you move your dumb ass please? I need a book.”

“I’m comfortable,” Spencer mumbles. “Skip class.”

“I like this class,” Ryan says. “We’re reading Byron. Byron fucking rules.”

Spencer snorts, finally shifting to give Ryan just enough space to wedge himself into the tiny bedroom. Ryan drops his backpack onto the desk chair with an exaggerated sigh and begins pawing through a pile of books on the floor. Goddamn his bedroom for being too small to fit his own desk.

“Hey, so, Ryan,” Jon says. “We were thinking, for your birthday – roller skating party?”

“I vote for bowling,” Spencer says. “There’s probably bowling easily accessible somewhere.”

“Or, y’know, pizza?” Jon scratches at his beard. “Whatever toppings you want. Go nuts.”

“You guys are hilarious,” Ryan says, lifting his copy of Don Juan from the stack. “Just because I’m not drinking doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time.”

“But it makes it so much more difficult,” Spencer complains. “We’re in college, Ryan. Did you not notice?”

“Byron would be totally down with drinking,” Jon says. “He would, I know it.”

“Probably,” Ryan says. “I don’t think making Byron your role model is a good idea, though. Dude had a lot of STDs.”

“Oh syphilis, let down your golden hair,” Jon says, gesticulating with one hand and nearly slamming it into the wall.

“I’m going to class,” Ryan says. “Don’t you assholes ever go to class?”

“When I get bored,” Spencer says. “When I’m not with Haley.”

Ryan pales. “Oh God.”

Thinking of Haley reminds him of what may have transpired on this desk. Multiple times. He spins around, slings his bag over his shoulder, and pushes his way out the door.

“Damn,” Ryan can hear Spencer say. “Ever since he discovered Rimbaud and clean living, he’s so boring.”

“Speaking of syphilis,” Jon says thoughtfully.

“Don’t Bogart that shit, man,” Spencer says, and Ryan knows he’s reaching for the pipe.

*

Brendon marches out of the changing room and nearly runs headlong into Pete. Pete is wearing tight black jeans, a t-shirt with a tuxedo print, and a red and black hoodie – in other words, his formal wear. The shoelaces of his red sneakers are undone, and his shoe flaps gape like open mouths.

And this is my boss, Brendon thinks affectionately.

“Brendon!” Pete says, and pulls him into a hug. Pete is a fan of the buddy hug. “You look fantastic.”

Brendon glances down at his typical teaching ensemble – sweatpants and a t-shirt. “Uh – thanks.”

“So you might be aware that my wife is pregnant,” Pete says.

Brendon resists rolling his eyes. Ashlee is seven months along now, give or take a week or two, and Brendon’s been hearing about it practically since the day they found out. Pete carries a sonogram picture around in his wallet. It’s adorable, except for when it’s annoying – which is often.

“I was thinking that I’ll have to take some time off when the baby’s born,” Pete says. “You know, to help Ashlee out. And that means you might have to do a little extra work around here to give Frank the support he needs, you know?”

“Help Frank how?” Brendon asks. He’s not so good with needles, and Frank’s job definitely involves them. A lot.

“You know, with the books. Stuff like that.” Pete gestures vaguely with one hand. “No big thing, really. I’d pay you extra, of course.”

Brendon wasn’t even aware Decaydance Intuitive Yoga (DIY) had books. Pete tends to give the impression that he does the accounts in his head, possibly while enjoying a tasty snack.

“What’s most important, really, is preserving the ethos of this place,” Pete says. “Music and meditation, towards a more perfect union, sound and silence, peace and harmony…know what I mean?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you need, man,” Brendon nods. When Pete gets on an evangelical tangent, it’s best to go wherever he’s headed.

Pete smiles brightly, showcasing two rows of straight white teeth.

“This place is my dream,” Pete says, looping one hand in the air. “Music, body art and inner peace – one stop shopping. What could possibly be better than that?”

Brendon’s stomach rumbles.

“Lunch, yes,” Pete nods, as if translating the sounds of Brendon’s tummy into English. “Good point. What are your feelings on quesadillas?”

“Generally good,” Brendon says. “I have generally good feelings about quesadillas.”

*

After class Ryan heads up to North Beach to write. It requires that he take about six buses, but he reads Byron along the way and feels smarter by the time he gets there. Ryan digs North Beach. It’s touristy and a tiny bit skeezy with its strip clubs and adult “book stores,” but the air smells like garlic and cheese and salt and literary history. Ryan always feels like a real writer here, no matter how the writing’s actually going.

And yet North Beach is also a bit of an exercise in masochism: good coffee everywhere and not a drop to drink. Ryan settles into a grungy booth at Vesuvio with a sigh, orders a hot tea from a waitress with approximately sixteen facial piercings and a judgmental, sardonic smirk, and waits for the cosmic vibes of Allen Ginsberg to help him out.

Writing is a struggle these days, what with his self-imposed moratorium on the use of any and all substances that might somehow result in chemical dependency. Last semester when Ryan was fucked up on Adderall and hard liquor 99% of the time, he wrote like crazy. None of it was any good, of course, but at least he was writing something. Lately he’s been feeling like the literary equivalent of a clogged toilet.

Ryan sits. And taps his pen against the table. And sits some more. And ponders the chipped paint on the wall. And sighs.

His cell vibrates, skittering across the mottled wooden table top. He lunges for it before it makes a suicidal leap for the sticky floor. God, he totally feels its pain.

“Hey, so,” Spencer says, “we decided on the color streamers for your party.”

“I’m writing,” Ryan lies.

“Pink and sparkly,” Spencer continues, as if Ryan hadn’t said anything at all. “They have them at this arts and crafts place on Mission. And we can get you ice cream cake! Do you want a piñata? Because I can hook you up.”

Ryan hangs up. About thirty seconds pass before his phone whirs again.

“That was rude,” Spencer says. “If I didn’t know better I would think you were busy.”

“You can stop being a douchebag at any time,” Ryan says. “Seriously.”

“Jon and I are excited, okay? We got you the best present ever. Just wait until you see.”

“I’m scared,” Ryan says.

“You shouldn’t be. It’s awesome. So, for real, pink and sparkly? They’ll match that scarf you bought at Forever 21. You know, the one with the grasshoppers?”

This time Ryan hangs up and turns off his phone.

*

“I cannot believe,” Ryan says through gritted teeth, “that you actually got streamers.”

“Pink and sparkly,” Spencer nods. “Just like you wanted!”

Ryan clenches his hand into a fist.

“Hey, do you want a virgin daiquiri?” Jon asks. “Strawberry and delicious!”

“You guys didn’t have to do anything for my – “

The doorbell rings then and Spencer goes off to answer it, returning with Haley, petite and brunette, and Cassie, slender and blonde, one hanging off each arm.

Cassie is Jon’s girlfriend – they’ve been together since freshman year when they met in an intro black & white photography class. Ryan likes to imagine that somewhere there exist very arty pictures of them both naked – perhaps separately, perhaps together – though Jon insists this is not even a remote possibility.

Haley is Spencer’s current fuck buddy, a fact that Ryan is all too frequently reminded of when he happens to walk in on them en flagrante on Ryan and Spencer’s living room couch. Ryan is no prude, but he feels like maybe he’s seen Haley’s boobs a few too many times for someone who’s not actually fucking her.

“Ryan Ross,” Haley says, tweaking his nose and gracing him with a pretty smile. “You’re going to be twenty-one!”

“Actually, I am twenty-one,” Ryan says.

“Whatever,” she says. “Is Jon here?”

Is Jon here? is the universal code for Where is the marijuana? Ryan sighs and points her towards the kitchen, where Jon is busying himself making some kind of frightening concoction using their blender, a fuckton of ice, Malibu and what looks to be mojito mix.

“Spencer,” Ryan says, “I have homework to do, you know.”

“You are not doing homework on your birthday, you asshole,” Spencer says. “Anyway, school started like three days ago. Drink your daiquiri and shut the fuck up.”

Ryan obeys. There’s no way he can get to his books right now anyway, as there are far too many dudes with creative facial hair in tight jeans and band t-shirts in between him and his bedroom. Who are these people? He has no idea. How is it that college parties always seem to attract complete strangers? Where do they all come from?

The apartment smells vaguely like enchiladas from the Salvadoran restaurant downstairs, spicy and greasy, and Ryan wishes he could go lock himself in his room and put on his headphones and pretend like none of this is happening. He briefly wonders if the public library is open this late.

Thirty minutes later Ryan is occupying the last remaining square of space in his own living room, trying not to get elbowed in the head by some enthusiastic guys who are pogo-ing to the Clash.

“Spencer,” Ryan whispers. “Spencer.”

“So we got you this present,” Spencer slurs, and slips an envelope into Ryan’s hand.

“Did you get me money?” Ryan says. “I’m going to get a job, okay?”

“Getting a job is not your problem,” Spencer says. “Keeping one is. But that’s beside the point. Open it and see.”

Ryan unfolds the flap of the envelope and pulls out a slip of paper. It’s rectangular with gold edging, and it reads Decaydance Intuitive Yoga on the top in loopy cursive letters.

“What the –“

“It’s a gift certificate,” Spencer says. “One complete series of classes.”

“Yoga?” Ryan squeaks.

Jon slings an arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “It’s not just regular yoga, dude. It’s dance punk yoga.”

“Yoga,” Ryan repeats.

“You’re going to love it,” Spencer says. “Love it, Ryan. Love it.”

“Dance punk yoga?” Ryan says. His voice cracks. “What does that even mean?”

*

Frank watches Brendon contort himself into a modified Lotus Pose in the middle of their living room rug. Sun streams through their large bay window, making the room glow.

“That never stops being freaky,” Frank says. “You do it every morning, and it’s always, always freaky.”

“It’s not that hard,” Brendon says, lifting his hands and pressing his palms together at the center of his chest.

“You say that, and then I end up with a sprained back and cramps in places I didn’t even know I had muscles,” Frank mutters, stirring his coffee briskly with his spoon.

“You have to work up to it,” Brendon says cheerfully. “Are you coming to beginners today? It’s going to be rad. I have, like, twenty people in the class.”

“Are you trying to say no one will notice me embarrassing myself?” Frank asks.

“You do just fine,” Brendon says, rising gracefully to a standing position and brushing off his sweatpants. “I was thinking, like, 70s retro day? Disco?”

Frank makes a face like he’s just been asked to drink cod liver oil. “Why would you do that to these poor people? That’s just cruel.”

“Well, I can’t do Mogwai every single day,” Brendon says, stretching his arms out in front of him and bending at the waist. “Or Broken Social Scene. Or – fucking Flaming Lips, so don’t even.”

Frank smiles. “You know me so well.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, straightens, then wanders over to the kitchen island and steals Frank’s coffee.

“Cut Copy,” Frank suggests. “Or Scissor Sisters, even. Compromise. I have to listen to that shit too, you know.”

Brendon shrugs, taking a sip from Frank’s mug. “I can be persuaded. Terms can be negotiated.”

“No Death Cab,” Frank warns. “I can’t do fucking tattoos to Death Cab.”

“Noted,” Brendon says, and marches off to take a shower.

“No music from The O.C.,” Frank shouts over the sound of running water. Brendon doesn’t answer. “I take your silence as compliance,” Frank calls out.

“Arcade Fire,” Brendon calls from behind the closed door. “Exception for Arcade Fire?”

“I agree to your terms,” Frank concedes.

*

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Ryan says. “I don’t even own any sweatpants.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, then stoops down to rummage through a pile of clothes on his closet floor. He finds a pair of black sweatpants and tosses them at Ryan, hitting him in the chest.

“Are these even clean?” Ryan asks, examining them as if they’re alien, otherworldly.

“Ish,” Spencer says. “It’s not like I wear them a lot.”

“You mean for all those times you work out?”

“Don’t be mean,” Spencer drawls.

“You bought me fucking yoga classes,” Ryan says, stuffing the pants into a duffel bag. “The gloves are off, my friend.”

“It’s dance punk yoga,” Spencer says, putting a hand on his hip and cocking it. “I fail to see any part of this that is not awesome.”

“I am going to suck at it,” Ryan sulks. “Whatever the opposite of flexible is? That’s what I am.”

“Stiff?” Spencer asks, arching an eyebrow.

Ryan narrows his eyes.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” Spencer says. “I’m just a human thesaurus, okay.”

Ryan eyes him silently.

“I wasn’t even making a comment about your vow of chastity,” Spencer says. His mouth twitches at the corners.

“I did not take a vow of chastity,” Ryan says.

“Oh, you just refuse to sleep with anyone.”

“I am looking for something meaningful,” Ryan says, but he sounds ridiculous even to his own ears.

“Well, that’s what yoga is for,” Spencer says. “Meaning. Release of tension. Toning. Unity of body and mind.”

“I still hate you,” Ryan says as he pushes his way out of the door.

“You’ll thank me later,” Spencer says. “I know this!”

Ryan resists the urge to turn around and punch Spencer in the face.

*

Ryan glances around the yoga studio at the fit, most likely incredibly flexible bodies of about fifteen women and a couple of very gay men. Everyone is wearing form-fitting exercise pants in panoply of colors and tank tops or sports bras, and the sheer quantity of polyester is making him a little ill. He is seriously going to hurl.

Then Ryan looks down and realizes that shit, he is going to have to take off his shoes.

He is going to eviscerate Spencer and Jon for this, kill them dead with a butter knife and a cheese grater. Pluck out their eyelashes and –

“Hey everyone!” an enthusiastic shout emanates from the front of the room. Ryan’s head snaps up and takes in the sight of a small, wiry guy with unruly dark hair and a winning smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His bare feet. Son of a bitch. Ryan stoops down to slip off his shoes and socks.

“Namaste,” the guy says, pressing his palms together and bowing slightly. “I’m Brendon, for any of you who are new today.”

“Hi, Brendon,” a cluster of girls on the left side of the room twitter, then dissolve into giggles.

“Now, you ladies know me already,” Brendon says, his smile widening. His eyes are round and bright, and his lips look…soft. Brendon’s wearing snug yoga pants that still manage to hang low on his hips, and when he stretches his arms over his head his t-shirt rides up to reveal a narrow scrap of stomach.

Ryan blinks. Toned. Right. Spencer had mentioned something about that.

“I need everyone to grab a mat,” Brendon says, and Ryan realizes he’s the only one still standing shell-shocked in the middle of the room like an idiot. Ryan spots the stack of rolled up mats in the corner and makes a beeline for them, feeling eighteen pairs of eyes follow him.

“So we’re going to start today with a little breathing,” Brendon is saying as Ryan settles down onto his mat, a blush heating his cheeks.

Breathing, Ryan thinks. Yeah, maybe I could use some help with that.

*

An hour later, Ryan is regretting giving Brendon his name when he asked for it.

Really regretting it.

“Ryan, I need you to pull up – up – a little farther, okay? You’ve got long arms, reach up–“

Ryan stifles a groan as he tries to reach up farther, but he is fairly certain that his body is not supposed to go that way.

“Here, wait,” Brendon says, and suddenly he’s behind Ryan, hand pressed to the center of his back, right below his shoulderblades. Ryan sucks in a breath. “That’s it, breathe,” Brendon says, though Ryan’s not sure he had any intention of exhaling because holy shit, Brendon’s hand is on Ryan’s back. Then Brendon’s other hand drops to his waist and Ryan’s spine does something magical because he’s able to reach farther, higher, and it feels – it feels impossible and yet kind of amazing, the stretch, sort of like the first time he –

“Good!” Brendon exclaims. “Great job, Ryan.”

Ryan tries to keep breathing, because that train of thought wasn’t helping anybody, and Spencer’s sweatpants don’t exactly hide much.

Class is over thirty minutes later, and Ryan watches resentfully as the other students file out, laughing and talking as if they hadn’t been through the most excruciating and humiliating experience of their lives.

Ryan lingers, wanting to catch Brendon alone, but it seems like everyone wants to talk to him. Brendon has a kind smile or a friendly pat on the back for each of his students, and it doesn’t escape Ryan’s attention that Brendon seems to know something about every single one of them, asking after their kids or jobs or their fucking…backyard landscaping projects.

Finally everyone leaves and Ryan is standing there with his duffel slung over one shoulder, feeling awkward. He probably should have changed, but the sweatpants are kind of comfy and his limbs feel achy and fragile, like if he moves them too much in any direction they might snap.

"Ryan,” Brendon says. He’s crouched down on the floor, rolling up his mat, and Ryan can see the waistband of his underwear peeking out of the top of his yoga pants. His boxers are baby blue.

“Yeah, so,” Ryan addresses the floor, “I don’t think I’m going to take this class.”

Brendon looks up, surprised, then unfolds himself into a standing position. “You’re not?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “But it was kind of a gift from my friends, and I was wondering if maybe I could get their money back?”

Brendon furrows his brow. “Was it the disco?”

Ryan stares at him. Brendon lifts his shoulders almost to his ears and rolls them, a tight, graceful movement.

“Frankie says I drive people away with the disco. Not everybody loves the BeeGees the way I do, I realize –“

Ryan was so not paying attention to the music, God. “No, no, I just think – this isn’t really my thing, and –“

“You’re a virgin, right?” Brendon says.

“Excuse me?” Ryan says.

“A yoga virgin,” Brendon says. “You’ve never done this before.”

“Um, yeah,” Ryan says. His heart is racing.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Brendon says, looking up at Ryan from under his eyelashes. “One more class, and if you still hate it I’ll talk to Pete and get your friends a refund.”

Ryan hesitates.

“At the very least, you lose an hour and a half of your life,” Brendon says. “At the most, you decide you might like it and you learn something. It’s not such a bad deal, man. What could it hurt?”

Up close, Brendon’s even better-looking: deep dark eyes, long eyelashes and full lips.

“Okay,” Ryan murmurs.

“Awesome,” Brendon says, and grasps Ryan’s arm briefly and squeezes. Brendon’s a toucher, Ryan’s noticed – one of those people who doesn’t think twice about giving hugs to total strangers.

“Okay,” Ryan repeats.

He can still feel where Brendon’s hands touched him before – his back, his hip, his bicep. He turns to leave.

“Wait, Ryan?” Brendon says. Ryan turns back. “Your friends gave you yoga lessons as a present?”

“Yeah,” Ryan mutters, lifting his eyes. Brendon’s smiling. “My friends are assholes.”

*

Frank is cleaning up the tattoo room when Brendon bounds down the stairs dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, a lilac-colored hoodie and purple sneakers.

“I heard what you did there,” Frank says without turning around.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Brendon wanders over to a corner of the reception area where a record player sits atop a cabinet filled with vinyl and begins pawing through the selection with intent.

“You slipped some BeeGees in,” Frank says. “I was not happy.”

“Two songs!” Brendon exclaims. “Like two songs, Frankie, it wasn’t even – “

“No, no, no, no,” Frank says, holding up one hand as if to halt Brendon’s train of thought. He tosses a rag into a plastic bag in the corner and lifts his own black hoodie from the chair. “You are a liar, and I think you should cook dinner tonight to make it up to me.”

“It is not my fault my students like disco,” Brendon says primly.

“Your students like you,” Frank says. “They will listen to whatever you put on because they like to watch you contort yourself into weird positions for ninety minutes.”

Brendon looks affronted. “Are you trying to say that my students come to my class for reasons other than their desire for inner peace through mindfulness of body and spirit?”

Frank scratches at his eyebrow ring. He does not look convinced.

“I almost had one guy quit on me today,” Brendon says, “but I talked him out of it, because I’m awesome.”

“Mmm,” Frank nods as Brendon collects a stack of records and stuffs them into his duffel. “Skinny scene kid with emo hair wearing eyeliner, looked terrified when he walked in?”

Ryan had looked terrified; it was sort of endearing. He was very deer-in-the-headlights, wide brown eyes flashing with anxiety. In class Brendon could practically see him making the calculations needed for every motion: Am I doing this right? Am I now? Now?

“Ryan,” Brendon nods. “This was his first yoga class ever, so I convinced him to give it another try. It would suck if he just gave up, you know?”

Frank raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, it’d be tragic.”

“What are you implying, exactly?” Brendon asks, one hand on his hip.

“Your reasons for wanting this guy to stick around have nothing to do with the fact that he was lanky and pretty, huh?”

Brendon’s mouth drops open. “I beg your pardon, I –“

“You have a type, that’s all,” Frank says with a sly smile. “Don’t even try to deny it, I know you.”

“Well, I –“ Brendon sputters.

Frank places a hand on his shoulder, using the other to push the glass doors that open out onto Valencia. “It’s okay, Bren. If you want to help this Ryan kid achieve inner peace through mindfulness, it’s cool with me. Just don’t do it in the kitchen near the food or in the shower, alright?”

Brendon’s capable of a strong shove when he wants to be, especially for a little guy. Frank, who’s not exactly a giant himself, nearly goes flying into oncoming traffic.

“Just for that completely uncalled for remark, I think you should make me dinner,” Brendon announces.

Frank frowns all the way back to the apartment.

*

Ryan stops by Idol Vintage after yoga class. Spencer is sitting behind the register, filing his nails and looking bored. He has barrettes in his hair.

“Cute,” Ryan says, gesturing to the hair accessories.

“Haley got them for me,” Spencer says. “They’re butterflies.”

Ryan used to think Spencer and Haley were just fucking around, but he’s starting to think Spencer may have found his future wife.

“How was yoga?” Spencer asks.

Ryan applauds him for attempting to keep a straight face, though he can see Spencer’s eyelid twitch with the effort.

“Painful,” Ryan says.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer lies. His blue eyes glint with mischief.

“It was kind of okay,” Ryan admits. “I mean – the teacher is pretty cool.”

Spencer arches an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, leaning on the counter with his elbows. “So can I get one of those belts with the flowers? Do you have any left in back?”

“Stop deflecting,” Spencer says. “How is this teacher ‘cool’?”

In his mind Ryan can see Brendon, smiling, eyes dark and light all at once, feel the way his hand felt on Ryan’s back – warm, solid, gentle, present.

“He just is,” Ryan says. “Shut up and get me a belt.”

*

“So tell me about the yoga,” Jon says as he makes Ryan a decaf lowfat no whip mocha at Tazza D’Amore in the Castro the next morning.

“What about it,” Ryan says flatly.

“Was it amazing?” Jon says. “Did it change your perspective on life?”

“It changed my perspective on ways my legs can bend, I can tell you that,” Ryan says. He holds up a Fleet Foxes CD. “Are you selling this?”

Jon snatches it away. “Does this look like a Starbucks? That is our copy. Go to Amoeba like normal people do, jackass.”

Ryan pouts, hunching his shoulders.

“I think it changed you,” Jon nods. “I see changes already.”

“You know what would totally change me?” Ryan asks. “If I had a decaf lowfat no whip mocha so I could go to class and learn things.”

Jon shoves the cardboard cup across the counter with a smirk.

“You’re such a funny guy, Ross.”

“What can I say,” Ryan shrugs as he turns to leave, flipping one end of his paisley scarf over his shoulder. “It’s a gift.”

*

Several days later Ryan is due to have his second yoga class. He gets to the studio early. He doesn’t mean to – he’s found that since he quit smoking, though, he’s forever arriving early. Something about having that extra five minutes has fucked up his entire equilibrium.

When he pushes open the big glass door he hears the quiet buzzing of the tattoo needle mixed with the sound of raised voices in the office next to the reception area.

“If you’re not going to show up, can you at least call?”

A tall, thin guy wearing a purple hoodie and a disinterested look on his face sidles out into the reception area. He’s trailed by Brendon, whose face is contorted with irritation.

“I told you, something came up,” the guy says, adjusting the cuff of his hoodie.

“Well, then tell us that, Gabe,” Brendon says. “Preferably with enough notice that we can find a sub and not have to cancel dance aerobics.”

“Right,” Gabe says, already distracted. “Vicky’s waiting. Later, dude.”

Brendon visibly deflates as Gabe saunters out. He runs a hand through his messy dark hair, mussing it further.

“That guy is a tool,” Ryan hears a voice come from the tattoo room, and the buzzing from the needle pauses. A small, wiry dude with straight black hair that angles across his forehead and a t-shirt that proclaims Frankie Says Relax walks out of the room. His sleeves are rolled up to display the many, many tattoos on his arms. He looks perturbed.

“Musicians,” Brendon sighs, but there’s an edge there that’s not joking around.

“I kind of wish Cobra sucked,” the tattooed guy says. “It’d make it easier to hate Gabe for flaking on us for them.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says with a sigh, and Ryan wants to lean in and give him a hug, he looks so discouraged. Then Brendon sees Ryan, and his entire face lights up. “Ryan! You came back!”

The tattooed guy turns to observe Ryan, and Ryan notices he has a tattoo of a scorpion on his neck. He thinks: Whoa, hardcore. Ryan has two tattoos, one on each of his arms, the result of losing a drunken bet he took last year, and they’d hurt like a bitch, but – your neck. That’s a whole other level of pain, plus a scary place to have a needle.

“You’re Ryan,” the tattooed guy says, and holds out one hand. “I’m Frank.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ryan says awkwardly.

“I do tattoos,” Frank says, looking a little sheepish. “You might have guessed that.”

“That’s really cool,” Ryan says.

Frank turns Ryan’s arm over so he can get a better look at Ryan’s tattoos.

“Pretty good ink,” Frank says, nodding. “Where’d you get it done?”

The sad part is Ryan’s not sure he remembers – he got so trashed that night after he had them done that he doesn’t recall much of the entire experience, except possibly waking up in yet another unfamiliar bed the next morning. That happened a lot last year.

“Uh, some place over in the Haight—“

Brendon rescues him, grabbing his arm and exclaiming, “Whoa, that’s sweet! Wait, it says – ‘Mad as a hatter –‘“

Brendon’s fingers are warm against the sensitive skin of the underside of Ryan’s arm, and they feel almost ticklish as they skim over the tattoo. Ryan shivers and Brendon glances up, dark eyes meeting his.

“Good stuff,” Frank says. “Gotta get back to work.”

Then he’s gone, and Ryan’s left alone in the reception area with Brendon. Brendon’s still holding his arm, thumb flickering over his pulse point.

“Uh,” Ryan says, and Brendon drops his arm abruptly, backing away.

Ryan wants to say, No, closer, closer, but Brendon is worrying his lower lip between his teeth and Ryan gets kind of distracted.

“I’m glad you came back,” Brendon says.

There’s no dishonesty there, no front. Brendon’s so completely out there: What you see is what you get. Ryan doesn’t know how he does that.

“You made a good case for it,” Ryan says, and Brendon smiles. Ryan feels a fluttering in his stomach, and all he can think is: Oh, no, no, no.

*

Fucking Frankie. Fucking Frankie and his fucking – insinuations –

Brendon inhales deeply and exhales into Cat Pose, feeling the stretch along his shoulders. He can see Ryan out of the corner of his eye, positioned on his hands and knees. He’s biting his lip as he concentrates, and Brendon’s stomach tightens in ways it is not supposed to tighten in Cat Pose, goddammit.

Tension settles along his spine, and he grits his teeth. “You’re going to exhale into Cat Tilt, okay?” Brendon says. “You want to keep your arms straight and push up into it, rounding your spine, and curl your head inward, eyes on the floor. On my count –“

His students shift into Cat Tilt mostly successfully, and he guides them through Child Pose and up into Downward Facing Dog before having everyone lie down in Corpse Pose.

During meditation, despite his most valiant efforts, Brendon’s mind drifts. He starts out thinking about clouds and sky and somehow ends up thinking about Ryan’s hands and his impossibly long, narrow fingers. He thinks about the way Ryan pushes his dark, straight hair back from his face. He recalls the feel of the soft skin of his arm made slightly rough by the embedded ink of his tattoo. Ryan is so slender, so long and slender – not skinny, Brendon has always been skinny. Ryan is slender, maybe even…willowy, graceful. Not like a girl, but like a lovely young tree.

Or something.

Brendon wouldn’t even be noticing these things if not for Frankie and his stupid comments, wouldn’t be thinking about Ryan’s long fingers if Frankie hadn’t brought up how lanky and pretty he was. God.

Brendon cracks open his eyes and pulls himself up into Lotus Pose, watching over his class. Mostly, though, he looks at Ryan: his chest rising and falling with his steady breathing, his eyelashes dark and thick against his cheeks, his lips parted.

He has to will himself to breathe again before he gently calls his students out of meditation. He hopes no one notices how scratchy his voice is as he dismisses the class.

*

Class is about 65% less painful this time, which Ryan decides to attribute to progress. He even feels slightly calmer once class is over – or less like he wants to punch his fist through a wall, anyway, which is a nice bonus. He’s not quite ready to thank Spencer and Jon for their “present,” but he’s feeling less homicidal, so…this is good.

His post-yoga serenity fades quickly when he flips open his phone to check his messages and sees he has one from Spencer. It reads – in Spencer’s typically tactful prose – get ur ass over here so we can parteee.

Right, because it’s Spencer’s birthday, which means that when Ryan returns to the teeny apartment they share, it will be filled with approximately five hundred of Spencer’s closest friends, all of them stoned off their asses. Ryan doesn’t begrudge Spencer his unalienable right to throw a big birthday soiree for his 20th, but he wishes he didn’t have to be a part of it.

The truth is, even if he’s there he won’t really be a part of it anyway. These days the only role Ryan seems to play effectively is buzzkill.

“You okay?”

Ryan jerks out of his trance to see Brendon staring at him with concern. He has a towel flipped over one shoulder, thumb tucked into the waistband of his sweats.

“I’m – yeah,” Ryan says, snapping his phone closed and tossing it into his bag.

“Bad news?” Brendon asks.

San Francisco has a reputation for being friendly and welcoming and stuff, but Brendon takes it to a whole other level. Ryan’s not sure how to process this. On the one hand, he doesn’t know Brendon very well. On the other, he could use a little conversation that doesn’t involve any of the parties being chemically altered. It’d be a nice change.

“My roommate’s having a birthday party,” Ryan says. “I don’t really want to go.”

“Tired?” Brendon cocks his head to one side.

“Yeah, and I don’t drink or smoke or – ”

Ryan stops. Why is he telling Brendon these things? Maybe it’s Brendon’s harmless puppy-dog eyes that make him feel like he can open up even though they’ve practically just met. It’s fucking weird.

“You don’t drink or smoke?” Brendon says. “Wow. I’m impressed.”

“It’s…complicated,” Ryan says, even though that’s a lie. There are some things Brendon definitely doesn’t need to know yet.

“You want to grab some coffee?” Brendon asks, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I mean, if that wouldn’t be weird. If you don’t have stuff to do – I just figured, you said you don’t want to go to this party, and I’m headed –“

“No, that sounds cool,” Ryan says.

Brendon looks relieved. “Awesome. You do drink coffee, don’t you?”

Ryan looks down at the floor.

“Wow,” Brendon says. “Wow, seriously? I mean – are you Mormon? You don’t look like a Mormon. I mean, you don’t dress like a – is this, like, voluntary?”

“It’s voluntary,” Ryan says, then he mentally adds, Sort of.

“Well, a nice cup of herbal tea, then,” Brendon says, smiling. “That’s the great thing about this city – you can always get a good cup of tea.”

They walk down Valencia. Ryan’s eyes go as big as dinner plates as he takes in the display case in the window of Good Vibrations, and Brendon nearly dies laughing.

“It’s women-friendly,” Brendon says sagely.

“That thing in the window doesn’t look people-friendly,” Ryan observes. “It looks like it might eat someone.”

“How long have you lived in San Francisco, exactly?” Brendon asks.

“Two years,” Ryan says. “How long have you?”

“About the same,” Brendon says. “You been in the Mission all this time?”

“I used to live out near school, up in the Sunset?” Ryan says. “But it was so boring around there, so this summer Spencer and I decided to get a place here instead. The commute sucks, but anything to not have to live near fucking Daly City, you know?”

Brendon nods vigorously. “So you’re at State?”

“Yeah.”

They push open the doors of Dolores Park Cafe, and Ryan nearly swoons at the smell of fresh ground coffee beans. Brendon orders a latte and a muffin, and then suggests Ryan try a Yerba Mate.

“You’ll thank me later, dude,” he assures him, and Ryan thinks, What the hell. It’s not like that mint tea was looking especially delicious or anything.

“You like it?” Brendon says once they’ve settled at a table with their hot beverages. “SF State, I mean.”

Ryan shrugs. His Mate smells suspiciously like burnt toast. “It’s alright.”

“Just alright?” Brendon glances at him, eyebrows raised. “What’s your major?”

“Here, let me just get this over with,” Ryan says. “I’m 21, a junior, and a creative writing major. I’m a poet, though lately I’ve been writing pretty much nothing at all. I play the guitar, but not very well, and I’m a Virgo.”

Brendon stares at him for a minute, mouth slightly open.

“Uh, well. That’s cool.”

“So are you going to do your intro?” Ryan asks.

Brendon’s smirking at him. It’s not nearly as cute as Brendon seems to think it is.

“No, don’t think so,” Brendon says. “It’s not as interesting as yours. How’s your Mate?”

Brendon reaches across the table and grabs Ryan’s mug, then takes a sip.

“Not bad,” Brendon says with a swift nod. “You forgot to mention something, though.”

“Huh?”

Ryan’s so confused, and the way Brendon’s looking at him – with this intense glint in his eyes and playful twist to his lips – isn’t helping him focus any.

“Your tattoos,” Brendon says, stroking one finger over the underside of his own arm. “Tom Waits, right?”

Ryan’s mouth falls open. Nobody ever gets that. They always shoot him a strange look and then ask, What, some kind of Alice in Wonderland kink?

“’Mad as a hatter, thin as a dime’ – that’s ‘Diamonds and Gold’,” Brendon says with a smug smile. “I’m never wrong about these things.”

Ryan thinks, Damn, Brendon. Clearly I was wrong about you.

They talk about music, and the conversation easily shifts and sways from subject to subject like a pendulum: rock versus post-rock, the Beatles versus the Rolling Stones, the dire pit of suck that is contemporary pop music. Brendon is a veritable music encyclopedia; he names at least ten bands Ryan’s never heard of, but Ryan doesn’t mention a single one that Brendon isn’t intimately acquainted with. Ryan thought he knew a lot about music, but next to Brendon he feels like a total novice.

“It’s like, Vampire Weekend, okay,” Brendon says excitedly, “are this hybrid of indie rock and some sort of island aesthetic. They’re stripped down and simple, and that’s why they’re so appealing. They’re not trying to do anything crazy or revolutionary, they’re just making good music.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Ryan says. “And their lyrics aren’t trying too hard to be witty either. They’re funny without being pretentious.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Brendon says. He’s practically vibrating in his seat. “I keep saying – Frankie is all, like, ‘Oh, they’re overrated, it’s all hype,’ but I keep saying – “

“Boys.” The barista is looking down at them, a kind but weary smile on her lips. “It’s late. We’re going to close soon.”

Ryan glances at his watch and blanches.

“Shit, Spencer is going to kill me,” he says.

“If it’s a good party, it’ll still be going when you get there,” Brendon says, leaning back in his chair.

Ryan glances at his phone. He has sixteen text messages. He closes his eyes. Sometimes he wishes his life would slow down for a few minutes, just long enough for him to-

He feels Brendon’s hand envelop his own. When his eyes flutter open, he can see Brendon staring back at him, questions dancing in his irises.

“Just breathe,” Brendon says.

Ryan does, inhaling to a four-count like they did in class, then exhaling slowly. Brendon’s eyes don’t leave Ryan’s. They sit there for what feels like hours. When Brendon finally lifts his hand, Ryan realizes all the tightness in his shoulders is gone.

TWO

Yoga teaches us to cure what need not be endured
and endure what cannot be cured. (B.K.S. Iyengar)

“Brendon,” Spencer says as he reaches blindly for the sweetener in the cabinet, then proceeds to pour six packets of sugar into his coffee, one by one. “You ditched me on my birthday for some dude named Brendon.”

“I didn’t ditch you,” Ryan says. “I came to your party.”

“Yeah, about seven hours into it,” Spencer says. “We were totally out of Jello shots by the time you got there.”

“Mmm, yes, sign of party death,” Ryan nods.

Spencer squints. Ryan’s pretty sure he’s never seen him quite this hungover. He’s surprised he’s actually upright, considering that by the time Ryan arrived at the party last night, Spencer was wasted to the point of incoherence. Ryan’s never actually seen someone answer the question How many fingers am I holding up? incorrectly.

“Let’s get back to this dude named Brendon,” Spencer says.

“He’s my yoga instructor,” Ryan explains.

“Your – dude.” Spencer’s eyes widen. “Did you get lucky last night, Ryan Ross?”

Ryan purses his lips.

“Don’t give me that look. Is he really bendy?”

“I only just met him, like, five days ago,” Ryan says.

“That’s never stopped you bef—“

There’s a loud knock on the door, and Spencer gives Ryan a pathetic look. Ryan sighs, gets up from the couch and goes to answer it. Jon greets him with a big smile.

“Hey, where were you last night, anyway? Did you get lucky?”

“What the fuck,” Ryan states. “I was out past eleven, and that means I’m banging some random person?”

“Ryan was with his yoga instructor,” Spencer says.

“Really.” Jon raises his eyebrows at Ryan. “Is she, like, flexible –“

“Oh my God,” Ryan says, picking his bag off the floor and slinging it over his shoulder. “Way to be hetero-normative. I’m going to the library.”

He can feel Spencer and Jon exchange significant looks behind his back.

*

“Mmm, Red Bull,” Brendon says, sipping from his can and closing his eyes. “Red Bull saves lives, Frankie.”

“No, Gerard saves lives,” Frank says solemnly. “Red Bull just improves the quality of life.”

Brendon cocks his head to one side. “Is Gee still doing that crisis hotline thing? I thought he quit after the incident with the girl who kept asking him to marry her.”

“Actually, it was a dude, and they got a restraining order, so he went back,” Frank says.

Brendon nods. “Right on, right on.”

“Speaking of Gerard, we’re thinking of going to this comics convention in October,” Frank says. “You think you might want to come?”

Brendon considers this. “I don’t know. I’m not really into the whole comics scene. Plus, when Gerard starts talking about comics he gets a little scary.”

“Who’s scary?” Pete appears in the tattoo room door. He is stealthy like ninja, curious like cat.

“Gerard,” Brendon says.

“Oh.” Pete scratches his head. “Yeah, he is kind of scary.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “We’ve been friend for years now and he’s never done anything even remotely scary. He’s just intense.”

“Intensely scary,” Brendon says, and Pete cracks up.

“You’re awfully judgmental of Gee considering your new emo boyfriend,” Frank observes. “He’s got a tattoo that says ‘mad as a hatter,’ dude. Just sayin’.”

“You have a new emo boyfriend?” Pete asks, widening his eyes. “When did this happen, and why was I not informed via text message?”

“He is not my boyfriend,” Brendon says, flushing.

“Ryan and Brendon were out until past midnight last night,” Frank informs Pete.

“Up to no good?” Pete asks.

“We were having coffee,” Brendon says. “Well, I had coffee. He had a Mate.”

“Having coffee?” Pete’s repressing a smile. “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

“We were just hanging out!”

“Is that what the kids are—“

“I think Ryan is straight,” Brendon says. “So even if I did –“

“Dude, no,” Frank says, shaking his head. “From the way that kid looks at you, he is at the very least bi-curious. Trust me, I’ve lived in San Francisco for awhile now. My gaydar is well-honed.”

“Everyone looks at Brendon like that,” Pete says. “It’s because Brendon is hot.”

“I think I’m being objectified,” Brendon says, crumpling his Red Bull can and tossing it into the trash can. “I could sue you.”

“You just want Ryan to objectify you,” Pete retorts.

“Objectify?” Frank smirks. “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

*

Ryan’s not sure how he and Brendon end up hanging out after class.

Every. Single. Class.

It’s just – class is twice a week, and afterwards Ryan maybe possibly takes an extra-long time rolling up his mat and putting on his socks and shoes while Brendon chats with his stream of admirers, and then they’re alone in the studio and their words echo a little when they talk. All Brendon ever says is, “You wanna?” and angles his head towards the door as if to say see what’s out there? and the only answer Ryan can ever think of is Yes.

Brendon really knows the Mission. He knows it backwards and forwards, knows where all the best taquerias are and what thrift stores actually sell affordable clothes (not Spencer’s) and how Dog Eared Books will always have the cheapest used books and which tiny closet venues have decent local bands.

They go to a corner vegetable and fruit market and buy tomatoes the size of Ryan’s head. Brendon makes inappropriate jokes about the cucumbers, and Ryan arranges the display of red, white and yellow onions into an elaborate illustration of onion tic-tac-toe. Brendon praises Ryan for his artistic prowess, then thanks the peeved-looking store owner en Español.

One night they sit in at a poetry reading at Philz on 24th St. and watch crazy hipster types do a performance art piece in which they illustrate (with their bodies) the stages of growth of orchids. Ryan and Brendon get kicked out for laughing too loudly. They trip down Folsom in near-hysteria, Brendon clasping Ryan’s arm and panting, “See, Ryan, you don’t need drugs to get high.”

Brendon is the best tour guide ever, especially because sometimes? He takes Ryan to bakeries.

“This place is crazy,” Ryan observes as Brendon maneuvers him through the long line, hand placed lightly on Ryan’s hip. Brendon does this sometimes – a lot – and Ryan is starting to get used to it. Brendon’s just very tactile, and Ryan is nearby, so. He gets touched.

“Tartine is amazing. And famous!” Brendon enthuses. “They have this chocolate soufflé that is like – oh God, you have to try it.”

“Okay, okay,” Ryan says, amused. “I’m convinced.”

“I’ll buy it for you,” Brendon says. “I will buy you seven, because you should have seven. Seven chocolate soufflés, Ryan. You’ll die and go to heaven but it will be worth it because – God.”

Brendon is making this hilarious face, like he’s so excited he can’t even figure out how to physically manifest his excitement.

“Cool,” Ryan says. “I’m looking forward to it.”

They finally make it to the front of the epically long line, and Brendon purchases four chocolate soufflés and practically drags Ryan to a table and shoves him into a chair. He digs one of the spoons into the small soufflé cup and holds it out to Ryan. Ryan looks at it hesitantly, then leans forward and closes his mouth around the spoon.

It is amazing. Brendon’s not lying. Velvety, pure chocolate flavor, not too sweet, not too bitter, the perfect medium. Ryan closes his eyes and swallows and takes a moment to thank God that he didn’t give up chocolate when he gave up all his other vices.

When his eyes flutter open Brendon’s staring at him, mouth open, eyes wide. He licks his lips and blinks, and Ryan feels heat curl in his stomach.

“Do you like it?” Brendon asks. His cheeks are flushed.

Ryan has to rouse himself from his soufflé-induced stupor in order to say, “Yeah. Yeah, wow.”

“I told you,” Brendon says, stealing Ryan’s spoon. “Never ever doubt me about dessert, man. I have a PhD in delicious.”

*

Ryan is very confusing to Brendon. He probably shouldn’t be as confusing as he is, because it’s not like Ryan is made up of algorithms or speaks in Morse code or whatever. It’s just - he’s so self-contained and calm all the time, but sometimes his eyes flicker with this intensity that’s – well, it’s kind of hot. Really hot. Hot enough that it keeps Brendon up nights, hot enough that Brendon wonders if he could make Ryan do that - if he could make Ryan’s eyes spark like they do sometimes for no reason at all that Brendon can see.

But what does it all mean? He can never tell what it means because Ryan speaks in this quiet, even monotone that forces Brendon to slow down his brain to process everything, just to go at the speed of Ryan’s carefully measured words.

There’s this problem, too, with the fact that Ryan exists in his own sphere like some kind of bubble boy, like he has a force field all around him. Because Brendon’s brain is contrary and annoying, the more Ryan sends out back away back away vibes, the more Brendon wants to reach out and touch him, reach into Ryan’s space and press his hand to Ryan’s cheek and trace the sharp line of his jaw and feel the bony curve of his shoulder and the warmth of blood humming under his skin.

Brendon manages to touch him every now and again under the guise of friendship, a squeeze here, a tap there, and Ryan lets him – he never pushes him away or even shoots him a death glare – but Brendon keeps thinking that one day Ryan will, that he’ll turn to him with his coffee brown eyes smudged with eyeliner and say, No, no, I don’t want that, stop.

But the days pass and it doesn’t happen. They tromp around the Mission and walk down to the Haight and take the bus up to the park and the F Market to the water and sit on benches and stare out at the ocean and talk about music and movies and friends and enemies.

“I think the ocean is like e. e. cummings,” Ryan says dreamily. “He didn’t care about anything but the rhythm. Fuck the rules, you know?”

“Yeah,” Brendon murmurs. He itches to reach out. Ryan is gazing at the ocean like he wants to dive into it, feel the cool water all over his body, slide underneath and stay awhile. “Fuck them.”

They make lists of the weirdest things that have ever happened to them in San Francisco (Ryan got aggressively hit on by a midget prostitute in the TL; Brendon once watched a man jump off Pier 26 in a bird costume holding an open umbrella and an unpeeled banana). Ryan talks about writing poetry and how lame it is, when has poetry ever changed the world, huh? and then they compose the worst poetry they can possibly think of, tons of it, getting worse with every syllable. It’s sort of glorious.

Brendon says, I don’t know, Ryan, I think the world’s better off having our verse in it. Ryan snorts but the ocean doesn’t argue. That’s kind of the best thing about the ocean, and about Ryan, too. They don’t ever tell Brendon he’s wrong.

*

“You never hang out with us anymore,” Spencer complains.

“I hang out with you all the time,” Ryan says. “Right now, in fact, I am hanging out with you.”

“You’re always with Brendon,” Spencer says with a wave of his hand. “Or, I don’t know, at the library being studious, what the fuck.”

“In case you forgot, Spence, I am on academic probation,” Ryan says. “I’m trying not to fail out of school, okay?”

“That is a good point,” Jon says. “We don’t want Ryan to fail out, because then Ryan will have to find a job.”

“And we know how that goes,” Spencer sighs.

“I can find a job –“

“Like the one working at the bead store,” Jon ticks off. “Or the coffee shop. Or the place where they sell waterbeds –“

“The Gap,” Spencer continues. “Game Stop. Macy’s. Hot Topic. Didn’t you work at Claire’s for awhile?”

“I did not work at Claire’s,” Ryan says.

“Oh, you just shop there, right,” Spencer says.

Ryan gives him the finger.

“I think what we’re trying to say is you don’t have the best track record in the world of the employed,” Jon says. “So we want you to stay an undergraduate for as long as possible.”

“And then maybe graduate school,” Spencer says. “Like, a PhD/MD program, maybe? You should be a research scientist. They go to school for like twenty-five years.”

“And you wonder why I don’t hang out with you anymore,” Ryan mutters.

“See, you admit it,” Spencer says. “You are too busy for us! Too busy having extremely stretchy sex with your yoga instructor, you dog.”

“Brendon and I are not –“

“We know, we know, your love is pure,” Spencer says. “Is he really ugly or something? When do we get to meet him?”

“The day after never,” Ryan says, rising from the couch. “I’m going to make Hot Pockets.” “

"Make some for us,” Jon says sleepily. “The cheese steak kind, those are awesome.”

Ryan wrinkles his nose, rifling through the freezer.

“Do you have pictures or something, at least?” Spencer asks. “Hey, did you Facebook friend him?”

Ryan did, of course, but he’ll be damned if he tells Spencer that.

“I’m going to believe he’s the elephant man until you show me a picture,” Spencer insists.

Ryan slams the freezer door shut. “Brendon is not ugly.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow.

“He isn’t,” Ryan says. “He’s actually quite…he’s…good-looking.”

Spencer and Jon stare at Ryan wordlessly, then turn to each other and high five.

“What. The hell,” Ryan says.

“I told you,” Spencer says. “I told you, he is in love with Brendon, and they are going to get married by Gavin Newsom and have, like, a karma-copian wedding at City Hall where their feng shui will be aligned just right, or whatever, and –“

“Can I be a groomsman?” Jon says, stretching out his arms towards Ryan as if requesting an embrace, but Ryan is so not a hugger. “Ryan, can I be a groomsman at your karma-copian wedding?”

“You might be getting a little ahead of yourselves,” Ryan says.

“Oh, it’s okay,” Spencer says breezily. “He’s in love, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s chemical, you know.”

“I want to wear blue,” Jon states, and nods as if it’s been decided.

*

“You are going to love me,” Pete crows, pushing open the office door.

Brendon glances up from where he’s been immersed in the books. “More than I do already?” Brendon drawls. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Oh, but wait,” Pete says, and brandishes two tickets in front of Brendon’s face.

Brendon’s eyes widen. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me. Dude – dude.” Pete nods, grinning. “You got BRMC tickets! How? How did you get tickets? I thought that show was sold out.”

“It is, but Patrick is magical,” Pete says. “As well as being awesome, and talented, and generous.”

“Aw, man,” Brendon says. He takes the tickets from Pete, a smile spreading across his face. “And you got me two? That’s – that’s brilliant. Fucking A, Pete, thank you.”

“So who are you going to take?” Pete asks, perching on the edge of the desk.

Brendon scratches at the back of his neck. His first thought, of course, is Ryan. Of course I should take Ryan. Ryan would love this. But –

“I don’t know,” he says slowly.

“You do know,” Pete says. “His name rhymes with ‘Lyin’,’ and maybe if you invite him I’ll actually get to meet him finally –“

Brendon rolls his eyes. “We’re just friends, it’s not—“

“Yeah, well, a friend of yours is a friend of mine, okay? So just take him. You’ll blow his mind, it’ll be fantastic.”

Brendon considers this. Ryan may not have as much of an appreciation for, say, Britney Spears as Brendon does, but in other ways Ryan has pretty decent, interesting music taste. He’d probably dig the BRMC concert, and as an added bonus, it would give him an excuse to be out of his apartment for the evening. Ryan likes any opportunity to be elsewhere than home, or so Brendon assumes, because why else would he hang out with Brendon so much after class?

“Brendon, stay with me,” Pete says, snapping a finger in front of his face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brendon murmurs, and tugs his hand through his hair. “Thank you, man. Seriously.”

“Hey, whatever I can do to help,” Pete says, grinning, and hops off the desk, giving Brendon a mock salute before pushing out the door.

Wait, what? Brendon thinks, but Pete’s gone.

*

“He asked you to go where?”

“A concert,” Ryan says around a mouthful of Ramen.

Spencer cups his hand around his left ear. “In English, Ross.”

Ryan swallows. “A concert. At this club nearby – this band called Black Rebel Motorcycle Club? They’re from around here. Brendon says they’re really good.”

“Mmm.” Spencer twirls some noodles around his fork. “Moving on to the next step, huh?”

Ryan chews, his eyes not leaving Spencer’s face.

“I hate when you do that,” Spencer sighs.

“What, eat?” Ryan says.

“Yes, Ryan,” Spencer drawls. “Because you are so fat. I don’t know how you function, you’re so obese.”

“Please clarify your previous statement,” Ryan says.

“I mean that you are, like, going on a real date,” Spencer says. “On a night in which said date is not preceded by yoga class.”

“It’s not a date,” Ryan says automatically.

“Oh, really. It’s just two dudes hanging out at a concert.”

“Exactly,” Ryan says. “It is two friends with mutual interests – “

“Can I ask you something?” Spencer says.

“You will anyway.”

“Did you even know who Black Rebel Motorcycle Club was before Brendon showed up with these tickets?”

Ryan opens his mouth to say something, then closes it.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, tipping back in his chair. “I rest my case.”

*

Brendon’s really nervous. He’s not sure why he’s nervous – it’s not like this is his first concert or something. He’s been to probably hundreds of concerts. He is the concert master. He can handle live music, even when it’s super-loud and frantic and people push and shove and mosh and the air smells like cigarettes and weed and alcohol and body odor. He can handle a little suffocation and a few bruises in the name of in-the-flesh audiovisual stimulation.

But there’s that word – stimulation. Brendon is perhaps a tad overstimulated, which is why he’s babbling like an idiot.

“It’s like, BRMC are kind of classic rock-ish, because they’ve got these solid blues roots,” he’s explaining to Ryan. “But sometimes they sound almost – I don’t know, psychedelic? Not trippy, but – psychedelic without the drugs?”

Ryan is looking at him with those flat brown eyes, head cocked to one side. “Psychedelic without the drugs?”

“Well, like, not a trippy high, not disorienting or whatever, just – this pure, visceral something that’s –“

“Brendon!”

…and he’s saved by Patrick Stump, thank the Lord. Brendon was a little afraid he was going to swallow his own tongue, and that would’ve been embarrassing. He’d venture that nobody can make that look attractive.

“Hey, man!” Brendon hugs Patrick, slapping him on the back. Patrick’s wearing a black cap with bats all over it, bright red hair sticking out from underneath it.

“Thanks for getting these tickets, by the way,” Brendon says when they separate.

“Sure, no problem,” Patrick says, and holds out his hand to Ryan. “What’s up. I’m Patrick.”

“Ryan,” Ryan says, and shakes his hand.

“I dig your scarf,” Patrick says, gesturing to the elaborate striped number Ryan’s got going on. Ryan looks incredible tonight – fitted pin-stripe pants, white collared shirt, the aforementioned scarf, knee-high leather boots, eyeliner thick around his eyes, the tiniest bit of stubble on his cheeks. Brendon’s not sure why he starts thinking like a columnist for Vogue whenever he’s around Ryan, but he does cut a pretty striking figure.

“Thanks,” Ryan says, flushing slightly.

“Pete’s here somewhere,” Patrick says. “Think he brought Ashlee too. Apparently she’s been going kind of stir-crazy, spending too much time around the house, so he promised he’d take her out.”

“Isn’t she, like, eight months pregnant?” Ryan blurts out.

During one of their many coffee shop conversations, Brendon may have mentioned something about his charmingly unbalanced boss and his very pregnant wife.

“Yeah, so clearly the wise thing to do was to take her to a crowded, smoke-filled club,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes. “Such a tool.”

“But a loveable one,” Brendon points out.

Patrick chuckles. “I guess. I gotta go check on the sound set up, but I just wanted to say hello before the show. Enjoy it, okay?”

"Definitely. Thanks again, man.” Brendon says, and Patrick pats him on the shoulder and disappears into the crowd.

“He seems cool,” Ryan remarks, and Brendon nods vigorously.

“Patrick’s the coolest,” Brendon says. “He built this club from nothing, you know? I mean, I think Pete helped him out some financially, but he bought the place and it was totally run down, and he turned it into an actual venue.”

“Where does Pete’s money come from anyway?” Ryan asks. “I mean, he’s got the yoga studio, and you say he helped out with this –“

Brendon clears his throat. “We don’t ask. Frankie thinks we might be better off not knowing.”

“I see,” Ryan says, casting his eyes towards his shoes.

Ryan’s never particularly easy to read, but tonight he’s downright illegible. Brendon’s beginning to wonder if Ryan agreed to come solely out of politeness. Maybe he hates nouveau classic rock! Maybe he doesn’t even like music –

“Hey, I can get a legal drink,” Ryan says suddenly. “What a novelty.”

Brendon’s about to reply that this would be an awesome thing if Ryan was actually a drinker, but then Ryan grasps his arm and leans in and says, “You want something?”

“Uh…” Brendon’s brain stutters at the touch of Ryan’s fingers. “I’m not legal.”

Ryan’s eyes widen. “Wait – seriously?”

“I’m twenty,” Brendon says. “I’ll be twenty-one in like six months.”

“I’ll buy you something if you want,” Ryan says.

Brendon shrugs. “Sure, maybe a rum & coke?”

“Coming right up,” Ryan says, and gives him a sly smile that sends shivers skittering down Brendon’s spine. As Ryan immerses himself in the bobbing mass of people and vanishes, Brendon can’t help remembering what Ryan said on the day of his roommate’s birthday: It’s complicated.

How is it complicated? Brendon wants to ask. But when it comes to Ryan Ross, he’s not sure he wants things to get any more complicated than they already are.

*

The glass is cool and sweating moisture in Ryan’s hand. He presses it to his forehead before lowering it to his lips; the liquid slides sweet and potent down his throat. He remembers the first time he had this drink freshman year: a giggling, tipsy girl wearing torn fishnets, a denim mini-skirt and a halter top had pushed it into his hands, saying, Long Island Iced Tea. LIT, get it? ‘Cause after you drink it, you’re…

The club is warm and vibrating with that pre-show anticipation Ryan used to love. He hasn’t been to a concert in months – there was summer school, and trying to find a job, and trying to keep a job, and then it just felt too irritating to be surrounded by all that smoke, liquor and easily available drugs when he couldn’t indulge in any of it.

Tonight, though, he thinks: why the fuck not. Tonight he’s got good reasons to slide off the wagon.

Brendon gives him a sweet smile when he returns with the drinks. The band’s getting ready to go on, techs making last-minute equipment adjustments, and Brendon’s practically thrumming with excitement.

You are not allowed to ruin this for him, Ryan instructs himself. You are not.

Brendon accepts the drink, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking up at Ryan with bright eyes.

“Are you excited?” he asks. “This is going to rock and roll, Ryan.”

Ryan doesn’t get to respond, though, because right then there is a noisy burst of guitar feedback, and the band – with no preamble – launches into their first number. It’s loud and insistent with a thumping bass line that Ryan can feel in his bones, and the people crowd in closer, pushing them forward.

Suddenly Ryan is pressed right up against Brendon, his chest against Brendon’s back. Brendon smells like the remnants of some spicy cologne combined with the sharp tang of sweat. Ryan’s skin prickles and heats. The situation doesn’t improve any when Brendon reaches back and steadies himself against Ryan’s hip, thumb skimming over the waistband of his pants and dipping into his belt loop.

He can already feel the liquor beginning to take effect, two and a half shots of five different kinds of alcohol swirling around his stomach and being absorbed into his bloodstream. He hasn’t had a drink in four months, so most of his acquired tolerance is gone. He is officially a lightweight. He knows this because of the way everything’s starting to blur just around the edges, like an old sepia-toned photograph.

Brendon is saying something, and Ryan leans down to catch it.

“…fucking amazing,” he exults, and Ryan smiles, because the music is pretty fantastic, and Brendon is warm and solid and soft in all the right places. He lets his hand drop to Brendon’s waist, acting as if he doesn’t know where else to put it, boxed in the way they are. But Brendon feels so good he leaves it there, curved around his denim-clad hip, thumb curled into the well-worn fabric of his cotton t-shirt.

The song changes, and as it does Brendon shifts closer, leaning into Ryan. Strobe lights flicker on and off around them, turning the whole club into a living, breathing stop-motion animation. Ryan watches Brendon’s face as he strokes his thumb under Brendon’s shirt. His fingers tingle as they find bare skin. Brendon’s still riveted on the stage, but when Ryan’s fingers find the curved ridge of his hip bone, just accessible above the waist of his low-slung jeans, Brendon’s eyes flutter closed.

It’s so dark in the club, and the music is so loud. Ryan feels like he could do anything and no one would see or hear - no one but Brendon. He tightens his grip on Brendon’s hip and Brendon bites his lip, reddening the skin with his teeth. Brendon shifts again, and now his ass is pressed against Ryan’s groin. Ryan sucks in a breath as he goes hard.

Brendon looks up at him and Ryan can see it in his eyes – the sharp pulse of electricity. Ryan thinks: He knows.

*

Brendon has no idea what’s going on, but he’s not going to make Ryan stop, not when he’s touching him like that. Ryan’s touching him, Ryan’s hands are on his body – Jesus Christ, no, he’s not going to make him stop.

He wonders what’s changed – if it’s the music, or the crowd, or the one drink Ryan sucked down like it was water (he hopes it wasn’t that).

He wonders what’s made Ryan feel safe.

The song changes, rhythm slowing, bass dropping, and BRMC is singing about sex and want and God, Brendon wants. He stares at Ryan and tries to telegraph his thoughts into Ryan’s mind: I want to kiss you. You should kiss me. But Ryan’s only blinking back at him, looking confused and somehow sad, and so Brendon makes a decision.

Now, he thinks. This is happening now.

He twists around. Ryan drops his hand from Brendon’s waist, shoulders slumping, but Brendon makes an indignant noise and cups Ryan’s cheeks in his hands and pulls him forward and down, pulls him until their lips meet.

Ryan tastes like liquor and Chapstick and surprise. His kiss is tentative but he’s not pushing Brendon away: he’s afraid, not repulsed. Brendon lifts one hand from Ryan’s cheek and cards it through his hair, letting it rest against the back of his neck. When Brendon plays with the short hairs at the nape Ryan gasps, and Brendon uses that opening to lick between his lips.

Ryan’s hands fall to Brendon’s hips, but this time he tugs him forward, yanking until they’re pressed flush against each other. Brendon licks at Ryan’s lips until Ryan sighs and sags into him, and Brendon wishes they were near a wall so he could push Ryan into it. Ryan is hot everywhere except his hands; they’re cool as they slide under Brendon’s shirt, smoothing over his stomach. They break apart to breathe.

Brendon’s chest tightens when Ryan leans down and murmurs in his ear, “Jesus, Brendon.”

Brendon kisses him quiet. Right now there is music, and there is touch, and there is Ryan’s mouth, and Ryan is kissing him back. Ryan is kissing him back.

*

By the time BRMC is halfway through their set, Ryan is so worked up he’s having trouble standing upright. Brendon’s got one hand on his waist, fingers tracing the skin just above his hip over and over again. His other hand is tangled in Ryan’s hair, threaded through the strands and keeping him close as he attacks his mouth with lips and tongue.

“If you keep doing that,” Ryan murmurs, voice low and rough, “I’m not going to be able to walk out of here.”

Brendon shudders against him, pulling back and staring deeply into his eyes.

“We don’t have to stay,” he says.

“You like them, though,” Ryan says, gesturing towards the stage. “We came for the –“

“I like you more,” Brendon says. “We should go somewhere we can…”

Get naked? Fuck like bunnies? Brendon doesn’t finish his sentence, just laces his fingers through Ryan’s and tugs him through the crowd, away from the stage and towards the door.

They tumble out into the misty, cool night. The fog has moved in and left a moist sheen over everything, and Brendon shrugs on his jacket to keep warm. Ryan wraps his arm around Brendon’s shoulders and pulls him close, kissing him lightly on the corner of his mouth; Brendon nips at Ryan’s lower lip until he groans, then soothes away the sting with flicks of his tongue.

“I live close by,” Brendon says, and Ryan breathes, “Oh, thank God.”

Brendon’s apartment is indeed only a few blocks away, but it takes them awhile to get there because they keep pausing on street corners and against walls to make out. It’s a Friday night in the Mission and there are people everywhere, stumbling drunk or homeless or simply out for a stroll, but none of them pay Ryan and Brendon any mind. Part of what is special about San Francisco is that they are not special here: they’re just two people soul kissing in the streets, just two people. Together.

When they finally arrive at the old townhouse converted into apartments, Brendon fumbles with his keys, sighing softly as Ryan slides his arms around his waist and kisses his neck. Brendon’s skin smells salty and tastes delicious. When he finally shoves the door open they both stagger inside, off-balance and laughing.

Brendon flicks on a light, bathing the living room in a soft, warm glow. There are CDs and records stacked on every available surface, forming jagged, precarious piles. A well-used purple futon is wedged into one corner, while the opposite corner is occupied by a small, boxy kitchen with a sink full of dirty dishes. There are two doorways off the living room that Ryan guesses lead to one bedroom and a bathroom, and a short hallway that probably leads to the other bedroom.

Ryan’s eye catches on one wall where a huge poster of a young Bob Dylan hangs with the words a song is anything that can walk by itself written across the bottom in sloppy black Sharpie.

He smiles.

“You want the grand tour?” Brendon asks.

Ryan shakes his head. “Not really. Not now.”

“Yeah, I’m with you there,” Brendon says, and places one hand on the back of Ryan’s neck, guiding him into another slow, searching kiss.

They separate, both breathing heavily, and Brendon’s eyes skim up and down Ryan’s body. His brow furrows as if he’s taking him all in, inch by inch.

“You’re wearing a lot of clothes,” Brendon observes.

“For what I want to do, we don’t have to take any off,” Ryan says, and Brendon’s face falls.

“Really?” he asks, voice higher than usual.

“Really,” Ryan says, and with no warning pulls Brendon down onto the floor with him.

They land in a tangled heap, Ryan’s legs entwined with Brendon’s. Ryan twists so he’s on his back and Brendon’s above him, then tilts up his chin in invitation. Brendon kisses him gently, then with more force, until they’re licking into each other’s mouths with soft moans. Ryan angles up his hips, and Brendon’s breath hitches.

“See?” he whispers against Brendon’s lips, and Brendon nods, eyes closed, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He grinds down and Ryan hisses, mouth falling open in surprise.

It’s not like Ryan wasn’t aware that Brendon’s sexy; he’s spent the better part of the last month perving all over him and his tight sweatpants in yoga class. But this is different. This is Brendon, slowly rolling his hips so their cocks rub together through layers of fabric. This is Brendon: cheeks pink, lips parted, breathing shallow, fingers flexing against Ryan’s thighs.

This is Brendon, getting off on him.

“You are so hot,” Ryan whispers, and Brendon’s eyelids flutter open. He stares down at Ryan, then licks his lips slowly, very cat-that-ate-the-canary. Ryan’s stomach tightens, and Brendon grinds down harder.

“I taste like you,” Brendon murmurs, and Ryan arches his back and comes. Just like that.

*

“This is sort of gross," Brendon states, though it's truthfully not gross at all - well, yes, it's gross that he just came in his pants, but it's not gross that he's got Ryan laid out here underneath him on his back on his living room floor, panting, eyes glazed over but still filled with heat.

"I'm sorry," Ryan murmurs, and Brendon reaches down and presses his hand against Ryan's cheek, leaving it there, a point of contact.

"You don't need to apologize," Brendon says. "You really, really don't."

Ryan's mouth curves into a shadowy half-smile. "I hope your roommate isn't home."

"Frankie's out with Gerard and Jamia," Brendon says. "Gerard has some opening this weekend for this gallery over in SoMa? I was going to go too, but then Pete gave me these tickets - "

"I still haven't met Pete," Ryan says, and it dawns on Brendon how surreal this is, having this ho-hum conversation after seriously mind-blowing mutually achieved orgasms. But if Ryan wants to talk shop then hey, they can talk shop.

"He's going to be pissed I didn't introduce you to him," Brendon says. "He really wants to meet you. But I sort of found...something else to do with you, so..."

Brendon slides his hand under Ryan's shirt; one of the buttons has come undone, and the skin of Ryan's flat stomach is hot and damp with sweat under Brendon's fingertips.

Brendon wants to touch Ryan everywhere. If the desire was a nudging, constant insinuation in the back of his mind before, now it's a full-blown statement, a catchy song chorus, a mantra.

"We did," Ryan says softly, and his eyes lose some of their luster, going dark.

Brendon thinks, No, no, come back, but Ryan's already shifting onto his elbows, restless underneath him. Brendon slides off him onto the floor to let him up.

"Is this okay?" Brendon says. "Are you - are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Ryan says. "Are you okay?"

"I'm a lot better than okay," Brendon says.

He can't help it, he feels hurt; he wants Ryan to be better than fine, to be happy. But everything about his body language - the way he's curling in on himself, pulling his knees into his chest, fingers curving into ellipses - indicates that he's done being open, that he's let Brendon see all he wants him to see and now he's covering it up and rubbing away his tracks, making himself a palimpsest.

"I need your bathroom," Ryan says suddenly, and Brendon gestures towards the far left hand door. Ryan moves quickly like a rabbit, up onto his feet and through the door in seconds. Brendon can see him fall to his knees in front of the toilet, body contorted in dry heaves.

"Jesus Christ!" Brendon gasps. He jumps to his feet and goes after him, nearly tripping over a stack of records and one of Frank's tattoo mags in the process.

Ryan didn't even turn on the light, and when Brendon goes to flick the switch Ryan says, "Don't!" in this strangled tone that makes Brendon yank his hand back. He can see the rounded curve of Ryan's spine, his hair falling in his eyes.

He's not going to throw up, Brendon realizes. He's hyperventilating.

"Ryan," Brendon whispers, and drops his hand to the center of Ryan's back, massaging in slow circles. "Ryan, just breathe, okay?"

"Don't pull any of that yoga crap with me right now," Ryan hisses.

Brendon inhales sharply. Whatever this is, it's serious. For all his skepticism and neuroses regarding yoga, Ryan's never derided it, never made it seem silly or useless. Brendon can't see Ryan's face, though, so he can't even attempt to read it. He brushes his hand over Ryan's ear, pushing a stray strand of hair out of his face.

He stays quiet. You can learn a lot by staying quiet.

"My father died exactly one year ago today," Ryan whispers. "He died, and I got a phone call from the Las Vegas Police: Ryan Ross, your father is deceased, we found him in his home. Could you come see about the body."

It's Brendon's turn to stop breathing.

"A lot of people O.D. in Vegas," Ryan says. "My dad was in and out of rehab, so it's not like it was that unexpected. But I was surprised. You're always surprised."

You don't drink?

It's complicated.

"I had this paper due the next day for my Shakespeare class: King Lear and the Tragedy of Fatherhood." Ryan laughs, a hollow sound. "You can't make this shit up, right?"

Brendon curls his free hand into a fist, feeling his nails dig into his palm.

"God, Ryan," Brendon says.

Ryan's shaking; Brendon can feel it under his hand, the way his skin vibrates.

"Don't say you're sorry," Ryan says. "Please don't - just don't fucking say you're sorry, okay?"

"Okay," Brendon murmurs.

His hand finds the back of Ryan's neck, smoothing over the skin there, fingers moving in erratic shapes. He writes breathe in messy letters Ryan won't be able to read, over and over again.

*

When Ryan wakes he doesn’t know where he is. He thinks: Not again. His stomach twists with incipient nausea. Unfamiliar beds, unfamiliar hands. A thin varnish of light coats the room, seeping in through a large bay window in the center.

He suddenly remembers: Brendon. I’m with Brendon. As if on cue, he hears a soft snuffling sound, and Brendon shifts beside him. Ryan’s body comes alive; he can feel Brendon’s arm around his waist, hand splayed across his stomach.

Ryan’s mouth is dry and tastes sour, but somewhere on his tongue lingers the flavor of Brendon, left there by many deep kisses. They are lying on the futon in Brendon’s living room, and the sun is rising outside the curtainless windows. Ryan’s not sure how he got here, can’t retrace his steps in his mind just yet, but he knows he has to leave, must go before Brendon wakes up and tries to make him stay.

Ryan knows he has to leave because if Brendon asks, Ryan will say yes.

Last night is a blur of memory, sound, taste and touch. It’s a blur because Brendon blurs everything for Ryan – his vision, his judgment, his lines.

He slips out of Brendon’s embrace, watching nervously as Brendon’s chest rises and falls. Brendon’s hand tightens around air, but he doesn’t wake up. Ryan closes the door so gently it barely clicks. Unfamiliar bed. Familiar routine.

Outside the air smells of salt and sweet and grease. The bakeries are already buzzing with activity, though the sun has barely risen. A homeless man holds out his hand for change and Ryan empties his pockets; he only has maybe a dollar. A bus rumbles by, a single passenger on board. His feet hurt from where his leather boots have pinched his toes. He walks.

Even in the muted dawn light, everything in the Mission is so bright: murals splayed across the walls of so many buildings, signs painted in swirls of color. This is why he and Spencer moved here over the summer: because the Sunset District, lovely as it was with its peachy pastels and boxy houses, felt like a place of permanent suburban middle age. The Mission feels alive with primary colors and extremes and the bold, erratic energy of youth. Everything is a bit of a mess. Ryan identifies.

All those times last year when Ryan would wander back to his apartment after random hook-ups, hungover or still half-drunk, this was his favorite part: the early morning clarity, before reality set in; the empty spaces and silences.

But today does not feel good.

Today was the first time Ryan wanted to stay.

THREE

The real act of discovery is not in finding new lands, but in seeing with new eyes. (Marcel Proust)

Brendon wakes up Saturday morning to bright light bleeding through the wide bay window in his living room. His back cramps from being contorted into an awkward position on the futon, and he groans, unfurling his stiff limbs to stretch and rub feeling back into the tender places.

Over the course of about thirty seconds, Brendon’s still sleepy brain registers three distinct thoughts: I am alone. I was not alone before. Ryan is gone.

He knows that Ryan’s left the apartment because his boots, which Brendon lined up carefully near the door last night, are no longer there. There are no remnants of Ryan at all, in fact, in this room. The floor is still scattered with albums and CDs. Bobby Dylan still keeps watch from his perch on the far wall. The calendar in the kitchen still reads October in block letters under a picture of a girl straddling a Harley Davidson. There are still dishes to be done and crumbs embedded in the carpet, and the air still smells faintly of Frankie’s cigarettes. This is still his apartment, but Ryan Ross is no longer here.

It’s possible last night could have been all some elaborate hallucination Brendon’s lovesick brain conjured up: the way their bodies moved together to BRMC’s thumping bass; the way Ryan’s hand clasped his hip, thin fingers tickling over bone; their frantic, graceless sex on Brendon’s living room floor, and then Ryan’s quiet revelations, spoken in a monotone as his eyes traced the bathroom tile, Brendon’s hand light between his shoulderblades.

He holds up his hand, squinting at it, then turns it over and finds a smear of eyeliner on his thumb. He remembers: he used his thumb to smooth out the tension at Ryan’s temples.

You’re okay, Brendon had whispered. You’re okay.

It was real, then, he thinks. His throat feels tight. He scrubs his hand across his face.

The way he sees it, he has a choice. He can think about this some more, dissect it, work it over in his mind until it makes some kind of sense.

Or he can get off this couch, take a shower, wash Ryan off his skin and make a fucking pot of coffee.

Brendon takes a deep, cleansing breath, centers himself and chooses option B. When he’s dressed and puttering around the kitchen, Gerard stumbles in wearing jeans and one of Frankie’s ratty t-shirts and looking half-dead.

“Coffee?” Brendon asks.

Gerard stares blearily up at Brendon, who hums softly as he pours coffee beans into the grinder. Other than Brendon, he seems to be the only one up. Brendon can still hear Frank’s soft snores coming from his bedroom.

“Sure,” Gerard mumbles.

“Coming right up,” Brendon says cheerfully, and clicks the button, prompting an angry crunching noise from the grinder. Gerard winces.

“Where did your friend go?” Gerard asks.

Brendon’s jaw tightens. “He had an appointment or something.”

“Early on a Saturday morning?” Gerard cocks his head to one side.

Sometimes Gerard is too smart for his own good.

“Well, I’m teaching a class in an hour,” Brendon says. “Some people do actually rouse themselves before noon on Saturdays, Gee.”

Gerard makes a skeptical noise. “Why would you do that, what nonsense.”

“I know, it’s total insanity. How was the opening?”

“I don’t remember,”Gerard says, sinking down into one of the dilapidated kitchen chairs. “It’s all a blur.”

“Mmm. Good, then?”

“Probably,” Gerard says. “I’ll ask Frankie. He’ll know.”

“You weren’t –“

“No drinking, Scout’s honor,” Gerard says, putting up one hand to swear. “I just tend to block these things out. Too overwhelming, all that admiration in one place.”

“I see,” Brendon says, amused.

“So you were looking cozy with that guy,” Gerard says. “The guy on the futon.”

”Yeah,” Brendon says, face falling. “I guess we were. Pretty cozy.”

“Past tense,” Gerard observes.

“Look, if you’re trying to say something, you should just say it –“

“What I’m trying to say,” Gerard says slowly, “is that you’re not a guy who should get ditched the morning after, Brendon. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

Brendon concentrates on making the coffee. Pain flashes behind his eyelids.

*

When Ryan walks through the door of his apartment at 7:30 am, he's surprised to find Spencer already up, stumbling around the kitchen attempting to make coffee. Ryan halts in the doorway, and Spencer stares at him for a moment. It’s like the world’s lamest Mexican standoff.

Then Spencer begins to sing softly, a tiny bit off-key:

"Maybe I should go to hell, but I'm doin' well...Teacher needs to see me after school..."

"Oh, shut up," Ryan sighs, yanking off his boots and tossing them across the room. He so does not need ironic renditions of Van Halen songs this morning.

"My, aren't we a diva," Spencer says. "Not a good night? I would've assumed it was a good night, since you didn't come home."

"Why are you even up?" Ryan asks. "It's early."

"Maybe I got up just so I could see your lovely face," Spencer tosses back.

Ryan shoots him a look.

Spencer sighs. "I'm working this morning, because my boss is a dick. Okay? Haley's still here. Unlike you, we had an early night last night. We just hung out and watched a movie."

He pauses, clearly waiting for Ryan to divulge details on how he spent his night, but Ryan has no interest in being forthcoming. Or being made fun of.

"That's awesome," Ryan says. "I'm glad you're such an excellent citizen of the world, Spencer."

Before Spencer can reply, he marches into his room and slams the door, collapsing face down on the bed. He buries his face in his pillow; it smells like Brendon. No, he smells like Brendon. Fuck. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him an unexpected jolt. He fishes into his pants and yanks it out, flipping it open.

Text message from Spencer: You're an asshole, it reads. And if you want to talk, I'm around.

*

On Tuesday Ryan doesn’t show up for class. Brendon doesn’t expect him to, but it still burns. When he lets his gaze flicker over the studio and notes the absence of Ryan’s narrow frame slouched over on a yoga mat, hair falling into his eyes, Brendon’s throat feels like it’s closing up. But he swallows and presses on. He teaches his class.

Pete shows up late that night while Brendon’s doing the books. Brendon’s been spending more and more time at the studio lately, catching up on admin stuff, straightening things out, trying to organize the giant mess that is DIY’s accounting “system.”

“What are you doing here?” Brendon asks. “It’s late.”

“I don’t sleep very much,” Pete says. “Sometimes I like to be productive in my insomnia.”

“Hmm,” Brendon says. “Well, as long as you’re here – is there anywhere that you actually keep track of the money you spend?”

“You should be at home,” Pete informs him, tapping a pencil on the end of the reception desk.

“Got stuff to do,” Brendon says, waving him off.

“Don’t you have a hot emo boyfriend to hang with?” Pete asks. “Patrick says you two looked very intimate on Friday night.”

Brendon flushes. “It’s complicated.”

Pete raises his eyebrows. “Complicated how?”

“Complicated like he’s not speaking to me,” Brendon says.

“Ah, pretty complicated then,” Pete nods. “So, what did you do?”

“What did I do?” Brendon curls one of his hands into a fist on the desk. “Why do you assume that I did anything?”

“Well, I meant that in more of a general sense,” Pete says. “Not that what you did was wrong, necessarily, but more that something probably occurred that resulted in this epic cold shoulder your hot emo boyfriend is currently giving you.”

“I don’t know, Ryan is…”

Brendon can’t even find the words. He doesn’t know if there are words for people like Ryan Ross. He would make for an exceptionally hard crossword puzzle clue.

“Giving you mixed signals?” Pete asks, and Brendon wonders, not for the first time, if Pete is in fact psychic.

“You could say that,” Brendon murmurs.

“Well, you know what they say,” Pete says. “Sometimes signals seem mixed because we’re just getting shitty reception.”

Brendon’s pretty sure nobody ever says that, and anyway, it’s not the most elegant of metaphors.

But that doesn’t mean Pete doesn’t have a point.

*

“Are you watching Ali McGraw?”

Ryan has never moved so fast in his life. He’s flicked off the TV roughly .2 seconds after hearing Spencer’s voice, but he can tell it’s too late. Spencer has seen all he needs to see.

“Wow, dude,” Spencer says. “You’ve got it bad.”

Ryan sighs and rolls over onto his stomach, faceplanting into the couch pillows. Their whole couch smells like someone stuffed the cushions with marijuana. Awesome.

“I don’t get why you don’t go talk to him,” Spencer says. “You’re, like, mope mope mope all the time, so clearly you dig him, and clearly you had crazy hot sex with him, but instead you just sit around on the couch and watch yoga videos like they’re porn –“

“Fucking A, Spencer, will you shut up?” Ryan shouts.

Okay, that was a little louder than he intended to be. Spencer actually looks taken aback.

“Fine, I’m not going to beg you,” Spencer says. “And neither is he, by the way, because you ran away like a giant baby.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Ryan says.

“Oh yeah?” Spencer asks. He dumps the grocery bag on the counter and hops onto the couch, shoving Ryan over so he can sit down. “Uncomplicate it then. Uncomplicate it for me.”

“He knows stuff about me,” Ryan says. “Stuff he shouldn’t.”

“What, like that sometimes you cross-dress?” Spencer asks. When Ryan shoots him a dark look, Spencer shrugs and says, “Whatever, deny it all you want, that rose vest is a corset.”

“I told him about my dad,” Ryan says softly. He looks down at his hands.

Spencer pauses at that, mouth slightly open. He scrubs a hand through his too-long hair.

"What about your dad, exactly?”

“That he died,” Ryan says. “How he died.”

“This just…came up?” Spencer asks.

“It was the anniversary of his death,” Ryan says. “It hit me harder than I thought it would.”

Spencer is quiet for a moment, and Ryan can practically feel him thinking.

“What did he say?”

Ryan sighs, leaning back against the couch. “I don’t know, nothing, I guess. I told him not to say anything. He just kind of…held me.”

“So in other words, he did exactly what you wanted him to do,” Spencer says. “He gave you exactly what you needed.”

Ryan blinks. “Well, I –“

Spencer pats him on the thigh. “Think about it, genius. You’ll get there.”

*

Brendon’s busy tidying up the yoga studio when he hears footsteps behind him, and then someone clear his throat. He turns to see a tall dude wearing tight jeans and a pale pink t-shirt and a shorter dude with dark hair and a beard, wearing jeans and a hoodie and flip-flops, standing in the doorway to the room. The bearded dude raises one hand in an awkward wave.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Brendon says. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Spencer,” the taller boy says, holding out his hand. “This is Jon.”

Spencer, Brendon thinks, and his heart leaps. Not Ryan’s Spencer. He shakes Spencer’s hand.

“I’m Brendon,” he says.

“We know,” Spencer says brusquely. “We’re friends of Ryan’s.”

Brendon wishes he was better dressed, somehow, not clad in his standard combo of sweatpants and a t-shirt. This feels big, like he’s meeting Ryan’s family or something. Except Ryan’s family –

“We’re here for a very specific reason,” Spencer says. “We need you and Ryan to make up, because Ryan is being incredibly annoying.”

“We’re sure you’re a cool dude,” Jon puts in helpfully, “and we’d like to get to know you better. But we also need you to come fix Ryan, because he’s – well, he needs fixing.”

Brendon’s lips push up into a tight smile. “What makes you think I can fix him?”

Spencer just stares at him, but Jon blurts out, “Because you have magical Ryan-fixing powers.”

“Magical Ryan-fixing –“

“You don’t understand,” Spencer says. “Ryan spent most of his sophomore year fucked up on any and all combination of intoxicating substances he could get his hands on, he nearly failed out of school, he slept with half the guys and girls at State.”

Spencer pauses, as if he knows he’s said too much.

“Before Ryan started taking this yoga class, he was a total emotional mess,” Jon says. “He’d gone cold turkey off of everything, but he was tense all the time. But being around you – it’s helped him relax. He’s been happy for the first time in…the first time since –“

“Since his dad died,” Brendon says softly.

“Basically, yes.”

“How do you know it’s not just the yoga?” Brendon says. “Yoga works miracles for people. It’s an amazing—“

“Hey, look, I get that you’re this awesome guru and stuff,” Spencer cuts him off. “That’s great, but it’s not just the yoga. Ryan’s not even any good at yoga, you know that. It’s you.”

Brendon blushes, looking at his feet. They’re bare, and he feels suddenly self-conscious, like a little kid caught doing something bad by his parents.

“I don’t know,” Brendon says.

“You like Ryan, right?” Jon says. “So what’s the problem?”

“Are you saying you want me to swoop in like some chakra-aligning superhero and make everything better?” Brendon asks. “Because I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“But Ryan needs – “

“I get that Ryan needs someone,” Brendon says. “I do. But I don’t necessarily believe that person is me. He made that abundantly clear when he walked out on me last weekend.”

“That’s just how Ryan is,” Spencer says. “I’ve known him since we were five, he’s always been a scaredy-cat. When things get intense, he runs –“

“I appreciate what you guys are trying to do for your friend,” Brendon says, “but you know what? If Ryan wants to make up, he can come talk to me himself.”

Spencer sighs, but he doesn’t fight him on it. Jon seems at a loss for words too, scuffing the floor with his flip-flop.

“You tell Ryan that if he wants to talk,” Brendon murmurs, “He knows where to find me.”

*

Ryan wakes up to Bob Dylan on his iPod alarm clock, singing about being like a rolling stone. He is not pleased.

Fuck you, dude, he thinks. You’re not that great of a poet and your voice is less than awesome. It’s possible he’s projecting. He pushes the whole contraption off his nightstand onto the floor, ponders if he might have broken it, then goes to take a shower.

In the shower he thinks about Brendon and tries not to touch himself. It’s hard. Literally. By the time he’s dressed and sitting at their kitchen counter he’s totally exhausted, and his day hasn’t even started yet.

“Why hello,” Spencer greets him, wearing a plaid bathrobe and fuzzy yellow duck slippers. “Did you lose a bet?”

Ryan glances down at what he’s wearing – it’s a dark brown suit over a green and white striped shirt, offset by a pale pink silk tie. He thinks he looks snazzy. It’s like the only thing he’s actually done right this morning.

“What?” he demands.

“Have you lost your mind?” Spencer asks. “You look like my dad. You do realize that dressing for success is only part of the equation, right?”

“Oh, really?” Ryan snaps back. “What’s the other part?”

“Not being a pussy,” Spencer tells him.

Ryan leaves, slamming the door behind him. He makes it down the block before deciding he is definitely not going to class today. His fingers hurt from how he’s been curling them into fists. He thinks of Brendon, and the way Brendon’s lower lip bows when he smiles. He feels like punching someone. He’s tired. He wants to wake up. He wants to wake up with Brendon. No. No –

Jon, he thinks. I will find Jon. I don’t hate him yet.

He heads over to Tazza D’Amore, pushing through the doors with a flourish and marching up to the counter.

“Decaf lowfat no whip mocha, coming right –“ Jon says, but Ryan places his hands palms down on the counter and looks deeply into his eyes.

“Give me a fucking cup of coffee,” he says, and he thinks he can see Jon’s eyes crinkle at the corners. The bastard is amused.

“Sure thing,” Jon says, and pours him one, sliding it across the counter in a large mug. “Sit down, stay awhile.”

“Fine,” Ryan says, and collapses into one of the plush red velvet chairs. Everything in this café is themed around love. How gross. He guesses that’s why it’s called Tazza D’ Amore. Fucking A.

He sips his coffee and imagines he can feel the caffeine coursing through his veins, jump-starting his brain, electro-shocking his heart. It is only one cup of coffee, but it’s been months, and it feels divine. Even the headache he can feel coming on is going to be amazing. Why on earth did he ever stop drinking this stuff?

He closes his eyes and hums along to the song playing quietly over the café speakers. He only realizes about 1/3 of the way through what the song actually is.

His eyes fly open, his hands clenching into fists on the armrests. The singer’s voice is less scratchy on the record than it was live, but it’s still growly and thoroughly infused with sex, and when he drops into the I’m gonna (uh) somebody chorus, Ryan’s whole body goes hot.

“Fuck you, Jon Walker,” Ryan whispers, but Jon’s pretending to be busy at the counter, clearly preparing the world’s most elaborate café au lait.

God, he can’t do this anymore. He can’t pretend he’s okay not talking to Brendon. This week when Tuesday rolled around Ryan packed his duffel before he realized what he was doing, then sat down on his bed and stared out his dirty window at the hustle and bustle of Mission Street and felt like the biggest tool on earth.

All he could think about was how close Brendon was, how he knew he was just a few blocks away at DIY but he couldn’t do it, couldn’t walk down there because he had no idea what to say – how to explain these things that make no sense to someone who makes more sense to Ryan than anyone ever has in his entire life.

But maybe – maybe it all comes down to Byron. Ryan carries Byron with him everywhere these days (Byron knows his shit, okay). When he places the thick book on the table in front of him and flips it open to a random page, this is the first line that catches his eye:

But ‘tis done – all words are idle –
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.

And that’s it, isn’t it? Ryan can keep fighting it. He can keep pretending that Brendon was just another hook-up, that the night of the concert meant nothing, that it was a semi-drunken slip-up, a mistake, just another in a long stream of others, of randoms, of stupid things Ryan’s done since the night of that phone call a little more than a year ago. But what’s the point? He knows Brendon is more than that, because there is nothing random or stupid about the way Brendon makes him feel. There’s nothing anonymous about Brendon’s touch, his fingertips brushing over Ryan’s jaw, his hands curled in Ryan’s hair, his lips soft against the corner of Ryan’s mouth.

Ryan can admit he’s afraid. He can. But Spencer’s right. Ryan can dress up like a businessman all he wants, but until he’s ready to actually get down to the business at hand? It’s nothing more than a costume.

He’s out of that coffee shop in seconds, barely managing a farewell wave to Jon.

He walks back to the Mission, feeling the cool breeze tickle his cheeks and the sun high above his head, intense and bright. The houses around him seem to glow, smooth, milky pastels in the hazy mid-day light.

When he pushes open the door of Decaydance Intuitive Yoga, he doesn’t know what he expects to see, but it’s not Brendon, sitting front and center at the reception desk. Ryan lurches to a halt, curling his hands around the edge of the desk to steady himself.

Brendon just gazes up at him with eyes the color of that chocolate soufflé he fed Ryan weeks ago, and Ryan can’t breathe.

“Hi,” Brendon says, his tone careful and guarded.

“Can we – I mean,” Ryan stutters. “Are you teaching now? Or soon? Can we go somewhere?”

“That depends,” Brendon says slowly, “on where you want to go.”

“The water,” Ryan says. “Somewhere near the water.”

Brendon’s eyes spark. “I think that can be arranged.”

They are both quiet as they get on the BART to Embarcadero; the noise of the train makes talking unnecessary for the few minutes it takes to get there. When they’re finally standing out on the pier near the Ferry Building, a light wind whipping all around them, the carpet of water spread out in front of them, blue and endless, it’s Brendon who speaks first.

“You look nice today,” Brendon says. “You have an interview or something?”

Ryan shakes his head. “I just – I don’t know, I felt like dressing up.”

Brendon glances over at him. “I like it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without –“

He gestures to his eyes, and Ryan nods. He never thought of that – the fact that Brendon’s only seen him with the eyeliner on, never seen his face without some kind of embellishment.

They are quiet for a few moments, listening to the distant conversations of tourists, the hollow horn of an approaching ferry.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan says.

“Why?” Brendon asks, and Ryan feels his chest tighten. It’s not a pointed question, it’s an honest one: Why are you sorry? What did you do?

“Because I was an asshole,” Ryan says. “I shouldn’t have left like that. I shouldn’t have – “

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” Brendon says.

He’s staring out at the water, his jaw tight, cheeks flushed from the sea breeze. Ryan thinks he’s never seen Brendon look more beautiful or more terrifying than he does in this moment.

“It was a shitty thing to do, to leave like that,” Brendon says.

“I got scared,” Ryan says. His throat feels scratchy, raw.

Brendon looks over at him, and this time he holds Ryan’s gaze.

“I’m not that scary,” Brendon says.

“You are to me,” Ryan says.

“Why?” Brendon asks again.

“Because I like you,” Ryan says. “I like you a lot. I - you make me feel like – “

Ryan sighs, and Brendon reaches out and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. He nods, encouraging. Brendon’s hands are warm and a little sweaty. Ryan can smell the ocean everywhere.

“You make me feel like I could tell you anything,” Ryan says. “Like you wouldn’t judge me.”

Brendon reaches up and pushes the hair off Ryan’s forehead.

“I wouldn’t,” he whispers. “Except if you killed someone. Then I might have to judge you.”

Ryan’s mouth curves into a tiny smile. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Excellent,” Brendon says. “Then I won’t judge you.”

“But why not?” Ryan says. “I’ve done a lot of stupid shit. I’m kind of a mess.”

“We’re all kind of a mess,” Brendon says. “Everybody thinks yoga is about inner peace, right? And it is, but it’s about a lot more than that, because you know what yoga is supposed to teach us? That stillness is dynamic. It’s not about pushing everything out so you can be at peace. It’s about being a part of every moment you’re in, participating in it fully, being immersed and uninhibited. It’s about embracing the mess.”

Brendon squeezes Ryan’s hand, and Ryan swallows.

“You don’t seem like a mess,” Ryan says. “You seem like you never lose control or focus or –“

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Brendon says. “You saw me lose control.”

Ryan blushes, but Brendon lifts his chin and looks him directly in the eye.

“You saw me lose control,” Brendon murmurs. “And I saw you lose control, and it was amazing.”

“You’re right,” Ryan whispers. Brendon’s eyes are dark and hot. “Control is overrated.”

“Fucking right it is,” Brendon breathes, and that’s when Ryan kisses him.

Brendon’s lips are just as soft and sweet as Ryan remembers. Brendon cups his hand around the back of his neck, tangling it in Ryan’s hair, and opens his mouth against Ryan’s. Ryan licks at the corner of Brendon’s mouth, tracing the shape of his lips with his tongue. Brendon gasps as Ryan catches his lower lip between his teeth, and kisses him back so thoroughly that Ryan has to wrap his free hand around the railing to keep from melting into an incoherent puddle and sliding off the edge of the pier and into the Bay.

Brendon never lets go of his hand.

They kiss until the air cools with the dusky fog and Brendon, in only his t-shirt, begins to shiver. In spite of Brendon’s objections, Ryan takes off his jacket and slips it around Brendon’s shoulders, remarking that it’d be awesome if this suit was actually good for something.

“It’s hot,” Brendon informs him. “Your traveling salesman look is hot. I approve.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Ryan says, arching an eyebrow. “What exactly do you think I’m selling?”

“God, I don’t know,” Brendon says, letting his gaze drop and then skim up Ryan’s body. “But whatever it is, I’m buying.”

Ryan begins to laugh, quietly at first, and then Brendon is laughing with him, loud and musical. He presses his hand into the flat part of Ryan’s back, just between his shoulderblades, and leaves it there.

Ryan thinks: I am here, right now. I am here, I am here, I am here.

FOUR

Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now. (Goethe)

“I mean, I think it’s cute,” Frank says as Brendon bustles around the kitchen, attempting to make lasagna. “You having your first official date with Ryan and everything. I just don’t get why it has to involve burning down our apartment.”

“It does not involve that at all,” Brendon says, stirring sauce on the stove. “I’m cooking him dinner.”

“Yeah, I see that, but still,” Frank says. “I’m afraid to leave now, Brendon. I’m afraid that if I do, I will end this evening homeless.”

“I’m not going to burn down the apartment, asshole,” Brendon says, stabbing at the air in front of Frank’s face with his wooden spoon. “There was only that one time I set the oven on fire, and the landlord said – “

“The landlord said if it happened again we’re going to be living under the bridge,” Frank says. “He even specified the bridge – he said the Bay Bridge, because we wouldn’t be able to afford the view from the Golden Gate.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Brendon says. “He’s like ninety million years old. And he also said the gas in this apartment is temperamental because the building is old.”

“This is my point,” Frank says. “So why not play it safe and order takeout? Takeout can be romantic. You can feed each other sushi. What’s not romantic about sushi?”

“I don’t know, Frankie,” Brendon says. “What could possibly be not romantic about feeding each other raw fish wrapped in seaweed?” He lifts the lid on a large pot where he’s boiling the lasagna noodles and wrinkles his nose. “How do you even have a girlfriend?”

“This is a question I ask myself all the time,” Frank says. “But I’m certainly grateful for her, because it means I have a place to stay while you get all sweaty and naked with your Hot Emo Poet Boyfriend.”

“I should never have told you he writes poetry,” Brendon mourns.

“When he writes his first poem for you, I have first dibs, okay?” Frank says, slipping his wallet into his back pocket and fisting his keys. “I don’t care what Gerard offers you, it is all me.”

“He is not going to write poetry for me,” Brendon says. “And even if he did, it would be highly personal and for my eyes only.”

“Right,” Frank says with a dismissive wave. “So – it’s a lot harder to get laid when your house is burning down. I’m just saying. Keep this in mind.”

“Wow, I love my friends,” Brendon murmurs.

Frank slips out the door with a loud “Be safe, cowboy!” and a jaunty wave.

*

“Oh my God, seriously,” Spencer says. “What does it even matter what you’re wearing? You know all he wants to do is get you to take it off.”

Ryan flushes, adjusting his scarf in the mirror. It’s new, a yellow and red patterned number he bought in the Haight. He hasn’t decided if he truly likes it yet.

“It’s not like that,” Ryan mutters. “We’re trying to take it slow.”

Spencer snorts. “Dude, you’ve known Brendon for, like, two months now. For you, that’s not just slow. That’s glacial.”

Ryan runs a hand through his hair, parting it to one side, then parting it on the other. He’s not wearing any make-up again, and he still feels weirdly naked without it. Exposed.

“Okay, okay,” Spencer sighs. “I recognize that this isn’t only about sex, that you and Brendon mean something to each other, and –“

“We’re trying not to screw it up,” Ryan says. “I kind of suck at relationships, you know. You could try to be a bit more sensitive.”

“Look, I am totally sensitive,” Spencer says. “I just want you to stop punishing yourself, Ryan. Stop – withholding things from yourself because you think you don’t deserve them.”

This coming from Spencer – this moment of complete seriousness – seems a little shocking. But then Ryan remembers that Spencer is, in fact, the person who knows him better than anyone on earth. He may be very sarcastic and no-bullshit and occasionally mean, but Spencer’s seen Ryan through everything, every embarrassing, idiotic, nonsensical thing Ryan’s done since he was six years old. Spencer was the one who held Ryan’s head back last year; he was the one who picked him up from parties when he was stumbling drunk and couldn’t find anyone who wanted to take him home for the night; he was the one who sat with him for hours after he got that phone call about his dad, who booked him a flight back to Vegas when all Ryan could do was sit absolutely still and stare at the wall, who stood by his side at the funeral and squeezed his shoulder and said: He wouldn’t have wanted you to be upset.

“Okay, yeah,” Ryan says. “I get it. I get what you’re saying.”

Spencer looks at him with his cool blue eyes, and for once there’s no judgment there, no joke.

“Everything in moderation,” Spencer says softly. “Even moderation. Right?”

Ryan lowers his head, biting his lip. Spencer moves forward swiftly and wraps his arms around him in a hug.

“You look amazing,” Spencer mumbles into his neck. “You always do.”

“I’m not going to fuck this up,” Ryan says.

Spencer smells like soap and weed, clean and spicy. He doesn’t let Ryan go for a long minute – not until Ryan relaxes into the embrace.

“No,” Spencer says. “You’re not.”

*

Ryan’s only five minutes late, but by the time Brendon’s doorbell rings at 7:05 pm he’s already in full freak-out mode. What if he doesn’t come? he thinks. What if he hates me? What if he’s just been messing with me all this time, and –

Brendon wrenches open the door. Ryan’s wearing jeans, a brown belt, a striped shirt with a collar and a black vest, cowboy boots and a scarf tied kerchief-style around his neck. Brendon wonders, not for the first time, exactly how long Ryan spends each day coordinating his outfits just so he can look this effortlessly incredible.

“Hi,” Ryan says.

“C’mon in,” Brendon says, moving aside for Ryan to step past him. As he does Brendon catches a whiff of Ryan’s cologne – he smells sort of like vanilla, like baking cookies. Brendon clenches his hand into a fist at his side and tries not to twitch, thinking: I am so completely, elaborately, thoroughly fucked.

“So this is what my living room looks like with all the lights on,” Brendon says conversationally.

“Awesome,” Ryan nods. “You’ve got a lot of music.”

Brendon nods. “Yeah, sorry about the mess. I tried to clean things up, but I sort of fail at things like that, so –“

“It’s okay,” Ryan says. “Our apartment is always a mess, and usually smells like a Rastafarian temple. This place is nice.”

Brendon shrugs. “It’s okay. It’s what we can afford. We both make decent money, but we’re not exactly rich.”

Ryan walks over to the built-in mantle; there are photos displayed there, mostly of Brendon and Frank making stupid faces, or Brendon and Pete pretending to be fashion models, or Frank and Jamia being adorable, or Frank being smiley and Gerard being creepy. Ryan stops in front of one and picks it up, looking at it closely.

“Is this your family?” he asks.

Brendon blinks. He’d forgotten that was even there. It’s years old, that picture – from his high school graduation. He clears his throat. “Uh, yeah.”

“You’ve got a lot of siblings,” Ryan observes, glancing up at him. “I can’t believe I never – “

“Never came up,” Brendon interrupts him. “Not that interesting, really – I mean, I have four siblings, I’m the youngest, my parents are cool. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

Ryan follows Brendon with his steady eyes. Brendon sits down on the couch, pulling himself into a Lotus position. He scratches at the corner of his eye. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated the way my family is complicated?” Ryan asks.

He places the photo back on the mantelpiece and wanders over to Brendon, sinking down on the couch next to him, all long, slender limbs.

“No,” Brendon says. “Complicated in a different way.”

“Oh,” Ryan says softly.

He reaches out and runs one finger over the back of Brendon’s hand, tracing the tendon from knuckle to wrist. Brendon shivers.

“My parents weren’t so happy when I dropped out of school,” Brendon says. “That’s all. I don’t really – I don’t really talk to them anymore. They think I’m sort of a fuck up.”

Ryan stiffens. He curls his hand around Brendon’s wrist, holding it in a loose grip.

“Oh,” he repeats. “But that’s stupid. You’re not a fuck up.”

“Well, they didn’t see it that way,” Brendon says.

“Mmm,” Ryan murmurs.

Brendon closes his eyes briefly. He can feel Ryan’s grip tighten on his wrist, thumb stroking over the bone.

When he opens his eyes Ryan is looking at him, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He looks worried and sad, and Brendon feels his chest expand with all the stupid, cheesy things he wants to say.

“Dinner’s going to be ready soon,” he says instead. “It’s lasagna.”

“Wow,” Ryan says. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I cook lasagna,” Brendon says. “That’s about it.”

“Well,” Ryan smiles, “that’s enough.”

*

At dinner Brendon produces a bottle of red wine, setting it down in the middle of the table and saying, “We don’t have to, I just thought it went well with –“

Everything in moderation, even moderation, Ryan thinks, and says, “No, let’s do it. Looks good.”

“So tell me something about yourself,” Brendon says around a mouthful of lasagna. “Something other than the fact that you’re the hottest Virgo I’ve ever met.”

“Spencer’s a Virgo,” Ryan says, a smile pushing up the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah, and I bet Spencer’s pretty hot too,” Brendon says. “And yet.”

Ryan lowers his eyes, tingling under the intensity of Brendon’s gaze.

“You want to know something embarrassing?” Ryan asks.

“Dude, what kind of question is that,” Brendon says. “Of course I do.”

“I went to a Backstreet Boys concert once,” Ryan says. “When I was nine. It was my first concert ever.”

Brendon’s eyes widen, and then he begins to laugh.

“See, I knew you’d do that,” Ryan sighs. “You’re all – like, this music expert, you probably think I’m a total plebe –“

“Oh, Ryan,” Brendon says. “Whatever, you have not seen my collection of Justin Timberlake, okay? It’s epic. I think I have everything the man has ever recorded, including anything and everything laid down by NSYNC.”

Ryan’s mouth drops open. “You – seriously?”

“I am more serious than a heart attack, buddy,” Brendon says, lifting his glass of wine to his lips. “That man is a master. He’s a fucking genius.”

Ryan bursts out laughing, and then Brendon’s laughing with him. He laughs so hard wine almost comes out of his nose.

“The first time you met me I was playing disco,” Brendon says. “How indie rock do you think I am?”

“You have a point,” Ryan says, carefully neglecting to add that he didn’t much register what Brendon was playing on the speakers at DIY on that first day because he was too busy checking out Brendon’s ass.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Brendon says. “Clearly I just look way cooler than I am.”

“Clearly,” Ryan says, and takes a sip of wine, feeling it slide cool and sweet down his throat, warming him all over.

*

After dinner they adjourn to the living room, where Brendon lies down on the floor on his back and Ryan stretches out on the couch. They’re both tipsy and lazy and full, and Brendon murmurs, “Don’t go to sleep on me now.”

“M’not,” Ryan mutters. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, and Brendon’s breath catches in his throat.

He sits up, placing one hand on Ryan’s arm, feeling the fabric of his shirt soft under his fingertips and Ryan’s warmth beneath it. Ryan gazes at him, mouth tipping into a sleepy smile.

“What do you want to do?” Brendon asks. “Let’s do something.”

Ryan blinks. “I thought we weren’t going to…you know. Do anything.”

“I mean like watch a movie, dude,” Brendon says. “God, you’re so dirty-minded.”

Ryan laughs softly, propping himself up on his elbow and staring down at Brendon. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Not really,” Brendon says. “Mostly I want to make out with you.”

“I’ve only been here like two hours,” Ryan says.

“Oh, so you’re time-activated, like Cinderella?” Brendon’s grinning at him. “Except instead of you losing your glass slipper at midnight, you lose your pants?”

“That could be arranged,” Ryan murmurs, and the heat in his eyes is so fierce Brendon can feel an answering heat in his limbs, his fingertips, everywhere.

Brendon pulls his knee up to his chest in a version of the Half Spinal Twist. Ryan watches him with dark eyes. Brendon loves how Ryan watches him – like Brendon possesses some secret code he’s trying to decipher.

“Can you do, like, crazy yoga poses?” Ryan asks. “Like, stuff we don’t do in class?”

Brendon smirks at him. “Sure, I guess.”

“So show me,” Ryan says.

Brendon pushes himself into Plough Pose, lying flat on his back with his toes touching the ground behind his head. Ryan inhales sharply, and Brendon can see him bite his lip.

“I bet you can do that too,” Brendon says, unfolding himself from the posture and smiling up at Ryan.

The wine has made him bold. Mostly he just wants Ryan down on the floor with him, close enough that there is high potential for naughty behavior to ensue.

Ryan raises his eyebrows. “You must be kidding.”

“I’m not! Seriously, trust me. I’m a licensed yoga instructor. I can help you. Get down here.”

Ryan smiles. “That’s possibly the worst come on I’ve ever heard,” he says.

“You’ve probably heard a lot of come ons, too, hot Virgo,” Brendon says. “I feel kind of honored, being the worst.”

“I did have a phase in which I got a lot of drunken propositions,” Ryan admits.

“Yeah,” Brendon says casually. “Spencer may have mentioned that.”

“Spencer may have – what?” Ryan’s eyes widen. “What did he mention? And when? And where?”

“When he and Jon came to see me at the studio to tell me we needed to make up,” Brendon says. “He mentioned you had some not-so-virtuous moments last year.”

“They came to visit you?” Ryan’s voice cracks. “And Spencer told you I was –“

“Kind of a slut for awhile, yes,” Brendon says. “But he meant it in an affectionate way. I think?”

“Oh, bull,” Ryan says. “Spencer’s never been tactful about that stuff.”

“Okay, maybe you’re right,” Brendon concedes. “He might have said you slept with half the people at State.”

“Oh my God,” Ryan says, burying his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Brendon says, rising from the floor and climbing onto the couch with Ryan. He places his hand on Ryan’s thigh, stroking over the scratchy denim. “Don’t do that. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ryan mumbles. “Your best friend didn’t tell your boyfriend you were drunk and slutty for a year.”

“I don’t care,” Brendon says, brushing Ryan’s hair out of his eyes. “I don’t care what you did. Everybody makes mistakes. The way I understand it, that’s what college is for, in fact.”

“I thought college was for learning,” Ryan says.

His cheeks are stained pink and he’s pouting. It’s pretty adorable.

“Well, isn’t that what you were doing?” Brendon asks, smile pushing up one corner of his mouth. “Learning?”

Ryan shoots him a dirty look.

“I bet you’re really good in bed,” Brendon teases. “With all that experience. That’s kind of sexy. C’mon, show me something. I showed you my fancy yoga moves. Show me your seduction skills.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Ryan asks faintly.

“Skills, Ross,” Brendon says, nudging him with his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Ryan looks up at Brendon through his eyelashes. “I used to give a pretty decent massage.”

“Oh, sweet.” Brendon shifts around so he’s practically in Ryan’s lap. “Bring it on. Relieve my tension.”

The second Ryan presses his hands into Brendon’s shoulders, Brendon regrets having been so cavalier and mocking. He should’ve guessed that Ryan would approach massage the way he does everything else – methodically, with focus and intent. His hands are strong and firm kneading between Brendon’s shoulderblades, gentle as they flatten against his spine. He uses his long, narrow fingers to press into the tight muscles of Brendon’s neck, exorcising tension through his fingertips.

“Whoa,” Brendon breathes. “You’re good at this.”

He feels Ryan moving behind him and then Ryan’s breath, warm against his neck.

“Are you –“ Brendon starts to say, but then his brain shorts out because Ryan licks between his massaging fingers, tongue darting over the sensitive skin.

”Nnnngh,” Brendon states authoritatively. He can feel Ryan smiling against his neck.

“Good?” Ryan asks.

Dirty pool, Ross, Brendon thinks, his eyes fluttering closed, hands curling into the fabric of his jeans.

“Yessss,” Brendon breathes. “Are you sure you’re not, like, a professional masseuse?”

“Masseur,” Ryan corrects, digging the heel of his hand into a knot of muscle at the base of Brendon’s spine. “And no, I’m not.”

“You should be,” Brendon says. “Or – no – no, I don’t want you to touch anybody else like this, so no.”

“Well, I’m glad you worked that out for me,” Ryan says, sounding amused. “Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome,” Brendon murmurs.

“Are you going to pass out?” Ryan asks.

“Possibly,” Brendon says. “Is that okay?”

Ryan lies back and pulls an entirely compliant, boneless Brendon along with him so he’s sprawled on top of him. He threads his fingers through Brendon’s hair, petting him softly.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”

Brendon can hear Ryan’s heart beating, slow and steady. Like the ocean, Brendon thinks as he drifts off. All rhythm, no rules.

*

Ryan wakes up in the morning to the melodic sound of a guitar being strummed. He blinks his eyes open, then shivers. Brendon isn’t lying on the couch with him, and the room is chilly, cooled by early morning fog that’s snuck in through one half-open window.

He rubs a hand across his eyes, trying to rouse his still half-conscious brain. He fell asleep with all his clothes on, but he notices he’s not wearing his scarf or boots – the scarf is folded neatly and sitting on a nearby chair, and his boots are lined up next to the couch. He sits up and stretches, cracking his back.

He feels a bit like a child in the Pied Piper story, padding down the hallway in his socks, following the music. The song is pretty though he doesn’t recognize it, and as he approaches the doorway, open a crack, he can hear quiet humming too.

Ryan pushes open the door gently to reveal Brendon, sitting cross-legged on his unmade bed, guitar resting comfortably in his lap. His fingers move easily over the frets, right hand stroking over the strings. He bites his lip as he plays, eyes focused on the movement of his hands, completely absorbed.

Brendon’s bedroom is a mess; the walls are covered floor to ceiling with band posters, album art, set lists and ticket stubs. There’s everything from a large poster of Madonna to the album jacket for the Kinks’ Village Green Preservation Society to a backstage pass for Cirque du Soleil, and he’s scrawled notes in black Sharpie across the majority of his musical wallpaper – lyrics, mostly, things like speaking words of wisdom, let it be and the answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind.

“Wow,” Ryan breathes.

Brendon’s head jerks up in surprise, and his hands drop from the guitar. “Oh, God – I’m sorry. Did I wake you? I didn’t mean to –“

“Yes,” Ryan says, approaching the bed. He reaches out and presses a hand to Brendon’s cheek. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I was just messing around,” Brendon stutters. “I was trying to be quiet, I –“

“It’s beautiful,” Ryan says, thumbing along Brendon’s cheekbone. “I didn’t know you played.”

Brendon lowers his eyes. “Yeah, a little. I played piano for awhile, and then I taught myself to play guitar because it was, like, the natural progression, if I wanted to be in a band or whatever, and I used to do stuff with drums, and, like, cello—“

“I keep thinking you can’t get any hotter,” Ryan says, amazed. “And then you do.”

Brendon looks up at him in confusion. “It’s really not a big deal,” he says. “I just do it sometimes to, like, de-stress – whenever anything big happens to me.”

“Oh, so am I the big thing that happened to you?” Ryan asks, enjoying the way Brendon flushes.

“Sort of,” Brendon murmurs, then adds, “Yes.”

Ryan lets his eyes drift over Brendon’s walls, taking it all in.

“This makes sense,” Ryan says softly. “You, here.”

“Well, I did put everything up myself,” Brendon babbles. “It took a massive amount of wall adhesive, dude. It was this whole thing –“

Ryan kneels down in front of Brendon, and Brendon’s eyes go wide. He gently lifts Brendon’s guitar from his lap and places it on the floor beside him. Brendon follows every movement of Ryan’s hands with his eyes, lips parting slightly. He’s like some kind of skittish kitten, and when Ryan looks up at him, Brendon’s eyes dart back and forth across his face nervously.

“Brendon,” Ryan says. “Just breathe, okay?”

Brendon takes in a shuddering breath, chest expanding and contracting under the thin fabric of his white cotton undershirt.

“We make sense, here,” Ryan murmurs.

He holds out his hand. Brendon takes it.

“Let’s do this,” Ryan says. “Now.”

*

A kiss, light and fluttering that becomes heavy and intense as they melt into each other, tongues twining. Ryan licks over Brendon’s top lip, then his bottom one. Brendon exhales, winding his hand in Ryan’s hair.

Brendon catches Ryan’s lip between his teeth, hand sliding over the dip of his lower back. Ryan arches into him, bringing them flush; Brendon moans into his collarbone, then leans down and licks over the spot of salty skin until Ryan’s hips stutter.

Brendon looks up at him with half-lidded eyes, smiling as he strokes up and down Ryan’s cock. Ryan’s chest tightens. He can’t breathe.

Brendon leans down and licks over the head, just once.

“Fuck,” Ryan hisses.

“Oh, God.”

Brendon drags his tongue over the inside of Ryan’s thigh. Ryan’s hands are shaking.

Ryan’s hand slips over the sweaty skin of Brendon’s hip. His teeth find the curve of bone, and Brendon groans, fisting a hand in Ryan’s hair.

“Don’t stop,” Brendon murmurs.

His hair is messy against the pillow, his lips reddened from deep, unrushed kisses.

“I want to watch you do it,” Brendon whispers, and guides Ryan’s hand down, down, down.

Brendon is content to watch only until Ryan’s breathing begins to hitch and stutter. Then he starts talking.

“God, Ryan,” he murmurs. “You’re so gorgeous like this, you have no idea. You look like you’re trying to hold back – don’t hold back, okay?”

“Touch me,” Ryan whispers. He squeezes his eyes shut, thrusting up into his own fist.

“No,” Brendon says. “But I’ll lick it off your hand when you come.”

Brendon strains against Ryan’s grip as Ryan moves his hips in slow circles.

“Just let me –“ Brendon gasps.

“No,” Ryan murmurs. “You said –“

“Fuck what I said,” Brendon says.

His voice is gone, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

“You said you didn’t want me to let you come until you begged for it,” Ryan says.

His smile is a dirty secret, his lips hot along the line of Brendon’s throat.

“Please,” Brendon whispers. “Ryan - please.”

Ryan’s hands cup Brendon’s hips, framing them as he thrusts. He can hear nothing but Brendon’s quiet hitching moans, the slick slide of their bodies together, and the panting whisper of his own breath.

“Jesus – ah – ah – fuck – fuck me, Ryan, God, just – “

“You are so loud, Christ, your neighbors –“

“Will you shut the fuck up? Don’t you dare – don’t you even think – oh, you bastard –“

“You are so inconsiderate.”

“I am not – ah – yes, there, there – do that again, do that again –“

Brendon’s slurring his words, on his stomach with his hands bunched in the sheets, moving his hips in quick, desperate motions against the bed. Ryan has one hand spread, star-fish-like, across his lower back, as he traces the vertebrae of Brendon’s spine slowly and languidly with his tongue.

“So good,” Brendon murmurs. “So good, Ryan…”

“Mmm,” Ryan hums into his skin, and Brendon’s spine curves to meet his lips.

When Ryan comes for the third time, it’s with Brendon on top of him. He’s staring at him with hungry eyes, tongue curled around Ryan’s pointer finger, barely moving at all.

When Brendon comes for the third time, it’s from watching Ryan come – his pupils blown, fingernails digging into Brendon’s hips, hair a mess.

“Brendon,” he whispers, and that’s it – those two soft syllables on Ryan’s lips. That’s all it takes.

*

“Damn,” Brendon breathes, letting his fingers trip down over Ryan’s naked hip, palm splaying across his stomach. “We’re pretty good at that.”

“Yes we are,” Ryan murmurs. His eyes are closed but he’s not asleep – yet.

“We should do it again,” Brendon says. “Soon.”

“Soon,” Ryan agrees. “Sleep first.”

“Mmm.” Brendon burrows his nose in Ryan’s neck. He likes cuddling. Ryan smells like sweat and sex, and Brendon kind of wishes he could climb inside him and hang out for awhile.

“You’re tickling me,” Ryan says, hiccupping out a laugh.

Brendon digs his chin into Ryan’s chest in retaliation, and Ryan lets out an indignant squeak, rolling Brendon over so he’s on his back with Ryan above him. Brendon does not mind this change in position. In fact, to be cheeky, he lifts his hips just to feel Ryan’s sharp intake of breath.

“You can’t be serious,” Ryan says.

“I am not often serious, this is true,” Brendon says. “But I can be. I’m capable of being positively stoic.”

“Oh, shut up,” Ryan says. His light brown eyes are glinting with laughter.

“I think you’ll find that most of the time I’m up for anything,” Brendon says, winking.

Ryan closes his eyes. “I cannot believe I just had sex with you.”

“Multiple times!” Brendon says. “It was awesome.”

Ryan rolls off of him, but doesn’t resist when Brendon throws his arm over Ryan’s side and curls into his body, kissing his cheek.

“So before when you said you were just messing around,” Ryan says conversationally. “That was a total lie, right?”

Brendon looks at him, confused.

“The music,” Ryan prompts. “You write songs. You’re a musician.”

“Well, I don’t know –“

“Brendon,” Ryan says. “You love music. You play it. How are you not a musician?”

Brendon scrubs a hand through his messy hair. “When you put it that way –“

“More importantly, why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?” Ryan asks. “When I walked in here before you jumped like you’d been caught hiding a body.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have a morbid imagination?”

“Brendon.”

Brendon sighs. Ryan’s gazing at him with his head cocked to one side, a thoughtful look on his face.

“My parents didn’t like it,” he says, finally. “The music. They didn’t – they said it was stupid, to drop out of school for music. Because I wanted to be a musician.”

Ryan watches him, considering.

“That’s why we don’t talk,” Brendon explains. “Because they didn’t want me to do this. To move out here, to try to – I don’t know.”

“To try to do what you love?” Ryan asks.

His hand finds Brendon’s, lacing their fingers together at the center of his chest.

“They said it wasn’t sensible,” Brendon says.

“It’s not,” Ryan says. “So?”

Brendon smiles a little, ducking his head.

“You know what else isn’t sensible?” Ryan asks. “Poetry. Poetry is really not sensible.”

Brendon blinks.

“There’s not a whole lot of money in the poetry field,” Ryan says. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“It doesn’t pay like investment banking, this is true,” Brendon agrees.

“You should play more often,” Ryan says. “You should play for me.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says. He’s caught up in Ryan’s eyes, the tiny dip in his lower lip. “I should.”

“Those songs you write,” Ryan says. “Any of them need lyrics?”

Brendon’s smile widens.

[end]