Strictly Under the Influence

“I swear,” Spencer says to Ryan and Brendon, oh, about two minutes before Hayley's supposed to arrive. Ryan fidgets nervously, and steals a glance at Brendon, who smiles devilishly at him. Chuckling, Ryan looks back up to Spencer and listens. “If you guys screw this up, too, I will personally, make living here, hell.”

“Oh, shit,” Brendon whispers, “Someone's PMS'ing.”

Restraining a laugh, Ryan smoothes out his shirt one last time before the doorbell rings. “You might want to get that, Spencer,” Ryan says, only half-joking.

“Ha,” Spencer replies, shooting Ryan and Brendon the bird before going to the door to greet Hayley. “Hey,” Spencer says, sort of softly. Or, that's what Ryan thinks. He also thinks that this girl has Spencer whipped already.

“Scouts honor!” Brendon calls, somewhat randomly.

Ryan laughs and pulls Brendon into the kitchen, asking, “Please be good, Brendon. I don't think she wants two little kids at the table.”

“Please,” he murmurs, lips hovering dangerously close to Ryan's, “I don't classify you nor, I, as little kids.”

“Ryan, Brendon,” Spencer says, warning clear in his voice, “Whatever you're doing, stop.”

Pulling away from Ryan reluctantly, Brendon takes a seat at the table. Ryan can feel the heat in his cheeks. He can hear the pulse in his ears. He shakes his head, before his thoughts wander too far, and takes a seat beside Brendon.

Dinner goes relatively smooth, and before long, all four of them are sitting in the living room sipping on drinks, and talking about high school. “Oh,” Brendon reminisces, sipping on Scotch on the rocks, “Palo Verde was extremely strict on drugs and alcohol. I remember when you, Spencer, and I would sneak out back just to light up a joint.”

Spencer laughs, obviously remembering back in high school and Ryan feels a bit left out. He didn't have many good high school experiences. Prom was okay. He met Jac there, but come to think of it, he didn't quite like that time in his life, either. Bishop Gorman wasn't the party high school. He started drinking when he turned seventeen, but that was only sometimes. It got worse over the years, until finally, he admitted to himself that he was an alcoholic. But, at that very moment, Ryan is drinking a light vodka—99 Bananas—and it was mixed with Pepsi anyways, so it didn't have that much effect on him. It was like giving a hand job to a sex addict. It didn't do much but ease the needing until it was almost bearable. Ryan takes a small sip and sets it on the coffee table, after considerately placing a coaster underneath.

“I think I'm going to call it a night,” Hayley quietly announces to Spencer, who offers to drive her, but Brendon buts in and says he's not fit to drive. Hayley, who's only had half a drink herself, tells them she's going to drive herself home.

_

The first night when Brendon comes into his room, Ryan goes out of his mind with nerves. But Brendon's hands are just so soft- and velvety-feeling, that it chases all of Ryan's insecurities and inhibitions away. “How far, Ryan?” Brendon asks, his voice so hoarse and deep, Ryan barely recognizes it. “Ryan,” he says again after he's cleared his throat.

“Not all the way,” Ryan finally gasps.

At this point, both of them are shirtless and Ryan's pants and boxers are pooled around his ankles. Brendon kisses Ryan's chest, then his lips, pulls his discarded boxers back on and cuddles close. “Get some sleep, Ryan.”

Intertwining their fingers, Ryan whispers huskily, “Will you at least finish what you started? I can't sleep like this.” He gestures towards his member and smiles sheepishly at Brendon.

The dark haired boy, more than eagar, takes his boxers off again and goes to work.

_

Brendon doesn't wake up until noon. Ryan's been up. Spencer's at work. Brendon rubs his eyes as he takes a seat next to Ryan on the loveseat. “Morning sleepy head,” Ryan says, setting a small plate holding a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the coffee table.

“Mm,” Brendon says, stretching out with his feet in Ryan's lap and his back against the side of the loveseat. He grabs the sandwich and takes a bite, saying, “Yum, jelly.”

“Hey,” the older boy pouts, “that was my sandwich.”

Sticking half of it in his mouth, so the other half hangs out, Brendon manages a, “Come and get it.”

Leaning forward with a hand on Brendon's thigh, Ryan puts the other half of the sandwich in his mouth and bites it off, but not before slipping a kiss to Brendon. He thinks of Disney's Lady and the Tramp and covers his mouth while he chuckles. Brendon mumbles something with a mouth full of food that he can't understand and then chews it and swallows. “What's so funny, Ross?”

Ryan shakes his head and stretches out so his feet are in Brendon's lap.

_

For some reason it just feels like Ryan hasn't been to work in forever, he's been almost everyday, but since yesterday, it just seems like a lifetime. And he also has this funny feeling in the pit of his stomach like something's going to happen but he can't place his long finger on it.

It's a quiet day at the deli and he doesn't have much to do there today. Ryan's coworker, Gabe, walks in the tiny shop and takes a seat beside him. “Today. Sucks,” Gabe says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What happened this time,” Ryan asks. He knows that Gabe has difficulties with his girlfriend, who he supposedly is getting married to, but Ryan's not so sure that's going to happen.

“Isabella got mad when I met up with Nate yesterday to go over something for his new club or something. I don't even remember,” he sighs. Gabe is strongly exotic. From his defined features to his tall, lanky appearance. Of course, a lot of people he knows have the same tall, lanky appearance, only a few are granted with the gracefulness that accompanies some people.

“She needs to take a break, both of you do,” he replies, slightly distant, wondering what Brendon is doing at this very moment.

“Yeah, maybe,” Gabe says quietly, growing distant in his own reverie.

_

Pete looks up from the paperwork and to Brendon, who shrugs and takes a seat at the empty bar. “Pete, I don't know what to tell you, other than we have to find the smuggler,” he says, rubbing his finger across the counter and bringing it up to inspect it for dust. Spotless. He smiles to himself and wipes his hand on his jeans.

“No shit, genius,” Pete says studying the employee hours with the money rate intensely. “I think we've figured that part out.”

Brendon shrugs and stands up so he can pace. He thinks better when he paces. Ryan crosses his thoughts a few times, but for once, he pushes him out. Brendon needs his mind on work and not on play. Who says you can't mingle pleasure with business? Hell, those office moguls do it all the time. But then again, Ryan isn't here to take care of that either. He sighs.

“That Marin kid is a shady one,” Pete says, half-talking to himself. Walking over to look at the papers with him, Brendon lays one hand on the counter and peers down the column of names and payroll records. Lucky them, their system tells them how much said employee is paid and not just how much that person is supposed to get. It also tells them how much they're supposed to get, too, but that's not the point.

“There,” Brendon says, pointing to a row where money is steadily growing more than it's supposed to. “Under the Morris guy.”

“I can't believe it took us three hours to find that,” Pete sighs, “at least we can go home now. I call the cops, don't worry about that, just go home to your little girly-looking guy.” He snorts and folds the paper up. Brendon frowns, but otherwise doesn't argue. He knows Ryan is girly-looking, but not everyone has to point it out.

“Coming from the guy who dates a badly made Barbie doll,” he mutters under his breath.

“I heard that, Urie.”

“Good. Now go home and buy her some more plastic surgery, maybe it'll work this time.”

“You're gay.”

“Uh, no shit. I date a guy, hello? Where have you been the past few weeks?”

“Buying plastic surgery for my Barbie doll,” Pete says with a grin that always assures Brendon that they're joking. Not that he ever doubts it, but he likes the reassurance.