Confusion Is the Strongest Emotion

"So, how long have been in love with Ryan?" Patrick asked. Point-blank, no bullshitting. He and Brendon were outside while the younger smoked a cigarette, his jeans rolled up and his feet dipping in the pool.

His cigarette almost fell out of his mouth into his lap, but he managed to keep that from happening. "Wha'?" he asked, eyes wide.

"It's pretty obvious." Patrick replied with an apologetic shrug. "I can tell by the way you look at him. And Pete." he added as an afterthought. "Trust me, I know what it's like to be crazy about a guy that sleeps around."

"You and Pete?" Brendon asked, thinking for once that he may have finally understood something that hadn't been said. He felt accomplished and intelligent and he wondered if that was what Ryan felt like all the time. It would have explained a lot.

Patrick didn't answer. And Brendon wondered if that was what happened when you officially became an adult, you stopped talking about things because you developed some sort of telepathy that just let you know what the people around you were thinking. And then he realized if that were true he was never going to be able to cut it. He'd be stuck in the mind of a teenager forever.

"Ryan says he likes me." Brendon said, finally. He wanted to talk. He had the feeling Patrick had to be good at listening if he was best friends with Pete because he knew how much the other boy could talk due to Ryan's attachment to his phone. "But he says he's not 'ready' to do anything about it yet, whatever that means. It sounds like bullshit. Like, Christmas Day he wanted to make out and shit, but then he was all pissed at me for whatever reason and he was making out with this guy from work. He's just . . . he's so stupid."

"Sometimes people are afraid to like someone they really like because they know their own track record." Patrick said softly. "Sometimes they're just stupid though." And then he pushed Brendon in the pool.

*

Ryan and Brendon actually had separate rooms and Patrick was sharing with Pete, which Ryan didn't look too happy about, but he just bit his tongue. And it worked out best for Brendon, the boy thought, because the lyricist came slinking into his room only an hour or so after the retired, sliding under the blankets and curling up next to him. "I'm so used to sleeping in the same bed with you." he murmured. "Don't know how to sleep without you."

Brendon brought his hands up, gently running his fingertips through Ryan's hair. "Please don't sleep with him." he whispered. It was easier for him to say things at night. The older boy always seemed more forgiving at night. "I can't . . . he'll win, Ry."

The lyricist gave a gentle smile, letting his head fall against Brendon's chest. "I can't make promises," he murmured, "but you'll always win, you know."

*

The recording studio was the single most beautiful place Brendon thought he'd ever been in his life. He didn't even know how half the things worked and he had to ask what the switchboard was called. Patrick had to show him where to stand and how close or how far to keep his mouth from the microphone, but it didn't matter. It felt like the only place he'd ever been made to be.

Everything else was recorded, Patrick told him. They were just making finishing touches now and it was only a few weeks before that Pete had suggested adding Brendon to the song. The album was supposed to debut the next months, so they were going to have to mix it pretty damn quickly to make the date. "But you'll do fine." Patrick assured him. "I've heard you sing. You're a natural. Don't worry if you mess up a few times though. You're new to it. I still mess up, so . . ." He smiled and Brendon felt better.

Ryan and Pete were outside listening with Patrick and the producer. Joe and Andy were out there too. They seemed cool when Patrick introduced them, but Brendon was too entranced by his surroundings to really take anything else in.

Ryan was all but sitting in Pete's lap, though, asking what this was and what that was. He looked like a curious child and everyone in the recording studio was whispering about the pair of them, trying to keep their voices out of Patrick's ears, but the singer was smart enough to know what was going on without the opinions of bystanders.

Brendon was the natural Patrick said he was. The vocals didn't take longer than two hours and he would have done take after take without complaint. It ended up them needing him to pull him out of the recording booth more than anything else. Ryan hugged him afterward. "You were so good." he said, smiling. "It's gonna be amazing to hear you sing my songs." he whispered in the boy's ear. Pete might have heard, he was certainly close enough to Ryan to do so, but he didn't say anything.

Not about that at least. He clapped Brendon on the back though, grinning. "You're golden, man. Your record . . . it's gonna be amazing."

"Yeah, so can we eat now?" Joe called from the couch. "I'm starving."

"You're always starving," the other three members of his band shot back almost instantaneously. Joe was the one who smoked weed, Patrick had told Brendon. The boy had already made a mental note to make friends with the guitarist before he left. Joe had the money for good weed and Brendon wasn't ashamed of having ulterior motives. Plus, Joe seemed cool. He had crazy hair.

They went to some restaurant that Brendon had never heard of. Pete said it wasn't a chain and they had everything, including a great vegetarian menu that both he and Andy ordered from. Brendon sat next to Ryan, but Pete was on the other side of the lyricist. And each time Brendon went to say something to his best friend, Pete was already saying something that the boy was either laughing at or practically salivating at. Patrick gave him a sympathetic look the third time it happened, but there was nothing anyone could really do.

Ryan was completely content to play the doe-eyed lapdog and Pete was certainly holding the leash.

Brendon tried not to repeat to himself what he had already know in Las Vegas. There was no way to compete with Pete Wentz. And Ryan hadn't even denied that he was going to sleep with Pete the night before. For all Brendon knew, they already had. Patrick didn't seem all that phased by it and Brendon wasn't sure if it was to be admired or pitied. Admired for the strength or pitied because it had happened so much it didn't even get a rise out of him anymore.

Brendon hoped it wasn't a preview of what was to come with Ryan. They might fall apart before they even got a chance to dip their feet in.

*

That evening Ryan woke up suddenly around two for no real reason. He was sleeping next to Brendon again, but instead of watching the younger boy's face and trying to fall back asleep, he quietly got up and snuck out of the room, down the hallway. He heard the television from the basement and followed the soft noise until he found Pete sprawled out on the couch, an animated movie Ryan didn't recognize playing on the screen.

"Hey." he mumbled and Pete sat up, giving a soft smile. "Am I interrupting?"

The older shook his head. "I don't sleep very much." he replied. "You know that. Total insomniac. You seen this movie?"

Ryan shook his head. "What is it?"

"Spirited Away."

"Oh, by that dude who did Howl's Moving Castle." He nodded, sitting down next to Pete, a little closer than was necessary but not too close for either of their comforts. "I've been meaning to, but you know." He shrugged and let Pete put his hand on Ryan's upper thigh, squeezing slightly. Sharp intake of breath and eyes flicking down to confirm the contact for the briefest second, but then he just stared at the screen.

Pete tried not to smirk, but it was just so easy. "So, tell me about you and Brendon." he murmured.

Ryan didn't answer. It was the easiest way to deal with things he wasn't ready to deal with. Similiar to Brendon's view of if you can't see me, I can't see you, but more along the lines of if I don't answer, you didn't say it.

"So do you want to fuck me?" Ryan asked, turning to Pete, a lot more forward than he had really planned.

The older didn't seem to bat an eyelash. "You have no idea." he breathed. And that was it. He was pressing his lips to Ryan's, fingers tangling in the mess of hair. There was nothing soft about it, such a contrast to Brendon's tentative--albeit desperate--hands. Then his hands were out of Ryan's hair and pushing him back on the couch, sliding down his torso to palm his hips, pressing hard to enough to cause the sharp intake of breath, the choking gasps.

They both wanted it, both thinking they wanted it more than the other. Pete because he'd been mentally fucking Ryan since the moment he laid eyes on him, jerking off to it for months. Ryan because he'd been jerking off to Pete for much, much longer and because he felt like a part of him needed it. Like maybe if he had sex with the poet-god that he worshipped, then maybe some of him would rub off on Ryan, maybe he'd absorb some of that magic and take it inside of him. Everyone said they were so much alike and he just wanted proof.

Amd maybe . . . maybe some of that bravery and nerve would rub off on him, too.

"I bet you're amazing." Pete's voice came out as a hiss, jolting the younger boy back down to earth. "So fucking hot." His hands came up again, tugging Ryan's shirt over his head, then latching his mouth onto the boy's pulse. Ryan couldn't even think to protest, only saw a fleeting thought of him trying to explain the bruises to Brendon in the morning. His heart was beating so hard that he was sure it was overtaking the neurons firing in his brain. Pure arousal was winning the battle over thought.

Ryan finally pushed Pete off his goal of apparently leaving as many hickies as possibly on the pale skin, but only because he wanted the other boy's shirt off. And then his hands were running over the ink on the arms and the chest and the bartskull right over Pete's jeans. "I want suck your cock." he breathed, his thumb brushing against the metal button at the top of the denim.

He wasn't so brazen normally, so crass. He wasn't shy, but he wasn't emboldened. He seemed like a slut the way he danced around partners, but when the doors were closed he was anything but. He was soft, the way he was Brendon, quiet, letting them take the lead. And he tried to avoid words like 'fuck' and 'cock' because then he only realized the cheapness of the act he was participating in.

But Pete was different. Pete was the awakening, the beginning of something new. And Ryan wanted to be different, too. He didn't want to be afraid. He didn't want to be the boy that still had the candy heart Brendon had left on his pillow in his wallet because he was too afraid to say anything back. He was sick of being scared.

Pete undid his zipper for Ryan, sat up and worked his own jeans and underwear off. And the boy hesitated for a moment. He thought about Brendon upstairs sleeping for a few seconds, how he was going to explain it in the morning, what this was going to do for him, how everything was going to change after this moment, had already changed in the sound of his footsteps on the basement stair. And Pete kissed him, soft for once, fingers lingering on the cheek. And Ryan lowered his head.

He could see the tattoo every time he tilted his neck, so he closed his eyes. He couldn't forget, but he didn't want the reminder. And he fought the tears back, too, not sure why they were there in the first place. Everything was going to change. This was going to change his life more than the record deal, more than touring, more than the band had. This was going to change the way he breathed. And he wanted it to be Brendon, but this was the way it had to be. He knew that, he just wished he were wrong.

Pete warned him, before he finished, just in case. But Ryan didn't pull off. It was unusual for him. He was usually such a stickler for his rules, for his preventative measures. And he wasn't stupid. He knew he was supposed to use a condom when he went down on a guy, but he hated the thought and he'd tried it once and hated the taste. So he just told himself that no fluids meant no harm. Ryan told himself a lot of things. He was like Brendon in that respect, though he didn't know it.

Pete kissed him afterward, hot and breathy and Ryan smiled because most guys wanted him to take a drink first. (And he usually did, too, truth be told.) But then Pete was pushing him onto his back and working Ryan's plaid pajama pants off, his boxers, leaving the socks. Then he swore. "Fuck, we need lube." It was almost whisper, and almost apologetic under the slight vexation. But he smiled. "Just hang out a second." He ran up the stairs two at a time, leaving Ryan there naked, exposed, and almost embarassed even though there was no one there to see him except the walls and the DVD screensaver.

Pete hardly seemed embarassed when Patrick sleepily opened his eyes to see him rummaging through the nightstand for condom and lubricant. "Be careful." he whispered, rolling back over and fighting the emotion, the tears. He didn't want it to affect him anymore, but it did every time. He didn't get credit for how good of an actor he was, but he didn't mind. It was his mask, his safety. And he knew Pete couldn't help himself. But it still hurt. Every fucking time.

"I love you." Pete whispered back. He forced back shame instead of tears and swallowed the excuse that Patrick had heard too many times before. They both knew it was just the way he was, the way things were, the way he related to people, experienced life, discovered emotions, wrote lyrics. So they spoke in code. And if Pete had known what Brendon had been thinking at the poolside the night before, about adults not talking anymore, he would have agreed. And then he would have hated himself.

Ryan was under a blanket when Pete came back, looking small and vulnerable and naked, even though he was covered. The older man tugged the blanket off slowly, smiling when the other boy held on at first, but he didn't put up much of a fight after the second pull, letting the fabric slip from his fingers. And then Pete was on top of him, kneeling, slicking his fingers with the lube. He kissed Ryan when the first one slid in, swallowed the moan, loving the way it tasted on his tongue.

The boy on his back squirmed, gasping when he felt the second. He never meant to be a slut. He never meant to like it the way he always did. He'd have rather been a prude. But he just fell apart when he felt them pressing into him, staring at him when they did, lips soft like flower petals. Some erotic tango even though he couldn't dance for shit, only understood rhythm when there were guitar strings under his fingers.

There was a third and some angling, hitting that spot dead on. Ryan bit his lip to keep the screams from coming out because Brendon couldn't hear that. He just couldn't. And Patrick . . . Pete had explained it to Ryan, said it was an open relationship, but hearing the noises would just be rubbing salt in an open wound. He felt like he was betraying basic common sense and every moral ground man had created by lying on that couch, but he couldn't take it back now. He needed this. He needed what Pete was going to give him.

He needed Brendon.

He heard the condom wrapper being torn open by teeth and felt the fingers pull out. He turned his head to the side at the noise, cringing slightly, embarrassed. He always romanticized sex, always pushed aside the necessities and the awkwardness. Always forgot about until it came time to go at it again. He wanted sex to be as beautiful as it was in his head and it never was. It was always too real. Sometimes he wished life had directors like movies so everything could be a beautiful scene.

Pete pushed in and Ryan gasped, reached up and grabbed his shoulders, fingernails digging into the flesh. It hurt. It always hurt at first. He hated that he liked it. Made him feel better about the fact that sex never made him feel better. Punishment, he supposed. Guilt. Damn that Catholic school with Mass everyday. Damn having a Catholic guilt mindset buried in an Atheist's brain.

Pete was good, skilled even. He started off slow, built up with strokes and speed and depth. Ryan was moaning entirely too loud for his taste, putting his hand over his mouth to stifle the noises. Brendon couldn't hear. That was all he could think about until Pete's hand wrapped him and then his brain was gone, as was his sense of responsibility. Or maybe it was protection and not the feeling of needing to be responsible. But he couldn't take the time to even ponder it because he was thinking with the head below his waist, the one that was about to explode. And the tears in the corners of his eyes and all he wanted to do was scream.

He ended up biting Pete's shoulder when he climaxed. And all he could think about was how it was going to be the last time, the last guy. Before Brendon. This was the night he needed. This was the last time he'd let someone fuck him who wasn't Brendon. This was the only time he'd ever sleep with Pete. Whether it was true or not, it didn't matter. It was at that moment even if it wouldn't be the next morning. He believed it, so it was true.

Pete kissed him on the mouth after and Ryan clumsily kissed back, but then he was pulling on his clothes and fighting the tears he couldn't keep back anymore. The older tried to reach for him, calm him down, talk to him, comfort, whisper something to make him feel better. But Ryan was up the stairs and then he was in the shower in the bathroom connected to the room Pete had given him originally to stay in but that he hadn't slept in because he'd been sharing Brendon's bed.

The younger boy had a way of smelling sex. Ryan didn't even know how that was possible since he was still a virgin, but it didn't change anything. He had to wake up smelling like shampoo or coffee, anything but sex and Pete's sweat. He hated seeing those chocolate brown eyes sad. He couldn't stomach the thought of how he'd feel when they were filled with disappointment. He towel-dried afterward and when he came out, Pete was sitting on the bed.

"Are you okay?"

He considered not answering. It was easier, as always. But instead, he tossed the towel on the bed. "No." And then he left the room, slipping under the covers with Brendon again, tucking himself into the angles of the sleeping boy's body. And he lay there, thinking about how everything would be better in the morning.

*

It was raining when Ryan woke up and Brendon was in the shower. It didn't seem right. He felt heavy, almost sick. He felt like there were weights attached to his ankles and it was all he could to drag himself from the room and get dressed from the suitcase in the room Pete had given him. He hated himself. He knew was making excuses, chickening out. But he could never make himself do the things he didn't want to do. Procrastination was another character flaw he possessed.

But as long as Brendon didn't find out he'd slept with Pete, he had the time to figure it out. And he would. Because even though he was making excuses and the rain had foiled his plans, he didn't want the arrangement to continue. He wanted Brendon. He wanted Brendon more than he'd wanted to sleep with Pete the night before, which he didn't think was possible.

He'd never been in love before. It tasted bitter, like dark chocolate. He went out to the kitchen to get something to wash his mouth out with. Brendon came out about ten minutes later, while Ryan was eating the frozen waffles Patrick had popped into the toaster for him.

"Pete went to get Starbucks." Ryan told the boy, voice soft. "I told him to get you hot chocolate with whipped cream?"

Brendon nodded, grinning. "It's raining. We should go puddle jumping."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're kind of ridiculous?" Patrick asked, laughing. "Like an eight year old in a sixteen year old's body?"

"I'm eighteen." Brendon said, scowling.

"Yeah." Patrick chuckled again. "But you have the body of a sixteen year old."

The younger looked at Ryan, sticking his bottom lip out in overdramatic pout. He looked adorable, like always did. And Ryan smiled, but he couldn't really deal with it that morning. He just wanted to walk with Brendon and it was raining, so he couldn't. "You look fine." he murmured, splitting the difference.

"So." the strawberry blonde singer said loudly, trying to break the tension that Brendon hadn't yet sensed. "You want waffles? They're blueberry."