Those Three Little Words

Sipping. Black. Coffee.

So, Brendon's sitting there, at his usual table, right smack dab in the middle of the coffeehouse, blowing on his coffee to lower the temperature. It is 11:24 AM, precisely; this is the time every morning at which Brendon finds himself in the exact same spot. Sitting at his table, watching the simple, lonely people pass him by, watching everything sort of fall away when he takes a leisurely first sip. He feels that warm sensation rush down his throat and instantly make its way to his "tummy", as his mother always used to call it.

"What's your name?"

Brendon looks up from his coffee, surprised to see a boy sitting across from him, cutting into his usually solitary business. What's more, he is surprised to see that the boy's smile is so small, yet so reassuring, and God damn, it's been so long since Brendon has seen a smile. His fringe falls in his eyes, and oh, what gorgeous eyes they are. The mystery boy's eyes coincidentally match the color of his own coffee, or cappuccino, as the case may be. The two boys are caught in a battle of stares and silent wits for a moment, and just then the silence is broken, and a hand is thrust through the air.

"Brendon. Brendon Urie."

Yet another smile graces the boy's face who occupies the table along with him, and his hand moves through the nothingness. Suddenly, two become one in the most innocent way, and their hands are joined, giving each one a purpose besides just drudging along drinking their respective coffees. Brendon raises an eyebrow as their palms are hit with the breeze of parting. As Ryan's eyes meet that very same sardonic eyebrow, he brushes off his jacket and clears his throat.

"I'm, uh...Ryan."

Brendon halfway to smiles at this; the boy has already forgotten his own name. Brendon knows he has a tendency to do that to people, and is it his fault that he's so beautiful? He refuses to think of himself as conceited, though that might be more accurate than certain adjectives anyway. To cover up for the awkwardness in their conversation, this Ryan boy once again clears his throat, pressing on that area just below his Adam's apple. He takes a concise sip of his vanilla cappuccino and finds himself once again staring at Brendon.

"Who are you?"

It is now Brendon's turn to ask obscure questions. In all honesty, he is curious. He is way beyond that whole 'curiosity killed the cat' shit, because hello, since when was it ever a problem to care? Brendon knows like hell that he didn't get enough of it from his parents; God only knows why. He's genuinely interested as to who this Ryan is; he wants to know why he picked this table, this day, this interaction.

"I don't know."

And coming from Ryan, this is such a brutally honest answer. He finds it strange that he allows himself to be laid out on the table, like a hand of cards, for everyone to see. This is so simple of a question, to answer any other way would just kill it, and Ryan has never been a fan of murdering words. Words are his passion, though he says so few. They are his saviors; they tend to be his best friends. They comfort him. One more sip of coffee ought to do it, and Brendon Urie is bracing himself on the edge of the table, standing nonchalantly.

"Time to go..."

Brendon blinks several times, wondering what goes through this other boy's head. He is enthralled by his uncomplicated answer. It intrigues Brendon how so many doors can be opened with these three seemingly over-used words, this 'I don't know'. He decides to get out of the shop and go home, to his crappy home, his lonely home, his empty home, choose your favorite, Brendon thinks. He stands, his man-bag hanging loosely on his right shoulder and his left hand gripping the coffee, begging it to duplicate the warmth Ryan's hand shared with him. A slew of things including surprise, joy, confusion, and plain old 'whatthefuck?' run through his over-occupied mind as Ryan stands as well, clutching his coffee in a similar manner.

"Come with me?"

Brendon speaks again, completely unsure what his mind is offering up, and why he had not thought of it before. Ryan nods, quietly accepting a better alternative to sitting at home on his computer reading cheesy, romantic, smutty bandslash for hours at a time. Ryan holds his near empty cup of cappuccino in his right hand, running his free hand along his cheek. Together they exit the coffee shop, waiting for the world to change, and at the same time, waiting for everything to stay the same for once. This time it is Ryan, longing for contact, who offers up his hand to Brendon. Brendon looks down and for a moment everything makes sense. He lifts his own hand, which is lighter than air, or at least it feels that way to him, and he intertwines their grips, loving the feeling of Ryan's long, spindly fingers in between each of his. There is a moment of silence, but it is comfortable.

"This is nice."

Ryan finally offers up new conversation. Brendon realizes that it is now his turn to nod, because he agrees, he does, but he knows himself too well, he knows any words from him would only fuck things up. His glance rests off to the side, gazing at Ryan's near perfection once again. That almost smile from before returns, and Ryan meets Brendon's gaze with his own. Ryan's always been a sucker for those romance novels his mother read to him before bed, up until the night she left. But this, he thinks, is so much better. Finding a trashcan by the road, those kinds that are distributed evenly throughout the town, both boys dispose of their cups, feeling the distance between them and the coffee shop, but never once looking back. Ryan feels a drop of water on his head, and then several more, and before either boy knows it, there is water caressing both of their heads.

"I love rain."

Brendon doesn't really know why, but he's always harbored this fascination, this infatuation with rain. As a young boy, Brendon's parents always wanted to keep up appearances by taking family vacations, but they would always end up leaving Brendon somewhere, in a restaurant or a church. Brendon remembers wishing they'd just forget him somewhere for good, just go home and start new happy Brendon-less lives, and leave him in, say, Cape Cod. That way he could run away and live in the ocean. Always wanting to swim away, he never did know how, but he was determined then, to reach his own little Neverland, where he could stay 10 forever and make it rain when he pleased, but especially Tuesdays, which was his favorite day of the week. He loves this feeling, the power the rain gives him, to run away to his old memories. He takes a moment and kicks off his flip flops, forgetting his inhibitions the way his parents forgot him. Ryan takes after Brendon's lead and removes his shoes.

"I'll race you."

The two boys exchange glances once again, Ryan's innocent smile reappearing, and together, their hearts are beating so fast he almost can't bear it. In fact, those combined heartbeats are the only thing Ryan can hear as they veer off the concrete sidewalk into the grass. They're running together at first; Brendon loves the feeling of the constant pitter-patter on his cheeks, the feeling of his friend, the rain. Ryan, the sensation he can't help but die for is the blades of grass so comfortably sliding in between his toes, lubricated with God's tears, as his mother called rain. Brendon holds back, really wanting to admire the boy who so quickly walked into his life. He falls over, making an angel upon the ground, much like a child does in fresh fallen snow. He looks over to his right, seeing Ryan gracefully letting himself fall backwards, bringing their faces so close it hurts Brendon to only look. He places a hand on Ryan's smooth cheek, the rain still coming down, dropping on his eyelashes and sliding off of those.

"Is this...okay?"

Ryan, still a man of few spoken words, says nothing, only leans closer, nodding, loving the feeling of Brendon's calloused fingers on his baby face. Brendon removes his hand, brushing Ryan's soaked bangs away from his face, and by now they are so close that neither boy can handle it. Brendon, always the forward type, he leans only the slightest bit, feeling an electric sensation pulse and rush through him as their lips touch. It is merely a touch, at first, and when they pull away, it is the first real smile Brendon has made in years. Brendon sits up, changing positions so he is straddling Ryan, leaning over hastily as Ryan makes small noises of appreciation. The rain is hitting his back, running down it, encompassing him within it, and he takes this hint to move closer. Ryan, who was always rather impatient, leans up to meet Brendon's lips before he has the chance to tease. The want between them is undeniable, the taste is feverish. Brendon feels Ryan's tongue running along his bottom lip, wanting to know more, and once again, Brendon is done with curiosity issues. Graciously opening his mouth, Brendon finally lets Ryan in to all of himself, letting him do what he wishes. Ryan holds his own hand up to Brendon's cheek as their tongues collide, sweetly, no longer a want but a need. Pulling away seems so difficult, Brendon thinks he ought to get some kind of medal for this. The silence comes back, but simultaneously those three little words escape both boys' lips.

"I. Love. You."