Learning to Fall.

When Pete got the phone call, his immediate thought was a loud, resounding fuck that echoed around in his head. Ryan was still sleeping, he assumed, as it was only half past seven. He scrambled to pull his laptop off the nightstand, almost dropping it in his haste, the phone still pressed to his ear, Patrick's voice spitting out words that all seemed to tumble together.

And there it was, right on the front page. Pete blinked twice, trying to make sure it wasn't all a dream. "Ryan's going to kill me," was all he could really think to say. "I have to go tell him."

"Call me later." Patrick's voice was adamant. "We need to release a statement. So does Panic."

Pete nodded, forgetting that he was on the phone and needed to speak, ending the call without a real good-bye and pushing his laptop over to the other side of the bed, standing up and running a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. He had no idea how to fix this situation.

---

Ryan rolled over and went right back to sleep the first time Pete tried to wake him. It took a good twenty minutes of prodding and several curse words before the boy would consent to get up and he didn't even want to talk until he'd gone to the bathroom and gotten something to eat. An hour later he was finally ready to listen, sitting on the couch in the living room, a blueberry waffle in his hand.

Pete didn't know what to say. He had half a mind to just go get his laptop, but he thought that might be too scary. It had scared the hell out of him and Ryan was in a much more fragile state. Not to mention the reaction Ryan had a few weeks before when they'd just been discussing such a thing. What if Ryan thought Pete had done it?

"Look, if you don't tell me what this big, important news is, I'm going back to bed." The boy yawned, taking a bite of his waffle and shooting Hemingway a dirty look when the dog licked his lips.

"Patrick called me an hour ago," Pete started. "Someone . . . did some digging, I guess." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, mentally bracing himself. "Found our marriage license."

The waffle fell out of Ryan's hand as he felt all the blood drain from his face. The baby was moving too quickly in response, forcing him to put a hand on his stomach, hoping somehow that it would calm the movements down. Hemingway had already darted forward to grab the fallen food and Pete sat down on the couch, grabbing Ryan's other hand with his. "I don't know how this happened. We're not . . . those kinds of celebrities. I didn't think . . . anyone would care enough to . . ."

The tears were slowly beginning to form and Ryan didn't even have the strength to try and blink them away. "Do they know? About the baby?" he whispered.

Pete hesitated before nodding. "It's huge, Ry. It's on the front page of Yahoo and apparently management is getting calls from everyone. It's not just LiveJournal kids and MySpace. I need to call Patrick back in a bit so we can work out a statement and you should probably call your band, too."

"I'm not doing a press conference if that's what you're suggesting."

Pete leaned in, kissing Ryan's temple. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. Someone else can read the statement. But you should make one."

The tears were sliding down Ryan's cheeks now, hot and salty. "I didn't want this. It's not fair. Why do they get to put us under microscopes like fucking insects?" He kicked his foot out and it connected with the coffee table, which just caused him to cry harder, putting his face in his hands. He didn't care at the moment that Pete was seeing him break down, that he was sobbing like a child, that his foot stung like a bitch.

Pete didn't know what to do. He felt like he was intruding, like he was seeing something he shouldn't. Ryan like a broken rag doll, folded up on himself, crying. All he wanted to do was help, but he had no idea how. "I'm sorry," he whispered finally. "I never wanted anything like this to happen. I'm sorry it had to happen like this."

Ryan didn't answer, but he made the smallest movement toward Pete on the couch. So he remained there, letting his mind start to form thoughts about what his statement would say, but trying not to zone out too much in case he missed something Ryan said.

"I'm going to call Spencer." Pete glanced at the time on the cable receiver. It had been almost thirty minutes. He hadn't even noticed Ryan's tears slowing, but his cheeks were dry now. "I just . . . I need a bit, okay?" Ryan leaned in slowly, kissing Pete softly on the mouth. "Call Patrick or whatever you need to do."

The older boy watched Ryan walk from the room, silent, biting the inside of his cheek before shaking his head and reaching into his pocket for his phone.

---

"Shit." Ryan could hear Spencer in the background of the phone call, tripping over things in his room and then fingers racing over a computer keyboard. "Holy fuck."

And then Ryan could hear Ginger Smith in the background, voice indistinct, but he knew she was telling her son off for swearing because then Spencer was telling her to look and Ryan thought someone may have dropped the phone, but then Mrs. Smith's voice was in his ear.

"Ryan? Ryan, sweetie, are you okay? I can't believe those vultures would print this about you."

Ryan swallowed nervously. He really had no desire to have this conversation. "I, uh . . . yeah, I'm . . ."

"Mom, give me back the phone!" There was another shuffling noise and then Spencer's voice sounded normal again. "Sorry, about that. Jeez, Mom. A little privacy, please? I am nineteen, you know."

Ryan laughed, but it sounded choked, and his laughter was promptly followed by a hiccup. "Pete wants us to put a statement together." He was met with silence and after a few seconds, he started to get annoyed because it was easier than getting concerned. "Earth to Spin?"

"We're the number five album on iTunes." Spencer said, voice low. "And all of Fall Out Boy's albums are up there, too."

The boy blinked, letting that register. "But . . . our album's two years old." While Ryan was trying to ponder why on earth his pregnancy and marriage would lead to such a thing, Spencer was opening up a word document and when he spoke again, his voice had that business tone to it.

"Okay, so, press statement. I guess we should do one as a band and you should probably have an individual one since you're the one with child." Ryan snorted. "So I guess Brendon and Jon and I'll be all 'blah blah blah, best congratulations to Pete and Ryan at this time in their lives. We thank you for your support and ask that you respect their privacy during this personal time. Do you think it's necessary to point out that you never fucked Brendon?"

"Probably, but don't." Ryan shook his head. Damn fanfiction and horny teenage girls. And damn crazy friends for sending him links to the stuff. "What should I say, Spin?"

The boy was already working on it though. "I appreciate all your kind thoughts, but respectfully request that you allow me and Pete our privacy during this time. Any information that I wish to share will be given through the appropriate channels. I am an extremely private person and do not like to disclose the details of my personal life which is why I did not release a statement before."

"Any information we wish to share." Ryan murmured in a low voice. "And now I want you to lie for me."

Spencer hesitated. "Lie for you?"

Ryan continued. "Put in there that Pete and I have been seeing each other for over a year." He could hear the keystrokes.

"It's not exactly a lie, you know, putting it that way. You were seeing each other. You were just seeing other people, too." Spencer was trying to help. He didn't really know what help he could be considering how totally screwed up the situation was. Ryan had made it very clear the day they signed their contracts that he had zero desire to ever come out of the closet and now his marriage license and the fact that he was pregnant were up on the internet. It was certainly not the way Spencer had ever imagined the band would launch into the mainstream.

"It feels like a lie." Ryan mumbled, reaching his hand around to rub at the small of his back.

"Do you want to include anything for, like . . . you know, the gay community? Or guys that are hormone-positive or--"

"No." There was no room for argument in that tone. "This is bad enough, Christ. I don't want to be some fucking poster boy."

The younger boy made a few more keystrokes and Ryan was getting ready to open his mouth to snap again, but Spencer spoke first. "And how far along are you again? Five months now, right?"

Ryan tried to swallow the edge from his voice before he spoke. "Almost six. Just had a sonogram yesterday."

"Everything's good, right? You know if it's a boy or a girl yet?" The boy was trying to change things, make it seem normal. And, truthfully, he was curious. Ryan didn't really talk to him about the baby much.

"Email me that when you're done and I'll give it to Pete. Bye, Spin." Ryan hung up the phone and burst into tears all over again, dropping his phone on the bed and fisting both hands in his hair. This was not the way anything was supposed to go and the bump under his shirt was not helping him to forget, even for a moment, just how shitty everything was.

---

Pete didn't really smoke, but he had a pack of cigarettes stashed in the back of the freezer for situations such as these, when he didn't trust how many Xanax pills would end up in his hand. So now he was outside, out of view of the doors and windows, sucking on a Marlboro that burnt the back of his throat, most likely owing to the fact that it was probably six months old.

He could have cared less if it had just been about him. He'd dealt with that before. But Ryan was fortunate enough to not be such a desired piece of meat, with so few skeletons in his closet and the fact that he could close himself off so well from what people wanted (and what he was willing to give). Now both of them were going to be forced headfirst into the world of photographers and tabloid stories, if the phone calls from management were any indication.

"Must have been fucking crazy to think we could have a quiet pregnancy." Pete muttered, kicking out savagely at an object that wasn't there to take his anger.

"You shouldn't smoke," came Patrick's voice before the boy himself came into view. "I heard pregnant people get heightened senses, like dogs."

Pete grit his teeth, staring down the length of the cigarette before taking another drag. "Ryan probably wouldn't even care," he spat out bitterly. "It's not like I'm Brendon or Spencer or someone he actually gives a damn about."

Patrick was unamused by the pity party, as he always tended to be, striding forward and pulling the cigarette from Pete's hand, snapping it in two and putting it out under his shoe. "Ryan's here," he said curtly. "He's here instead of Vegas. He's wearing your ring and he changed his name, for you. He probably wanted an abortion, but he's having the kid for you."

Pete's bottom lip trembled and he looked awkward now, with nothing for his fingers to do. "He thinks marrying me was a mistake."

"Maybe it was." But there was no edge to Patrick's voice now. "A lot of good things can grow from mistakes though." He moved forward, pulling the other boy into a hug. "Ryan really wants to be happy with you and that counts for a lot. We can't all fall in love as easy as you, Pete."

Pete's arms came up, squeezing Patrick so tightly they both feared for his ribs. "We slept okay the week they were here, but then he went back to sleeping in the guest room."

"The way he acts when he's pregnant is probably different than how he'll act after, you know. Now, please let go, because I think you really are going to break a bone."

They both laughed, though Pete's was sort of choked as he brought a hand up to wipe at the corners of his eyes, where moisture was threatening to fall. "I guess we should go figure out this press release, huh?"

"At least you two don't have a sex tape," Patrick pointed out brightly.

"Not for lack of trying," Pete mumbled as they made their way back inside. His best friend didn't even bother to comment.

Ryan came out of his room about fifteen minutes later, looking a lot better than either Patrick or Pete would have expected. He still looked upset and visibly shaken, but there were no tears or tearstains on his cheeks and he'd gotten dressed and brushed his hair, which probably didn't hurt. He had a piece of paper in his hand that he handed to Pete when he sat down next to him on the couch, practically curling up into his side. "Spencer sent me a press statement for the band and one for me."

Pete's hand went to Ryan's thigh, squeezing it, surprised at the sudden surge of affection, but unwilling to say anything that could destroy it.

"You two should probably do one as a couple, too." Patrick said, not looking up from the laptop where he was looking over an email management had sent him regarding the situation they were discussing. "And maybe release one of the pictures from Vegas."

Pete could tell by the way body's Ryan tensed up that he wasn't too keen on that idea. "Why do we need to give them a picture?"

"To shut them up." Patrick turned his computer toward Pete so the bassist could read the statement management had drafted for them. "I mean, it won't quiet them forever, but it's a bone. And, honestly, thank God you're from Vegas. They're already having a field day that you got married there, but at least it's a built-in excuse."

"It wasn't an excuse." Ryan said in a low voice and Pete turned to look at him, slightly concerned.

Patrick nodded. "I know it wasn't, but other people will think it is."

"Other people can fuck off."

Pete moved his hand from Ryan's thigh to his neck, letting his fingertips stroke across the delicate skin there. "They always say whatever they want to, Ry. You know that."

"They're all going to think me and Bren were fucking too, aren't they?"

"And me and Pete." Patrick fought back the laughter. "Yeah. But that's really nothing new, is it?" He stood up, picking up his glass from the table and wandering out to the kitchen to refill it.

"Did you and Brendon . . ." When Pete's voice trailed off, Ryan turned his head and bit his husband's arm in response.

---

Surprisingly enough, it had turned out to be a pretty good day considering. A really good day, actually. Ryan had laughed a lot and kissed Pete more than he probably had all month. The only time he ever seemed to close off was when the suggestion got thrown out that doing an interview about the situation might not be a bad idea, but when the subject was changed he launched himself right back into the conversation, and his hands touched his belly more than they normally did.

Which was probably what gave Pete the courage to bring up the subject. "Did you sleep okay when Spencer and Brendon were here?" They were in the kitchen. Ryan was making peanut butter toast while Pete loaded the dishwasher.

Ryan nodded. "Yeah, I did. Thanks, by the way." The toast popped up and he reached for the butter knife.

"No, I." Pete frowned. "That's not what I meant." The boy's back was to him so he couldn't see the frown. "I just wondered why you went back to the other room then."

Ryan didn't answer immediately, just finished spreading the peanut butter and took a few bites of his snack before putting the lid back on the jar. "That's, like, your time to yourself. I don't mind."

"I can make a different time for myself," Pete said softly. "I . . . I liked having you there."

Ryan turned, smiling slightly. There was some peanut butter on his top lip and Pete thought he looked absolutely beautiful. "Yeah?" There might have been a slight blush on his cheeks, but there might not have been. Pete couldn't tell. "Well, I can, if you want." He held out the butter knife for Pete to put in the dishwasher. "Just, you know, don't not tell me if you want me to sleep in the other room. I won't get mad."

Pete doubted the validity of the statement. Not that he didn't think Ryan meant it, but the hormones could make him mad if he brought it up a month or so down the road. But he had no desire to get into that discussion, so he just nodded. "I'll tell you."

He watched Ryan for a moment longer and then decided he couldn't resist. He took the few steps to close the space between them. "You have some peanut butter . . . here." And then he leaned in, kissing it off, smiling when he felt Ryan's lips respond to his and then . . .

"Holy shit." Pete jumped back, eyes wide, staring at Ryan's stomach. "I-I felt it." His mouth was open in shock and then his lips quickly turned upward, a beautiful smile lighting up his entire face. "I felt it." His hand went to Ryan's stomach, and his grin got even larger. "I can feel him."

What he said didn't even register for a moment, he was too enthralled with feeling the movements under his hand, like someone was bumping his palm.

"Him?" Ryan asked, voice sounding slightly choked.

Pete's hands fell, and his face, too. "Oh my God. Oh my God, I'm sorry. I didn't . . . I didn't mean to . . . Fuck!" His hands went to his hair, pulling at it with fists. He'd been doing so well. Not letting Ryan find the list of baby names, or showing him anything blue when he brought up colors for the nursery. He was horrible with secrets and this just seemed to prove the point.

Ryan reached up, his hands closing around Pete's wrists, voice soft. "It's okay." The older boy's eyes opened to look at him, clearly pained. "It's okay, Pete," he repeated, gently pulling his hands down. "I'm not mad." He put Pete's hands back on his stomach. "Him," Ryan murmured, an emotion the other boy couldn't place in his voice. "We're having a boy?" he asked, like he needed to be sure.

Pete nodded uncertainly. "Yeah."

"A boy," Ryan said again, this time a smile on his face, teeth showing. "A boy."

---

That night Ryan finally looked at all the baby furniture and things Pete had bookmarked on his computer. "No circus themes," the boy insisted. "No Tim Burton. No ridiculous yellow color palette."

"How'd you know I wanted a Nightmare Before Christmas theme?"

Ryan smiled. "Well, I am your husband."

Pete seemed content with that answer even though it meant he was going to have to completely redesign his dream nursery. His hand let go of the pen he'd been holding to stroke at the hair feathered along the back of Ryan's neck. "I can't believe how well you're handling the press."

The boy swallowed, tongue darting out to lick at his lips, which seemed to suddenly feel dry. He'd been thinking the same thing all day. After the initial shock, the phone call to Spencer, the twenty minutes of crying alone in the bedroom . . . he'd realized how much he didn't seem to care. "It might sink in later." Ryan's voice was quiet, but not a whisper, though it did sound almost strained. "But I just . . . it's one less thing." He turned to look at Pete, tears standing in his amber eyes. "I didn't want it to happen, but I can't fix it. That's never happened to me before. Not like this. I have no options, just how I handle it."

Pete leaned in closer. "Don't cry, babe. It's going to be fine." Their lips met, soft at first, tender like the first snowflakes of winter kissing blades of grass. Then deeper, more hunger evident as Ryan pushed the laptop to the side and Pete's other hand squeezed the boy's thigh, hard enough to force a low moan out of Ryan's throat.

This time they had sex while spooning and it seemed to dawn on Pete that Ryan was purposely avoiding any position that pressed his belly against Pete's. It hadn't really bothered Pete before--the position--but now that he could feel the baby kick, he appreciated it somewhat, even if he couldn't see Ryan's face. He wondered if the baby kicked Ryan when they had sex, but decided not to ask because if it was an affirmative answer, he didn't want the boy to feel any more strange about it than he probably already did.

Ryan was asleep about ten minutes after they finished, one hand on his stomach and the other tossed haphazardly over his head. Pete quietly stole his computer back to purchase the crib they'd decided on.

---

Ryan's newfound comfort with the situation only lasted about a week. More specifically, until the morning of his next doctor's visit. After they pulled out of the driveway, flashbulbs immediately started going off even though Pete was fairly sure they couldn't see into the car with the darkness of the tinted windows. But Ryan had immediately tensed up, turning away from the glass, his face shielded by his hands.

"They knew where we live?" he asked in a choked whisper.

Pete didn't know what to say. He'd known about the camp out for a few days, since he'd gone to the story for peanut butter cups and dog food, but he hadn't wanted to say anything. In retrospect, that may have been a bad idea. "I'm sorry." It was the only thing he could think to say, lifting one hand off the wheel to rub at Ryan's shoulder. "It should die down in a few days."

"Bullshit," Ryan snapped, his hands coming away from his face. "Don't you lie to me just to make me feel better. It doesn't work. I'm not fucking five, you know."

So Pete put his hand back on the wheel and didn't say anything else until they got to the hospital. Even he wasn't expecting photographers outside of the entrance there. I mean, it probably hadn't been hard to figure out what hospital they were going to, but really? Weren't there laws against camping outside a hospital? They were on the sidewalk, but even so.

Ryan was fighting tears as Pete parked the car. "I can't," he whispered. "I can't, please. There has to be a back entrance. Or just . . . go talk to them. I'm not . . . I won't, Pete." His words were so bitter, but there was no real bite to them, just the hurt. "I'm not turning the baby into a fucking freak show."

It was worse than not being able to leave the house for appointments. Now if Ryan left he was going to end up on the cover of some tabloid or splashed across some website, stupid words about what he was drinking and speculations if he was ever photographed without Pete. They'd zoom in on his stomach and probably wonder if Pete was really the father.

Pete was resourceful if he was anything and he parked by another building, letting Ryan off right next to the door and parking the car, then walking up alone. All the buildings were technically connected, so it was a further walk, but there were no flashbulbs. Pete was sure the photographers would figure it out before the appointment was finished, but he was hoping to have another solution already figured out by then.

The nurse gave Ryan another lecture about wearing his jeans too tight and both boys rolled their eyes. "We're six months in now?" she confirmed after she finished her lecture. When Ryan nodded, she made a note on her clipboard. "We're going to give you the BBD today then. You don't need to wear the bracelet at all times, but you should always have it with you and it needs to be charged every day."

Ryan nodded again. He remember them talking about the baby-monitoring device in high school sex ed, how it started flashing a red light and beeping like crazy when you went into labor, and how they put the patches on your stomach and they had to be replaced every time you came in. Contractions for men felt a lot different than they did for women, or so everyone said.

"I'm not wearing that thing, period," Ryan whispered to Pete when they set the bracelet down on the computer. It was thick and white and clunky. "It looks like something Judy Jetson would give to Goodwill."

Pete laughed, kissing the top of Ryan's head. "You're so gay."

"Shut up."

---

Pete's bright idea to sneak Ryan out of the emergency room exit did not work. There weren't as many photographers when they stepped outside, almost like they'd all broken into groups and staked out each individual door, crossing fingers that the pair would walk through theirs.

The cameras started going off immediately, people shouting, asking them questions. Ryan immediately latched onto Pete's arms, ducking his head down.

"Are you guys expecting a boy or a girl?"

"Do you have any names picked out?"

"How's the married life treating you?"

Pete's middle finger went up, almost of its own accord. And he knew it was a mistake, that it was not the photo op they wanted, but he didn't really care at that moment. Ryan was squeezing Pete's arm so tightly the older feared the circulation might be getting cut off. "It's okay," he whispered. "It's okay, Ry." The walk to the car seemed to last a lifetime and there were tears on Ryan's cheeks as they climbed in and buckled.

"Let's just go home."

Pete sighed. "Do you want to grab something to eat, maybe?"

Ryan kicked at the floor. "I said I wanted to go home, so just drive, okay? God, I don't want a picture of me in the McDonalds' drive-thru all over fucking LiveJournal tomorrow." He burst into tears and Pete couldn't tell if it was hormones or stress or both, so he just put the keys in the ignition and went.

As soon as they got back, Ryan disappeared into 'his' room and Pete could hear muffled words from where he was standing at the end of the hall. Ryan had called Spencer. Ryan wouldn't talk to Pete. Pete needed another cigarette.

He was in the backyard, in the same corner of the yard, on his second cigarette and so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear the door slide open. "I didn't know you smoked." Ryan was a distance away, unwilling to come any closer because of the bump under his shirt.

Pete, of course, freaked, choking on the drag he'd just taken and stomping the cigarette out immediately as if that would erase the memory of it from Ryan's mind. When he looked up though, as any reasonable person could have guessed, Ryan was still standing there, arms crossed and resting on top of his belly. "I don't . . . really smoke," he said lamely. "Just sometimes. When I'm really stressed."

"You could have told me. I wouldn't have been mad."

"Patrick's the only one who knows." Pete shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets, embarrassed, not certain where to go after the admission. Ryan really didn't seem mad, though, which he took to be a good sign. He looked up, watching the boy who was staring at him curiously, and for reasons he couldn't quite explain, the question just came bubbling up and out of his lips. "Why don't you talk to me, Ry?" His eyes fell back to the ground.

"I'm talking to you right now." Ryan turned and walked, but just to the patio table, sitting down in one of the chairs.

Pete took the seat across from him. "You don't want to talk to me about anything important. This was the first week you actually wanted to talk about the baby, even. You just call Spencer." The hurt was evident in his voice, but Ryan didn't apologize, just shifted his glance toward the pool.

"This week was the first time I was a little excited about the baby," he whispered. Ryan shifted awkwardly. "I don't want to . . . tell you everything you don't want to know about me."

Pete leaned forward, putting his hand on Ryan's leg. "But you don't even know if I want to know. You just assume I don't."

The boy didn't answer, just sighed and leaned back in the chair. But he didn't pull his hand away and they sat there until Pete heard Patrick's voice calling his name from inside the house about half an hour later.

---

Patrick was nice enough to pick up some groceries that were sitting on the counter waiting to be put away. He was saying something to Pete in a low voice when Ryan walked into the kitchen. "If it's about the pictures, I already know. I was there."

"No, it's about me." Pete said, reaching into the bag nearest him and pulling out a jar of peanut butter.

"I stole your grocery list when I was here earlier," Patrick informed him, looking at Ryan. "How you doin'?"

The boy shrugged, his mind still on the photographs he'd seen online earlier. "Don't they have anything better to do?"

"No." Patrick fumbled around in another bag and produced a candy bar that he slid across the counter to Ryan. "They don't." He patted Pete on the shoulder. "Tell him." His voice was loud enough to carry, but soft enough to feign that it was an accident. Then he left.

Ryan's amber eyes were fixed on Pete, who swore under his breath and put the peanut butter jar back on the counter. He sighed. "It's nothing bad," he said. "My family wants to come out for a week. They've been bugging me ever since this happened."

Ryan peeled the wrapper off the Milky Way that Patrick had bought him and took a bite. "Yeah, they probably want to see you."

"They want to meet my husband." The correction was in a soft voice and Pete walked around the counter to where Ryan was sitting on the stool, leaning in to kiss him on the mouth and gently stroke his cheek. "They're your family now, too."

It was a heavy sort of sentence and they both knew why, but Ryan didn't seem to mind the heaviness, bringing his fingers up to graze against the back of Pete's hand. "They'll like me, right?"

Pete kissed him again. "They'll love you."

They put the groceries away together and Ryan tried not to sound upset when he had to ask where something went. Pete put a frozen lasagna in the oven and then they put a movie in the DVD player. Ryan left about twenty minutes into the film to take a phone call from Brendon. Pete ended up watching the rest of it by himself.

---

Ryan called Spencer as soon as he answered Brendon's question about what color of shirt to wear with green pants. "Pete's family is coming out to visit." He didn't even bother to say hi before he blurted it out.

Spencer laughed, then wished he could take it back. "Sorry. You just . . . sorry." Haley was sitting next to him on the couch and he kissed her cheek. 'Ryan,' he mouthed and she nodded, wordlessly excusing him. "His parents are coming to visit?"

"Brother and sister, too, I think," Ryan muttered. "He said they're 'my family' now."

"Oh." Spencer winced. This was going to be a long phone call more likely than not, which was not what he'd anticipated when he'd poured his girlfriend four glasses of wine and agreed to watch a chick flick. "Look, he's not . . . he's not saying they have to be. Nobody can be that unless you want them to, Ry." The boy opened the back door and stepped outside. "Does this have anything to do with the pictures today?"

"I don't know." Ryan kicked the trash can next to the bed lightly. "Probably. Maybe. They were . . . I just wasn't . . . they were outside the God damn house, Spin. They know our address."

Spencer sighed heavily. "That's not Pete's fault."

"I never said it was!" Ryan protested loudly.

"Not out loud," the boy agreed. "But you're thinking it. You're blaming him. It's why you're upset about him saying his family is yours. You don't give a fuck that he said that. You just want to blame someone for the photographers and he's convenient."

Ryan's head was spinning. He hadn't imagined the conversation going this way at all. Spencer was supposed to agree with him. And he wasn't . . . he knew it wasn't Pete's fault. He knew better. It wasn't like Pete gave his address to blood-thirsty paparazzi. "Are you drunk?" Ryan whispered.

"No," Spencer said with an edge to his voice, pretty sure it wasn't a lie. He'd only had half as much to drink as Haley. "But I'm a little busy," he added pointedly, his words laced with a slightly heat. "My girlfriend's only here for a week and I'm not your husband. Maybe you should be talking to him." The words tasted bitter as soon as he'd said them; he wasn't used to getting angry with Ryan.

The line went dead and Ryan threw the phone behind him on the bed, trying to fight the salty tears that were forcing their way down his cheeks. Was he so wrong to want to talk to his best friend?

---

When the lasagna was finished, Pete went to get Ryan, knocking on the door before opening it. The boy was on his laptop and Pete could see pictures that looked like the pair of them leaving the doctor's office. "Food's ready, babe."

Ryan looked up, his eyes suddenly wet and beckoned Pete over with his awkwardly long fingers. And then after Pete sat, Ryan took the older boy's hands in his own, kissing the knuckles all over. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I really want your family." He didn't say the rest of it, couldn't bring himself to think it for longer than a second. (He wasn't blaming Pete for the photographers, he wasn't. He was sure of it.)

"I know it's hard for you. I just want you to tell me when it is." Pete's voice was so soft, so gentle. "I want to help." He sounded so young at that moment, so innocent, like a child following his mother around, asking to get the eggs while she made cookies, wanting to hand her the dishes to dry. "I want to take care of you when you need it."

"Hate being taken care of," Ryan whispered.

Pete leaned in, lips softly brushing the boy's neck. "Sometimes you need it, though."

Ryan's hands shifted, now tightly squeezing Pete's wrists. It was such a simple movement, but Pete felt it, the need and the desire. There was a tenseness to Ryan's body like he was trying to hold it in, keep it from flying out of him. Pete's teeth slid across the boy's skin and the slight moan finally tumbled from the parted lips.

"W-We shouldn't." Ryan's voice was a whisper. "We should talk."

"Okay." Pete's lips never left Ryan's neck, planting a kiss to the skin after each word. "What . . . do you . . . want . . . to talk . . . about?"

"I don't know." A dry sob tore it's way out of the boy's throat and Pete sat back immediately, eyes wide and concerned.

"Ry?"

The boy shook his head, bring his hand up to wipe at tears that weren't there and sniffling loudly. "I don't know." He shook his head. "I just . . . I'm not in the mood, I guess. I'm sorry."

Pete didn't look like he was buying it, but he let Ryan push himself off the bed. He sighed, resigning himself to spending the next twenty minutes in the bathroom while Ryan called Spencer to talk about something, again. He was trying so hard to be understanding, while Ryan didn't seem to be trying at all.

Pete was jolted out of his thoughts when he heard Ryan's fingers snap. "Are you coming?" the boy asked. He was holding his hand out and Pete tried to swallow his guilt as he took it. "I really want popcorn," Ryan said as they made their way to the kitchen.

---

Ryan was still sleeping in the master bedroom two weeks later when Pete's family was scheduled to come out. He'd moved his stuff out of the guestroom so Pete's parents' could have it. His sister was going to take the room that would become the nursery and his brother was just going to camp out in the basement. "You can just stay here," he told Ryan as he brushed his teeth in the bathroom. "I mean, you can come if you want, but--"

"I'll stay." Ryan agreed. He hadn't left the house since the doctor's appointment. "I'll make sure the rooms are clean and stuff."

Pete appeared in the doorway, his teeth brushed and deodorant on. "The rooms are clean. I checked. Don't worry, Ry."

"I'm so fat," the boy whispered pitifully. "Why couldn't they have met me when I was skinny?"

His answer was a kiss on the cheek and Pete murmuring something about him being beautiful. "I have to go now. Call me if you're craving anything. We can hit a store on the way back. No one's going to mind."

Ryan hesitated before reaching out and grabbing Pete's wrist to keep him from leaving just yet. "I, um . . . what do they . . . do they think we were dating or . . . do they know that we were just . . . fucking?" He was so nervous, wanted to make such a good impression. He hadn't said anything to give it away until that moment, when there was no more time left to wait.

"I told them it was off and on." Pete kissed Ryan one more time. "Don't worry. They'll love you. But I have to go. Call 'Trick if you need anything, okay? I love you."

He was gone before Ryan could answer, which was good because the boy wasn't entirely sure what to say in response.

---

Ryan had every intention of getting up and maybe throwing something in the oven, getting dressed, doing his hair. He was going to put the dog outside and make sure none of the DVD players had porn in them. But he fell back asleep almost immediately after Pete left.

"He said he was getting up, but he only got a few hours of sleep last night 'cause the baby wouldn't stop kicking," Pete was saying as he unlocked the door and pushed it open, silently thankful no one had commented on the vultures with cameras, waiting, as they pulled into the driveway.

"Have you guys picked out any baby names yet?" Hilary asked as Pete walked down the hallway to let her and their parents put their luggage in the guestrooms.

Her older brother shook his head in response. "Ryan says no picking names until the nursery's finished. And at the rate that's going the baby might not have a name until he's two." They all chuckled at that and then Pete ducked into the master bedroom to check on the aforementioned boy.

Ryan opened his eyes when he heard the door click. "Did I fall asleep?" he asked. His voice was so quiet and embarrassed that Pete just wanted to squeeze him like a teddy bear.

Instead, he knelt by the bed, brushing Ryan's hair out of his face. "It's okay," he murmured affectionately, kissing the boy's cheek. "You didn't sleep much last night. Nobody's going to think you're rude."

"I was going to make food." Ryan's voice cracked from disuse and Pete smiled.

"I'll make the food, baby. Go back to sleep." He stayed there for a minute, until Ryan's eyes closed again before standing up and leaving, making sure to shut the door quietly behind him. "He's out," Pete announced to the living room at large when he entered. "But he'll be up later. So who's hungry?"

The five of them ate, making small talk about the plane and what colors Pete wanted to do the nursery before Andy and Hilary made up some excuse to go outside. They were going to smoke and everyone knew it, but their parents always appreciated the lie.

Unfortunately, that meant Pete was his mother's mercy as soon as the back door shut. "So," she asked, turning and fixing her eyes on her oldest child, "is the marriage . . . working?"

Pete groaned while his father cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. "Dale, I thought we said we weren't--"

"No, you said," the woman interrupted, glaring at her husband. "It's perfectly reasonable to want to know how someone's marriage is going."

"It's fine," Pete said pointedly. "Our marriage is fine. We're fine."

"What's going on?" Ryan was in the room all of a sudden, hiding a yawn behind his hand. He'd gotten dressed and brushed his hair, but there was still a faint pillow crease under his left eye that Pete decided not to mention.

"Nothing," the boy said, jumping at the chance to change the conversation. He walked across the room and took Ryan's hand, pulling the boy--who was still dead on his feet--over to the table. "Ryan, this is my mom, Dale. And my dad. Everyone just calls him Peter when I'm in the room."

Ryan shook hands and smiled, sitting down in the chair next to Pete's and glancing around the room. "What about the other two?" he asked in a low voice.

"Hilary and Andy are smoking pot in your backyard," Dale said, rather bluntly, but not with any real anger or malice.

Ryan choked on his laughter, reaching his hand out to grab Pete's under the table.

---

That night was the first time Ryan had gone out since the doctor's appointment, the first time he'd gone out for something other than a doctor's appointment since he'd started to show. Pete had made reservations at a restaurant, told Ryan he didn't have to go, but the boy had put on a smile and said he would.

It was getting impossible to hide the bump. Not so much because of how much weight he'd gained, because he hadn't gained as much as some people did, but because of the warm weather. The sweaters and hoodies he'd been able to wear until the middle of May were way too heavy and hot now.

When Pete held out one of his short-sleeved hoodies to the boy, Ryan hesitated. "Isn't a nice restaurant? Aren't we supposed to dress nice?"

The older boy grinned. "You're a celebrity. You can dress however you want."

Ryan didn't like the title and for that reason he hesitated again, but when they left the room it was zipped over his white tee shirt. The six of them had to drive two cars and Hilary volunteered to take the Lamborghini, which Pete laughed at, but agreed to without much thought. Ryan felt awkward sitting in the front seat of the SUV while Pete's parents sat in the back, but no one else seemed to find it strange.

Pete played with the radio while his father asked him some questions about the California weather and if he was working with Patrick on anything new. Hilary passed them at a green light, flipping Pete off with a laugh as she sped past. "She has no idea where we're going," Pete groused.

"GPS," Ryan mumbled with a very soft chuckle.

There were photographers outside the restaurant, which was favored by more than a few celebrities, but with five other people to crowd around him, any picture of Ryan was from an awkward angle and only featured part of his face, really. For that reason, the boy was much more at ease during the meal than he normally would have been.

He kept sneak glances at Hilary's arm tattoos until she turned in her seat, smiling at him, rolling up her sleeves and letting him examine them in more detail. "Do you have any?" she asked.

Ryan shook his head. "No. I was picking out lyrics, but then, you know . . ." His hand skimmed across his belly. "Got to wait."

"Did you end up picking out the lyrics?" Pete asked, reaching his fork out to steal one of the mushrooms from his brother's plate.

Ryan nodded. "Yeah, Tom Waits. 'Diamonds and Gold.'"

Pete's father looked up. "You listen to Tom Waits?" he asked.

Ryan smiled.

---

"I want to talk about names," Ryan told Pete that night in bed, stifling a yawn. He was lying on his side, a pillow under his stomach and three behind his back. He had to be packed in by pillows and blankets. For some reason it seemed to signal to the baby that it was time to go to sleep.

Pete looked up from his laptop uncertainly. "Yeah? You do?"

Ryan nodded, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth that Pete returned. "I love Oliver. For a boy. Like Twist."

"Like Oliver & Company."

The younger boy laughed, reaching out and softly pushing at Pete's arm. "Shut up. You sound like Brendon. No, like Oliver Twist." He looked so pretty lying there, staring up at the older boy through his eyelashes, his face glowing slightly. His newfound excitement for the baby had made him even more beautiful to Pete, and he didn't know that was possible.

"Did you think of a middle name?"

Ryan shook his head. "I thought you could have the middle name. Fair's fair."

Pete leaned back, eyes closed, clearly thinking. He'd made a list of names that he'd hidden from Ryan, most of which were from movies and books and was no mentally sorting through it. "Frederick?" he asked, eyes opening, turning to look at the boy. "Oliver Frederick Wentz?"

Ryan was quiet for a moment, appraising it silently in his head. "What's it from?" he asked as if that would be the deciding factor.

Pete blushed slightly. "Well, sort of Harry Potter. Like, Fred Weasley but I made it Frederick."

The younger boy smiled, reaching out and taking Pete's hand in his. "I'm going to fall in love with you," he murmured. "I know I will. You're going to be such a good dad. I just . . . I know."

"You think I'll be a good dad?" Pete asked, all too aware that his eyes were suddenly wet. "Really?"

Ryan would have sat up, but it had taken thirty minutes to get into position on the bed and the baby--Oliver--had just stopped moving about ten minutes before. But Pete knew and that was enough. "Yeah. Don't sound so surprised." He squeezed Pete's hand. "You already love him so much. You don't have anything to worry about."

"You don't either, Ry," Pete returned gently.

The younger boy squeezed his hand one more time. "I'm going to sleep now." He nodded. "Can you get the lights, please?" His eyes were closed when Pete got back into bed.