Between the Lines

"It's not about the sex. It's about what you're saying with the sex." Ryan said, pressing a cigarette to his lips. "Because what are you really saying when you fuck her?"

Brendon watched the way Ryan's shoulders tensed up as he took the drag, the way the tension ebbed out of them when he exhaled. "I don't know. I'm . . . we're just having sex. It doesn't always . . . have to. It doesn't."

The amber eyes narrowed, darkening. "And that is so fucking disgusting. It's so vulgar, Brendon. You're just . . . it doesn't even mean anything. You're not saying shit."

"And it wasn't 'vulgar' when I had my fist up your ass?"

Ryan took another drag. "No, it wasn't. Because I knew what you were saying."


The boy's eyes opened and he sat up in bed, his hands immediately going to his head, which was pounding from all the shots he'd done the night before. He was soaked in sweat and there was dried semen on the inside of his thigh. This has to stop, he told himself as he stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom, sinking onto the cool tile and pushing the toilet seat up, preparing himself for the vomit that was getting ready to come up.

Three wet dreams in a week and this was his second hangover in a row. Ever since he'd heard that fucking song he'd taken it as a personal challenge. How many bottles could he go through in a night before he passed out? He starts to notice empty bottles of gin.

He hadn't called Brendon yet. What was there to say except everything? He couldn't say everything.

Ryan was too good at this, one hand holding his hair back, the other pressed flat against the tile as he leaned over the toilet bowl, the familiar bitterness coming up. Poison leaving his body. And then he was flushing, standing over the sink, washing his hands and rinsing his mouth out with water from the cup he kept his toothbrush in. He pulled his sweat-soaked shirt off and let it fall to the floor, stripping off his boxers as well and climbing into the shower.

This has to stop, he told himself again as the warm water hit his body. He knew there was only one way to make it stop.


"Well, maybe I don't know what I'm saying, but maybe she does. I didn't know what I was saying when I was fucking you, but apparently you did."

They were in the bedroom now and Ryan was holding his lighter to the pipe, inhaling. When he let the smoke go, he handed Brendon the pipe before speaking. "Bullshit. Sarah can't tell what you're saying when you fuck. She doesn't know anything. She doesn't even know you fucked me. She's as perceptive as a fucking blow up doll."

"She's not a blow-up doll."

"Might as well be." Ryan shot back. "That's what she's there for. You don't love her. You just need something to make you feel better at night."

Brendon took his hit before he replied. "So what's Z then?"

It hurt the boy to answer, but he did anyway. "She's just a girl. Because I can't have you."


"So, I heard the new song." Ryan's phone was pressed to his ear as he set the three frozen pizzas and bottle of vodka down in the check-out lane. "Just, uh, saying. So, call me when you get this? Drinks or something. Bye." He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket and pulled out his wallet to give the cashier the ID they always asked for.

"How are you doing tonight?" the woman asked. She was in her early thirties, he'd guess, with dirty blonde hair and lipstick that didn't really match her skintone. But she was smiling so he spared her.

"Good. Yeah. Pretty quiet in here tonight?"

She agreed and he held out the twenty before she told him the total, shoving the change into his jacket pocket instead of his wallet. For the homeless guy outside.

It was too early for vodka. It wasn't even nine in the morning yet. Brendon would call him back and he wouldn't be able to drive if he started to drink already. Then again, if Brendon didn't call, he'd wait six hours not drinking. His phone rang as he was pulling into the driveway.

"'Llo?"

"Hey," the familiar voice greeted him. "So you called early just to get my voicemail, huh?"

Ryan scowled. Leave it to Brendon to have no sense of tact or grace or compassion, even at such an ungodly hour. "No. I just . . . I was up."

"Sarah's gone. I could come over."

Ryan licked his suddenly dry lips. "It's . . . awfully early for drinks, isn't it?"

Brendon was breathing against the phone and Ryan's jeans felt uncomfortably tight for a moment. "So . . . do you not want me to come over?" There was something dark in his voice. Not anger, just . . . heat. A challenge.

"No, I just . . . it's early. I . . ."

"Great. I'll see you in a bit." The line went dead and Ryan realized there were tears clinging to his eyelashes.

"Fucker," he spat angrily, slamming the car door behind him and then the house door for good measure. "Fucking prick." He put the pizzas in the freezer, the vodka in the fridge, and then went to change into a clean pair of jeans.


"I like fucking Sarah." Brendon's voice was softer, maybe a little hurt. Defensive if he weren't too high to argue. "She's soft and nice and things. She doesn't . . . she doesn't need me to take care of her like that."

"Just with credit cards and stupid presents." Ryan could always argue, no matter what he had smoked or snorted or drank. "See, that's your problem. It's all materialistic now. You don't have to say anything 'cause you can just buy her off. When it was us you actually had to do something to keep me there."

"Well, I guess it wasn't enough then."

Ryan had nothing to say to that.


Brendon let himself in with the spare key that Ryan kept in the flower pot next to the door. "Knock, knock," he called, wandering into the living room and noting the bong sitting on the coffee table, the empty wine glass, the closed journal. "Anyone home?"

"Did you go fucking ninety to get here?" Ryan asked, stumbling out of the bedroom in too-tight jeans and a blue button-down shirt. "Christ, that only took ten minutes."

"I was already on the road." Brendon smirked. "So, you got some shit? Let's smoke."

It took three bowls and then Brendon was on top of Ryan, palming his dick through the fabric of his jeans. "You do know I'm going to fuck you, right?"

Ryan shivered and then nodded, closing the space between them with a kiss, opening his mouth to it, tongue sliding in, hands coming up to fist in Brendon's hair. No words. No fucking words, please. He wasn't Sarah. He didn't need to hear bullshit. Wasn't her, wasn't her. Didn't need, didn't need.


"It wasn't you, it was me," Ryan said finally. "But I love you. I never stopped."

"Too much, too late. Or something, I guess." But Brendon didn't sound bitter. They were in the kitchen now and they each had a beer. There were empty shot glasses on the counter but Ryan couldn't remember what liquor he had swallowed that made his throat burn.

"You'd take me back in a second if I asked you to. Don't give me that 'too late' shit."

"You'd never ask."

"I might."

"Bullshit."


"Every song on the album's about you." Brendon said after, staring up at the ceiling, reaching his hand out blindly until he found Ryan's elbow, tracing his arm down until he twisted their fingers together.

"I know," the boy whispered.

"You haven't even heard it yet." Brendon sounded a little confused, but mostly just defiant, like he was calling Ryan out on his bullshit.

The older wasn't having any of it. Not before noon. "What else were you going to write about?"

"There's a song called 'Sarah Smiles'."

Ryan snorted. "Yeah. I remember. You changed all the words for her." He let go of Brendon's hand and rolled over, fumbling around on the floor for his jeans or at least a pair of sweatpants. "I'll never understand what the fuck you see in that girl."

"She's the exact opposite of you."

The older boy turned sharply, eyes narrowed. Brendon met the amber eyes with his, not sure what to think. "Well, that explains it," Ryan said curtly.

"It does?"

"Yeah." He didn't offer further explanation and Brendon felt so incredibly confused, reaching for his own clothes because he knew Ryan was going to walk out of the room in a second and he was going to have to follow if he wanted an answer.


"At least I wasn't cheating on you." Brendon bit his bottom lip, wishing he could take it back as soon as he said it, but Ryan didn't even get angry.

"It's not cheating when you have permission."

"That's one way of putting it," the boy muttered, glaring back when Ryan's eyes narrowed at him. "I stopped fighting with you. I didn't give you permission. I would have lost my voice if we'd fought every time you screwed someone else."

"And if you wouldn't have been trying to play all those stupid games, I wouldn't have fucked anyone else."

Brendon slammed his beer bottle down on the counter, ignoring the drops that landed on the counter from the force of the impact. "I don't want to fight with you!" His voice cracked and the tears were on his cheeks before he could stop them. "Okay? I just . . . Christ, we're not even . . . just get out, okay? I can't . . . not anymore, Ry. Jesus . . ."

"I love you."

"Fuck you," Brendon whispered, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his jacket.


"And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Brendon yelled, following Ryan down the hallway and into the kitchen. "You always do this. You always say something that doesn't make any sense and you never fucking back it up." He reached out and grabbed Ryan's wrist when the boy didn't stop.

There was a struggle and then Brendon had thrown Ryan against the wall. They were so close Ryan could see an eyelash that was clinging to the perspiration on Brendon's cheek. "Answer me," the younger growled. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"I don't know," Ryan whispered, his voice smaller than Brendon was certain he'd ever heard it. "I . . . I don't . . . I just want to fuck you up." His face fell forward into the other boy's shoulder as his shoulders started to shake from the quiet sobs. "I just want you to be as confused as me. I don't . . . it doesn't mean anything. I just love you. That's it."

Brendon stood there for a moment, dumbstruck, before he slowly brought his arms up, one hand stroking Ryan's hair, the other wrapped around his back. "I-I wrote you an album," he said softly, uncertain. "If that's . . . I mean, it's for you, Ry. Every time."

"Are you sure?" Ryan whispered, turning his head so he could speak properly, his breath warm against Brendon's neck.

"No." But Brendon laughed after he said it, squeezing Ryan harder. "Never. But I don't care."

"Me either," Ryan lied.

Brendon lifted the other boy's chin and kissed him on the mouth--hard. "Yes, you do. You always care about that shit."

"Okay," Ryan admitted softly. "But you wrote me an album."

"Yeah, I did." Brendon nodded, kissing him again. Ryan's lips were trembling as he kissed back, but it didn't really matter.