Poetry Is a War

Ryan could remember screaming at Pete, loud noises that weren't quite words tearing their way out of his throat and vocal cords. He could remember being forced onto his back, flat on the bed, the weight pressing down on him, fingers seizing his wrists. He couldn't quite remember what made him snap, just that he was screaming and fighting like his life depended on it, eyes open but unable to see his surroundings.

All he could see were the words.

Spinning around him like a tornado of candy floss, sticking to everything but him. He was drowning in it, smelling it, inhaling it, but unable to grab it, not with Pete fighting against him with every nerve in his body.

"Christ, Ryan, what the hell is wrong with you?"

The younger boy had twisted his body until his teeth bit into Pete's finger. He heard a yell, felt something sharp hit his head and then the world seemed to quite in an instant.

When he opened his eyes, it was dark out and Pete was curled up next to him. It must have been hours since he'd been screaming. How could it have been hours?

He felt calm now, almost like he'd woken up from a dream. That wasn't him screaming, was it? Not really. It couldn't have been.

"Ry?" Pete asked, voice raspy. "You up? You okay?" He sat up, something like desperation in his voice as he tried to turn Ryan over, searching for some sort of physical mark to prove that what had happened a few hours ago had really happened a few hours ago.

The younger boy didn't say anything. He'd snapped like that a few months before when they'd been on the last week of tour. With Brendon. The singer had look about ready to cry and then he'd taken every single one of Ryan's insults, every one of the slaps and kicks. He hadn't fought Ryan like Pete had, just stared with those huge brown eyes.

"I need to go home," he said, staring up at the boy with the world inked on his arms.

Pete shook his head. "Not yet. I've never heard anyone scream like that except me."

Ryan winced. The one thing he never want to acknowledge was that anyone could understand any pain he was in. It wasn't so much that he wanted to be the self-deprecating loner, but that he didn't think anyone in the world deserved to feel that way. "I need to go home," he repeated.

He had just opened his mouth to say it again when Pete leaned down and swallowed the words, fingers squeezing the boy's shoulders as his tongue pressed in slightly, tasting the mouth that had been screaming so incessantly earlier. The breaths were trying to tear themselves from the older's chest, but he wouldn't let them escape. That would mean breaking the kiss and breaking the kiss would mean shattering the moment. Pete believed sometimes you had to turn blue and struggle for breath to hold onto those moments for as long as possible. Always looking for a chance to make another 11:11 wish come true.

Ryan bit his tongue after a moment and when Pete slapped him, they both moaned. Ryan didn't get a chance to see how long it lasted; his face was pressed into the pillow and he was fighting for breath the whole time. Fighting for breath never makes you as aware of your heartbeat as anything else.

After Pete fell asleep, Ryan got back up and called a cab, taking his suitcase and making his way to one of the hotels in the airport. Plane ticket on his laptop and six hours of sleep before he got Starbucks in the morning and hopped the flight. Brendon was waiting for him when he landed. No kiss, but a glance that they both understood.

Ryan wanted to cry and Brendon really wished the hickey had a chance to fade before his almost-boyfriend had gotten home.

"How was it?" he asked.

Ryan shrugged. He was home a week early; how did Brendon expect it to be? Would Pete call? He wouldn't put it past the Chicago boy to tell Brendon. Pete seemed to operate under the banner of whatever worked for him worked for Ryan. Pete also seemed to think Patrick had the answers to everything and that Brendon was Ryan's equivalent of Patrick. It didn't work that way.

"Anything interesting happen while I was gone?"

It was answering a question with a question, but Brendon either let it slide or didn't notice. "Spencer and me snuck into a strip club."

Ryan snorted. Girls. They turned his best friends into idiots. So much more trouble than they'd ever been worth to him. Haley was nice and pretty and not a total loss, he supposed, but the girls that Brendon wanted always seemed to have trouble and tramp stamped on the part of their back where shirts didn't quite meet jeans.

"I'm sure that was worth the money you spent there."

Brendon shrugged, leaning over to lightly kiss Ryan's cheek once they were in his car. "What happened?"

Ryan shook his head and crossed his arms, nodding toward the road. He squirmed uncomfortably as Brendon sighed and started the vehicle, put it into reverse.

"One day you'll learn to tell me things," Brendon mumbled.

"One day you'll learn to stop asking questions."

The rest of the drive was silent except for the radio.

---

They went home. Brendon ordered Chinese food and Ryan unpacked. They had separate rooms in the two bedroom apartment they rented together, but it hardly seemed that way anymore. Ryan's room was more of a closet with pretty curtains and knick-knacks.

Brendon's bed was the one that was slept in. There was an ashtray on his side of the bed and a notebook on Ryan's. Once they'd eaten, Ryan let himself be pushed onto his back, knees pressed up to his chest, Brendon murmuring his name over and over as he pressed in, deeper and harder. They both knew he'd had sex with Pete; they were both ignoring it.

"Get any writing done out there?" Brendon asked after, when his arms were holding the older boy tightly to his chest.

Ryan resisted the urge to scream, instead biting the inside of his cheek until he was sure he could taste blood. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, hoping it would work and he could just pretend to sleep. Maybe Pete wouldn't call and he wouldn't scream again and Brendon would stop being attracted to girls. Maybe he'd just make it through the night. Either one was progress.

---

In the morning, Brendon was making frozen waffles and coffee. He hadn't brushed his hair and was only wearing boxers when Ryan stumbled out of the bedroom. "Pete called last night," the younger said evenly.

Ryan's head snapped up, eyes widened.

Brendon nodded, not waiting for the question. "He told me."

Ryan turned and walked back into the bedroom, locking the door behind him and curling up in a ball on the bed. He didn't know how to explain it, just that an explanation was what Brendon wanted. The words to convey what it felt like when he had no words ironically escaped him as well.

He heard the doorknob twisting and then his name being called quietly. "Ry? Ry, can you open the door? Please? We need to talk about it."

"Rain, rain, go away."

"Stop doing that!" Brendon snapped. It always scared him when the other boy starting talking in rhyme, bits of children's songs, lines from Disney movies. The light wasn't Ryan's forte. He belonged not necessarily in the dark, but in the shadows, on the fringes of light, looking at it through skeptical eyes, not hopeful ones.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Brendon had never been good at patience. He was the youngest and he was selfish. So he didn't wait at the door like Pete would have, trying to coax it out of Ryan with pretty words and a gentle voice. Instead he kicked the door, swore, and made his way out to the porch to light a cigarette. It wasn't fair. He had to do all the work a boyfriend would do but he still didn't get the title or any of the perks. "Bullshit," he muttered.

Lately Ryan had been spinning in circles without realizing it. He was closing himself off more and more, putting more of himself away in a box that he didn't want anyone (especially Brendon) to see. He would sit at stare at a journal for hours, trying to force words out instead of waiting for them to come out. Brendon may not have been much of a writer, but he knew that force was never as beautiful organic. How could it be?

The only thing making him feel better was also making him feel guilty just for the thought. At least Pete wasn't immune to Ryan's natural disasters. Before he could go further with that thought, he heard the sliding glass door open and then Ryan was standing outside, wearing jeans and a backwards tee shirt.

"I don't want to talk about it," he repeated, "but I don't want to fight either."

"I want to help."

"You already do." Ryan sighed, taking a few steps forward and leaning against the railing with the other boy. "I promise."

"You're an amazing writer, Ry."

"When you're done with that, come back in," the older boy said as he made his way back to the door. "I want to fuck."

Acceptance. Sometimes it was as beautiful as affection.