If You'll Let Me

This is really becoming a problem.

Brendon knows, god, he knows he shouldn't be staring so blatantly at Ryan's ass when he bends over to search for a guitar pick he dropped. But he's doing it like he wants Brendon to stare. His jeans couldn't be any tighter, and they just fit him so perfectly.

Brendon knows that any second now Brent or Spencer could totally look up and catch him obviously ogling Ryan's back side, but instead of scaring him, the realization gives him a sort of giddy excitement. It reminds him of the feeling he got as a little kid when he was doing something he knew was wrong.

And he's pretty sure that being unable to tear your eyes away from your best friend's ass is wrong.

This isn't anything new. There was always something more between Brendon and Ryan, and it makes their relationship a little different than those between themselves, Brent and Spencer. It wasn't lustful, it wasn't even particularly romantic. But it certainly wasn't platonic. What it was for sure was confusing as hell, and Brendon was slowly losing hope in ever figuring it out.

He sighs as Ryan straightens his back again, finally finding that goddamn pick. His soft brown hair hides one downcast eye as he crosses the room to join the other guys, and Brendon thinks for a moment that he would give anything to know what Ryan was thinking just then. Actually, he always wonders what Ryan could be thinking at any given moment, about the band, about him, about them.

This is really becoming a problem.

*

“I'm playing the winner,” Brendon says around a mouthful of popcorn, a few pieces slipping from his handful and landing in his lap. He adjusts the bowl that's perched precariously on his thigh and reaches for a controller.

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” Ryan says, throwing a smart look over his shoulder- and how is he still winning after looking away? Brendon, as a seasoned Mario Kart expert, knows that the quickest off-screen glance could put you from first place to eighth in no time.

He's perfect, Brendon muses disbelieving, eventually deciding to mutter a weak, “You suck.”

“Your eloquence amazes me,” Ryan replies dryly, and Brendon is too transfixed by the way Ryan's lips move to form the words to notice the sarcasm behind them.

“You suck,” Brendon says again, even more distant, and he doesn't hear Ryan's scoff, only Spencer's groan as he crosses the finish line in second place.

Brendon throws a handful of popcorn at Ryan, who snaps his head around quick enough to cause at least minor whiplash. “What was that for, fucker?” he interrogates, voice high-pitched, and it's really comical how easy it is to get him worked up.

The way you make me feel. “I have to play you now.” Brendon pouts and tries his best, biggest, shiniest puppy eyes.

“Did you honestly think Spencer was going to win?” Ryan asks, seemingly unaffected, and. Well, Brendon is beside himself, and if he's being honest, a little offended.

No one—no one—ever goes completely unaffected by his puppy eyes.

“That's it,” he growls to himself, fingers tightening around the controller enough to break the plastic. Ryan laughs openly, and really, he's just putting more fuel on the fire now.

I'm about to beat your sorry ass, you perfect, beautiful, annoying, stupid—

Brendon wants to die when he realizes the countdown had ended, and Ryan has already taken first position.

He also wants to die when he realizes he can't decide whether he'd rather slap or kiss the wicked grin off Ryan's face.

*

Ryan was never a good decision maker.

He didn't think twice before smoking weed to fit in at school. He'd gotten drunk at more than a few dumb high school parties. He had been late for band practices. He had dated one too many slutty girls, and, thinking he was in love every time, gave them everything they asked for.

Once the band made it, though, things got better. For the most part. He still does dumb things from time to time, but on a smaller, less harmful scale. He might screw up a chord on stage; stay up too late and act like a zombie during morning interviews. But those things aren't really hurting anyone but himself.

So naturally, Ryan had become the kind to think, really, really think before he spoke. He was deathly afraid of making mistakes, saying the wrong things at the wrong times like he had so many times before. Spencer's word for it was 'psychoanalytical'.

This, by default, meant that Ryan was a bit quieter than most people, and he didn't often open up about his feelings. In fact, telling anyone how he felt was almost completely unheard of.

So when Spencer finds himself cornered one evening while Brendon and Brent are already asleep, Ryan's expression dark as he mutters, “I need to talk,” he is slightly- no, greatly- shocked.

“You want to talk?”

Ryan nods, eyes darting every which way, and Spencer is seriously worried that his best friend just murdered an entire diner full of innocent people and hid the bodies under the tour bus.

“What did you do?”

Ryan frowns, swallows, and winces, “It's what I didn't do.”

Spencer grabs his forearms and pulls him to the ratty little couch situated up against the paneled wall so that they're in the light, albeit dim and flickering. “Stop being cryptic and tell me what's wrong.”

“I didn't let Brendon win Mario Kart,” Ryan says, and he honestly looks like a kid who just broke his mom's favorite vase.

Spencer feels like a huge asshole for not even attempting to hide his smile as he chuckles, “What?”

“I feel terrible about it. It's like, if I could go back and let him win, I would! I'm such a dick,” he finally sighs, shoulders slumping, forehead hitting his palms with a dull thud.

Meanwhile, Spencer Smith has never been more confused.

“Ryan, I—” he sighs. “I'm getting the feeling there's more to this than Mario Kart?” His voice carefully inflects the slightest bit, like he's afraid to say the wrong thing.

“Forget about it,” Ryan says, giving Spencer one final jaded glare though slitted eyes before he slumps back to the bunks.

Spencer now understands why Ryan so rarely talks about his feelings.

*

One night Brendon falls asleep in the teeny-tiny lounge area of the bus, which he knew to be a big mistake as he was dozing off, but he was just so comfortable.

It pretty much meant that he was public property in the morning, and anyone and everyone had the right to sit on him, draw on his face, the list goes on.

Ryan, meanwhile, has started waking up extra early so that he could have some alone time. Said alone time consists mainly of drinking chamomile tea, writing lyrics and reading in the peaceful morning quiet when no one could bother him or make fun of him for it. Not that he is especially offended when his band mates do, indeed, make fun of him. He allows himself to believe that he is simply the most artistic of the group, and so Ryan's Alone Time is established.

This particular morning he ambles out of the narrow bunks, throwing aside the heavy sun-canceling curtain and taking his first breath of adequately oxygenated air, only to find his usual reading-writing-tea-drinking couch is occupied by Brendon.

A snuggly, softly smiling, sleepy Brendon.

Ryan cautiously moves closer, eying Brendon like he's some kind of venomous snake. The younger boy makes some sort of muffled, garbled noise in his sleep, and Ryan really doesn't have the heart to wake him now. His dark hair is perfectly messy, sticking up in all the right places, if possible, and Ryan notes the way his fingers gently twitch, flexing and relaxing.

He doesn't realize he's smiling until he hears Spencer clear his throat from the doorway, and he feels he corners of his mouth fall.

“You were watching him like a—like a mother cat watching her kittens, or something,” Spencer says slowly, eyes narrowing. Ryan opens his mouth to protest, but he's cut off.

“Like a what?” Brendon asks groggily, startling both Ryan and Spencer. Ryan feels a warm feeling spread to his fingertips as Brendon smiles up at him and rubs his eyes. He realizes that he's never seen Brendon waking up before, but it's always been something he's wondered about. It's wonderful, unsurprisingly, and Ryan is just itching to touch him now. There's a small hollow next to his hipbone that becomes especially pronounced when he stretches like that, and if Ryan could just reach down and touch—

“Never mind,” Spencer says, but there's a smile audible in his voice now, and Ryan doesn't want to or need to tear his eyes away from Brendon's to see the drummer's stupid, knowing grin.

*

It's the second time in one week that Spencer had been trapped between a nervous, fidgeting boy and the wall of the bus lounge. This time, it's Brendon.

“Spence,” Brendon begins, voice deathly serious, “I need help.”

“Does it involve Mario Kart?” Spencer asks carefully, because if it does, he's just going to kindly turn Brendon away.

“We both know I'm beyond help in that department,” Brendon sighs, and Spencer laughs softly and guides the singer to the new official Spencer Smith therapy couch.

“So what's up?” Spencer asks, hopeful but not positive that he'll be able to take Brendon more seriously than Ryan. He already seems a little less frazzled, and a little less hysterical.

“I think I—It's like,” he bites his lips in frustration, and Spencer blinks once. Twice. “Have you ever gone out to dinner and the dinner is really good and all but you're still in the mood for something sweet but you know you're too full, so you're just staring longingly at the menu, like, man, I want that chocolate cake, but I know I shouldn't order it, because I might regret it later?”

Spencer wonders why he bothers.

“Are we actually talking about chocolate cake here, or...?” One or two things could happen then: either Brendon gets up and leaves in a manner similar to Ryan's, or answers the question.

“No,” Brendon says, defeated, and Spencer leans back because he has a feeling they might be there for a while.

“Well, then?” Spencer prods, thinking briefly that if the band is ever to fall through he'll become a psychologist.

“Don't be weirded out,” Brendon warns. All Spencer can do is nod and make weak hypotheses at what Brendon is about to say. “I like Ryan.”

Spencer raises his eyebrows curiously. “You—”

“Yes, like like him, Spence, we're not in elementary school, god.”

Spence takes that as a cue to back off, well, farther away than he already is. After all, he's said about five words so far. “Ok...”

“But I'm not gay! Except for, well, for Ryan...I mean...is that weird? Does that happen? Does that happen often? Like, maybe I'm just confused and lonely, except for the fact that I'm sure there are plenty of nice girls out there for me to choose from if—if—I wanted a girlfriend,” he pauses here, holding up a finger to make his point, takes a breath, and calming down a bit, mutters, “but...I'm finding that the longer this tour goes on all I really want is him, so...”

Spencer sighs, and to his misfortune, it comes out sounding a bit more life a scoff.

“Are you—?!” Brendon starts, standing up to point accusingly at Spencer. “Are you laughing at me? After I just poured my soul out to you?”

Spencer holds up his palms to testify his innocence, eyes soft and forgiving, knowing that Brendon is more than a bit confused. His friend starts to pace, and Spencer catches a quick utterance of, “God, this is so positively fucked.”

“No,” Spencer starts, and Brendon's reaction to what he's about to say could go so many ways, so he quickly glances to the small kitchenette to make sure there are no sharp objects on the counter before he says, “I see the way Ryan looks at you, B.”

Brendon stops walking altogether, looks hopeful for a moment, then slumps onto the couch. “Yeah, like I'm a five year old.”

“No, like he might—” Spencer swallows, 'cause god, this is so damn weird, making love connections between his band mates. “Like he might have feelings for you, too.” He made sure not to use the term 'like like.'

Brendon smiles so briefly Spencer wonders if he imagined it, then looks down. His features are dark again.

“What do I do?”

“Tell him how you feel.”

“Easier said than done, Smith,” he sighs, sounding too world-weary for being only eighteen, and slouches back into the bunks.

*

“Ryan,” Brendon announces the next day when its just he and the guitarist in the dressing room before a show. He's admittedly a little proud of how confident his voice ends up sounding.

“Brendon,” Ryan returns nonchalantly adjusting one of his cuffs, then straightening his collar in the mirror.

“You confuse me.”

Ryan stops his mundane task, and, finally giving Brendon his full attention, turns his head and quirks an eyebrow.

Oh god, Brendon thinks as soon as their eyes meet. This was going to be way harder than he imagined.

“You make me feel like—”

Ryan raises his eyebrow, a gentle prompt for Brendon to keep going. They have less than a minute until they have to be on stage.

“You make me feel like I do want to order the chocolate cake, after all,” the singer finally says, beaming.

Ryan frowns. “You're really fucking weird.”

Brendon inwardly kicks himself and follows Ryan out of the room, hitting the light switch on the way out, wondering why he can't just say what he means.

*

“Brendon,” Spencer sighs, now mechanically rubbing Brendon's arm in a half-assed attempt to be soothing. Truthfully, it's almost three in the morning which is way past Spencer's bed time, and even though he dearly loves his friends, the only thing he ever wants to be doing at that hour is sleeping.

“You know that Ryan is never going to initiate anything.”

“If he felt the same way, he would.”

“He wouldn't, you know him.”

“Do I? Do I know him?” Brendon asks grandly, dramatically, as if he's quit believing in everything. Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Yes. Better than most people.”

Brendon shakes his head softly, nuzzling further into Spencer, who is now steadily falling asleep and making no effort to stop. “In the immortal words of The Strokes, you only live once.”

Brendon shakes his head again. “I don't want to screw up the band, if—”

“You won't screw up the band,” Spencer argues weakly. “We can't do this every night. How long since the dressing room episode?”

Brendon groans, obviously displeased that Spencer brought it up again. “Like...two weeks?”

“You can't let one stupid thing like that just...just ruin everything,” Spencer says, not even sure if he's making sense at this point, not caring and not sorry about it.

“You're right,” Brendon says slowly, in a steady crescendo, as if Spencer has just opened his eyes to something wonderfully life-changing.

“Happy to help,” Spencer replies, having already forgotten what he said in the first place.

*

“Spence,” Ryan calls out urgently, closing in on his best friend literally moments after they step off stage.

“You okay?” Spencer's forehead creases as they fall into step together. Ryan steers them in the direction of the venue's back door instead of the dressing room, and he knows that this is a bad idea and that there have to be at least a few determined fans waiting right outside, unsuccessfully trying to get in.

“Ryan, I don't think—” He tries, but uselessly; Ryan steps ahead of him and pushes open the door. Warm, summer air rushes all around them as they step outside into the dark, and surprisingly empty, back lot.

“I need to talk. Again.” Ryan sounds apologetic.

“Alright, shoot,” the drummer encourages, leaning up against the rough brick of the building.

The older boy heaves a long, slow sigh, then joins Spencer against the wall. His hands are making vague gestures, but he's not speaking, as if he just can't decide on the right words.

Spencer takes a shot in the dark, and says, “It's about Brendon.”

Ryan has that deer-in-headlights look for a moment, eyes wide and shocked, before looking down, almost looking ashamed. “Yeah, it is.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, not that Ryan can see, and recites, “You think you could have feelings for him, but you're freaked out because he's a guy and you're not gay and he's also your band mate. Am I right?”
When Ryan doesn't respond, just hangs his head lower, Spencer allows himself to chuckle, “You're so fucking predictable, man.”

In any other situation, that would have been hurtful and offensive, save for the fact that Spencer and Ryan have been friends for ages. Plus, he said it in what could be considered a loving tone, and accompanied it with a friendly shoulder nudge.

Ryan turns his back to the door to face Spencer, eyes wild. “I know. But it's like every time I see him, I get this weird feeling, and I just want to kiss him but then I want to punch him for making me want to kiss him! It's infuriating! And then—”

Spencer, although incredibly interested in Ryan's confused rant, can't help but notice the door opening behind Ryan and Brendon stepping outside, looking relieved.

“Ryan...” Spencer warns, but he just keeps going. Meanwhile, Brendon is looking more and more confused.

“—the other day when he was sleeping on the couch, he just looked so...so...fuck, I don't know, cute. That's literally the only word for it! And—”

Spencer presses a hand over his eyes, because if Brendon was clueless at first, he sure as hell gets it now. He really just wants to walk away and leave his two friends to fight or talk or make out or whatever could potentially happen next, and he definitely cannot bring himself to look at either of them.

“...Spence?” Ryan asks slowly. Spencer doesn't move.

When Ryan finally understands and turns around, the smallest hint of a smile is beginning to light up Brendon's face. Ryan just looks completely mortified.

“I was looking everywhere for you guys,” Brendon says, lips now stretching into a full-blown grin.

“Yeah,” Ryan utters, voice faltering. “We should probably talk.”

*

“So,” Ryan begins curtly, and god, he's never felt so shaky, excited, embarrassed, and scared all at once. Spencer and Brent have kindly given them space and retired to the bunks for the night, which, to Ryan's surprise, is actually the opposite of what he was hoping for. Now he and Brendon are alone, and it didn't help that Brendon decided to keep his stage pants and make-up on for this, because he looks really damn good. “So, we like each other.”

Brendon nods slowly, eyes narrowing. “Yeah. Well, I mean, I like you, but, I don't expect you to—”

“No, no. I do. I like you.”

“Ok. Good.”

“Good.”

Another awkward silence that Ryan was itching to fill with something, anything. “But I like girls.”

“So do I.”

They stare at each other confusedly for the next few moments, as if trying to read each other's minds, before Ryan huffs and falls back onto the couch. “So how did this happen?”

“I don't know,” Brendon sighs, sitting next to him. Their shoulders brush. “Tell me exactly what you're thinking right now,” he tries, figuring now is good a time as ever to finally know what's on Ryan Ross's mind.

“Our shoulders are touching,” Ryan states.

“That they are,” Brendon confirms.

“It's nice,” Ryan murmurs, absolutely refusing to meet Brendon's eyes, which is getting more and more frustrating for the younger boy. “I like touching you.”

“Okay. Well, c'mere,” Brendon says, opening his arms.

Ryan eyes him suspiciously.

“What?” Brendon asks, and oh fuck, here come the puppy eyes, and Ryan really doesn't want to hurt his feelings, but this is a little weird.

“Cuddling?” Ryan asks, trying not to sound too disbelieving. “That's...that's pretty gay.”

Brendon looks at war with himself for a few seconds while he tries to formulate a good, contradictory response. “You're right,” he decides, and Ryan nods solemnly. “But we're like...honorary homosexuals now.”

Ryan can't stop the snort and puzzled look that follow, but really, where does Brendon come up with this stuff. “This is why I love you, Bren,” he says, not realizing that it could mean more now, voice laced with soft laughter. Brendon looks tongue-tied.

“I mean, not in love with you,” Ryan bargains, doing anything to get that look off Brendon's face. “So far. Yet, I mean, not so far, that...” his voice trails off. “Doesn't make sense. None of this does,” he laughs, feeling a little like he's losing his mind.

“I'm gonna go to bed,” Brendon says, but makes no attempt to move. Instead, he reaches out without permission to cover Ryan's hand with his own. They both flinch at the strangely affectionate touch, but Ryan smiles a bit, because it's nice. “But before I do, say you're my boyfriend.”

Ryan is surprised by the pleading tone of Brendon's voice and the worry in his eyes, but honestly, he feels the same thing, the need for things to be solid and real. The need for validation. “I'm your boyfriend.”

“Good,” Brendon says, gaze lingering just a second too long for just friends, and disappears behind the curtain.

*

The bus is moving once again, and it's that weird time of day when there is absolutely nothing to do. All the video games have been played, all the edible snacks have been eaten, and now the only activity left is sitting on the couch with your laptop, or actually interacting with each other, which is really the last resort.

Today, however, Brent seem to be full of questions.

“So you guys are like, dating then?” Brent inquires, looking up from his spot spread out on the floor.

“Yep,” Brendon and Ryan say in unison, both looking up at Brent but not at each other.

Brent looks skeptical before asking, “Is this a joke?”

Ryan rolls his eyes, sending Brendon a comforting glance. Sometimes Brent was an asshole. “No.”

“Well, you don't seem very couple-y,” Brent argues, moving his fingers like the legs of a spider.

Ryan shrugs, not really having a good enough response for that, because no, he and Brendon aren't 'couple-y.' They've been friends for a long time and anything too romantic too soon would be, just. Weird. Plus Ryan has never really been the sickeningly romantic type. He doesn't say any of this out loud, just smiles over at Brendon who returns it shyly.

“Okay, that's better,” Brent says, obviously having seen their little exchange, and Ryan can feel his face heating.

“Even though this is a little weird for me,” Spencer begins, definitely not sounding like the youngest of the group, “I'd definitely rather cutesy couple-y shit instead of watching you pine for each other.”

Ryan and Brendon shoot Spencer something of a loving glare before smiling at each other again, their eyes meeting this time. Brendon feels something scarily like butterflies rise from his stomach to his chest, and thinks, oh fuck, I'm totally falling for a guy.

But then, it's not just a guy, it's Ryan, who is really too feminine to be considered 'a guy' at all. He's gorgeous, and kind of hard to understand, but Brendon likes that about him, and even though he's kind of quiet his eyes say everything for him.

“What are you thinking?” Ryan mouths from the other end of the couch, foot nudging Brendon's.

“I have a crush on you,” Brendon returns, and Ryan smiles, content.

*

“Brendon,” Ryan says one day as they're lying on the couch, watching some 80's horror movie with Spencer and Brent.

“Shut up,” Brent hisses from the floor, and Ryan rolls his eyes.

“Brendon,” he says again, the side of his face pressed into the younger boy's shoulder. “I really like you.”

Brendon laughs lightly, leaning his head down to rest on top of Ryan's. “We established that.” It's been two weeks since the episode behind the venue. It feels longer, Brendon notes.

“I want to like...do stuff with you,” Ryan says, sounding unsure for such a forward statement.

“Stuff?”

“Well yeah, nothing too weird yet, but,” Ryan huffs, frustrated with his own inability to say anything the right way the first time. “Yeah.”

Brendon moves further back into the couch, almost sinking between the cushions and the couch itself. “C'mere,” he says, and this time, Ryan does, letting Brendon spoon him, and really, this is so weird and so unnatural but he likes the feeling of a warm body behind his, and he likes knowing it's Brendon.

He sighs as Brendon's arm snakes over his hip and fastens around his waist, hugging him closer. He could definitely, definitely get used to this.

*

They kiss for the first time exactly three weeks after the venue episode.

It happens before a show, in a dressing room so tiny, it's almost hard to breathe. Spencer and Brent really give less than a fuck about their stage appearance, so, as usual, Ryan and Brendon are left alone to put their finishing touches on their make-up.

“Can you do mine?” Brendon asks Ryan just as the older boy goes to put the cap back on the eye pencil.

“Yeah, just—” Ryan says, obviously hesitant. Brendon's eyes flutter closed, and Ryan can't help but note the way his long, dark eyelashes cast tiny shadows on his cheekbones, and his thoughts are jumping from he's so beautiful to how am I lucky enough to even know this boy to holy shit, we haven't even kissed yet.

Completely without a second thought, he presses his lips to the shorter boy's and they line up perfectly on the first try, thank god. Brendon hums in surprise, after all, his eyes were still closed, but he leans into it, fists relaxing at his sides. Meanwhile, Ryan is still holding the eye pencil, and they aren't touching anywhere but their lips.

It only lasts a second, and Ryan is pulling away due to a lack of air. He takes a few deep breaths, then says, “I'm gonna do your eyeliner now.”

“Okay,” Brendon says meekly, closing his eyes once more. And that's that.

*

It's been two days since the kiss, almost a week since the cuddling, and Brendon and Ryan haven't done anything 'couple-y', as Brent would say.

“Brendon,” Ryan says as they sit in the dark lounge alone, after a particularly long Mario Kart showdown. “You still like me, right?”

“Yeah...of course.”

“Okay,” Ryan smiles, “Just checking.” Then adds, “We're bad at this, aren't we?”

“Well, we're not taking the normal approach, I guess.”

Ryan's smile grows wider, and he tips his head back to meet Brendon's eyes. His image flashes in and out of view, each time they pass a streetlight. His eyes are particularly dark.

“Ry,” Brendon begins, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling, “I know I'm not all over you every second of every day, but don't think,” he clears his throat, “don't think I don't want you. Because I do.”

He looks over at Ryan again, marveling at him, his defined cheekbones and perfectly shaped lips and god, he really does want him.

“I'm just clueless,” he finishes quietly, searching Ryan's face for something, anything.

“I don't know much more about this than you do,” Ryan says shakily, swallowing as he can feel the air around them become heavy. “But I trust you, so. Never ask permission.”

Brendon's eyes are swirling with something Ryan's never seen in them before, and oh god, he's leaning in, and Ryan knows but pretends he doesn't have a clue what comes next. Their lips meet for the second time ever, and it's ten times better.

Ryan doesn't know what he's doing, and fuck, he really doesn't care. He darts his tongue out to meet Brendon's between their parted lips and Brendon immediately deepens the kiss. Tiny spots of color explode behind his eyelids as the singer pulls him closer.

They exchange slow, smoldering kisses for so long the sun might be coming up, they don't know and it doesn't matter anymore.

“Brendon,” Ryan pants, breaking the kiss, reclaiming the hand he had fisted in Brendon's hair. “We need to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Brendon breathes, voice deep, and pecks Ryan once, twice, until they're both smiling.

*

Brendon's already asleep, making those cute noises again, this time into the crook of Ryan's neck. It's a tight squeeze in his bunk, but that makes it all the more perfect. They have no choice but to be close.

Ryan blinks upward into the dark, still wide awake, and the arm currently trapped under Brendon is tingling with pins and needles. He flexes his fingers to make sure they still work, and as long as they do, he can care less about his own state of comfort right now. At least Brendon looks like there's no place he'd rather be.

So maybe they're not the best at this, but they're getting better.

Ryan hugs Brendon closer. He can't wait until morning.