Status: Secret Santa for Alice // ♂♂

Stranger

change

Brendon is cold.

The lights of Vegas are too bright for a Tuesday night and the bus’ heating is broken and there are more than a handful of moments where Brendon wants to get off at the next stop and go home because he isn’t sure this is worth it.

He doesn’t.

Too soon and he’s standing just a few metres from the bar under a blinking neon furniture sign (because it’s fucking Vegas and nothing makes sense) in the snow. It’s a few metres that he can’t make himself walk when he sees Ryan so easily from the distance, brown tweed pants and a fedora, leaning against the wall. Brendon almost smiles.

He walks over.

“Why the hell’d you take the bus?” Ryan says seriously, but his eyes are smiling in that way Brendon learned how to recognise even from behind a scowl. Merry Christmas hovers on Brendon's lips, but he just shrugs, eyes downcast. Ryan shrugs back and the tension eases a little, even when Ryan uneasily rocks on the balls of his feet. It makes Brendon feel a little more balanced knowing Ryan is anxious too.

It kind of makes Brendon want to hug him, but he doesn't know how he'd handle it if he didn't hug back.

Ryan fiddles with his cuff links for a moment, watching Brendon. Brendon wonders how they got from a handful of stilted texts over the last couple weeks to this, this pseudo-normality. Two friends out for drinks. Two friends, except not.

Ryan nods towards the bar and walks, holding the door open for Brendon. It’s awkward and makes something burn inside of Brendon, because this is how he remembers Ryan; odd formality and hidden smiles. He wonders what Ryan sees when he looks at him; ashy skin and bags under his eyes from touring too long. He must look like a total stranger.

It’s almost funny. It’s been four years and everything has changed except Ryan.

Brendon takes a seat at the end of the bar and Ryan orders something sweet. Brendon’s stomach heaves at the thought of sugar and orders a rum and coke instead, ignoring the irony (everything has changed except Ryan). He wrings his hands together, watching the barman intently -- not watching Ryan, not even a glance -- until his drink is set in front of him.

Ryan sighs a little, running his fingers through his bangs. They fall back into his face and it reminds Brendon of days he’s forgotten he had burned to his memory.

“Why am I here, B?” Ryan whispers suddenly. He teases his finger around the rim of his glass and waits. The question sounds a lot like, ‘You started this. Now you have to finish it.’

The thing is, Brendon really doesn’t know how.

Ryan pushes their drinks away, leaning on his elbow over the counter. His hand hovers over Brendon’s and eventually covers it. Brendon’s breath hitches. He can barely move as he turns his hand over and laces their fingers together; it’s almost like muscle memory. His joints jump and Ryan forces them down, the pads of his fingers strangely void of calluses.

Ryan closes his eyes for the briefest of moments before repeating: “Why am I here, Brendon?”

Brendon stares at their joined fingers like they somehow have the answer (because he sure as fuck doesn’t). He refuses to meet Ryan’s eyes when he looks up again; he doesn’t know what he’ll see, doesn’t know if he’ll see what he wants to if he does. “You know why.” His voice cracks.

“Brendon.”

“Ryan,” he retorts weakly, rubbing the heel of his free hand against his pants.

“You should ask,” Ryan says, his palm sweating against Brendon’s. It’s reassuring as much as it isn’t. “You should ask me.”

“Ryan…”

Ryan sighs, his hand lifting from Brendon’s. It feels unreasonably wrong as Brendon watches it fall to Ryan’s side. “I can’t if you don’t ask.”

Brendon’s fingers drum against the counter. He wants his drink back, but Ryan is staring. He swallows. The noise in the bar is making it hard to think.

He just wants his drink back.

He chances a glance at Ryan’s face (his lips, his nose, his cheeks) before looking away again. It’s the expression he imagined Ryan had when he sent that first I miss you.

“You left,” Brendon says finally, weakly.

Ryan’s lips twitch downwards. “You didn’t ask me to stay.”

Brendon can’t help the sound he makes in the back of his throat, broken and hurt. He turns and blinks repeatedly, willing away stupid (so fucking stupid) tears behind smudged glasses, and ends up catching their reflections in the mirror behind the bar.

He sees Ryan with his hair curling over his ears and his young eyes staring into the side of Brendon’s face. He looks so different. He looks so familiar. Realisation clenches in Brendon’s chest because everything is really fucking wrong without Ryan.

It almost hurts when he turns to Ryan again, and then he can’t reconcile what is happening in his brain with what is coming out of his mouth in waves of guilt and promises and sorry’s.

“I want you to come back. I want you back in the band.” I want you back in my life. I just want you back.

He looks up and Ryan’s eyes soften. Brendon holds his breath. Ryan inhales once, harshly, and it almost feels like it’s filling Brendon’s lungs too. He nods once. “Okay.”

Brendon counts in his head, one, two and Ryan nods again. “Okay?”

Ryan smiles (and it’s almost ridiculous because Ryan never smiled, never smiles) and he grabs Brendon’s hand again. He leans forward and presses his lips to Brendon’s ear. Brendon is breathless and confused and relieved like never; like always.

“All you had to do was ask.”
♠ ♠ ♠
For MistressOfInsanity. I hope it's everything you wanted. You deserve everything.

(I owe you porn, but we'll talk)