HOME | DD

Description
Don’t you wish it were simple?  Don’t you wish you could make it like it was four months ago?  Don’t you wish it had never happened?

Scratch that last.

Don’t you wish his hands were just hands and his mouth was just a mouth?  That his lips against yours were just a kiss, that his cock inside you was just sex?  Don’t you wish you could lie to yourself?  Don’t you wish years of spilling your soul onto paper didn’t make your inner monologue a repetitive track on loop in your mind?  Don’t you wish you could just stop?

Scratch that last.

It’s hotel rooms and empty tour buses and broom closets with locks.  It’s his breath in your ear, his hands holding tight to you, the first burst of pain that will never cease no matter how often or how slow.  It’s you suppressing moans, his cheek slick with perspiration against yours, it’s that squeak you always make when you finish, it’s him whispering in your ear as he comes inside of you.

And then it’s interviews and watching movies and scribbling in journals and sound check and trying not to look over your shoulder to make sure nobody notices.  It’s the fact that you, Ryan Ross, are the best and worst person at keeping secrets, the best and worst person to keep secrets.

Then it’s a night, a night without him and without sex and you’re not even sure where he is but, fuck, you didn’t realize how addicted you were to him.  Lust, love, horny, desperate, whatever it was it should not have lead to addiction.  You hate addictions.  Especially ones with brown hair and brown eyes.

It’s you stepping into a shower and not hearing the door open, starting when you feel his arms around you from behind, moaning when he’s inside of you within seconds.  Arms braced against the shower, an arm around your waist.  Moaning, breathing, water in your eyes.  That stupid squeak and, always, him whispering into your ear.  Always the same three words, mixed up and drawn at random.

”Fuck, Ry.  Jesus.”

There’s a moment after, after you run conditioner through your hair and rinse it out while he recuperates (because he’s always needed to do that).  There’s a moment after, after you towel dry your hair and slip into the clothes you threw on the counter.  There’s a moment when you’re sitting on your bed, digging through a bag, trying to find a hairbrush and a notebook.  There’s a moment when his hand brushes down your back as he walks past you, eyes meeting and holding.  For a moment.  And his brown eyes, God, they didn’t fucking look like that before.

And you would know.

He keeps his eyes open when he fucks, doesn’t he?

Don’t you wish you could convince yourself it was a trick of the light?  That you still had soap in your eyes from the shower?  That it was something that always happened after you fucked but you had been too self-absorbed to notice?  Don’t you wish you could look away from him when he’s pushing into you, breathing into your ear?  Don’t you wish you could not notice how fucking often his eyes look like that?  Don’t you wish you could just not notice him?

Scratch that last.

Do you remember what you said to each other the first time?  Don’t you remember that it was your first time drinking, your last time drinking, your first time with a boy, your first time with Brendon?  Don’t you remember how you thought it would be the last?  Do you remember what he breathed against your shoulder when it ended, something about safer than groupies and it would just be for awhile and it’s just sex Ryan?  Do you remember believing it, just being twenty and desperate for sexual touch and release, not caring who or what it was from?  Do you remember the way you giggled when he kissed under your ear?

Of course you do.  You’re in love with him, after all.  Like you don’t dream about this every night when you go to bed, like it’s not a movie with it’s own little soundtrack that plays in your mind whenever you have a moment.  Not like that moment in the hotel room.  An empty moment, one where he’s not around.

Do you remember August?  Hot and sticky sex under a sheet in a hotel room with air conditioning that was irrelevant to the summer heat.  Sex during the day without cover of darkness, sex that wasn’t after a show, sex that hadn’t begun with being slicked in perspiration.

Not just sex.

It hadn’t been since May.

And you’re moaning, louder than normal, arching against him.  It had been three days since you’d been able to feel him inside of you and you were both desperate as hell, not even at it for ten minutes and both on the verge of the end.  “Oh . . . oh, fuck.”  And you never talk during sex.  Not with him, not with anyone.

The brown eyes that stare down at you blink once and you feel the tempo increase, the speed of his hand, the depth of the trusts.  Because he wants it now, wants to hear you again, wants it to be new and different and exciting.  “Jesus fuck, Ry.”

You’re moaning louder, hands scrambling up to grab his shoulders, arching your back, toes curling.  ”Bren?  Bren, fuck.  Fuck!”  And you come like that, mouth frozen in place from your last word, tensed, hands falling when he forces himself deeper into you, harder into you and—

”RyJesusFuck.”

You want his arms around you afterward, you want him to hold you.  But you don’t know how to tell him.  Because you’re a boy.  Because he’s a boy.  Because it’s just sex Ryan.  So you just go take a shower, accidentally shampooing your hair twice and screaming when you trip getting out of the tub.

And you’re bleeding and he’s there, helping you to sit up and blowing gently on the cut, wiping at it with a washcloth.  His eyes are like that again and you’re almost getting lost in them, gradually becoming numb to the pain.  ”You’re not bleeding anymore.  Get dressed and I’ll go get some band-aids and stuff.”

Then he’s gone and you’re alone and your forehead is hurting again and you’re almost crying, almost dying, almost so lost in yourself and your emotions that you’re not even sure what’s going on anymore.  But only almost.  Because you know exactly what’s going on.

And the words continue during the sex.  Usually a combination of fuck bren holy shit or simply all strung together like Christmas lights—fuckbrenholyshit.  Christmas lights that would never been put on a Christmas tree.  And then suddenly there’s something new, something different.  Suddenly there’s his teeth at your neck instead of his lips whispering in your ear.  And you’re not sure at first if you like it because it makes the distance that you were trying so hard to keep more real or if you hate it because it makes the distance that you were trying so hard to keep more real.

You’re barely making sense to yourself now, Ryan, but that’s okay because nobody makes sense when they’re having an orgasm.  It even excuses what you do next, grabbing his neck and forcing his lips to yours, rough and chapped and hard.  Your teeth crash against his mouth, but it’s readily fixed.  Open mouths, tongues fighting each other.  But then it’s over and he’s coming inside of you, breathing hard against your cheek.  And it’s ”Ry, fuck.  Jesus.” in your ear again.  Just like always.

Do you remember October?  When the weather was just starting to cool and the window was open, curtain fluttering in the slight breeze.  He was pushing into you so hard and you’d fought earlier so you decided to punish him with a lack of words.  And he was clawing at your hair, pulling back until your neck was exposed, fucking you senseless, waiting for the squeak and fuckbrenholyshit to signal your climax.

But you didn’t.  You didn’t speak and, for the first time, there was no squeak emitted from the back of your throat as your body tensed and shuddered, as your orgasm racked through you, your eyes squeezing shut, your toes curling in your white socks.  He was not happy.  You could tell when he bit down on your ear, causing you to shriek as he came inside of you, ”JesusfuckRy”.  Then he was pulling out and storming off to shower.  The angry lines in his face were sharp, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set.

You were left on the bed, sore and spent, staring straight up at the ceiling and wondering what was to ever come of this, of the two of you.  Was there ever going to be a conclusion to your waltzes in hotel room sheets and locked closets?  Were you doomed to this pathetic fate?  Being in love with a boy who loved you back?  It’s just sex, Ryan.

Don’t you wish you could say it, just say the words to him, just to get them out of your veins, not giving a damn what he says back?  Don’t you wish you had the strength to just get up and leave, never come back, never be caught on your back again with profanities like Christmas lights tumbling from your lips onto the sheets?  Don’t you wish that none of the closets had locks and that you could share a hotel room with Spencer or Jon, leave Brendon to his own devices?  Don’t you wish he had never fucked you in your drunken stupor?

Scratch that last.

And you remember January.  Right after the big snowstorm.  Tour was over and you hadn’t tasted each other for weeks.  You were desperate, slumming around in bars, going home with strange men that never fucked you anywhere near as well as he did.  You’d heard he had a girlfriend but you didn’t dare call to find out.  There is a right way and a wrong way to end a waltz and that would have been the wrong way.

He found you in January, in every sense of the word.  Found in a bar, found you as desperate as desperate comes, found you out.  His hand closed on your wrist and he drug you out, out to his car, pushing you in, driving back to your place, not saying anything, not looking at you.  Your wrist burned and your fingers danced over it, savoring the touch, finally, his touch.

Then parking and him grabbing your wrist again, pulling you out, out of the car, and upstairs.  You fumbling with your keys and opening the door.  He pushed you in, no words, and you weren’t entirely sure what he was doing inside.  Your wrist still burned and you were physically aching for his touch.  It wasn’t going to be possible to let him walk out without more, without more skin on skin.

Your arms came up of their own accord, as if you were being possessed by Desire, this invisible entity that wanted everything you wanted, always wanting, always needing, always desperate, always aching.  Your arms came up and around his neck, your lips crashing down on his, your hips jerking forward, bodies pressed together.

Then his arms around your waist and then lower, lifting you up, your legs wrapped around his waist, him stumbling through the apartment, knocking things off shelves, his mouth never leaving yours until he threw you onto the bed.  Clothes all but evaporated and he was inside you.  Pain, burn, sting, stretch, but it was everything you wanted, everything you’d been searching for in those drunken men at the bar who were so greedy for your flesh that they never came close to giving you anything you wanted.

And this time lips were on lips and he was saying words the whole time, things he’d never said before, things about Jesus Christ, I missed you and fuck, I’d forgotten how good you taste.  Things that you never thought he’d say, things you always wanted him to say.  And your hands are all over his body, touching every inch of skin, every expanse of flesh you can find, memorizing the feel of his body, swallowing his taste and taking it inside you.  Just in case, just in case you ever have to go that long without him again.

And then it’s fuckbrenholyshit and JesusRyfuck and he’s pulling out and his arms are around you like you always wanted, like you never knew how to ask for, and his lips are still on yours, still so fierce and so hard and so needy.  And you want to ask, you want to ask so bad if it’s still just sex, Ryan but you don’t because if you hear the wrong word it’s all destroyed, lost and gone forever.  So you just kiss back, your fingers still dancing over his skin, but eyes closing, fatigue setting in for both of you.

When you wake up in the morning he’s still there, eating in the kitchen.  He pulls you down for a kiss and that’s just like an answer to the question you couldn’t ask.  It’s not just sex, Ryan.

And it’s not too fast and it’s not too slow.  It’s not everything you wanted, but it’s everything you need.  It’s an answer and a question because it’s all so new and where do we go from here.  It’s lost and found.  It’s the perfect ending.

Scratch that last.

Description
Don’t you wish it were simple?  Don’t you wish you could make it like it was four months ago?  Don’t you wish it had never happened?

Scratch that last.

Don’t you wish his hands were just hands and his mouth was just a mouth?  That his lips against yours were just a kiss, that his cock inside you was just sex?  Don’t you wish you could lie to yourself?  Don’t you wish years of spilling your soul onto paper didn’t make your inner monologue a repetitive track on loop in your mind?  Don’t you wish you could just stop?

Scratch that last.

It’s hotel rooms and empty tour buses and broom closets with locks.  It’s his breath in your ear, his hands holding tight to you, the first burst of pain that will never cease no matter how often or how slow.  It’s you suppressing moans, his cheek slick with perspiration against yours, it’s that squeak you always make when you finish, it’s him whispering in your ear as he comes inside of you.

And then it’s interviews and watching movies and scribbling in journals and sound check and trying not to look over your shoulder to make sure nobody notices.  It’s the fact that you, Ryan Ross, are the best and worst person at keeping secrets, the best and worst person to keep secrets.

Then it’s a night, a night without him and without sex and you’re not even sure where he is but, fuck, you didn’t realize how addicted you were to him.  Lust, love, horny, desperate, whatever it was it should not have lead to addiction.  You hate addictions.  Especially ones with brown hair and brown eyes.

It’s you stepping into a shower and not hearing the door open, starting when you feel his arms around you from behind, moaning when he’s inside of you within seconds.  Arms braced against the shower, an arm around your waist.  Moaning, breathing, water in your eyes.  That stupid squeak and, always, him whispering into your ear.  Always the same three words, mixed up and drawn at random.

”Fuck, Ry.  Jesus.”

There’s a moment after, after you run conditioner through your hair and rinse it out while he recuperates (because he’s always needed to do that).  There’s a moment after, after you towel dry your hair and slip into the clothes you threw on the counter.  There’s a moment when you’re sitting on your bed, digging through a bag, trying to find a hairbrush and a notebook.  There’s a moment when his hand brushes down your back as he walks past you, eyes meeting and holding.  For a moment.  And his brown eyes, God, they didn’t fucking look like that before.

And you would know.

He keeps his eyes open when he fucks, doesn’t he?

Don’t you wish you could convince yourself it was a trick of the light?  That you still had soap in your eyes from the shower?  That it was something that always happened after you fucked but you had been too self-absorbed to notice?  Don’t you wish you could look away from him when he’s pushing into you, breathing into your ear?  Don’t you wish you could not notice how fucking often his eyes look like that?  Don’t you wish you could just not notice him?

Scratch that last.

Do you remember what you said to each other the first time?  Don’t you remember that it was your first time drinking, your last time drinking, your first time with a boy, your first time with Brendon?  Don’t you remember how you thought it would be the last?  Do you remember what he breathed against your shoulder when it ended, something about safer than groupies and it would just be for awhile and it’s just sex Ryan?  Do you remember believing it, just being twenty and desperate for sexual touch and release, not caring who or what it was from?  Do you remember the way you giggled when he kissed under your ear?

Of course you do.  You’re in love with him, after all.  Like you don’t dream about this every night when you go to bed, like it’s not a movie with it’s own little soundtrack that plays in your mind whenever you have a moment.  Not like that moment in the hotel room.  An empty moment, one where he’s not around.

Do you remember August?  Hot and sticky sex under a sheet in a hotel room with air conditioning that was irrelevant to the summer heat.  Sex during the day without cover of darkness, sex that wasn’t after a show, sex that hadn’t begun with being slicked in perspiration.

Not just sex.

It hadn’t been since May.

And you’re moaning, louder than normal, arching against him.  It had been three days since you’d been able to feel him inside of you and you were both desperate as hell, not even at it for ten minutes and both on the verge of the end.  “Oh . . . oh, fuck.”  And you never talk during sex.  Not with him, not with anyone.

The brown eyes that stare down at you blink once and you feel the tempo increase, the speed of his hand, the depth of the trusts.  Because he wants it now, wants to hear you again, wants it to be new and different and exciting.  “Jesus fuck, Ry.”

You’re moaning louder, hands scrambling up to grab his shoulders, arching your back, toes curling.  ”Bren?  Bren, fuck.  Fuck!”  And you come like that, mouth frozen in place from your last word, tensed, hands falling when he forces himself deeper into you, harder into you and—

”RyJesusFuck.”

You want his arms around you afterward, you want him to hold you.  But you don’t know how to tell him.  Because you’re a boy.  Because he’s a boy.  Because it’s just sex Ryan.  So you just go take a shower, accidentally shampooing your hair twice and screaming when you trip getting out of the tub.

And you’re bleeding and he’s there, helping you to sit up and blowing gently on the cut, wiping at it with a washcloth.  His eyes are like that again and you’re almost getting lost in them, gradually becoming numb to the pain.  ”You’re not bleeding anymore.  Get dressed and I’ll go get some band-aids and stuff.”

Then he’s gone and you’re alone and your forehead is hurting again and you’re almost crying, almost dying, almost so lost in yourself and your emotions that you’re not even sure what’s going on anymore.  But only almost.  Because you know exactly what’s going on.

And the words continue during the sex.  Usually a combination of fuck bren holy shit or simply all strung together like Christmas lights—fuckbrenholyshit.  Christmas lights that would never been put on a Christmas tree.  And then suddenly there’s something new, something different.  Suddenly there’s his teeth at your neck instead of his lips whispering in your ear.  And you’re not sure at first if you like it because it makes the distance that you were trying so hard to keep more real or if you hate it because it makes the distance that you were trying so hard to keep more real.

You’re barely making sense to yourself now, Ryan, but that’s okay because nobody makes sense when they’re having an orgasm.  It even excuses what you do next, grabbing his neck and forcing his lips to yours, rough and chapped and hard.  Your teeth crash against his mouth, but it’s readily fixed.  Open mouths, tongues fighting each other.  But then it’s over and he’s coming inside of you, breathing hard against your cheek.  And it’s ”Ry, fuck.  Jesus.” in your ear again.  Just like always.

Do you remember October?  When the weather was just starting to cool and the window was open, curtain fluttering in the slight breeze.  He was pushing into you so hard and you’d fought earlier so you decided to punish him with a lack of words.  And he was clawing at your hair, pulling back until your neck was exposed, fucking you senseless, waiting for the squeak and fuckbrenholyshit to signal your climax.

But you didn’t.  You didn’t speak and, for the first time, there was no squeak emitted from the back of your throat as your body tensed and shuddered, as your orgasm racked through you, your eyes squeezing shut, your toes curling in your white socks.  He was not happy.  You could tell when he bit down on your ear, causing you to shriek as he came inside of you, ”JesusfuckRy”.  Then he was pulling out and storming off to shower.  The angry lines in his face were sharp, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set.

You were left on the bed, sore and spent, staring straight up at the ceiling and wondering what was to ever come of this, of the two of you.  Was there ever going to be a conclusion to your waltzes in hotel room sheets and locked closets?  Were you doomed to this pathetic fate?  Being in love with a boy who loved you back?  It’s just sex, Ryan.

Don’t you wish you could say it, just say the words to him, just to get them out of your veins, not giving a damn what he says back?  Don’t you wish you had the strength to just get up and leave, never come back, never be caught on your back again with profanities like Christmas lights tumbling from your lips onto the sheets?  Don’t you wish that none of the closets had locks and that you could share a hotel room with Spencer or Jon, leave Brendon to his own devices?  Don’t you wish he had never fucked you in your drunken stupor?

Scratch that last.

And you remember January.  Right after the big snowstorm.  Tour was over and you hadn’t tasted each other for weeks.  You were desperate, slumming around in bars, going home with strange men that never fucked you anywhere near as well as he did.  You’d heard he had a girlfriend but you didn’t dare call to find out.  There is a right way and a wrong way to end a waltz and that would have been the wrong way.

He found you in January, in every sense of the word.  Found in a bar, found you as desperate as desperate comes, found you out.  His hand closed on your wrist and he drug you out, out to his car, pushing you in, driving back to your place, not saying anything, not looking at you.  Your wrist burned and your fingers danced over it, savoring the touch, finally, his touch.

Then parking and him grabbing your wrist again, pulling you out, out of the car, and upstairs.  You fumbling with your keys and opening the door.  He pushed you in, no words, and you weren’t entirely sure what he was doing inside.  Your wrist still burned and you were physically aching for his touch.  It wasn’t going to be possible to let him walk out without more, without more skin on skin.

Your arms came up of their own accord, as if you were being possessed by Desire, this invisible entity that wanted everything you wanted, always wanting, always needing, always desperate, always aching.  Your arms came up and around his neck, your lips crashing down on his, your hips jerking forward, bodies pressed together.

Then his arms around your waist and then lower, lifting you up, your legs wrapped around his waist, him stumbling through the apartment, knocking things off shelves, his mouth never leaving yours until he threw you onto the bed.  Clothes all but evaporated and he was inside you.  Pain, burn, sting, stretch, but it was everything you wanted, everything you’d been searching for in those drunken men at the bar who were so greedy for your flesh that they never came close to giving you anything you wanted.

And this time lips were on lips and he was saying words the whole time, things he’d never said before, things about Jesus Christ, I missed you and fuck, I’d forgotten how good you taste.  Things that you never thought he’d say, things you always wanted him to say.  And your hands are all over his body, touching every inch of skin, every expanse of flesh you can find, memorizing the feel of his body, swallowing his taste and taking it inside you.  Just in case, just in case you ever have to go that long without him again.

And then it’s fuckbrenholyshit and JesusRyfuck and he’s pulling out and his arms are around you like you always wanted, like you never knew how to ask for, and his lips are still on yours, still so fierce and so hard and so needy.  And you want to ask, you want to ask so bad if it’s still just sex, Ryan but you don’t because if you hear the wrong word it’s all destroyed, lost and gone forever.  So you just kiss back, your fingers still dancing over his skin, but eyes closing, fatigue setting in for both of you.

When you wake up in the morning he’s still there, eating in the kitchen.  He pulls you down for a kiss and that’s just like an answer to the question you couldn’t ask.  It’s not just sex, Ryan.

And it’s not too fast and it’s not too slow.  It’s not everything you wanted, but it’s everything you need.  It’s an answer and a question because it’s all so new and where do we go from here.  It’s lost and found.  It’s the perfect ending.

Scratch that last.