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redorchidsTitle: A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
redorchids
Beta:blindmouse and lariopefic
Band(s): P!atD/TYV, FOB
Pairing(s): Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross (Ryan/Spencer, Brendon/Shane, Jon/Spencer, Pete/Patrick)
Rating: PG-13/R
Word count: 30,000
Warnings: General CSI-related warnings: dead bodies, icky evidence, violent cases being investigated (nothing graphic or actually shown in-story, though).
Summary: CSI AU. Brendon Urie has had a hopeless crush on Ryan Ross since the mortifying moment when he introduced himself at a national forensic conference by tripping in the aisle next to where Ryan was sitting and getting coffee all over his shirt, so when Ryan offers him a job at the Las Vegas lab, Brendon jumps at the opportunity. When he arrives in Vegas, however, things are a bit more complicated than he'd hoped.
A/N: Independent prequel to last year’s Nightingale (And Not the Lark) and (in some ways) a tribute totheohara's CSI fic The Wall (which is probably the best Gil Grissom character study I have ever read. If you're into CSI fanfic, I greatly recommend it).
A big, big thank you to the BBB mods for all their hard work and another one to all the wonderful people who have helped cheerlead this fic. There are many of you, and each of your input has been invaluable. Thank you all so much. ♥
Headers and Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Three cont.
Bonus tracks/Enhanced content
Fanart: DVD covers byarithilim and merihn
Fanmix: The Sun Will Shine From Time to Time bykuperkeikka
SEATTLE – NOVEMBER 2003
Ryan has been at the National Conference of Forensic Science in Seattle for exactly forty-five minutes when someone trips in the aisle right next to where he’s sitting in the large auditorium and manages to knock both their cups of coffee over Ryan’s favourite shirt.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” the guy says, looking frantically in his pockets for something to help clean up the mess. “I’m such a klutz, seriously. Jesus. Let me—okay, you’ve got it, good, okay, then I’ll just—you’re Ryan Ross.”
Ryan looks up from the stain on his shirt (completely ruined, fucking perfect). The guy is looking at him like he can’t decide whether he wants to say something else or just die from embarrassment. Ryan raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“Oh,” the guy says, a blush spreading across his face. “Sorry. Just... you’re Ryan Ross,” he repeats, a clear note of reverence in his voice that has Ryan simultaneously very flattered and not really knowing what to do with his hands. “I’ve read every single one of your articles. Like, a million times. That one you wrote last month on the second instar for Piophilidae flies? God, that was so awesome. Like, how did you even find a two-month old pig carcass to use for the experiment? I—”
The guy breaks off, and Ryan realises that he might have been staring a bit. The guy ducks his head and mutters another string of apologies while he gathers up the empty cups from the floor.
“I hid it in the desert,” Ryan says, and the kid—because it is a kid. Ryan, at twenty-nine, is definitely among the younger people in the auditorium, but this guy is in his early twenties at most, everything from red glasses to worn jeans and sparkly (oh God, they’re actually sparkly) pair of Converse on his feet positively screaming ‘college student’—looks up, clearly taken aback.
“About three miles out of Vegas,” Ryan continues, watching how the guy’s expression goes from stunned to intrigued in the span of a sentence. “Just went out and dumped it in a small cave, put up some netting to keep scavengers away and marked the spot. Then I came back two months later with my equipment. I wanted to bring it back to the lab and study it there, but Spen—my colleagues said that they would dump my body in the desert if I ever did that again after the experiment on larvae development in dead mice, so—”
“That was such a cool study!” the guy cuts in, almost bouncing in his crouched-down position. “Like, the way you demonstrated that arrested development is possible in specific, ionised environments was just genius, and... um... could I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Um, what?” Ryan says, which—really—Ryan’s own eloquence astounds him sometimes.
“Coffee,” the guy repeats, indicating Ryan’s shirt with a kind of flaily, embarrassed gesture. “Since I spilled yours and all. Like, there’s this really good place over by the Philosophy building? And I’d really like to ask you more about that last paper—” He breaks off again, looking at Ryan with an uncertain expression. Ryan blinks. “Um, unless you’re busy, of course,” the guy says. “Which, God, fuck, of course you are, you’re here for the conference, and I’m keeping you from that, and Jesus—I’m sorry. I promise I’m not this lame in real life. Like, I don’t normally go around accosting people and spilling coffee all over them, and shit, yeah, I’ll just—really, really awesome meeting you. Love your work. Um... have a nice stay in Seattle?”
He scrambles up from the floor and hurries away down the aisle towards the auditorium exit. Ryan stays in his chair, blinking another couple of times, feeling like a small tornado just hit him.
“Wait!”
The guy is almost out the door when Ryan catches up with him, trying to balance a stack of papers, his briefcase, a hat, a scarf, a pair of gloves and a jacket in his arms without dropping any of it. “Coffee would be great,” he says, a sense of shock setting back in when they guy looks at him and breaks into an absolutely blinding smile. “Um... what’s your name?”
“Brendon,” the guy says, smiling even wider. “I‘m sorry, Brendon Urie. I’m doing my Masters degree here. Micro-biology and Criminalistics.” He holds out his hand for Ryan to shake, and Ryan does so without thinking, which means that most of the things he’s holding slide out of his grasp and fall to the floor.
Brendon laughs and ducks down, helping him gather everything and put most of it back in Ryan’s briefcase. They talk about entomology and decomposition cycles all the way to the coffee shop, which somehow turns into a long debate on the pros and cons of potassium permanganate staining to identify fly species from harvested eggs. And then Ryan’s stomach makes this kind of growling sound, and it just makes sense to move from coffee to lunch together at this great hole-in-the-wall place that Brendon knows, and before Ryan knows it, it’s nearly midnight and they’re making plans to meet up at the morning lecture on new methods in forensic DNA analysis.
He takes a long shower before going to bed, unbuttoning his shirt with a grimace, wondering at what point during the day he completely forgot about the giant stain that now covers most of the front. He checks his phone when he gets out of the bathroom, noting two missed calls from Spencer and one text that’s ‘just checking in’. The words make something undefined twist deep down in Ryan’s stomach, growing steadily stronger as the image of Brendon’s smile slides across his mind.
He writes three texts in reply and gets into bed, pulling the sheet up and counting down from a thousand to help his body relax.
He falls asleep at four-hundred and sixty-two.
***
Ryan doesn’t mean to spend the entire week in Brendon’s company. It just sort of happens. They meet up for a lecture in the morning on the second day, Brendon walking up to him in the crowd with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a brown paper bag in his hand.
“Hi,” Brendon says, a little breathless, like he’s been running to make it on time. “Here, I figured, um, you’re staying at a hotel, right? And my friend Janie works extra in one and says the breakfast usually sucks, so I picked up a bagel for you. I mean, I picked up an extra one, when I was getting one for myself, not like—God, I’m babbling. Sorry. Um. Pumpkin seed?”
He picks up a bagel from the bag and holds it up to Ryan, who accepts it, out of surprise more than anything. The bread is warm between his fingers, obviously fresh from the oven, and has a filling of cream cheese and some kind of lettuce. Ryan stares at it.
“It’s from a place half-way between here and where I live,” Brendon says, biting into his own bread and giving Ryan a huge smile when Ryan follows his lead. “It’s run by this Iranian guy, and he has the whole shop covered in fluff pieces from the family pages in The Seattle Times. It’s awesome. You can just sit in a chair all day and read about someone’s dog saving the day or look at pictures of old ladies blowing out eighty candles on a cake.”
Ryan takes another bite of his food and nods, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of energy Brendon seems to have in the morning. The bagel is really good. He tells Brendon as much and gets another blinding smile in response.
“We could go there for lunch if you want?” Brendon says, leading them both through the doors of the auditorium, choosing seats on the left side, just the right distance from the podium. “They have great sandwiches. And you get tea in these amazing painted glasses...”
They spend the whole afternoon at the coffee shop, drinking tea and reading news items off the walls, and this somehow turns into more lectures the following day, and lunch and coffee to discuss the lectures, and a trip on the ferry boats when Ryan says that he’s never been on one, and more talking, and dinner, and tickets to a college production of Much Ado About Nothing because they happen to walk past a poster for it and Ryan’s been meaning to see it forever. And then.
And then it just keeps going. One day turning into the next until it’s Thursday evening and they’re standing outside the front door of Ryan’s hotel, talking about formaldehyde.
“Do you want to come up?” Ryan says, remembering a conversation they had earlier that day. “You said you didn’t get the chance to read the latest issue of Forensic Quarterly yet, and I have an extra copy you could borrow, if you wanted to check out that article on invisible trace before tomorrow morning.”
Brendon looks at him, surprised, and then he smiles—that open, blinding smile that Ryan still doesn’t entirely know how to handle.
“Yeah,” he says, ducking his head and tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I mean, sure, I’d like that.”
They make it up the elevator and down the corridor to Ryan’s room. Brendon is still smiling. And walking a little too close, like he’s nervous someone will call him out on not being a guest and try to make him leave or something. Ryan leaves the door open behind him as he walks inside, hearing it click shut as he hangs up his jacket and goes over to his desk to shuffle through the pile of magazines lying there.
He finds the right issue and turns around with a smile—only to see Brendon’s face fall and his neck flush a bright red as he sees the magazine in Ryan’s hands.
Oh.
Ryan’s mind flashes back to a million moments during the week, registering things he brushed off then that he really shouldn’t have. Like how Brendon’s clothes changed from a found-next-to-the-bed look to things in bright colours that fit him like a glove. Or how the smell of soap and day-old shirt changed to something interesting and a little spicy. Or how Brendon’s thigh brushed against Ryan’s when they were trying to read an article in the same lecture booklet. Or like—
Fuck.
Ryan knows that he isn’t really this much of an idiot. Or maybe he is, history sure doesn’t give him many good arguments to counter it. He looks at Brendon, really noticing what he looks like for the first time, and liking what he sees far too much to be comfortable with it. It would be so easy to take a couple of steps forward, pull Brendon into a kiss and spend a night just enjoying themselves and not thinking about possible complications.
Brendon’s eyes are brown, not blue. But he’s young, not to mention smart, gorgeous and interested. Ryan already likes him. And, well, the sum of those things didn’t work out so well last time.
“Meet you at the coffee shop at 8:30?” Ryan says, handing over the magazine and hoping that his face didn’t just show everything he was thinking.
Brendon launches into something rambling and nervous that still manages to convey ‘goodnight’ and heads for the door, closing it quickly behind him.
Ryan follows, leaning against the door and looking out through the peep hole. Instead of seeing Brendon disappear down the hallway, Ryan sees him slow down to a stop a few yards down the corridor, almost turn around, stop himself again and then slowly bang his head against the wall, calling himself an idiot. It’s been a long time since Ryan wanted anything as much as he wants to just open the door now, pull Brendon back inside and show him just how much he didn’t misread the situation.
But.
There is a but. And that’s enough to stop him.
He goes to bed, closes his eyes and starts counting down. He makes it all the way to negative three before his head finally lets him sleep.
***
Brendon stops and almost turns around to go back home three times on his way to the coffee shop on Friday morning. He hasn’t slept much and probably looks like shit. Not that it matters much, since Ryan isn’t interested anyway.
He decides to smile and pretend that the night before never happened. Ryan doesn’t question it; he seems relieved more than anything when Brendon walks up to him in the queue and jumps straight into a conversation about dragonflies. It is a little awkward at first, but once they’re through the first lecture, things are more or less normal again. Except for how Brendon still can’t keep his eyes away and has to fight with himself not to reach out and brush off it off when Ryan gets a chocolate smudge at the corner of his mouth from an afternoon brownie.
But other than that, the day goes pretty smoothly. At least until the end-of-event cocktail party that night.
Brendon isn’t much of a social drinker—between tuition, housing and his very limited income, he can’t really afford to be—so the sparkling wine he’s handed goes straight to his head. It makes him feel great—happy and free—and when he sees Ryan at the back of the room, talking to a small group of people, he slides up behind him and joins the conversation.
Ryan looks back at him over his shoulder. He looks surprised but happy, so Brendon decides to stay. More drinks are passed around, a buffet is opened, and without really knowing how he managed to pull it off, Brendon finds himself alone with Ryan at a table hidden between a pillar and a giant potted plant.
Their calves are touching under the table, and Ryan is picking out weird-looking things from his plate for Brendon to try, fingers brushing every time Ryan hands him the fork. They‘re still talking about forensics and bugs and biology, but the mood is different than it’s been, and the jokes are dirtier. Brendon knows he’s flirting and that he probably should stop doing it if he wants to avoid another embarrassing rejection later. But by any social standard Brendon’s ever learnt, Ryan is flirting back—and even though something at the back of his head understands that Ryan probably doesn’t mean to do it, Brendon’s brain just isn’t wired to deal with the signals he’s getting in any other way than full speed ahead.
He gets some chocolate cake onto his fork and holds it up in front of Ryan’s face, smiling expectantly. (Ryan filled his own plate with appetisers and entrees. Brendon went straight for desserts, as all normal people should.) Ryan gives him a look but takes the bite anyway, eyes closing as he eats.
Brendon stares. Ryan’s tongue darts out to catch a crumb on his lower lip, leaving it all wet and pink and completely irresistible.
Brendon is only human.
He lets the fork drop and grabs the back of Ryan’s head, pulling him closer and leaning in, feeling Ryan’s hitched breath against his lips right before he makes contact. The rush of it is crazy, too many new sensations all at once, adrenaline flooding his system for fear that Ryan might pull away, followed by relief when he doesn’t. Ryan carefully parts his lips, inviting Brendon closer. And then he’s kissing back. Brendon is in friggin’ heaven.
It doesn’t last for more than a few seconds, just long enough to give Brendon a hint of everything that might come after. He opens his eyes, painfully aware that he’s probably smiling like an idiot, but completely unable to help it.
“Wow,” he manages, raising his focus from Ryan’s mouth to his eyes, hoping, praying that he didn’t get it wrong.
Ryan isn’t looking at him.
“I—um—I have to go,” he says, and Brendon feels his heart plummet. “Early flight.”
“Oh.”
Ryan pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. “I‘m really sorry,” he says quietly. “Can I—would you walk with me back to the hotel? I want to try and explain.”
Brendon thinks of all the times people have brushed him off. All the empty excuses. There are not-so-empty ones as well, of course, and he imagines whatever Ryan wants to tell him to be in that category, but the valid ones usually hurt just as much. Sometimes more.
“It’s fine,” he says, voice as light as he can manage as he gets to his feet. “Really, you don‘t have to say anything.”
“Brendon...”
“It’s fine,” Brendon repeats, adding a hand on Ryan’s shoulder for emphasis. “It was just a kiss. Don’t worry about it.”
Ryan looks like he wants to argue, and Brendon hates himself for the spark of hope that immediately springs to life inside his chest. Because, no, that wasn’t just a kiss, and the way Ryan puts his own hand over Brendon’s on his shoulder, weaving their fingers together before letting go shows that he knows it too.
“I’ve had a really great week,” Ryan says, stepping a little closer. “You’re—I mean, you’ve been—and, God, I wish that—”
“Ryan, it’s fine.”
Ryan lets the unfinished sentence drop. “Will you write to me?” he says instead, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a business card. “My e-mail is on there. If you have questions, you know, about something you’re studying. Or any articles you want to discuss. I like talking to you.”
Brendon takes the card with a nod. They shake hands, fingers lingering for too long before they break apart.
Ryan leaves; Brendon watches him go.
One perfect kiss.
Brendon already wants more.
Next chapter
Author:
redorchidsBeta:
blindmouse and lariopeficBand(s): P!atD/TYV, FOB
Pairing(s): Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross (Ryan/Spencer, Brendon/Shane, Jon/Spencer, Pete/Patrick)
Rating: PG-13/R
Word count: 30,000
Warnings: General CSI-related warnings: dead bodies, icky evidence, violent cases being investigated (nothing graphic or actually shown in-story, though).
Summary: CSI AU. Brendon Urie has had a hopeless crush on Ryan Ross since the mortifying moment when he introduced himself at a national forensic conference by tripping in the aisle next to where Ryan was sitting and getting coffee all over his shirt, so when Ryan offers him a job at the Las Vegas lab, Brendon jumps at the opportunity. When he arrives in Vegas, however, things are a bit more complicated than he'd hoped.
A/N: Independent prequel to last year’s Nightingale (And Not the Lark) and (in some ways) a tribute to
theohara's CSI fic The Wall (which is probably the best Gil Grissom character study I have ever read. If you're into CSI fanfic, I greatly recommend it).A big, big thank you to the BBB mods for all their hard work and another one to all the wonderful people who have helped cheerlead this fic. There are many of you, and each of your input has been invaluable. Thank you all so much. ♥
Headers and Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Three cont.
Bonus tracks/Enhanced content
Fanart: DVD covers by
arithilim and merihnFanmix: The Sun Will Shine From Time to Time by
kuperkeikkaPROLOGUE
Ryan has been at the National Conference of Forensic Science in Seattle for exactly forty-five minutes when someone trips in the aisle right next to where he’s sitting in the large auditorium and manages to knock both their cups of coffee over Ryan’s favourite shirt.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” the guy says, looking frantically in his pockets for something to help clean up the mess. “I’m such a klutz, seriously. Jesus. Let me—okay, you’ve got it, good, okay, then I’ll just—you’re Ryan Ross.”
Ryan looks up from the stain on his shirt (completely ruined, fucking perfect). The guy is looking at him like he can’t decide whether he wants to say something else or just die from embarrassment. Ryan raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“Oh,” the guy says, a blush spreading across his face. “Sorry. Just... you’re Ryan Ross,” he repeats, a clear note of reverence in his voice that has Ryan simultaneously very flattered and not really knowing what to do with his hands. “I’ve read every single one of your articles. Like, a million times. That one you wrote last month on the second instar for Piophilidae flies? God, that was so awesome. Like, how did you even find a two-month old pig carcass to use for the experiment? I—”
The guy breaks off, and Ryan realises that he might have been staring a bit. The guy ducks his head and mutters another string of apologies while he gathers up the empty cups from the floor.
“I hid it in the desert,” Ryan says, and the kid—because it is a kid. Ryan, at twenty-nine, is definitely among the younger people in the auditorium, but this guy is in his early twenties at most, everything from red glasses to worn jeans and sparkly (oh God, they’re actually sparkly) pair of Converse on his feet positively screaming ‘college student’—looks up, clearly taken aback.
“About three miles out of Vegas,” Ryan continues, watching how the guy’s expression goes from stunned to intrigued in the span of a sentence. “Just went out and dumped it in a small cave, put up some netting to keep scavengers away and marked the spot. Then I came back two months later with my equipment. I wanted to bring it back to the lab and study it there, but Spen—my colleagues said that they would dump my body in the desert if I ever did that again after the experiment on larvae development in dead mice, so—”
“That was such a cool study!” the guy cuts in, almost bouncing in his crouched-down position. “Like, the way you demonstrated that arrested development is possible in specific, ionised environments was just genius, and... um... could I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Um, what?” Ryan says, which—really—Ryan’s own eloquence astounds him sometimes.
“Coffee,” the guy repeats, indicating Ryan’s shirt with a kind of flaily, embarrassed gesture. “Since I spilled yours and all. Like, there’s this really good place over by the Philosophy building? And I’d really like to ask you more about that last paper—” He breaks off again, looking at Ryan with an uncertain expression. Ryan blinks. “Um, unless you’re busy, of course,” the guy says. “Which, God, fuck, of course you are, you’re here for the conference, and I’m keeping you from that, and Jesus—I’m sorry. I promise I’m not this lame in real life. Like, I don’t normally go around accosting people and spilling coffee all over them, and shit, yeah, I’ll just—really, really awesome meeting you. Love your work. Um... have a nice stay in Seattle?”
He scrambles up from the floor and hurries away down the aisle towards the auditorium exit. Ryan stays in his chair, blinking another couple of times, feeling like a small tornado just hit him.
“Wait!”
The guy is almost out the door when Ryan catches up with him, trying to balance a stack of papers, his briefcase, a hat, a scarf, a pair of gloves and a jacket in his arms without dropping any of it. “Coffee would be great,” he says, a sense of shock setting back in when they guy looks at him and breaks into an absolutely blinding smile. “Um... what’s your name?”
“Brendon,” the guy says, smiling even wider. “I‘m sorry, Brendon Urie. I’m doing my Masters degree here. Micro-biology and Criminalistics.” He holds out his hand for Ryan to shake, and Ryan does so without thinking, which means that most of the things he’s holding slide out of his grasp and fall to the floor.
Brendon laughs and ducks down, helping him gather everything and put most of it back in Ryan’s briefcase. They talk about entomology and decomposition cycles all the way to the coffee shop, which somehow turns into a long debate on the pros and cons of potassium permanganate staining to identify fly species from harvested eggs. And then Ryan’s stomach makes this kind of growling sound, and it just makes sense to move from coffee to lunch together at this great hole-in-the-wall place that Brendon knows, and before Ryan knows it, it’s nearly midnight and they’re making plans to meet up at the morning lecture on new methods in forensic DNA analysis.
He takes a long shower before going to bed, unbuttoning his shirt with a grimace, wondering at what point during the day he completely forgot about the giant stain that now covers most of the front. He checks his phone when he gets out of the bathroom, noting two missed calls from Spencer and one text that’s ‘just checking in’. The words make something undefined twist deep down in Ryan’s stomach, growing steadily stronger as the image of Brendon’s smile slides across his mind.
He writes three texts in reply and gets into bed, pulling the sheet up and counting down from a thousand to help his body relax.
He falls asleep at four-hundred and sixty-two.
***
Ryan doesn’t mean to spend the entire week in Brendon’s company. It just sort of happens. They meet up for a lecture in the morning on the second day, Brendon walking up to him in the crowd with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a brown paper bag in his hand.
“Hi,” Brendon says, a little breathless, like he’s been running to make it on time. “Here, I figured, um, you’re staying at a hotel, right? And my friend Janie works extra in one and says the breakfast usually sucks, so I picked up a bagel for you. I mean, I picked up an extra one, when I was getting one for myself, not like—God, I’m babbling. Sorry. Um. Pumpkin seed?”
He picks up a bagel from the bag and holds it up to Ryan, who accepts it, out of surprise more than anything. The bread is warm between his fingers, obviously fresh from the oven, and has a filling of cream cheese and some kind of lettuce. Ryan stares at it.
“It’s from a place half-way between here and where I live,” Brendon says, biting into his own bread and giving Ryan a huge smile when Ryan follows his lead. “It’s run by this Iranian guy, and he has the whole shop covered in fluff pieces from the family pages in The Seattle Times. It’s awesome. You can just sit in a chair all day and read about someone’s dog saving the day or look at pictures of old ladies blowing out eighty candles on a cake.”
Ryan takes another bite of his food and nods, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of energy Brendon seems to have in the morning. The bagel is really good. He tells Brendon as much and gets another blinding smile in response.
“We could go there for lunch if you want?” Brendon says, leading them both through the doors of the auditorium, choosing seats on the left side, just the right distance from the podium. “They have great sandwiches. And you get tea in these amazing painted glasses...”
They spend the whole afternoon at the coffee shop, drinking tea and reading news items off the walls, and this somehow turns into more lectures the following day, and lunch and coffee to discuss the lectures, and a trip on the ferry boats when Ryan says that he’s never been on one, and more talking, and dinner, and tickets to a college production of Much Ado About Nothing because they happen to walk past a poster for it and Ryan’s been meaning to see it forever. And then.
And then it just keeps going. One day turning into the next until it’s Thursday evening and they’re standing outside the front door of Ryan’s hotel, talking about formaldehyde.
“Do you want to come up?” Ryan says, remembering a conversation they had earlier that day. “You said you didn’t get the chance to read the latest issue of Forensic Quarterly yet, and I have an extra copy you could borrow, if you wanted to check out that article on invisible trace before tomorrow morning.”
Brendon looks at him, surprised, and then he smiles—that open, blinding smile that Ryan still doesn’t entirely know how to handle.
“Yeah,” he says, ducking his head and tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I mean, sure, I’d like that.”
They make it up the elevator and down the corridor to Ryan’s room. Brendon is still smiling. And walking a little too close, like he’s nervous someone will call him out on not being a guest and try to make him leave or something. Ryan leaves the door open behind him as he walks inside, hearing it click shut as he hangs up his jacket and goes over to his desk to shuffle through the pile of magazines lying there.
He finds the right issue and turns around with a smile—only to see Brendon’s face fall and his neck flush a bright red as he sees the magazine in Ryan’s hands.
Oh.
Ryan’s mind flashes back to a million moments during the week, registering things he brushed off then that he really shouldn’t have. Like how Brendon’s clothes changed from a found-next-to-the-bed look to things in bright colours that fit him like a glove. Or how the smell of soap and day-old shirt changed to something interesting and a little spicy. Or how Brendon’s thigh brushed against Ryan’s when they were trying to read an article in the same lecture booklet. Or like—
Fuck.
Ryan knows that he isn’t really this much of an idiot. Or maybe he is, history sure doesn’t give him many good arguments to counter it. He looks at Brendon, really noticing what he looks like for the first time, and liking what he sees far too much to be comfortable with it. It would be so easy to take a couple of steps forward, pull Brendon into a kiss and spend a night just enjoying themselves and not thinking about possible complications.
Brendon’s eyes are brown, not blue. But he’s young, not to mention smart, gorgeous and interested. Ryan already likes him. And, well, the sum of those things didn’t work out so well last time.
“Meet you at the coffee shop at 8:30?” Ryan says, handing over the magazine and hoping that his face didn’t just show everything he was thinking.
Brendon launches into something rambling and nervous that still manages to convey ‘goodnight’ and heads for the door, closing it quickly behind him.
Ryan follows, leaning against the door and looking out through the peep hole. Instead of seeing Brendon disappear down the hallway, Ryan sees him slow down to a stop a few yards down the corridor, almost turn around, stop himself again and then slowly bang his head against the wall, calling himself an idiot. It’s been a long time since Ryan wanted anything as much as he wants to just open the door now, pull Brendon back inside and show him just how much he didn’t misread the situation.
But.
There is a but. And that’s enough to stop him.
He goes to bed, closes his eyes and starts counting down. He makes it all the way to negative three before his head finally lets him sleep.
***
Brendon stops and almost turns around to go back home three times on his way to the coffee shop on Friday morning. He hasn’t slept much and probably looks like shit. Not that it matters much, since Ryan isn’t interested anyway.
He decides to smile and pretend that the night before never happened. Ryan doesn’t question it; he seems relieved more than anything when Brendon walks up to him in the queue and jumps straight into a conversation about dragonflies. It is a little awkward at first, but once they’re through the first lecture, things are more or less normal again. Except for how Brendon still can’t keep his eyes away and has to fight with himself not to reach out and brush off it off when Ryan gets a chocolate smudge at the corner of his mouth from an afternoon brownie.
But other than that, the day goes pretty smoothly. At least until the end-of-event cocktail party that night.
Brendon isn’t much of a social drinker—between tuition, housing and his very limited income, he can’t really afford to be—so the sparkling wine he’s handed goes straight to his head. It makes him feel great—happy and free—and when he sees Ryan at the back of the room, talking to a small group of people, he slides up behind him and joins the conversation.
Ryan looks back at him over his shoulder. He looks surprised but happy, so Brendon decides to stay. More drinks are passed around, a buffet is opened, and without really knowing how he managed to pull it off, Brendon finds himself alone with Ryan at a table hidden between a pillar and a giant potted plant.
Their calves are touching under the table, and Ryan is picking out weird-looking things from his plate for Brendon to try, fingers brushing every time Ryan hands him the fork. They‘re still talking about forensics and bugs and biology, but the mood is different than it’s been, and the jokes are dirtier. Brendon knows he’s flirting and that he probably should stop doing it if he wants to avoid another embarrassing rejection later. But by any social standard Brendon’s ever learnt, Ryan is flirting back—and even though something at the back of his head understands that Ryan probably doesn’t mean to do it, Brendon’s brain just isn’t wired to deal with the signals he’s getting in any other way than full speed ahead.
He gets some chocolate cake onto his fork and holds it up in front of Ryan’s face, smiling expectantly. (Ryan filled his own plate with appetisers and entrees. Brendon went straight for desserts, as all normal people should.) Ryan gives him a look but takes the bite anyway, eyes closing as he eats.
Brendon stares. Ryan’s tongue darts out to catch a crumb on his lower lip, leaving it all wet and pink and completely irresistible.
Brendon is only human.
He lets the fork drop and grabs the back of Ryan’s head, pulling him closer and leaning in, feeling Ryan’s hitched breath against his lips right before he makes contact. The rush of it is crazy, too many new sensations all at once, adrenaline flooding his system for fear that Ryan might pull away, followed by relief when he doesn’t. Ryan carefully parts his lips, inviting Brendon closer. And then he’s kissing back. Brendon is in friggin’ heaven.
It doesn’t last for more than a few seconds, just long enough to give Brendon a hint of everything that might come after. He opens his eyes, painfully aware that he’s probably smiling like an idiot, but completely unable to help it.
“Wow,” he manages, raising his focus from Ryan’s mouth to his eyes, hoping, praying that he didn’t get it wrong.
Ryan isn’t looking at him.
“I—um—I have to go,” he says, and Brendon feels his heart plummet. “Early flight.”
“Oh.”
Ryan pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. “I‘m really sorry,” he says quietly. “Can I—would you walk with me back to the hotel? I want to try and explain.”
Brendon thinks of all the times people have brushed him off. All the empty excuses. There are not-so-empty ones as well, of course, and he imagines whatever Ryan wants to tell him to be in that category, but the valid ones usually hurt just as much. Sometimes more.
“It’s fine,” he says, voice as light as he can manage as he gets to his feet. “Really, you don‘t have to say anything.”
“Brendon...”
“It’s fine,” Brendon repeats, adding a hand on Ryan’s shoulder for emphasis. “It was just a kiss. Don’t worry about it.”
Ryan looks like he wants to argue, and Brendon hates himself for the spark of hope that immediately springs to life inside his chest. Because, no, that wasn’t just a kiss, and the way Ryan puts his own hand over Brendon’s on his shoulder, weaving their fingers together before letting go shows that he knows it too.
“I’ve had a really great week,” Ryan says, stepping a little closer. “You’re—I mean, you’ve been—and, God, I wish that—”
“Ryan, it’s fine.”
Ryan lets the unfinished sentence drop. “Will you write to me?” he says instead, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a business card. “My e-mail is on there. If you have questions, you know, about something you’re studying. Or any articles you want to discuss. I like talking to you.”
Brendon takes the card with a nod. They shake hands, fingers lingering for too long before they break apart.
Ryan leaves; Brendon watches him go.
One perfect kiss.
Brendon already wants more.
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Date: 2010-06-21 10:33 am (UTC)There'll be an appropriate comment when I've read it *flail*