Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/27191.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence
  Category:
      Other
  Fandom:
      Big_O
  Character:
      Alex_Rosewater, Angel_(Big_O)
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Canon
  Series:
      Part 2 of Wings
  Stats:
      Published: 2002-06-08 Words: 2784
****** Nephilim ******
by Fushigi_Kismet_(tokyofish)
Summary
     A oneshot placed in the timeline of a yet-to-be-written storyline
     dealing with the childhoods of two members of The Big O cast.
Notes
     Disclaimer: The Big O is copyright Sunrise, Bandai, Kodansha, and
     Viz. This story is a fanwork and not for profit.
     Readers are also hereby warned that the following contents deal with
     graphic violence, foul language, attempted rape, and incestuous
     themes and may not be suitable for all readers. Read at your own
     risk.
Catch it.
Catch . . .
                             -you're not an angel-
. . . it.
She stumbled and fell and the long white feather tumbled down through the air
and came to rest gently in her outstretched hand. He laughed and she choked
back the murderous thoughts springing to the forefront of her mind. He was her
brother and no more than that. No, she corrected herself savagely, he was her
half-brother, and thus, barely related to her at all. Blood splattered onto her
fingers, staining the pure color of the feather. Or perhaps it had been the
other way around? She stared at it strangely fascinated, and everything fell
away from her . . .
The pain . . .
The fear . . .
Everything . . .
. . . fell away.
****** Nephilim ******
They filed out, ten researchers, lab-coated and be-clipboarded, their coats
starched painfully white.
Her arm ached from where the needle of the syringe had been ruthlessly and
efficiently jabbed but she ignored the sensation. It hardly mattered, after
all. A liter of blood today and again the same time next week. Sometimes she
wondered why her blood was red, and not some other color, after all that had
been done to her. But that, too, did not matter and she was not one to dwell on
meaningless things.
One wing lazily swept at the air and she felt and tasted the currents and
eddies of the gentle breeze it caused.
The last researcher paused at the door and looked at her coldly over the rim of
her spectacles before stepping through and shutting the door. The lights dimmed
and turned off automatically.
The wing gently came to a rest against her and the breeze subsided. She sat a
moment, staring out at nothing, feeling the rise and fall of her chest. Yes, it
was true, last time she had stretched out her wings and had not only knocked
over several beakers but some stacks of paperwork as well. No one had been
pleased.
She ran a finger over the edge of one wing, shining white.
I didn't have to be warned.
Pushing herself off the cold countertop, she walked to a nearby window and
looked through it at one of the operating rooms, currently as darkened and
empty as the room she occupied.
Sinking to the floor, she sat, arms wrapped around her legs, wings folded
awkwardly against her back and sides. Her reflection gleamed back at her from
the bottom of the tinted glass. A light glowed suddenly against the glass and
she saw the reflection of the laboratory door opening and letting in the
artificial lighting of the hallway as a familiar pair of reflected legs strode
inside.
The lights flickered on in the lab and a voice called in irritation, "Alice,
where are you?"
She got to her feet and turned to face him. "Here."
The lights went off again.
"Don't hide, Alice. Now's not the time for hide-and-go-seek." There was
something altogether nasty about the laugh of the teenage boy.
She wondered if he was high again. His eyes looked bloodshot in the hallway
light.
The door shut behind him and was followed by the solid click of the lock as he
turned it deliberately, his eyes fixed on her with either a touch of madness or
merely malevolence; she couldn't decide.
"What are you doing, Alex?" she asked quietly. Her fear was tangible and he
paused as though to savor its sharp and distinct flavor on the surface of his
tongue.
"They've left you alone again, have they?" he said in a tone of solicitousness
unmarred but for the underlying sneer.
"I'm always alone, Alex." Her eyes were following his every movement. He was
dangerous when he was like this, crazed and high. Once he had broken her right
hand, casually, when she had tried to pull away from him when he had been
enjoying a little game of wrenching out clumps of her long blonde hair.
He had been disappointed afterwards, when she had fallen to her knees, her hand
cradled against her, blood dripping down her temples. 'Really,' he had said,
'you're so useless. You think you're special, but you're not. You're just a
freak, with those wings.'
                             -you're not an angel-
There was nothing he enjoyed more than tormenting her. Nothing he garnered more
delight from than seeing the fear in her eyes.
"So you are," he responded. His teeth showed in something that was more threat
than smile.
"What do you want? You know no one's allowed here after hours."
"No one but you," he said, pausing by a countertop and idly examining a
scalpel, "and me."
He let it drop with a clatter back into the tray. "I learned a new game. Do you
want to play?"
She shook her head. "Alex, you'll get in trouble if the researchers find you.
Someone might come in any minute! They're-they're fixing part of the lab."
His eyes swept the room where part of the wall was open, exposing its innards
of wire and pipe. Tools and parts lay stacked neatly on the ground. "So they
are. What fun. Come, Alice, let's play a game, you and I."
"I don't want to."
He snarled. "I SAID we're playing a game. The rules are very simple . . . you
just do whatever I tell you."
"I always do what you tell me, Alex," she said in reply, backing away from him.
"This time it's different. This time we'll do something new."
He smirked. "Do you remember the difference between a boy and a girl, Alice?"
Her eyes widened and she took another step back. He had told her things that
she hadn't wanted to hear, had even brought in a girl once after hours and did
things to her that he told Alice she could never tell anyone about. He had
threatened several times that he was going to "educate her."
"I was fucking someone today," he continued, advancing, oblivious to her
mounting fear. "She was ugly as sin, but, boy, could she go at it. Still,
looking at her made me feel SICK. I told her so to her face and she said to
me," he paused, his eyes resting on Alice, "why don't you go and fuck someone
better-looking?"
Alice's back hit the wall.
"You really ARE pretty. Dear. Little. Sister."
He lunged at her, pushing her back against the wall as she tried to escape, his
tongue thrusting between her teeth and his hands tearing at the thin cloth
smock she wore.
She screamed, biting down hard on his tongue and rending at him with teeth and
nails that drew blood. But he shoved her down, violently, and hit her on the
side of the head with one closed fist until it was all she could do to sob
quietly, feeling the sticky red liquid drip down her temple.
"Bitch!" he snarled, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth and pulling down
his pants. "Fucking bitch! I'm going to make you regret that!"
"Alex," she sobbed, "Alex, don't! I'll do whatever you want, just don't-"
"Oh, you'll do what I want all right, bitch." He smirked. "You'll give me what
I want, right now, and anytime I want it." Then he bore down on her, one hand
wrapped around her throat.
Desperate, she tried to pull away, and one wing struck the ground sideways
eliciting a cry of pain. She swallowed, then pushed back as hard as she could
with her wings, which gave her just enough momentum to shove Alex off her, her
wings beating against him.
He cursed, pushed back by the buffets of her wings, and reached out blindly,
grabbing a length of unused pipe lying to one side of the room. Striking out
savagely, the pipe connected with one of her wings. The first blow shattered
bone and the wing crumpled in on itself and Alice felt herself falling in an
explosion of pain. The next blow came across her back and she felt bone
snapping in the fragile wings, felt an avalanche of pain that grew with each
successive blow . . . and then she dimly saw, through barely open eyes glazed
over with pain and a mist of blood, a flurry of blood-soaked white feathers
drifting across her vision.
"Aren't you going to save your wings?" he hissed into her ear and she somehow
managed to force her body up, managed to move a step forward and stretch out a
hand for a feather.
Then he had borne her, crashing, back to the ground, his voice rasping in her
ear. "Shut up and stay still, bitch."
She twisted, turned, the mangled bits of her wings slapping weakly against him,
broken-off ends of bones slashing at his face, feathers trailing streamers of
blood over him, over her.
She would be dead, were it not for the pain.
He snatched wildly at her wings, spewing oaths as blood streamed into his eyes
and they raked over his face once again. His fingers seized hold of them and he
forced her down flat against the floor as she felt more bone snap under the
strength of his fingers.
"You FUCKING WHORE!" he shouted, tearing at her wings, at her clothes, at her
skin and her flesh.
A half-formed thought.
                         -we are but flesh and blood-
Then suddenly he was gone and there was nothing left but the blinding pain.
Before she could wonder at why he had stopped, she heard the harsh growl of a
voice.
"Alex."
Weakly, she looked up . . . struggled to see. She had to know who had saved her
. . . It was . . .
Yes, it was him.
It was the first time she had ever seen him as her father; the first time she
had ever admitted to herself he was indeed her father. She thought that it was
probably also the first time he had ever realized it, had ever really looked at
her. At her. Alice.
And he had seen what he had not let himself see all those years before . . .
what he had done to her and to what he had doomed her.
                             -you're not an angel-
She bit back a sob of pain but couldn't stop the tears from spilling over. Her
face was splattered with blood, her arms and back and legs soaked with it.
She wondered if she was going to die.
                      -if you die you won't go to heaven-
She closed her eyes, trying not to feel . . .
            -you're an abomination - a blasphemy against the gods-
Then there was pain and darkness and blissfully, freedom from the pain and the
absence of feeling what was no longer there.
 
When she awoke she was in a small white room.
It was sterile and smelled a bit of antiseptic, like the laboratories sometimes
did. She was used to this feeling. Her life was this environment.
Ergo, she was not in heaven.
Turning her head slightly, she realized that she couldn't feel anything. Her
entire body was numb like it sometimes was after they ran tests on her. Tests
after tests.
So. There would be pain. Dulled and erased now . . . she would feel it in the
days to come.
The disorientation. Her head swam. It was coming clear . . .
Sitting in a chair next to her. Asleep. How could it be?
Was it reality or a dream?
A child's fingers reached out and touched him.
He woke with a start, then looked at her as though he did not know what to make
of her. As though he had never seen her before in all his life.
"You're awake."
"Yes."
It was strange, she thought, talking to him. Strange, because they had never
spoken to one another. Not even when Mother had . . . Not even then.
He had sent her away - made her wait in a cold, empty room to cry into the
sheets that still smelled like her mother . . . that sickly sweet scent of
death and despair.
And he had never let her into that room again. That room where he sat, holding
her mother's cold hand. Crying.
All she had ever wanted was to scream at him. To cry and yell and hit him. To
hurt him . . . for hurting her. For hurting her mother. But now that she was
faced with him, she could not think of anything to say.
All she had ever wanted was for him to love her.
 
He spoke first, and his voice cracked at the first word.
"Alice. It's all right now. There's nothing to fear. Alex is gone."
"Gone?" she parroted, fascinated that her lips remembered how to shape and form
words.
"I erased it. His memory. His memories of your mother, of you. He won't
remember that you exist, Alice. He won't hurt you anymore. I sent him away. It
was . . . all I could do."
Lies, lies, and more lies. Lies upon lies . . . No matter where he was, who he
was, no matter how much or how little he remembered, Alex would always hurt
her. Alex had always had his fist clasped tightly about her soul . . . was
squeezing her heart through the spaces in his fingers.
All he could do . . . and what he should have done, six years before when she
had been born into the world. When Alex had been ten . . . small, malleable, a
child. When she had still had wings.
Remembering, she reached a hand behind her to feel for her wings, to feel
                                    nothing
                                nothing at all
"They were beyond repair," came his voice and she let out a breath she had been
holding, waiting for time to stop, for her world to shatter at that loss of
herself, of what had always symbolized her difference to the world - had mocked
her each day with its meaning.
                             -you're not an angel-
Lies, lies . . . you could have fixed them. You could have sewn them together
with wire and air and fire.
But you don't want to remember either. What they mean. What it was you did to
me.
What they mean to me.
"It's fine," she whispered. "Fine."
The word echoed dully between them.
                       -i don't want to remember either-
"You look like her. A little. Despite everything . . . you do."
But she didn't. She knew it as well as the next person. Knew that were she and
her mother to pass each other in the street no one could ever tell them apart
from strangers. That had been intentional . . . an intricate part of his
revenge.
And yet, now, he was-
She wondered if her eyes looked like her mother's. Haunted, shadowed, pained,
and betrayed. She thought perhaps that was what he saw when he looked at her.
The child of the woman he had loved and hated, whose life he had destroyed,
whose every aspiration he had ended.
                  -those who fall are doomed to fall forever-
He bowed his head over her hand and said the words she had never dared to dream
would pass from his lips. "I'm sorry . . . Alice."
Sorry for things he could not put a name to . . . for the wrongs he had done to
others, to her mother, to herself. To himself. Sorry for the things he could
put a name to. Sorry for everything. For her life. For her pain.
And for a moment, she was sorry for his pain too.
"It's all right, Father," she said, her hand slowly covering his. "Even you
can't erase the past."
He wept into her hand and, dimly, she wondered if this was how her mother would
have felt . . . if she had been alive to feel the touch of his tears on her
cold hand.
"I forgive you," she said, saying the words even though she did not mean them,
could no longer feel enough to mean them or to want to. But he was in her power
now, in this moment of weakness she had given him what he had always wanted and
never attained . . . the one thing that only she could ever grant him.
I gave it away. My revenge. My past. Myself.
-a nephilim is a fallen angel. an angel that has lost its purity and fallen to
            Earth. those fallen angels can never return to heaven-
I can never return.
She turned, acutely feeling the scars that marred her back where once her wings
had been. There was still the absence and sometimes a phantom pain that made
her feel like crying. But she suppressed it and turned her mind from it as she
did about many things these days. It was all she could do to keep the past the
past. Especially now.
"Are the papers ready?" a curt voice asked.
"Yes, sir," she replied calmly, smiling coldly at Alex Rosewater, who had not
changed for all the span of twenty years.
                             -you're not an angel-
No. I can't return anymore.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
ching for something. An answer, maybe? His face was one similar to man
who had to change his plans. “I wanted to see if you wanted to hang tomorrow
after school.”

Brendon shifted his hands into his pockets, a little startled. That was all? He
had wanted to cry and vomit and scream because of this? “Um, I might have to
study.”

“Yeah, but do you want to?”

“Sure, I mean, I guess. If I don’t have anything else to-”

“See you tomorrow then. A half hour after school.” Ryan spread his hand over
the place Brendon had grabbed him. It was no use; the wrinkles stayed perfectly
in place. He straightened the strap of his knapsack over it, covering a little
of it. He began to walk away.

“I guess I’ll see you.” Brendon raised a hand in a wave, though he knew Ryan
was in no position to see it.

“Come alone.” Ryan kicked the phrase back over his shoulder as he left.

And that was it. He said nothing more.
***** trois *****
Chapter by birdcaged
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It was 4:52 AM, and Brendon lay awake.

His mind lolled and fell in a state of being that was blurred and undefined. It
was a fitful, restless sort of consciousness that left his body coated in a
reeking and heavy sweat. It stuck to him closely, as if it were a layer of
skin. His white sheets, though recently washed and hung to dry in the cool and
fragrant scent of the air, were now rank with the clawing stench of his
perspiration and essence. Brendon was still clutching himself, chest rising and
falling very quickly, fingers sticky with heat and shame and come and sweat, so
much sweat. There were rivers flowing on him, it seemed. Clotting, stifling
rivers that drowned deeply. Quilts crumpled damply below the beating pulse
between his thighs and palms, pumping heartily into empty, empty, empty.

Soon after he had shot out everything full he believed was inside of him, he
was swiftly and utterly ill.

Kicking away his cotton covers in a frenzy, Brendon leapt over the high edge of
his bed to his door, flinging it open and sprinting to the bathroom,
thankfully, across from his room. He clutched the porcelain edge of the sink
that held his heaving body from toppling over, retched dryly twice, and poured
out a small measure of simple vomit. It was pure stomach fluid; he had not
eaten much at all since these thoughts. He spat out the sour traces of bile
that had lined his mouth, eyes tearing and falling into the most violent aching
for rest.

I...he...my hand just...

Ryan.

Oh, God, but is he not a beautiful boy! Brendon remembered when they were
younger, before girls at all. They were perfect before such corruption. They
were brown-skinned and light-haired in their long summer masks. They swam
together everyday during their many trips to Lake Mead in the summer. It had
been sun and innocence until Brendon’s hair glowed crystal from the sky’s
natural bleach. Ryan’s hair had been lighter too; his locks were like golden
chestnuts, and they too became hot to the touch after just one hour of play.

===============================================================================


“I’m sorry,” he said, voice breathy. It wasn’t unusual for Ryan to get too
competitive, always wanting to prove he was the stronger one. Ryan did look
sorry, though.

Brendon hacked the words out as if they were mucus. “Whatever, Ryan.”

Ryan blinked, face clean and naïve, a novice to the concept of triumph. He felt
hot with overwhelming. He pulled his t-shirt over his head, brown bangs
bouncing. “Here. Hang on.”

Brendon would not lift his eyes from his intent focus on the bottom of the pool
of sick pity he was wallowing in. At the sound of falling cloth and ruffling
hair, he raised his sight, only to have his pupils widen and whiten. “No.”

“Really.” Ryan was hurriedly slipping out of his swim trunks.

“What the hell, Ryan!” Brendon jolted, water spraying and surging at the
flutter of his flurried hands. He had never sworn so, but he could find nothing
else in his mind. His face was warm. His shorts felt smaller. "People-"

“C'mon, haven't you ever wanted to go skinny dippy at least once? It's just us,
look around. I’ll come in, too. I don’t want to get my clothes wet. I just want
to make you feel better.” But Ryan’s eyes were stronger. They screamed for him
in regret.

The clothes dripped from his limp fingertips, the silhouette of his frame
filled darkly from its emergence with shadows. His back was against the fiery
sun, but it was not enough to block away his pure and milky exposure. Brendon
saw it. He saw it and blushed. Before he could protest, or even speak or
breathe again, a blooming flower of blue burst beside him. A fine rain of
droplets sprinkled his heated face when Ryan emerged and flipped his layers of
tawny hair, grinning. “There,” he laughed. “Now you’re not alone.”

“Alone?” Brendon suddenly felt stranded and smothered, drowning in the cloth
around him. The entirety of his face seemed to redden.

“No. Never.” He said it as if it were simple. “Not with me.” Ryan kept smiling,
and with loose and untrained fingers, he slipped his hand into Brendon’s fist,
wriggling the stress away, freeing the strain. It was as if a set of reigns had
slackened a tight hold. The sensation was new...and startling.

Brendon drew his hand away, nervous, his other hand cradling the shaking set of
digits close to his chest. A look of hurt began to cross Ryan’s features, first
striking the wild gleam in his eyes and dulling them into a sullen, saddened
hue. His mouth turned next, limping weakly into a small line of tightened lips.
It was as if he were going to cry, but then again, Brendon recalled, he had
looked like he had touched something dirty. Slowly, he lowered his hands from
his heart and weaned his expression away from revulsion. Ryan’s face was still
brimming with imaginary tears. Who was Brendon to make them real?

Almost hesitantly, he lifted the sticking fabric of his own shirt from his
skin, future and forming muscles glistening. His body was lean and toned,
already sculpting itself into something exquisite. Heaving a small grunt,
Brendon hurled the squashing pile of sopping cloth away, listening until he
heard the assuring plop upon the thin and sand strewn grass. He found himself
easing into the cleansing motions of stripping away the restricting layers that
covered him, and when he removed his own shorts, he could not help but do it
with a simper. He threw the thick wad onto the ground as well, a relieved
chuckle soft in his throat.

“So they can dry,” Brendon spoke confidently, eyes on the land instead of Ryan.
He turned his head, though, and when he did, there was a smile. Ryan felt it
stir in his cheeks, and he smiled too.

Ryan flicked a small spray of the murky lake water jokingly at Brendon’s torso.
Brendon shoved a wave back towards the chestnut-haired boy, grin growing at the
sight of Ryan’s young muscles quivering in response from the splash. And so a
war was waged, their faces bright as they tossed and crashed tall walls of
water at one another, trying to cover the other in the wet sky at their waists.
They ran through their shallow, hand submerged and rising, submerged and
rising. As Brendon sobered from his intoxicating rush of excitement, he felt
the warm lick of sun on his back and the hot, delicate hold of his hopeless
bond. It was for just a second, perhaps even less, but he felt their glow
become tangible. Their friendship and trust had somehow solidified enough to be
a breeze in his hair, smoothing and burning. A line of pink crossed the bridge
of Brendon’s nose at the realization, pace slowing as he approached the shore,
panting and flushed, Ryan beaming beside him, brighter than a star. When they
keened themselves into the hold of the sand, the heat of the wind had left, and
Brendon felt his smile soften a bit at its edges.

The boys were laying stomach-down in the sand, staring at one another. Their
eyelids drooped sleepily with content, deepening the shades of blue in their
irises. If we could shade and mix our eyes, Brendon thought, I wonder what
color it would be. I bet it would be so pretty, we would both block it out.
There was quiet and calm for a while, their breaths finally slowing into the
sort one gets as they are about to fall asleep. Ryan spoke huskily, lips dry
and chiseled.

“Brendon,” his eyes looked like they were still swimming. “You know you’re my
best friend, right?”

“Yeah,” he breathed it out warmly. Of course. More than anything, it is what I
believe.

His eyes closed, and he was quiet for a very long time. They both were. The
sound of their breathing faded into the rustles of the tree leaves. Their
eyelashes’ fluttering was the beat of the wind.

“I love you.” Ryan whispered, the noise like a feather. His eyes were still
shut.

Brendon moved closer and extended an arm to touch the warm satin of Ryan’s
back. “Me too,” he mouthed silently, voice lost. But Ryan’s lips upturned, a
shattered breath guised in laughter falling from their slopes.

“Thank God.” He nearly choked the phrase out, nudging his whole body into
Brendon’s hold, pushing himself into the unsure grasp, making him stronger. His
own arms enveloped him, fingertips grazing the fair, blond hairs in the crook
of his back. As they grew closer, Brendon noticed so many things. He never knew
Ryan was so perfect. His skin was so much more than soft, so much more than
unblemished. Even the grime of the water seemed purified within the sent of his
hair, morphing into something foreign and exotic.

The emotion hit him wholly and swiftly without any mercy. It was bold and
gripping and tearing; a thick meaty feeling that sheared his entire body with
freezing knives. An ocean grew below his stomach with a storm so violent,
Brendon shifted noticeably. How queer and cruel the grip of lust is upon a
being, but upon Brendon’s quietly supple yet childish body, it was fierce
sensation that left him stunned and frightened of himself. All at once, he felt
the urge to grip the boy in his arms like a treasure, to turn his body upon him
and press. His mouth felt empty and ravenous, fingers restrained from primal
grips. He wanted to scratch and push. He wanted to hold, claw and plunge. He
saw red rhythms and felt dripping moans and growls prowling in his chest. His
heart quickened. He wanted to do it all now.

Suddenly, he was very afraid. He had thought all of this...and felt sick of
himself for it.

With the touch of Ryan’s skin under his hand, he cleared his throat, burying
any other sounds that had grown within him, and did not make another noise.

===============================================================================

“How was your trip to the lake, dear?” His mother’s fine hair blended to her
creamy skin like merging shades of lights. Brendon jumped at the sound of her
cheery voice. His swim trunks were crisp from sunning, his hair still cold and
dripping, his chest bare and darker with tan. He swallowed the dry dust in his
mouth and moved his towel over his crotch.

“Good,” he mused the words as if he were reading them aloud from some faintly-
printed script. “Ryan and I went swimming.”

“How fun!” She beamed. His mother was very pretty. He had never noticed that
before. He looked like her, a little bit. “Brendon, your hair is sopping, but
your shorts are barely wet at all.” She pouted her lips as if she were a little
girl, and he almost believed it.

“I didn’t wear them.”

“Why ever not?”

“We went naked.”

His mother paused her floating hands, leaving them suspended and coated in
clouds of snowy soap. They leaked dribbles of milky water, the sounds of their
landing abnormally shattering. He smelled the light soap; it was her smell too.
She wore since the day he was born. Maybe even longer then that. Her blank
apron reflected the sunlight like a mirror, and it hurt his eyes to watch her.

“Brendon,” she drew her palms back and scrubbed them clean on her dress. “I
need to tell you.” She faced him, cheeks flushed pink naturally; not with make-
up. Not this time. She sighed, attempting to sound troubled. The sound was
light and simple instead. “Thank goodness your father isn’t back from the
grocery store yet.”

“Mom.” Brendon stared back, even more afraid than he had been of his own
startling lust.

“Boys don’t do things like that at your age, especially with other boys.” She
opened and folded her hands like doors. “You should never be naked with or
around another boy. It’s shameful, and God hates it.”

“God hates when I swim naked with Ryan?” Brendon asked shakily, warily.

“Well, yes, but it’s not the swimming, or even that you’re with Ryan. Just that
you’re with a boy without something to cover yourself. It makes him angry and
sad. I don’t want to hear that you’ve done anything of that sort again.”

“Yes, mom.”

===============================================================================


“Hey, Brendon, let’s swim.” Ryan reached down toward Brendon’s bathing suit
ties. His hand was slapped. He withdrew it quickly, hissing sharply with the
pain, skin reddening instantly.

“I don’t want to swim like that again. Never. It’s gross.” Brendon followed
this with a jerked shove before stomping away. Ryan watched him, even as he
staggered to keep himself standing after the brutish heave of force.

“Okay,” he said, very quietly, a little sadly.
Chapter End Notes
     fyi: flashback chapter
***** quatre *****
Chapter by birdcaged
“Holy crap, Ryan!” Brendon jumped when he walked into the kitchen, Ryan behind
him, placing his keys on the rack and trailing after him. The pot was nearly
full to the brim with food. “How did you get all of this in a half-hour?”

“I didn’t. I cut class. Didn’t you notice?” Ryan’s eyes were locked on his
backpack as he shuffled through it. Brendon saw that, indeed, the bag was not
full of binders or books, but of boxes of food.

“No, sorry. I guess not.” He shifted his gaze away. Just looking at it made his
face feel hot. “How long have you been here?”

Ryan shrugged and retrieved a box of cookies. “Since about three. I had to run
to the store to pick up some stuff.” He opened it and brought a sweet to his
lips, pausing before leaning the box to Brendon. “Want one?” He took a bite,
chocolate already melting around his mouth.

Brendon stared at his mouth for a moment, the motions of his lips moving like
waves. He shook his head and grabbed the case. “Sure.” He put his hand in the
package and withdrew a treat, holding on to it instead of eating it
immediately. He didn’t want to look awkward; he was just hanging out with his
friend. They had done this hundreds of times before. “So, what led you to
invite me here again? We could have just as easily gone to the movies or
something.” He felt the slipping of the chocolate on his fingers from the heat,
but he did not eat the cookie.

“Well, to be honest,” Ryan licked his fingers. Brendon looked away. “I’m sort
of using you as a guinea pig.”

“Please clarify.” Brendon narrowed his eyes. He stuffed the cookie in his
mouth, unable to stand the distracting slide it was giving between his fingers.

“Okay,” he laughed, drawing his hand back quickly to wipe the residue of the
crumbs on his shirt. “Let’s start out with the facts. I’m dirt poor, and
there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Get a job.” Brendon stared accusingly without pity.

“Shut the fuck up. And no.” Ryan stared back, sarcasm and a little bit of truth
in his tone. “Anyway, because I’m dirt poor, one can assume I have no money to
take myself, much less a girl, out to decent restaurant. This is very bad news
for my pussy statistics.”

Brendon shifted uncomfortably at the word. Pussy. He hated that word. He began
to feel dirty about the whole conversation. “I see,” he cleared his throat.

“Duh, genius, I’m using you as a test subject. I’m making you dinner to see if
I still remember how to cook okay. If this goes well, I’ll try it on her.”

“Oh,” Brendon started. “You’re dating her now?”

“Thinking about it. Man, it’s gonna be great. You see, she’s never been here
before, so she’s gonna think it’s so awesome.” Ryan reclined on the back of his
arms, supporting himself on the back of the granite counter, eyes gazing up. “I
wonder if she’ll let me fuck her right here on the counter.”

Brendon felt his breath jolt and stir inside of his chest, making him hiccup.
“Ugh, Ryan, that’s disgusting! I don’t want to eat where you’re going to have
sex!” He shot a sickened stare at him, but Ryan guffawed loudly.

“She’ll say, ‘Oooh, Ryan, your expertise planning to win my heart has
succeeded! Touch me right here...’” He moved closer, inspiring jerked attempts
of escape from Brendon. He chortled at the expression on Brendon’s face.
Brendon saw his game, and felt and involuntary smile curve on his face.

“Yeah, right. In your dreams.” He pushed a mass of Ryan’s hair, watching it
bounce back into place. Ryan looked up through his bangs, mouth small and
mischievous, eyes dancing like water. Brendon didn’t look away this time. He
allowed his sight to drink in Ryan’s presence. It was a cool pillow for his
thoughts; he felt better.

Without any forethought, he slipped a finger through one of Ryan’s belt loops
and tugged it taut. “The only way you’ll get into that girl’s pants again is if
you start cross-dressing again.” His smile broadened. How could he have been
nervous?

Ryan sat up, twisting his frame so that Brendon’s finger was caught in the
strip of denim. It did not startle him, or even hurt him, but a small wave of
panic lapped up against his mind. An unsteady look teetered on his face, cheeks
growing faint in their color. Brendon felt two orbs of eyes stalking him,
calling for his attention, forcing.

“In my dreams?” Ryan spoke, something almost like a smile on his lips. “You
want to know what’s in my dreams?”

“Ryan...?” Brendon felt afraid again.

“Brendon.”

The small pool of uneasiness that had accumulated in Brendon’s chest had
flurried into a raging ocean. When he pulled his hand to try and run, it was
held down. A wide spread of fingers was upon his chest, the creases of one
digit lacing itself below his collar bone, digging under the hem of his shirt.
Brendon tried to breathe, but found that all of the air around him had been
turned to fire. His chest heaved in fear and alarm, eyes shutting instinctively
as he was pushed, a pang echoing in his back at the strength. His mouth was
open, but the only thing inside of it had died. The yell he had prepared to
release fell and never awoke.

“In my dream,” Ryan’s bangs were upon Brendon’s eyelids, tickling, inspiring a
twitching similar to when one really does dream. His mouth was very hot. When
it rested upon the nape of his neck, Brendon feared something would splash
around him and he would drown. “She’d be just like this. I’d touch her here
first,” Fingers were prying the workings of his shirt, coaxing buttons out of
their holds. A slice of Brendon’s pale skin was seen between the white embrace
of his uniform as Ryan’s hand slid under the cloth, nimble digits working over
a flushing peak. A soft sound fell from Brendon’s tongue, desperate and eased.
He had never felt himself respond to such a sensation. The smooth slide of the
skilled fingertips evoked a louder groan, the noise sudden and stirring to
Brendon. “Do you think she’d like something like this?” Ryan asked between his
nips at Brendon’s heating skin.

Brendon found his head was empty. There was no singing choir. The Bible he had
carried lay blank. He nodded his head, nearly breathless, and mouthed,
“Yes...Yes...”

A trail was being born along his chest, and Ryan’s lips began to follow it. He
planted gentle grazings along the supple curves of his muscles, moving his
fingers and replacing them with the fervid silk of his tongue. Brendon felt his
back rise and arch into it, head helpless, hands numb. Perhaps he wasn’t even
thinking at all. His mind must have surrendered to something. His whole being
was sweltering.

“Maybe this, next?” Ryan offered teasingly, mouth moving over the coloring tip
until a flash of pink shot over it, sending sparks through Brendon’s muscles
like a spasm. His teeth touched it softly, running over it lightly like
threads. Brendon’s chest rose into it faster as he drew in air more and more
quickly. He had failed to notice that both of his hands were free. He left them
clutching emptiness.

“Ryan,” The word was almost pained. “We shouldn’t...”

But he could not finish it. God was gone. There was no reason left.

“She’d be getting wet around this time, better for me to fuck her. So I’d slip
my hand like this...” The phrase was dripping and blazing, a red paint boiling
in his ears. He felt stroking above his belt line, and the curves of his body
jumped responsively at the cooling contact. A sleek, hand slipped into the
waistband of Brendon’s pants, moving over the fabric of his boxers, cupping him
wholly. A jerked moan was uttered, Brendon’s head lifting slightly until his
hair met Ryan’s again. He had called it dirty, he had felt dirty. But there was
no other way, was there? It may have been mud defiling platinum, but where else
was platinum found but earth? It wasn’t filthy; it was simply unknown.

“She’d be getting hotter and hotter, waiting for me inside of her. You can
almost taste her wetness when it gets this high. She might even be begging for
it by now.”

“Ryan...Ryan...” Brendon’s hips rose into the grasp, pressing harder. The hand
climbed up the scalding, soused texture, manipulating itself until pushed upon
pure skin. Brendon felt his teeth tighten and slacken at the touch. “Please...”

“She’d be telling me where to go...what to do to her...” the sultry lips
brushed the curve of Brendon’s neckline, the words spilling like wine.
Brendon’s tongue felt heavy with the desire for it. “Christ, she’d be moaning.”

“Ryan,” Brendon raised a shaking hand and guided it to the one stroking below
his navel. “H-Hold it...” His eyes lifted, half-open, face ablaze with swirling
color. “Hold it and slide dah...” he gasped as his request became half-
accomplished. “...Down...” And the grip became a hard and steady motion, rising
and falling like tides. Palm, then fingertips, shifting knuckle, then a half-
moon of dulled nail. All like ice and fire and thunder upon his skin, his
scepter. Ardor flooded his features as coherent language left him entirely. His
tongue became capable of hitched and unplanned gasps, and nothing more. He was
holding nothing but himself; his hands turned in on themselves, clutching
tightly his own shirt, then nothing at all. Everything but him was empty. There
was only white.

He opened his eyes and could hardly see. He felt full of something. He felt as
if he were on the ledge of a very step cliff. He could not see a bottom to it.
White. Full. Empty. Darkness. This was so much easier than all of the thoughts
of God that had been in his mind recently. He should have just let things go.
What had he to fear?

There was a sound far from them. Brendon felt Ryan’s hand slide out of his
pants, the smothering heat gone.

“Hey,” a voice came from the living room, step closer. “Anyone home?”

“Mother fucker,” Ryan murmured, drawing his entire body away from Brendon’s,
forcing himself backwards so fast he landed ass-first. His expression held no
care for such trivial pain; it was alight with the flame of fear and child-like
terror and of being caught.

Brendon turned his head, his fevered, pleasure-clouded head, to the direction
of Ryan’s sudden hysteria.

"Don't freak out," Ryan snapped to him, voice low and in warning, and Brendon
gulped, willing himself to calm down. By the time Ryan's mother came into view,
they both were the pinnacle of calm.

"Hey," Ryan smiled cheerfully, "just making dinner."

Mrs. Ross smiled, nodding at Brendon in acknowledgement and the boy shot back a
weak smile, his nerves still burning.

They chatted for awhile, mostly Ryan, trying to devert his mother's attention
from Brendon. When she finally left, Brendon felt that he could breathe again,
the pressure pushing at his chest lessened. He shot Ryan a scowl.

"Fuck, Ryan, we shouldn't - We could've -"

"Yeah, but we didn't," Ryan said dismissively, smirking, "I won't let us, okay?
Can you trust me on that?"
***** cinq *****
Chapter by birdcaged
Though it was perfectly expected, Ryan’s tone with him the next day still
managed a flinch from Brendon. And he hated it too, the gleam in Ryan’s eyes
when he did, because he knew he was exactly where the older boy wanted him. He
should know, he knew Ryan Ross better than anyone, maybe that was the problem,
he was too close.

“Jesus Christ, Brendon,” The voice sounded disappointed, as if in attempts to
scold him. “You’re more stupid and predictable than I thought.”

Brendon purposely looked at his Cellular Respiration notes, as if that made him
feel any better – he never even studied last night, too overwrought about what
happened the previous day. Then he proceeded to hate himself for agonizing over
it; what done was done.

“Come inside, it’s blazing hot out here, let’s talk,” Ryan said, gently, his
tone was more of a soft request than a demand, and that’s when Brendon broke
his resolve not to look up – peeking up to see if Ryan’s facial expression
matched the sincerity of his tone. Of course not.

“Leave me.”

“No.” Ryan stood above him like a tower. Brendon was ashamed at his huddled,
crouching form, but found himself too infuriated to protect his pride. He
swiped a heavy hand at Ryan’s knees, as he had done to him all those years ago.

“I said get the fuck away from me!” He felt his fingers curl into a harsh
contact against the bone in Ryan’s leg and the buckle through the brown-haired
boy’s body as it hit wholly, no attempted dodge to soften its pain. Ryan
emitted a full, raw groan and Brendon saw the deluge of agony upon his features
as he clenched his palms and hands together in a way that left crescent-shaped
sores in his hands. Blood rushed swiftly to his cheeks, his sweat becoming
caustic and sharp in its scent. Brendon felt guilty. He felt sorry. His lips
and teeth tightened in rebellion. He waited for the fall, the curse, the
retreat.

But Ryan opened his eyes, the lapis reflecting betrayal and a harrowing
strength. Tears had gathered, but they hovered on the edge of the slopes of his
face. “Let’s talk.” He said again, tone shaking. His fingers shook in time with
his lips; they were holding back their own temptations. Brendon found his gaze
averted, embarrassed and flushed.

“I just...” he began, not sure what he wanted to say in the first place.

He hugged his knees closer, their pressing on his chest becoming too tight. His
hold did not slacken. “I’m not gay.” He said finally, feeling distracted from
the true problem. Though his head was screaming with a thousand more important
phrases, that was the one that arose to the surface of his tongue. “I’m not
gay, Ryan, I’m not.” When he repeated it, he found how much it hurt to say it.
He didn’t know why. His chin burrowed itself between the mountains of his knee
caps.

Ryan took a quivering step forward, legs still jerking unsteadily, face lined
with a silenced torture. “Me neither.” He sunk down to eye-level with Brendon,
a taut gasp slipping from him as the pain shook his senses. There was a hot
hand on Brendon’s forehead.

“I’m not.” Brendon said aloud, but barely. His voice was quiet. Fingers fell
from his brow to the drying texture of his lips. They keened themselves between
the silky glide, over teeth, encouraging tongue. The digits had already pulled
themselves away when Brendon snapped into the reality of what was happening.
“What...?” He breathed, struck puzzled. His body became tight as he watched
Ryan lead his saliva-drenched fingers to his own mouth and suckle Brendon’s
taste into his own being.

Quivering breaths forced themselves into Brendon’s chest. When he tried to back
away, he found he could not sink into the truck of the tree behind him any
further.

“Your siblings are all inside.” Ryan began nonchalantly, crawling towards him.
His hand rested by another. “Laughing at you even. I think you’re a bit too old
for a tree house, Bren.” Somehow, his lithe body slipped through Brendon’s shut
thighs. “We’re all alone.”

“No,” he heard his voice become desperate and weak. He didn’t care. He wanted
out. If he got out, he’d be okay.

He felt hands between his legs again. Instead of succumbing, instead of
fighting, he felt his mind wander into a place far from where he was.

Ryan kneaded the crotch of Brendon’s pants with his palms, eyes shallow and
distant. His fingers felt desperate as they clawed the cloth that held
Brendon’s hardness away from exposure. The rolling waves of pressure invoked a
jerked moan from Brendon’s mouth, the sound filling the hollowed cave with a
shatter of echoes. Ryan lifted one of his hands to the smooth, sculpted curve
of Brendon’s chin, outlining the feature with his soft digits, eyes cast upon
him as if he were something beautiful. His body straightened and lowered in the
rhythm of his strokings, their motions quickening and becoming more and more
intense while his fingertips grazed the gentle shadings on Ryan’s cheek.

Brendon’s head clouded out reason with the steam from his staggering breaths.
He leaned into Ryan’s fingers, guiding them back by his mouth, hoping to
encourage the suckling he had began. Instead, Ryan brushed the texture of his
lips, other hand still working over the fabric intently, mouth hovering above
the place of Brendon’s hot gasps. He left himself suspended above the expecting
tongue, the air that pushed out of him quivering with anticipation. Brendon
tried to tilt his head inconspicuously so that their lips would meet, but Ryan
drew away slightly at each attempt. The sensation of their lips being so near
made Brendon feel unsafe and greedy. Something within him stirred, something he
had known once. The pressing upon him stopped, and was replaced by the
looseness around the tightened cloth as the button and zipper to his pants were
undone.

“I’m going to do you a favor,” Ryan began, his face so close, their foreheads
were touching. Brendon’s cheeks bloomed crimson as the heat of the air became a
scent of sweat. “But this means you’ll have to do one for me sometime too.”
There were fingers slipping under the elastic of Brendon’s boxers, and as much
as he tried, he only got harder.

His head felt heavy and foreign as it lifted and fell in reply.

Ryan smiled at the fever Brendon’s face was lost in, eyes never leaving his
even as his hands manipulated the sorely erect member from the dampening
boxers. Brendon felt his mind and gaze wander, thoughts empty while he looked
upon his own painfully hard cock, its tip glistening with beads of his
impatience. He was sure it was a dream; some movie he had meandered into out of
bursting curiosity. But he watched as Ryan lowered his lips, moving his tongue
across the spots of wetness he had gained. A full groan escaped him, hands
gripping the indentions of the wooden floor to keep from screaming. His mind
felt as if it were blossoming. He was beginning to think in wide bursts of
color, pink and red and purple flowering into shades he had never known. He
watched, panting, as Ryan gripped the parts he could not reach with his mouth
and moved his fingers in time with his lips.

Brendon’s pelvis arched as he tried to push himself deeper into the hot, tight
cave. When he did so, Ryan hummed a low note of submissiveness, the buzz
incurred like a shock of thunder to Brendon’s nerves. A wanton yell echoed, so
loud and primal, Brendon didn’t notice it was him. A limp hand fell onto the
brown-haired boy’s head, pushing him down, encouraging a deeper dive.

The pair of lips upturned at Brendon’s powered reaction, and Ryan began to lace
every stroke of his tongue with a gentle purr, sending shivers and sighs of
ecstasy through Brendon’s body. When Brendon’s cries bordered on wails, he
moved the hand he had been using to support himself down the back of Brendon’s
pants. Brendon bucked against the sensation of Ryan’s fingers so close to his
entrance, but when they grazed against it, he found his mouth open and the
sound of pleasure reverberating about him. His yells rose in strength, growing
shorter and higher and louder on par with his spasms of rapture. Ryan felt his
rise grow stronger, timing out the motions until he pressed to digits into the
boy’s passage. A groan of pleasure-pain rumbled deep within Brendon’s throat,
but instead of denying the heated pressing into his body, he allowed, pushing
back harder every time he tried to move himself further into Ryan’s mouth.
Brendon found that his consciousness was bare. The colors were gone. There was
only the heightening bliss racking his whole body, consuming all of him. White.
He had found it. No darkness. Not anymore.

Brendon came, face taut with a final, carnal moan. He saw Ryan swallow, traces
of the fluid leaking at the corners of his lips. When he drew his mouth away, a
fine bridge of saliva and essence dribbled out. Ryan licked away the remains,
and with his tongue still bitter with come, he pushed Brendon forward into a
hard kiss. As their tastes collided, Brendon felt the flavor of his passion. It
was hot and salty, like water from a sea he hadn’t heard of. It tasted too
dangerous to have come out of him. He thought, for a second, if perhaps this
was how Ryan always tasted. But he knew better. Their tongues had crossed
before.

They pulled away from each other, gasping for breath as if they had been
underwater for a long time. Ryan had a streak of moisture by his cheek where
their lips had gotten careless, but he left it there, cooling along with his
flushing face.

Ryan laughed, and Brendon smiled, unsure and puzzled.

“Was that your first time?” Ryan’s grin grew broader. He chuckled as if he were
teasing.

A jolt ran through Brendon’s tiring body. Which did he mean? With a boy? Head?
Head with a boy? God, he realized, it was all new. “Yeah,” he said with shaky
disbelief. “Yeah it was.”

“I figured as much.” Ryan stood, straightening his shirt casually.
“Congratulations. You’re a screamer.”

“What?” Brendon stammered, embarrassed. Ryan laughed, watching the boy’s face
grow scarlet in a sudden shame. “Don’t make fun of me!” He retorted, zipping up
and buttoning his pants in a frenzy. Ryan eased his chortle into something
soft, offering a hand for Brendon to grasp for support.

“I didn’t mean to. It’s just nostalgia. Don’t worry about it.” Brendon took his
hand and stood. Ryan swatted a playful hand across his bottom. “It was cute.
Hot, even.”

“Whatever,” Brendon murmured, the line of blush bridging over his nose.

Ryan spoke, eyes focused intently on the roof.

“What do you think God thought about that?”

Brendon didn’t feel guilty. He didn’t know why. Perhaps his head was still
clouded. He had a looming feeling he would feel it later, though. Things that
were forbidden had a tendency to bite your conscious after time, the
satisfaction covering the shame for a while, like drugs dissipating from the
mind of one with a painful wound.

He shrugged, smile fading.

“I have no clue.”

Ryan heaved a small chuckle, as if amused by the answer. “Cool."
***** six *****
Chapter by birdcaged
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Brendon had to stifle the urge to lunge himself upon the older boy, his
confusion on whether to pummel or grind against him the only thing keeping him
from doing so.

Oh, Lord, was he angry.

His hand still held the crumpled note he had received only minutes before on
his health-class desk, holding all of the strenuously nerve-racking allure of
the first one. He hadn’t wasted a second on looking in Ryan's direction; he
knew very well that Ryan's gaze would be locked upon his, drawing his quivering
fingers to the paper while reining his sight. He couldn’t stand to be under his
control again. Not again. He had his own strength. He opened the slip of paper,
trying his hardest to look nonchalant.
Brendon,

Back building restroom, lunch.

You owe me.

Ryan

He could not stop himself from fingering the sharp edges of the note nervously,
mouth dry and empty and very, very warm. His tips tingled upon the softening
slice of paper for the entire period, eyes bolted upon the whiteboard, ears
blocking all sound, mind screaming if he could just look at him, just look
without feeling guilty for a moment. He was so tired of feeling guilt. It clung
to him like a perfume, clotting his throat and drowning his breaths.
Inescapable. It dripped from his body as if it were a paint of his sweat.

And his gaze faltered for one second, fluttering about him, scanning the hands
that still held the wretched note. He wasn’t. He really wasn’t. He wondered if
his brain was still trying to process the whole ordeal, moving slowly like a
machine with too many tasks piled upon it. Perhaps he hadn’t even begun to feel
the sting of the guilt he was supposed to be experiencing, or if it was
gathering together to smother him in a wave of his sins. He smiled
absentmindedly, noticing his knuckles had paled to a sickly shade of grey,
chuckling internally at the idea that his entire body may be the exact same
color. He must look terrible. He certainly was feeling terrible.

The bell rang. Lunch.

Brendon rose and shuffled his belongings into his bag, eyes low and dimmed in
the glaze of his glasses. When Ryan brushed by him, laughing cheerily with one
of the other classmates, a sigh fell from the Brendon's mouth freely. It was as
if a weight simply melted to dust from his shoulders, his buckling, weakening
shoulders. He slung the strap of his backpack around himself, securing the
strip. Muttering a salutation to his health teacher, Brendon slid out of the
classroom, the sound of the door opening and closing similar to silence.
===============================================================================


The walls were stone and white, like a temple.

He did not want to stand against the wall opposite to the sinks, in plain view
of the three people who had come and gone so far, but he did not want Ryan to
miss him or think he had not come. He was much more willing to withstand the
stares of strangers than to be branded “chicken shit” by someone as notorious
as Ryan. His only saving grace so far had been that the intervals between the
curious, wary looking boys were spaced graciously from one another. He began to
pray that perhaps there would be no more strangers after this one. Perhaps Ryan
would come next. Perhaps it would be over quickly.

Brendon sighed. A tawny-haired boy, one whose shade was much darker than
Ryan's, walked into the restroom. He caught brief eye contact with his equally
brunette orbs before the youth swiveled in front of an urinal and began to
unzip. Brendon cleared his throat, averting his sight and trying to balance the
flush of color in his face. He was beginning to feel stupid. More so, he was
beginning to feel stood up. The droning of the falling liquid in the stark
silence made his stomach turn to rot.

A set of heavy footsteps became audible, Brendon raising his gaze to the figure
approaching. His entire face brightened at the appearance of Ryan, face paling
from past laughter, hands slipped casually into his pockets as if he had no
idea there was someone waiting for him. Brendon's eyes regained an intense
shine as he smiled honestly at the familiarity. His face beamed, thoughts and
worries of lateness forgotten almost instantly.

“Ryan,” he breathed in a steady relief.

Ryan flicked a brief wave before positioning himself in front of the urinal.
“Hey.” He turned his back to him.

Brendon felt his chest sink into itself, as if collapsing. He felt foolish, oh,
he felt very, very foolish. He had been expecting friendly words to compensate
for his time. But how could he expect anything from this boy? He pressed
himself against the cold wall and waited. The dark-haired stranger finished,
stare daunting and lurking upon Brendon as he stalked closer to the sink.
Brendon cleared his throat again, the sound retching.

“So, what have you been up to?” He murmured to break the string between their
voices. Ryan cast a confused, yet somewhat amused look back at him. He forced
an annoyed smile, the kind one gives to show that they really did not want to
answer. The kind one gives to make the inquirer feel utterly stupid. The
stranger boy stifled a chuckle. Brendon knew why.

“Nothing...” Ryan finished, a tone of superiority high in his voice. The
unfamiliar boy shared a look of mockery with him as he left, shaking the water
from his hands, the sound of its splattering as searing as their cruel smiles.
Brendon could not figure as to why this was happening to him, why Ryan would
leave him stranded in front of someone so perfectly unknown to them. His sight
became steely with anger as he watched Ryan shake himself, flush, and walk to
the sink.

There was the sound of water. Ryan began to whistle.

Brendon hit a fist against the tile, pain numbing. “Fuck this,” he growled
harshly, adjusting his backpack before stomping toward the exit, eyes plastered
to the ground. He did not want to know what would happen if he looked at him
again. How could he? How could he make him feel so asinine? After he told him
to come here; after he wanted him to be here. Brendon's cheeks reddened
swiftly, the shade clotting and clawing. He made sure to have his shoulder hit
Ryan's on his way out, despite the shock of stinging he would have to withstand
as well.

A firm, wet hand on his wrist again. “Wait.”

“Fuck you,” he tugged the force away. Futile, he realized all too quickly as
the grip shifted into a push. There was a pair of hands upon his own, and a
hard shove against a bathroom stall against his back. A surprised yelp came
from Brendon's mouth as the bolt of hot pain skipped up his vertebrae. His eyes
watered at the sensation of his muscles dissolving into static from the nip of
his back to the wide space between his shoulder blades. They seemed to melt
into a whisper, making his knees buckle.

“Wanna play tug-o-war? Then let’s fucking play,” Ryan rasped throatily into
Brendon's ear, the phrase barked harshly in one scorching breath. Shivers raced
through Brendon's nerves, his face turned away from the mess of brown bangs
clogging his lungs with their heavy, thick scent. His breathing became audible;
he was becoming afraid again. Every time he was afraid with Ryan, he found
darkness, and then light. He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t let himself
become weakened. He tried to pull away. His hands felt massive and defiant.

“You keep pulling,” Ryan whispered, switching his stance and dragging Brendon
by the arms into the stall he had been pushed upon. Brendon heard the squeaking
of his shoes as they tried to cement themselves to anywhere outside of the
plastic and metal stall. He heard them skid to a terrible stop behind the
twist-lock door. He heard them take three small, feeble steps backward until
the latrine denied any further means of escape. There was the slick of the lock
shutting, and the swift cage of Ryan's arms around him. “But you don’t get
away.” A hard kiss stealing his breath. He could still taste it. He could still
taste him.

“Please, Ryan,” he tried, but again, his words were brushed aside.

“Please?” Ryan scoffed between brushings. “Bren, do you have any idea how much
stronger than me you are?” There was an allowed silence, as if he wanted
Brendon to realize in that moment. And he did. His eyes widened. “If you wanted
to, you could have gotten out of here a lot sooner.” Then, another kiss, slower
and softer than the ones before. Brendon nearly sighed. When they pulled away,
Brendon's lips followed, begging for more contact. His eyes were closed, but
somehow he saw Ryan smiling triumphantly. “But you don’t want to, do you?”

Brendon shut his lips and opened his eyes, wanting so much for his gaze to be
fire. To just burn him away in his sight.

“Do you?” Ryan's smiled grew a bit bolder, the lids lowering over his eyes and
his bottom lip curling under his front teeth as if in anticipation. The
expression left Brendon confused, but in the haze, he could not help but think
how cute it made him-

“Shit!” Brendon jolted under the slip of fingers entering his pants from the
front, after deftly undoing the zipper. Vaguely Brendon tried to keep thinking
why Ryan always seem to know how to do these things without blinking an eye,
but when the feeling of a hot, eager hand cupping him came, Brendon found his
breath lost to him, shivers sparking themselves through his nerves at a pace
unknown to him. When he gasped to force a moan out, there were only jerking
grips for air. His eyelashes fluttered as if he were in a fever.

“Do you?” Lips on his earlobe. Tongue. Teeth.

“No...” Remittance, remittance, just once more and it would be over for good.
Just one more dive of darkness and he’d pray every day for forgiveness.

God could understand; he had to. He was only human. He was only a man. He made
mistakes, and anyone could forgive him for such. He couldn’t be good all of the
time. He didn’t know anyone who could. A pressing against his side, something
hardened and held down. Ryan's breath like fire on his neck. He quivered in the
heat.

“Not now, Bren,” Finger fondling all of him. He mewed in compliance, heart
pounding in his temples. “You think you want it now, oh, wait until tonight...”
Suddenly, gone. The warmth of his hand dissipating, leaving him panting
emptily. Brendon fell to the side, leaning onto the right wall of the stall,
face flourishing in and out of scarlet. He was trembling, sweating. Ryan smiled
cruelly. “You didn’t think I’d fuck you in the boy’s bathroom, did you?”

His throat was tight. He swallowed.

A laugh. Brendon shut his eyes again, trying to concentrate on his breathing,
trying to slow the shakings. Oh, he did. He did want it.

“Come to my house tonight.”

“Your dad...” Brendon heaved instinctively.

“He’s on a business trip, and Mom’s with my aunt. Besides,” Brendon heard him
smile again. “We’re friends. Why would they need to be worried?” A pat on his
crotch. A shuddering moan escaped. Another laugh. “We’re just two boys who’ve
known each other for years. No need to suspect anything. Right?”

He had never wanted to feel like prey. He had never wanted to be under anyone
else’s control ever again. He was free from that darkness. He had fought and
fought and fought, and Jesus, he had gotten out of there alive. He was his own
person. He had regained his right to listen to no one but himself.

Brendon nodded pathetically. Ryan lifted a hand onto his hair and ruffled it.
“That’s a good boy.” As if he was a dog. A pet.

The door to the stall unlocked with a light click, Ryan slipping his hands into
his pockets, a high tune permeating the air through his whistle. Brendon shook
his head, hair hanging like daggers in front of his eyes. In a rush, he stuffed
his sweat-clotted shirt back down into his pants, straightening the wrinkles
pressed into it, or at least trying to hide them. Outside, there was the sound
of the faucet again. Footsteps. Then a pause.

“Remember. Tonight. My house.”

“I know,” Brendon said, his voice softer than he had ever heard it before. His
hands were still not quite still. He clenched them into fists. “I owe you.”
Chapter End Notes
     Going on a break for a while. Till then, comments & kudos are love!
     ^-^
***** Chapter 7 *****
“Fuck.”

He truly had gone through a lot of trouble to be there. It was hard enough to
have to persuade his mother to let him leave the house after dark. She was
still in a stage where whenever Brendon left, it had to be in daylight. The
last time he strayed away under the stars...He didn’t come home. Not for a very
long time. Considering such, he realized it was not such an unreasonable
phobia. Coming home to find his mother in such terrifying disarray was nerve
racking to say the least. He couldn’t even recall a day where she looked less
than radiant, but on the day he returned, she was in shambles. Her hair was
limp and faded, its glow gone, like a flower perishing from lack of sun. Her
simple white dress, wrinkled and much too big for her thinning waist. But he
held her hand and reassured her he would be at Ryan’s house and nowhere else.
He would be by him at all times. His parents would be within shouting distance.
They would study, perhaps (he knew this was a lie, but lying and protection
often went hand-in-hand in the world he had grown accustomed to) or watch some
movies (this he did not know for sure; before high school, he and Ryan were
avid film critics in their own way. Maybe they could manage a flick or two
between Ryan’s inkling of what might happen).

“Mom,” he spoke, smiling at her soul. Her poor, naked soul. She looked so tired
now. “I’ll be okay. I’m just spending the night at Ryan’s. Like when I was a
kid, remember?”

At this, her face became wan, expression melting away from fear. She squeezed
his hand, raising the other and placing it upon their bow of fingers.
“It’s...alright by me. Ask your father when he gets home.”

Brendon had to stifle a grimace to reign his gaze of contentment. “Of course,”
he forced.

When he was a boy, he could have easily said he loved his father. His constant
meetings were like mysteries to him. His presence was a gift. And yet over
time, such things lost their mystic. The only thing left to their qualities was
the fact that he was hardly ever home, much less when they needed him. Brendon
had actually been counting on the fact that he would only need to seek
permission from his mother. The fact that he would be there complicated his
plan.

As soon as the front door shut, he approached his father with the mumble of a
request. It was granted swiftly. Brendon nodded in polite son-like gratitude.
He had felt much more accomplished when speaking to his mother, but allowance
was allowance. He walked upstairs to pack his overnight bag.

After waves of farewell and a rather uncomfortable and awkward embrace from his
mother in the doorway, Brendon left his house as the sun was completing its
setting. The street lights flickered to life all about him as he walked to
Ryan’s house, but he really did not mind. He enjoyed the fleeting moments of
the light’s descent. The brushstrokes of purple and orange upon the sky were
the closest things to magic Brendon could identify. They were the closest
things to pleasant memories.

He began to get the feeling that something was wrong the minute he reached the
one-block marker from Ryan’s house. There was something heavy in the air;
something foreign and wrong. It was a scent of fruit rotting, of plants he had
never seen before burning. Whatever was poisoning his breath, it was something
he had never smelled in his life, and that in itself scared him a bit. His pace
quickened, turning corners and passing markers faster than he had ever wanted
to around Ryan’s home. He saw lights, many, many lights. And cars. Already, a
whole block away, cars.

Oh, fuck no...

Music. Fast and loud and hard. Pulsing under the concrete with hypnotizing
rhythms. The beats fused into the soles of his feet; he felt them. He smelled
cheap food. Carbohydrates. Chips and bread. Wheat fermenting. Grapes dissolving
in their juices.

Oh, fuck no, he wouldn’t...

As the sight became clearer and closer, he still did not want to believe it.
There were shadows in his windows. People dancing, yelling, groping. Splashes
rang out from behind the back gate. Cheers and hoots of encouragement rang out
after the wet rip of water in Ryan’s swimming pool settled into fine splatters
on his deck. So many cars...How many people had crammed into every single one
of these cars?

Brendon stood in front of the house, breathing ragged from his running. He had
sprinted, and had not even realized it. The weight of his bag was gone in the
flush of his adrenaline. He felt unsteady and weightless in the swirl of sweat
slicking upon his brow. Lamp light glowed in the reflection of that grime.
Brendon blinked. He didn’t want to believe it, but that did not stop it.

“Fuck.” He breathed at the sight. Ryan was throwing a party. He had called
Brendon to be with him, and then decided to throw a fucking house party. There
was a fleeting thought that this may be the wrong house, that Ryan would never
want to embarrass or hurt him like this. The idea was shattered as a pair of
girls stumbled out of the front door, hanging upon one another, one tilting her
head and flipping her hair so that she could throw up.

“Fuck.” Brendon sighed. He could go home. He could just turn around.

(you owe me)

Too late to turn back now.
***** huit *****
The scent of pot hit him first, wholly and choking as if a cloud had been
festering at the doorway, waiting for him. He coughed heartily, eyes watering
and sinuses beginning to plot a terrible revenge. The circle that had formed
around the pipe in the living room turned its head toward him, gaze sleepy and
mocking all at once. Brendon patted his chest with a final hack, waving a hand
at the group in reassurance. They chuckled at him cruelly, resuming their
listless whining for another hit, just one more, I swear. Brendon stood
entranced at the sight of their clawing dormancy, wondering how anyone could
ever want such a thing. As his lungs, nose and mind grew accustomed to the
startling new scent, he exhaled smoothly. His shoulders slackened.

“Hey, preppy,” a boy with mussed blond hair called to him from the circle. A
few girls giggled. Brendon jolted and turned to him. “If you want a hit, come
take one. Don’t just stand there hotboxing.”

“Um,” Brendon raised his hands in protest. “No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

Many in the group released soft, amused shots of laughter, others smiling
faintly, hands becoming curious. The blonde boy shook his head, grinning,
reaching for the pipe and lighter. He held the ceramic piece to his lips, other
hand flicking sparks from the lighter until finally invoking a flame. He
suckled the smoke, the smell of the herb burning clotting the air of the living
room. Letting the smooth porcelain lip of the pipe slide from his mouth, he
held the cool curls of fog in his chest, allowing several seconds to pass
before releasing it as a puff of gray haze. With a funny sort of simper, his
eyes drifted back to Brendon, who was still watching, mystified.

“Yeah, whatever, neither do I.” He chuckled, wisps of smoke falling coolly from
his cheeks. Brendon felt his face fall into a frown. He was getting annoyed
already. He needed to find Ryan. He needed to set things straight. Positioning
the strap of his bag tightly against his left shoulder, he stormed past the
circle, not trusting anyone around him enough to leave his things by the
doorway. He made his way into the kitchen.

“Oh,” he yelped instinctively at the sight of three girls in front of a blaring
bowl of atomic cherries. Their various shades of hair were dripping wet dollops
of water onto their bulging bikini-clad breasts, leaving a massive puddle
around their collective set of feet. There was a shy-looking brunette with her
fingers positioned in front of luscious, full lips, cherry lingering on the
mound of her moist, pink tongue. A fire-haired girl had one hand reaching for
another portion of the vodka-soaked fruit, a thin line of candy-red juice
falling from the corner of her wide, pretty mouth. A strawberry blonde stood
between them, looking bewildered, arms placed in such a way that the supple
mounds on her chest plumped together like a mountain range.

Brendon shifted his bag in front of him. “Um...uh, I’m, ah...”

The brunette squished the cherry between her perfect pearls of teeth. Brendon
blinked and cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I’m looking for Ryan.” He murmured, eyes low, face burnished crimson.

There was a moment of silence, then an eruption of tittering laughter. Brendon
found that he was very quickly becoming tired of people laughing. He shifted
his stance and looked annoyed until the girls had finished the zenith of their
snickering, their glee dying into sighs of enjoyment. The blonde moved a
dampened hair away from her coffee eyes.

“Um, Ryan is upstairs...” Her smile was broad and beautiful, and yet it seemed
fake.

“Okay, thanks,” Brendon began to turn.

“No,” the red-head burst out, chortling. “You don’t understand. He’s...” she
paused and looked at the other girls, who nodded in proud understanding.
“...upstairs...”

“Okay...” He repeated and gave a puzzled stare, smirking a little nervously. “I
think I get it. Thanks.” He offered a jerked wave of salutation, shifting to
complete his turn.

“No,” the brunette giggled, tone silly and embarrassed. The other girls covered
their mouth to hold back another bout of guffaws. “You don’t freakin’ get
it...Ryan is upstairs.”

“I freakin’ get it, okay? Ryan’s upstairs! I understand!” Brendon threw his
hands up in frustration, blush shading into a dark bridge of anger across his
nose. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he swore, swiveling his frame and leaving before
the throng of girls could gasp out whines of insult. He fumed past seas of
strangers, his slicing shoulders leaving him feeling less like a blade and more
like a fleck of spray. By the time he reached the stairs, he wanted to scream.
If he had to stop for one more shit-faced moron, he would-

“Oh, fuck,” There was a sudden, crooked laugh and a splash of lukewarm liquid
upon the crotch of Brendon’s pants. “Sorry, buddy,” was the useless apology
from the lop-sided, tipping voice. The dark-haired boy half sighed, half
groaned, the sight of the creeping stain of unfamiliarly-scented wetness across
his groin irritating the hitching climb of anger in his chest to a state of
being officially pissed off. Brendon gripped the banister of the staircase,
stomping up two at a time, slamming his feet to the ground as he made his way
to Ryan’s bedroom. He gripped the doorknob, twisting, and burst in.

"Ryan, you assho-"

The quick realization that he was talking to no one. The room was empty. Messy,
but empty.

“Oh.” Brendon’s eyes darted about, searching for a trace of him. A clue. A
sign. He found it odd that this was Ryan’s party, and he had not seen a single
hint to where he would be, save the unnerving conversation he had with the
soaking-wet girls downstairs. He did not want to have to go back down there to
ask for more help. He found it even odder that though the lower floor was
packed with people, he could see nobody besides himself upstairs. He heard
music and dancing, and yet he felt very alone. Feeling somewhat comfortable in
Ryan’s room, despite the state of sluggishness around him, Brendon lifted his
bag away from his body and set it in front of the door to Ryan’s closet.

He walked out of the room, shutting the door silently behind him, feeling like
a wanderer as he meandered through the hallway by the stairs. Brendon shook the
bangs away from his face, flicking them to the side, finding it futile when
they fell back into place. He absentmindedly slipped his fingers into his
pockets, stepping slowly through the place he had been to so many times before.
He remembered the scent of chlorine on his towel, in his hair. Clean pillow
cases beneath his head. The sound of Ryan sleeping just above his sleeping bag
on the floor. A smile slipped. The music seemed to fade into something quieter,
something more like the silence of awakening in the morning below someone you
trusted. Not too many years ago.

Brendon spotted a line of light from under the doorway to Ryan’s parent’s
bedroom. His eyebrows rose in curiosity, and on a hunch, he reached for the
knob and turned it open.

There was a girl.

She was sitting on the corner of the king mattress, raven hair limping wounded
in front of her glimpses of tarnished blue eyes. Her skin was milky and soft
looking under the hanging light of the ceiling fan. Her expression was distant
and lost, as if someone very far away was calling for her. Her muscles looked
lax, the cloth of her white long-sleeved shirt crumbling around her wrists at
the cuffs loosely. Her full, rounded breasts curved into perfect forms, filling
her exposed bra, cupped in black lace. They leaded into a tautly sculpted
stomach, falling into a nipping waist. There was a blue-plaid skirt pushed up
above her thighs, the color and pattern familiar. Brendon’s gaze fell. There
was a pair of black panties encircling her ankle. There was a figure between
her legs.

She looked up at him, face calm and distracted, staring through him. Brendon
felt frozen, hand still gripping the doorknob. Something within him was telling
him to run, run, to just get away.

Her eyes shone. Lips moving. “Ryan...”

Before Brendon could open his mouth to deny, a shadowed mass raised itself from
between the dark girl’s thighs. Hands curved to cup her voluptuous bottom. A
mess of chestnut hair became visible in the light. A shine of creamy fluid upon
claimed lips. Brendon’s breath was lost to him. He felt as if his heart had
shriveled into something smaller than the wind. Words were gone. His bible, his
God, his thoughts. Everything. Gone.

Ryan’s eyes grew wide as his tongue began to lick around the gleaming smearings
of liquid that had lined his mouth. It fell deftly between his teeth. His
pupils dilated. “Bren?”

“Oh, God,” Brendon felt his free hand climb to cover his gaping mouth. He felt
empty, empty. All of the blood must have been drained from him, from his world.
He felt colorless. Empty. He let the doorknob go sharply, the sound as loud as
a knock on a heavy door.

(her eyes and hair will never be as bright)

The dark girl’s gaze was lenient. When Brendon stared at her for a few seconds,
he could make out the faintest hinting of a simper.

(and she will never be as close to ryan as i am)

Brendon turned and walked back to Ryan’s room, sight clouded in red and black.
His hands fumbled for the sphere of the knob, palms rolling freely, movements
unchecked and random. Somewhere, he could hear the sounds of muffled shouting,
of pants zipping and footsteps storming. Brendon found a way to twist the
handle so that he could enter. He did not pause to search for a light switch.
He stepped into the room and groped for his bag in the dark. He had to get out
of there, if he could just get out of there.

Blinding light. Someone flicked on the lamp. Brendon’s eyes winced, but his
hands continued searching. “Brendon, wait, please.”

(wait)

(please)

Hadn’t he said those words? Hadn’t Brendon begged for mercy? For fulfillment?

“Fuck you,” he growled. His vision adjusted to the rush of color. He found his
bag and his hand sought to fill themselves with it. There were grips on his
wrists again, from the back this time. When Brendon bucked to escape, there was
an unrelenting body behind his, balanced and firm.

(do you have any idea how much stronger than me you are?)

“Don’t fucking touch me, you back-stabbing asshole!” Brendon bent his arm to
form a sharp point with his elbow and thrust it into Ryan’s solar plexus. He
felt the fingers fall from his frame and heard the dreadful gaspings as Ryan
crumpled onto the floor, breath as lost to him as it was to Brendon. Rather
than resuming the gathering of his things, Ryan stood, hands shaking, chest
heaving, eyes blotted and tearing. Oh, Lord, he was crying. His whole body
wanted to lose the heavy sadness through falling tear drops. He was so full, so
full and so empty. He slunk to his knees, Ryan wheezing behind him.

“You asshole, you fucking asshole...” Brendon rubbed the length of his forearm
across his face. Under his nose, under his eyes. He sniffled. “I trusted you,
and you pull this kind of shit on me...Do you have any idea how fucking
confused I’ve been? How fucking scared?” His word grew thick; his nose was
filling as he tried to stop the water from falling down his cheeks. “You’re
supposed to be my best friend!” He yelled sharply, turning to face Ryan, who
was still clutching his stomach and gasping. “Not some fuckwad who gives me
head and tries to fuck me in the school bathroom and goes down on some fucking
stranger right in front of me! That’s not how it’s supposed to be! It’s not!”
He was shouting now, face hot and cheeks wet despite all efforts. A sickly sob
escaped, and Brendon covered his mouth with one hand. He didn’t want to believe
such a sound had come out of him. It sounded so weak, so very weak. “This isn’t
how it’s supposed to be...”

A hand on his shoulder. How he wished he could just shrug it away. His muscles
limped at the contact.

“Bren,” Arms all around him. Shuddering breaths on lips slipping by his neck.
Being held. “Bren, I’m sorry...” Fingers over his chest, touching him through
his shirt. Warmth keening onto his collar bone. “Oh, Brendon, I’m so sorry. I
didn’t even know you were here...”

Brendon shuddered. “As if that makes this better? Just because you didn’t know
I was here means you can suck on some-”

His shoulders were gripped and swiveled, Ryan’s cold lips upon his suddenly.
His eyes shot open. His tongue assaulted, pinned, raped. He tasted...No, no,
not what had been before. Something duller and bitter and slipping away and yet
clinging. It crawled into him, scampering onto his taste buds, filling his
mouth and making him gag. Brendon squirmed away, choking. He thrust out at
Ryan, knocking him backwards with the force. Brendon coughed while Ryan
watched, face changing, reddening.

“What the fuck, Brendon? What the fuck--"

“You taste like her.” Brendon spat onto the carpet. Again. He still tasted it.
He was drowning.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You taste...” Again. It was lining his mouth. His whole body coated in her
slick, disgusting essence. “...like her come.”

Ryan sat, back against his wall, at a loss for words. His face paled sullenly,
the sight of Brendon flushing and bowing and heaving his kiss out so sickly.
His eyes shaded darkly, brow furrowing and angry. In one swift motion, he
crawled toward Brendon’s kneeling frame and pushed him down, the shards of his
hair billowing and fanning upon his carpet, eyes icy with surprise. He pressed
his drying lips upon Brendon's furiously, desperately. Brendon tried to dodge,
twisting his torso and shaking his head about as if in a seizure. His face was
taut with rejection. Though his eyes were closed now, Ryan could sense it. No,
no, no, no, no. His mouth wandered. His cheek, his neck, the curve into his
chest. “Feel it, Bren, God dammit, feel it...” He pleaded, hands pressing
Brendon’s wrists into the ground, legs straddling his waist, back arched so
that his lips could read the map of his body. Brendon squirmed.

“Ryan...”

Softly, cooing. The boys jolted in unison at the sound.

It was the dark-haired girl, gaze flowing and shimmering, empty and lost. The
black lace panties still hung above her foot like a tacky anklet. Her shirt
sleeves wrinkled into ruffles at her cuffs, the collar, side, and back of the
uniform top behind her, almost dragging. Her breasts, ripe and heavy, beamed
high and sculpted in her ribbon-lined bra. Her skirt was too short. Brendon
could see where her thighs led to her bottom. Brendon blushed. Ryan saw this.
His lips upturned.

“You don’t want it from me, Bren? You say you ain’t a faggot?” Ryan twisted
Brendon’s hands, lifting him so that his arms curved behind his back as he
forced him to stand. Brendon whimpered, face already moist from tearing. He
shot his crystal gaze down, down, down. Hatefully, he watched the floor, afraid
to send his sight anywhere else. Ryan gripped his face at his chin and jerked
it upward, his eyes landing upon the girl. “Fine, then. Let’s do things your
way.” Ryan’s breath upon his ear. It sent shivers through him. “Brendon, meet
Mika. Mika, this is Brendon.”

Brendon felt his eyes widen and straighten their focus on the girl. Mika? Who
was this girl, anyway? Ryan certainly never mentioned her. He scanned her
again. No, nothing. Nothing special at all. She was pretty. Very much so. But
she looked... almost unworthy. Any girl could have a beautiful face, big tits
and a nice ass...Why had Ryan chosen this one? Where he shone, she rusted. Why
so different?

He was pushed toward her. He stumbled and nearly fell. “Go ahead, Brendon. Say
hello.” Ryan’s voice. His hurting voice. Brendon knew he was upset, but he did
not want to lose himself to him. Not because he was angry. Not now. Not like
this. He had his own control.

Smooth hands, smooth lips. Cool, sweet tongue rolling like waves into him.
Brendon kept his eyes open, but found he was lost in the darkest of forests.
Her hair was a labyrinth. He found nothing but darkness inside of it. When she
drifted away, her gaze was the same. Unchanging. Uncaring. “Hello,” she
murmured, as if this were natural.

“Come on, Brendon,” Ryan shot out, tugging the hold on his hands. “Mika’s being
real nice to you... Why don’t you return the favor?” At his last word, he
thrust Brendon out of his hands with a turn, pushing him toward his bed.
Brendon tripped and landed on the mattress, shocked and speechless, head
swimming from his word, her kiss, this future. He could feel what was coming.
It was swallowing his soul. He watched Ryan flick a glance at Mika. He pointed
to Brendon. Brendon and the bed. “Go ahead, Mika. Brendon wants to prove to me
that he doesn’t want me. Why don’t you help him?”

“Ryan,” Brendon shifted, face falling. “No...”

“No?” Ryan shed something similar to a smile. It was like the dying laughter of
a cruel joke. His eyes were pained. His vision faltered between them: Ryan
watching him, and Mika stepping closer to the bed, undaunted. “No, huh? Sounds
like you’re pretty fucking confused there, Bren.” Ryan’s hands were upon him
again, tearing his shirt over his head before any protest could even be
imagined. Brendon lifted cringing fingers over his bareness. He felt naked.
When he felt Mika’s hands glide over his muscles, he jumped and nearly
squealed. So fast. Ryan’s eyes were bland. “There’s a lot of people downstairs,
you know,” he spoke again, ignoring the panic rising in Brendon’s eyes as Mika
looked his body over. “I wonder how many know you get hard when I touch you.”

“Ryan, please, please don’t do this...”

“Prove it to me. Prove that you’re not gay. Prove that you like girls.” Fists
clenching. Eyes trying so hard to be strong. “Either that, or show me
otherwise.”

“I...

(his mouth on her, oh god oh god, her taste and i never wanted to know such a
thing. it was in him now, inside of me now vile vile vile)

...I...

(so many people down there, so many watching and i’m not a bad boy i can be
good, i swear. leviticus leviticus leviticus leviticusleviticusleviticus 18 22
18 22 18 22 and i can’t just turn the page manshallnotliewithanotherman give me
one more chance once more)

...I can’t do this...” When he tried to push his hair away, it fell over his
fingers. Strands of brown stuck to his face, cemented by the glue of his sweat,
the paste of his tears. He heard the music downstairs. He heard the laughter of
the blond-haired boy, smile clouded with confusion as his swallowed the smoke
of that searing herb. The sounds from the girls with their bodies soaked in
something he could never swim in. Ryan’s tongue. Mika’s hands. He couldn’t help
it. Too much. So fast.

“Ryan, he sounds scared...” Mika’s voice. Her hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs
brushing away the tears like they were shavings of charcoal. Lips on his
forehead. Mother.

“So he does.” Ryan’s shadow, darker than any illusion Brendon could have made.
Not in those days. Not now. “But isn’t he pretty?” And Mika nodded, a smile
faint. Brendon’s heart beat as if it would burst. “Why don’t you help him ease
this fear?” Ryan raised his arms, coated in cloth, and there were two t-shirts
on the floor. And before Brendon could cry out or move, he was riding, and
taking, and the whole world spun slower. He felt as if they were dropping so
far from a place they could never reach, falling so fast it was impossible for
anyone to slow or stop or be saved at all.
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