saintroux: (bewbs)
[personal profile] saintroux
Title: Until It Isn't
Author: [livejournal.com profile] gingerrstar
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
Summary: When Ryan turns seventeen, he lets some guy fuck him after a show.
Author Notes: Betas- Lydia/[livejournal.com profile] choclitbunny & Jen/[livejournal.com profile] pluginxbaby. A while back i talked about a rentboy AU, here it is. Written for the Panic Olympics.



Ryan is leaning against the wall next to the smoothie shop, brick scratchy and cool against his back, when he sees the kid. The kid has to be no more than sixteen or seventeen, with dark haphazard hair and ashen skin, but he is smoking a cigarette, body moving in long, sweet drags and dirty exhales, folded in half against a window pane, wearing an obnoxious purple apron and a nametag that Ryan can’t quite read from this side of the alley. He watches casually as the boy pulls the cigarette in and out of his chapped lips, and it feels like a beat, pulsing against his temples, a bouncing staccato against the inside of his brain. His body feels hot, feels cold, and Ryan grasps to remember the last thing he took, because his head is getting a bit woozy and suddenly, he really, really wants a cigarette. He leans his neck back, pushing the crown of his head against the brickwork, and the boy’s body sighs, visibly slumping as he rubs his free hand against his temple.

“Fuck,” Ryan hisses, the top of his spine moving with an audible crack, as he rolls his body forward in order to push himself off of the wall and towards the boy. The boy’s foot twitches wildly as Ryan approaches, but he doesn’t look up, busying his fingers idly in the grit of his jeans as Ryan slides down next to him, although a little unsteady.

“Muh?” the boy mumbles, turning his head at Ryan’s press against his thigh. “What are you—” Ryan cuts him off with two hastily placed fingers to the boy’s mouth.

“Human,” Ryan rushes out. “And I need a smoke.” He then lowers his fingers, but not before catching them against the boy’s bottom lip on the down-stroke. The boy fumbles through his pockets in silence, pulling out a handful of rolled cigarettes and holding it out towards Ryan. Ryan chuckles under his breath and takes one, sliding it between his lips before reaching his left hand into the boy’s jean pocket, wrestling his lighter out from the tight, stretchy confine and lighting his cigarette. By this time the kid already has a fresh smoke dangling from his mouth, so Ryan pulls a drag and reaches over to light the kid’s cigarette before pushing himself to his feet and fumbling off down the sidewalk.

“Thanks, kid, see you around,” he calls over his shoulder once he’s a sufficient ten squares or so away, saluting his cigarette in the boy’s direction. The boy just stays back against the window glass, staring dazedly with smoke curling in tendrils from the tip of his cigarette. Once he regains his consciousness, though, Ryan is well a ways down the street, long out of earshot.

“But I didn’t catch your,” the boy calls anyway, before it feels a bit silly that he’s alone, “name.” There isn’t any answer, so he just smashes out his cigarette, pushes himself off of the wall, and heads back inside.



The next time that Ryan passes by the smoothie shop, it’s raining. It’s raining, and he has some guy’s hand guiding him by his back pockets, hand cupping his ass through the layer of denim as they walk. The guy’s walk slows near the windows, as if he might be looking inside, and Ryan takes that time to glance in, watching the boy from before laugh, big and infectious from behind the counter, before the guy begins walking with purpose, Ryan letting him lead them thee floors up, to some apartment that hasn’t been cleaned in three weeks but has running water and a fridge and probably more than just a blanket on the floor.

As soon as they reach the bedroom, the guy takes his hand out of Ryan’s jeans and begins work on the knobs and latches of his own, twisting and pulling until he’s they’re loose enough that he just shucks them to the floor along with his boxers.

“Strip,” he tells Ryan as he reaches down to pull off his shoes and socks, and Ryan makes curt haste of the buttons on his jean fly, tossing his shirt over his shoulder and his shoes against the door. Ryan is just making effort to pull down his underwear when the guy puts a large hand on top of his to halt him.

“Not just yet, pretty boy,” he says, pushing on Ryan’s shoulders until his knees hit the wood flooring, letting off a dry chuckle at the sound. “We have to get down to business before you get what you want.” Ryan knows what comes next, before the guy even starts jerking his cock, the tip pressing against the seam of Ryan’s lips, and as Ryan opens his mouth around the head, he mentally thanks the guy for cutting to the chase. It’s sex, pure and simple, and Ryan is thankful for the times when he doesn’t have to try to pretend that it’s anything more.

Ryan sucks at his cock, bobbing up and down, eager but precise, and rolls the guy’s balls around in between his fingers, tugging occasionally, until the guy starts to get a bit erratic, fisting his hands in the crown of Ryan’s hair and forcing his head down farther. Ryan pulls away, predicting the guy’s impending orgasm, and drops back onto the bed, lifting his hips to pull his underwear down and off, scraping over his own cock, hard and curved upwards, as he goes. The guy starts up another rhythm with his hand on his cock, but Ryan puts a hand up to halt him before it goes to far.

“Ah, ah, wouldn’t want to cum too soon,” he says, pulling his hand away and sucking two fingers into his mouth, coating them with a sufficient amount of spit before reaching them down and shoving two into his entrance straight away, moaning loudly at the jarring sensation. “Come here.” And he grabs the guy by the cock, leading him down, so that he’s kneeling on the bed. The guy reaches down to guide himself in, but Ryan pushes him back, and shifts away, leaving the guy with a puzzled expression.

“Condom,” he explains, producing a small foil packet, neatly wrapped, and he shifts back, ripping it open and unrolling it down the guy’s hard cock, “It’s a requirement.” The guy just laughs and pushes the head in, lifting Ryan’s legs over his shoulders before giving another hard thrust and burying himself to the hilt. Ryan likes when they don’t ask, just assume, just know that he can take it. The guy thrusts sloppily, but his cock pulses in Ryan’s ass, and Ryan goes to moan before he realizes. The guy is panting, moving and shifting, when he opens his mouth.

“So,” he starts, a bit louder than normal, the headboard ramming unrelentingly against the wall, “what’s your name?” The guy stops thrusting at that, looking at Ryan a bit curiously.

“Chris,” the guy says, a bit off put, “what the fuck do you care?” Ryan leans his head back and chuckles, before looking up at him with a pointed, mischievous smirk.

“I need to scream something.”



When Ryan turns seventeen, he lets some guy fuck him after a show. It’s not pretty; the guy is rough, assertive, leaves thick lines of finger bruises all the way up and down Ryan’s hips. The guy has a car, so he lets the guy take him back to his father’s house, and they fuck in his childhood bedroom, the wooden frame of his single bed pounding loudly against the wall, his father asleep no more than twenty feet away. He doesn’t stay after they’re done, not really, just sucks Ryan off once he has already come, then gets to his feet, wrestles on his jeans, and salutes Ryan on his way out the door, leaving Ryan sore and sticky, the cool air sending shivers up and down his aching spine.

It’s only later that Ryan realizes; he never even took off his shirt.




Ryan ends up at the beach, and it’s a Sunday. It’s cold, strangely enough, but the waves are warm against his feet, cigarette warm in between his fingers. He feels strangely content here, even waiting for his next pickup, feels like maybe the world doesn’t exist outside of this—water and sand and salt, the broken honey sky, wind at his back. He fingers the busted out hem of his pants and thinks momentarily of going back to grab a new pair, but he can’t will his body to move. Plus, pickup is in about fifteen minutes, if the guy is on time. Ryan doesn’t want to pass up the opportunity for some easy money.

He pulls a cigarette out of his back pocket and lights it, sucking in, out, circulating the hot, moldy air inside his lungs, chuckling from somewhere deep in his gut at the sensation. The air feels unused lately, like he hasn’t said anything outside of pickups in a while, but he probably hasn’t.

“Did you ever really want me?” he screams, to the sea, to no one, and the waves answer back with a gust of harsh wind, lapping the salty spray all the way up to Ryan’s knees. “Yeah,” he mutters through a laugh, cynical and a bit sad, before blowing out another cloud of smoky haze and letting it settle in the tide. “I thought so.”



It’s an immeasurable amount of time before his cigarette has burnt down to just a remnant, even though he’s taken maybe three drags, but he flicks it out into the surf anyway, steadying his hands in the sand and pushing himself to his feet. The dock looks far away, prominent, towering over Ryan’s head, but his pickup doesn’t seem to be coming, so he heads for the steps.

Once he’s reached the top, brushing the sand off of his feet, he sees the guy, Darren, his Sunday night, facing the street lamps, a bag on his shoulder and keys dangling from his left hand. Ryan toes back on his shoe and walks over to stand next to him on the railing, Darren turning his head with an expression of genuine surprise. Ryan looks up from his knuckles.

“Oh— ” Darren says, a bit scratchy, with a lift at the end, and reaches back to scratch at his neck. “Hey.” Ryan turns sideways into his space.

“Didn’t you see me?” he asks, hiking up the waist of his pants. “Down by the water? I was just taking a smoke, you could’ve—” He moves forward, running his cold palm down Darren’s arm, before Darren takes a quick step back to stop him.

“I found someone,” he says, and Ryan cocks his head a bit inquisitively, before advancing, Darren’s back moving until it hits the unforgiving wood of the railing.

“What,” Ryan trills into the word, “a boyfriend? That’s never stopped you before.” Darren gulps as Ryan runs his extended fingers up and down until he reaches the zip of Darren’s pants. At that, Darren stumbles sideways, tripping out of Ryan’s hold on him, stuttering.

“N-no, I—I found another boy,” Darren spits out clumsily, putting precise emphasis on the ‘boy’, gesturing toward Ryan, who steps back as if burned. Neither of them says anything for a few moments.

“So,” Ryan starts, picking at his cuticles with annoyed eyes. “What makes this new kid so special?” And even though Darren is pretty sure that Ryan couldn’t care less, he speaks.

“Uh, he’s young, and he’s—he’s good,” Darren feels a bit pressured, under Ryan’s watchful stare. “He’s good with his mouth, and his hands, and just—he’s not so detached.” He looks up, and Ryan looks a little stung, even for him, so he retracts. “I mean—not that you’re not good— it’s just that you sometimes seem so mechanical and you barely ever talk at all, and this kid, he—he begs me Ryan.” Darren looks to him for understanding, as if he might get it. “And I don’t know if he’s detached like you are, maybe he is, but he sure as hell doesn’t act like it.”

“So who is this kid,” Ryan asks, arms crossed under his chest. “What’s his name?” Darren starts to open his mouth, but Ryan shakes his head. “Actually, you know what? I don’t even want to know.” And he walks off, leaving Darren to stand there under the pale flicker of the lamp light.



Ryan is back at the docks the next night, and he’s wearing a hat. He leans against a far railing, watching the moon dance from one corner of the sky to the next, smoking three cigarettes before he sees him. The kid is small, light, a blur of dark hair covering his ears, and Ryan might not want to admit it, leering from so many feet away, but he’s kind of tragically beautiful. The kid stops to stand on the platform, and Ryan takes three long strides to stand behind him, hooking his chin over the boy’s thin shoulder.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” Ryan breathes, hot steam floating into his ear. “What’s your name?” And it’s all a bit too seductive, but the boy turns against Ryan’s cheek, and suddenly Ryan finds himself face to face with the kid from the smoothie shop, lighter still sticking up through the material of his pocket. Oh.

The kid looks him up and down, critically almost, as if he isn’t quite sure that Ryan is the type of guy who goes for pickups, but Ryan just re-adjusts his hat and tilts the boy’s ear up towards his mouth.

“Wanna give me a ride?” Ryan asks, low and scratchy in the boy’s ear, and Ryan can feel his eyes go wide.

“Uhm—I don’t have a, I don’t have a car.” The boy stutters a bit as Ryan blows across his neck.

“Somehow,” he says, low again, “Somehow, I think we’ll manage.”



“So, what’s your name kid?” Ryan says, scrunching a dirty chunk of hair up, away from his face, exhaling.

“Not a kid,” the boy replies curtly, pulling a joint up to his lips, letting the sweetness curl around his tongue, pulling it away and holding.

“That wasn’t the question,” Ryan says, like it’s easy, an afterthought, and he throws his spent joint down, rubbing it into the pavement with his heel. The boy leans his spine up against the building.

“It’s Brendon,” he says—a cool, dissolving tenor, voice heavy with smoke.

“Brendon,” Ryan repeats, like he’s rolling it around in his mouth, testing it. “Well then, Brendon Not-A-Kid, welcome to the business.” And just as Brendon opens his mouth, Ryan halts him with a finger. “I’m Ryan Ross.”

Brendon watches him walk down the street, and only remembers later that he was going to ask him to come in.



Brendon is at odds with his station blender, which is currently finding every opportunity to spray pink, sticky strawberry all across his apron, when Ryan walks in. He looks like he just woke up, or like he never even slept at all maybe—shirt and pants wrinkled, ratty hair, dirty freckles across the focal point of his face—and Brendon smiles a little bit tentatively as Ryan notices him. It’s been a few weeks, or more, since that night at Brendon’s apartment, and he was just kind of figuring that Ryan had disappeared for good, but his guesses are usually wrong, so he should have figured. Ryan steps up to the counter with his pointer finger touching the side of his mouth. Brendon just kind of stares at him and fiddles with the cord on the blender.

“You’ve got a thing—” Ryan says, scraping with his finger, motioning, Brendon trying awkwardly to copy his movements, “on the side of your—” Then Ryan is hovering, his finger reaching out to swipe away the sticky pink, brushing his index against Brendon’s moist bottom lip. Brendon is silent for a second.

“Oh,” he says, dazed but shaking it out. “Oh, yeah, thanks, I sometimes.” Ryan’s face looks like it might be smiling, and he finishes the sentence with a hand gesture. “So, what do you want?”

“You.”

“Uhm, I’m sorry, sir, we don’t solicit that kind of thing here, but I can offer you something to drink.” Brendon’s face is a bit red, even after the things he’s done, but his tone is playful, quick. “‘Mango Mango’, ‘Very Berry’, ‘Strawberry Shooter’, anything catch your fancy?” Ryan calculates it for a second.

“Just something with lemon-lime, I guess, you guys make that?” He scratches at his head, and Brendon wonders if when the last time he washed it was.

“No, but I can,” Brendon says in return, already filling the blender and adding some extracts. When it’s fully blended, he caps it and hands it to Ryan, who slips him a five.

“Keep the change,” he says. Brendon wants to protest, but he hasn’t eaten properly since Tuesday, so he rests his case. Ryan has already started towards the door when he calls out, “I get off at six.”

Ryan just turns and smiles a bit, saluting. “I’ll see you around, Brendon,” he says, and Brendon likes the way that his name sounds in Ryan’s voice, but he watches him walk away anyway.



Brendon gets back to his apartment one night, and the answering machine is flashing. He throws his bag onto the mattress near the window and he’s so fucking tired, but he presses down on the button anyway, flopping down onto the mattress and listening to the shrill tone as the machine roars to life.

“Brendon,” a woman’s voice states. “This is Cathy.” She pauses. “I haven’t seen you in a while, but I figured that you were busy, so I’m just calling to let you know that I’d like it if you came by as soon as you can, honey. Maybe I can make you some dinner; you could use it.” She laughs softly. “Well, I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”

Brendon looks at the display, and the message is dated four days ago, which means that she’s probably expecting him by now. He feels sick to his stomach, and all he wants to do is sleep for the next three days, but it’s another month’s rent that he won’t have to pay, so he pushes himself off of the bed and slides on his shoes, reaching up to run a comb through his dirty mess of hair.

He clicks the lock shut on his way out, and he’s mostly thankful that the landlady doesn’t notice when he pukes in a flowerpot on the way down the stairs.



How he ends up in front of Brendon’s apartment complex, Ryan’s not even sure, but he does. He walks up to the door buzzer, tentatively because his feet hurt, and presses down softly, a few repeated times, but no one answers, so he gives up, slumping down with a rough thump against a dip in the wall.

It takes him less than three minutes to fall asleep.



Ryan is tiny, folded in on himself and leaning against the brickwork, when Brendon stumbles up the steps. One of his feet is extended, and Brendon starts to trip, but catches himself, kneeling down neatly next to him and jostling Ryan back and forth by the shoulders.

“Ryan,” he says, “Ryan, why the fuck are you out here?” Ryan jars awake, wide eyes fluttering open, and Brendon puts a hand to his elbow, both he and Ryan working to pull him to his feet. Brendon buzzes himself in, punching the code with nimble fingers, Ryan hanging steadily from his shoulders the entire time.

Somehow, they manage together up the stairs, Brendon barely pausing to glance at the potted plant stand, sour expression on his face. They make their way inside, Brendon jiggling the lock and Ryan leaning against the cracking paint next to Brendon’s doorframe, looking relatively unfazed and unusually not tired. Nevertheless, he drops on the mattress when they get inside, immediately tucking his shoes against the wall and spreading out, lazy and sated, across Brendon’s sheets. Brendon still stands, stiff and tense, at the edge of the room.

“C’mere,” Ryan mutters, eyeing Brendon and moving up to make a bit of room. Brendon sits down, but his shoulders are pulled tight, body thrumming with nervous energy. “What’s—”

“I—I can’t, Ryan,” Brendon chokes, and it’s soft, whispered, and Ryan can tell that he’s shaking, putting an awkward hand to his lower back. He rubs there with his fingers, just shifting the shirt material as Brendon’s body shivers under his touch. Brendon has a nice back, Ryan thinks. It’s warm and the same creamy color as the skin on his neck, a myriad of freckles dusting the area right above the waist of his pants. “Ryan,” Brendon whispers, twisting his head to the side. “Ryan, can I—?” Ryan just rubs at his back, soothing, and Brendon must take that as an affirmative, because he shifts, lying back until he’s pillowed over Ryan; and Ryan’s breathing stills.

Brendon’s body is clinging, tense and wound, to Ryan’s side, and Ryan isn’t really sure of what he should do. It’s puzzling, because he hasn’t the memory, isn’t sure of what this means, what Brendon wants. The closest that anyone has ever gotten to him was during sex, and he thinks that Brendon might be closer still, but he isn’t sure. Brendon folds in closer, and Ryan isn’t even sure of what he’s doing, but he leans his head down, pulling Brendon’s chin up, and kisses him.

Brendon stills at first, and Ryan can feel the wet streaks from his cheeks, slick and warm, but he continues, pushes forward with his mouth until Brendon’s opens just the slightest bit. Their bodies are still, Ryan’s hands carding through Brendon’s matted hair, when Brendon shifts over onto his back, Ryan pulling with him, hands at Brendon’s shoulders and knees digging into the mattress. It almost feels like a storm now; Brendon surging up and Ryan knocking down to meet him, meeting somewhere in the uneven middle. And Brendon kisses like he’s falling, like maybe the grass is dissolving from under his feet, desperate but demanding. Ryan kisses like he’s practiced, taken classes and written down the steps, but he supposes when they kiss together, it’s somewhere in the middle—that fragile balance between desperation and calculation—and his body feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuck,” Brendon says, and they’re crashing, diving in and out, waves upon the shore, hips jerking together as Ryan fumbles with the material of Brendon’s t-shirt, leaning back to pull it over his head before tugging at the buttons of his own shirt, shucking it off and tossing it against the window. Ryan presses his legs down, caging Brendon’s, and he can feel the tightness in Brendon’s jeans digging into his thigh as he bites down on Brendon’s bottom lip, Brendon’s cheeks soaked, but still throwing his head back at the sensation.

Ryan notices, as he moves to slip down Brendon’s jeans, that his eyes are dark, near black; but he doesn’t notice that they’re wet, droplets of salt shining against his eyelashes.



It’s some unmeasured amount of time later, when Ryan can’t fall asleep. He feels cold, air blowing across his bare legs, body on edge, but his temples are on fire as he watches Brendon, collapsed in on himself, sobs moving in slow ripples down the bare line of his back.

Ryan wonders when he got to be such a fuck up.



The next morning, sure to say, is a tense ordeal. Ryan wakes up, eyelids sticking a bit as he opens them, and Brendon’s not there. He finds his clothes, wrinkled, scattered from the window to the door, and he picks them up, one by one, and slips them on, feeling a bit separated in his own skin.

Brendon is, though, sitting at the card table when he walks into the kitchen. He has his head bent, hair a ruddy mess, over a bowl of something unidentifiable that kind of looks like instant noodles, but Ryan doesn’t think that he should venture to find out. Brendon is mumbling—a small hum—to himself, and Ryan sits down in silence, because there are so many things that he wants to say, things like ‘I didn’t’ or ‘You could’ve’ or some other sentiment that really always leads up to ‘I’m sorry’. Brendon, though, as he should, takes the initiative.

“She was the first person that ever really made me feel like somebody wanted me,” he starts, and Ryan knows this tone, sadly. “But, she didn’t, not really, and now I can’t stop.”

I want you, Ryan thinks about saying, but doesn’t really understand the context, thinks better of it. This isn’t his time; they aren’t his words to say.

Ryan watches as Brendon pushes his bowl to the side and leans down over the table; he looks strong, lost, though Ryan isn’t sure that those should go hand in hand. Brendon reaches out with his hand, but stops short.

“There’s never really an option,” Brendon says, like he’s said it a million times, but Ryan doesn’t doubt him.

“I’ve never known it any other way,” Ryan says, and it’s not about him, but he’s right, and it’s honest, so Brendon reaches over and kisses him, carefully. Ryan knows that this won’t go anywhere today, but Brendon’s mouth feels surer, just the headiest touch of burnt honey, heavy and dripping against his tongue.



“I didn’t figure it out until after you left,” Brendon says, nose nudging against Ryan’s in the yellow light of his bedroom. “That you were like me, I mean, a—” Ryan’s next breath is cool against his lips.

“A whore?” he asks, a laugh rumbling somewhere in his throat, and Brendon smiles, chuckles cool and easy across the arch of Ryan’s chin.

“Yeah,” Brendon chuckles out, almost like it’s a joke.

“It’s never that simple,” Ryan says, quiet, subdued almost. “The earth turns under my feet, but I keep still—” And he stops, breathes out. “It’s like movement never existed in the first place.” Brendon keeps quiet, for a moment, watches the small flicker of Ryan’s eyelashes, blurry from this close. Ryan just stays, running his thumb against the scar under Brendon’s elbow.

“What are we—” Brendon says, his voice barely audible with the wind gust. “I mean, what is this, what are we doing here, Ryan?” Ryan pauses, but the answer is sure.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice surer than it’s ever seemed. “I honestly don’t know.”

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kelsey

December 2010

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