Saturday
"Tell me about yourself then, Brendon."
Brendon looks at Ryan as he answers Mrs. Ross. "I just live to love and enjoy myself, Ma'am."
Ryan smiles, shyly, and looks down at his meal.
x
Somehow, Ryan finds himself lying next to Brendon on his double bed.
As Brendon talks, happily and loudly, about a time where he made $100 from one person whilst busking, Ryan suddenly realises that there's a light pressure on his side. He tenses, and glances down, to see that Brendon is tracing small circles into his hip, almost absently, where his t-shirt has rode up. For some reason, Ryan suddenly can't breathe.
He shifts across the bed, a little, meaning to move away - but somehow, his body betrays him. He ends up moving closer to Brendon, their shoulders warm against one another's, and their hips mere moments away. Brendon falls silent, without warning, and Ryan's cheeks flame red.
"Um. S-sorry, I --"
"You know, I've never met anybody with a stutter before," Brendon says, sounding almost shy. "I kind of really like it."
"It's h-horrible," Ryan disagrees, at once, feeling more self-conscious than ever about it. However, his mind soon trails far from his speech impediments, as he realises that Brendon's fingers are pressing into his side again, this time with more pressure. His bare skin is feeling more than he ever thought it could.
"No, it's not," Brendon argues, softly. "It's nice. It's sweet. It suits you."
Ryan tries his hardest not think about the implications of that, because why would Brendon think him sweet? Brendon is just acting nice, like he does with everybody. He's just that kind of person, with his dark hair and his smooth skin, and his smile, and...
Oh, no. He is not going to let himself get hard whilst Brendon is on the bed next to him.
Somehow, he manages to sit up, and clamber off the bed, before his little problem gets more obvious. He glances at himself in the mirror as he does so, and sees nothing but dark eyes and messy hair and pale skin, and he winces. He just needs to get out of here before he does something stupid.
He heads towards the door, without looking back. If he sees Brendon lying back on the bed, with his innocent eyes, he might just not be able to walk any further. He's just going to go to the bathroom or something, and distract himself away from the absurd thoughts running through his mind that are making his cheeks warm.
"I'm j-just going to the bathroom," he explains, but upon hearing the smallest of movements from behind him, he pauses. He's not exactly sure why, but he feels awkward and fluttery and weird, all of a sudden. Suspiciously, he turns, opening his mouth to ask Brendon something, anything, that might distract him, but as he does so, he's suddenly pushed back against the wall, and fuck, Brendon is against him, all hips and fingers and lips.
Ryan's breath hitches.
"Um." He stops. Licks his lips. Tries again. "Um, w-what are you --?"
"Don't go to the bathroom," Brendon whispers, far too close, but somehow too far away. He doesn't say it like a demand, but more like a plea, and the whine in his voice causes Ryan's cheeks to stain with red. They're of similar height, and Brendon's eyes are burning imploringly into his, and just how could he ever deny him anything?
"Why n-not?" Ryan manages to ask, even though his voice is trembling a little.
"I like you," Brendon says, simply, and quietly. "I like you here, with me."
