complex. [ryden]

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One of the things Brendon loves about Ryan is his complexity.

It's the way his long fingers of his left hand stretch around the neck of the guitar. How they form a melodious A major chord when Ryan gently strums the strings with his right hand. How Brendon hears so much more than a note, a harmony; how he hears an orchestra of all things beautiful.

The look of concentration etched upon Ryan's face when he's staring at his guitar on his lap, trying to figure out how that one chord progression went. The way his fingers glide across the strings from the F major chord to the B flat chord, humming softly to himself how he imagines Brendon singing his songs; the songs he's written about his him, disguised as something else beneath layers of metaphors.

The scratching of Ryan's pencil as ideas spill from his beautiful head and onto hotel notepaper, sitting at their room desk. How he takes small breaks, looks over at Brendon on the bed, who rests his fingers from his guitar to smile back at the older boy, before they both resume to unknowingly write songs for each other.

The way Ryan's fingers run softly through Brendon's locks when they're laying in Brendon's middle bunk, side by side and listening to the comfortable silence of the night, amidst Jon and Spencer's snores. How Ryan's mere presence is all Brendon needs to calm again.

The way they communicate in silence. The unspoken mutual agreement that hangs between the particles in the hot night air, as they sit on Ryan's balcony and listen to faraway sounds of the life in the city. Yet how Brendon feels even more life when he's alone, like this, with Ryan on his lap in a bleak porch chair and his head resting against Brendon's shoulder.

The way Ryan is the eye of the hurricane for Brendon. How when everything is falling to pieces around, Ryan is there beside him on the motel bed, softly stroking his hair in the colorful light of the early hours of the morning.

How that's all Brendon haves, wants, and needs.