That Left A Mark
by Sara

The sky is dark and the streetlights are bright and the door to the bus is six inches from Brendon's face, that distance rapidly decreasing.

"You alright?" Tom asks, hand on his shoulder. "You gonna get in okay? Anyone in there in case you die of alcohol poisoning? Ryan stayed behind, didn't he?"

"Ryan," Brendon mumbles, trying to remember how the doorknob works. Lefty loose-y, righty tighty- wait, no, it's a doorknob, not a screw - Tom opens it for him, catching his hip when he stumbles a little.

"He gonna be able to carry you to bed if you pass out?" Tom asks, then pauses. "You okay with sleeping on the floor?"

"'M'fine," Brendon says, and it's true, it will be true, he'll get up the bus stairs and in and somewhere there'll be a place he can sit down and it'll be epically fucking spectacular. "Fine," he repeats, one stair navigated, two to go- yes, yes. He's in.

"Don't die," Tom advises him. Brendon shuts the door with a little more force than was maybe necessary, and his thigh catches karmic retribution in the form of the sharp edge of the table. One hand lands on it, holding, and when he looks up he sees Ryan, not so sharply outlined as usual - Brendon blinks, better - coming toward him, in front of him, touching him. Hand on his shoulder, concerned look, and Brendon almost mutters something ridiculous like take care of me, but he's fine, he doesn't need it.

"Long night?" Ryan asks, and Brendon's not even sure. He wants to ask what time it is, but it doesn't matter, it's Too Late and he should be In Bed Asleep At A Reasonable Hour, the voice in his head says, adding emphatic caps and sounding scarily similar to his mother. Ryan's leading him to the couch, which is not his bunk, and where he can't lie down, which Brendon is having a problem with, but Ryan's tugging him down, the leather soft and Ryan so warm against him. "C'mere," Ryan says, and there's something in his voice that Brendon can't quite place, can't think of a word for. Can't think of much, right now, but Ryan's hands on him.

Ryan's hands. Are on him, one unbuttoning his shirt, fingers sliding in to touch his collarbone, and when Brendon looks up Ryan's face is right there, close, so close, so fucking warm, cheeks flushed with heat. This is why Brendon doesn't get drunk when he's lonely, because suddenly everything's- it's all charged, velvet electric, and Brendon wants to run his knuckles over Ryan's cheek, feel soft hot skin, press his face to Ryan's neck and leave kisses there like gifts. Ryan's turned to him, sitting sideways on the couch, his other hand on Brendon's neck, thumb stroking over his jaw, touching him, and it's just- it's Ryan, and he doesn't get Ryan half the time, doesn't get what he's doing here, how this even fucking happened, and now. Now Ryan's getting closer.

Closer. And Brendon can't help but touch him, can't help but want. Not need, yet, just the liquored flow of blood in his veins reaching out to Ryan, pulling Brendon closer, magnetized. Ryan stops halfway through unbuttoning Brendon's shirt and leans into him, wraps his arms around Brendon's neck, and Brendon sees it again, that dark look in Ryan's eyes, there and gone when Brendon squeezes his eyes shut, feels his lips touch Ryan's cheek, not a slide or a carress but a slow sweet drag until he kisses the rise of Ryan's cheekbone, then lower, nuzzling behind his ear and flicking his tongue out to taste the skin there. Ryan moans, and he does it again, kisses his jaw, feels Ryan's hands tangle in his hair.

Brendon's hips shift up, involuntary, and then Ryan's moving into his lap, straddling him, thighs impossibly hot and perfect around his waist. Ryan moves against him, heat-blurred and slow like asphalt on a hot day, and Brendon blinks, focuses on the open collar of Ryan's shirt, the faint redness marking where he'd kissed maybe harder than he'd realized. "Sorry," he murmurs against Ryan's collarbone, and Ryan arches up into him, says his name. Brendon feels the syllables vibrate in Ryan's throat, licks out to taste them, taste Ryan. He's hot, so hot all around Brendon, against Brendon's erection, pushing against the front of his pants already, and Ryan's hand is snaking down between them, making Brendon bite his lip because this is- they can't- fuck, he doesn't want to think about these things.

Ryan tugs at the front of his pants, reaching in and stroking him, sudden grasp of his cock pulling a startled moan from him. He leans his forehead against Ryan's shoulder, gasping as Ryan strokes him again, and there are a hundred reasons- "Ryan," Brendon says, his voice cracking, unsteady, scared- he doesn't feel it until he hears it, and then he realizes he's shaking, hands trembling where they've settled on Ryan's waist.

"Shh," Ryan murmurs into his ear. "It feels good, right?" And it does, it does feel good, but- Brendon leans his head against the back of the couch, away from Ryan, away from his skin, gleaming faintly with sweat where his collar's pushed open, right where Brendon wants to set his teeth and feel Ryan's flesh yield and give. If he just closes his eyes he'll be able to think, be able to understand this. "It feels good," Ryan whispers, kissing Brendon's neck, along his jaw, "it feels good." Slower strokes on his cock now, teasing as Ryan kisses the corner of his mouth. "You want this," Ryan tells him.

He kisses Brendon, licking at his lower lip before pushing in, and Brendon lets him, kisses back, tightens his hands on Ryan's waist to- something, fuck, push him away, bring him closer, mark him so Brendon will know, tomorrow, that this was real. Ryan's skin is fever hot, and he's shadow black and gold in the lamplight streaming through the tinted windows, and Brendon's so busy staring he doesn't quite understand what's happening when Ryan takes his hand, guides it upward to his mouth and sucks two of Brendon's fingers in. His cheeks hollow, and Brendon feels his cock twitch, wanting that mouth on him, wanting-

"Put them in me," Ryan whispers, sliding Brendon's fingers out with a soft wet sound, and Brendon blinks at him - in him? - oh fuck, in him. Ryan slides off of him, is barely gone a second before he's back, bare from the waist down and getting his shirt off too until he's naked in Brendon's lap. He takes hold of Brendon's wrist and directs him back, until Brendon's sliding his fingers along the cleft of Ryan's ass, and Ryan hisses when he curls them in, rubbing against him and watching Ryan bite his lip as he strokes him, there, pushing just the tip of one finger in as Ryan shudders and says, "Both, at once, you won't hurt me."

But he's lying, because he winces, and Brendon almost takes them back out, but Ryan grabs his wrist and says, "No," low and strained, and Brendon wonders if he's supposed to touch Ryan, jerk him off, if Ryan wants him to- jesus, what the fuck are they doing, Brendon doesn't do this. He's starting to panic, a little, the intoxicated heaviness of his limbs bleeding away, leaving him shivering. Ryan catches his face between his hands and kisses him again, moving in his lap, riding his fingers and panting against Brendon's mouth, and says, "Fuck me, fuck me."

"I- how?" Brendon asks, feeling immensely stupid the moment he says it, but Ryan seems to get it. He moves off of Brendon's lap, tugging him down on top of him on the couch until Brendon's leaning over him, one hand braced against the seat, the other pushing his own pants down. He watches his movements like they're someone else's; someone else stroking his cock, once, twice, someone else pushing Ryan's legs up, someone else spreading his cheeks and pushing in, tight hot just wet enough around him and then it isn't someone else anymore, it's Brendon, and he's really doing this. He thrusts his cock into Ryan's ass, gripping his thighs, thumbs pressed to the sensitive inner curves hard enough to leave white imprints that dissolve to marked red.

Ryan's mouth drops open, his head pressing back against the couch as he arches up, moans, "Oh god," like he's been waiting for this, wanting this, and all Brendon wants is to look into his eyes, see Ryan, see this happening so maybe later he can figure out why. Why Ryan wanted this from him, why they're doing this now- but Ryan's eyes stay closed, even when Brendon thrusts in hard, when he lets his body take over where his mind won't, and get what he needs from Ryan, since Ryan's clearly getting what he needs - what Brendon never knew he needed - from Brendon. Brendon releases his legs, touches Ryan's stomach, his sides, brushes over his nipples and draws a gasp from him- Ryan's eyes stay closed.

"Fuck, look at me," Brendon whispers before he even realizes he's opened his mouth, and Ryan's eyes open.

He licks his lips, touches Brendon's hand, says, "Harder," and Brendon fucks him harder, wraps his fingers around that white wrist and holds on tight as he thrusts in, rough, uneven, but the friction is perfect. Ryan clenches around him, whimpers, "Yeah, yeah," as Brendon bends him further, getting as close as he can until Ryan can't look away from him, until he's forced to meet Brendon's eyes.

"God, you- what do you want from me?" Brendon asks, unable to stop himself, unable to stop this. He can't remember saying yes and he can't remember Ryan asking, and now he's inside Ryan, and he can't even convince himself that he's not the one who's really getting fucked. He slams in, feeling the sting of skin slapping skin, knowing that he'll probably feel it tomorrow, although not half as much as Ryan will. Ryan doesn't answer him, just cries out on a particularly deep thrust, and Brendon tangles a hand in Ryan's hair, kissing him, thrusting his tongue into Ryan's mouth and keeping a tight grip on him until he gets dizzy. They separate, both gasping for air, and Brendon's hips don't stop moving, working faster as he feels himself get closer, even through the density of drunkeness, maybe only intoxication now. Ryan gets his hand down between them and roughly jerks at his own cock, panting against Brendon's mouth.

It only takes a minute before Ryan's coming, bucking his hips up and shuddering against Brendon, nearly soundless, and it's not the tightness or the way Ryan's legs grip his waist that does it for Brendon, it's when Ryan gasps out, "Brendon," and Brendon flashes back to- before, however long ago it was, one of the bright times between the flickering blackouts of memory when Ryan was just leaning against him, letting Brendon move his mouth over his skin, his fluttering pulse. He shudders, pushes deep, and comes inside Ryan.

When he returns to awareness, it's to Ryan's hands on him, one combing gently through his hair, the other rubbing lightly at the juncture between his shoulder and neck. "We should get you to bed," Ryan murmurs, and it's very much not an invitation. Brendon lifts up off him, feeling dizzy and slightly sick, and it's only Ryan's hand on his back, Ryan's whispered, "Hey, are you okay?" that stops Brendon from- something. He shakes his head, then nods, and then stands, all of which by themselves were bad ideas; together, near catastrophe. Ryan rises, tugs his pants on, and leads Brendon, still half-dressed, back to his own bunk.

The mattress feels like bliss when Brendon gets down on it, shoving his clothes the rest of the way off and deciding that fuck it, he's sleeping naked. Ryan watches him, pulls the covers up around Brendon's shoulders. Brendon wants to say something, but mostly he just wants to pass out, and not. Not be dealing with this. Ryan's looking at him, and that dark look is gone from his eyes; Brendon wishes he could forget it as easily.

"Sleep it off," Ryan says quietly, and kisses Brendon on the forehead, then closes the curtain of Brendon's bunk.

Brendon doesn't.