That First Inconceivable Touch
by Sara

So they break up (again), and Ryan watches Spencer pretend to be surprised and Brent not bother to pretend at all (Eyebrow raised, "What's it been, a week?" Two weeks. Fuck him.). Trevor claps him on the back and says, "Seriously, fuck her," and suggests they go- okay, not get drunk, maybe get- no, Ryan doesn't do that either, so stop asking. Ryan scowls and pushes his hair off his face (one of these days he's gonna leave this fucking city and get the stupidest fucking haircut he possibly can and it's going to be awesome. Hopefully by then he'll look his age and be able to pull it off. Hopefully by then he'll have stopped dating girls who break up with him every time they have a bad goddamn day and decide that forgetting to call once means you don't like them anymore, when last week you were calling too much. Trevor's right, fuck girls).

The point is he's been looking forward to this show for weeks and breaking up with his stupid girlfriend isn't going to ruin it. He drives too fast on the way to the venue (on the way to the venue, ha. He drives too fast on the way to the corner store), but the air feels good, the window's down and twenty minutes ago he was on his back on the bed, jerking off and not thinking of her. Thinking instead of music and revenge and boys, spreading his legs and digging his fingers into his thigh 'til the white skin bruised, felt good to press his pulse against the sharp point of his hip, felt good to bite his lip hard and think about tonight, crowds of kids and maybe finding a boy, some stranger (that maybe looked like Pete. or Conor. don't think both, too much.), hard kisses and Ryan let himself gasp out, even though he usually tried to be quiet.

It's still ninety degrees out, dry twilight heat and that's why Ryan flushes, why he feels himself get hot from the base of his spine to the tips of his ears, guilty hot because maybe he did it again, maybe he licked his fingers and rubbed there, right where it felt good, and pushed in and thought about dark eyes and sharp anonymous faces, dirty words whispered against his neck and maybe he wanted it just like that, maybe. Maybe he thought about hips pressed together and grinding and dark dirty songs and his back against the wall, maybe he thought about getting fucked (definitely the heat making him tug at his collar, lean his head out the window, definitely the heat making him ache a little, inside, from the memory of too much, more than he could take, but that was the point, taking it), maybe he stroked himself faster and pushed his fingers in harder and arched up and wished there was something he could beg for. Someone there to make him.

He gets to the venue hoping for air conditioning but there is none, of course, it's ninety degrees outside and about a hundred and twenty inside, even just at the very edges of the crowd. He's almost wet hot already, heads to the bar for water, they're on the second opener (fuck her for keeping him on the phone half the fucking afternoon just to dump him) and he's still half-hard in his jeans and fuck, his blood's still simmering, heart feels like it's battering his ribcage from the inside, heat prickling over his skin making his shirt stick to his back.

The band winds up their set and Ryan leans against the wall, watches, waits for his blood to slow, feeling the crowd jitter, kids his age and some older, dark denim and black jackets despite the heat, such a fucking scene, and Ryan tugs his own jeans up and tries to feel like he belongs here. Alone. (Fuck her.) Feels the concrete wall against his back, painted slick dark red with posters plastered over and peeling off at the corners, and it's cool, perfect against his shoulder blades, his lower back when he presses against it as flat as he can. The water bottle is cold and dripping from the ice bucket, sweet chilled drops of water that Ryan thumbs across his cheekbones, listening to the intermission music and scanning the crowd for kids he knows (a few) and kids he likes (zero). He wants to touch somebody. Badly.

(Badly. He wants fingertips on his hips sliding down into his jeans, lips on the back of his neck, a voice in his ear telling him what to do. He wants to stop wondering and feel it for real, he knows he'll like it, something more than his own fingers in his ass. He wants a break from girls and relationships and feelings and all that, fuck that, he wants a quick uncomplicated fuck. Nothing in his life has ever been uncomplicated. He deserves this.)

The crowd's getting restless. Ryan pushes off the wall, tosses his empty bottle away and sidles through groups of people edging toward the mass in the center; he doesn't need barrier but it'd be nice to be in the middle, surrounded, a part of something. Elbows digging into his ribs and hips against his and it's a game, really, counting his bruises at the end of the night, he's always been so fucking delicate that he practically welts if someone looks at him wrong. He's skinny enough to fit through spaces until the band comes out and then he's being pushed forward with the crowd, a quick stumbling rush that ends with him pressed up against people on all sides, a fifteen second lapse, less, and the band's on, launching into the first song, and the crowd is living.

He catches the rhythm quickly, feels it pounding through the floor, into the backs of his knees, along his spine, catching in his shoulders and it's hot, hot, so fucking hot in the press of people, not just the press but the movement, the blur of lights onstage, lit backdrops and boys with guitars. There are bodies against him on all sides, people writhing together, knuckles pressed to his shoulder, fingertips on the small of his back, not anyone in particular because it's everyone reaching the same peculiar transcendence as the song shifts to something harder, then softer, then back up to furious, and he loses track of how many songs have been played. It doesn't matter because he's in it, sweating hot and panting for breath, eyelids half-shut so the stage is just color and light, and there are kids making out in the audience, lipstick smeared on corners of mouths and his body's aching a little already, just enough to remind him he's alive.

Just enough that it takes a moment to register the hand on his hip, then he's letting his eyes slide shut and his hand move down to cover the one on him, pull the person closer, and he hears a startled, breathless, "Hey," gasped out into his ear. Not a girl's voice, and he probably, hopefully won't be beaten up for this, for tilting his head back onto the guy's shoulder and no, he probably shouldn't grind back, but the guy's other hand moves to his stomach automatically, pulling him in, and when he looks back, just to make sure he's not rubbing up on someone he knows or something, he sees the sharp outline of the guy's jaw, gleaming with sweat, full lips, dark eyes. He's congratulating himself on his fantastic instincts when he feels the guy - or, boy, actually, he can't be much older than Ryan - swallow, feels the movement in his throat and the music is everywhere and people are moving around them and he wants to taste, god, he's moving in that last centimeter of space and flicking his tongue over the boy's pulse point before he even really realizes what he's doing.

It's salt heat good against his tongue, and he wants to bite, suck, lick that skin bruised. The boy moans, hands tightening on his waist, and Ryan feels that moan against his lips, bites just a little, a graze of teeth really, not that plausible deniability's a factor anymore, not with - oh god - the boy digging fingers into his hips and pushing against Ryan's ass. Ryan's half-hard already and getting harder, sliding his hands back to hold the boy's hips so he can grind his ass back against him, and it's so hot and fucking good and this can't really be happening, Ryan never gets what he wants like this, it's just not how his life works. He wants to turn around and kiss him but he doesn't want to stop this, addicted already to the feel of it, slick with sweat and feeling the boy's cock hard against him, hard for him, and it's now or fucking never, right, he can have this, maybe, if he asks, if he finds the perfect thing to say.

He tips his head back to speak and their eyes meet and Ryan's pushing back or the boy's pushing away but either way they're heading off the floor, clutching each other's hands and Ryan says, "The bathrooms," when the boy hesitates for a moment, too long for Ryan's taste so he takes the lead, drags him to the back, through the dark hallway lined with people and pushing through the door. Even in flickering flourescent lighting the boy's fucking pretty, thick dark hair and gorgeous mouth and Ryan barely gets them into the stall before he's got the boy against the wall, kissing him hard. He snaps the lock shut and when they pull back for air, the boy gasps, "At least tell me your name."

"Doesn't matter," Ryan says, trying to get the boy's lips back on his. This is one night, he'll never see the kid again, it doesn't-

"But," he starts, and then Ryan moves his lips to the boy's jaw, sucking at the skin there until he trails off. He can still feel the beat of the music coming up through the floorboards, and he fists the boy's shirt, bringing him forward until Ryan's the one against the wall, the rhythm steady against his back, counterpointing his heartbeat in half time, metal cool against his shoulderblades.

"Tell me yours," Ryan whispers, scraping his teeth along the boy's neck.

"That's not really fair," he gasps, bracing a hand against the wall as Ryan untucks his shirt, slides under to touch his hips, work the button of his jeans.

"I need to scream something," Ryan says, and the boy's eyes widen.

"Brendon," he says. Ryan pulls down his zipper.

"Brendon," Ryan repeats, "fuck me."

"Jesus," Brendon gasps out, his hips jerking up unconsciously at Ryan's words, and Ryan just leans in, fumbling Brendon's jeans and boxers down past his waist so he can get at Brendon's cock, which is, fuck, big, and goddamn perfect, and Ryan wants it so much he thinks that if Brendon denies him he might actually get down on his knees and fucking beg him for it. Might get down on his knees anyway, just for the thrill of it, the experience, because he's here and he can and when Brendon crowds him against the wall he can feel it, feel Brendon's cock digging into his hip. The wall behind him's a cold metal drag along his back as he slides to the floor, one hand steadied along Brendon's side, fingers curling in Brendon's t-shirt, feeling him shiver. "You're, seriously," Brendon attempts, and Ryan settles down onto his knees, back up against the stall. He takes Brendon's cock in his hand and strokes him once, tentatively.

The music's still there, filtering up through concrete and denim to skin, and Ryan murmurs, "Shut up," because he likes this song, for a second it's almost like he's back in the crowd again. He was looking forward to this show. This is better.

Brendon slides a hand through his hair as Ryan leans forward, flicking his tongue at the head of Brendon's cock. He thinks maybe Brendon's not lost for words very often, but he is now, biting his lip and pushing his hips forward so Ryan's mouth parts to let him in. It's different, not unpleasant, and Ryan feels his own cock jerk at the thought of Brendon's cock inside him. His eyes slide shut and he opens wider, letting Brendon slide the first few inches into his mouth, too much already, he's not used to this but he wants it, dammit.

He concentrates on breathing through his nose but it doesn't help much. He's sucking hard, taking Brendon deeper into his throat with every stuttering breath. His jaw aches already from stretching around Brendon's thick cock, and he slides his other hand down, tugging at his pants because jesus, he wants this cock in him, he wants Brendon to fuck him, cheap and filthy and meaningless and fucking rough in this dirty bathroom stall.

"God, you really fucking want it," Brendon says, and Ryan moans, curls his tongue around the underside of Brendon's cock and looks up at him. He's got one hand braced on the wall, the other cupping Ryan's cheek as he pushes in and out, and it would be surprising how quickly Ryan took to this if he hadn't been jerking off over the idea for months, years even. He pulls off of Brendon's cock and sucks two fingers into his mouth, getting them wet because he'll need it, he'll need it when Brendon fucks him. It hurts a little when he pushes a finger in, too fast but he's still got the memory of before, three fingers in his ass a few hours ago. He can take this, he can take more than this. He'll take Brendon's cock in his ass and if even the thought makes him shudder like this he wonders how long it'll take him to come.

"Fuck me," he pants out, and it's sort of terrifying how desperate he feels, how hot and painful it is when he pushes a second finger into his ass. He licks up and down Brendon's cock, getting him wet, wet enough to slide into him, eager sloppy wet and then Brendon's hauling him up, roughly gripping his shoulder. Ryan arches toward him, pants half-undone as he thrusts his fingers in and out, and he knows he's being eager and slutty and there's not a chance in hell that this is a good idea, he doesn't even know this kid. Brendon turns him harshly and then Ryan's got his forehead pressed to the wall, fingers still moving, and he whimpers when Brendon tugs his hand away and strokes his own finger over Ryan's hole, slick and just open enough.

"You come here tonight to get fucked?" Brendon asks, rubbing him there, not pushing in, just keeping him pressed against the wall and Ryan thrusts a little against it, can't help himself. "Answer me."

"No," he says, because no, not really, this is just him getting what he wants for the first time in his life, and in quick succession he thinks: a new father, a musical career, better grades, a nicer car, someone to pay off my speeding tickets just in case someone is listening, and then, as an afterthought, me and Spence and Brent getting the fuck out of Vegas, but maybe he shouldn't push his luck. Brendon pushes the tip of his finger in and Ryan says, "Fuck, please, please, I just want-"

"My dick in your ass?" Brendon murmurs into his ear, and Ryan can feel it, Brendon's cock pressed up against him, sliding wet along the crack of his ass and he's so hot, fuck, Brendon's words make his pulse jump and his cock twitch and fuck, yes, he does want Brendon's dick in his ass, fucking now. "You're kind of a slut for this," Brendon says, and it's maybe meant to sound offhand but it comes out breathless, and Ryan pushes back against him, hands braced against the wall, needing.

He rubs his ass along the line of Brendon's cock, so close to where he needs it, so close, and hisses, "Then fuck me like one."

Brendon digs his fingers into Ryan's hip and then he's pushing in, thick blunt head of his cock an almost impossible fit before Ryan shifts his hips, spreads his legs as wide as he can with his jeans down to his knees. Brendon forces his way in, stretching him and oh god oh god, it's too much it feels good it hurts and Ryan will not, not, not cry.

Brendon just keeps moving forward into Ryan's shuddering body as Ryan scrabbles against the wall, wishing for a handhold, something he could grip to distract himself from the pain. Brendon's so much bigger than his fingers, even three, and Ryan must be really fucking sick to love this anyway, must be truly screwed up to be getting off on the pain of it, the too big too fast stinging stretch of Brendon's cock in his ass. He pushes back, and Brendon slides in all the way, buried in Ryan to the hilt, and Ryan can't stop himself from moaning aloud, can't help the few tears that escape.

"Fuck, you're tight," Brendon murmurs against the back of his neck, and Ryan swallows a sob. Brendon's so deep inside him, thrusting shallowly, and he is tight, too tight for this, not open enough to take Brendon's cock, but Brendon barely pulls out a few inches before he's pushing back in. The slow thick drag of his cock is a steady burn on Ryan's insides, and Ryan's shaking, he's so hard. Brendon thrusts in hard and Ryan bites his lip, clenching around him and making Brendon moan, and his cock aches and all he wants is for Brendon to touch him, stroke his cock, pound in until Ryan can't help but whimper.

"Harder, I want it harder," Ryan says, and Brendon sets his hand between Ryan's shoulderblades and pushes him until his face is pressed to the wall and he can see Brendon's eyes, dark, intent, and then Brendon pulls back and fucking slams into him.

"Harder like that?" Brendon asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer, just keeps on talking, biting off each sentence and punctuating them with harsh thrusts. "You like it like this, huh? You want me to hurt you? That get you off?"

"Yeah," Ryan gasps, "Please, please," because he can, he can say these things, he'll never see this kid again so what does it matter, right, he's getting his cheap fuck in the bathroom and now he'll have the memory to jerk off to for weeks. His palms are pressed flat to the wall, pushing him back, and Brendon's hot against him, licking at the side of his neck, biting his earlobe when Ryan moans, arches into him. "Fuck me, I need it, god." His cheeks are burning and his breath comes in pants, and he's so pathetic, so eager, and he just can't bring himself to care. He needs this. Brendon's fucking him steadily now, hard and deep and it's going to be embarrassing if he comes without his cock being touched.

Brendon's hands slide up his arms to grip his wrists, pinning him to the wall with hands and body and Ryan couldn't move now if he wanted to, can't do much but grind back into each thrust, spread his legs and take Brendon in all the way. Ryan keeps talking, because if he's talking that means he's not moaning like a bitch for it, whimpering with each rough thrust like this is what he was made for, getting fucked hard in a bathroom stall like a whore. "Brendon, please, I," he says, and he likes the way Brendon's name feels on his lips, likes shaping the syllables so he repeats, "Brendon, Brendon, god," until Brendon grabs his jaw, stilling him.

"Fucking shut up," Brendon mutters. "You're ruining my fucking concentration," he says against Ryan's ear, breath hot against the sensitive bit of skin right beneath.

Ryan shudders, and starts, "Then-" and Brendon's fingers slid from his jaw to his mouth, index and middle pushing in past his lips until he's sucking on Brendon's fingers, Brendon's thumb stroking his jaw, fingers thrusting in and out, over his lips and tongue and Ryan groans around them, shifting back to get Brendon's cock deeper into his ass.

It won't last much longer now, it can't last much longer, not with Brendon's hand sliding down his hip and grasping his cock, not with Brendon's fingers fucking into his mouth and stifling his moans. Brendon gasps out, "Fuck," and Ryan feels him come, actually feels it, hot and slick inside him and Brendon strokes him once, twice, and that's it, he's coming too, over Brendon's fist and the wall, hard and dirty and aching already when Brendon pulls out of him and leans his forehead against Ryan's shoulder.

"Fuck," Ryan echoes, like he's agreeing with that, and maybe he is a little. His ass stings and he wants to cry, suddenly, because jesus, but Brendon's breath against his neck steadies him, the slightly overwhelmed way Brendon nuzzles against him, like he can't help himself, grounds Ryan a little, enough to slow his own breathing. The band's still on - the fucking band is still on - he can hear them, feel the beat again. He's here. This happened. He shifts back, pushing Brendon off of him, and Brendon goes until he's against the opposite wall. Ryan hears movement, squeezes his eyes shut as he pulls up his own pants, hands still shaky. He has to get out of here.

When he turns back around Brendon's zipped up and staring at him, eyes dark, and he's gorgeous, flushed and hot as he bites his lip, and Ryan feels intensely viscerally here like he rarely ever does in life. He's here and this boy just fucked him, just came in his ass, and now he's looking at Ryan like he's waiting for Ryan to say something and Ryan has nothing for him, nothing at all. He didn't think about this part. He should have. He should have.

"I'm," he starts, but 'sorry' will sound stupid and anyway it's a lie, so he kisses Brendon instead, holds Brendon's face in his hands and kisses him goodbye.

The stall door swings shut behind him when he leaves Brendon there, walking with only the slightest hitch in his step.

He leaves the concert early.

He doesn't look back.


"Girls suck," Trevor grouses at their next practice.

"Everyone sucks," Ryan says. Spencer pats him on the shoulder. Everyone sucks except Spencer.

(He doesn't regret it. Really.)


(Ryan is not good at casual sex. He is not good, in fact, at casual anything. He couldn't bring himself to get back together with his girlfriend when she asked him to. He's barely talked to Spencer about anything in the last week because every time Spencer looks at him for more than five seconds he wants to blurt out, "I let a boy fuck me," and even though Spencer knows he's thought about guys, Ryan sort of thinks maybe Spencer thought he was kidding, or doing it to be trendy, or something. Spencer wouldn't get it. Spencer is normal.)

(And also he hasn't been able to listen to The Faint since, and that sucks, because he can't even think about their songs without getting hard and he already jerks off enough over the memory that he doesn't want to add a soundtrack and then never leave his room again in favor of constantly reliving it.)

"This practice sucks," Brent says. He goes to get a soda.

Trevor goes to call his girlfriend. Trevor is a bad boyfriend (or so Ryan's gleaned), an okay friend, and an unspectacular bandmate. The Summer League, Ryan thinks, is just not going anywhere. He tried to write lyrics last night but nothing was coming out right. In the corner, Spencer's drumming, randomly and without any apparent direction in mind, just making rhythmic noise. Ryan feels it vibrate through the floor, and doesn't think about how many times he's jerked off in the last week over the memory of Brendon's cock down his throat.

"Seriously," Spencer says, and Ryan realizes he was staring. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," Ryan says. "I think we need another guitarist."


Brent's family moved ten miles away last summer, far enough that he ended up outside the boundaries of their school. It's weird to think about Brent knowing people that Ryan and Spencer don't know, but mostly weird like convenient, because Brent thinks there are maybe a couple other kids at school that play. He's gonna ask, anyway- he knows a guy in band that plays decent guitar, and a weird kid in his calculus class who's sort of hyperactive but seems okay.

(Ryan is not going to think about this anymore. He's going to think about the band. He did it. It's over. It was what he wanted. He hasn't touched anybody since.)

"James, and I think Brandon something," Brent says. "I'll ask on Monday."

"I'm not gonna make it to practice on Monday," Trevor says. "I have to work. Can't we like, practice less?"

"Brandon something," Ryan repeats. "Like Flowers?"

"Like something, I don't know." Brent rolls his eyes.

"Why do we need another guitarist anyway?" Trevor asks.

"Just to try something different," Spencer says.

"We should wear eyeliner," Ryan says. He likes the Killers.

Brent tells him, "You can wear eyeliner."


James doesn't play guitar, he plays bass, and they already have a bassist. The other guy's cool, though, according to Brent. Well, not cool, but interested, and he's gonna come over with Brent after school, so that'll be good.

"Really good," Ryan says. He's focused. He's ready to do this. It's time they stop fucking around with girls and- other things. They need to concentrate on the music because he's graduating this year and this is what he wants to do. "Maybe this kid'll be really awesome and we can really get this band going, you know."

Spencer leans his head back against the couch and looks over at Ryan. "Maybe. Hey, like- you're really alright?"

"I'm," Ryan starts, but then the door slams and Brent's coming in, with the new guy following him. Skinny kid, dark hair, looking straight at him, startled, and. Ryan blinks. Oh god.

"Hey," Brent says, "I got his name wrong. This is-"


Not Brandon. Brendon.


Brendon smiles.