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piecesof_reesesSo...This is kind of embarrassing. I was actually debating whether I should post this or not. Because, well, there's crack!fic, and then there's OMG-Brendon-and-Ryan-somehow-got-on-American-Idol-season-8-and-fall-in-stupid-faily-loooooove. *obligatory jazzhands*
Anyway! This is dedicated to the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chaoticallyclev because I was trying to find a way to distract her from attempting to kill me. Apparently, forcing her to edit five college app essays in a row now counts as commonly accepted grounds for homicide. Oops? /o\
Title: Ryan Ross > Ryan Seacrest
Wordcount: ~6200
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (and very slight Adam/Kris)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: American Idol AU. Brendon’s finally gotten his big break, and all he wants to do is make it to the next round of competition, but one particular faux hawk-ed, eyeliner-abusing asshole is making it kind of difficult to focus…
Warnings: Um, American Idol AU. I'm not sure if I can emphasize that enough. I remember when I used to make fun of this show. Yeah, times have changed. Also, tiiiny bit of dub-con.
Everything looks very shiny. And big. And just very…expensive. Brendon clutches his tatty duffle bag to his chest a little tighter, and tries not to stare too obviously.
Ryan Seacrest was nice. Ryan Seacrest was great. But Ryan’s gone now, and the rest of the contestants look a little aloof, to say the least. This one giant is in a corner, talking to a much smaller guy wearing plaid and a girl who’s dyed her hair fire-engine red.
Brendon shifts his gaze to his Converse a little morosely, hunching up his shoulders. He knows those people. They’ll all be best friends within five seconds, and then they’ll be the ones, the clique everyone’s always trying to get into. Well, whatever. Brendon didn’t come here to make friends, he reminds himself. He came here to get discovered.
Someone stumbles into him, and Brendon loses his footing for a brief moment. The floor reaches up to grab him, and panicking, he grabs on to the first thing he can. Which turns out to be a sleeve.
He looks up, slowly, to find two heavily lined eyes glaring at him.
“Sorry,” Brendon says quickly, stepping back.
The guy doesn’t reply, which Brendon feels a little huffy about because he was the one who stumbled into Brendon, not the other way around.
But then the guy opens his mouth, and says very abruptly, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Brendon says.
The guy bites on the inside of his cheek for a minute before opening his mouth again. “I’m Ryan,” he says.
Brendon lets out a brief snort before he can stop himself. “Wait, what?”
But the guy’s glaring again, now, and Brendon’s smile falls off his face.
“It’s Ryan Ross,” the guy says, enunciating clearly. “Not Seacrest.”
It’s a little bit weird, how Ryan’s speaking in a complete monotone but glaring at Brendon like he wants to rip Brendon’s glasses off and smash the lenses into the nearest wall. And Brendon’s pretty fond of his glasses, okay, they’re red, and they’re cute, and also, his contacts are really itchy.
So he tries to smile in a nonthreatening (and not mocking) manner. “Sorry,” Brendon says. “I just, um. It’s nice to meet you? I’m Brendon. Urie.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Ryan interrupts. “I know who you are.”
“You do?” Brendon blinks.
“You’re the token Mormon guy,” Ryan says. “Season eight’s Archuleta. American Idol’s always got to have one.”
“Um. What?” Brendon says, taking a step backwards.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, “but ten bucks says you don’t make it as far as he did.” Then Ryan smiles at him, widely, before turning on his heel and leaving.
Brendon stares after him a moment, mouth open.
“Man,” says someone from behind him, “that guy’s a brat.”
Brendon turns around to see some guy in his late twenties, flashing a cheesy grin and sporting white glasses. White glasses are pretty cool. Not as cool as Brendon’s red frames, of course, but cool all the same. Brendon has hope for them bonding—glasses make for a great icebreaker, seriously—but then the guy opens his mouth again.
“I’m Danny Gokey,” he says. “Would you like to pray with me for my wife’s soul? Her name’s Sophia, and she died recently. I’m devastated,” he continues. And then he smiles.
Which, wow, Brendon’s all for cool glasses, but there are some things even white glasses can’t make up for, and it turns out that creepy religious overtures about dead wives is one of them.
Danny Gokey is looking at him, still smiling.
“Sorry,” Brendon says, “but I seem to be suffering a sudden and unexpected bowel movement.” He makes a helpful hand movement somewhere around his stomach. “See you later!”
* *
So, it turns out that Idol execs see everything. Because they’ve just received their room assignments, and Brendon’s gotten the one person he was hoping to avoid assigned as his roommate. (Besides Danny Gokey, of course. But then, at least Danny Gokey has cool glasses.)
Apparently, the Idol execs are trying to stir up drama by putting him in the same room as Ryan Ross-not-Seacrest. They’ve already argued once, after all. Which, no. Brendon is not giving into their slimy commercial hopes and dreams. He’s going to be nice. He’s going to stand strong. He’s going to—
“Get out of the way, asshole,” Ryan mutters as he brushes past Brendon’s shoulder.
Right. Never mind.
“What is your problem?” Brendon asks him, crossing his arms. “All I did was commit the unforgivable crime of linking your name to Ryan Seacrest’s! Seriously.”
Ryan glowers at him.
“And I’m sorry, okay?” Brendon says, exasperated.
“Whatever,” Ryan says.
“You say that word a lot, you know that?” Brendon tells him.
“Your glasses are ugly,” Ryan announces.
Brendon gapes at him. “They’re red. And—and cheerful! And they make my eyes pop.”
“They’re red,” Ryan says, as if that finishes the conversation.
“At least I haven’t resorted to drawing animals on my face to get attention,” Brendon snipes.
Ryan’s eyes widen comically. “It’s art!”
“…I guess it is kind of cool,” Brendon relents.
“And your hair sucks!” Ryan says. Then he frowns. “Oh, wait. What?”
“My hair’s beautiful,” Brendon says, petting it.
“You sound so gay,” Ryan accuses.
Brendon thinks for a moment about Ryan just said. Then he looks at Ryan’s super skinny jeans, vest, eyeliner, and faux hawk. And then he starts laughing.
“Are you laughing at me?” Ryan asks, face turning dangerously dark again.
“No!” Brendon says. “I’m just—coughing.”
“Coughing?”
“I have asthma,” Brendon says solemnly.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to make out?”
“What?”
“Never mind. I didn’t say anything!”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But yes you—“ Brendon pauses. “I think I’m getting kind of confused.”
“Use your inhaler,” Ryan tells him kindly. “I’m going down for dinner now, bye!”
And then he marches out of the room at a suspiciously brisk pace. Brendon stands there for a moment silently, thinking to himself very intensely. Did Ryan just—no. No way. He’s probably hearing things. Stress of the American Idol competition, and all. Brendon nods to himself firmly, and then goes down to eat dinner, too.
* *
“I’m Adam,” the giant says to him earnestly.
Brendon nods at him, trying not to think about how Adam’s approximately the same size as those guys who got a kick out of tripping Brendon in the halls. And stealing Brendon’s homework. And, in one weird anomaly, ordering Brendon to give him a blowjob before squeaking—apparently jocks’ voices can go that high—and then fleeing. That one was kind of odd.
“So. What’s your name?” Adam prods.
“I’m, um, Brendon,” Brendon tells him. That streak in his hair is very blue.
“Isn’t this cool?” Adam gushes. “I feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I just feel so thankful to the universe, you know what I mean?”
“…Yes,” Brendon says.
“Man, this is awesome,” Adam continues. “Everyone is so nice here! It hardly feels like Hollywood.”
Brendon coughs.
“Oh, man, do you need your inhaler?” Ryan asks from behind him, holding a plate of food.
“You have asthma?” Adam says, looking far more concerned than Brendon feels the situation warrants, considering that Brendon isn’t wheezing. Also, he doesn’t actually have asthma.
“I’m fine,” Brendon reassures. He smiles at Ryan, who smiles back before suddenly jerking his head down and walking away very quickly.
“So what song are you thinking of doing?” Adam asks. “I can’t believe we get to do Michael Jackson’s songs! So. Cool.”
* *
“And man,” Adam says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, “Burning Man was just life-changing. It was revelatory. I suddenly—I felt free. You know I’m saying?”
“Absolutely,” Brendon says. “Shrooms are the bomb.”
“Exactly!” Adam beams at him, and Brendon smiles back a little helplessly. Adam’s smile seems to be a force of a nature.
“How’s dinner?” Ryan’s head suddenly pops up next to them.
“It’s great!” Adam grins at him. Ryan grunts in his direction.
“Aren’t you done eating yet?” he asks, addressing Brendon.
“Um, not yet,” Brendon says. “Why?”
“I was just wondering,” Ryan says defensively. “Whatever.”
“You do say that word a lot,” Brendon says triumphantly.
“Fuck you,” Ryan hisses before turning around and storming off.
Adam and Brendon stare at his receding back.
“You know,” Adam says, “I know this great doctor in Hollywood, takes care of all the A-listers. I bet I could get him to talk to Ryan and help him sort out his anger management issues.”
* *
“And he was my first great love,” Adam explains, humming around a spoonful of chocolate cake. “But I’m moving on! I’m definitely moving on.”
“That’s great, man,” Brendon says encouragingly.
“Yeah. I mean, have you seen my roommate? Wow. I hate to sound shallow, but…wow.”
“Have you seen my eyeliner pen?” Ryan suddenly shows up behind Adam.
“Um, no,” Brendon says. “Have you checked the room?”
“Can you come with me to check?”
“Why?” Brendon asks slowly. He feels like he’s missing something.
“To help me find it faster.” Ryan rolls his eyes.
“Um,” Brendon says. He looks down at his chocolate cake.
“Fine,” Ryan snaps. “If you want to sit here and chat all night long, whatever. I don’t care. I’m going out with the others. We’re hitting the bars.”
“Ooh, can I come?” Adam asks, perking up.
Ryan narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to say something, but a guy with a hat on quickly chimes in, “Sure, Adam! The more the merrier.”
Ryan breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring.
“Hey, Bren, are you coming?” Adam asks.
Ryan’s face, if possible, darkens even further.
“No, I, uh. I don’t drink,” Brendon says, before regretting it. “I mean, like! I don’t feel like drinking. Right now. I’m not straightedge, or anything. How lame, right?”
“Um, okay,” Adam says. “I’ll see you later.”
“Bye, Adam,” Brendon says. “Bye, Ryan!”
“Whatever.”
* *
Brendon strums one final A major chord on his guitar before sighing and putting it away. It’s almost two am, and none of the others are back yet. Well, that’s fine. He’ll just go to bed by himself. Like a loser.
He changes quickly, brushes his teeth, and then spends half an hour making faces at himself in the mirror. He always looks constipated when he sings, which is a real problem. Maybe if he flattened out his eyebrows and widened his eyes, he would look a little…
No. Now he just looks like a toad. Brendon sticks a tongue out at his reflection. Why is it so hard to sing attractively?
Frowning to himself, he slowly turns off the lights and crawls into bed. At least the mattress is nice and soft. Brendon closes his eyes and starts counting his breaths before he falls asleep.
It feels like it’s only been two seconds before he’s jerking awake again, a shadowy form getting onto his bed.
“Eek,” Brendon says articulately.
“Shhh,” the form says, which really isn’t very reassuring at all until Brendon realizes that the pointy elbow attempting to skewer his stomach belongs to Ryan.
“What are you doing?” Brendon whispers. “Don’t you have your own bed?”
“It’s cold,” Ryan mumbles intelligently. His mouth is suddenly very close to Brendon’s, and Brendon can smell vodka coming off of his breath.
“Dude,” Brendon says. “This is getting kind of, like. Weird.”
“Shhh,” Ryan says insistently, and then suddenly, there’s an ice-cold hand in his pants.
Brendon maybe starts to hyperventilate.
Ryan cocks his head at him. “Are you having an asthma attack?”
Brendon shakes his head. “What are you doing?” he rasps out.
“It’s cold,” Ryan repeats.
“I don’t think your logic is as sound as you think it is,” Brendon tells him in a slightly higher-pitched voice than his usual. Only slightly.
“You don’t need your inhaler, right?” Ryan asks.
Brendon shakes his head.
“Okay, good,” Ryan says, satisfied. And then he wraps his hand around Brendon’s dick.
Brendon makes a sound like a dying frog.
“It’s warm now,” Ryan observes. He sounds pleased.
“Why are you—oh my God.”
“It’s okay,” Ryan tells him placidly.
“I’m not gay,” Brendon says very resolutely (and lying through his teeth). “Also, uh, consent! Oh my God, you are so drunk right now. I’m taking advantage of you.”
“You talk a lot,” Ryan says. Then he pulls his hand out of Brendon’s pants. Brendon breathes out, slowly, before realizing that Ryan’s licking his palm and sneaking the hand back in, wrapping the hand back around his cock and dragging down in one swift motion.
“Oh, shit,” is all Brendon manages to get out before Ryan’s mouth is on his, clumsily licking it open and thrusting his tongue in. It’s messy and uncoordinated and Ryan tastes like vodka, but Brendon’s mouth isn’t listening to his brain, and he’s kissing back, sucking Ryan’s tongue and licking over the roof of his mouth.
In a matter of moments, Brendon’s gone from half-hard to completely hard, Ryan’s hand working him in a steady rhythm. His hips are jerking up wildly into the tight hole of Ryan’s fingers, and fuck, it’s too much, Ryan biting the corner of his lip and using his thumb to tease roughly at the head at the same time. Then Brendon realizes that Ryan’s been rubbing off against his hip, sharp little movements of his hips nudging the heat of his cock between Brendon’s thigh and the mattress, and shit, that is unfairly hot.
He breaks away from the kiss to gasp into the pillow, hips still thrusting up desperately. Ryan takes advantage of the break to suck at the soft skin below Brendon’s jawline, licking and tugging the skin between his teeth. The sharp pain goes straight to his cock, and before he can stop himself, he’s coming, making a mess of his pants and Ryan’s hand.
“Jesus,” Brendon says, and then immediately blushes, feeling blasphemous.
Ryan makes a small, frustrated noise against him, and Brendon reaches down to wrap his hand around Ryan’s cock, but before he even does anything, Ryan’s shooting over his hand and uttering a filthy string of swear words.
They lay there for a moment, their breathing embarrassingly loud in the dark room.
“So,” Brendon attempts.
“Okay, I’m going to sleep now,” Ryan informs him, before scrambling off into his own bed.
Right. Brendon grabs a tissue and starts cleaning himself off, staring at the ceiling.
* *
“About last night,” Brendon says as Ryan’s fussing with his hair in front of the bathroom mirror.
“What about it?” Ryan asks.
“Well. You know.” Brendon makes an uncomfortable motion with his hands.
Ryan stares at him blankly.
“Why did you do it?” Brendon asks.
“I didn’t do anything,” Ryan says.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ryan insists.
“Dude,” Brendon says. “Do you want to see the stains on my sheets? Because I can show you the stains on my sheets.”
“I was drunk!” Ryan says.
“Um,” Brendon says.
“So I don’t remember anything,” Ryan tells him victoriously.
Brendon feels like ever since he got onto American Idol, his life’s gotten a whole lot weirder.
* *
“I feel like this is becoming a pattern,” Brendon says as Ryan pulls down his pants. “And I don’t know how I feel about that. Are you drunk again?”
Ryan flips him off.
“I was just checking,” Brendon says sulkily, but before he can sulk for much longer, Ryan’s got his lips around his cock and he’s sliding down and wow, Brendon can’t look away from his spit-slicked lips. Ryan stares back, eyes dark and intent. Brendon swallows, and he feels like he can’t breathe.
* *
A heavy hand lands on Brendon’s shoulder. “Hey, man, you should be careful.”
Brendon blinks, and turns around. “Kris?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t think you want that showing up on national television,” Kris says meaningfully.
“What?” Brendon asks, heart rate suddenly quickening. Kris can’t possibly mean what he thinks he means.
Kris rolls his eyes. “You and Ryan, dude. You guys really aren’t subtle.”
“What?” Brendon says, eyes wide. “But we don’t—we don’t even really talk, outside of our, um, room. I mean.”
“You don’t need to talk to give things away,” Kris tells him quietly. “And I don’t know if they have 24/7 surveillance of our rooms, but I wouldn’t put it past them. So just—be careful, yeah?”
“Okay,” Brendon says after a few beats, watching him as he leaves to talk to Adam.
They’re smiling about something, Adam clapping Kris on the shoulder and leaning into him. Brendon stands there for a moment, watching them. Huh. It looks like Kris was right.
* *
“So, Kris was saying something about video cameras in our rooms,” Brendon says as Ryan’s tugging on his shirt.
Ryan frowns at him. “You’re always talking to Kris. And, so what?” he says.
“So what?” Brendon repeats. “Look at us!” He gestures between them emphatically. “Do you want all of America to see this?”
“Are you embarrassed?” Ryan asks, frowning suddenly.
“That is so not the point!” Brendon says. “The point is privacy. And no, Jesus. I’m not embarrassed.”
Ryan sniffs. “Okay. Let’s go into the bathroom, I bet they don’t have cameras there.”
And it’s actually a lot easier, Ryan coating his fingers with lube and not caring if any slops over onto the countertops, spreading Brendon’s legs and scissoring his fingers in without worrying about making a mess. Ryan seems to have some sort of thing for watching them in the mirror, gaze fixed to their reflections as he slides in, biting his lip and barely ever blinking.
And Brendon totally doesn’t do the same thing, of course. He just glances at the mirror a few times, and, okay, maybe he can see the appeal; long, curving lines and clutching fingers and everywhere, the shiny sheen of sweat.
“Are we still not talking about this?” Brendon murmurs as they rinse themselves off—the bathroom is so much more convenient, bless Kris Allen’s heart.
“Talking about what?” Ryan says, and Brendon sighs.
“Ryan…”
“Actually, no,” Ryan says. “We do need to talk.”
“What? Really?” Brendon sits up straighter.
“Yes. About your clothes, Brendon. What the hell are you planning on wearing for Tuesday’s performance? Because I’ve looked through your entire closet, and so far all I’ve managed to figure out is that apparently, your role model in fashion is a thirteen year old girl.”
And Brendon…Brendon doesn’t really have anything to say to that, especially to someone who’s taken to wearing bowler hats. With feathers. So instead he just flicks water at Ryan, and if somehow they end up drenched in a shower and Ryan halfway in him again, well. Brendon’s willing to roll with it.
* *
“So, hypothetically,” Brendon says slowly.
“Okay.” Adam nods encouragingly. “I am thinking very hypothetically now. Go on.”
“If there is this one guy,” Brendon continues. “And then there’s this other guy. And—“
“Oh, shit,” Adam says. “You don’t need the gay sex talk, do you? I mean, I know you’re Mormon, but—“
“No!” Brendon quickly interjects. “I’m fine on, um, that point. No problem there. Hah. Um.”
“Oh, okay,” Adam says, all ears again. “Tell me what’s going on. What’s bothering you?”
“So, that one other guy keeps, um, you know,” Brendon says.
Adam stares at him with wide, heavily lined eyes. “Snoring? Leaving the toilet lid up? Taking thirty minutes in the bathroom?”
“…No,” Brendon says. “A little more R-rated than that.”
Adam hisses. “Oh, man, I hate when that happens. I’m always like, stop coming over to my house and jerking off all over my bed! And they’re like, sorry, I was on autopilot! And I’m like, we’re not even dating anymore! And then somehow we end up sleeping together. Again.” Adam sighs mournfully.
Brendon blinks a few times. “Actually, I’ve only been having problems with that last part. This one guy keeps, um, initiating stuff—“
“Sex,” Adam provides helpfully.
“Right.” Brendon thinks if his cheeks get any redder, they’ll probably match his glasses. And that is so not the look he was going for when he got these.
“So…” Adam says. “What’s the problem? Sex is great! Endorphins, shiny hair, happy bodies. Oh, wait, are you having a gay crisis? Because I have this hotline number you could call…”
“No,” Brendon says carefully, “I’m not having a gay crisis. But, like, he never wants to talk about us…doing it. You know? He doesn’t even like to acknowledge it happened. This one time, he claimed that he was so drunk he didn’t remember anything. Only the next day, he was blowing me again. And I am totally fine with that turn of events, you have no idea, but I just…I feel like it’s not very—healthy.”
Adam studies him for a moment. “What’s Ryan’s astrological sign?” he asks.
“Ryan? What Ryan?” Brendon smiles hugely. “I wasn’t talking about Ryan!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Adam says, looking contrite. “Were we still being hypothetical? I thought we had moved on.”
Brendon valiantly resists thunking his head against his wall.
“So?” Adam asks.
“What?”
“What’s his astrological sign?” Adam repeats patiently.
“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “Why does it matter?”
Adam stares at him with huge, horrified eyes for a few seconds before speaking again. “Okay. You know what? Never mind. I’m going to try to put this in layman’s terms.”
“Alright,” Brendon says. “That would probably be best.”
“So, Ryan doesn’t have the best social skills, I’m guessing,” Adam says. “He likes you. He definitely likes you, but I don’t think he knows how to deal with that. So he’s doing the classic hot-and-cold routine.”
“Um, okay,” Brendon says, nodding thoughtfully.
“So, if you want anything more to develop,” Adam says meaningfully, “you’re going to have to be the one to take the next stop.”
“But he won’t even talk about it,” Brendon protests. “How am I supposed to…”
“You’ll find a way,” Adam tells him. “If you don’t want to lose the relationship, you’re going to need to do something about it.”
* *
“You’re going to need to do something about this,” Cash says. “That relationship is toxic, man. Get out. Get out now.”
Brendon scratches at the side of his head, cradling his cell to the other side. “Cash, are you sure?”
“Definitely,” Cash says. “You know what I think?”
“What do you think?” Brendon asks warily.
“That boy is playing you. He is playing you hard,” Cash says around a mouthful of something.
“Playing me,” Brendon repeats slowly.
“Yeah. He’s trying to get your head out of the game. He’s messing with you. You’re on American Idol, dude, don’t ever forget that.”
Brendon furrows his brow, biting his lip. “I don’t—I don’t think Ryan—“
“Never trust anyone!” Cash interrupts. “He’s either trying to distract you from your real goal—you didn’t come on this show to find ass, Bren—or he’s trying to tarnish your image.”
“What image?”
Cash sighs obnoxiously. “You’re the clean-cut religious kid, man! That’s how the execs are pushing you. Didn’t you see the way the auditions were edited? Your main fan base is going to be made up of soppy old women who go to church every Sunday. If you do anything to threaten that, then who the hell’s going to vote for you? That Ryan guy’s devious, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m sure my fan base is a little wider than that,” Brendon says, his bottom lip threatening to pout.
“Uh huh,” Cash says. “Whatever. Just get out of the relaysh, okay? Trust me.”
Brendon picks at the edge of his bedspread, and doesn’t answer.
* *
Brendon watches quietly as Ryan bustles around. He’s been mercilessly stripping his closet for the last hour, throwing clothes everywhere.
“What do you think about this?” Ryan holds up another item of clothing.
“Is that a vest?” Brendon asks, tilting his head sideways.
“Um, yeah,” Ryan says, defensively.
“Does it have roses on it?” Brendon says, turning his head the other way.
“Okay, look, it’s unique,” Ryan tells him.
“Not the right kind of unique, I don’t think,” Brendon says carefully. “How about that black jacket over there?”
It’s a nice jacket, simple, with only a few gold embellishments.
But Ryan rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to make an impact. I’m not trying to make everyone feel safe. I’ll never win that way.”
“…Right,” Brendon says after a slight pause. Winning. Of course.
“What?” Ryan asks, looking up and studying Brendon.
“Nothing,” Brendon says lightly. “How are you going to do your make-up?”
“Probably a few purple and blue swirls,” Ryan says. “Matches the stage, you know.”
“That’s cool,” Brendon says. He traces a pattern onto the bedspread with his finger, avoiding Ryan’s gaze.
“What about your outfit?” Ryan asks suddenly.
“My outfit?”
“What are you going to wear onstage?” Ryan says impatiently. “Your outfit is one of the most important parts of your presentation. It makes that first impression.”
“I was thinking, um,” Brendon rubs at the back of his neck, “a black, collared shirt?”
“Just that?” Ryan asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, with jeans, too,” Brendon says, grinning a little.
“You’re so funny,” Ryan says in a flat tone. “No. That’s not going to work. Looking like a sweet, fresh-faced choir boy isn’t going to get you very far at all. You’re going to have to ditch that persona eventually. Here,” he says, and he thrusts the black jacket at Brendon.
Brendon blinks at him.
“Try it on,” Ryan huffs. “Do I have to do everything around here?”
So Brendon does, and the jacket slides on smoothly, settling against his shoulders and draping down gracefully. Brendon stares down at it, struck silent for no real reason. It…It’s not bad.
Then he looks back up, and Ryan’s staring at him, too.
“What do you think?” Brendon asks, a small smile tugging at his lip.
Ryan crosses his arms. “I guess it’s okay,” he says ungraciously.
“Just okay?”
Ryan deliberately shifts his gaze away from him, coloring slightly. “I don’t know. Whatever.”
“You really do overuse that poor word,” Brendon says quietly.
As Ryan begins to scowl, Brendon steps in further. He’s not really thinking at the moment—he’s trying desperately to keep from thinking, actually—and he gently cups Ryan’s face, pulling him closer and kissing that scowling mouth.
Their lips connect for one, two brief seconds before Ryan’s pulling away. It’s odd; they’ve done pretty much everything together, yet Ryan’s still blushing furiously.
“What was that?” Ryan says, sounding like he’s trying to be harsh but failing miserably. Red spots are still high on his cheeks, and he can’t keep eye contact with Brendon, gaze darting away every few seconds.
“I think in modern English, that’s known as a kiss,” Brendon says.
Ryan gapes at him. “I’m—we’re—I mean, it’s almost dinner.”
“We probably still have time,” Brendon says, and shit, now he’s blushing, too. “I mean, if you don’t want to—“
“I didn’t say that!” Ryan says hastily.
“Okay. Well.” Brendon stares at his feet.
Then he looks up, and Ryan’s staring at him, too. Brendon gets off the bed, and Ryan shuffles a little closer, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Brendon takes another step, and Ryan reciprocates, and wow, they’re almost on top of each other now.
“Hi,” Brendon says.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “This is stupid,” he proclaims, before leaning forward and kissing him again.
It’s a little hard to keep the kiss going, seeing as Brendon’s stupid lips keep trying to smile, or whatever, but then Ryan’s got a hand down his pants, and it turns out that kissing isn’t so important after all.
“Oh, wait,” Brendon says after a few seconds. “What about the video cameras?”
“Fuck the video cameras,” Ryan says, and pushes him down onto the bed, slipping a hand into Brendon’s shirt to brush over his chest, nail scraping over his nipple, and yeah, Brendon can totally get behind that sentiment. Fuck the video cameras.
* *
They’re totally late for dinner. But no one says anything about it, except for maybe Adam, who hands him a dinner roll and winks.
* *
“Ryan, stop fussing.” Brendon bats at his hands. “I look fine. And you look great, too.”
Ryan’s wearing the rose vest, despite Brendon’s repeated efforts to burn that piece of clothing. But the swirls on his face look really nice, even though Brendon kind of wants to smudge them up, lick them away. Except that’s probably a bad idea. Brendon doesn’t think they’d taste very good.
“I can’t believe we’re on national television,” Ryan gibbers. “Live.”
“It’ll be okay, man,” Brendon says. “I mean, we’re doing this to get discovered. We’re getting publicity. Just think about that.”
“Why are you so fucking calm about this?” Ryan eyes him.
“Oh, I feel like I’m going to puke,” Brendon says cheerfully. He taps his fingers on the dressing room table in an aggressively happy beat until Ryan threatens to chop them off.
* *
Apparently, this week is a double elimination. They learn this when Simon announces the news with a gigantic smile on his face. Brendon thinks dreamily about punching it off his face, and Ryan looks like he’s having the same thoughts.
The beginning performances fly by, Sarver doing his smooth country boy thing and Gokey traumatizing everyone with the slightest bit of taste and Allison rocking the fuck out.
All too soon, Brendon’s background video is being cued up. But the accompanying music sounds different. Darker. More foreboding. Before Brendon really gets a chance to start wondering at the change, a booming voiceover comes on.
“DRAMA IS ALREADY STIRRING UP THE IDOL MANSION,” the generic male voice announces dramatically.
Which…really doesn’t sound good. Brendon exchanges a worried look with Ryan.
The video cuts to a scene of the first day in the mansion, and Brendon feels a sinking feeling in his gut. This looks familiar.
Ryan’s in the middle of the screen, sneering. “You’re the token Mormon guy,” he says. “Season eight’s Archuleta. American Idol’s always got to have one.”
“Um. What?” Brendon looks like a kicked puppy onstage, eyes big and hurt.
“Yeah,” onscreen Ryan says, “but ten bucks says you don’t make it as far as he did.” Then Ryan smirks at him cruelly, before spinning on his heel with a flourish and leaving.
Brendon stares at the gigantic screen, horrified. He really doesn’t remember it being this bad.
The next scene is of them in their rooms. Brendon has taken two strides to shove his face right up against onscreen Ryan’s.
“What is your problem?” onscreen Brendon spits angrily, crossing his arms.
And then the scene shifts again, and Brendon’s got this ugly look on his face, lip curled.
“At least I haven’t resorted to drawing animals on my face to get attention,” Brendon snarls, and the camera switches to focus on Ryan’s face, shocked and upset.
Thankfully, the screen fades to black after that, but the damage is already done. Brendon’s mouth is hanging open, and he chances a glance at Ryan, who looks equally shell-shocked.
Well. It looks like Idol’s decided to cast them as the two jerk-offs of Season 8. Brendon chews on the inside of his lip, and tries to focus on his performance. This is only the video. Things can only go up after this, right?
* *
“Ryan, c’mon. It wasn’t that bad.” Brendon quietly pulls him onto the bed, turning him so that they’re facing each other. “I’m serious. It wasn’t.”
“They told me I went flat on every other note,” Ryan whispers.
Well, Brendon can’t really argue with that. But he bites his lip and tells Ryan, “Dirty Diana is a hard song to sing. And you had nerves. Plus, what do the preteens of America know about flat notes?”
Ryan sighs and shrugs.
“They liked the vest,” Brendon says. They really did. Especially Paula. It kind of freaked Brendon out.
Ryan smiles a little bit. “Yeah, they did like the vest. I told you that you were wrong.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Brendon says. And then, “oh my God, I’m spending too much time around you.”
“Whatever’s a fine word,” Ryan says huffily.
Brendon wisely decides to change the subject. “They hated my performance, too.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Ryan says, eyes solemn.
“They told me I was in the wrong decade,” Brendon says. “Which is total bullshit! Never Can Say Goodbye is a timeless classic.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says. His hand’s on Brendon’s elbow, and it’s a warm, comforting weight.
Brendon inches closer until he can kiss Ryan, soft and slow, for barely more than a few seconds each time. Ryan leans into the kisses, warm breath ghosting over Brendon’s face and thumb rubbing over the ridge of his elbow. The covers fold over them warmly like some soft, secure cocoon, and Brendon can feel himself wavering on the edge of sleep.
“I mean, we can’t possibly be the first ones booted off,” he says a while later, sleepily. “Even if the video did make us look like assholes.”
“We should probably be grateful the video didn’t show anything else,” Ryan says, lips pursed.
“Yeah,” Brendon says slowly. “That would have been kind of…bad.”
“Seriously. And…our chances of staying aren’t that terrible. I mean. Did you hear Jasmine? Anoop was kind of bad, too. No idea what’s going on with him this week.”
“And Danny Gokey’s dance moves probably made half of America cover their eyes,” Brendon adds. He yawns. “We’ll totally be fine.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Yeah.”
* *
They get kicked off.
Allison cries—Brendon’s not too sure why—Danny Gokey slaps him on the back, and Adam pulls him into a bear hug.
Brendon doesn’t really notice any of that, though, or the screaming audience, or the insincere condolences from the judges. He’s too busy looking at Ryan. But Ryan’s not looking back.
* *
Brendon finally manages to corner Ryan as they’re packing up their room, getting ready to go home.
“Ryan,” he says.
“What?” Ryan doesn’t look up, still shoving clothing into his suitcase.
“We should talk,” Brendon says. “I’m serious. We need to talk.”
“What is there to talk over?” Ryan finally looks up, and he fixes Brendon with a blank gaze. “Competition’s over. For us, anyway.”
“But, I mean.” Brendon stares at the ground. This is so awkward, and he pulls at the bottom of his hoodie just to stall. Suddenly, he has a lot more sympathy for the chick in every bad romantic comedy. “What about,” Brendon starts again. “What about us?”
“What about us?” Ryan repeats emotionlessly.
Biting his lip, Brendon fights down the urge to give up and just walk away. Screw Ryan and his stupid face.
But Ryan’s stupid face is turned down now, his back is stiff and straight, and his hipbones are jutting at acute angles over his stupidly tight jeans. And his ridiculous faux hawk is fading fast, the abused hair flopping over and rewinding themselves into sloppy curls.
And Brendon…Brendon is probably an idiot.
Which, of course, is why he keeps talking. “Do you want to keep…I don’t know. Seeing each other?”
Ryan has stopped packing, and his voice is a perfect monotone when he says, “Do you?”
“I don’t—I mean. I asked you first!”
“I asked you second,” Ryan says petulantly.
“This is stupid,” Brendon informs Ryan, glowering. “Yeah, I guess. Sure.”
“You don’t need to sound so enthusiastic about it,” Ryan snaps.
“I’m the one asking, aren’t I?” Brendon stares at Ryan’s face, trying to read what he’s feeling. “So?”
“Okay.” Ryan shrugs. “If you want to, I guess I’m fine with it.” He quickly transfers his gaze to the ground.
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Good.” Brendon crosses his arms and stares at Ryan.
There are a few minutes of silence.
Then Ryan says, “Do you want to make out?”
And this time, Brendon says yes.
End.
EPILOGUE:
“We’re starting a band,” Ryan tells Brendon as he licks his way down his chest. “You’re the lead singer.”
“Wait, what?” Brendon says.
“And Spencer’s the drummer,” Ryan continues. “I’m not sure about the bassist yet.”
“Wait, what?” Brendon says.
“I’ve already written a few demos. We should start rehearsing,” Ryan reflects.
“I think I’m confused,” Brendon says. It is kind of hard to think when Ryan’s hand is doing that.
“Use your inhaler,” Ryan tells him, and Brendon feels a slight pang of guilt.
“I don’t have asthma,” he says. “I just thought you should know that.”
Ryan pauses. Brendon tries not to shift his hips meaningfully.
“Oh, okay,” Ryan says. “That’s good. I wouldn’t want my lead singer to have to pull out his inhaler every few seconds.”
“I don’t think asthma works the way you think it works,” Brendon says. “And, wait! I haven’t agreed to be your lead singer yet.”
Ryan twists his hand, and Brendon arches, gasping. Ryan looks at him smugly.
“Okay, fine,” Brendon grouses. “But only if you stop voting for Danny fucking Gokey.”
Ryan snickers, and Brendon covers his mouth with his own. Just to make him shut up, of course.
End (for real this time).
All feedback is very much appreciated! ♥
Anyway! This is dedicated to the lovely
chaoticallyclev because I was trying to find a way to distract her from attempting to kill me. Apparently, forcing her to edit five college app essays in a row now counts as commonly accepted grounds for homicide. Oops? /o\Title: Ryan Ross > Ryan Seacrest
Wordcount: ~6200
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (and very slight Adam/Kris)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: American Idol AU. Brendon’s finally gotten his big break, and all he wants to do is make it to the next round of competition, but one particular faux hawk-ed, eyeliner-abusing asshole is making it kind of difficult to focus…
Warnings: Um, American Idol AU. I'm not sure if I can emphasize that enough. I remember when I used to make fun of this show. Yeah, times have changed. Also, tiiiny bit of dub-con.
Everything looks very shiny. And big. And just very…expensive. Brendon clutches his tatty duffle bag to his chest a little tighter, and tries not to stare too obviously.
Ryan Seacrest was nice. Ryan Seacrest was great. But Ryan’s gone now, and the rest of the contestants look a little aloof, to say the least. This one giant is in a corner, talking to a much smaller guy wearing plaid and a girl who’s dyed her hair fire-engine red.
Brendon shifts his gaze to his Converse a little morosely, hunching up his shoulders. He knows those people. They’ll all be best friends within five seconds, and then they’ll be the ones, the clique everyone’s always trying to get into. Well, whatever. Brendon didn’t come here to make friends, he reminds himself. He came here to get discovered.
Someone stumbles into him, and Brendon loses his footing for a brief moment. The floor reaches up to grab him, and panicking, he grabs on to the first thing he can. Which turns out to be a sleeve.
He looks up, slowly, to find two heavily lined eyes glaring at him.
“Sorry,” Brendon says quickly, stepping back.
The guy doesn’t reply, which Brendon feels a little huffy about because he was the one who stumbled into Brendon, not the other way around.
But then the guy opens his mouth, and says very abruptly, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Brendon says.
The guy bites on the inside of his cheek for a minute before opening his mouth again. “I’m Ryan,” he says.
Brendon lets out a brief snort before he can stop himself. “Wait, what?”
But the guy’s glaring again, now, and Brendon’s smile falls off his face.
“It’s Ryan Ross,” the guy says, enunciating clearly. “Not Seacrest.”
It’s a little bit weird, how Ryan’s speaking in a complete monotone but glaring at Brendon like he wants to rip Brendon’s glasses off and smash the lenses into the nearest wall. And Brendon’s pretty fond of his glasses, okay, they’re red, and they’re cute, and also, his contacts are really itchy.
So he tries to smile in a nonthreatening (and not mocking) manner. “Sorry,” Brendon says. “I just, um. It’s nice to meet you? I’m Brendon. Urie.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Ryan interrupts. “I know who you are.”
“You do?” Brendon blinks.
“You’re the token Mormon guy,” Ryan says. “Season eight’s Archuleta. American Idol’s always got to have one.”
“Um. What?” Brendon says, taking a step backwards.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, “but ten bucks says you don’t make it as far as he did.” Then Ryan smiles at him, widely, before turning on his heel and leaving.
Brendon stares after him a moment, mouth open.
“Man,” says someone from behind him, “that guy’s a brat.”
Brendon turns around to see some guy in his late twenties, flashing a cheesy grin and sporting white glasses. White glasses are pretty cool. Not as cool as Brendon’s red frames, of course, but cool all the same. Brendon has hope for them bonding—glasses make for a great icebreaker, seriously—but then the guy opens his mouth again.
“I’m Danny Gokey,” he says. “Would you like to pray with me for my wife’s soul? Her name’s Sophia, and she died recently. I’m devastated,” he continues. And then he smiles.
Which, wow, Brendon’s all for cool glasses, but there are some things even white glasses can’t make up for, and it turns out that creepy religious overtures about dead wives is one of them.
Danny Gokey is looking at him, still smiling.
“Sorry,” Brendon says, “but I seem to be suffering a sudden and unexpected bowel movement.” He makes a helpful hand movement somewhere around his stomach. “See you later!”
* *
So, it turns out that Idol execs see everything. Because they’ve just received their room assignments, and Brendon’s gotten the one person he was hoping to avoid assigned as his roommate. (Besides Danny Gokey, of course. But then, at least Danny Gokey has cool glasses.)
Apparently, the Idol execs are trying to stir up drama by putting him in the same room as Ryan Ross-not-Seacrest. They’ve already argued once, after all. Which, no. Brendon is not giving into their slimy commercial hopes and dreams. He’s going to be nice. He’s going to stand strong. He’s going to—
“Get out of the way, asshole,” Ryan mutters as he brushes past Brendon’s shoulder.
Right. Never mind.
“What is your problem?” Brendon asks him, crossing his arms. “All I did was commit the unforgivable crime of linking your name to Ryan Seacrest’s! Seriously.”
Ryan glowers at him.
“And I’m sorry, okay?” Brendon says, exasperated.
“Whatever,” Ryan says.
“You say that word a lot, you know that?” Brendon tells him.
“Your glasses are ugly,” Ryan announces.
Brendon gapes at him. “They’re red. And—and cheerful! And they make my eyes pop.”
“They’re red,” Ryan says, as if that finishes the conversation.
“At least I haven’t resorted to drawing animals on my face to get attention,” Brendon snipes.
Ryan’s eyes widen comically. “It’s art!”
“…I guess it is kind of cool,” Brendon relents.
“And your hair sucks!” Ryan says. Then he frowns. “Oh, wait. What?”
“My hair’s beautiful,” Brendon says, petting it.
“You sound so gay,” Ryan accuses.
Brendon thinks for a moment about Ryan just said. Then he looks at Ryan’s super skinny jeans, vest, eyeliner, and faux hawk. And then he starts laughing.
“Are you laughing at me?” Ryan asks, face turning dangerously dark again.
“No!” Brendon says. “I’m just—coughing.”
“Coughing?”
“I have asthma,” Brendon says solemnly.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to make out?”
“What?”
“Never mind. I didn’t say anything!”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But yes you—“ Brendon pauses. “I think I’m getting kind of confused.”
“Use your inhaler,” Ryan tells him kindly. “I’m going down for dinner now, bye!”
And then he marches out of the room at a suspiciously brisk pace. Brendon stands there for a moment silently, thinking to himself very intensely. Did Ryan just—no. No way. He’s probably hearing things. Stress of the American Idol competition, and all. Brendon nods to himself firmly, and then goes down to eat dinner, too.
* *
“I’m Adam,” the giant says to him earnestly.
Brendon nods at him, trying not to think about how Adam’s approximately the same size as those guys who got a kick out of tripping Brendon in the halls. And stealing Brendon’s homework. And, in one weird anomaly, ordering Brendon to give him a blowjob before squeaking—apparently jocks’ voices can go that high—and then fleeing. That one was kind of odd.
“So. What’s your name?” Adam prods.
“I’m, um, Brendon,” Brendon tells him. That streak in his hair is very blue.
“Isn’t this cool?” Adam gushes. “I feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I just feel so thankful to the universe, you know what I mean?”
“…Yes,” Brendon says.
“Man, this is awesome,” Adam continues. “Everyone is so nice here! It hardly feels like Hollywood.”
Brendon coughs.
“Oh, man, do you need your inhaler?” Ryan asks from behind him, holding a plate of food.
“You have asthma?” Adam says, looking far more concerned than Brendon feels the situation warrants, considering that Brendon isn’t wheezing. Also, he doesn’t actually have asthma.
“I’m fine,” Brendon reassures. He smiles at Ryan, who smiles back before suddenly jerking his head down and walking away very quickly.
“So what song are you thinking of doing?” Adam asks. “I can’t believe we get to do Michael Jackson’s songs! So. Cool.”
* *
“And man,” Adam says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, “Burning Man was just life-changing. It was revelatory. I suddenly—I felt free. You know I’m saying?”
“Absolutely,” Brendon says. “Shrooms are the bomb.”
“Exactly!” Adam beams at him, and Brendon smiles back a little helplessly. Adam’s smile seems to be a force of a nature.
“How’s dinner?” Ryan’s head suddenly pops up next to them.
“It’s great!” Adam grins at him. Ryan grunts in his direction.
“Aren’t you done eating yet?” he asks, addressing Brendon.
“Um, not yet,” Brendon says. “Why?”
“I was just wondering,” Ryan says defensively. “Whatever.”
“You do say that word a lot,” Brendon says triumphantly.
“Fuck you,” Ryan hisses before turning around and storming off.
Adam and Brendon stare at his receding back.
“You know,” Adam says, “I know this great doctor in Hollywood, takes care of all the A-listers. I bet I could get him to talk to Ryan and help him sort out his anger management issues.”
* *
“And he was my first great love,” Adam explains, humming around a spoonful of chocolate cake. “But I’m moving on! I’m definitely moving on.”
“That’s great, man,” Brendon says encouragingly.
“Yeah. I mean, have you seen my roommate? Wow. I hate to sound shallow, but…wow.”
“Have you seen my eyeliner pen?” Ryan suddenly shows up behind Adam.
“Um, no,” Brendon says. “Have you checked the room?”
“Can you come with me to check?”
“Why?” Brendon asks slowly. He feels like he’s missing something.
“To help me find it faster.” Ryan rolls his eyes.
“Um,” Brendon says. He looks down at his chocolate cake.
“Fine,” Ryan snaps. “If you want to sit here and chat all night long, whatever. I don’t care. I’m going out with the others. We’re hitting the bars.”
“Ooh, can I come?” Adam asks, perking up.
Ryan narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to say something, but a guy with a hat on quickly chimes in, “Sure, Adam! The more the merrier.”
Ryan breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring.
“Hey, Bren, are you coming?” Adam asks.
Ryan’s face, if possible, darkens even further.
“No, I, uh. I don’t drink,” Brendon says, before regretting it. “I mean, like! I don’t feel like drinking. Right now. I’m not straightedge, or anything. How lame, right?”
“Um, okay,” Adam says. “I’ll see you later.”
“Bye, Adam,” Brendon says. “Bye, Ryan!”
“Whatever.”
* *
Brendon strums one final A major chord on his guitar before sighing and putting it away. It’s almost two am, and none of the others are back yet. Well, that’s fine. He’ll just go to bed by himself. Like a loser.
He changes quickly, brushes his teeth, and then spends half an hour making faces at himself in the mirror. He always looks constipated when he sings, which is a real problem. Maybe if he flattened out his eyebrows and widened his eyes, he would look a little…
No. Now he just looks like a toad. Brendon sticks a tongue out at his reflection. Why is it so hard to sing attractively?
Frowning to himself, he slowly turns off the lights and crawls into bed. At least the mattress is nice and soft. Brendon closes his eyes and starts counting his breaths before he falls asleep.
It feels like it’s only been two seconds before he’s jerking awake again, a shadowy form getting onto his bed.
“Eek,” Brendon says articulately.
“Shhh,” the form says, which really isn’t very reassuring at all until Brendon realizes that the pointy elbow attempting to skewer his stomach belongs to Ryan.
“What are you doing?” Brendon whispers. “Don’t you have your own bed?”
“It’s cold,” Ryan mumbles intelligently. His mouth is suddenly very close to Brendon’s, and Brendon can smell vodka coming off of his breath.
“Dude,” Brendon says. “This is getting kind of, like. Weird.”
“Shhh,” Ryan says insistently, and then suddenly, there’s an ice-cold hand in his pants.
Brendon maybe starts to hyperventilate.
Ryan cocks his head at him. “Are you having an asthma attack?”
Brendon shakes his head. “What are you doing?” he rasps out.
“It’s cold,” Ryan repeats.
“I don’t think your logic is as sound as you think it is,” Brendon tells him in a slightly higher-pitched voice than his usual. Only slightly.
“You don’t need your inhaler, right?” Ryan asks.
Brendon shakes his head.
“Okay, good,” Ryan says, satisfied. And then he wraps his hand around Brendon’s dick.
Brendon makes a sound like a dying frog.
“It’s warm now,” Ryan observes. He sounds pleased.
“Why are you—oh my God.”
“It’s okay,” Ryan tells him placidly.
“I’m not gay,” Brendon says very resolutely (and lying through his teeth). “Also, uh, consent! Oh my God, you are so drunk right now. I’m taking advantage of you.”
“You talk a lot,” Ryan says. Then he pulls his hand out of Brendon’s pants. Brendon breathes out, slowly, before realizing that Ryan’s licking his palm and sneaking the hand back in, wrapping the hand back around his cock and dragging down in one swift motion.
“Oh, shit,” is all Brendon manages to get out before Ryan’s mouth is on his, clumsily licking it open and thrusting his tongue in. It’s messy and uncoordinated and Ryan tastes like vodka, but Brendon’s mouth isn’t listening to his brain, and he’s kissing back, sucking Ryan’s tongue and licking over the roof of his mouth.
In a matter of moments, Brendon’s gone from half-hard to completely hard, Ryan’s hand working him in a steady rhythm. His hips are jerking up wildly into the tight hole of Ryan’s fingers, and fuck, it’s too much, Ryan biting the corner of his lip and using his thumb to tease roughly at the head at the same time. Then Brendon realizes that Ryan’s been rubbing off against his hip, sharp little movements of his hips nudging the heat of his cock between Brendon’s thigh and the mattress, and shit, that is unfairly hot.
He breaks away from the kiss to gasp into the pillow, hips still thrusting up desperately. Ryan takes advantage of the break to suck at the soft skin below Brendon’s jawline, licking and tugging the skin between his teeth. The sharp pain goes straight to his cock, and before he can stop himself, he’s coming, making a mess of his pants and Ryan’s hand.
“Jesus,” Brendon says, and then immediately blushes, feeling blasphemous.
Ryan makes a small, frustrated noise against him, and Brendon reaches down to wrap his hand around Ryan’s cock, but before he even does anything, Ryan’s shooting over his hand and uttering a filthy string of swear words.
They lay there for a moment, their breathing embarrassingly loud in the dark room.
“So,” Brendon attempts.
“Okay, I’m going to sleep now,” Ryan informs him, before scrambling off into his own bed.
Right. Brendon grabs a tissue and starts cleaning himself off, staring at the ceiling.
* *
“About last night,” Brendon says as Ryan’s fussing with his hair in front of the bathroom mirror.
“What about it?” Ryan asks.
“Well. You know.” Brendon makes an uncomfortable motion with his hands.
Ryan stares at him blankly.
“Why did you do it?” Brendon asks.
“I didn’t do anything,” Ryan says.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ryan insists.
“Dude,” Brendon says. “Do you want to see the stains on my sheets? Because I can show you the stains on my sheets.”
“I was drunk!” Ryan says.
“Um,” Brendon says.
“So I don’t remember anything,” Ryan tells him victoriously.
Brendon feels like ever since he got onto American Idol, his life’s gotten a whole lot weirder.
* *
“I feel like this is becoming a pattern,” Brendon says as Ryan pulls down his pants. “And I don’t know how I feel about that. Are you drunk again?”
Ryan flips him off.
“I was just checking,” Brendon says sulkily, but before he can sulk for much longer, Ryan’s got his lips around his cock and he’s sliding down and wow, Brendon can’t look away from his spit-slicked lips. Ryan stares back, eyes dark and intent. Brendon swallows, and he feels like he can’t breathe.
* *
A heavy hand lands on Brendon’s shoulder. “Hey, man, you should be careful.”
Brendon blinks, and turns around. “Kris?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t think you want that showing up on national television,” Kris says meaningfully.
“What?” Brendon asks, heart rate suddenly quickening. Kris can’t possibly mean what he thinks he means.
Kris rolls his eyes. “You and Ryan, dude. You guys really aren’t subtle.”
“What?” Brendon says, eyes wide. “But we don’t—we don’t even really talk, outside of our, um, room. I mean.”
“You don’t need to talk to give things away,” Kris tells him quietly. “And I don’t know if they have 24/7 surveillance of our rooms, but I wouldn’t put it past them. So just—be careful, yeah?”
“Okay,” Brendon says after a few beats, watching him as he leaves to talk to Adam.
They’re smiling about something, Adam clapping Kris on the shoulder and leaning into him. Brendon stands there for a moment, watching them. Huh. It looks like Kris was right.
* *
“So, Kris was saying something about video cameras in our rooms,” Brendon says as Ryan’s tugging on his shirt.
Ryan frowns at him. “You’re always talking to Kris. And, so what?” he says.
“So what?” Brendon repeats. “Look at us!” He gestures between them emphatically. “Do you want all of America to see this?”
“Are you embarrassed?” Ryan asks, frowning suddenly.
“That is so not the point!” Brendon says. “The point is privacy. And no, Jesus. I’m not embarrassed.”
Ryan sniffs. “Okay. Let’s go into the bathroom, I bet they don’t have cameras there.”
And it’s actually a lot easier, Ryan coating his fingers with lube and not caring if any slops over onto the countertops, spreading Brendon’s legs and scissoring his fingers in without worrying about making a mess. Ryan seems to have some sort of thing for watching them in the mirror, gaze fixed to their reflections as he slides in, biting his lip and barely ever blinking.
And Brendon totally doesn’t do the same thing, of course. He just glances at the mirror a few times, and, okay, maybe he can see the appeal; long, curving lines and clutching fingers and everywhere, the shiny sheen of sweat.
“Are we still not talking about this?” Brendon murmurs as they rinse themselves off—the bathroom is so much more convenient, bless Kris Allen’s heart.
“Talking about what?” Ryan says, and Brendon sighs.
“Ryan…”
“Actually, no,” Ryan says. “We do need to talk.”
“What? Really?” Brendon sits up straighter.
“Yes. About your clothes, Brendon. What the hell are you planning on wearing for Tuesday’s performance? Because I’ve looked through your entire closet, and so far all I’ve managed to figure out is that apparently, your role model in fashion is a thirteen year old girl.”
And Brendon…Brendon doesn’t really have anything to say to that, especially to someone who’s taken to wearing bowler hats. With feathers. So instead he just flicks water at Ryan, and if somehow they end up drenched in a shower and Ryan halfway in him again, well. Brendon’s willing to roll with it.
* *
“So, hypothetically,” Brendon says slowly.
“Okay.” Adam nods encouragingly. “I am thinking very hypothetically now. Go on.”
“If there is this one guy,” Brendon continues. “And then there’s this other guy. And—“
“Oh, shit,” Adam says. “You don’t need the gay sex talk, do you? I mean, I know you’re Mormon, but—“
“No!” Brendon quickly interjects. “I’m fine on, um, that point. No problem there. Hah. Um.”
“Oh, okay,” Adam says, all ears again. “Tell me what’s going on. What’s bothering you?”
“So, that one other guy keeps, um, you know,” Brendon says.
Adam stares at him with wide, heavily lined eyes. “Snoring? Leaving the toilet lid up? Taking thirty minutes in the bathroom?”
“…No,” Brendon says. “A little more R-rated than that.”
Adam hisses. “Oh, man, I hate when that happens. I’m always like, stop coming over to my house and jerking off all over my bed! And they’re like, sorry, I was on autopilot! And I’m like, we’re not even dating anymore! And then somehow we end up sleeping together. Again.” Adam sighs mournfully.
Brendon blinks a few times. “Actually, I’ve only been having problems with that last part. This one guy keeps, um, initiating stuff—“
“Sex,” Adam provides helpfully.
“Right.” Brendon thinks if his cheeks get any redder, they’ll probably match his glasses. And that is so not the look he was going for when he got these.
“So…” Adam says. “What’s the problem? Sex is great! Endorphins, shiny hair, happy bodies. Oh, wait, are you having a gay crisis? Because I have this hotline number you could call…”
“No,” Brendon says carefully, “I’m not having a gay crisis. But, like, he never wants to talk about us…doing it. You know? He doesn’t even like to acknowledge it happened. This one time, he claimed that he was so drunk he didn’t remember anything. Only the next day, he was blowing me again. And I am totally fine with that turn of events, you have no idea, but I just…I feel like it’s not very—healthy.”
Adam studies him for a moment. “What’s Ryan’s astrological sign?” he asks.
“Ryan? What Ryan?” Brendon smiles hugely. “I wasn’t talking about Ryan!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Adam says, looking contrite. “Were we still being hypothetical? I thought we had moved on.”
Brendon valiantly resists thunking his head against his wall.
“So?” Adam asks.
“What?”
“What’s his astrological sign?” Adam repeats patiently.
“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “Why does it matter?”
Adam stares at him with huge, horrified eyes for a few seconds before speaking again. “Okay. You know what? Never mind. I’m going to try to put this in layman’s terms.”
“Alright,” Brendon says. “That would probably be best.”
“So, Ryan doesn’t have the best social skills, I’m guessing,” Adam says. “He likes you. He definitely likes you, but I don’t think he knows how to deal with that. So he’s doing the classic hot-and-cold routine.”
“Um, okay,” Brendon says, nodding thoughtfully.
“So, if you want anything more to develop,” Adam says meaningfully, “you’re going to have to be the one to take the next stop.”
“But he won’t even talk about it,” Brendon protests. “How am I supposed to…”
“You’ll find a way,” Adam tells him. “If you don’t want to lose the relationship, you’re going to need to do something about it.”
* *
“You’re going to need to do something about this,” Cash says. “That relationship is toxic, man. Get out. Get out now.”
Brendon scratches at the side of his head, cradling his cell to the other side. “Cash, are you sure?”
“Definitely,” Cash says. “You know what I think?”
“What do you think?” Brendon asks warily.
“That boy is playing you. He is playing you hard,” Cash says around a mouthful of something.
“Playing me,” Brendon repeats slowly.
“Yeah. He’s trying to get your head out of the game. He’s messing with you. You’re on American Idol, dude, don’t ever forget that.”
Brendon furrows his brow, biting his lip. “I don’t—I don’t think Ryan—“
“Never trust anyone!” Cash interrupts. “He’s either trying to distract you from your real goal—you didn’t come on this show to find ass, Bren—or he’s trying to tarnish your image.”
“What image?”
Cash sighs obnoxiously. “You’re the clean-cut religious kid, man! That’s how the execs are pushing you. Didn’t you see the way the auditions were edited? Your main fan base is going to be made up of soppy old women who go to church every Sunday. If you do anything to threaten that, then who the hell’s going to vote for you? That Ryan guy’s devious, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m sure my fan base is a little wider than that,” Brendon says, his bottom lip threatening to pout.
“Uh huh,” Cash says. “Whatever. Just get out of the relaysh, okay? Trust me.”
Brendon picks at the edge of his bedspread, and doesn’t answer.
* *
Brendon watches quietly as Ryan bustles around. He’s been mercilessly stripping his closet for the last hour, throwing clothes everywhere.
“What do you think about this?” Ryan holds up another item of clothing.
“Is that a vest?” Brendon asks, tilting his head sideways.
“Um, yeah,” Ryan says, defensively.
“Does it have roses on it?” Brendon says, turning his head the other way.
“Okay, look, it’s unique,” Ryan tells him.
“Not the right kind of unique, I don’t think,” Brendon says carefully. “How about that black jacket over there?”
It’s a nice jacket, simple, with only a few gold embellishments.
But Ryan rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to make an impact. I’m not trying to make everyone feel safe. I’ll never win that way.”
“…Right,” Brendon says after a slight pause. Winning. Of course.
“What?” Ryan asks, looking up and studying Brendon.
“Nothing,” Brendon says lightly. “How are you going to do your make-up?”
“Probably a few purple and blue swirls,” Ryan says. “Matches the stage, you know.”
“That’s cool,” Brendon says. He traces a pattern onto the bedspread with his finger, avoiding Ryan’s gaze.
“What about your outfit?” Ryan asks suddenly.
“My outfit?”
“What are you going to wear onstage?” Ryan says impatiently. “Your outfit is one of the most important parts of your presentation. It makes that first impression.”
“I was thinking, um,” Brendon rubs at the back of his neck, “a black, collared shirt?”
“Just that?” Ryan asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, with jeans, too,” Brendon says, grinning a little.
“You’re so funny,” Ryan says in a flat tone. “No. That’s not going to work. Looking like a sweet, fresh-faced choir boy isn’t going to get you very far at all. You’re going to have to ditch that persona eventually. Here,” he says, and he thrusts the black jacket at Brendon.
Brendon blinks at him.
“Try it on,” Ryan huffs. “Do I have to do everything around here?”
So Brendon does, and the jacket slides on smoothly, settling against his shoulders and draping down gracefully. Brendon stares down at it, struck silent for no real reason. It…It’s not bad.
Then he looks back up, and Ryan’s staring at him, too.
“What do you think?” Brendon asks, a small smile tugging at his lip.
Ryan crosses his arms. “I guess it’s okay,” he says ungraciously.
“Just okay?”
Ryan deliberately shifts his gaze away from him, coloring slightly. “I don’t know. Whatever.”
“You really do overuse that poor word,” Brendon says quietly.
As Ryan begins to scowl, Brendon steps in further. He’s not really thinking at the moment—he’s trying desperately to keep from thinking, actually—and he gently cups Ryan’s face, pulling him closer and kissing that scowling mouth.
Their lips connect for one, two brief seconds before Ryan’s pulling away. It’s odd; they’ve done pretty much everything together, yet Ryan’s still blushing furiously.
“What was that?” Ryan says, sounding like he’s trying to be harsh but failing miserably. Red spots are still high on his cheeks, and he can’t keep eye contact with Brendon, gaze darting away every few seconds.
“I think in modern English, that’s known as a kiss,” Brendon says.
Ryan gapes at him. “I’m—we’re—I mean, it’s almost dinner.”
“We probably still have time,” Brendon says, and shit, now he’s blushing, too. “I mean, if you don’t want to—“
“I didn’t say that!” Ryan says hastily.
“Okay. Well.” Brendon stares at his feet.
Then he looks up, and Ryan’s staring at him, too. Brendon gets off the bed, and Ryan shuffles a little closer, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Brendon takes another step, and Ryan reciprocates, and wow, they’re almost on top of each other now.
“Hi,” Brendon says.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “This is stupid,” he proclaims, before leaning forward and kissing him again.
It’s a little hard to keep the kiss going, seeing as Brendon’s stupid lips keep trying to smile, or whatever, but then Ryan’s got a hand down his pants, and it turns out that kissing isn’t so important after all.
“Oh, wait,” Brendon says after a few seconds. “What about the video cameras?”
“Fuck the video cameras,” Ryan says, and pushes him down onto the bed, slipping a hand into Brendon’s shirt to brush over his chest, nail scraping over his nipple, and yeah, Brendon can totally get behind that sentiment. Fuck the video cameras.
* *
They’re totally late for dinner. But no one says anything about it, except for maybe Adam, who hands him a dinner roll and winks.
* *
“Ryan, stop fussing.” Brendon bats at his hands. “I look fine. And you look great, too.”
Ryan’s wearing the rose vest, despite Brendon’s repeated efforts to burn that piece of clothing. But the swirls on his face look really nice, even though Brendon kind of wants to smudge them up, lick them away. Except that’s probably a bad idea. Brendon doesn’t think they’d taste very good.
“I can’t believe we’re on national television,” Ryan gibbers. “Live.”
“It’ll be okay, man,” Brendon says. “I mean, we’re doing this to get discovered. We’re getting publicity. Just think about that.”
“Why are you so fucking calm about this?” Ryan eyes him.
“Oh, I feel like I’m going to puke,” Brendon says cheerfully. He taps his fingers on the dressing room table in an aggressively happy beat until Ryan threatens to chop them off.
* *
Apparently, this week is a double elimination. They learn this when Simon announces the news with a gigantic smile on his face. Brendon thinks dreamily about punching it off his face, and Ryan looks like he’s having the same thoughts.
The beginning performances fly by, Sarver doing his smooth country boy thing and Gokey traumatizing everyone with the slightest bit of taste and Allison rocking the fuck out.
All too soon, Brendon’s background video is being cued up. But the accompanying music sounds different. Darker. More foreboding. Before Brendon really gets a chance to start wondering at the change, a booming voiceover comes on.
“DRAMA IS ALREADY STIRRING UP THE IDOL MANSION,” the generic male voice announces dramatically.
Which…really doesn’t sound good. Brendon exchanges a worried look with Ryan.
The video cuts to a scene of the first day in the mansion, and Brendon feels a sinking feeling in his gut. This looks familiar.
Ryan’s in the middle of the screen, sneering. “You’re the token Mormon guy,” he says. “Season eight’s Archuleta. American Idol’s always got to have one.”
“Um. What?” Brendon looks like a kicked puppy onstage, eyes big and hurt.
“Yeah,” onscreen Ryan says, “but ten bucks says you don’t make it as far as he did.” Then Ryan smirks at him cruelly, before spinning on his heel with a flourish and leaving.
Brendon stares at the gigantic screen, horrified. He really doesn’t remember it being this bad.
The next scene is of them in their rooms. Brendon has taken two strides to shove his face right up against onscreen Ryan’s.
“What is your problem?” onscreen Brendon spits angrily, crossing his arms.
And then the scene shifts again, and Brendon’s got this ugly look on his face, lip curled.
“At least I haven’t resorted to drawing animals on my face to get attention,” Brendon snarls, and the camera switches to focus on Ryan’s face, shocked and upset.
Thankfully, the screen fades to black after that, but the damage is already done. Brendon’s mouth is hanging open, and he chances a glance at Ryan, who looks equally shell-shocked.
Well. It looks like Idol’s decided to cast them as the two jerk-offs of Season 8. Brendon chews on the inside of his lip, and tries to focus on his performance. This is only the video. Things can only go up after this, right?
* *
“Ryan, c’mon. It wasn’t that bad.” Brendon quietly pulls him onto the bed, turning him so that they’re facing each other. “I’m serious. It wasn’t.”
“They told me I went flat on every other note,” Ryan whispers.
Well, Brendon can’t really argue with that. But he bites his lip and tells Ryan, “Dirty Diana is a hard song to sing. And you had nerves. Plus, what do the preteens of America know about flat notes?”
Ryan sighs and shrugs.
“They liked the vest,” Brendon says. They really did. Especially Paula. It kind of freaked Brendon out.
Ryan smiles a little bit. “Yeah, they did like the vest. I told you that you were wrong.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Brendon says. And then, “oh my God, I’m spending too much time around you.”
“Whatever’s a fine word,” Ryan says huffily.
Brendon wisely decides to change the subject. “They hated my performance, too.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Ryan says, eyes solemn.
“They told me I was in the wrong decade,” Brendon says. “Which is total bullshit! Never Can Say Goodbye is a timeless classic.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says. His hand’s on Brendon’s elbow, and it’s a warm, comforting weight.
Brendon inches closer until he can kiss Ryan, soft and slow, for barely more than a few seconds each time. Ryan leans into the kisses, warm breath ghosting over Brendon’s face and thumb rubbing over the ridge of his elbow. The covers fold over them warmly like some soft, secure cocoon, and Brendon can feel himself wavering on the edge of sleep.
“I mean, we can’t possibly be the first ones booted off,” he says a while later, sleepily. “Even if the video did make us look like assholes.”
“We should probably be grateful the video didn’t show anything else,” Ryan says, lips pursed.
“Yeah,” Brendon says slowly. “That would have been kind of…bad.”
“Seriously. And…our chances of staying aren’t that terrible. I mean. Did you hear Jasmine? Anoop was kind of bad, too. No idea what’s going on with him this week.”
“And Danny Gokey’s dance moves probably made half of America cover their eyes,” Brendon adds. He yawns. “We’ll totally be fine.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Yeah.”
* *
They get kicked off.
Allison cries—Brendon’s not too sure why—Danny Gokey slaps him on the back, and Adam pulls him into a bear hug.
Brendon doesn’t really notice any of that, though, or the screaming audience, or the insincere condolences from the judges. He’s too busy looking at Ryan. But Ryan’s not looking back.
* *
Brendon finally manages to corner Ryan as they’re packing up their room, getting ready to go home.
“Ryan,” he says.
“What?” Ryan doesn’t look up, still shoving clothing into his suitcase.
“We should talk,” Brendon says. “I’m serious. We need to talk.”
“What is there to talk over?” Ryan finally looks up, and he fixes Brendon with a blank gaze. “Competition’s over. For us, anyway.”
“But, I mean.” Brendon stares at the ground. This is so awkward, and he pulls at the bottom of his hoodie just to stall. Suddenly, he has a lot more sympathy for the chick in every bad romantic comedy. “What about,” Brendon starts again. “What about us?”
“What about us?” Ryan repeats emotionlessly.
Biting his lip, Brendon fights down the urge to give up and just walk away. Screw Ryan and his stupid face.
But Ryan’s stupid face is turned down now, his back is stiff and straight, and his hipbones are jutting at acute angles over his stupidly tight jeans. And his ridiculous faux hawk is fading fast, the abused hair flopping over and rewinding themselves into sloppy curls.
And Brendon…Brendon is probably an idiot.
Which, of course, is why he keeps talking. “Do you want to keep…I don’t know. Seeing each other?”
Ryan has stopped packing, and his voice is a perfect monotone when he says, “Do you?”
“I don’t—I mean. I asked you first!”
“I asked you second,” Ryan says petulantly.
“This is stupid,” Brendon informs Ryan, glowering. “Yeah, I guess. Sure.”
“You don’t need to sound so enthusiastic about it,” Ryan snaps.
“I’m the one asking, aren’t I?” Brendon stares at Ryan’s face, trying to read what he’s feeling. “So?”
“Okay.” Ryan shrugs. “If you want to, I guess I’m fine with it.” He quickly transfers his gaze to the ground.
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Good.” Brendon crosses his arms and stares at Ryan.
There are a few minutes of silence.
Then Ryan says, “Do you want to make out?”
And this time, Brendon says yes.
End.
EPILOGUE:
“We’re starting a band,” Ryan tells Brendon as he licks his way down his chest. “You’re the lead singer.”
“Wait, what?” Brendon says.
“And Spencer’s the drummer,” Ryan continues. “I’m not sure about the bassist yet.”
“Wait, what?” Brendon says.
“I’ve already written a few demos. We should start rehearsing,” Ryan reflects.
“I think I’m confused,” Brendon says. It is kind of hard to think when Ryan’s hand is doing that.
“Use your inhaler,” Ryan tells him, and Brendon feels a slight pang of guilt.
“I don’t have asthma,” he says. “I just thought you should know that.”
Ryan pauses. Brendon tries not to shift his hips meaningfully.
“Oh, okay,” Ryan says. “That’s good. I wouldn’t want my lead singer to have to pull out his inhaler every few seconds.”
“I don’t think asthma works the way you think it works,” Brendon says. “And, wait! I haven’t agreed to be your lead singer yet.”
Ryan twists his hand, and Brendon arches, gasping. Ryan looks at him smugly.
“Okay, fine,” Brendon grouses. “But only if you stop voting for Danny fucking Gokey.”
Ryan snickers, and Brendon covers his mouth with his own. Just to make him shut up, of course.
End (for real this time).
All feedback is very much appreciated! ♥
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-17 06:29 am (UTC)anyways, YAY!!!
ryanross!fail is the best ever! and i don't think asthma works the way i think it works either, but that's okay because me doctor still insists that we spend my appointments tlaking about my sister's non-existent asthma, so i don't think it works like anyone thinks it does. \o/
hi, i love you. and, yes, that is grounds for homicide, BUT! fic is also a good deterrent from the whole "me killing you" thing.
:x
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-18 11:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-18 09:07 am (UTC)Oh, man, I hate when that happens. I’m always like, stop coming over to my house and jerking off all over my bed! And they’re like, sorry, I was on autopilot! And I’m like, we’re not even dating anymore! And then somehow we end up sleeping together. Again.” Adam sighs mournfully.
You rock. :DDDD
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-18 11:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-18 06:20 pm (UTC)I really loved how you wrote Adam btw, he was my favorite. :D
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-18 11:55 pm (UTC)If you don't mind, could you tell me where I made spelling/grammar errors? I cranked this out over the weekend, and totally didn't spend as much time looking for those as I should have. /o\
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-20 04:46 pm (UTC)Brendon’s mouth is hanging open, and he chances a glance at Ryan, who looks equally shellshocked. *shell-shocked*
He looks up, slowly, to find two heavily eye-linered eyes glaring at him. *eye-lined*
“Man,” says someone from behind him, “that
’sguy’s a brat.”Frownng to himself, he slowly turns off the lights and crawls into bed. *Frowning*
I think that's about it? I might've missed some though...
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-21 12:17 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-18 09:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-18 11:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-18 10:23 pm (UTC)Adam was awesome.
period.
Kris was right.
cash was half right.
Ryan was horny.
brendon was confused.
:D this was amazing.
and I'm entirely too happy about the American idol au :P
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-18 11:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-19 12:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-21 12:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-19 01:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-21 12:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-19 03:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-21 12:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-21 12:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-19 05:28 am (UTC)<3
I wanna watch the secret footage. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-21 12:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-19 06:03 am (UTC)I laughed so hard you don't even know! lol This was pretty awesome!
Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-21 12:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-19 06:04 am (UTC)But if there was a Brendon-look-a-like or anyone-awesome-look-a-like.
I'd watch.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-21 12:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-20 02:47 pm (UTC)hahahaha ♥♥♥
loved it :)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-21 12:17 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-21 01:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-23 04:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-29 04:48 pm (UTC)Ryan Ross is a failboat. Not even kidding. But we love him anyway. Or at least Brendon does. ;)
-happy sigh- This story was really really well put together and it flowed nicely which basically means that I fawned over it. Also, my personal favorite quote: “Oh, I’m sorry,” Adam says, looking contrite. “Were we still being hypothetical? I thought we had moved on.”
Yeah, that pretty much made my life. \o/
Also, Brendon's red glasses are in here! ^o^ WIN.
Anyway, fabulous job! This is really great! <3
-mems-
<333
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-30 12:19 am (UTC)I'm glad you liked the red glasses! ♥
(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-21 07:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-22 12:13 am (UTC)