[personal profile] untappedbeauty
And now for my contribution to the glut of post-holiday fic. I'm kind of hoping this is the longest fic title I ever come up with, because we're veering into the ridiculous here.


My Memory's Not What It Used To Be (But I Like The Idea Of You And Me)
Ryan/Gabe, NC-17
~10,000 words

Note: Definitely an AU, in which events and people have been shifted through time and space, just a little bit. Ryan Ross never contacted Pete Wentz online and, consequently, Pete never gave Panic! a record deal. Also in this world, Midtown ended without Cobra Starship forming.

Thanks ever so to [livejournal.com profile] sparklewitch for the beta and for putting up with my whining more than anyone on earth deserves.

Written for [livejournal.com profile] dreamofthem, who utterly WINS for wanting more Gabe fic. I hope it happens. For both of us. :)


Ryan is immediately suspicious.

The suspicion isn't unwarranted, though, because he happens to be sitting in the living room when the front door cracks open almost silently and Brendon peeks inside.

Ryan lifts an eyebrow when Brendon's eyes light on him. Brendon does not come inside.

He does say, "Is Spencer around?"

Ryan shakes his head. Waits.

"Okay, well," Brendon says, pushing the door open wider and eyeing Ryan critically. "You're not really ideal, but. You're probably stronger than me. Come on."

"And what?" Ryan asks.

Brendon's mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally blurts out, "I need your help moving the body."

Ryan drops his book. "The body?"

"I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe the guy. He might still be alive."

"What?"

Brendon waves a hand as if he's brushing aside a petty concern over whether the chorus should repeat four times instead of three. "Not my fault!" he says. "I was just driving like normal, totally almost doing the speed limit, and this guy just, like, walked out into the road! He was sort of weaving and wobbling around, and it's not like I had time to stop! Maybe he was trying to commit suicide? Or maybe he was drunk. If he's a drunken pedestrian, it's totally his fault."

"What?" Ryan asks again. He wonders if there's any way this conversation can magically unhappen.

"I don't know!" Brendon says, and at least now he sounds freaked out.

"Jesus, why didn't you call the police? The fuck, Brendon! You just left some guy on the side of the road like roadkill?"

Brendon looks down and mumbles something into his chest.

"What?" Ryan asks.

"He's actually in the van."

"What?" Ryan's getting tired of saying that, but really. He kind of can't get past it. "You hit a guy and put his body in the van?" Then, because Brendon is tiny, "Wait, how big is he? Oh my god, did you kill a kid?"

"No! It's. I got out of the van to check on him, right? And, like, his head was bleeding a little, but he didn't look too bad. So I poked him."

"You poked him," Ryan echoes.

Brendon nods. "With a stick. But anyway, I poked him, and all of a sudden, he just...got up! He told me to put his bags in the trunk and take him to JFK, and he got in the back and, like, passed out. Or died. I was too scared to check."

Ryan buries his face in his hands and tries to calm down. It doesn't work very well. "Let's pretend that makes any kind of sense. Okay. But you brought him here," Ryan says.

Brendon nods, but Ryan's pretty sure he's just doing it reflexively. The amount of nodding happening makes him look like a bobblehead.

"You didn't think maybe the hospital would be a better idea?"

Brendon blinks. "What good would that do me?"

Ryan closes his eyes. "First of all," he grits out, "they could make sure your brain is still functioning, because second of all, it wouldn't be about you. We have to get that guy to a hospital!"

"Oh, right," Brendon says.

Ryan pushes past him, flipping open his cell phone to call Spencer and tell him "Oh, hey, no practice today since Brendon decided to get in a hit-and-haul." Only, when he throws the front door open, Spencer's already there. He doesn't look happy.

"What the fuck happened to the van?"

Brendon peeks over Ryan's shoulder. "I ran over some guy," he says.

"Funny," Spencer replies, crossing his arms over his chest and pushing one hip out. "Did you swerve for another squirrel and hit a telephone pole?"

"No. But the guy was pretty tall," Brendon muses.

Spencer stares at Brendon for a minute, then turns to Ryan. "He's shitting me, right?"

Ryan's mouth flattens into a line as he edges around Spencer. He's quiet on the approach to the van. He doesn't know why, really, because if there's a dead dude in the back of the van, it's not going to matter how much noise Ryan makes. But he still keeps his footsteps carefully light before he's there, looking in the back window with very little hope the van will be empty.

It's not. There's a guy, curled on his side, and he is tall, knees scrunched up toward his chest and dried blood on his forehead. Ryan can't tell if his chest is moving or not.

"Oh, shit," Spencer breathes next to him.

"I know, right?" Brendon says from Ryan's other side.

They stand there for a good thirty seconds, in a neat little line, staring through dirty glass at some dude Brendon might or might not have killed.

Just as Ryan opens his mouth to reiterate, "Hospital. Now," the guy's eyelids squinch tight, then blink open. Ryan kind of freezes, flooded with relief, and can't really look away. He can't tell if the guy's pupils are blown or what, because his eyes are really dark, and his pupils probably blend in with the irises, anyway.

So the guy stares at Ryan, who stares back until the guy's gaze flicks from Ryan to Spencer (who presses closer to Ryan), then to Brendon (who sighs in relief).

"He's alive!" Brendon cries, popping open the back of the van. "Hi!" he says, leaning in and looking the guy over like he'll be able to see anything that might be wrong with him. "You're okay, right? Are you? I'm really sorry, I just didn't see you! I'm Brendon! How many fingers am I holding up?" He flashes a peace sign.

The guy blinks once, then again, then once more for good measure, and really, Ryan can't tell if the confused look is there because the guy maybe has a concussion or because of the barrage of Brendon he's trying to take in.

"Start with the easy part," Spencer says, sighing. "How many fingers?"

The guy clears his throat, and the sound is raw and painful. "Three," he grates out.

Brendon's face falls. "Two," he corrects.

"You were holding up two," the guy counters. He nods in Spencer's direction. "He was holding up three."

"Oh," Brendon says. "Great! So you are okay, then?"

"I think so," the guy says, struggling to sit up. Brendon helps him up, out of the van, poking him in the ribs and squeezing his arm, asking, "Does this hurt? This?"

When the guy's finally on his feet, Ryan eyes him critically. Getting hit by a car can explain some of his condition: the blood, the way he won't put much weight on his left foot, some of the dirt on his skin and clothes. But the guy's hair hasn't been washed in days, his skin is pasty even under what looks to be a dark complexion, and his lips are so chapped it hurts to look at them. The guy looks, Ryan thinks, like he's been lost in the desert for a few days. Or like he's homeless.

"Is there somewhere we can take you?" Ryan asks decisively.

Spencer elbows him. "Let's go inside. You can get cleaned up some, make sure you're really okay. Then we can take you to the hospital if you think you need to go."

Brendon slings one of the guy's arms over his shoulder and helps him toward the house. Spencer and Ryan have a brief, silent argument behind them, using only eyes and expressions. Spencer claims to know that Ryan is not okay with letting complete strangers -- dirty ones, at that -- into his home. Spencer thinks it's kind of owed to the guy since Brendon did run over him. Ryan rolls his eyes, but Spencer wins.

It doesn't make Ryan any happier when Brendon sits the guy down on Ryan's couch. Ryan's white couch. Ryan wrinkles his nose.

"You were limping," Brendon says. "Is your leg okay?"

The guy shrugs. "I don't know. My ankle kind of hurts."

Brendon clucks a little and starts rolling up the left pants leg. "Oh, ow, it does look a little swollen, maybe like it's twisted. We should elevate it, I think. Or ice it? We'll just do both!" Brendon gently tugs off the guy's shoe and lifts his foot to rest on one of Ryan's throw pillows. Ryan's eyes narrow.

Brendon pays exactly zero attention to Ryan's expression, instead heading for the kitchen and leaving Ryan and Spencer to stand in silence, listening to Brendon rummaging through the freezer.

Spencer finally clears his throat. "So, did you get the part where Brendon ran over you but didn't mean to?"

"Weirdly enough, yeah, I made that out." The guy pokes at his ankle and winces, and yeah, if he's the kind of guy who knows something hurts and pokes at it anyway, Ryan can kind of see where he wouldn't have as much trouble as a normal person figuring Brendon out.

"I'm Spencer," Spencer offers. He holds out a hand that the guy takes, shakes.

The guy turns to Ryan, dark eyes expectant

"Ryan," Ryan finally says. His arms stay folded firmly over his chest.

The guy nods, and Ryan raises an eyebrow. "And you are?" he asks.

"Oh!" the guy says. His forehead creases. "Um. Huh. I don't know."

"I've got ice!" Brendon says, brandishing a Ziploc bag wrapped carefully in paper towels.

The three of them turn to stare, and Brendon stops. "What? What'd I miss?"

-----

Ryan keeps glancing back into the living room, because yes, okay, a secret meeting in the kitchen is totally necessary, but that doesn't make Ryan any more comfortable leaving some stranger alone in his living room.

"He was stumbling around on the side of the road, he doesn't have any ID on him, no money, he's all dirty, and have you seen his eyes? Totally creepy!" Ryan says. The last part is sort of a lie -- they're actually nice eyes -- but Ryan won't cop to it.

"Dude, I ran over him. We can't just tell him to get lost when he doesn't even know who he is!" Brendon insists. "Ryan Ross, even you aren't that cold."

"Okay," Spencer says. "Why don't we just take him to the hospital? They'll make sure he's okay, he'll be out of our way, and everything'll be fine."

Brendon chews on his bottom lip, then says, "I mean, I guess. It's not my place to say he can stay here."

Ryan peeks back out at the living room. It looks like the guy is asleep on the couch, ice melting over his ankle and dampening Ryan's throw pillow. Ryan thinks about bright halls and an antiseptic smell, then hangs his head.

"He can stay here for the night," he says quietly. "But only if you stay, too, Spencer. If this guy ends up being an ax murderer, I don't trust Brendon to save me."

Brendon smiles way too wide in response to that kind of a statement, and Spencer squeezes Ryan's shoulder.

Ryan follows them back into the living room, watching Brendon lean down and nudge the guy's shoulder softly. "Hey," he says quietly. He says it again, louder, accompanied by a poke.

The guy's eyes open sluggishly, and Brendon says, "Hey, do you think you have a concussion? I could shine a flashlight in your eyes like they do on TV, but I don't really know why they do that, so."

"Yeah, can I get a pass on that?" the guy says.

"Sure!" Brendon says. "We'll just assume you have one. Which, as ER has taught me, means that you're not supposed to be sleeping. So what should we call you?"

The guy shrugs. "I'll let you call me anything you want if I can get something to drink."

"Oh, shit! Sorry! Hey, do you maybe want some chapstick, too? Your lips are kind of." Brendon makes a face and fishes out his chapstick "Here, you can have it." The "you need it more than I do" goes unsaid.

The guy smiles, and his lips crack a little. Ryan shudders. "I'll go get you some water," he volunteers quickly. Like, a gallon. A pitcher, at least.

Ryan comes back in a minute later carrying a few glasses and a big pitcher of water. The glasses are mostly for show, so it looks like he didn't bring all the water for the guy.

"Hey, we decided on Guy," Brendon says.

"What guy?" Ryan asks absently, pouring a glassful and watching the guy gulp it down. Ryan pours him another glass before he puts the pitcher down.

"Guy! Since we don't know his name and have to call him something. It's simple, straightforward and easy to remember."

Ryan looks to Spencer, who shrugs. Ryan takes that to mean that when Brendon says "we decided," it wasn't so much a joint effort.

"Guy," Ryan repeats and watches the guy in question wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "No. That doesn't work."

"Ryan," Spencer says, "we can't just call him, 'Hey, you.'"

"What do you want to be called?" Ryan asks.

The guy considers for a long moment. "I like the name Jack," he says finally.

"Jack, then," Ryan says with a nod.

The guy -- Jack -- nods back and smiles.

Spencer groans. "For god's sake, please put on some of that chapstick."

-----

There's a bit of a problem. The problem is that Brendon is trying to keep Jack awake by asking questions. Mostly questions that someone with amnesia can't answer.

"Do you have any pets?" Brendon asks. "Oh, wait, sorry. Um. Who's the attorney general?"

"Brendon," Spencer says. "Do you even know who the attorney general is?"

"Of course."

Spencer waits.

"What? I can't say! We have to see if Jack knows."

Jack gives him a blank look. "I don't think I'd know that even if I weren't brain-injured."

"Ask him something normal," Ryan suggests, mostly because, yes, he wants to laugh at Brendon's definition of normal.

"Oh. Okay. What was Queen's first top ten song?"

Spencer laughs out loud. Ryan snickers.

Jack asks, "U.K. or U.S.?"

Brendon grins. "Either."

"Seven Seas of Rhye in the U.K., Bohemian Rhapsody in the U.S."

"Sweet!" Brendon says. "So you're into music."

"Apparently," Jack says.

"We're in a band, you know," Brendon says. "Spencer's on drums, Ryan's on guitar, and I sing and play piano and guitar sometimes."

"Huh. Something missing?"

Brendon shrugs. "We have a bassist. Sort of. Brent. He says he's just helping us out until we find someone permanent, though. He actually wanted to go to college." Brendon makes a face, like college could just as easily be equated with jail.

"College isn't so bad," Jack says.

Ryan sits forward. "Oh, yeah? How do you know?"

"I don't know," Jack says. "That just sort of came out. I guess maybe I've been."

"How old are you anyway?" Brendon asks. Jack lifts one shoulder helplessly, and Brendon says, "If you were a tree, we could cut you open and find out."

Jack huffs out a laugh. "You're ridiculous," he says.

"And now you know Brendon," Spencer says.

Brendon hits him, but not very hard.

"How old are you guys?" Jack asks Ryan.

"Twenty," Ryan says, pointing at himself, then, "nineteen," gesturing toward Spencer and Brendon.

"Babies," Jack says. "Where are your parents?"

Spencer's smile is closer to a grimace. "Not here," he says.

Ryan keeps his face neutral, but Brendon's frowning now.

"Food?" Ryan asks.

"Fuck yeah, I'm starving," Jack says. He sits up with a small wince.

Ryan puts a hand to the center of his chest and pushes him back down. "Even if your ankle weren't fucked up, you wouldn't be coming into my kitchen. I don't like letting strange people in an enclosed space with me and knives."

Jack smirks. "But you're letting Brendon go?"

"Point," Ryan says. "But he's a surprisingly decent cook."

He really is, if you count mac and cheese. Ryan assumes Jack agrees from the way Jack ends up wolfing down three helpings.

-----

Ryan lets Spencer sleep with him but makes Brendon sleep on the couch and give up his room to Jack. It seems only fair.

Brendon makes Jack take a shower before he'll let him have his bed, though. Jack ends up taking a bath, actually, because his ankle is still a little swollen. He says it feels a lot better, though after he gets out. Ryan gives him an old pair of his sweatpants and a T-shirt, because no way in hell would Brendon's clothes be big enough.

When Jack gets out of the bathroom, the pants are short at the ankles, and the shirt is tight across his chest. His hair curls damply over his ears. He doesn't look homeless now that he's clean. He looks. Good.

He smells like Ryan now, or so Brendon says, burying his nose against Ryan's neck after Jack passes them in the hall.

Before he crawls into bed, Ryan puts his trash can in front of his bedroom door so it'll make noise if anyone picks the lock and knocks it over. Because non-homeless-looking or not, Ryan-smelling or not, better safe than sorry.

-----

Spencer's gone when Ryan wakes up, already at work, probably. Brendon, however, is on the couch when Ryan stops at the end of the hall. He's looking back and forth between the TV and Jack, who's talking animatedly and gesturing back to the screen sometimes.

"What's on?" Ryan asks sleepily, slumping down into his dad's old armchair.

"Telenovela," Brendon says. Jack hits mute and Brendon says, "Wait! Did he find out the baby might not be his?"

Ryan looks to the screen, where a busty, dark-haired woman is caught up in what Ryan's pretty sure would best be called a steamy embrace with a guy who's probably got two decades on her. There's going to be nipple slippage aaany minute.

"Does it look like it?" Jack asks dryly.

"Hmm," Brendon hums.

"Since when do you watch telenovelas?" Ryan asks.

"Since always," Brendon says.

Ryan waits.

"Okay, never. But I accidentally changed the channel during Judge Judy, and dude, Jack totally speaks Spanish! I had no idea what was going on, but he said that apparently, the maid is having an affair with the head of the family she works for, and she got pregnant. The dude thinks the baby is his, but what he doesn't know is that she's also having an affair with the chauffeur, who she doesn't know might be her cousin! So she's trying to keep the guy she works for from finding out about her man on the side, and there's the possibility of an incest baby!"

"Is that right?" Ryan asks mildly.

"Nah," Jack says. "They'll never go the incest route. It'll be the rich dude's kid, so the kid can come back in five years as a 25-year-old to fuck up the old man's will and get his hands on some of the family money. Nouveau riche," Jack says, curling his lip. "So tacky."

Ryan laughs, and Brendon grabs the remote. "Oh, dude, the chauffeur is totally at the window! He saw them together! What's going on?"

Jack smiles at Ryan but turns his attention back to the TV. He starts translating quickly, affecting a breathy voice for the maid and a low, lecherous voice for the old guy. It's. Entertaining. There's a lot of laughing, a lot of smiling, and not all of it is coming from Brendon.

-----

Brendon leaves for the Smoothie Hut after lunch, and Ryan fiddles with his car keys uncomfortably. He should do something, take Jack to the city and see about trying to figure out who he is, where he belongs. But. It feels like he's their responsibility, what with Brendon having been the one to run over him and all. Plus, Ryan doesn't really know what the cops or the hospital would do with some guy who doesn't have any ID and doesn't know who he is. They could, like, put him in a mental institution or something. Okay, maybe not that, but Ryan doesn't know what they would do, and he knows that if he had no idea who he was, he wouldn't want to be thrown into yet another new situation with even more new people.

So he leaves his keys on the entry table and follows the sound of silverware to the kitchen. He leans against the door frame and watches the muscles in Jack's back working under one of Ryan's too-tight shirts while he does the dishes. Jack said it was the least he could do, and Ryan wasn't going to argue.

"I don't suppose your memory came flooding back at any point in the last few minutes?" Ryan asks.

Jack looks up from the sink. "Hmm? Oh, no. I mean, now we know I could have been a Spanish major in college or grew up learning it, right?"

"Maybe you're an illegal immigrant," Ryan says. "No ID on you. Could've just crossed the border. You never know."

"Wait, where are we?"

Ah, point. "About an hour outside of Vegas."

Jack lifts an eyebrow. "Yeah, I think you're onto something with that illegal alien thing." He smiles down into the soap suds, then scoops up a handful, blowing it at Ryan. It falls short, and bubbles pop across the floor.

"So," Jack says. "You're pretty hot. Wanna fuck? Because I think I'd rather earn my keep like that than by washing those." He gestures to the moldy pile of tupperware Ryan and Brendon have turned into a battle of wills over who won't wash them longest. Spencer keeps telling them to fucking throw it away, but Ryan's not ready to admit defeat. He's pretty sure Brendon's going to cave soon.

Which, you know, not such a big deal when the hot guy in the kitchen is propositioning him.

Ryan lifts his head in what he hopes comes across as a nonchalant nod. "I think you're underestimating just how much I never want to touch that stuff."

Jack wipes his hands off on the too-small sweatpants Ryan let him borrow, dragging the material down his hipbones a little and pulling it tight over his crotch. "You sure about that?"

Ryan bites his lip. "How do you know you're gay?"

"The part where I want to suck your cock seems like a pretty good sign. Are you?"

"I'm not really into labels," Ryan says. It's not a "no," but it's the best he has, because he's almost positive that this -- getting the amnesiac whose immediate fate is in his hands to suck him off to earn his keep -- would be taking advantage.

"Are you into getting your dick sucked?" Jack asks, taking a step closer, with just a hint of a limp, and that should put Ryan off. It doesn't. Neither does Jack's straightforwardness. It usually would -- Ryan's used to being the one who does the pursuing. But Jack's just staring at him levelly, waiting, and he's not trying to sell himself or be sexy, which Ryan can appreciate. He can also appreciate the way he can tell Jack's already half-hard in his sweatpants.

Finally, Ryan shrugs. "I am if you're any good."

Jack smirks and closes the rest of the distance between them, sliding to his knees. "I guess we'll find out."

Then he fits one palm, still a little damp and hot from the dishwater, over Ryan's cock, rubbing him through layers of clothing until Ryan starts hardening, cock filling, blood pumping down down down until Ryan's tipping his head back and pushing his hips forward.

Jack shoves Ryan's pants down without warning, then touches him again, this time with no material between them, skin on skin.

"That is a lot of dick for such a skinny boy," Jack says. Before Ryan can even bite out a laugh, Jack's swallowing him down, wet lips hot around Ryan's cock while his tongue works the underside.

Ryan grips the edge of the counter with both hands, fingers trying to dig into the formica as hard as the countertop is digging into his lower back. "Fuck," he groans when Jack gives a long, hard suck, then backs off to suck at just the head.

Jack's bracing himself with one hand on Ryan's thigh and the other on his hip, and just when Ryan's starting to wish he'd put one of them to use on Ryan's dick, Jack goes down again, farther and farther until Ryan feels the tight convulsions of Jack swallowing around him, and oh, god. Looking down may have been a tactical error on Ryan's part, because it's one thing to feel it, but to see it...

Jack's taking him in all the way, nose pressing against Ryan's skin, and no one has ever deep-throated him before. Ryan doesn't bother trying to hold back. He pushes at Jack's shoulder, says, "I'm. Oh, shit. I'm," and Jack gets it.

He pulls off quickly and backs off a bit, giving Ryan his hand. He fists the spit-slick length of Ryan's cock and just watches Ryan until he comes in Jack's hand, over his fingers, some of it dripping to the floor.

Ryan sags back against the counter, breathing unevenly. Jack sits back on his heels and smirks.

"So, any good?" he asks roughly.

Ryan shakes his head. "Not good," he says. "Fucking fantastic. You could be a pro."

"Mmm," Jack says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Maybe I am."

"Great, then all we have to do is wait for your pimp to track you down, then we'll know who you are."

"Or," Jack says, "we could go with my idea."

"What's that?"

"You could get me off, too."

"Thought you were earning your keep," Ryan teases, but he licks his lips when Jack drops one hand between his own legs and adjusts himself, rubbing a little.

"Well. That's true," Jack says, nodding thoughtfully. Ryan watches while Jack's hand slides to his thigh. "But look at it this way. Right now, I have no memory of ever having sex with anyone. You don't want to be my first?"

Ryan sucks in a breath. "You play dirty."

"You like it," Jack says with a slow smile.

Ryan isn't going to argue. "Come on, then," he says.

Jack does. Twice, in fact.

-----

When Brendon gets home, he's carrying a shopping bag of clothes for Jack.

"Hey, dude, awesome," Jack says. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me, thank Spencer," Brendon says. "He dropped them by the hut after he got off work."

"Count your blessings," Ryan says. "Brendon has shitty taste, and Spencer works retail, so they'll fit. He's good with sizes." It's true. Ryan likes to take him shopping because he never has to try anything on anymore if Spencer's along.

"Hey, please to not be insulting me in front of impressionable minds. He might believe you," Brendon protests.

"He has eyes, you know. I think he can tell for himself," Ryan says.

Brendon bares his teeth at Ryan in a faux growl, then turns to Jack. "You should put on a fashion show for us!"

"His ankle's still hurt, you dick," Ryan says. He hasn't noticed Jack wincing or anything, but he was still limping slightly before Brendon got home. Ryan thinks it was because of the ankle, because they didn't get that overenthusiastic earlier.

"Oops, sorry. I didn't think about that. So what did you guys do today?"

Jack shrugs. "Did the dishes. Watched TV. Sucked Ryan off in the kitchen."

"Oh," Brendon says, blinking. "That sounds...great. Uh, Spencer said he's going to come by tomorrow night so we can make up practice."

"Good," Ryan says. "By the way, you can have your room back tonight."

"I thought you didn't want Jack sleeping on the couch."

"He's not going to be," Ryan says, smiling.

"Oh," Brendon says again. "Right then. You guys have fun doing...whatever. I'm just going to go disinfect the kitchen."

Ryan doesn't think Brendon actually disinfects the whole kitchen, but the tupperware is gone when he goes to find something to eat later.

-----

After Brendon leaves for work the next day, they fuck on the couch. It's nothing Ryan plans, because really, he's had more sex in the past 24 hours than in the entire month before, but.

But Brendon wants to see what's going to happen with the maid's baby, so he gets Jack to play translator again, and after Brendon leaves, Jack starts speaking Spanish to Ryan, like somehow he knows how hot it'll make him.

So Jack really shouldn't look so surprised when Ryan pushes him onto his back and climbs on top, pushing his tongue into Jack's mouth. It's kind of gratifying, how fast Jack goes hard against Ryan's ass when Ryan rubs up against him. He lets Ryan get him undressed, lets Ryan roll on a condom he totally didn't steal from Brendon's room (It's not like Brendon ever uses them) and slick up Jack's cock with lotion from the table beside the couch. Jack grips Ryan's hips hard when Ryan sinks down onto him.

Ryan rides him slow and jerks himself off fast. When he comes across Jack's stomach, Jack lets him ride out his orgasm until he's ready to collapse across Jack's chest. Then Ryan's on his back, and Jack's still holding his hips, but now he's the one in charge. He fucks Ryan with short, sharp thrusts until he comes, groaning. Ryan likes it, being fucked after he's come. It's easier to feel it all when he's not distracted.

The couch looks okay when Jack pulls Ryan up, tugs him toward the bathroom. But really, Ryan isn't all that worried about stains on the upholstery anymore.

-----

Jack follows them to the practice space in the basement when Spencer comes by. "You guys mind if I watch?" he asks.

Ryan shrugs. He gets nervous sometimes when people he knows hear them play. It's different with a crowd, awkward with just one face staring back. But. "Okay," he says.

"Suuure, he can watch," Brendon says. "But when I asked you two the same question earlier, it's all, 'No, Brendon. Go away!' You fuckers are selfish."

"I don't think I want to know," Spencer says.

"Probably not," Ryan says.

They play through "Nails for Breakfast" and "Relax Relapse," partially to warm up, but mostly because they're the familiar and solid, and Ryan would kind of like their music to make a good first impression. His fingers feel clumsier than usual, even though Jack's smiling and bopping his head.

They move on to work on some newer stuff after that. Brendon switches to bass when he can, but on the songs when he can't, they end up feeling hollow, missing the bottom.

Jack still claps after they finish. He gives a standing ovation when Brendon takes his guitar off and bows with a flourish.

"You guys are good," he says.

He sounds genuine, smiling widely, and it puts a warm glow in Ryan's chest.

"Do you guys play a lot of shows?" he asks.

"Not as many as we'd like," Ryan says, putting his guitar away.

"There aren't many smaller venues that'll give new local bands a chance," Brendon explains. "But we've played a few, and now that we have the van we have some stuff planned farther away."

"So no groupies yet?" Jack asks.

Spencer laughs. "Brendon wishes."

"Hey, why does this have to turn into 'insult Brendon time'? I am perfectly at ease with the amount of play I get."

"Yeah, but you should really give your hand a break. I bet it gets tired sometimes," Spencer says with a grin.

"Blow me," Brendon says.

"Bet you'd like that," Spencer replies.

"Are they flirting?" Jack asks Ryan, low in his ear.

"They're being Spencer and Brendon."

"I'll pretend like that clears it up for me. Hey, you know what's awesome? I get to be the first Ryan Ross groupie. I'll go down on you after shows, let you fuck me in the back of the van. I'd even sell merch for you."

Ryan laughs. "We don't have any merch yet."

"Well, the blowjobs and fucking still stand."

Ryan doesn't get a chance to reply, because it's gotten strangely silent. He turns, and Brendon and Spencer are watching them. Spencer has one eyebrow lifted inquiringly.

"Anything you want to tell me?" he asks.

"Ryan helped me remember I like cock," Jack offers.

"Wow," Spencer says. "How...selfless of you, Ryan."

"I'm certainly grateful," Jack says, slinging his arms around Ryan's shoulders and pulling Ryan back against him. "We're going to see if the amazing curative powers of his cock can get rid of my amnesia altogether."

Ryan tries not to blush, but he can feel the dull red building in his cheeks.

"Yeah, can that wait until after dinner?" Spencer asks.

"I guess," Ryan says, and he can feel Jack's laugh along his back.

-----

Ryan ends up cooking. He hates it, but Brendon's been doing most of the cooking lately, and the takeout places won't deliver this far out. It's one of the only things Ryan misses about living in Summerlin instead of out here. He makes spaghetti because it's one of the only things he hasn't found a way to ruin.

"Food," he tells Brendon and Spencer, but they're playing Mario Kart, and Brendon says, "Yeah, we'll. Just a minute."

Ryan shrugs and goes back to the kitchen. Jack has sort of terrible table manners, and there's spaghetti sauce at the corner of his mouth, but instead of being disgusted, Ryan finds it kind of endearing. Which, in turn, he finds kind of troubling. So he tries not to dwell on it, winding spaghetti around his fork carefully.

"So," Jack says, and he licks the spaghetti sauce from the corner of his mouth. "What's the deal with you guys?

"In what sense?" Ryan asks.

"You're barely out of high school, but you're living on your own, with Brendon, who's even younger. These are pretty nice digs, and unless you've been sneaking off during the night, you don't have a job. Do you have a rich mommy and daddy or something?"

Ryan takes a bite and chews slowly, giving himself a minute to swallow before he says, "Don't know about mommy. I haven't seen her in a few years. As for daddy, he had a good life insurance policy."

"Oh," Jack says, expression abashed. "I'm sorry."

"It's not a big deal," Ryan says. "It's just the way things are."

"Yeah, but," Jack starts to say, and Ryan looks down at his plate so he won't have to see it if there's pity in Jack's eyes.

"Don't, okay? It's not like I grew up an orphan or something. He didn't die that long ago. And I mean, it's not like I'm going to live off that money forever. It's just enough to get us this place to practice and some equipment and the van. We're going to make it work. We're going to make our own money." He doesn't tell Jack about Brendon and his parents. It's not his place.

When Ryan finally looks up, Jack's nodding. "Yeah," Jack says. "You're good. You'll make it."

There's no reason why it should feel so reassuring, but it does.

"You'll make it," Jack continues, "if for no other reason than to keep me as your groupie."

"Yeah, that's it," Ryan says, but he's smiling. He leans across the table to kiss Jack, getting spaghetti sauce on his shirt and hardly noticing.

-----

The next few days fall into routine.

They watch the saga of Maria, Jose and Fernando unfold in the mornings. Jack reads while Ryan writes. They fuck a lot. They eat. Brendon hangs out with them when he's not working. Spencer comes over for practice, and Jack listens, sometimes absently sings along with Brendon. Jack and Ryan fuck some more.

Ryan's never had so much sex in his life, but now Brendon's condom stash is depleted, and so is Ryan's. They're running low on food, too, but that's kind of the secondary reason why Ryan's going to have to go into town.

"Do you want to come with?" Ryan asks Jack. He's not sure if he wants Jack to say yes or no. On one hand, Jack out in public means people seeing him and possibly recognizing him and possibly taking him away. On the other hand, leaving him home alone means letting him out of Ryan's sight, and the thought makes something clench in Ryan's chest.

"Yeah," Jack says. "Yeah, it'll be good to get out. Right?" Because Ryan's been holed up here for the past five days, too.

"Sure," Ryan says, and tries to make it sound like he means it.

They go to the nearest grocery store, which is still half an hour away.

"Anything familiar?" Ryan asks a few times, terrified each time they turn onto a new aisle that someone will see Jack and say something like, "Hey, where've you been?"

He ends up tossing a bunch of shit in the cart haphazardly, doesn't even know if he needs some of it or if he's forgetting anything important. He doesn't forget the condoms, though. He gets three boxes of those (and plenty of lube) and tries not to feel guilty that he wants Jack to stick around long enough to use them all. That he wants Jack to keep not remembering who he is so he will stick around.

They make it out of the grocery store in fifteen minutes.

-----

Brendon starts sneak-attacking Jack with questions, just to see if anything will come back to him if he's not trying to remember. It works on some TV trivia-type stuff (Ryan's a little taken aback by how much Jack seems to know about the Smurfs), but not on anything that really matters.

Jack doesn't know if he has any siblings. He doesn't know where he's from. He has no idea if he ever got bullied in high school.

He does, apparently, know how to play bass.

It just kind of happens on Tuesday, when Jack's been there for a week.

"Hey, Bren, play the bass part there again," Jack says. He's been lying idly on the floor, listening, but he sits up when Brendon starts picking it out.

Jack yawns expansively halfway through. "Borrring," he says.

"Excuse me?" Spencer asks and Ryan can almost see Spencer's hackles rising even as his own defenses come up.

"Does this Brent guy suck?" Jack asks.

"He doesn't suck," Brendon says. "It's just that this isn't his thing. He's helping us out when we need him, and he doesn't always have time to learn a bunch of new stuff."

"But if he's not going to be around forever, I don't get why you don't rewrite the parts and make them better. Make them work for someone else. Like." Jack reaches out and sets Brendon's fingers back on the neck of the guitar, then picks out a rhythm himself as Brendon changes chords, singing along softly.

It's nothing earth-shattering, and it's kind of clumsy since Jack's on the wrong side of the guitar, but he's got something. It's more interesting.

"You play bass," Brendon says, grinning.

"Looks like," Jack agrees.

"Show me what you remember," Brendon says.

-----

Brendon steals Jack away for hours, hogging his evening. He teaches Jack the parts they have, and then they take them apart, change them, and put them back together.

"I always wanted to try this here," Brendon murmurs.

Jack nods after Brendon finishes. "That's way better. I like that."

Ryan watches the whole time. He doesn't really add much, just gives his input when Jack and Brendon ask for it. But it's fascinating, seeing how natural Jack seems with the guitar and how much he seems to know about music. Ryan can't help but wonder what else is trapped in his head, what else he knows and can do.

For the first time in days, Ryan actually wants Jack to remember, even if it means he'll leave.

-----

Ryan's nearly asleep when Jack says, "RyRy."

"What?" he asks, yawning.

"That's what I'm gonna call you, when you're famous and everyone wants you for themselves. I'm gonna call you RyRy, that'll be mine."

Ryan turns on his side so they're facing each other. Jack's eyes are a sharp glitter in the darkness.

"You know if you call me that other people might start, too," Ryan says.

"Won't let 'em," Jack says. He slides one hand over Ryan's side and over his back, pulling him closer. Their legs tangle under the covers.

Ryan's the one who presses forward and fits their mouths together. He kisses Jack softly until Jack opens for him, lets him in. Ryan keeps it tame, licking inside sweet and undemanding. He pulls back when he's too out of breath to keep going. "I won't let them, either, then."

The corners of Jack's mouth turn up. "Hey, RyRy."

"Hmm?"

"I have a question. It's very important."

"What?" Ryan asks, tensing.

"Why are all your lyrics so fucking depressing? I mean, I get that sometimes you might need to get that stuff out, and that's a good way to do it, but you're not Mr. doom-and-gloom all the time, so I don't get the negativity and cynicism and the fixation on cheating."

Ryan closes his eyes. "It's. All that's in my head. That's what comes out when I sit down and write. That's what I see. I don't see fuzzy puppies and rainbows and sunshine. Who wants to hear about puppies and sunshine? Nobody."

"Hey. Who cares what people want to hear about?" Jack asks. He tilts Ryan's chin up, waiting until Ryan opens up his eyes and looks at him. "People will sing anything and never give a second thought to the words they're saying as long as they like the way it sounds. You can be happy. You can write something happy. You don't have to limit yourself."

Ryan's silent for a moment. "Maybe you're a motivational speaker. Because that's really cheesy."

"But it's true," Jack says. His mouth looks soft and like it could break into a smile with the right word.

Ryan doesn't try for the right word, because he doesn't know what would happen if he picked the wrong one. He kisses Jack again instead, then presses him onto his back and works his way down Jack's body. He sucks Jack's cock leisurely, tries to make it as good as he can. Jack's fingers tighten in his hair when he comes, and Ryan swallows.

Jack pulls him back up and wraps his hand around Ryan, stroking him fast and tight, hand slick with Ryan's precome. Ryan cries out inarticulately against Jack's shoulder, spilling across his hip.

"I wish I knew your real name," Ryan says when his heartbeat's back to normal.

"This is real enough," Jack says.

Ryan falls asleep before he has time to ask what "this" is.

-----

Jack practices with them the next night. He fumbles sometimes, still learning and still changing his parts, but it sounds good, so much better than before.

Jack looks happy to be contributing something, and Brendon keeps bouncing over to Jack to sing in his face. Spencer says, "That was good," when they're done, which is his version of high praise.

Ryan knows he's smiling a lot more than usual because his cheeks hurt. He feels electric, wants to keep playing until they get it, until it all comes together just right, because Ryan's never felt closer to perfection.

Ryan barely gets through putting his guitar up before Jack wraps his arms around Ryan's back and lifts him up off the ground. "Dude, that was awesome!"

"Put me down," Ryan says, laughing.

"Uh-uh. Nothin' doing. You're my RyRy."

Ryan sees Spencer raising an eyebrow behind Jack's back, but Ryan goes with it, wrapping his legs around Jack's waist. "Fine, if you won't let me go, you have to carry me upstairs," Ryan says. "I'm hungry, and Spencer brought pizza."

Jack practically drops Ryan. "Pizza? Why didn't I know anything about any pizza?"

"Because I hid it in the oven," Spencer says. "That strange contraption that cooks things. You may have seen it in the kitchen."

Jack heads for the stairs, but stops when they get there. "I can't see the steps over you," he tells Ryan.

"Maybe you should put me down, then," Ryan suggests.

"No way," Jack says. "This is more fun."

They make it upstairs, but it takes about four times as long as usual. Ryan pushes his elbows out so Spencer and Brendon can't get past them and get out before them, either. If he has to wait for food, so do they.

-----

Spencer has a bizarre fondness for making prank calls and a weakness for Brendon when he begs. That's the only way Ryan can think to explain the fact that after dinner, the four of them are gathered around with the speakerphone on, giggling like middle school girls and dialing random numbers.

Spencer's really good at it. He likes to pretend like he's the jilted boyfriend trying to reach the girlfriend who he just knows is cheating on him with whoever's on the other end of the line, and he blusters and demands to talk to "Ellie" because he just knows she's there!

Brendon pretty much sucks because he always ends up laughing. He can't even sell "Is your refrigerator running?"

Ryan mostly likes putting on his sex voice and saying, "Hey, baby, what are you wearing?" Mostly he gets people who get flustered and hang up or who get angry and try to berate him, but it's even more hilarious when he gets a woman with a smoker's voice who asks him how old he is, if he's being a naughty boy.

He's the one who bursts out laughing and has to hang up that time.

Jack, though, is both good and shameless.

"Hello?" he says loudly in a rough old man voice when someone answers.

"Hello?" the man on the other end asks.

"What's that?" Jack says.

"Hello?" the person says more loudly.

"What do you want?"

"What?"

"What do you want? Why did you call?"

"I didn't. You called."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Who is this?"

"Jerry. Who's this?"

"Cherry? I don't know any Cherry."

"No, it's Jerry."

"Oh, Jerry. Put me on with Larry."

"There's no Larry here."

"Well, tell him to call me when he gets back."

"No, nobody named Larry lives here."

"I thought you said your name was Larry."

"It's Jerry."

"Larry, hi! I'm having a problem with a boil on my foot. I need you to come over and lance it for me."

The dial tone is a punch line in itself.

Brendon collapses against Spencer's back, laughing. "Oh my god. Do another, do another!"

Jack grins at Ryan, wiggling his eyebrows. "I can't believe he didn't want to lance my boil."

"Please, please do me a favor and never try to make anything that has to do with a boil sound like a euphemism ever again," Ryan groans.

"Mmm, lance it good," Jack says, reaching over and dialing while he leers at Ryan.

"Hey, that's not a 702 number," Brendon says. "That's gonna be long distance. You should hang up."

"Huh?" Jack says just as someone picks up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, if I asked you to lance my boil, you'd be all over that, right?"

"Ugh, Gabe, you have the worst taste in pickup lines in the world. Even I'm not lame enough to use something like that."

Jack blinks. "What?"

"Lame, dude. And hey, why weren't you at the show Saturday? You told me you were coming," the guy says.

"Um, who is this?" Jack asks.

"Pete, you dipshit. You called me, remember?"

"And you know who I am?"

Pete laughs. "You're kind of impossible to forget, dude."

"Wish I could say the same for you," Jack (Gabe?) mutters.

Ryan's heart is pounding against his ribcage, because dude, he recognizes that voice. That's Pete fucking Wentz. He looks at Spencer and Brendon, wide-eyed, but he doesn't know if they look surprised because someone knows who Jack/Gabe is or because they recognize the voice, too.

There's a clamor on the other end of the line. It sounds like Pete dropped the phone, but then he's back. "What?"

"Uh, you wanna remind me who I am?"

Pete laughs. "Man, what are you on? I'm Pete, you're Gabe. You called me, like, a week and a half ago from near Vegas, babbling about a how you had something you really needed to talk to me about. Then you were a no-show in Jersey. What the shit is that?"

"I'm Gabe. Gabe who?"

"Gabe Saporta, formerly of Midtown, currently of nothing. Crazy motherfucker who I don't believe for one second isn't fucking with me."

"Listen, Pete," he says, and the name comes across like it's a word he's never said before. "I am in Nevada, outside Vegas, but I'm having some issues. I..." he trails off.

Brendon picks up where he left off. "I hit him with a van and gave him amnesia. It was totally an accident."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Brendon. He's been staying with me and Ryan."

"Are you guys holding him hostage or something? Because I am way the wrong person to call for ransom."

Ryan sort of accidentally tunes the conversation out then, because he's busy freaking out a little. Not only is Pete Wentz on his phone, but apparently he's been having sex with Gabe Saporta of Midtown. He feels like he should have known this, known who Gabe was, but he's never even fucking seen Midtown, and holy shit.

He's missed something important in the conversation, because now Pete's saying, "Why don't you, like, hit him in the head with something to see if it'll make him remember. He has a hard head; it probably won't do any damage. Well, any more damage."

"And we're supposed to be friends?" Gabe asks. "Jesus, no hitting me with shit."

"So if you have amnesia," Pete says, "how did you get my number?"

"I don't know. I just...dialed without thinking about it. Which is kind of fucked up. Why'd I call you instead of my mom or something?"

"Probably because you somehow knew I was watching porn and wanted to ruin it for me. You kind of have a knack for that. Last time you called me babbling about wandering through the desert and possibly a spaceship and something about a cobra. Which, points for creativity, but you lose at timing."

"Wait, a cobra?" Gabe asks, forehead wrinkling. "That seems familiar." The look of realization is almost comic, the way his forehead smoothes and his eyes go wide. "Oh my god, the cobra! I remember that! It told me something, gave me a mission. Oh, man, I remember now! Pete, I remember you. Oh my god!"

"I honestly have no fucking clue whether to believe you, man, but I'm gonna go with great, awesome! Can I go back to watching my porn now?"

Gabe shakes himself. "Yeah. Yeah, thanks, man. Hey, did you guys already come through Vegas?"

"No, we're there in three days. You gonna show this time?"

"Yeah, hey. I'm gonna bring some people with me, okay? You've gotta meet these guys I've been staying with."

If the ecstatic moans that greet that statement are any indication, Pete's already moved on and pushed play.

Gabe hangs up and turns to them, eyes alight.

"Guys, this is awesome! I know who I am! I know where my ID and clothes and wallet are! Which, by the way, one of you is going to have to take me back to the crappy motel I was staying at and hope to hell they didn't sell all my shit."

Ryan forces a smile. "Spencer's heading back to town in a bit, right? You could go with him."

Spencer gives him a sharp look, like he can read Ryan's mind. He probably can.

"Actually," Spencer says, "I'm tired, so I was thinking I'd stay here tonight and head back in the morning. I'll sleep on the couch this time, of course."

Ryan narrows his eyes at Spencer but doesn't say anything.

"Gee, I'm really tired, too," Gabe says, yawning wide and fake. "Getting your memory back is exhausting. Let's go to bed, RyRy."

Gabe pulls him down the hall without any further pretense. He backs Ryan against the door as soon as it's closed, kissing him hard and groping him through his jeans. Ryan's head falls back against the door with a thump, and Gabe laughs low.

"Hey," he says, rolling his hips against Ryan's and dropping a kiss over his eyebrow. "Say my name."

It's supposed to be funny, so Ryan scrapes out a laugh. Then he catches Gabe's hips in his hands and grinds against him. "Gabe," he says, and it comes out harsh and demanding. "Gabe, come on," he says, and pushes him toward the bed.

Gabe goes willingly, pulling off his clothes and sprawling out, touching himself and watching while Ryan undresses slowly.

There are a couple of options in Ryan's mind right now. He could get Gabe to fuck him so he'll feel it even after Gabe leaves. Or he can fuck Gabe, make it so it aches enough that he won't be able to forget Ryan at least for a couple of days. It's an easy choice because Ryan's not going to have any trouble remembering Gabe.

Ryan crawls on top of him, settling over him carefully and kissing him again. He can feel Gabe's smile against his mouth before he drops down and sucks Gabe's neck, sucks a bruise above where his collar will fall, where he'll see it.

Ryan says, "Wanna fuck you," against Gabe's ear.

"Mmmm, yeah," Gabe breathes.

Ryan's not as careful as he probably should be. He gets Gabe on his hands and knees, slicks Gabe open with two fingers, and lubes his cock. He pushes in faster than he should.

Gabe hisses and drops his head down. He's tight and hot, and Ryan drives into him faster, rougher than he usually would. He wants Gabe to feel it now, feel it tomorrow and the day after.

"Ryan," Gabe says breathlessly. "Please."

He pushes back into Ryan, and Ryan finally reaches for his cock. He jacks Gabe off fast and dirty, until he's coming, shuddering under and around Ryan. Ryan grabs Gabe's hips to keep him up, and slams into him a few more times, until he's the one shaking and falling apart.

Gabe grunts when Ryan pulls out. "Jesus, I didn't know you could fuck like that. I'm going to be feeling it for days."

Ryan flops down next to him. "I hope so," he says quietly.

Gabe laughs and pulls Ryan closer, and it's not long until he's breathing evenly, asleep.

-----

Ryan wakes up with Gabe's mouth on his cock. He tries to hold back, but like they established the first time, Gabe's too good for Ryan to last long.

Ryan returns the favor, sucking Gabe in and fingering him until he comes.

They taste like each other when they kiss.

"I'm going to miss us getting to fuck whenever we want," Gabe says longingly. "Any time of the day. That was nice."

Ryan murmurs an agreement. He's going to miss more than that.

Twenty minutes, a shower, and a bowl of cereal later, Gabe and Spencer are headed for the door.

"Hey, I'll see you later," Gabe says, ruffling Brendon's hair and kissing Ryan full on the mouth. It's not easy, but Ryan lets go when Gabe backs away.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and watches them go.

Brendon says, "Man I have great taste in people to run over."

It's true. He does.

-----

Ryan's not expecting it when the doorbell rings a few hours later, after Brendon's gone to work.

He definitely doesn't expect to see Gabe waiting outside, bouncing on the balls of his feet. As soon as Ryan gets the door open, Gabe's pushing inside, already talking.

"So hey, Spencer's an enlightening guy. He tells me that apparently you're under the impression that I'm gone for good. And I'm thinking, no way, he didn't say anything about that, and I didn't give him any reason to think that. But then I'm thinking that, you know, he did fuck me really hard last night, like he wasn't going to get another chance. Then I'm thinking Spencer may be on to something. So, what? I say I want you to meet Pete, that I wanna see you in, like, two days, and you interpret that as one last hurrah and then I'm going to forget this ever happened?"

Ryan's shoulders tense as Gabe talks, scolding him for assuming, and Ryan's grinding his teeth by the time Gabe finishes.

"Maybe that is what I think," Ryan says. "Maybe you won't mean to, but you have a life that you remember now. I don't expect you to want to hang around now that you have something to go back to. I don't think it's dumb to expect you to go back."

"But you do think it's dumb to expect me to want to stay."

"It doesn't seem very realistic, okay?" Ryan says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well, what if I told you I don't just want to be around when you meet Pete? I want to be here when he comes to listen to you guys, because he is, he's going to hear you and know you're amazing. I want to be here to play for you whenever you need someone. I want to be around to hear a happy fucking song that you wrote."

It's a lot to take in, and normally Ryan might be tempted to roll his eyes at the ridiculous, unrealistic sweetness of it, but he can't because he's kind of stuck on something.

"Wait," he says. "Pete's coming to hear us?"

"Yeah. I told him he needs to come by after the show and hear what you guys can do."

"Are you kidding me? Oh my god."

"Hey, if I wanna be your number one groupie, we have to get you some more so I can establish my claim."

Ryan's quiet for a minute, processing, before he asks quietly, "Are you going to play with us when Pete comes to listen?"

"If you want me to."

"And after that?"

"I'd like to."

"What if you change your mind?" Ryan asks, because he can't not, even with the hope blooming in his chest.

"What if you change your mind? I don't know, Ryan. The thing is, you know how I said the cobra had a message for me?"

Ryan nods.

"Well, I was sort of fucked up, and it was probably just a hallucination, but it did tell me something. It told me I needed to show people how to have fun and not take themselves so seriously. And Ryan Ross, I can't think of anyone I'd rather start with than you."

Ryan can't help it. He laughs. "You know this is ridiculous."

Gabe ignores him. "This seems like it's going to be a pretty hefty project. I might have to stick around for kind of a long time."

"I might be okay with that," Ryan says, ducking his head.

"I hoped you might be," Gabe says.

He smiles, and Ryan, he smiles back.

end


Want more Gabe/Ryan? Check out the awesome fic [livejournal.com profile] dreamofthem wrote for me! There's Ryan/Gabe post-VMAs, and a Panic! pile of wonder and joy!
From:
Anonymous( )Anonymous This account has disabled anonymous posting.
OpenID( )OpenID You can comment on this post while signed in with an account from many other sites, once you have confirmed your email address. Sign in using OpenID.
User
Account name:
Password:
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
Subject:
HTML doesn't work in the subject.

Message:

 
Notice: This account is set to log the IP addresses of everyone who comments.
Links will be displayed as unclickable URLs to help prevent spam.

Profile

untappedbeauty

September 2009

S M T W T F S
  12 345
6789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
27282930   

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags