Archive of Our Own ^beta

one.

It's not that Ryan is the kind of guy who needs to keep tabs on where his girlfriend is every minute of every single day – he isn't, honestly. Callie has weird boundary issues that he'll never really understand, but that's cool. He has things he doesn't talk about either. Still, they've been together a couple of years now, since the spring when Callie was a freshman, and sometimes Ryan can't actually believe that means three years.

She wants to be an actress, "Or something," she says, always making sure to tack those extra words on. "I don't know if I'm good enough for the real thing." This is usually accompanied by a ducked head and the swoop of her auburn bangs falling in her face, shielding her cheeks.

Her eyes always light up when she's on stage, though, and her skin glows when there's extra applause just for her. She's been in three plays in the past year alone, and Ryan's gone to every night of each, standing and clapping and cheering the loudest. Callie always knows where to find him in a crowd and her smile is always the brightest for him.

She's supposed to recite her Helena monologue in fifteen minutes, and she's been practicing for weeks – Ryan's had to hear her practice for weeks, so he knows how important this is, it's why her absence makes no sense, he'd talked to her the night before and she hadn't said anything about skipping.

He tries her cell again – the fifth time in as many minutes and twists around in his seat to look at the double doors at the head of the auditorium. Mrs. Miller is going to be here any second, and Ryan's a second semester senior heading off to a good school on a full ride scholarship in the fall, it's not like he'll be penalized for being a few minutes late. Callie's just a junior though, and they don't have it anywhere near as easy.

"Hey Sheryl," he whispers, leaning back against the wooden seat, making eyes at the girl sitting behind him. "Callie's late." She rolls her eyes at him, snapping her gum out of her mouth with a loud pop and raising her pierced brows.

"You think?" Her eyes are tiny blue slits with horrendously applied eye shadow, and Ryan tries to keep from grimacing but fails kind of miserably. "It's your fucking fault anyway, asshole." Her eyes widen a little, like she's almost shocked that she spit the words out, but she's gotten herself under control after a second, her face a comical mask of horror as she realizes she's said something she shouldn't have.

Ryan's not paying attention to that though, doesn't really care about Sheryl Hersey or the different ways she can contort her face. She has the fixings to be a good character actress if she sticks with it, but that's none of Ryan's business or his problem. "It's my fault that she's late? How the hell is it my fault?"

"Because you're the one who got her pregnant in the first place. God. No wonder she skipped to go get it taken care of." For as long as he lives, Ryan will remember this moment, the way his skin aches with a crackling awareness that seems to settle over his body, the tightness in his shoulders and how even his fingers feel cramped and useless.

"What?" he asks, and she stays silent, almost sneering in the row above his. "What clinic, Sheryl?" He's hissing out the words, body on auto pilot as he angles himself towards her, and he doesn't know what it is that makes her eyes go wide, but they do, and she tells him, the words falling clumsily past her lips.

He's up and out of his seat in less than a minute and no one spares him a glance as he pushes out of the auditorium. He's a senior, but it's not only that, he's Ryan fucking Ross. He's responsible, he knows what he's doing and if he's cutting class, he sure as fuck must have a reason to.

--

It doesn't take him long to find, not really. Still, Ryan's shaking, thinking about all of the seconds, minutes, hours it's been since Callie went in there, if she's still waiting, if they've done it and it's over, and something that belonged as much to him as it did to her is just gone from the world.

He parks in a handicapped space in front of an innocuous looking brick building off of Center St. and has to blink because it looks more like a dentist's office than an abortion clinic.

It's easier to get in than he'd anticipated, although to be honest, he'd been terrified of some sort of resistance at the door, as if someone would have been there, waiting to stop him, as if someone would try and hold him back. There's barely anyone in the waiting room, which is the first thing he sees when he comes in through the glass doors. Callie's sitting in the chair closest to the reception desk, dressed in sweats and an old hoodie of Ryan's from his hockey days.

He's pretty sure she sees him before he sees her. He's pretty sure she's expecting it when he falls to his knees, tugging her hands into his, but her face is closed off, and the swoop of her bangs falls across her eyes, shielding them when she looks down. He's got to give her credit; she doesn't ask him what he's doing there. She's crying though, big fat tears that stream down her cheeks and cling to her lashes; tears that make her nose red and push hiccups past her throat.

"Cal," he says, because he doesn't know what else to, doesn't, except for how there's only one solution, really. "Cal, I'll take care of you, I promise." She drags in a breath, pushing her bangs away from her face and forces her eyes open. They're rimmed and red, but she's nodding at least, and that's something.

"Will you -- " Her voice is tiny, so small that he can barely hear it, and by then, the words are already out of his mouth, hanging in the air around them, waiting to shatter the silence. "Marry me." She blinks, eyes going wetter still, but she stands when he does, and when he smiles at her, the way she twists her lips is enough to help him to believe.

--

It's quiet. It's completely quiet, a tiny little ceremony; just him and Callie, his dad and her two sisters, packed into a tiny little church that seems mammoth around them. Ryan's not religious, not even a little, but he feels it in his gut when the pastor tells him to love, honor and support Callie for the rest of forever.

From the front and from the back she's not showing, not at all, but sometimes when he catches glances at her from the side, just out of the corner of his eye, he can see a tiny little bump where nothing but flat used to be, and he feels something in his stomach, heavy, but not leaden, proud, if not excited.

Callie cries, tiny pinpricks of tears sliding down her cheeks, but her lips quirk up for him, eyes shining as he slips the simple gold band his dad helped pay for onto her finger. Her hands shake where his had been steady, but that's to be expected, he thinks. She's the one having the baby; he's the one who get them in this mess in the first place.

Afterwards, she calls her mom from the pay phone outside of their room, body angled inwards, so that even if he'd wanted to, Ryan wouldn't have been able to hear. He goes inside with a touch to the small of her back, and when he lies on the creaky motel bed he counts at the cracks in the ceiling and tells himself that it'll be okay.

He's asleep before she comes inside.

--

It's not like it's a secret, but by April, Callie's showing enough that heavy sweaters and heavier jackets no longer conceal her condition. People at school notice, they must, but they don't comment on it, and Ryan is just grateful that they can have this, that if there are whispers, they're behind closed doors, and anyway, they're married. They're married and they're in this together, and he'll protect her if she needs it, but she doesn't seem to.

Callie wastes away a little as she enters her sixth month, all the sparkle and shine that had drawn him to her in the first place lost in the downward curve of her lips and the way even touching his hands seems to be too much of an effort for her.

They're living in the little apartment above Ryan's garage, and it's nothing special, but it does have its own door, and for the most part, they're left alone. It's not like they can get into much more trouble and besides, they did the right thing, the responsible thing.

It's not like they'd never talked about it in the early days, Callie wound tight around Ryan's middle, head pressed against the beating of his heart, whispering things about love and forever and all of the promises words like that entailed.

After college they'd said, the words whispered against Callie's neck with Ryan's face pressed into the crook of her shoulder, mouthed against the skin of his stomach, implied by the twist and tilt of their hands and the way Callie would smile at him big and bright whenever the subject of college came up and she could proudly say, "Ryan's not going to be that far away. We're going to stay together."

She doesn't say things like that anymore because she doesn't say anything at all. There are no whispers or linked fingers, and they're like strangers now, lying side by side with nothing more to say to each other than, "Excuse me," and "When you're done reading, could you please turn out the light?"

Ryan graduates in May with the rest of his class and doesn't even bother to check the bleachers for family or loved ones. His dad pulled an extra shift at the casino so that he'd be able to take the day of the baby shower off, and when he'd left that morning, Callie had been complaining about the heat, skin stretched over her swollen belly, hair covering her eyes, shielding them from Ryan and the things she didn't want him to see.

"Will I see you later?" He'd asked, because all seniors had a five–pack of spaces available for their guests, and people had been asking him to share his for weeks. She hadn't said no, but Ryan doesn't look for her anyway. It's easier to deal with disappointment when you aren't expecting anything at all. He doesn't stick around campus once his name is called, even though pomp and circumstance dictate that he should at least toss his cap into the air.

He doesn't, just unzips his robe and pushes it into the backseat of his car when he gets to it, tossing his cap onto the seat next to him, turning the music up high because Callie isn't in the car telling him not to, to be careful, to watch the baby, because maybe beings that aren't fully formed can't quite comprehend the brilliance of Blink 182.

He makes it home in record time, which makes sense because everyone else in town is at graduation and when he lets himself into the apartment, he's even smiling. Callie isn't there, which shoots off something low and funny in his stomach, something that he hasn't felt in months, not since before holding her hands so tightly that they'd bruised, since before he'd promised her his forever and it had been for real.

He feels free.

The phone rings, next to the bed, and it's the spare line, the one Ryan's dad had spent an entire Saturday rewiring so that it would be only theirs, so they had everything they could have ever wanted up here, so that it could really be home until they got on their feet.

"Ryan -- " and it sounds like Callie, but it isn't, it's her sister, Amy, the youngest, panic and worry laced into her voice like needles, pressing onto his skin and drawing blood with every word she tumbles over in her hurried speech. "Ryan, Ryan come quick. The baby. The baby's coming – it's early, it's early and the baby's coming."

Ryan can't breathe, but you don't need to breathe to be able to drive a car.

--

Ryan's well aware that he doesn't have a great deal of experience with the whole procreation process, he's the only child of an only child, so his understandings conceptions of pregnancy and birth are fairly limited to the decades old video shown to giggling classes of awkward eleventh graders during the one week of health spent on sex ed that equated to one big glaring sign saying "Don't Do It."

Still, the title of the video, "the Miracle of Life" has stuck with him and it seems like the whole process should maybe have a feeling of awe and holiness to it. Babies are miracles; surely their arrival should feel miraculous, especially to the parents.

It doesn't, though, not really.

Ryan ends up standing beside the bed with one hand on Callie's knee, mumbling soothing nonsense under his breath that she probably can't even hear over the louder encouragement of her mother and sister and the directions of the nurses and doctor.

He feels like an intruder onto the scene, watching helplessly as Callie cries and screams, digging her nails into her sister's hands until her knuckles gleam white. The room is small and crowded, too hot, and Ryan can feel prickles of sweat rolling down his back underneath the dress shirt he'd carefully ironed the night before so it'd be ready for his graduation.

Any other time, he'd be able to see the irony in him becoming a high school graduate and a father on the same day, but he can't get past the little voice in the back of his head whispering that he did this, he caused this.

It happens so fucking fast; Callie's arching up off the bed as the doctor tells her to push just one more time while Ryan stares at her stomach, then there's this monumental shift he can see roll beneath her skin and Callie's eyes go huge, big and blindingly, beautifully blue.

Then, God, then the doctor's holding this little red, wriggling thing, tiny arms and legs flailing and saying, "It's a girl. You have a daughter."

Callie drops back on the bed, gasping hard, and Ryan catches her eye. For a moment, they stare at each other and the rest of the room drops away, her mom and sister, the doctor cutting the cord and the nurse cleaning up their daughter, and it's just them. She's shaking and crying and Ryan thinks, in that moment, that she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his life.

The baby, their baby, is laid into Callie's arms, still crying, but softer and, after a moment, Amy steps back so Ryan can sit down on the edge of bed and slide an arm around Callie's shoulders and look at what they have created.

She is red and still covered in what Ryan calls slime in his head, though he knows there has to be a less middle school word for it. She has a thatch of reddish hair and eyes gleaming an indistinct, unfocused blue. She has a trio of freckles on the back of her hand and a little circular birthmark on her chest.

"Hi," Ryan whispers, hesitantly laying one finger in her hand. Her fingers close tight around it and that part, that part feels miraculous.

The nurse behind them looks apologetic as she breaks the moment, taking the baby gently and giving her to yet another nurse, heading for the infirmary, probably. Callie's eyes are dazed as she looks up at him, and Ryan can't exactly blame her, he would never be able to survive something like this. "Have you picked out a name yet, love?" The nurse's voice has an accent to it that Ryan can't place, but it's lovely and lilting, and her eyes are warm.

Ryan blinks. They haven't, they've barely even talked about it, but Callie's practically comatose, and Ryan's pretty sure the baby would hate them for the rest of their natural lives if they named her Baby. Jesus. "Cal," he whispers, and her lashes flutter but her eyes don't open, and her cheeks are flushed. "What're we gonna name the baby?" She makes a noise low in her throat, burrowing into the thin hospital covers they'd just thrown over her, eyes still closed. "Cal, come on," he whispers, voice low, a desperate sound.

That seems to get her, and her eyes open just the barest sliver of an inch. "I don't really care, Ryan." He flinches, even though he doesn't mean to, and she must see it, because her face changes a little bit. "I'm just. I'm so tired. And she's healthy, right? That's all that matters." She closes her eyes again, and there's this cold, dead weight in Ryan's stomach that he hadn't even realized was there until right then.

The nurse is still standing there, a few feet back, sure, but constant. "Ella," Ryan says, voice clear, surprising himself. "Her name is Ella. Ella Grace Ross." He tries not to collapse at the weight of the words, not ever fully realizing how big and important a thing like a name really is. The nurse is smiling at him, and she touches his arm, lightly. "That's beautiful, love. She's beautiful."

Ryan wipes at his cheeks, pushing away the tears that had pooled in his eyes and manages to whisper, "Thank you."

two.

Ryan's boss is quietly and acutely aware of that fact that Ryan is barely nineteen, married with a baby, and scraping by on the force of coupons and food stamps most months, so he makes a point of offering Ryan overtime whenever he can.

Once upon a time that would have rankled, scraping across what little pride Ryan retained growing up as the kid whose mother abandoned him and whose father had a tendency to come stumbling up the block, falling down drunk three nights a week. Now, he's too aware of the fact that he's making minimum wage at Sam's Club to worry about being proud.

"Sarah called in sick. You want her shift?" his boss asks as Ryan sits in the break room, sipping at a cup of apathetic coffee. He nods without thinking because God knows they can always use the money, and begs a cell phone off one of his coworkers, a middle aged woman with teased, bleached blond hair who has a soft spot for Ryan and his "darling, little sugar pie of a baby girl."

The phone rings once, twice, three times and clicks over the voicemail. Ryan bites back an irritated sigh. They no longer have a car, because he sold his, and Ella's stroller is a rickety, unreliable thing bought at a garage sale for six bucks and a fake gold necklace of Callie's, so it's not like they could just pick things up and go for a drive or a walk. Besides, there's nothing Callie hates more than taking the bus for anything other than to getting back and forth to work. "Hi, Cal," he mumbles. "It's me. Barry offered me an extra shift, so I'm going to be a couple hours late tonight. I'll see you when I get home. Bye."

He only realizes an hour later as he's stocking jumbo family sized jars of peanut butter he forgot to say 'I love you.'

--

The apartment is dark when he gets back, which makes sense, because it's late -- it's past midnight, but when he goes to check on Ella, she's not in her crib. Callie's not anywhere either, and Ryan's shaking by the time he manages to sit at the edge of the bed. He can't. He can't even think about where they could have gone, why Callie would have ever taken Ella away from him -- when he hears the key in the lock.

Callie trudges up the stairs, but she's smiling, hair down around her shoulders for once, Ella asleep on her shoulder, thumb tucked between her lips. Ryan can barely control himself when he stands, pulling Ella towards him and tucking her face against his shoulder, whispering nonsense words against the top of her head and kissing her cheek when she starts to stir.

"What the hell, Ryan," it's not a question, Callie's voice is flat, even flatter than Ryan's can get on his worst days, her eyes angry and piercing, and just. God. He's still shaking.

"I thought -- "

"You thought what, Ryan? That I'd taken her and left you?" He knows she's just trying to push him, he knows it, but that doesn't stop his heart from seizing up anyway, can't help the way his arms wrap even more tightly around the baby sleeping on his shoulder now. It wouldn't be a lie to say that this is the most alive he's felt all day. "I don't even know what I would do with a baby on my own, God." She's talking more to herself than she is to him now, sinking down to where he'd been sitting, holding her head in her hands. "I couldn't raise her by myself."

"Cal, you don't have -- " When she looks up at him, her eyes are wet, but even if he'd had a hand free, Ryan's not sure he'd try and comfort her. He doesn't know what that says about him, what it says about them. He wonders vaguely, as Ella gurgles in her sleep, if there even is a them anymore.

"I know I don't have to, Ryan," she spits out, angry and hard, but deflating with every word that passes her lips. "I know I don't have to, but you're better for her than I am anyway. She loves you more." He doesn't disagree right away. He could, but he doesn't, just cuddles Ella closer and presses another kiss against her forehead. Eventually, his heart stops racing, but only when he manages to stop picturing the dark and empty crib in his mind, only when he stops remembering how cold Callie's side of the bed had been.

Eventually, he puts the baby down. She whimpers a little, as he sets her head down on the baby pillow, but she stops when he lays his hand on her back for a minute.

Callie's pretending to be asleep when he climbs into bed, but he can hear her breathing, and it's not deep and even the way he knows it is when she's lost in unconsciousness. "Cal," he whispers slowly, and he can see her shoulders stiffen. "She's just a baby, she's barely three months old. She doesn't understand." Callie nods, once, stiffly, but he remembers her tears in the moonlight.

"Yeah," she says, but her voice is shaking, and he can tell she doesn't mean it.

--

Ella's second birthday falls on a Wednesday, so the Saturday after, they have a tiny little party in Ryan and Callie's rented bungalow. It's just family, Ryan's dad, Callie's mom, her little sister Amy, and her older sister Beth, who drags her fiancé along. He spends the entire time standing uncomfortably in their tiny kitchen with his hands shoved into his pockets, glancing at the clock on the wall like it's some kind of trick and trying to talk to Ryan about sports.

The gifts are inexpensive and largely practical, jeans and little tee shirts, a pair of sneakers that light up from Callie's mom and a little hockey jersey from Ryan's dad. Marlena from work gave Ryan a worn gift bag filled with her own kids' hand me downs, which are still perfectly serviceable toys and Ella's blue eyes light up when she pulls out the teddy bears with carefully reattached ears and dolls with paint features nearly worn off. Ryan splurged on a light up toy thing with a box that guaranteed to entertain her for hours and make her smarter at the same time.

Ryan settles Ella on his lap as Callie carries out the cake. It's small, made from grocery store cake mix, but it has purple icing more or less evenly applied and 'happy birthday' squeezed on in Ryan's neat scrawl. "Happy birthday, Ella Bella," Ryan murmurs, kissing the downy soft top of her head as Ella giggles.

"You want a big piece, little lady?" Ryan's father asks as he cuts and Ryan smiles softly to himself. Ross, as he will forever think of his father, is a decent grandfather, much better than he ever was as a father, at least. He keeps himself sober around Ella and treats Callie with a kind of distant cordiality.

"Yes," Ella chirps.

Callie's standing on the archway between the tiny kitchen and the cramped living room, arms folded across her chest. She's already dressed for the shift she has to take as soon as the little shindig wraps up, a baggy, garish blue Wal-mart polo sapping the color out of her face and a pair of tan khakis. Her hair falls around her face, loose and dull, heavy with split ends, and Ryan wishes, more than anything that he could give her back the shimmer and shine that had made her stand out in the first place, the glow that seemed to settle just beneath her skin like some kind of special radiance.

Ryan's dad sets a paper plate heaped with cake on the battered coffee table and Ella dives in, shoving her fists into the crumbling cake with a happy gurgle and Ryan laughs, smearing icing across her face and front. She's so precious, his daughter, precious and precocious and full of life. He glances up at Callie, expecting to see the same look of indulgent amusement. The deep frustration and blatant annoyance written in the lines of her pretty face shocks the hell out of him.

"Callie?"

"I gave her a bath this morning." She shoves a hand through her hair and steps around the coffee table, impatiently hauling Ella into her arms, "And I just finished the damned laundry."

Ryan stands and follows her across the living room to the short hallway that connects to the rest of the house. He can feel their families listening, murmuring softly under their breath to each other and, no, fuck no, if they're going to do this, they sure as hell aren't going to do it in front of the few people in their life who don't look down on them. "Callie, calm the hell down. I'll give her a bath, it's not a big deal." Ryan hooks his hands under Ella's armpits and pulls her out of Callie's arms and into his. She's quiet, wide-eyed and watching.

"Great, and I'll clean up all the crap out there. Fucking fabulous, Ryan." Her words sting, bitter and laden with hurt that Ryan can't understand.

"Callie, Jesus, calm down." Ryan shifts Ella on his hip, feeling her start to tense as a prelude to crying.

"Fine, fine. I'll take care of it, give her here."

Callie reaches for Ella at the same moment as Ryan moves to step back and her nails, always kept just a little long, catch on the soft skin of Ella's arm, leaving three neat rows of raised marks that, after a beat of shocked silence, well up with little pearls of blood. Ella lets out a blood-curdling shriek and buries her face in Ryan's neck as Callie steps back, eyes widening in horror. "Ryan, I didn't mean to -- "

"Goddamnit, Callie!" Ryan yells, feeling Ella shake in his arms, feeling the fear pour off her tiny body. "Fuck you."

He walks into the bedroom and slams the door, cradles Ella to his chest and murmurs, "It's okay, baby girl," until he hears Callie leave, until Ella calms.

--

He should have expected it. He should have expected it, because they're home alone for once, and it's actually been a nice morning so far. Callie's actually speaking to him, her smile looser at the corners than it's been in longer than Ryan can remember, and there's an easy fondness that Ryan is shocked can still exist between them.

She's even humming as she comes out of their bedroom, hands full with a laundry basket, packed to the brim and cutting off her eye line. She trips over one of Ella's toys, and it's almost like slow motion when she falls, the basket dropping first, then her body. She loses her balance, slamming her face into the heavy plastic, splitting her lip open.

"God DAMMIT." There's blood all over the top layer of clothes, shirts of Ryan's and some of Ella's jumpers. Everyone knows blood doesn't come out, even if it's the accidental kind.

"Cal," he's moved closer to her, crouched over where her body is shaking, but when he touches her arm, she pushes him off, rough, eyes wild when she manages to look at him.

"Can your brat of a kid not ever fucking learn?" It's not like he'd been laughing at her before, he hadn't been, but all of the good humor of the morning, all of the ease that had started to creep in through his joints just seeps back out again.

"What did you say?" The words fall like acid from his mouth and when she blinks up at him, fire and anger in her eyes, and she's wiping the blood away from her mouth. It blends in with her skin, a memory that can't ever really forgotten, adding a rosy hue to her cheeks that looks completely out of place with the color of her hair and the way her eyes flash.

Ryan's practically forgotten his words until she spits them back at him. "I said," her voice is low, almost like a growl, but slow, like she's been saving up all of the things she has to say to him, like she's thought out her speech carefully. "Does your kid always have to leave everything out?"

"Callie, she's two years old." She's standing, straightening like she didn't hear him, like what he has to say doesn't matter at all. "She couldn't possibly know better, she's just a little kid." That's what seems to do it, what sends away whatever semblance of rationality she had hiding behind her pretty blue eyes; he's got to turn away from the hatred he can see there.

The words she spits out are venomous. "She's a fucking mistake is what she is." That's the first straw, what has Ryan's fists clenching at his sides as she smoothes down her shirt, eyes boring into the back of his head. "I should have gotten that damn abortion when I had the chance." And that's the last one. Ryan doesn't remember spinning around and charging towards her, but he knows the feel of his palm against her cheek, how they both recoil back when it's over, shaking like it's winter and they don't live in Las Vegas.

"Don't you ever -- " Ryan's voice is shaking too, and he wishes he could clamp onto it with something, the way his hands are clasped together in the pocket of his hoodie. "Don't you ever talk like that about her again." Callie's blinking at him, holding her palm up to her cheek, all the fire and rage and anger gone from her eyes, from the set of her shoulders.

"I can't do this, Ryan," her voice is a whisper, ghostly and barely there. "I can't play house and have a baby and do laundry for the rest of my life, I can't." Her bottom lip is trembling and her jaw too, her entire body is whirring like she's made of piano wire, and the tears on her cheeks mix with the blood, making the color less vibrant.

"You can't take her," he says, voice steady and calm, strong. The thought of Ella is probably the only thing that's holding him upright. He won't let anyone take her away from him. "I won't let you take her away from me." Callie blinks, surprised, owlish, but she nods, once.

"She's yours, Ryan," she whispers, voice practically lost in the emptiness of the room. "She was always yours."

--

Two weeks later, Callie catches Ryan's arm as he walks out the door and presses a dry, apologetic kiss to his cheek. She's fresh out of the shower, hair damp and skin flushed, and wrapped up in an old robe of Ryan's she claimed when he got a new one, saying she liked that it was already soft from the wash and smelled like fabric softener and Ryan's shampoo. Ryan stiffens at the unexpected contact, they haven't said more than a dozen words to each other since the fight; Ryan's stomach still clenches painfully at the thought. He's never hit anyone before, much less the girl he promised to love, honor and obey until death do them part. Ryan doesn't make promises lightly.

Ryan knows, in that moment. He knows.

"I'll drop Ella off at daycare."

Callie closes her eyes for a moment and sighs, folding her arms across her chest. "Okay."

Ella's sitting on the floor in front of the couch, thumb in her mouth, blanket tucked around her shoulders like a cape as she watches cartoons. Everyone says she's the spitting image of him, which always seems to fall as another mark in the unspoken tally between Callie and Ryan, but he can see Callie's influence in the snubbed lines of her young face, especially her eyes. Bright and vivid blue, those have nothing to do with Ryan, they're all her mother's.

"Come on, Elle Belle." Ryan scoops her up and walks out the door and she settles comfortably against his chest, hand fisted in his shirt. Callie's mother has always watched her before, but she told them last month that she was going crazy never leaving the house, so starting today, she'll go to daycare twice a week. "You'll pick her up?"

Callie's gaze jerks down to the floor and Ryan's stomach twists. He's known her for so long, even before they started dating, he knew her, and he knows her ticks and tells as well as he knows his own. She can lie with the best of them, so long as she doesn't have to look them in the face. "Yeah."

Ryan glances back over his shoulder as he walks out the door and he sees her standing in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tight around her chest, staring at the little house Ryan was so proud of when he found, that she hates for being small, for needing repairs, for not being enough and he doesn't say goodbye.

It's a little after six when Ella's daycare calls Ryan's work. "I'm sorry to bother you, but Mrs. Ross hasn't come around to pick up Ella yet and there's no one answering at the house."

Ryan swallows bile. "I'm sorry, I was supposed to pick her up and I forgot. I'll be right there." He hears her mumbling something that sounds like, "Parents these days," and very definitely doesn't think about Callie and the hollow look in her eyes.

Ella's smiling when he comes to get her, no tears or sadness or anything but good humor from his girl, and there's a lump in his throat when he sees her, curly-q curls hitting her cheeks. "Da!" She shouts when she sees him, scrambling down from the mini armchair they'd perched her on and rushing towards him and hurtling herself at his legs.

"Hey El," he says, and she's grinning up at him but he can't quite make himself look into her eyes when he hugs her.

It's just the two of them, now.

three.

There's no question of Ryan staying in the house with Callie gone, not with the wallpaper she picked out on every wall, the curtains she sewed hanging from the windows, her very presence seeped in the joints and beams of the house. He can't stay in the same city where they loved and hated, the same state that encompasses the entirety of their lives together. The need to get away burns beneath his skin, itching in his palms and the back of his mind. It's too much with everything saturated in memories and people looking at him, some pitying poor Ryan, others thinking he got nothing less than he deserved for trapping that smart, pretty little girl.

He sits his father down in the living room while Ella plays on the couch, the room still decorated with the dusty memorabilia of Ryan's childhood. There's a hockey trophy on the shelf above Ella's head with one of the sticks broken off after it got thrown across the room during one Ryan's more violent forays into angry teenagerdom.

"I can't stay here," Ryan says, running a hand through his hair. He's already spent what should have been rent on a half broken sedan that the owner swears will get them at least seven or eight hundred miles from Vegas, which doesn't quite seem far enough, but is better than nothing, and he's emptied out the small savings account he'd begun to try and afford and bigger house. Callie didn't know about it; he'd wanted to surprise her.

"Where to?" Ross Sr. asks quietly. "Hell, Ryan, you've only been out of the state once in your life."

It was an eighth grade trip to Washington. Ryan walked dogs and mowed lawns for six months to save up the money. He'd washed Callie's mother's car for half price because he'd had a desperate crush on Beth at the time. Fuck.

"I don't know. Maybe California or Oregon." Ryan shrugs. "Not here. Dad. Just. Not here."

"When?"

Ryan glances out the window, through the faded gauze of the curtains, to the rusted car baking on the curb beneath a merciless sun. Ella's car seat is strapped in the back, wedged in among boxes and suitcases and plastic bags filled with almost three years accumulation of junk. There's a cooler in the front seat full of Cokes and Snickers for Ryan, apple juice and crackers for Ella, and just under five hundred dollars zipped up in a pencil case buried beneath the title in the glove compartment.

"Today," Ryan mumbles as Ella crawls into his lap. "Now, Dad."

"Right, then." Ross Sr. digs the heel of his hand into his eye for a long moment and extends his arms to Ella. "Come here and say goodbye to me, little lady." Ella obligingly climbs into his lap and wraps her chubby arms around his neck. "Love you, Granda," she squeals, and he murmurs something in her ear that Ryan can't hear, but she kisses both cheeks and the tip of his nose before settling back in Ryan's arms.

"I'm sorry." The words bubble up unexpectedly and Ryan blushes.

"Don't be," Ross Sr. says, voice rough, "You tried. Just, call me when you get ...when you get wherever it is you're going." He touches his palm to Ryan's shoulder, just for a second, and it's not a hug -- it's barely anything, but it sends some warmth through Ryan's aching limbs, and it's enough. It really is enough.

"We'll be okay, Dad," he says, and the way his father nods at him makes Ryan believe it. Ella squirms against him, hooking her arms around his neck again, turning to face Ross Sr. and smiling blindingly. "Be 'kay, Granda, promise." Ryan's father nods, and if his eyes are wet in the corners, neither of them comment on it.

--

Ella likes the car -- she loves the car, which really is a blessing, because Ryan didn't realize just how much he'd missed this. He wonders if they can just keep driving forever, just the two of them and the open road. He knows it's not possible, they probably won't even make it all the way to California, but it's a nice thought, that they can just drive away from the mess their lives used to be.

He drives through the whole night, and finally, finally Ella's asleep in the backseat, lashes almost white in the lamplight. He's parked them in a rest area, because even Motel 6's cost money and sure he's got some, enough for gas and a couple meals; enough to hopefully get him to California, to his friend Patrick's couch and a job someplace where he doesn't have food to stock, but it's not enough for motels and certainly not for the lap of luxury. It's lucky that his seat reclines and he'd had the foresight to pack blankets.

There's a pay phone under the street lamp, and he doesn't want to get out of this car, doesn't want to shatter the quiet peace that surrounds Ella wherever she goes. He does it anyway, he has to. Callie left them. She left Ella, and that wouldn't have mattered if it had just been the three of them, but on the off chance that her family doesn't know yet, he has to tell them.

The wind is biting when he pushes out of the car, careful not to close the door all the way, careful not to wake Ella. She has nightmares sometimes, and he wants to be able to hear if she needs him. After he's deposited his fifty cents in, he dials the number he's had memorized since he was ten, listening as it rings over and over.

Mr. Shaw has worked the early bird shift at the casino for as long as Ryan has known him, so even though the sun is only just starting to stream past the clouds, he knows the entire house will be awake. The answering machine clicks on, Amy's peppy voice breaking through the silence on Ryan's end. "Um. Hi. It's Ryan. I'm not. I want to say I'm not sure if Callie talked to you before leaving, but she must have. I have Ella, and she's safe and happy, and I just. I needed you to know that she's okay. That we're okay, or that ...we're going to be, anyway." He hangs up the phone without saying goodbye and leans his forehead against the cool metal.

Ella's awake when he gets back to the car, he can just make out her eyes in the rearview, and he turns to look at her before shifting out of park. "How's my girl?" he asks, and she just grins at him, big and bright. "I 'kay, Da!" He stretches his hand out, linking their fingers, and she giggles again, the sound high and musical.

"I'm 'kay too," he says, and wishes he didn't have to let go of her hand.

--

Haverford is about as far north as you can go before the California coast becomes the Oregon coast. It's small, easily an hour away from the next big town, twenty minutes over from any of the other small villages that dot the stormy coast. Ryan drives past the neat, hand painted welcome sign after nearly an hour of cruising along an empty highway, hugging the coastline. Ella's asleep in the back, blanket draped over her car seat with a half empty Capri Sun held loosely in one fist.

Ryan drives carefully through the town, still largely asleep, down the aptly named 'Main Street' lined with little Mom and Pop operations, a single grocery store, a general store, a hardware store. There's no fast food or casinos. No Starbucks and no fucking Sam's Club, thank God. Patrick's house is slightly off the main drag, though Ryan can't help but smirk to himself to use the term. It's a two-story clapboard, neatly tended and painted, with a small garden in the front and a Honda parked in the driveway. Ryan can just see the water as he idles on the curb.

There is nothing of Callie, neither the sparkle she began with nor the bitterness she left them because of. Ryan exhales, and for the first time, it doesn't hurt.

He twists around in the seat and gentle shakes Ella's foot. "Wake up, baby girl." She shifts, snuffling into her blanket before opening her eyes and looking at Ryan with a bleary grin. "Sleepin',"

"I know, but we're here, sweetie." Ryan cuts the ignition and pulls out the key. The car groans into the silence and Ella sits up in her seat, pressing her chubby hands to the window. "What do you think?"

Ella presses her nose to glass and breathes out, sending fog ghosting along the surface. She spots the water and giggles, eyes going big. "Fish." Her tone is infinitely more certain than Ryan feels. "Fish, Da."

Ryan laughs, a genuine laugh. "I like it too."

Patrick's front door opens and Ryan smiles as the man himself steps out in flannel pajama pants, a tee shirt, and a fedora, of all the weird things. He stands on the porch and waves and Ryan thinks maybe it'll be okay.

--

Ella's quiet around Patrick at first, clinging to Ryan's legs more than usual and peeking out from behind him, eyes as wide as saucers when Patrick starts to sing. She mimics him when his back is turned, sitting on Ryan's lap, head pressed against his chest, eyes closed. They aren't really words, the sounds that she sings out, but Ryan thinks they're beautiful anyway.

He's almost shocked at how quickly they've managed to settle. Patrick sings Ella to sleep every night and Ryan makes them all breakfast in the morning, mashed waffles for Ella because she likes the feel of them against her still growing teeth and black coffee for him and Patrick. He hasn't started to work yet, but only because Patrick won't let him.

"You've got to relax, Ross. It's not like you have rent to pay. I won't kick you out if you don't have money on the first of the month. Now sit your ass down and let me school you in Tekken." Ella is playing with her building blocks in the corner, her little body moving to a beat only she can hear, and in the midst of the whirring noises of the system she looks up, and says, "Ass," with perfect diction. Ryan blinks and Patrick has to clamp his hand to keep a horrified laugh from coming out. "Ass, ass, ass." She hums, and Ryan maybe, honestly wants to die.

"Kid's got a set of pipes," Patrick mumbles, one day, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he shields Ella's eyes, keeping the shampoo from getting in them. She giggles up at him, mid warble, finally comfortable in his presence, and pauses her Soap Suds song to say, "Pipes," solemnly. Ryan can't keep from grinning, and Ella grins back, her smile as bright and blinding as it always is.

"Honey, I'm home!" Someone -- someone being Patrick's neighbor Pete, calls from the kitchen, and Ryan can hear the screen door slamming. Ryan rolls his eyes as a dull, red flush settles on Patrick's skin, and he pushes Patrick out of the way when he gets so distracted that he starts getting sloppy, his tee shirt wet by the time he actually moves. "You sure you're not married, Stump?" he asks, picking Ella up out of the tub and wrapping her in the towel he'd purposefully set aside. "Because I don't recommend it, but that guy seems persistent."

"It's not like that," Patrick hisses, cheeks still obviously hot. Ryan shrugs and pushes his face against Ella's tummy, pressing a kiss at her ribcage. "Ready for dinner, Ellie Belly?" he asks her, just as Pete calls the same question from the kitchen and Ella's entire face lights up. Patrick's just managed to calm down the blush on the skin of his cheeks, and even his eyes widen at the sheer glee in Ella's.

"Da, Da, down!" Ryan's become ridiculously adept at putting on diapers, so once Ella's is fastened, he sets her on the parquet and she goes scuttling into the kitchen with him hot on her heels. "Feet! Feet!" She gurgles as she sees Pete, arms up in the air, waiting for him to pick her up. "Feet," she pouts, making eyes at him that Ryan's pretty sure no one in the history of existence has been able to resist. "Feet, up!" Pete is definitely not immune. He picks her up, positioning her over his shoulders and holding her little arms high above her head. "Da! 'ook!" She's laughing and she's happy, and Ryan feels something catch at in his throat the sight of this.

It may not be perfect, but he finally has a family.

--

Pete's music store is named Ramen Records, for no reason that he will explain, preferring to smile mysteriously and make vaguely inappropriate hand gestures whenever the question is raised. It's stocked with a hodge-podge of music he likes, with a few grudging concessions made for the top 40 hit makers that bring in too much business for Pete to justify keeping them out on purely ethical grounds. He bitches about it, loudly and at great length, but if it's carry Britney Spears or fall victim to the iTunes machine, he'll take the lesser of two evils. Several shelves are dedicated to impeccably maintained vinyl and the front display case holds piles of vintage band shirts found at thrift stores all over the damn state.

Pete offers Ryan a job after he's spent a month mooching off Patrick, to the point where he's starting to develop a tick because he can't just take from someone without giving back anything more than, "The pleasure of your company, Ryan, please stop worrying about it." Besides, much as he likes Patrick, he can't see spending the rest of his life sleeping in his spare room with Ella tucked under his arm. He's got to get back out on his own, if for no other reason than to prove that he can.

"Dress code is jeans, sneakers and hoodies," Pete says the first day, eying Ryan's slacks and un-tucked button down. "Wear khakis or any of that yuppie shit and I'll send you the hell home and dock your pay. We're the town rebels, so we gotta dress the part. And, speaking of pay, it's kind of shitty. Sorry about that. We're the only record store in the area, but we aren't exactly making enough to finance a hostile take over the free world. And the Elster is made of fucking sunshine, which, I mean, you're her dad, you know that, so anytime you want to bring her in is so cool and any customer who objects can blow me."

Ryan nods, hands in his pockets, and glances around the store to the shelves of records, walls covered in posters (some signed) that Pete won't part with for love, money, or sexual favors, and even some graffiti art done by God knows who. Pete unlocks the front door and flips the open/closed sign over, humming tunelessly under his breath. "Where the hell did Patrick find you?"

Pete laughs, loud and braying, and it should rake painfully across Ryan's nerves, but doesn't. "Languishing in Chicago. He saved me from the dungeons of the DePaul undergrad program and a miserable fucking life as a businessman."

"And what are you now?"

"Now?" Pete echoes, leaning against the counter. "I'm a motherfucking bohemian."

Ryan snorts. "Fight the power," he murmurs tonelessly, just to watch Pete grin. Ryan is not disappointed when he does, all big white teeth and crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"Damn skippy."

--

It doesn't happen all that often, if by all that often you mean "never" but Ella does have her bad days; nights when she won't sleep, or can't, mornings where not even Patrick's singing can soothe her.

She has them, and it makes taking her into the store with him that more stressful an experience. "She's always welcome man," Pete says, trying to reassure him and stop the frantic hand-motions he'd been making, but Ryan's stomach is churning uncomfortably and nothing can stop it. "You know she's always fucking welcome. I like her more'n I like you."

By mid-afternoon, she's calmed a little, but only after knocking down three displays and getting sick over Pete's oh-my-god-signed-by-Mikey-Way-of My Chemical Romance tour tee shirt. To be quite honest, Ryan's been waiting for angry eyes and harsh words since then, but Pete had just laughed and told Joe, the-sometimes-stock-guy, to make sure he took it to the dry cleaners.

They're closing up for the night, Pete double and triple locking the door because, "Store's my entire life, man. It'd be like someone stealing the little miss over there from you." Ella's asleep finally, head on Ryan's shoulder, thumb tucked into the side of her cheek.

"So you're saying it's like your child?" Pete nods, earnestly even, but the moment breaks when he laughs, reaching his hands out to take Ella, gently putting her in the car seat on Ryan's of the car.

They carpool because Ryan's car mysteriously stopped working three days after they'd gotten to town and Pete wouldn't have it any other way. For the moment, it's okay, he's got nowhere else he'd rather be, and he's lucky enough that everything of necessity is within walking distance. When they're about a half mile from home -- Ryan's managed to rent an apartment, right off the beach and not even a five minute walk from Pete and Patrick, Pete starts to clear his throat.

"Are you okay?" Ryan asks wearily, but Pete smiles at him, winningly, but too bright by half, and Ryan's got this pit of dread starting to form in his stomach, because when Pete looks like that things tend to blow up. Ryan had seriously walked into the back room last week to get an eyeful of Pete's ass pressed against the grimy picture window, flashing the entire parking lot.

He'd been grinning then, too and Ryan tries not to fear for his life and peeks into the back seat to check on Ella, who's gurgling happily, all of the morning's crankiness completely gone. "So I don't want you to panic," Pete is saying, and Ryan really can't help it when his fingernails dig into the soft cloth of the seat.

"Telling me not to panic is like telling someone who is about to be attacked by bears to sit very, very still." Pete tilts his head to the side, as if honestly considering the words. "What did you do?" He's trying to breathe deep and slow, the way they tried to teach in the one Lamaze class he and Callie had managed to go to.

"Nothing, man. God. You'd think I did crazy shit all the time." His smile just has a tinge of crazy, and Ryan barely has time to roll his eyes by the time they're pulling into the driveway and his eyes land on a car he doesn't recognize. It's only when they've gotten out does he realize that it's not the neighbor's, and almost of its own volition, his stomach starts to seize up, mouth has gone strangely dry. Pete's frowning when Ryan manages to look at him.

"Lunchbox and I were just thinking," Ryan can barely hear him, the rushing in his ears is too loud, it's too much, and logically, Ryan knows that Pete and Patrick have other friends, a lot of other friends, that he's among friends here, that they'd never do anything to hurt him or to hurt Ella. Logically, he knows that, but the fear pooling low in his stomach has nothing to do with logic. "Your boss sucks -- "

"You're my boss, Pete," Ryan manages to grit out, fingers coming up to massage at his temples. Pete grins at him again, less manic this time, but it still does nothing to calm his nerves.

"Okay, so maybe your boss is fucking awesome, the greatest boss in the history of great bosses," Ryan manages to roll his eyes. "The hours that you work are still long, and they still suck, and as much as I love the Ramen, dealing with shithead thirteen year olds all day who want the soundtrack to motherfucking Crossroads isn't easy work, so -- "

"Are you firing me?" There are icicles starting to circle Ryan's heart, and breathing is even less easy than it was a minute ago. "Pete, seriously, is it Ella? I can figure something out, or maybe we can switch around my schedule so that I work in the afternoons, because she needs me most in the mornings, and I can. I just. I really need this job. I -- "

Pete's eyes are stormy now, dark and angrier than Ryan can ever remember seeing them. "Shut the fuck up, Ross, seriously. You're family now." Ryan blinks. "There's just this guy we know. He runs the daycare in town, and he said he'd take you guys for half price." Ryan blinks again. He thinks he's getting a tick. "You can say no, dude. You can. But he's a friend of ours, and just. Meet him." Ryan unbuckles Ella from her seat, and when he's got her in her arms his hold is a little tight. He's swallowing, completely prepared to hate this guy, and then the door swings open.

Walking into the house is so much harder than he'd ever thought it could be.

--

The guy turns out to be a few inches taller than Ryan is and wearing a slightly ridiculous green shirt with what looks oddly like pandas dancing along the hem, tight jeans, perfectly coordinated sneakers, and long hair that falls across his eye no matter how many times he tosses his head to keep it out of his face. His name is Spencer Smith, he's a year younger than Ryan (though Ryan internally qualifies that with chronologically younger than him because there are days it feels like no one could ever possibly be as old as he is), and he lives with a roommate.

Ryan spends most of the meal, Patrick's spaghetti and garlic bread, shamelessly watching him eat, looking for any indication that he's really a pedophile or a serial killer because when it comes to Ella, Ryan doesn't fuck around, even on Pete and Patrick's recommendation. Spencer obviously notices, but he takes it in stride, carrying on a conversation with Patrick about some old favorite movie. Ella, constantly wary of strangers, plants herself on Ryan's lap and refuses to move; Pete constantly flicks his gaze between Spencer and Ryan, as though he's trying to gauge the success of his venture.

"All right," Spencer says, setting his fork down with a soft clatter. "I know you probably want to ask me questions, so instead of trying to hide them in small talk, why don't you just start asking and I'll answer."

Patrick blushes and tries to subtly elbow Spencer in the side but, for the first time, Ryan cracks a wry smile as he shifts Ella on his lap. "Okay. Why do you run a daycare? You're twenty, that's kind of an odd thing to be doing."

"Because the band I was in fell apart in Iowa right before my mom got sick," Spencer replies calmly. "So, I came home, she passed away, and there was no one to take over the daycare, so I did. Besides, I like kids and I'm not going to have any of my own, so there are far worse things I could be doing with my life."

Ryan cocks his head. "You're never going to have kids?" Buddy, I thought the same damn thing.

Spencer smirks and glances to Pete and Patrick in turn. "They didn't tell you. Jon isn't just my roommate, he's my boyfriend. Going on two years now. Is that a problem?" The set of his chin is vaguely defiant and Ryan wonders if maybe it has been a problem before.

"No, it's not." Ryan smoothes down Ella's hair. "All right, what do you like to do in your free time?"

"It's like being on a blind date," Spencer laughs, but his tone is amused rather than sarcastic. "Spend time with Jon, of course. He's a freelance photographer, so on the weekends we usually go somewhere so he can take pictures and keep me in a manner to which I've become accustomed. I play drums, too, hence the whole band thing. I have to keep them in the basement, but every now and again I convince Patrick to bring over his guitar and we play. I read a lot, too. Really, anything I can get my hands on is fair game since the library is both two towns over and pathetically small, but my favorite authors are Gaiman and Palahniuk."

Ryan's heart stutters and he levels his gaze at Pete. "You told him to say that so I'd like him."

"I fuck -- ah, fricking did not." Pete throws up his hands. He's already responsible for teaching Ella shit, damn, piss, and whore. Whore is her favorite. "Swear to God. Spencer, back me up."

"I can show you my falling apart copies if you'd like."

Ryan chuckles and shakes his head, but even though the tight feeling in his stomach has dissipated a little, he's still surprised as the words pass his lips. "Alright. I guess we can try."

--

Ella's bottom lip is trembling. It's trembling and her eyes are filling with tears, and Ryan feels the bile rising in his throat. "No, Da." She's shaking her head, curls flying. "No, Da, stay." She's gripping onto the sides of his jacket, chubby little fingers catching on the buttonholes. "Please." Ryan's heart feels like it's splitting inside his chest, and his hands are planted on her sides. He can't make them let go.

"You remember Mr. Spencer, Elle. He'll be with you all day. He will. And then Uncle Feet - Pete and I will be back, and then we can go home." She's shaking her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, and Ryan can't. He can't. He turns to look at Spencer, to shake his head apologetically, to pick her up and run as far and as fast as possible, but Spencer's lips are set and Ryan feels like he's drowning. "It'll be okay, Ella." She's shaking her head though, sobs starting to wrack through her body when he finally does move his hands away.

Pete's got to clamp a hand on his shoulder to keep Ryan from falling over, and he can't look as Spencer scoops up Ella, even though he can hear the screams. It's lucky there's a trash bin right outside the building, because he's leaning over it, the remnants of the coffee he'd had earlier pushing past his lips. Pete has the decency to look away, but when they get into the car, he hands Ryan a crumpled handful of tissues with the same weird heart-bat-skull design that he has inked on his stomach.

Ryan would smile if it didn't feel the entire world crumbling around him.

It's not a stretch to say that it isn't a productive day, and when Ryan gives the wrong change back to the eleventh customer in a row, Pete settles a hand on his shoulder. "I know," Ryan mutters, almost under his breath, voice bleak. "It's just. She's all I've got." Pete looks like he understands, and at 4:45, a full four hours before they're supposed to close, he raises his brows.

"Are you gonna get your ass out of here and go get the rugrat or am I gonna have to kick you out?" Ryan blinks and Pete rolls his eyes. "Take the car. Patrick is across the street, dipshit. He and his chariot will take me home." Ryan's not sure what he wants to do more, cry with relief or hug Pete until he can't breathe. Pete tosses him the keys and he doesn't end up doing either, catching them in a fluid motion he wouldn't have believed of himself, and doesn't even hide the fact that he's running to the car.

Spencer doesn't look surprised to see him when he rushes inside the daycare, decorated in its soothing greens and bright blues, and the second Ella sees him she's scrambling off a scruffy guy's lap, throwing herself at Ryan's legs. The tears on her cheeks are soaking into the legs of his jeans, and Ryan almost collapses from the weight of her little body.

"Da," she's barely breathing in heavy little bursts, and Ryan has to close his eyes because he feels so dizzy. "Da, back. Da." Her little chin is quivering, but there's a smile somewhere in there too, just this side of blinding. Ryan picks her up and it's like his entire body is settling, finally, when he presses a kiss onto her forehead.

"Hey," Spencer says quietly, and even though Ryan had sort of tracked his progress through the corner of his eye, he's still not ready for the full impact of Spencer's eyes on his skin. "Hey, I know it's none of my business," his voice is low, and Ryan realizes it's because Ella has nodded off, body heavy and warm in his arms, tiny little breaths hitting the side of his neck. "But the other night, you said you'd done the daycare thing?" Ryan nods, because he can't really trust himself with words yet. "I don't know you, man. I don't know where Ella's mom is, but she got really upset after you left, kept saying 'Mama' and 'gone' and I just. It would explain a few things." Ryan is ready to be on the defensive, but he's exhausted and his shoulders don't have the will to hunch on their own. Spencer's eyes are kinder than he'd expected.

"The last time we left Ella at daycare was also the first time we left her at daycare. Her mom didn't come to pick her up. We haven't seen her since." Spencer blinks. Ryan's pretty sure that's as shocked as his face actually gets. After a minute, Ryan can feel a dull flush settling across his cheeks. "I'm. I'm sorry about the scene this morning. I. She doesn't really ask for Callie much, you know? I knew it would be hard. But." Spencer touches his arm, the free one, and Ryan tries not to flinch.

"It's okay, Ryan. It'll be okay. You're doing a great job with her." He smiles, a little, and Ryan tries to believe him.

--

Ryan takes Ella's third birthday off.

He mulls over half a dozen possible stories to tell Pete as to why he suddenly needs a weekday off to spend with his daughter, but he doesn't even look up from the books before nodding. "Yeah, of course, Ryan, you haven't taken a day off in the month you've worked for me. Go wild." Ryan grins and thanks him, but doesn't tell anyone it's her birthday. His friends, Pete and Patrick, and even possibly Spencer, have already given him more than he could ever begin to repay and he can't ask for any more.

Ryan turns off his alarm the night before and wakes to late morning sunshine streaming in through the window and Ella sitting up next to him in bed, carrying on a elaborate babbling conversation with her stuffed bear, oddly named Frog.

"Morning, birthday girl," Ryan mumbles, smoothing down her rumpled curls. She grins, gap toothed, and kisses between his eyebrows with an affectionate, "Da." There is very little Ryan can thank Callie for anymore; it's too near for him to be objective and it hurt too much for him to ever look back on their time fondly, but he thanks God she left Ella behind. He doesn't think he could live without her.

"Hey, Ella Bella," Ryan tickles a strip of exposed tummy and she giggles, rolling against his side. "Do you want to go see the fish?"

They're doing okay, but they're far from rich and Ryan has just enough for rent and groceries and utilities as it is. They don't have a lot of wiggle room and he won't ask Pete for a raise, not when Pete didn't have to give him a job in the first place. Gas is expensive, even if he could wrangle a car, but the beach is within walking distance and, after a month, Ryan still hasn't found a spare moment to take her down to the water.

Ryan makes frozen waffles with little chocolate chips and Ella's bouncing by the time he gets her washed up and changed, chanting "Fish, fish, fiiiish," while Ryan shoves her feet into flip flops and finds his keys, complete with a My Chemical Romance key chain Pete gave him the weekend he moved into the small apartment. "Ready, Ellie?" Ryan asks and she claps her hands as he scoops her up, settling her familiar weight against his hip.

It's a cloudy day, a little cool, and the beach is painted in shades of gray. The water is the color of iron, shot through with deep blue as it laps against the sand. It's not beautiful like Ryan always thought when he dreamed of large bodies of water during hot Vegas summers, sweltering in his room as the nights slowly wore away, but it's beautiful in a stark, strong way and Ryan likes that. He's had too much glitz and glamour in his life.

"Fish!" Ella cries, wiggling as Ryan slips her shoes off. "Da, fish, fish."

Ella is awed by the water, the way it slips up over her feet when the waves wash in, the way it clears away the words Ryan draws in the sand. They wander for nearly half an hour, Ella rushing in and out of the waves with a kind of delight Ryan hasn't seen in her for months. He sings softly, a medley of whatever comes to his mind. He sings old show tunes and songs they heard eight hundred times on the radio during the drive, a few jazz standards. Patrick discovered jazz soothed Ella faster than anything else; he already calls her Ella Fitz.

He's partway through, "Let's Fall in Love," looking down at Ella's chubby hand when she lets out a delighted yelp. "Jaaaay-me!"

Ryan jerks his head up and zeros in a pair of figures sitting sprawled on a blanket a few feet back from the water's edge; Ella tugs at his hand, "Da, Jay-me." He sees the toddler first, probably a year or so older than Ella, a sturdy kid with a shock of light brown hair and a blue tee shirt with a red dinosaur on it. He's sitting on his knees, poking the adult and giggling. He spots Ella and breaks out in a grin, waving frantically.

Then Ryan's gaze shifts to the adult, Jamie's dad, he assumes.

The world quite possibly stops spinning for a moment.

--

"Uh, hi." Ryan says, when they get close enough and he's found his breath. The toddler, Jamie, supposedly, is grinning at him brightly, and Ella just plops onto their blanket, touching her little foot to Jamie's. "I'm Ryan. This is -- "

"El-El," Jamie says, turning to his dad, nodding his head gravely. There's a smile on his lips that matches his father's exactly, and Ryan only knows that because the guy is beaming like a lighthouse. "Hi," he says, sticking his hand out to shake. Ryan blinks down, but takes his hand after a minute, not expecting the warmth it shoots through him. "Brendon Urie."

He is unexpected. He, Brendon, has dark hair that falls messily across his face and Ryan's palms itches to push it away. He has a white tee shirt on that's just a little too small, clinging tightly across his chest, and battered blue jeans liberally sprinkled with holes. Glasses, bright red glasses, sit perched on the end of his nose. He is, God, he is lovely..

"I'm JAMIE." The boy says, grinning up at Ryan for a second, before ducking his head down to show Ella the shapes he's making with his bucket, and she giggles. It's almost though she has a homing beacon for him though, because despite the fact that she's smiling and laughing, completely focused on Jamie, one of her little hands sneaks back and laces with Ryan's fingers.

"So -- " he starts to say, but Jamie cuts him off. "U'cle Bee-Den, I'm HUNGRY. Can El-El come for food?" He finishes the question with a grin that even charms Ryan, and there's this hazy little glow in his chest until the words actually register. "Uncle?" The word falls out of his mouth before he can stop it, and Brendon grins over at him. Maybe he's kept grinning, maybe his face just -- maybe he always looks like this, but Ryan's never had that much happy aimed at him before.

"Yeah, he's my sister's kid." He doesn't say anything more about it, but his grin dims a little, and even though Jamie's focused away, playing with Ella and the sand, his little shoulders stiffen, Ryan can just see the movement from under his tee shirt. "Hey, so I know this is kind of forward, but. The little guy's turning four tomorrow, but I've gotta be all around the city for the day, so we're sort of having festivities today. Would you and," he pauses, sticking out his hand and waiting for Ella to shake. "ELLA!" She says, and turns to Ryan, grinning big and bright. "Would you and Elle like to come to dinner? I make a mean Mac 'n Cheese."

"Mmmmm," Jamie squeals as Brendon reaches forward and tickles him, rubbing lightly at his tummy. Ella's laughing, grin the biggest and brightest that Ryan thinks he's ever seen it, and she reaches forward into a half-squat tumble, landing on Brendon's lap and giggling when he picks her up, holding her high over his head.

Ryan tenses, waiting for a squeak of protest, maybe some tears, and he's sorry, he's so terribly sorry that she's going to cry on her birthday, but it's not like Brendon could have known that she hated strangers and -- and Ella is laughing, her little arms and legs going in every which direction as Brendon presses sloppy kisses to her stomach through the fabric of her dress. He's fallen back on the blanket, and Ryan can't stop his eyes from darting down to where there's a strip of exposed skin in the space between his shirt and his jeans.

Ella keeps laughing, her giggle high and bright, and Ryan blinks back the strange, sudden onslaught of tears, reaching up oh-so casually and wiping at his eyes with the skin of his wrist. "Okay," he says, and Brendon turns his head, the full force of his smile hitting Ryan straight in the chest. "Okay?" He asks, and Ryan just nods.

He's pretty sure this is what falling in love feels like.

part four.

Ryan's sprawled on the couch, ostensibly watching Law and Order and trying not to think about Brendon standing barefoot in the kitchen stirring noodles while Ella and Jamie colored at the kitchen table, when someone knocks firmly on the door. Ella has long since fallen asleep after a special after dinner treat of birthday fruit popsicles and the apartment is quiet. "It's open," Ryan calls without moving because the town is small he can identify nearly the entire population by sight, if not by name, and crime runs to bored kids writing 'damn' in graffiti on store sides.

"Is there a reason you didn't tell us it was Ella's birthday?" Patrick shuts the door with a quiet bang and hovers over Ryan, hands on his hips, face arranged into a distinctly unimpressed expression. "God, Ryan, I know you don't like asking for help, but, for the record, this is nothing like asking for money or sleeping on my couch, okay?"

Properly chastised, Ryan looks down at his hands and blushes. "I'm sorry, I just...I don't have the money for a party or gifts or anything and I didn't want to make a big deal about it."

Patrick softens and flops down on the couch next to him. "We could have helped, Ryan. Pete and I. We love her, too. And we love you, you idiot. You need to realize that."

"Mm." Ryan makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat as the show switches to commercial and the muted sounds of a soft drink jingle fill the living room. Brendon served orange soda and spilled it all over his shirt when Ryan made some comment that wasn't really that funny, but his face lit up as he laughed nonetheless.

"What are you thinking about?" Patrick asks, cocking his head. He adjusts his hat, a battered trucker cap, and pokes Ryan in the ribs.

"Red glasses," Ryan replies without thinking and Patrick lets out a startled laugh.

"Come again, Ryan?"

Ryan hesitates for a long moment before sighing and covering his face with his hands. "This is so fucking stupid. Okay, I took Ella to the water today and we were walking along the shore and we came across this little boy she apparently knows from daycare and his uncle," he emphasizes the words simply for how good it feels on his tongue, "and they got to playing and he invited us back to their place for dinner and, oh Christ, Patrick, he made macaroni and cheese and it was actually good and Ella just warmed up to him like I've never seen her do and he's got brown hair and red glasses and I can't stop thinking about him and I don't know what to do."

To his credit, Patrick doesn't laugh, he nods slowly and presses his lips together, eyes turning up at the corners. "Does he have a name?"

Ryan waves his hand. "That's not the fucking point! I mean, I was married, Patrick. To a girl."

"Look how that turned out."

The words still sting and Patrick's face flashes regret as soon as they're out of his mouth. "Ryan, there's this wonderful thing called bisexuality where you're allowed to like both guys and girls and the world doesn't fall apart. Think about it. So, what's his name?"

"Brendon," Ryan says after a beat. "His name is Brendon."

--

Ryan is maybe, maybe mooning a little. He smiles dreamily at the fifteen-year-old girl looking for the new Hanson record and directs her to the proper (and tiny, to be honest, because this is Ramen Records, and Pete "has standards, god dammit!") Top Forty section. He grins when he has to clean up after Adam Siska when he comes in, like he does every afternoon, dripping wet, from the storm they're having and soaking everything that happens to be around his wild tangle of curls. Ryan mops it up with a smile, and doesn't even complain when Sisky gets the back of his tee shirt damp.

He grins through restocking the back room, through shipment and the dinner he spends standing over the trashcan in Pete's office, sharing a carton of General Gau's chicken. He grins with his eyes and the stretch of his lips, with his shoulders and the way they're relaxed under his shirt. He grins, and he doesn't stop grinning until Pete tilts his head to the side and calls him on it. The smile dies on his lips, and he didn't even realize it, but the warmth that had stayed with him for most of the day seeps away in seconds.

"What are you talking about?" he asks around a mouthful of chicken, heat flaming into his cheeks. Pete rolls his eyes, reaching forward to grab the carton where it's dangling from Ryan's fingers, and spears the biggest piece of chicken, stuffing it into his mouth. "Did you get laid or something, man?" Pete asks around his own mouthful, brows up but not playful.

"No. I didn't." Ryan isn't even sure -- okay, no. He isn't crazy enough that he's going to start lying to his internal monologue. Yes, sure, he'd liked Brendon, Ella had loved Brendon and it had been so long since she'd more than just tolerated someone within the first meeting. He can't say that to Pete though. Ella loves him now, of course she does, she asks for Pete and Patrick most when he's tucking her into bed a night, but he'd never seen her establish a connection with someone as quickly as she had with Brendon.

"So what did you do?" Pete's voice, once he's swallowed the offending piece of meat, is raspy-smooth and questioning, but there's no pressure behind the words, no force. "No offense, Ross, but you've been smiling like an idiot all day. What gives?" Ryan's cheeks flame up again, and this is more than slightly ridiculous, because he is a grown-up. He has a kid. He does not have time for hot guys at the beach who make his daughter giggle and make the best Macaroni and Cheese he's had since before his mom left.

"There was just this guy on the beach," he mumbles, and it's not like it's a lie. Brendon had been a guy on the beach -- white tee shirt, torn jeans, and fuck, those ridiculous red-rimmed glasses Ryan hasn't been able to stop thinking about all day. "Ella really liked him, and that like, never happens right away, and we went to his house from dinner, because I guess his kid -- his nephew and Ella knew each other or something, and I just." He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh, shrugging at Pete, palms up. "Whatever. It's stupid."

"Damn straight it's stupid," Pete says, and Ryan had maybe expected a little ribbing, but nothing near the level of this outright anger. Pete's voice is barely in check, and when Ryan hazards a look down at his hands, they're clenching against the wooden edge of his desk, knuckles white. "What are you doing, exposing the kid to strangers like that? What if he'd tried to hurt her, Ryan? Haverford's small, but it's no fucking Pleasantville." Ryan blinks, because he hadn't even thought of it like that.

His stomach is starting to seize up, because all he'd been thinking was whiteteeshirttornjeansredglasses. "Oh god," he mumbles the word out, but he barely makes a sound, it's barely an exhalation past his lips. "What if she'd been hurt? What if -- "

"What is his name, anyway? Are you sure the kid is his?" Its not like Ryan wants to picture Brendon, but he can't help himself when he thinks about Jamie. They're spitting images of each other and Ryan nods yes, he is one hundred percent sure that Jamie belongs to Brendon. Jamie couldn't have belonged to anyone else.

"Brendon." Ryan says after a minute, after the onslaught of the varying degrees of Pete's "interrogation eyes". "Brendon Urie, I think. His nephew's name was -- "

"Jamie!" Pete's snapping his fingers, the grin on his face huge and white and blinding. "Oh man, you met Brendon? Go for it, dude. Go for it so hard."
Ryan blinks.

--

Things are slow, so a little before seven Pete tells Ryan to go ahead and pick up Ella an hour early so she can be "adorable and entertaining" for the last hour they're open. The daycare is only a street over, so Ryan walks, humming a tangle of different songs under his breath. Pete refused to say much more about Brendon, other than that he was wonderful, his nephew, Jamie, is the most talkative, funniest toddler Pete had ever met, and Ryan has his permission to "Tap that ass so hard, Ross. Seriously."

Ryan's mind is beginning to wander in that direction when he walks through the front door and he shoves it away. Brendon is...Brendon is a whole string of beautiful words tumbling around in the back of Ryan's thoughts in beats and lines that his palms itch to commit to paper, despite the fear inherent in giving the feeling twisting in his stomach tangible life. He shakes his head as the door swings shut and looks up. Normally, by the time Pete and Ryan lock up, most of the kids have already been picked up, but an hour beforehand there are plenty of kids running around, even a couple young grade school kids.

"Da!" Ella breaks off from a group of kids gathered around Spencer, who's reading from a picture book, and pelts across the room and into his arms.

"Hey, Ella Bella." Ryan scoops her up and kisses her forehead. "Want to go hang out with Uncle Pete before we head home?"

"Yes, Feet."

Ryan laughs and shifts her onto his hip as he turns and, promptly running into someone walking through the door behind him. Ryan staggers back with a startled noise, nearly losing his grip on Ella. He manages to straighten, a string of words lined with barbed edges about watching where the hell your going, but the moment he registers red glasses, the die on his tongue.

Of course. Of. Course.

"Hi," Brendon says cheerfully. He's obviously just come from work, dresses in pressed khakis and a light blue button down with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. Ryan's mouth goes dry.

"Are you stalking me?" The words pop out independently of his brain and Ryan wants to melt into the floor, he wants to run away, he wants to die, especially since there's a scruffy blond guy with a hand on Brendon's arm, grinning up at him. He should have figured. He should have figured that Brendon would have someone. He should have figured.

Brendon laughs, and it breaks the mantra going on in Ryan's head. "To be fair, it would have been you stalking me on the beach since I was there first." His eyes are shining, and there's something that dips in Ryan's stomach for a second until Brendon turns, grinning at the stranger, too. Ryan blinks and tries not to stare, closing his eyes a second later, because he can't stop himself.

"Bee-den!" Jamie grazes past Ryan, hands full of a construction paper and macaroni creation. He pauses and pets Ella's foot, "Hi, El," before wrapping his arms around Brendon's knees as he babbles about all the things they did during the day.

"Hey, kiddo," Brendon says calmly, hauling Jamie up as he continues to happily babble. Ryan suspects Jamie just likes to talk whether anyone's actually listening or not, but he looks so happy it's adorable rather than annoying. "Look, you two should come over again some night. Jamie doesn't have a lot of friends he sees outside of daycare and, well, honestly, I don't get a lot of intelligent adult conversation either."

"But." Ryan looks over at the guy who isn't looking at Brendon at all anymore. He's walking slowly around the room, almost as if he's casing the place for something and maybe he's like, a really short burglar. Probably a really awful burglar too, considering he's got a dollar sign tattooed to his hand. That's pretty distinctive. "I. Um. Yeah. That'd be. Good. Yeah." Ryan feels his face burn red. Way to be articulate, Ross, you moron.

"Great," Brendon nods and laughs. "Okay, I'll see you around." He picks up Jamie, starting to tickle at the strip of skin exposed at the toddler's stomach. He grins as he leaves, shifting Jamie in his arms to get one free and touch the blond guy's shoulder. "Take care, dude." They both grin, and Ryan is almost blown away by the collective force of that.

"Yeah, around," Ryan adds, and Brendon smiles at him again, easy and light. It takes Ryan a second to realize that the blond guy didn't follow him. The blond guy is actually looking at Ryan with a tilted head and a sort of smirk twisting around his lips.

"Hey, so do you know where I can find Spencer Smith? You him?" He asks, brows raised and Ryan blinks, because he was definitely not expecting that. "I'm like, interviewing for the intern position, from the college?" Ryan blinks at him again, because this is the first he'd heard of an intern coming in to work at the daycare. He wonders if thinking about Ella biting this guy makes him an awful person.

"I'm -- "

"Oh hey," Spencer says, wiping at a smudge of marker high on his cheek as he pushes out of the kitchen. "You must be Cash."

--

Pete and Patrick (Ella can't say "Patrick" quite yet, so she calls them "Pea and Feeeeeeeeeeeet" and it's sort of gotten stuck in Ryan's head) are having a "Small, really small, dinner thing. For Ella, not for you, you freak, you can't stop us from lavishing the girl with awesome, Ryan, seriously." And after daycare and stopping off at home to change, the two of them walk over, enjoying the crisp. Ella's humming something soft and low, and Ryan can just hear it as they cross the street, her voice blending in with the sound of the ocean.

"Da, Da," she says, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt. "Up!" Logically he knows that at some point, he's going to have to stop picking her up, all of the baby books say that in order for him to let her go some day, he has to start small. Logically, he knows this, but logic also tells him to let her cry in the middle of the night, and maybe it's bad parenting, but he just can't.

Ryan picks her up, rewarded, as he climbs to the two stairs to Patrick's door, with sloppy kisses pressed to his cheeks, to the tip of his nose. "'prise, Da! Party for you!" Ryan blinks, as he pushes in through the screen, and it's not a party, exactly. But Pete and Patrick are standing in front of the table, wringing their hands in the exact same way, which Ryan would normally find funny, because seriously, no matter what they say, they're so fucking married, but. But they're moving out of the way, and there's a – fuck, there's a cake, and there are streamers and Ryan's got to blink because his sight is getting a little blurry.

"What." He can't quite force sentences past his lips. There are people here, not just Pete and Patrick, but Spencer too, and the scruffy guy Ryan had seen the first day, who must be Jon. "Guys?" He asks, because he can't. It's not a big deal, this is not a big deal, this is dinner at a friend's house, it's not. It's not anything big or important, not anything that should be making his hands shake so hard that Ella is shaking too.

The smile falls away from Patrick's lips immediately, and Ryan hates himself for doing that when all he really wanted to do was say thank you. "Guys, I -- "

"It's not a big deal, Ryan. No more than a hundred dollars was spent, and you said, you totally said that we could buy the Elster whatever we wanted, so you really can't be mad."

Ryan swallows, tightening his arms around Ella's squirming body. "I just. Thank you. Thank you, guys. Seriously. I -- " Pete takes a step forward past Patrick, slapping his hand across Ryan's mouth. "The thank you was enough, man." He takes Ella gently, and she laughs as she starts to scramble up his shoulders, settling herself around his neck and laughing, giddy. "Fly! Feet!"

Ryan's still shaky, overexposed without Ella attached to his hip, and he's sort of staring aimlessly into space while Pete flies Ella all around the room and Patrick rushes into the kitchen with a grunt about cups.

"Hi," scruffy-guy-who-must-be-Jon says. "I'm Jon." He grins at Ryan, sticking his hand out, and yeah, yes, Ryan is shaken up -- he really hates surprises, but he has a sense of politeness ingrained in him, so.

"I'm Ryan, but the minor panic attack and the padded cell probably clued you in." Jon grins, and he has a lovely smile, sweeping down from the corners of his mouth. It settles something in Ryan's stomach, and it's almost like he has no control of himself, because he's grinning back, wide and bright, like it's just this easy.

There's a knock on the door, and Ryan freezes back up. He knows exactly who it is. He knows exactly who it is before the door swings open, and Jamie comes rushing inside. "HI, RY!" He's grinning and waving, and Brendon is right behind him, holding Jamie's Ninja Turtles backpack and still wearing his red glasses.

Ryan can't breathe.

"Hey look at that!" Brendon says and Ryan blinks. "I guess 'around' came sooner than we thought, huh?" He's grinning, and still grinning, fucking always grinning, and Ryan just. Ryan has to grin back. There's no other option, really.

--

Pete and Patrick bring out this thing with lights and steps, this bright orange thing that kind of bounces. It sort of resembles an armchair for tykes, the kind of thing that Ryan can't even imagine buying for Ella because it probably costs more than he has in all of his savings put together. Ella's eyes are huge as they carry it out, little hand pressed to her lips.

Her eyes are huge and wide and blue as she starts at it, at Pete and Patrick and back over to Ryan. "F'r me, Da?" She asks in this breathy little whisper that makes Ryan's throat tighten.

"Why don't you hop in, Elster?" Pete asks, voice soft and low, and Ella spares him a glance, a grin too, if Ryan's not mistaken, but she doesn't move her fingers from his arm.

"Is that 'kay, Da?" She asks, and Ryan just. There's no way that it cost less than twenty dollars, there's no way he'll be able to pay them back, not just for the toy, but for this, for them, for their friendship and the way that they seem to have an endless fountain of patience with him, with his daughter. God, he can't be tearing up. He can't.

He turns, a little, as Ella tumble skips into the armchair, giggling delightedly at all the lights, and almost on accident, he catches Brendon's eyes. He smiles a little, he knows it's a little tight, but Brendon being here, Brendon being so comfortable and at ease with the people who are the only thing Ryan has right now -- it's pretty needless to say that it's more than a little unsettling.

"El-El!" Jamie says from where he's standing in the mouth of the kitchen, cheeks a little grimy with chocolate, grin plastered over his mouth. Ryan feels a rush of affection hit him low in the gut, which, isn't so odd, considering it's Jamie, and he's a wonderful little kid, but. But Ryan doesn't actually like kids very much, not really. "El-El, Patrick has cake!" Ella let's out a high pitched squealgiggle and scrambles off her throne, rushing after Jamie as fast as her little legs will carry her.

Pete's on the phone, which isn't surprising, because Pete always seems to be talking to someone, despite the fact that Ryan would bet most of his friends in the world are in this room. Jon is sitting at the battered piano in the corner under the stairs, Spencer pressed against his back, laughing into Jon's hair; and Brendon is. Brendon is still sitting at the table, remnants of his dinner on the plate in front of him, staring at Ryan.

Ryan can't breathe, and he can breathe even less when Brendon licks his lips, leaning forward. "So I know your birthday isn't for another couple of months, but -- "

"What." Ryan says, because how could Brendon possibly remember that? Brendon blinks at him, but he goes on. "But I saw this, when I was in the city earlier -- that's why I was late, by the way, and I just. I thought of you. So. It's not a big deal," he adds on quickly, when Ryan's face pales. "But, you said it was your favorite record the other night at dinner, so." He pulls a black bag out of nowhere, maybe he sat with it at his back all through dinner, Ryan doesn't know, but. But.

It's like Ryan's hands are moving of their own volition as he takes the bag from Brendon's outstretched hand, his own shaking. It's Sgt. Pepper's, an original pressing of Sgt. Pepper's, and Ryan feels dizzy again. "This is an original pressing," he breathes out, and he's not even sure Brendon heard him, not quite sure how Brendon could have.

Brendon laughs a little, he laughs, and Ryan's squeezing so hard on the plastic he's afraid the record might crack. "You already have the CD, Ry." Brendon says gently, and Ryan has to close his eyes, just for a half a second, just so he can remind himself that he is twenty-one years old and not a twelve-year-old girl. He just needs to remind himself of that.

"I collect vinyl," is what he comes up with, finally, and Brendon grins big and wide and bright, leaning across the table again touching Ryan's free hand with just the tips of his fingers. "I know."

Ryan has no idea how he thought he was going to get through this.

--

Ella and Jamie both are entranced by the armchair thing, which upon pressing a couple buttons, proves to light up, sing, and spin around to their general delight. They share remarkably well, taking turns with no fuss, for nearly two hours before Ella slides off and crawls up on the couch with her head on Ryan's thigh and her feet in Patrick's lap. Jamie keeps going, though Ryan can see his eyes begin got blink slowly as he movements get more and more uncoordinated.

"I'm going to hit the bathroom and then we should probably head home. It's past someone's bed time," Brendon chuckles, ruffling Jamie's hair as he heads down the hall.

"Not sleepy," Jamie protests, even as he slides down off the chair and follows Ella's lead, crawled up on the couch and plopping himself down on Ryan's lap.

The thing is, Ryan isn't generally a fan of children. He loves Ella, he adores her, but she's his daughter, which places her in some special category that the rest of humanity can never even hope to reach. Children as a general species are noisy and messy and just not Ryan's thing, but Jamie's head against his shoulder feels natural, just like Ella. Ryan reacts without thinking, rocking him gently back and forth, murmuring strings of soothing nonsense under his breath and it's not long before Jamie's body goes completely slack as he falls asleep.

"How do you do that?" Pete asks, cocking his head as he looks up from his phone. "Just get them to sleep?"

Ryan laughs softly, brushing the tips his fingers over the rounded curve of Ella' cheek. She's got her thumb caught in her mouth, every now and again she sighs softly and shifts closers to Ryan. "I don't know, I just...do?"

"He's out?" Brendon stifles a yawn as he crosses the living room, kneeling down beside Ryan. He brushes back Jamie's hair and Ryan's heart twists, just a little, because Brendon looks at Jamie the same way he looks at Ella, with an emotion in his eyes that transcends simple love into awe that you could possibly have anything to do with something so wonderful.

"Long day," Ryan offers and Brendon huffs out a laugh, gently sliding his arms under Jamie's armpits and shifting him to his chest with nothing more than a noise in the back of Jamie's throat. He curls his hands in Brendon's shirts and presses his face into Brendon's neck. Ryan's arms feel oddly empty without a toddler in them. "I'll walk you out."

Patrick's house isn't that big, but it's arranged oddly so there's a short hallway between the front door and the rest of the house. Brendon shifts Jamie onto his hip and gathers up his hoodie and Jamie's jacket, both tossed on an annoying little table Patrick keeps shoved against the wall because there's no other place for it, but his grandmother gave it to him so it's not like he can just toss it. Ryan shoves his hands into his pockets and tries not to stare as Brendon gathers up his keys. He opens the front door and tries not to sigh as Brendon walks so close he brushes against Ryan, leaving behind the faint tang of his conditioner and baby shampoo.

"So, thank you, for everything," Ryan says after a beat and the words feel inadequate on his tongue. You're wonderful, you're amazing, you're perfect, how are you even real? Brendon's standing on the porch, silhouetted by the yellow glow of the street lights.

"All right." Brendon laughs to himself and turns to face Ryan, smiling like he knows the punch line to a joke Ryan doesn't. "This is crazy, I know this is crazy, but I'm gonna say it anyway. No one knows what it's like to have a kid and not be old enough to drink. No one knows what it's like to work shitty hours at a shitty job just to make ends meet. No one knows what it's like to look at your life and wonder how the hell you got here because this wasn't the plan and to be okay with it. But you do, and I know I barely know you, but I want to know you and, God, you're probably going to run away, but I think there's something here. For us."

Ryan's heart stops in his chest.

Brendon laughs again, nervous and awed and Jamie stirs on his shoulder. He smiles one more, ducking his head, and turns, walking down the steps to his car while Ryan's mind stays in state of frozen shock repeating the words, for us, for us, for us.

--

Ryan's not actually sure how he made it back inside the house -- one foot in front of the other, he's sure, it has to be that, except he doesn't realize it, not really. One second he's chilly bordering on cold, because temperatures drop like flies out here, and the next, the warmth of Patrick's house is engulfing him like a hug.

"Ryan?" He can hear Patrick's voice, but it sounds far away, almost. The wall of the little hallway probably has something to do with that, Ryan hasn't gone completely crazy, but all he can see is Brendon's eyes, the faint blush on his cheeks and the way he'd been worrying his teeth into his bottom lip. All he can hear is for us. I think there's something here. For us. "Hey Ryan, I've got coffee on, if you -- "

Patrick's voice dies away once Ryan comes back in full view. The light from the hall lamp is hitting his glasses, making him look slightly bug eyed, but Ryan can't even crack a smile.

"Are you okay?" Spencer asks quietly. He's sitting where Patrick had been, Ella's feet in his lap, her head perched against Jon's knee. Ryan tries to nod but he's almost positive he ends up shaking his head, and when he sits down on the spare edge of the couch, his vision's blurring.

"I can't believe," he starts, but it's not a sentence he can finish, not really, because of course he can believe it. He can believe all of it. He closes his eyes and thinks of the way Brendon's face had looked in the moonlight. Incandescent. "What were you thinking?" Is what he finally comes up with, but his shoulders have a defeated slump to them, and what was supposed to be anger comes out as exhaustion.

Pete is silent for once, doesn't even look at Ryan as he watches Ella sleep. Ryan doesn't think he's ever seen Pete so still. "You're really unhappy," he says, coughing into his fist and looking away. Pete's never usually this serious, but something in Ryan's gut is telling him that this is. This thing, whatever they started tonight. It's serious.

"So you thought bringing in a stranger with a kid would make me less unhappy? Did you really think it would help?" Ryan ignores the pang in his stomach, the one that makes him think of Brendon's smile, and his laugh, and his stupid fucking red-rimmed glasses. Ryan ignores the pang that has him thinking about Brendon's voice in the dark. For us.

"We just. We wanted to help out, Ryan. We wanted what was best." Spencer says, and Jon nods, because of course they were involved too. Of course they were fucking involved. Every single friend he's made here, every single connection he has leads him back to Brendon. If it happens -- if they do it, if Brendon's prediction falls flat, if the for us means nothing but a few months and four broken hearts in the end, Ryan will be right back where he started and Ella will be alone all over again.

"I had a full ride to BU, you know." He whispers, biting down hard on his lip and closing his eyes, even though that doesn't do much to help. He can still see Callie, curtain of hair falling in front of her eyes, laughing. He thinks that must have been the last time she laughed for real. "I had a full ride," he says again, not really believing it, even though if he tries hard enough, he can still feel the weight of the envelope in his hand. "I could have gone. Callie was. There was a clinic and. If I'd been later, if I'd been ten minutes later I would have missed it." He closes his eyes again, reaching forward to clasp at Ella's foot, just to make sure she's real. "You've gotta know Callie left. That's why I'm here. She left and I can't." He stops because his voice breaks. There is a reason he doesn't talk this much. "Ella can't lose someone else like that. I can't lose someone else like that."

He leans back against the couch, rubbing the pads of his fingers against his eyes. Jon's hand is warm, but Ryan still flinches of the unexpected contact against his shoulder.

"Brendon is -- " Jon starts, but Ryan cuts him off. He has to. "I think. I think I'm in love with him."

--

Spencer doesn't ask if Ryan wants company on the walk home so much as tell him he's coming along.

They walk side by side along the cracked sidewalks, feet stepping on little clumps and weeds and bright yellow dandelions growing out of the cement. Ella is heavy and inert in Ryan's arm, a dead weight against his shoulder. They left her presents at Patrick's, except for a stuffed bear from Brendon that Spencer carries, absent pulling at the soft fur on its ears. Spencer's never exactly talkative, but completely lack of communication is unusual, not that Ryan really cares. He's still stuck on repeat for us for us, the words becoming absurdly sing song in his mind.

"What are you going to do with Brendon?" Spencer asks and his voice is tighter than usual, veiled in a way that Ryan distantly notes, but can't decode.

Ryan inhales and exhales, throws his gaze up the stars spattered out across the dark sky. He doesn't have an answer to that, not when his heart is telling him one thing, his brain another, and his stomach twisted into knots so tight he can't begin to ask for meaning there. "I'm scared," Ryan says and perhaps it's not really an answer, but it's more honest than anything else he could say.

They walk in silence, Ryan watching the sidewalk as he tucks his face in next to Ella's head. She smells like baby shampoo and chocolate from the cake with the faint tang of finger paint. Spencer sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Brendon and I had a thing."

It can't be jealousy that roars to life in Ryan's chest, because he has no claim on Brendon and he knows Jon and Spencer are happier than any two people have a right to be, but that's sure as hell what it feels like.

"Back when he was in college and I was...fucking around with my band, we had this thing." Spencer's not looking at Ryan, just twisting the bear in his hands, fingers roaming over the light brown fuzz. "It was weird, dating a little, but mostly fooling around because he was a lapsed Mormon who'd never had the chance to really be with boys and I wasn't doing anything and it was fun. We had a good time. So, this one afternoon we make plans to meet up for coffee in the student union and ten minutes after he's supposed to show up, I get a call saying that he and some of the other kids in his music class have hit a groove, so he's going to be late, but he's sending his roommate to keep me company. A few minutes later Jon sits down across from me."

Ryan closes his eyes because he's heard this story a hundred times before in a hundred different places and he knows how it ends. He brushes a soft kiss on the crown of Ella's head as Spencer exhales hard and shakes his head.

"I knew from the moment he opened his mouth and said he liked my shirt that he was different than any other guy I had ever seen. We talked for four hours and didn't realize Brendon had never showed up until he called me to apologize and say he would take us both out to dinner. Somehow Jon and I ended up holding hands and, God. I knew, Ryan, like sometimes you just know. And damn everyone else and damn the consequences, you have to be with that person or you'll never be happy."

"And Brendon?"

Spencer laughs, short and just a little bitter. "He's Brendon. He was happy for us, Ryan. And not even in a way where I knew he didn't mean it. His heart was breaking because of me and he was still happy. Genuinely happy. He gave us his blessing and he never once made me feel guilty for fucking him over when he didn't deserve it. And then a month later Kara and Paul, Jamie's parents, were in a car accident, they both died, and Brendon got custody of Jamie. He couldn't take care of a toddler and go to school full time and he couldn't afford to go part time, so he dropped out and gave up everything for him."

Ryan likes Spencer, he does, but he wants to smash his fist into Spencer's face and watch him crumple to the ground. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because Brendon is a good person and he doesn't deserve the shit I put him through and he likes you, he really likes you," Spencer says in a rush. "And, fuck, you shouldn't let fear screw up your chance at something amazing. You both deserve to be happy."

"What if it doesn't work?" Ryan spits out, "Fuck, what if it's not some destiny shit and I end up not only hurting my kid, but hurting Jamie and Brendon? I couldn't live with that, Spence. I couldn't."

They've somehow reached Ryan's apartment, standing at the glass doors the lead into the building. Ella shifts and whimpers on his shoulder and Ryan wants to crawl into bed and sleep for a hundred years until life, which was never simple, at least goes back to making sense.

"Your choice," Spencer says softly, tucking the bear into Ella's hands. "I just thought you should know."

--

Ryan doesn't know how it happens, exactly, but after the night of Ella's party, he and Spencer manage to take lunch together every day. He's got an hour break from the store, and he usually manages to walk the two streets over, eating his sandwich in the heat and warmth that seems to surround the daycare. It's an extra bonus to get to see Ella, but it's usually naptime by the time he gets there.

Spencer doesn't ask why Ryan keeps coming back, just smiles at him, and Ryan wonders how this got to be a little friendship of sorts, but he's glad for it and he's grateful. He's clinging especially tightly when Brendon up and disappears off the face of the planet.

"Swear to god, Ross," Pete says on a Saturday when they've been unpacking shipment for the past three hours and look to be doing it for three more. "If you say the name Brendon one more time I will shank you with this." He holds up his penknife menacingly, and Ryan has to keep back a laugh, but he does stop. Mostly.

Two weeks have passed since then and the smiles have stopped, the conversation has stopped, and the only people Ryan will even look at anymore are Ella and sometimes Spencer.

"Jamie's still here," he whispers one night, holding a sleeping Ella against his hip. "Jamie's still here, but where the fuck is Brendon, Spencer?" Spencer's lips set, and he stays quiet, but his eyes flicker, and Ryan's not sure what that means, but knows enough, he's learned enough, that he knows to trust Spencer. He has to. "He'll be here around eight," Spencer says, coughing out the words. "He had a lot of packages to deliver in the city today, but he'll be here." There's something in Spencer's gaze that translates out into, hurt him and I'll kill you with my hands.

When the last children, save for Jamie and Ella, have been picked up, Spencer nods at Ryan slowly, handing him the door key under penalty of death -- "This place was my mom's. Fuck it up and I will kill you." There's a storage closet too, but it's like nothing Ryan's ever seen before. There are racks and racks of costumes and games, like a kid's fun house only Spencer sized.

"Jamie gets worried if Brendon's late," Spencer says, voice low, watching Jamie and Ella play with their building blocks by the door, head slightly tilted. There's the rumble of thunder in the distance and Ryan can just hear the patter of raindrops against the windows. "Kara and Paul died in a car accident during a storm so he panics even worse then. Brendon's fine, Brendon's always fine, but you need to distract Jamie so he won't get upset." Spencer's eyes are grim, but he manages a tight smile, and when he leaves, he palms companionably over Ryan's shoulder.

Jamie doesn't start getting fidgety until around seven-forty-five and then it seems almost staged when he starts to stretch his arms back, little body tense under the strain of the movement. He goes back to playing with Ella and her little hand reaches out to grab hold of his nearest hand to her. Ryan would smile if the look on Jamie's face wasn't bordering on a sort of hysteria.

Ryan's never seen him look like that before.

"Jamie -- " he starts, but Jamie's bottom lip is already wobbling, eyes welling with tears. "Ryan," he says in a precise little tone Ryan is fairly certain four-year-olds shouldn't be familiar with. "Ryan, where's U'cle Bee-den? He's late." Ella shakes her head at him, curls shaking, her grip on his hand getting stronger. She's got her other hand planted on her hip.

"Da here, Jayme. Don' worry, Bee-don come too." Her words are wise and accompanied by a nodding head, but Jamie doesn't look like he believes her. Ryan remembers Spencer's words, and he reaches down, scooping Jamie into his arms. He's not sure if that was the right call to make, once Jamie starts crying in earnest, but when Ryan takes a few steps towards the closet, he seems to calm, at least a little.

He suggests games, he suggests puzzles, he suggests acting out a play or listening some music brought over by Uncle Pete, but Jamie shakes his head at every option. "How 'bout we play dress up?" Ryan asks as a last resort.

Jamie's eyes light up.

--

"Save me, Jayme!"

Ryan has Ella hitched on his back, legs arranged around a pair of green pleather dragon wings unearthed in the bottom of the steamer trunk Spencer keeps the dress up clothes in. He's running around the playroom in an easy lope, followed closely by Jamie in a plastic knight's helmet, armed with a green light saber that glows and makes whooshing noises when he presses a button. Ella's decked out in a bright pink tiara and battered lab coat, several sizes too big.

"I'm comin', El El, the dragon's fast!" Jamie cries, leaping over a pile of blocks that started out as the castle but fell victim to Jamie tripping on a stray coloring book and losing his balance.

Ryan rounds the low bookcases and roars, nearly putting his foot into a cement mixer and going flying. Ella giggles and adjusts the paper horns taped to either side of his head; Ryan growls through and kisses the back of her hand. "You're mine, Ella Ross, the Sir Jamie will never save you!"

Spencer's sitting behind his desk with a pencil stuck behind his ear, buried in paperwork. He glances up as Ryan jogs past, breathing hard, and snorts, biting down on his bottom lip from laughter. If Ryan weren't a) in front of two highly impressionable children and b) holding his daughter, he'd flip Spencer off and remind him about the pictures of him in drag Pete keeps locked in his closet as potential blackmail material, but he settles for sticking out his tongue as he starts another circuit around the room.

Bright pink and huffing, Jamie changes tactics, abandoning the wide circle they'd been keeping on to charge across the room and wrap himself around Ryan's leg. "Take the Magical Sword of Magic," he cries, passing Ella the light saber, "Slay the dragon, El El!"

"Okay, Jayme." Ella presses the button and giggles. "Stop movin', Da."

Ryan obediently comes to halt as Ella positions the saber underneath his armpit and pushes it through with a truly impressive battle cry. Ryan lets out another highly theatrical roar as Jamie jumps up and bursts into cheer. He hits his knees and Ella slides from his back, throwing her chubby arms around Jamie's neck. "We winned!" Still roaring, Ryan crashes to the carpet and flops, letting out pitiful moans, until Jamie and Ella are in stitches and he can hear Spencer snickering across the room. He gives one last shudder and falls limp, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

"Wow." Jamie pokes his toe into Ryan's ribs. "El El, your daddy's the best dragon ever.."

"Yup," Ella giggles, kneeling down. "Da. Da, Da, Da." She lays her head against his chest and gestures to Jamie. "Da's heart."

Jamie jumps over Ryan's legs and kneels down on his other side, pressing his own ear against Ryan's chest. "Hey, I can hear it, too. Ryan, you can be un-defeated now."

Ryan forces himself to stay still for a few moments longer as the kids poke his ribs and tickle under his arms. Ella, the little cheater, even brushes his fingers on the skin behind Ryan's skin and he has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "Maybe we defeated him too much?" Jamie says timidly.

"No." Ella flops down across Ryan's chest, putting her chubby palms on his cheeks. "DAAAAAA!""

"Boo!" Ryan springs as Ella and Jamie both shriek. He manages to sneak an arm around Jamie's waist and haul him close, tickling them both. Through sheer force of will, he pulls himself up, with Ella squirming against one side and Jamie wriggling helpless across his legs. The wings are caught on something, elastic straps digging into his shoulder, and the horns have been jarred loose; one's mashed flat against his head and the other is attached by nothing more than a particularly stubborn piece of tape.

"Hi guys." Brendon's voice cuts through Jamie and Ella's giggles and Ryan stills, slowly twisting to see the door. Brendon's standing there in neatly pressed gray slacks with a slightly rumpled blue button down and a bright red tie. He doesn't have glasses on and Ryan's mind takes moment to file 'has contacts' away in the little section of his mind that's somehow become solely dedicated to everything that is Brendon. "Having fun?"

Wings. Horns. Ryan is wearing pleather wings and construction paper horns. He feels his face burn red from his hairline to his collar as Jamie lets out a delight yelp and crawls off his lap, hurling himself into Brendon's open arms. "UNCLE BEE-DEN! Ryan played dress up with me and Ella and we defeated him but we thinked maybe we defeated him too much but he was pretending and he tickled us and he was a dragon, Uncle Bee-den, a dragon! He was the best dragon ever, even better than Pete, can we keep Ryan and Ella?"

Oh God. Ryan swallows hard and scrambles to his feet, shedding the wings and shaking his head to dislodge the horns as he hauls Ella up onto his hips. Brendon is absently ruffling Jamie's hair, but staring at Ryan with something he can't decipher written in his eyes. Ryan shifts and clears his throat, flicking his gaze between Brendon and Spencer behind his desk, pointedly reading whatever stack of papers are in front of him and not gaping at them both.

"Hi," Brendon says on the exhale.

"Hi," Ryan echoes.

--

Ella seems to deflate once Jamie's climbed up into Brendon's arms, and she's rubbing her head against the back of Ryan's knee, little arms wrapped as far around his legs as she can reach.

It's almost like clockwork, because Jamie's snoring on Brendon's shoulder in a minute and then in less than one more, Ella's making sleepy noises in the back of her throat, tugging at the legs of Ryan's pants, making pick-me-up arms.

Ryan scoops her up, and when he looks back to the door, he's expecting Jamie and Brendon to be gone. It's late, after all, it's past nine, and Ryan wouldn't be surprised, but. But Brendon's still standing there, eyes still filled with that thing, that thing that Ryan hasn't been able to stop thinking about for weeks. For us, his brain provides, and Ryan's cheeks start to flush as his breath gets tangled in his throat.

"Do you need a ride?" Brendon asks, and he seems to be breathing normally. His skin is even the right color, even, which puts him leaps and bounds ahead of Ryan. "A ride?" He squeaks out, and desperately wants to smack himself in the face, because seriously, Brendon is just a guy. Brendon is just a guy that Ryan might be in love with. Shit. "You don't -- "

"Your place is on my way, it's like, a half-mile away, and it's fu -- freaking cold out." Brendon has a point, and Ryan isn't going to run the risk of Ella getting sick. "Okay," Ryan says, and Brendon nods at him, but he's not smiling, and there's none of the ease in him that Ryan's used to in the set of his shoulders.

The kids are strapped in (Spencer has a spare car-seat that seems to fit Ella's specifications perfectly, but when Ryan makes questioning noises, he just raises a brow and cocks his hip out. "I'm allowed to buy her things, if I want to fucking buy her things, okay? You're going to need a car-seat eventually, and they run kind of expensive, and you deserve things, Ryan."), but Ryan and Brendon aren't. They're standing awkwardly on Jamie's side of the car, heads tipped back against the metal, staring up at the stars that have just started to be visible under the layer of cloudy grime.

"Thank you," Brendon says after a long quiet moment that hadn't exactly been tense, but hadn't been companionable either. Ryan blinks over at him, because if he'd expected anything, it certainly hadn't been that.

"What? Why? I didn't do anything." Brendon shakes his head, taking a swig from the bottle of beer he'd swiped from the secret reserve in the mini fridge in Spencer's office. He does something to his lips that's probably supposed to be a smile, but Ryan's seen the real thing; he's not fooled.

"I was late because of stupid fucking traffic on the freeway, there was an accident or something, I think, and I was late, and the whole time I kept thinking about how fucking terrified Jamie would be." He cuts his eyes towards Ryan and takes another sip of his beer. "His parents died in a car accident when he was just a baby." Ryan doesn't say "I know," even though he does. Ryan doesn't say anything other than, "Brendon," with a hand on Brendon's shoulder and, "I'm sorry."

Brendon shrugs, but Ryan doesn't move his hand, and when he shifts again, Brendon's a whole foot closer than he had been. Ryan's not sure which one of them moves first, but Brendon's looking at him, finally looking at him the same way he had been, and his eyes are finally clear. For us, Ryan hears rushing his ears, and he's bridging the gap, lightly nipping at Brendon's bottom lip.

He pulls back, quick like he's been burned, and the words are at his lips, apologies and excuses, but Brendon surges forward this time, crushing Ryan's lips with a force that's almost painful. Ryan moans under the touch, hands reaching up to cup at Brendon's cheeks. His fingers are freezing, but Brendon is warm, so warm, and there's this curl of heat pooling in Ryan's stomach. The desire to get closer, this desire to feel Brendon stretched out all around him is overwhelming, and Ryan has to pull away because he's starting to slip, and the thoughts in his brain are narrowing down to skin and feel and forever.

"Ryan?" Brendon's voice is a far away, and a little confused, and Ryan's breathing so hard he can feel his body shaking with it. "Ryan? Don't freak out, okay? It doesn't have to mean -- "

"I love you." Ryan blurts, and he feels like he's going to throw up.

--

The drive is silent, Brendon keeping his eyes firmly on the road while Ryan tries to freak out relatively quietly in the passenger seat. The kids are both asleep in the back, Jamie with a battered blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Ella with her thumb stuck firmly in her mouth. The streets slip past, bright lights from house windows streaking against the dark of the night and Ryan told Brendon he fucking loved him.

Ryan's apartment building is on the outskirts of town, though it's really just a massive old house sliced up into odd configurations of rooms pretending to be apartments. Ryan's consists of the old master bedroom with a cheap wall thrown up to add a small living room/kitchen area and a stove and refrigerator crammed in at an awkward angle near the front door. It has a shared bathroom and no second bedroom, which is only really fine so long as Ella can sleep in her crib at the foot of Ryan's bed.

Brendon pulls up to the curb and cuts the engine as Ryan unbuckles his seat belt and fiddles with the cuff of his jacket. There are a hundred thousand things he wants to say, I didn't mean it, I did mean it, I don't know what's wrong with me, but he can't seem to get his throat to unclog. Ryan bites down on his bottom lip and knows, if nothing else, he has to at least get out of the car, get Ella out of her car seat, and get them both upstairs before he crawls into bed and wishes for a black hole to swallow him up.

"So." Brendon drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

"So." Ryan forces his leg to keep from bouncing.

"Will you have lunch with me sometime this week?" Brendon's head is ducked, hair falling across his forehead. Ryan barely hears him as he blurts out, "I'm sorry I said I love you." Their words tumble out in the same rush of syllables tripping over each other to be heard.

Brendon blushes and drops his forehead onto the steering wheel, nearly setting off the horn. "I'm sorry. I just. Never mind."

"Yes," Ryan blurts out. "I would like that. A date, I mean. That'd be. Nice." He hazards a look towards Brendon, and something hard and hot forms in his stomach. "Not that I think you were asking me out on a date, or anything. We don't need to, I mean -- " He sighs out, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

The last date Ryan went on was with Callie. Hell, the last date he went on was with Callie to his senior fucking prom. He wore a rented tux a size too big and she a billowing dress that didn't do nearly as much as she'd hoped to hide her very noticeable baby bump. Callie spent most of the night sitting in a chair because her feet hurt and her back hurt, inhaling cups of punch, while Ryan tried to rub her shoulders and not wish they hadn't even fucking bothered with the whole thing. People stared and, in the end, they went home after half an hour; Callie spent an hour in the bathroom crying afterwards while Ryan restlessly alternated between studying for his finals and reading the baby books.

"Ryan." Brendon breaks into a wide grin and he's maybe laughing at Ryan, maybe teasing just a little, but that doesn't change the fact that Ryan's heart fucking flutters.

"Yes?"

"It's a date, okay?" Brendon laughs and nods. "It's date."

--

Ryan wakes up the next morning to sun filtering in through the grimy window, and Ella still asleep in her crib. She's been sleeping through the night, mostly, but she still has sleepless ones, and there are mornings when Ryan wakes up to tears against his chest, her little hands fisted into the fabric of his tee shirts.

Ryan feels calm and rested for once, and there's a grin on his mouth that he just can't seem to get rid of, and then. And then he remembers, the warmth of Brendon's skin, the feel of him, the look in his eyes when they'd pulled apart, and the leaden feeling in Ryan's stomach when the words had come out and he hadn't been able to stop them.

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," he mutters to the room at large, even though it's only him and Ella. He rolls over, reaching for the phone and dialing Spencer's number. It rings once, twice, twelve times, but Ryan's not letting up. Ryan thinks he might hyperventilate himself into a coma and he's not leaving Ella, not for something as stupid as this.

"Ryan?" Spencer asks when he finally answers. His voice is sleep rough and weary, but it's also laced with concern Ryan wasn't sure could be packed into a four letter word. "Ryan it's six-thirty in the morning, are you alright? Is Ella okay?" Ryan nods before realizing that Spencer can't see him, and he makes a noise in his throat that sounds halfway between a moan and a growl.

"I told Brendon I love him," he says, and the words are sticky, clogged in his throat, hot and uncomfortable, making his cheeks flush and his eyes close at the memory, at the sharp look in Brendon's eyes. Spencer is quiet, completely and utterly silent for so long that Ryan would think he'd fallen back asleep if it weren't for the sharp breaths he could hear Spencer taking.

"Did you mean it?" He asks, voice serious, bleak in a way Ryan's never heard it. There's a chill that's winding its way up Ryan's spine and he forces himself to close his eyes against it and breathe.

"Yes," he whispers in a quiet voice. It took him longer to answer than he'd wanted it to, but. But he'd had to be sure. He hasn't thought about love since Callie, and he's not even sure what that was, if that was. "Yes," he says again, voice stronger even though he wants to burrow under the covers and not come back out again until he has to leave for work in five hours.

"That's good," Spencer says, and his voice sounds even worse know, broken and barbed and Ryan flinches as he feels the word hit. "You're already a hundred times better than the last guy, Ryan." He sniffles and then laughs tonelessly and as the implication of the words skitter across Ryan's skin, he flinches, hard.

"Spencer -- "

"If you hurt him, I will kill you," he says, and he sounds completely and perfectly serious. The little laugh Ryan had been planning dies in his throat. "Spencer -- " Spencer cuts him off, tone tight, controlled. "I like you, Ryan, I like you a lot, and that doesn't happen very often, but I swear to Christ, if you hurt him I will tear you apart."

They're both silent for a minute, five, ten, and then Spencer laughs again, and Ryan can hear him sitting up, can hear the bed springs creaking and Jon's low mumble. "He's a good guy, Ryan."

Ryan nods, closing his eyes and breathing out slowly. "I know."

--

Ryan's sorting through Pete's latest thrift store and E-bay acquisitions, pulling out the ones in his and Pete's sizes to be selfishly added to their own wardrobes instead of put for sale. The smalls and mediums among their clientele often complain they can never find anything that fits them, to which Ryan merely shrugs and brushes a nonexistent piece of lint off his Beatles shirt. Pete's sorting new arrivals in the display by the door, making discontent noises every time he has to lay down another rap CD.

The doors swings open just as Ryan drops a pile of large and extra large tee shirts into a cardboard box behind the counter. "Hey, man," Pete says and Ryan assumes Patrick or maybe Jon. Most days Patrick makes the journey across the street to have lunch with them, sometimes even treating them with his own cooking, and Jon stops be fairly regularly, to show off his latest pictures or just to talk for a bit.

"Hi, Pete," Brendon says and Ryan freezes. "I brought Chinese."

Ryan wonders just how cowardly it would be to stay curled up in a little ball behind the counter and pretend he was at home dying of mutant alien plague. Logically, he knew this was coming, what with him agreeing to lunch and all, but still. His heart is pounding hard and blood rushes in his ears. He's never had a panic attack, but distantly he wonders if perhaps this is what one feels like.

"Ryan's stocking stuff behind the counter," Pete says, "Right, Ryan?"

Pete is a sadistic bastard and Ryan hopes he gets hit by a truck that then lights on fire and explodes into a thousand little pieces that then spontaneously combust, completely obliterating any trace of Pete fucking Wentz's existence from the universe.

"Yeah." Ryan straights and swallows hard. Brendon's got a couple white cartons heaped in his arms and the pocket of his hoodie bulges with what looks like sodas. "Hi. Brendon."

"Hey." Brendon breaks out in a wide smile and pushes his glasses back up on his nose with his shoulder.

"Okay," Pete says grandly, cramming the few remaining CDs sloppily on the shelf. "I'm going to go harass Patrick and hit him for food. You crazy kids have fun. Remember the close the blinds if you get up to anything and wipe down any flat surfaces before I get back." He sails out with a wave and a teasing, lascivious wink.

"That was subtle," Brendon chuckles, cross the store to set the cartons down on the counter. Steam rises, brining with it the rich smell of rice and sesame chicken. He pulls out two bottles of coke, a couple pairs of chopsticks, and plastic forks. "Um, I wasn't sure what you liked, so I just got rice and chicken, but if you want something else I can run down and get it."

"No, this is fine."

They pop open the cartons and set in. Brendon's a little uncoordinated with chopsticks, but he tries, worrying on his bottom lip in concentration. Ryan skips the chopsticks and goes for a fork, knowing there's no way in hell he's going to be able to keep himself from staring at Brendon's mouth, so it's better to save his shirt from having to suffer through the indignity of having sesame chicken goo spilled down it. They chew in silence, leaning against the counter on either side.

"Okay," Brendon says after ten minutes of contemplative digesting. "I'm really bad at this. The last date I went on was, God, almost two years ago."

Ryan laugh. "Mine was three. And it was prom."

It shouldn't be funny; Ryan's well aware of the series of small tragedies that are the sum of his life, but somehow they both end up snorting with laughter anyway. Because, well, fuck, it is kind of funny that they're twenty-one and twenty respectively and feel like they've been alive and adult for a hundred thousand years.

"Do you even remember what you talk about on a date?" Brendon chuckles, cocking his head.

"Um..." Ryan trails off, "Last first date we talked about math and how only idiots willingly take calculus. And we talked about the drama club and how the underclassmen girls always got screwed out of the good parts because of the pecking order."

"Well, what about music?" Brendon gestures to the store with his chopsticks and sends a piece of chicken hurtling into the classical section. "Oops."

"You're cleaning that up," Ryan says through a snort of laughter.

Thirty minutes pass in the blink of an eye and in what feels like moments, Pete's breezing back in and Brendon has to run or he's going to be late for work. Ryan gathers up the trash, grinning like an idiot, as Brendon lays a warm hand on his forearm. "Hey, would you like to have dinner on Saturday? Maybe bring Ella over and have the kids make a night of it. God, it's not like we're not doing everything weird anyway."

Ryan doesn't have to think. "Yes. I'd. I'd like that."

--

The days leading up to Saturday alternately drag by with minutes stretching out into millenniums while hours slip through his fingers, vanishing in the span of a blink.

Saturday evening, Pete closes up the shop an hour early despite Ryan's protests, claiming he's been useless all day, giving wrong change, snapping at the customers, and knocking over an entire wrack of carefully arranged Morrissey CDs. Which, for the record, was a complete lie, Ryan bumped into a teenager flipping through Green Day and she went flying into the Morrissey. "Can I hang a sign that says 'Getting Ryan Ready For His Big Date?'" Pete asks and he laughs when Ryan flips him off.

"C'mon, I'm just kidding," Pete teases.

"Blow me," Ryan snaps, his stomach twisted into a hundred thousand churning knots.

Ryan walks through the front door to Spencer cooking Spaghetti-os in the microwave while Jon sits on the floor with Ella and Jamie, totally absorbed in an old Teletubbies tape Ryan picked up in the bargain bin at Wal-mart. Patrick's sitting on the couch with his laptop balanced across his knees, focusing intently.

"Hi, Da!" Ella chirps, bouncing out of Jon's lap to wrap herself around Ryan's legs.

He leans over and kisses the top of her curly head. "Hi, baby girl."

"Gee, Elster, way to ignore me." Pete laughs and swoops Ella up, much to her delight. "Go shower, Ryan. You have a Big Date in T minus two hours and some amount of minutes."

Ryan's stomach gives a particularly violent twist. "I know, I know."

Fortunately, the bathroom shared by the top floor is blessedly empty; Ryan lingers in the shower, letting the spray beat against his shoulders until the water starts to run cool. He towels himself dry and stares at his reflection in the mirror through the thin veil of fog. His features are vaguely distorted, blunted and lacking distinction. "Jesus."

Back in the apartment, Ryan finds Pete holding a giggling Jamie up by his ankles and decides he doesn't want to know. Patrick's got Ella on his hip, dancing around the cramped living while singing something slow and jazzy. Jon and Spencer are doing dishes, bumping elbows and flicking suds at each other like silly teenagers. "C'mere." Ryan snags Patrick by his sleeve and pulls him into the bedroom, ignoring Pete wolf whistle.

"This isn't how most people kick off a date," Patrick says wryly, sitting down on the bed with Ella in his lap.

Ryan rolls his eyes and flings open the closet door. Quirk number eight hundred and ninety-six of his place is a massive closet, courtesy of the fact that it was once a master bedroom. It works out well, as there's no room for a dresser, so all his and Ella's clothes have to fit inside. "Smart ass. Should I dress up? I don't have a lot nice clothes."

"He's feeding you homemade pizza at his house," Patrick snorts, ticking Ella behind the knee. "I'm sure jeans and a tee shirt are fine. And, really, he likes you, Ry. I'm pretty sure you could show up in baggy sweatpants and a hockey jersey and Brendon wouldn't care. Plus the kids are having a sleepover, it's not like you could really show up in a trench coat and a negligee."

"That's not the point." Ryan flicks through the neatly organized hangars, cheeks flushing. Everything seems so very wrong; his jeans are cheap, all bought from Wal-mart, his shirts are the same way. He has some old band tees rescued from thrift stores, but Callie always found the idea of wearing clothing after other people tossed it vaguely disgusting, so there aren't many. He yanks a faded black Led Zeppelin tee shirt off and tosses it on the bed, joined a few moments later by a red one with a strange, cool scribbled design the side that was a gift from Spencer after it turned out to be too small. "I want to look good."

"Yep." Patrick blows a raspberry on Ella's stomach, clearly Not Paying Attention.

Ryan throws a pair of socks at Patrick's head and hits his shoulder. "You're not helping, Patrick. I might be really fucking, ah, freaking close to freaking out and you're not helping. This is important."

"Fucking, Da," Ella chimes in seriously, squirming in Patrick's arms.

Patrick bursts into laughter and Ryan resists the urge to start banging his head against the wall. "I am so screwed."

"Ryan." Patrick huffs out a chuckle and pokes him in the hip with the rounded toe of his sneakers. "Wear the red shirt and jeans. Relax. Take a deep breath. You're going to be fine. Relish the fact that you have not one, but four babysitters here, watching the munchkin and letting you get all prettied up. Brendon isn't this lucky."

"I'm relishing!" Ryan cries and Ella giggles.

"Silly, Da," she tosses her head, curls bouncing. "We have fun!"

--

Ryan swipes an unopened bottle of wine from Patrick's pantry because if there's one thing his mom taught him before she left, it was to never go places empty handed. Ryan's been to Brendon's house once, that first night with Ella and Jamie and a bowl of the best Macaroni and Cheese he'd maybe ever tasted.

Ella's been walking on her own for a little longer than a year and a half, but Ryan still doesn't like it, especially not at night, not on a twisting road with no sidewalks, so he juggles the wine into one hand, pressing it under his arm and reaches down with his free hand, grasping hold of her fingers. He feels calmer, having Ella with him. It's probably slightly unorthodox having bringing your kid on a date with you, but Jamie and Ella had wanted a sleepover, and Ryan wasn't going to complain.

Brendon's house looms slightly in the distance and Ryan's been there before, there's no reason he should be nervous, but his palms are sweaty on the glass of the bottle, and he's barely got his first raised to knock when the door swings open. Brendon looks a mess, a smear of flour across his cheek, flaky granules of it powdered in his hair. His shirt is black, and Ryan can see everywhere where it sticks to his skin.

"Hey El!" He swings the door open wider, making a swooping motion with his hand, and Ryan knows, logically, that he should get his feet to move, that he should be following, because it's getting chilly now, and he shouldn't make Brendon keep the door open. That would be conscientious of him, and Ryan is nothing but conscientious. "Ryan." He nods warmly, fingers reaching out to touch at Ryan's arm.

"I brought wine," Ryan mumbles, and god, this is not going the way he wanted it to. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but not this, not his pulse fluttering in his throat and stilted conversation and fuck -- fuck, tripping over his own feet in the hallway, the bottle falling to the floor with a thump and Ryan's hands scrambling out, landing on Brendon's hips.

"If this is the hello I was gonna get," Brendon whispers, grinning. "I would've let the kids do this weeks ago." He's grinning, and Ryan tries to grin back, but Brendon is so close, and Ryan can't remember the last time he was this close to someone, can't remember the last time he wanted to be this close to someone, and he maybe leans forward, brushing his lips against Brendon's, just because he can.

Brendon kisses back. Brendon licks into his mouth, and it's everything Ryan had remembered and more. He tightens his hands on Brendon's hips, stumbling over skin there and starting to get dizzy from the warmth.

"I didn't mean to do that," Ryan whispers, and it would probably be more convincing if he'd managed to let go of Brendon's hips. Brendon just grins against his cheek, tipping his head and pressing their mouths together again.

"I'm glad that you did," he says, and yeah, Ryan is glad too.

"Ew," Ella says, already lying under the coffee table with Jamie, stealing his crayons, and adding curly-q designs to the paper he's drawing on. "Da you was kissing Bee-Den. Gross."

--

"Da. Da." Ella and Jamie have built pillow forts, played hide and seek, and built a castle out of Jamie's multicolored building blocks. Now Jamie's sitting contentedly on one of Ryan's thighs while Ella's sprawled behind him, head pressed against Ryan's chest. "Bee-den's got Disney." She says the word with a kind of reverence that can only come from a kid that only got to watch those kinds of movies on Saturday afternoons.

"They're commercial free," Ryan says, and he knows he's teasing her, but her eyes go as wide as saucers, and her little mouth drops open just the littlest bit. Brendon's grinning when he crawls from out behind the TV, hands full of DVDs, glasses skewed. Ryan wants to fix his hair, straighten his glasses, and kiss him again. Ryan wants to kiss him breathless.

"I've got The Little Mermaid -- "

"Fish, Da! Fish!" Ella scrambles around, inching up higher on Ryan's chest so that she can look into his eyes. There's a rush of affection so heavy in his chest that Ryan forgets everything but her. It almost kills him sometimes, how much he loves his daughter, how monumentally important she is. He doesn't think of Callie much, would never think of her at all if Ella didn't have her curls and her eyes, but he does thank her for this. He'd thank her for everything if he could stomach the thought of it.

"You want fish, Elster?" She takes some time to consider, little head tilted to the side, bottom lip worried beneath her teeth. After a minute she shakes her head, grin blinding. "More, Bee-Den. MORE." She giggles and once Ryan starts to tickle her sides she starts to convulse along with her laughter.

"I've got Beauty and the Beast," Ella shakes her head and pfts. "Too girly, Bee-Den, please." Ryan makes a sound in his throat that sounds strangled, but Brendon looks up over at him, and he's grinning, he's grinning so big and so bright that it takes Ryan's breath away. "How about Aladdin?" Brendon asks, and Ella's eyes light up.

She's not even looking at him, but Ryan can feel the radiance pouring off of her. "Da! Flying carpets!" She's nodding her head a mile a minute, and then Jamie starts nodding too, the two of them looking at Ryan like he's the one who makes the executive decision here. He shrugs, looking over at Brendon again. It's not like he's been able to look very far away, all night.

"Want to go on a magic carpet ride with us, Ryan?" His eyebrows are waggling crazily, and he's laughing a little too, laughing at how ridiculous the words sound, but Ryan's throat is dry, and he just.

He has to bite down hard on his lip to keep from busting out another "I love you". "Sure, Aladdin. I think I can do that." It's doesn't seem to be possible, Ryan doesn't know how in the world it could be possible, but Brendon's smile gets bigger.

God, Ryan is so fucked.

--

Ella's asleep before Aladdin and Jasmine launch into "A Whole New World" and Jamie follows soon after.

They lay on the couch with their heads nearly touching; Jamie lays flung out, taking up as much space as possible, while Ella curls into a ball with her thumb clamped firmly in her mouth. Brendon gathers up the empty Capri Suns and snack wrappers as Ryan shakes out a couple blankets folded across the back of the couch and spreads them over the kids. He brushes Ella's curls back and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Sleep tight, Belle," and, without thinking, does the same for Jamie. "Good night, kiddo."

Brendon's watching as Ryan pulls away, and Ryan wishes he still had a sweep of bangs to hide behind. Brendon's eyes are dark and focused and it leaves Ryan a little breathless. Ryan's been breathless for most of the evening, and it makes him feel more than slightly ridiculous, but it's not like it's something he can control. "You're good with that," he says, "Kids."

Ryan shrugs, but he lets his hand drop away from Jamie's back, straightening awkwardly. It's been a nice night, but they haven't been alone since lunch at the record store, and Ryan just. He doesn't know what to do. "Want to get some air?" he asks, wincing at how lame it sounds. Brendon's grinning though, so maybe it's not so bad after all.

The house has a back porch and for a moment they stand with their hands light on the rails, listening to the gentle roar the waves sweeping in and out along the beach. It's cool, not quite cold. Goosebumps ghost over Ryan's skin and he shifts closer to Brendon only half consciously. Their knuckles bump and Brendon smiles, ducking his head. "Want to go walk in the water?"

Ryan glances over his shoulder, through the propped open door. He can see a slice of couch through the kitchen arch and the rounded lump of blue blanket that is Ella. "Stay close to the house?" Brendon nods and tentatively laces their fingers together, gently pulling Ryan across the boards and down the steps to the sand. The tips of his fingers are callused, palms broad, and Ryan wonders that holding hands rates as the singular most erotic thing he's ever done in his life.

It's chillier, close to the water, but Ryan still wants to feel the waves lapping over his feet. He'd never even seen the ocean before coming here, and experiencing it, here, with Brendon...he doesn't know why that distinction is important, but it is. With Brendon. Ryan's never. It's not a stretch to say that he never thought about something like this.

Brendon's warm next to him, warm and solid, and his hair is falling into his eyes, shielding his eyes and his glasses, and Ryan wants to push it away again, Ryan wants to pull him close and pour his heart out to him, even though the things running through him are filled with ridiculous things like promises and forever. It should scare the shit out of him, fuck, it does, but he can't help but want it, especially now, when Brendon's dropping his head to his shoulder, mouthing at Ryan's collarbone.

Ryan flinches, he can't help it, and Brendon looks up at him with big eyes, almost black in the darkness. "This okay, Ross?" Ryan's chin is trembling, even though it's not that cold. He nods, even though he's terrified, and he knows that a kiss isn't the only thing he's saying yes to.

"Please," he murmurs.

Brendon slides his hand up Ryan's chest, touch light over the planes and ridges of his bones. He cups Ryan's face in his palms, fingers splayed along the contours of his skull in a way that holds, but doesn't restrain. The kiss is different from their early forays, less fleeting, less frightened, which isn't to say that Ryan isn't scared. It has an edge to it, of want and need and fate and all the emotions tangled in the back of Ryan's mind. Brendon nips at his bottom lip and heat rushes through Ryan's body.

"I want you," Brendon whispers, lips brushing against Ryan's cheek. "I want you so much."

No one has said this to Ryan before.

"I want you too," he says, and he knows he means it, of course he fucking means it, but Ryan's only been with two people in his entire life (Callie, and Suzette Moreau, the French exchange student Junior year, at a party during the week Callie broke up with him because she thought he was messing around. Even four years later, Ryan's got to roll his eyes at the irony), but he's never wanted anyone -- anything as much as he wants Brendon.

His brain to mouth filter must be completely gone, because he clings closer to Brendon, fingers pressed so tightly against his thighs that he's almost positive he'll leave bruises, and he whispers the words again before he can stop himself. "I love you. Brendon, I -- " Brendon's pulling him close, and if Ryan still wrote songs, this would be a perfect moment to immortalize. Hold your lover close, he thinks, a shiver going up his spine at the words. Lover. He likes the sound of that, the way it feels on his tongue.

He likes the way it feels on Brendon's even better.

Ryan skims his hand down the column of Brendon's spine and catches his fingers on the hem of his shirt, playing the wash soft cotton. "I don't know what I'm doing," Ryan exhales. He wants so much, he wants to kiss and touch and feel. With Callie it was first clumsy and unsure, the awkward gropings of teenagers learning their way, and after Ella they didn't touch in anything more than the most perfunctory of ways. Brendon shivers beneath Ryan's hands and, God, he wants to make Brendon come apart.

"It's okay. Here." Brendon lifts his arm and curves his spine as Ryan pulls his shirt off. He's slim, toned, just like Ryan had imagined. He lets the shirt drop and splays his hands across Brendon's chest, experimentally brushing his thumbs over Brendon's nipples.

Brendon shivers, and Ryan can't believe they're out here on a lonely stretch of beach in the twilight, doing this. "Are you." Brendon's flesh is white in the light of the moon, and Ryan wants to write lyrics for his skin, on his skin, wants to leave imprints, marks and memories. Wants to make Brendon his, even though he doesn't even know what that means yet; even though it's so soon.

"Am I what?" Brendon asks, and the words are huffed out on a laugh, and he looks so silly standing there, shirtless and shoeless, the sand hiding his feet, with crossed arms and shaking shoulders. He's grinning a little, like this is some sort of joke they can laugh about, like it isn't as serious as the pulsing urge and want coursing through Ryan's veins.

"Cold." Ryan mumbles, ducking his head, and maybe if he looks away, the spell will be broken, and they won't be making a colossal mistake and when he looks back up, he won't love Brendon Urie with his entire heart after only twenty-nine days and six hours.

He peeks back up, and the grin is still hanging off of Brendon's lips, but his eyes are serious. Ryan still loves him.

"A little." Brendon chuckles, pressing his hands to Ryan's hips and gently pulling him forward a half step. They're nearly flush against each other, touching from pelvis to belly to chest. "Can I?" Brendon runs his hands along Ryan's side, rucking up his tee shirt; Ryan nods and raises his arms, swallowing fear. He's aware of how awkwardly built he is, naturally too skinny, with bones cut sharp through skin that can't do much to soften the hard ridges of his skeleton.

Brendon tugs his shirt off and tosses it aside. "Christ," he sighs, leaning down to press a kiss to the hollow of Ryan's throat. "Ryan, you're."

Words flood through his mind, a tumble of syllables and sounds, soft vowels and hard consonants. Brendon's hands feel restless against his skin, like he can't decide where he wants to touch and what he wants to do. "I'm what?"

Brendon chuckles, reaching his hand out to scratch the back of his head. "You're fucking beautiful, okay? It's not like you don't know that." Ryan blinks. "You must know that, Ryan." Ryan shakes his head, looking down at himself still in his too baggy jeans. Brendon chuckles a little, light, and tugs Ryan closer.

"You're." The words are stuck in his throat, but he closes his eyes, pushing them past his lips. "Brendon, you're the one that's beautiful." Brendon growls, the sound broken and low in his throat, and it's not only the night that's giving Ryan goosebumps now. They kiss, but it's not soft or gentle, it hasn't been, but this is less so. This is feral, hot and hard, and it's like they want to eat each other alive, which. Well, maybe that idea has some merit.

"I want you," Brendon whispers, again, against Ryan's mouth, and the words get caught against the crush of their lips, lost in the slide of their tongues and Ryan can feel Brendon everywhere.

"I've never done this," Ryan says faintly, even as his fingers stray to the button of Brendon's jeans.

Brendon smiles unevenly, eyes wide and dark in the faint moonlight shine. "Good."

The word shocks through Ryan, sending want crashing down raw nerves, spreading like wildfire across his skin. He scrabbles at Brendon's pants, feeling for all the world like the fucking button is fighting him. Brendon shifts his hips, digging blunt fingernails into Ryan's back, making soft noises in the back of his throat. It pops open and Ryan eases down the zipper to find nothing more than bare skin and a thatch of dark hair.

"You're not wearing underwear," Ryan states.

Brendon chuckles, licking a stripe along his shoulder. "Well. Eternal optimist and all that."

"I want to -- " Ryan mumbles out the words as he's dropping to his knees, but he's never really gotten a blowjob, doesn't know what to do or what he'd want, but Brendon's bobbling in front of him, and Ryan just. Ryan wants to touch him and feel him everywhere again. Ryan wants him inside in the least terrifying way possible.

It won't hurt as much, in his mouth, and Brendon seems to see this in his eyes, because his own soften, and he reaches out to cup the back of Ryan's head. "Hey," he whispers, just as Ryan's lips are around to encircle the head. Ryan cuts his eyes up to him, and his stomach is already tied in enough knots, thanks, he doesn't need Brendon to talk, too, doesn't need to think about this, what it means, what they're doing. "Hey, Ryan, it's okay, you don't -- "

Ryan does though, Ryan does, so he leans in the last half inch.

Uncertainly, Ryan settles his hands on Brendon's hips, thumbs rhythmically across the ridge of his hipbones. He wants, he wants so very fucking much, but he has no idea what he's doing and he's afraid of making a mistake and ruining something he can't fix. "I want to." Brendon sighs softly, threading his fingers in Ryan's hair. His touch is gentle and Ryan looks up through his eyelashes and knows this is what he wants.

It's strange in way that seems defy both good and bad. The taste is strange and the texture is strange, he knows the angle isn't quite right, but he can't begin to think how to fix that, but Brendon keens in the back of his throat and Ryan hums.

Ryan sucks experimentally on head, and he can see Brendon's eyes rolling back in his head. "Ryan, I -- " he rasps out the words on a low note, and Ryan's skin starts to tingle. "I'm such a loser, but I'm -- I'm gonna." He doesn't finish, and Ryan really doesn't know what to do, doesn't know if he should swallow or even could. He pulls back, lips dropping from around Brendon with a slip wet pop that even sounds obscene, and starts jerking him, the way he likes to touch himself. "Ryan -- "

Brendon comes all over Ryan's fingers, and Ryan can practically taste it, he's so close. He sucks a finger into his mouth, just to see -- to try. It's not. It's not as bad as he'd thought it would be.

"Jesus," Brendon pants, "Fuck, Ryan. Come on."

He holds his hand out and Ryan takes it, feeling oddly unsteady on his legs. He has come on his hand, come that isn't his, and it's like some foundation of his universe has irrevocably shifted. "Where?"

Brendon huffs out a chuckle and presses a kiss to Ryan's temple. "It's a public beach, Ry."

--

They make it inside without waking the babies, they make it up the stairs, with Brendon's palm pressed against Ryan's lips, warning him about the creaky steps with pointed fingers and by waggling his eyebrows. When they get upstairs, Brendon pushes him towards what must be the bathroom, and that makes sense. He has sand in places he didn't even know he had, and it's not like they were exposed to the elements for that long.

"Pants off, Ryan Ross." Brendon mumbles, leaning against the sink, watching as Ryan moves. He's blushing, ducking his head to keep Brendon from seeing, but it doesn't do much good with the bathroom being closet sized and Brendon being so close. "I meant what I said." Brendon mumbles, and now he's ducking his head too, murmuring the words more to the tile around Ryan's feet than to anything else.

"About what?"

"You're really fucking beautiful." He looks up then, straight into Ryan's eyes and Ryan tries to remember anything in the world that isn't in this room. He's not entirely successful.

Brendon turns on the spray as Ryan shimmies out of his jeans. Steams slowly fills the small room, ghosting fog across the mirror until his reflection is nothing more than a blurred, indistinct imitation of his face. Ryan feels hyper aware of everything; water splashing off the tile, Brendon unconsciously scratching his hip, the neat scar on the small of his back. Their children are asleep downstairs, his daughter who means more to him than anything, and yet all Ryan can think about is the softness of Brendon's skin beneath his palm.

"Come here."

The shower isn't big and it's a bit of a tight fit to get them both in, but with Brendon pressed along his back from ass to shoulder, arms wrapped around his waist, Ryan can't find it in himself to wish for anything else. The water thunders against his chest with enough force he can feel it vibrate through his body and he sighs, tipping his head back onto Brendon's shoulder.

He wonders, for a moment, if it's that he hasn't been this happy in a long time, or if he was never this happy to begin with.

"I want you," Brendon says, he's been saying it all night, over and over like a mantra, as if there's any deeper embedded he can get into Ryan's consciousness. Ryan shivers, even though the spray of the water is just this side of scalding. He makes a noise in his throat that would be a whimper if anyone could hear it, and Brendon closes his palm around his shoulder, pulling him closer and mouthing at the underside of his jaw, his lips, kissing his eyelids.

"I." He's never felt anything like this, it's a cliche and it's ridiculous, but Ryan wants this more than he's ever wanted anything before in his life. "I want you too," he whispers, ignoring the fact that he sounds like a girl on prom night, ignoring the tightness in his stomach. He leans forward again, wet hair falling into his eyes as he reaches for Brendon's hand, pressing it against his hip. He's not entirely sure of the details, but he knows he'll need to be stretched.

"Ryan?" Ryan's been dropping kisses on Brendon's collarbone, trying to press his fingers closer to Ryan's entrance. "Ryan what are you doing?" Ryan drops his head, cheeks coloring faster and more quickly than he's ever experienced before. "I don't. I thought you wanted to fuck me." He presses his face against Brendon's neck, because that's easier than looking into his eyes.

"I already got off," Brendon says, lips quirking up a smile. "That's not really fair."

It takes Ryan's brain a long moment to reconnect itself once he realizes exactly what Brendon is saying, what he's offering. "Are you sure?"

His response is a smile, wide and easy, and gently twisting Ryan around before shifting himself so they're reserved, Brendon leaning against the wall, braced on his forearm, with Ryan behind him, staring at the smooth expanse of Brendon's back and shoulders. On a whim, Ryan drags his fingernails along the column of his spine, relishing the shudder that skims through Brendon's muscles. "If I don't know how to blow you, I really don't know how to fuck you. You have different - I've only. With Callie, I only." He makes a distressed noise low in his throat.

Brendon laughs. "Use your fingers first. It's been awhile and, honestly, Ry, just...do what feels right and I'll like it." Ryan is really not sure of this course of action at all, and something in his face must resonate that, because Brendon laughs again, reaching down to tug up Ryan's hand, slipping three of Ryan's fingers into his mouth.

Ryan almost. Well. Ryan almost comes just from that, just from the slick, wet heat of Brendon's mouth around his fingers, the slight pressure of his tongue against the digits and seriously, Christ, Ryan can barely keep himself standing. "Just." His fingers make a low popping noise as Brendon lets them free of his mouth, pulling Ryan's hand back down again. The motion itself has Ryan coming closer, his chest pressed flush against Brendon's back as Brendon swings his arm back far enough to guide the first of Ryan's fingers inside. "Just. Go slow, okay?" His face contorts slightly with pain, and fuck, seriously, Ryan will go at a snail's pace if it means not having to see Brendon's face like that.

He peppers kisses along Brendon's back as he eases his finger in, nipping at every freckle, at the knobs of his spine. It's heady, the realization that he's fingering Brendon in his shower, not spending another night in his bed, waiting until Ella's asleep to sneak down to the shared bathroom so he jerk off to the image of Brendon laughing, smiling, breathing, being. "You can add another," Brendon mumbles and Ryan lays his hand on Brendon's hip, lining up the second finger.

It's so tight. Brendon makes a noise in the back his throat, a groan, and for a moment Ryan's shocked into stillness, convinced he's hurt him and knowing he'll never be able to forgive himself if he has. "Don't stop." Brendon's voice has dropped to something rougher, deeper and Ryan's breath hitches in his throat. Gradually, he can feel the muscles relax, tension bleeding out of Brendon's spine, and, once he's in knuckles deep, he experimentally crooks his fingers.

Brendon's spine snaps tight, arching into the touch. "Fuck, Ryan, fuck."

"Good?" Ryan asks, smiling to himself. Brendon throws his head back, droplets of water dripping down his cheeks, and he is seriously the most beautiful thing Ryan thinks he's ever seen in his life.

"God. Ryan. I. I need." Brendon's voice is barely his voice at all and the words hardly make a sound. "I need you inside, okay?" Ryan nods, even though Brendon can't see him, and starts to pull his fingers out, one inch at a time, because the last thing he wants -- the last thing he could ever want is to hurt him. Brendon moans, face pressed against the tile of the wall, breathing heavy. "You. You should. If you're going to, you should do it now." He chokes the words out like someone's strangling him, like he'll die if Ryan doesn't get inside of him right this instant.

Ryan's got one hand bruising fingertips on Brendon's hip and the other holding his dick, trying to figure out how in the fuck they're going to do this, how in the hell he could possibly fit.

"There's." Brendon coughs the word out, voice thick. "There's hand lotion on the ledge, if you. If you could slick yourself up, it'll go easier." Ryan scrambles to grab the lotion moving faster than he ever has in his life, making a mess of the both of them as he dribbles the lotion everywhere and then figuring that it doesn't matter so much considering they're in a shower.

Ryan lines himself up, hands anchored on Brendon's hips. "Promise me you'll say something if I hurt you."

"I promise, but you won't," Brendon grits out. "Please, Ry, just, fuck. Please."

Ryan inhales and exhales, sends a prayer to a God he doesn't believe in, and pushes in.

It's strange and familiar in the same instant, almost too tight, too hot, too much. Brendon makes a guttural sound, like it's been torn from his chest, and Ryan grits his teeth, fingers digging into Brendon's flesh. Words melt through Ryan's mind, exhilarating, intoxicating, wonderful, so very fucking right. He's not going to last long and he doesn't really care because it feels so good and Brendon is panting, fingers scrabbling against the tile, and there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.

He forces himself to go slow, the friction from the drag sending spikes of heat through his belly. "Brendon," Ryan gasps, "Brendon, I can't. I'm gonna."

Ryan comes with sparks behind his eyes and Brendon tight around his dick. His heart slams in his chest, hands shaking as he moves. Brendon turns unsteadily and pulls him close, kissing him hard enough to bruise.

--

Ryan wakes up to a lump wrapped along his leg, which makes sense if Ella's managed to get out of the crib again. He knows he needs to sit her down, at some point, needs to explain that as she gets bigger and older she needs to stay in her own space, she needs to start realizing he won't always be there to take care of her. All of the books discourage children sharing beds with their parents past the age of two, but Ryan likes having her close, likes knowing that for now at least, he's all that she needs.

He rolls over a little, creaking his eyes open and wincing at the early morning sunlight that's filtering in through the blinds. Or what should be the blinds. He has a moment of panic thinking Ella dragged them down again, but then he blinks and the window isn't his either, and the arms wrapped around his waist definitely don't belong to a three year old.

"Hi," Brendon murmurs against his ear, and Ryan feels a flush starting to curl across his skin. Ryan is almost a hundred percent positive that he's naked under the blanket and that Brendon is too. This is good, this is okay, he is most definitely not going to panic at being the kind of guy who puts out on the second date.

"Da, you 'WAKE." Ella tumbles over his hip, landing in a glorified heap in the space between him and Brendon, pressing her face against his chest, curls brushing at his chin. One of his arms is pinned to the bed because Brendon is lying on top of it, so Ryan tugs her as close as he can one handed. He brushes his lips against her forehead, then asks, "How was the sleepover with Jamie, Elle? Did you guys have fun?"

"We had SO much fun, Ry," Jamie says from over his shoulder, popping his head up and hooking it over the dip in Ryan's elbow. "We played hide go seek, even though El - El said that we played it wrong, and then we gots really scared because there was a monster out on the beach."

"I not scared, Jayme." Ella shakes her curls, little chin determined as it sets. "We be family now, right Da?" She splays her little hands against his shoulders, pressing a kiss against his cheek. "You and me and Bee-den and Jayme? Family?"

Brendon smooths down her hair and kisses her cheek, staring at Ryan with something deeply, intensely hopeful in his eyes. "Maybe, baby," Brendon croons softly and Ella giggles, laying her head down on his chest.

Ryan smiles, heart stuttering in his chest, both with the want to say yes and the fear of it, too.

--

The morning is rushed, which would normally send Ryan spiraling into a tense, uncomfortable mood, but he finds it impossible to feel anything but elation throbbing in his chest when he comes into the kitchen to find Brendon standing barefoot at the counter in sweats and a tee shirt, pouring cereal into two bowls decorated with Power Rangers. Ella and Jamie sit at the kitchen table on top of phone books wrapped in duct tape in place of booster seats.

It's Sunday, so Brendon doesn't have work, and his house is really within walking distance of the store, but Brendon offers to give him a ride and Ryan has hickeys across his chest and bruises on his hips and he's sure as hell not going to say no.

Brendon sings along to the radio as he drives, one hand on the steering wheel, the other out the window, fingers splayed into the wind. Ella and Jamie murmur to each other in the backseat, giggling and straining against their car seats to whisper in each other's ears. Ryan watches them in the rear view mirror, Jamie poking Ella's cheek to make her blush, Ella giggling and batting her eyelashes at Jamie. He thinks, my kids, and his chest squeezes, remembering Ella laying on Brendon's chest and asking about family.

Ryan can see Pete leaning against the counter, inhaling coffee and talking to Patrick as Brendon pulls up and cuts the engine.

He twists in his seat and grabs Ella's foot to get her attention. "Ellie-girl, Brendon's going to take you to day care and then I'll pick you up after work, okay?"

"'Kay, Da." Ella smiles and Ryan's proud of her; a month ago the idea of being separated from Ryan for any length of time would have left her in tears. "Bye."

"Buh-bye, Ry," Jamie chirps and Ryan stretches to ruffle his hair. "Bye, Jamie."

Ryan unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door as Brendon catches his wrist. "Hey. I'll see you later." Almost unthinkingly, Ryan leans down and presses a light, nearly chaste kiss to Brendon's mouth, reveling in the way Brendon tips his head and sighs into the touch. Ella and Jamie break into a chorus of 'ew' and giggles and Ryan is so happy, so fucking happy he feels like his heart won't fit in his chest.

"Bye," Ryan mumbles, sliding out of the car and slamming the door, nearly tripping on the curb as the car pulls away, Jamie and Ella waving in the backseat.

Pete and Patrick stare at him expectantly as he walks through the door, Pete smirking from behind his coffee. "Have a good time?"

"Fuck you," Ryan sighs happily. "He's wonderful."

--

Pete teases all day and Patrick grins, but Ryan's floating and doesn't pay attention. Besides, when it starts to wear thin about noon, he makes one comment about the fact that Patrick's spending his off day hanging around Pete's store and just how married that is and they both start mumbling and shuffling their feet. Ryan's re-shelving moved stock and Patrick comes up with a small smile and lays a hand on his shoulder. "You look happy, Ry."

Ryan laughs and ducks his head. "I don't know. I am. Patrick. I am happy."

--

The busiest time of the day is a little after three, when the high school kids escape from their houses after church and come to browse through the aisles and make awed eyes at Pete, whose hair and tattoos and eyeliner and Chicago accent have made him a kind of rebellious god among the restless youth of the town. They sit in battered armchairs tucked in a corner, blushing and giggling whenever Pete makes a comment, oddly oblivious of the effect he has on them and aware of how much he likes hanging with them. Ryan's carefully shelving a couple original press albums on the "Touch and I'll Rip Your Balls Off No You Can't Buy It Shelf" and trying not to drool with envy when the door whooshes open, bringing with it a cool burst of air.

"Hey, Bren," Pete says and Ryan can hear the smirk in Pete's voice and he doesn't give a shit.

He pushes the albums on the shelf and turns, breaking into a wide smile just as Brendon arm circles around his waist and Jesus motherfucking Christ, Brendon dips him down like they're in some stupid forties movie with feathers, tuxedos, and tap dancing, but he's also kissing Ryan like it's the last thing he's ever going to do in his life. He tangles his fingers in Ryan's hair and hums in the back of his throat, distantly aware of Patrick laughing and Pete catcalling, the kids giggling in shock and whistling.

Brendon sets him carefully back on his feet, nips at his bottom lip and pulls back, looking at Ryan with awe and wonder, determination. "I love you. Ryan, I love you, okay? And I want this."

Ryan throws his arms around Brendon's neck and kisses him back.

--

They don't talk about it until they're going home. Home, Ryan thinks, liking the way the word sounds inside his head. He's maybe not ready to say it out loud yet, but Ryan's never had a home before, not a real one, not like this, and he just. It's almost too perfect, both kids asleep in the back, in Brendon's car again, heading to his house and the beach, and maybe there's something there that will last, maybe this feeling of calm in peace in his stomach is actually the real thing.

"Ryan." Brendon's voice is heavy, low and and there's something just sliding off the edges there, something hard and just this side of cold. "Ryan there's. Something happened today -- " He's waving his hand around and Ryan reaches forward, clasping their fingers together, because he can do that now, he can hold Brendon close, he can -- "Something happened today, and I don't. I'm sorry."

Something curls around Ryan's chest, but he pushes it down and away, because nothing else matters. He has Brendon, they have each other, and they have their kids -- their, jesus, and that's all that matters. He hears himself saying, "Whatever it is, Brendon, it'll be okay," and he means the words until Brendon finally looks at him, eyes wild and broken, and Ryan can't breathe.

"I was terrified this morning," Brendon whispers as he pulls into the gravel driveway, turning off the ignition and resting his head against the wheel. Ryan blinks, reaching his hand out to rest at Brendon's shoulder, but stopping halfway. "I could see it, you know?" Ryan knows exactly what Brendon's talking about, he doesn't bother breaking in, doesn't stop the flood of words that are falling past his lips. "I could see it, us, the kids, forever. I could see high school graduations and quiet moments, and walking Ella down the fucking aisle on her wedding day, I could see it, Ryan." His hands are shaking, and there are tears gathering in his eyes. Ryan can't breathe, can't speak, can barely think, because he could see it too.

"Brendon -- "

"I bumped into Spencer's intern when I was dropping off the kids today," he says, apropos of nothing, and Ryan blinks, but Brendon keeps going. "He had the morning off and I didn't have anything to do so I asked him if he wanted to go get coffee or something. He just, he looked lonely, y'know?"

Ryan can imagine. He can close his eyes and see Cash, Cash smiling and laughing and playing with the kids. Cash who is a Good Guy, Cash who has Ryan's stomach twisted into knots because he's well aware that Cash doesn't come with the memories of a failed marriage, a little girl, and too many issues to count. Cash is all easy smiles, nervous laughs, and a constant thread of want whenever his eyes stray to Brendon.

Brendon looks over to Ryan again, shuddering out a breath and blinking the mess out of his eyes. He shifts his hand over, twining his fingers with Ryan's and pressing their lips together. Ryan doesn't even think about not opening his mouth under Brendon's, he doesn't have to think about it. Brendon pulls away after a second though, eyes flashing.

"He kissed me," Brendon says, running his thumb over Ryan's knuckles. "He kissed me and I'm sorry Ryan. I'm so fucking sorry."

It takes Ryan a long moment to process the words, to go from the warm, soft memory of waking up with Brendon's arm heavy around his waist to the mental image of Brendon cupping Cash's face in his hands, smiling at him like there's no one else in the world. Pain spikes through his chest and he dully thinks, oh, yes, that's it feels like when a heart that's already been broken shatters again.

"I have to go," Ryan whispers, squirming to get out of Brendon's grip, and he can't breathe, it's too hot in this car and Brendon's skin is too hot against his wrists. "Brendon." His voice is flatter than it's been in a while, and he can't help that, it feels good, not putting anything in his words, not caring. God, he needs to not care. That's it. He was okay after the mess that Callie left, and he'll be okay now. They'll be fine. "Let go of my wrist, Brendon, come on."

"Ryan, I'm being honest." His voice creaks broken on the last word, and Ryan can't help it, he flinches, letting it edge down under his skin, tearing open his insides. Fuck. "Ryan, it was over in a second, and I looked at him and he wasn't you, and god. I get it. I get it, I fucked up, okay? But I love you."

Ryan wants to hit him. He gets it, he gets how fucking scary it is to feel so much so fast when it's not just yourself you have to worry about. He gets what it's like to suddenly have forever handed to you and not even be fucking old enough to legally drink. He gets being scared and overwhelmed, he gets it because he's felt it once before and he's feeling it again and God knows it would easier to rip up the fragile roots he's put down and run and run and never stop.

But Brendon looks so earnest, eyes liquid and scared, and the kids are silent in the back seat. For us, fur us his mind provides, there might be something for us and our kids and our life that we just have to hold hands, reach out and take.

"Okay," he whispers, not really sure how the word managed to slip out of his mouth. Brendon looks shocked, Brendon looks how Ryan feels, but. It's okay. "Everybody fucks up, Brendon." His voice comes out a little wetter than he'd wanted it to, but Brendon looks grateful for the words.

"Ryan, Ryan, I -- " Ryan shakes his head, leaning back against the rest and closing his eyes. "I love you," he says, and after a minute, two, a fucking eternity, he creaks his eyes open again, reaching to grab Brendon's hand.

five.

They find a rhythm, sliding easily into a routine that should make things at least a little more boring between them, but don't.

On Fridays, Brendon gets off early and makes it back from the city by three thirty, four if the traffic's particularly bad, so Pete takes to telling Ryan to cut out early, claiming the place is usually pretty dead anyway, which is a blatant lie. Friday is when the crappy teen jobs in the town pay up and they flood into the store, looking to buy their weekly dose of cool new CDs and time spent absorbing the aura of Pete Wentz. Spencer and Jon get in on it; Jon takes them over to Patrick's store so Jamie can bang gleefully on the drums while Patrick croons Ella Fitzgerald to Ella as she does her best imitation of singing along.

Haverford is the quintessential small town, just east of Bumfuck and a couple towns over from the Ass End of Nowhere, and everyone knows everyone else, so they take their stolen hours to the other small towns in the area, drifting away from home in a loose circle, never big enough that they can't come back in a moment.

"Where are we going tonight?" Ryan asks, sliding into the front seat of Brendon's car. It's been three months, one week, four days, and something like seven hours, but who's counting?

Brendon smiles and leans over, kissing the tip of Ryan's nose as the door slams shut and they ease away from the curb. "It's a surprise," Brendon teases, but his eyes bright and excited, so Ryan doesn't push, even as curiosity jumps in his chest.

He's still not completely comfortable with the unknown, never certain whether it's going to turn out for the best or the worst.

Brendon sings as he drives, cranking up an honest to God mix tape made by Spencer, featuring a strange mash of Disney, classic rock, nineties top 40, with a few old jazz standards and one or two classical pieces thrown in for variety. Ryan listens, lightly tapping out the beats on his thigh with the fingers that aren't laced in Brendon's over the gearstick.

"Is this what your internal soundtrack sounds like?" Ryan teases.

"Yes." Brendon nods and chuckles. "When they make a movie about my life it'll be the first soundtrack in history to have Disney, Pussycat Dolls, and the Benny Goodman Orchestra. It'll be awesome."

--

They pull off a quiet stretch of highway a little over an hour later. The sun is settling over the horizon, hitting the water like a hazy ball of orange paint. Ryan grins at it stupidly, and then grins at Brendon stupidly, and doesn't even care that he looks like an idiot.

"You do realize we have beach like, all around us at home, right?" Something skips in Ryan's chest at the word, liking the taste of it on his tongue. Brendon blinks over the hood at him, like he knows the significance of the word too, but he doesn't say anything. Ryan is grateful.

"This is special," Brendon says, eyebrows waggling, and seriously, they've already had beach sex, or like, beach blow jobs, whatever, they sometimes eat dinner with the kids there, have twilight picnics, and Ryan likes the beach as much as the next guy, but it's kind of -- "Don't even say it," Brendon sounds oddly serious and Ryan blinks, because sure, it happens sometimes, about Jamie, or music, but typically, he's a happy, smiley guy.

One of them has to be.

"Don't say it," he whispers, coming around to Ryan's side of the car, tipping him back against the cool metal and pressing their mouths together. Ryan tries not to moan out loud, but it's only them for miles and miles and miles, and Brendon's heard all of the sounds he makes anyway. "I don't have much," he's ducking his head, and Ryan's stomach clenches, tightighttight. "But this is beautiful, and you're as beautiful as it is, and I just. I wanted you to get to see it, Ryan, you don't see it." There's something else beneath the words, something heavy and harsh, but even when Ryan looks at him, Brendon says nothing else.

Ryan kisses him again, pulling him close and cupping at his cheeks with freezing fingers, seeing him through half lidded eyes, and god, fuck, he's beautiful, he's so, so fucking beautiful and Ryan doesn't even fucking know.

"Thank you," Ryan whispers when they've broken up apart, breathing heavy, dragging the air in. "Thank you for bringing me here, Brendon."

--

They linger on the beach longer than they mean to, sitting close together with a flannel blanket wrapped around their shoulders. It's easy to lose track of everything when they start talking, discovering the small nuances of each other in fits and starts, collection of memories shared in the quiet moments. Brendon has older brothers who he once worshiped, but no longer speaks to. Ryan talks about Vegas, his dad a lot, Callie a very little, and it's painful in the way the leaves him feeling lighter and freer, more able to breathe.

Brendon tosses Ryan the keys as they pack up. "I had a long day, if I try and drive I'll probably send us crashing into the ocean and then Ella and Jamie would have to be raised by Pete. No one wants that." Ryan laughs, but Brendon doesn't let anyone drive his pile of rust doing a fair imitation of a car and warmth spreads through his chest.

The drive back somehow seems longer, without the radio carrying them across the miles, and Brendon ends up dozing in the passenger seat with his forehead tipped against the window. Ryan smiles to himself and hums as he drives along the winding coastal highways, wondering just how the hell he got so lucky. He calls the house a half hour away and Spencer answers with a half breathless, "Hey, hi, what's up."

Ryan cocks his head and smirks to the darkness. "Were you and Jon making out with impressionable children in the house?"

"Please, no, I would never do such a thing. You two have a fun night?"

"Sure." Ryan chuckles and Brendon stirs, blinking and offering Ryan a lazy, slow smile as he shifts into a more comfortable position. "Yeah, it was good. You?"

"Fine. Chicken nuggets for dinner, a Power Rangers marathon on Jon's lap, baths and bed." Ryan sighs a little, releasing the same worry he will always have with Ella. "They're sleeping contently in Jamie's bed."

"Okay, we'll be back in like twenty minutes. Try not to give the kids a show."

"Fuck you," Spencer replies cheerfully.

Ryan shakes his head and drops his phone into the cup holder. Brendon yawns, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes. "Everyone okay?"

"They're fine," Ryan replies with a half smile. "Everything's good."

"You know, if you wanted, you could just stay the night at my place." Brendon blinks and looks at his lap. "I mean, so we don't have to wake up the kids."

Ryan forces himself to wait, counting the beats of his heart one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, okay."