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“So, tell me something Ryan Ross.”
A hand skipped down the grazed arm, and the cotton wool, covered in antiseptic, trailed over the cut, but lightly. Brendon winced and discreetly tried to pull his arm back from Ryan’s grip. One of his long-fingered hands held Brendon’s wrist like steel and the other was gently cleaning his wounds. The two different types of pain was disconcerting.
“Tell me, Ryan Ross” – he winced again – “tell me, if there was no such thing as The Beatles, who would your favorite band be, right now?”
Ryan threw the cotton wool in the trashcan and shrugged. “The Kinks, probably.”
“You’re so frustratingly boring, Ross. Think of all the bands out there and you choose the two most – Ow, fucker, what the hell?”
“Just making sure I got all the dirt out,” Ryan smirked, his fingers prodding at the wound, which was a straight gash of broken skin about three inches long on Brendon’s arm. Brendon had said something about sharp Frisbee edges, but Ryan hadn’t bothered listening. He was more concerned about the blood dripping onto the lounge floor.
Brendon muttered something unintelligible and tried to pull away again.
“Okay, thank you, doctor Ross, I’m going to go find Jon and then bandage this up, maybe.”
“Like hell, you will,” Ryan returned, tightening his grip on Brendon’s bony wrist. “You’ll head off again and get hit by another hacky sack, or whatever.”
“I didn’t get hit by a fucking hacky sack,” Brendon interjected, gritted teeth and glaring eyes.
Ryan just dragged him over to the other side of the tiny kitchen and searched through the cabinets, other hand still clutching Brendon. Ryan noted happily that he didn’t make any more attempts to scamper away.
“Here, finally,” he exclaimed, pulling out the box of plasters and polyester bandages Zack had bought at the start of tour when Spencer’s hands had been covered in blisters and there was a CVS nearby.
“Just stay fucking still and let me put this on.” He carefully unrolled the fabric and lifted the arm, and began wrapping it steadily around Brendon’s forearm. Brendon had gone quiet, but there was still sharp tension in his shoulders.
“C’mon, go back to Twenty Questions. You didn’t ask me very many.” Ryan knew he sounded desperate, but he didn’t like when Brendon was angry. Especially not angry with him.
Brendon sighed; a deep, long-suffering sigh, that Ryan knew was half staged for dramatics, and he gave in to Ryan’s temptation.
“Okay. If Dickens hadn't existed, who would be your favorite author?”
Ryan frowned. “Dickens isn’t my favorite author.”
Brendon seemed unaffected. “If pizza rolls didn’t exist, what would be your favorite food?”
“Tea,” he replied.
“That’s not a food Ryan, that’s a fucking drink.”
“Doesn’t matter. Flip your arm over.”
Brendon complied, and Ryan adjusted the bandage on his underarm.
“If I didn’t exist, what would you even do?”
Ryan let out a half laugh, and tied the bandage, finally. “I don’t know. Whose idiotic arm wounds would I clean?”
Brendon huffed. “I’m sure someone would do the honours. Anyway, you’re avoiding the question. You’d miss me like crazy.” He had a smirk in place, but his eyes were serious, staring into Ryan’s unforgivingly.
“Yeah, okay,” Ryan said, tone dry. In spite of it though, he let go of Brendon’s wrist and slid his hand down into Brendon’s palm, lacing their fingers together.
“You would miss me,” Brendon muttered. He sounded far too sure of himself.
“Maybe,” Ryan offered. Brendon glanced up and gave him a knowing smile and Ryan punched him lightly, in the ribs. Brendon laughed, loud in the quiet bus, and stumbled back. Their interlocked fingers tightened and Ryan had to pull him back close. Brendon sighed again, a gust of breath against Ryan's cheek, and this time it wasn't drawn out, but more contented. Ryan rolled his eyes and steered them towards the couches, not letting go of Brendon. Just in case he fell and hit himself against air.
They had run out of bandages, anyway.