"Okay, you're going to tell me what's wrong." Mom's eyeing me over the breakfast table, and I slowly raise my head to look at her. I've been staring down at the cereal in the bowl in front of me, watching it turn to disgusting mush before my eyes. I maybe got in an hour of sleep last night, if that, and I can practically feel the bags under my eyes. The dark circles made it look like there was a panda in the mirror this morning. This is not how I wanted to spend my Saturday.

I don't eat breakfast with my mom that often, mostly because she gets up at the goddamn crack of dawn and I get up at a reasonable time. Today, though, I wasn't sleeping properly anyway when I heard them get up, so I thought I might as well. I may have forgotten how overwhelmingly probing she can be.

"Ry-an," she sing-songs, looking anything but cheery. "Come on, you look awful. Spill."

The thing is, I don't know how. Dad's out of the house, at work for a change, so it makes it easier, but I still can't. I can't form the words. I don't want her to judge me. "Nothing's wrong." I'm terrified.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing I could tell you," I mumble, and I don't mean to sound harsh but she looks crushed, sinking back in her seat from where she was leaning across the table. "No, I just mean," I say hastily, "I don't know if you'd understand."

She smiles, says, "Of course I would." And she sounds so sure that I kind of believe her.

I swallow, take a deep breath. Take a minute or three to compose myself, to queue up words and sentences that make sense together, that illustrate the situation in ways that don't make me look like a dumbass, even though I know that when they come out I'll still trip over them and sound stupid as hell. "I don't know what to do," I say finally.

She doesn't say a word, just keeps sitting there, placid and neutral, and lets me go on. And I think that's what I need right now; no interferences, no pushing.

"I kind of. Okay, look, the thing is that I'm. I don't think I'm... exactly straight." I pause there, after getting the worst out first, to gauge her reaction. Her eyebrows are pretty far up her forehead and her smile is a little frozen, but she's not yelling or telling me I'm in a phase or doing any of the things I thought she might, so I guess it's okay to continue. "There's this guy, uh. From school. And... Christ, okay, I've been seeing him behind Jac's back, and she has no idea, a-and it was meant to be—It was just a hook-up," I stress, cringing because I just mentioned casual sex to my mother, oh my god.

"Was," she says slowly, seemingly unfazed, "or is?"

I close my eyes for a second. "Was. I mean, I-I think I like him more than I should."

She takes a second to process it all, and I sit there, feeling like I'm chained to the chair. I'm crumbling, inside.

We go on for a while after that, me offering up random, jagged pieces of the story and titbits of information until eventually, eventually I think it's all there. It probably doesn't make much sense – hell, it doesn't to me and I've lived it – but it's all pieced together, and it's there.

"What I don't understand, Ryan," she ponders, surprisingly well-mannered after learning that her son is a giant dickhead, "is why you still carried on with Jac at the same time as you were with this... guy."

"Because it was different," I snap immediately, tired of answering the same question in my own head. "It's... If I had, like, a boyfriend – Mom, I'd be shunned. Like, crucified. You don't understand what it's like. You can't be that way there." I exhale roughly, kneading my tired eyes with the heels of my hands. "I started seeing Brendon because I wanted to. Him. And I didn't stop going out with Jac because I couldn't." I say it all frankly, monotone, giving up on trying to seem like a better person. She can take me or leave me as I am.

"Sweetie, you shouldn't have to hide who you are." And yeah, okay, I'm not expecting that at all, and I kind of scoff a bit because that's a nice sentiment but it's ultimately fruitless; I shouldn't have to, but I do, and that's that.

"Yeah, well." God, I've had enough talking.

"D'you know if he feels the same way?" she asks softly, still tripping a little over the masculine pronoun.

I don't want to jinx anything. Don't want to assume. "He... might do. I think he does."

"So what are you gonna do?" she says, regarding me with vague curiosity. I look down at the table, picture Jac; her brash giggles and overwhelming perfume that chokes me each time she hugs me, her fake nails, fake extensions, fake. Fake relationship. And then, then I picture Brendon. I think about his smile and his laugh, and how glossy his hair looks in the sunlight. I think about how he can push my buttons something awful, how we clash and sometimes he annoys me so, so much, but mostly I think of how that all pales into insignificance when he touches my hand or when he looks at me with those trusting eyes.

"I don't know," I say, and I think it might be a lie.

She smirks at me, reminds me of myself a little, and gets up from her chair. She comes around the table and puts her arms around my neck, bending to hug me tightly. I start to shake and I can't stop it happening, my eyes screwed shut as she holds me and I feel the last of the walls breaking down, I feel everything disintegrate and just... fade. Like it's not important to do that or be that anymore, because there's something else. "No," she says as she pulls away, "I think you know exactly what to do."

Picking up my untouched cereal bowl, she goes off to the sink, humming to herself, and I'm left with not much to think about at all.

* * *

When it comes down to it, I don't want to lose him.

* * *

This is, without a doubt, the hardest thing I will have to do. It's Monday, and I've left the house early. Which was completely fucking difficult, considering I spent the whole of last night either talking quietly to Brendon on the phone or lying awake fretting about what I'm about to do. Honestly, I didn't think I'd be so concerned about it, but maybe there is an ounce of good in there somewhere.

I know what time she gets to school and I've planned to get there five minutes beforehand. As I swing around the school gates I check my watch; I'm on time. It's fine, I can do this. I've worked myself up to it, been talking it through in my head, going over ways of making it a little more painless in my head as I walked through the park, said an absent-minded hello to the guy and his dog.

I lean against the gates, on the inside so that technically I'm in school, tip my head back and close my eyes, can't stop myself counting the seconds. And then a delighted, "Ry?" breaks into my consciousness and yeah, okay, this is happening.

"Jac," I say, a warning, a premonition. She doesn't read into my tone of voice, though, serious as it may be, and she's smiling so wide, twirling a long piece of hair around her finger happily.

"I never see you in the mornings!" she exclaims, coming over and laying a hand on my arm, and it's through my blazer but I swear she feels ice-cold against me.

I step backwards; she goes to follow, so I stick my arm out automatically and physically stop her with a hand on her skinny shoulder. Thanking God or whoever for the fact that there's barely anyone else around yet, I take a deep breath and murmur, "We need to talk."

"Oh, well. Okay. What about?" She looks puzzled.

"Well," I backtrack, "I do. I need... to talk."

"Right," she says, clearly not following yet and I don't know if that's good or bad. Fuck, I'm no good at this. "So... talk."

I look up at the sky before anything else, needing a break from her searching expression, but I figure if I'm going to do this I should at least be looking her in the eye. Face-to-face. "Jac, I." I swallow. Go straight for the big guns. "I can't do this anymore."

I thought that would maybe be better, kinder on her than stringing it out and launching into an entire speech on how we've had such a good time together but the sun has now set or some bullshit like that; but her eyes grow wider as I watch, near to fearful, and someone's twisting the knife. It's hurting me too. "Ryan, what are you talking about?" she says, fake laugh and faux strength in her voice.

It's hurting me. Reaching out for her hand, I take it and cup it and feel her fingers automatically lace through mine out of pure habit. "I'm talking about... us?" An accidental inflection makes it a question, and I don't want there to be any questions, no doubts here, so I reinforce it, "Us. I can't be with you anymore."

"What?" Her voice cracks, her eyes fill. The hand linked with mine clenches to the point of pain, nails digging in. "Why?" she whispers, eyes flicking between mine. "We can... whatever it is, Ryan, we'll fix it."

I shake my head. "You can't just—Jac, I don't love you. I don't see you in that way anymore, and I, I can't change that." The words feel harsh and sharp on my tongue, but I keep repeating, telling myself silently it's for the best. Thinking of Brendon and carrying on.

"There's someone else," she says after a few seconds, like she's discovered a footprint or a hair or some other piece of damning evidence. As it is, she's just shooting in the dark, but I still freeze up.

"No, that's not—"

"Tell me who it is," she demands. "Is it Audrey? Fuck, it's Audrey, isn't it, I can't believe this, Ry—"

"Stop," I interrupt, frustrated, irritated even though that's not where I wanted to end up with this. "It's not anyone else." It'll make her take it a little better and I'm certain that this would have happened with or without Brendon, so I figure it's okay to lie. "Jac, it's just. I'm sorry, it's different, now, and I can't do this knowing I'm not completely happy. I still care about you, just—not."

"Fuck you," she mutters, glaring with pink, watery eyes, and she disentangles her hand from mine with a look of disgust. "No, fuck you, Ryan, you think you can just do this with no fucking warning? You think you can just say things have changed and then it's all gonna be okay?!" It's building, the hysterical edge to her words, and she looks increasingly menacing. If I weren't so much taller, I'd be a little scared.

"I'm sorry," I repeat helplessly, feeling her hurt with every inch her face contorts, with every tiny dot of colour that makes up her flushed, angry cheeks. I do still care about her, of course I do; we've been through a lot together and I know now that whatever I do I'm going to lose her for good. There'll be no staying friends, no keeping contact apart from maybe a few bitchy comments on her part. It's a sacrifice.

"Don't say that. You don't care," she hisses, and then she yells, "I bet you can't even remember when our last kiss was, can you?!" The razor-sharp edge to her voice cuts into me a little, but yeah, I probably deserve that.

"No," I say quietly; clearly, honestly. "I can't."

"Fuck," she says with a hint of a laugh, edge of hysteria, "I was so. I'm so stupid, I. I thought you were serious, all those things you said, and you just—"

"Just because I'm ending this now doesn't mean I was lying the entire time, Jac," I argue, and she scoffs bitterly, folding her arms across herself and not looking at me.

After a few seconds, Jac bursts out, "You were supposed to take me to the fucking Christmas Dance!" and I don't know what to say because I honestly forgot about it, coming up as simply 'sometime soon' in the back of my mind. As I blank on her, she gives a dry sob and steps forward an inch or two and before I know it my cheek is stinging and smarting a bright, throbbing red, my head struck sideways with the force of the slap.

I rub at my cheek instinctively, massaging my jaw. I probably deserved that too, although it's not so certain this time. "Okay. I don't know how many times I can say I'm sorry."

"Please, I love you, you fucking asshole!" she cries, actual tears forming, and I have to look away, back away towards the school.

"You'll find someone better," I say, wholly truthfully as I think about all the wrong I've done, what I used her and kept her for, and with that I turn and walk purposefully towards the school, decidedly ignoring every fibre of my being that's screaming at me to run back, fall at her feet and beg for forgiveness, for safety. I don't do that, I won't.

I can still hear her crying, quiet, ugly sobs, her mascara's probably running and her face will be flushed pink. I shut it out, squeeze my eyes shut for a second as I take a deep breath; in, and out. I spot Spencer over by the main doors, calmly watching everything, and I begrudgingly head over to him.

"I was hoping no one would have to see that," I remark somewhat awkwardly, and he just quirks his mouth grimly.

"You have to learn that I'm always watching over you; it's my job," he says simply, and I roll my eyes. He claps a hand to my shoulder, squeezing and giving a friendly shake. "Looked rough, from what I saw. You okay?"

"Yeah, well. I will be." I clear my throat. "I think I am. She's not, though."

"What happened, man?" he says. "You're meant to be the power couple."

Smiling despite myself, I shrug and reply, "Some things are just destined for failure, I guess."

"Yeah, but. Seriously. What's the story?" Spence looks confused. "I thought everything was fine, is all."

"Nothing, it just, uh. It just kind of ended. I dunno. Hey, we still got time, wanna go smoke?"

Over the course of the day, news spreads quickly through the seniors, and I'm kind of bombarded with attention. I'm a little used to it, hanging out with who I hang out with, but never this concentrated; this amount of stares. Walking through the hallways is more of a chore than usual, and people stop talking or whispering as soon as I gain on them, resume when I'm past. Gaggles of girls give me discreet and not-so-discreet glares and looks sharper than daggers while guys either give me sympathetic head nods or laugh outright.

Gabe, William, Spence and Jon all continuously ask me why it happened, why I broke up with her, and I keep saying things like, "It was just time." It was time a long while ago, but they don't need to know that.

With all the talk and the gossip, all I can think about is whether Brendon's heard yet.

* * *

As it turns out, Brendon's not in school, and he's not for the next few days either. He calls me the evening of the day following the break-up, and my blood stops pumping when I see his name flash up. "Hey," I answer, trying to sound normal and all the while not knowing what I'm going to encounter when he speaks.

"Hi." He sounds completely dejected and his voice is scratchy, like the crackle of static only, like, real.

Carefully, I ask, "You okay?"

"No," he laughs, coughs a little. "I'm sick."

"I can hear," I smirk, amused, but then my heart sinks as I picture him huddled up in bedcovers pulled to his chin, pressing the phone to his face and sniffling, and a surge of pity comes over me. "Sorry, though, that sucks."

"Uh-huh." Another image pops into my head in full Technicolor, of him sick and miserable but then his face positively lighting up, breaking into a grateful smile as I go to him, kiss his cheek or his neck, cuddle up to him, maybe. Look after him. I could be that guy. The thought petrifies me, but I'm sure I could.

"Was that... all you wanted to say?"

"No," he says testily, and it's so sharp that it jolts me a little. "Sorry, ah. I feel like shit, so if I snap at you, it's probably not you." Beat. "Probably."

"Okay," I reply, settling into my desk chair and leaning back with a smile. "So what else?"

He sighs and it turns into a series of coughs, each one more harrowing than the last, and eventually he says thinly, "Just. Can you just, like, talk? About anything, I don't care."

So I do, because he asked. I mean, I think it's a little weird at first, and it takes an awkward minute for me to think of anything decent to say to him, to keep him interested, but I do. I talk about the weather and how Christmas is coming soon and tell him vaguely funny stories of people at school that make him giggle down the phone line. But not once do I mention Jac.

I'm not sure why, it's just something in his voice; he's distracted and ill and a little distressed, obviously, and even though he's the one who called me I still get that awful feeling that he doesn't want to know, he's not really that invested. So maybe I don't say it because thinking about how he might react – or not react at all – scares me a little. A lot. Whatever.

After a long, long while, he says, "Mm. Man, I'm practically falling asleep on you, I better go. Uh, thanks for... for talking."

"S'okay."

"I like your voice," he mumbles, sleepy-soft and a little sad. My breath catches.

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh."

"Oh. Well."

Brendon laughs quietly, then contemplates, "I don't know why I ever thought you were so bad, Ryan Ross."

Heart thumping wildly against my ribcage, I swallow and reply with a voice that cracks over the rushing in my ears, "I could say the same for you."

He leaves a little silence, keeping me right on edge, the fucker, and eventually he murmurs, "G'night, Ryan," and I can hear the smile when he forms my name.

* * *

So yeah, I'll admit I'm kind of putting it off. I've taken this massive risk and now—well, right now, without him knowing, I don't know either. But if he finds out I've done this thing, I've broken up with her, and he doesn't react the way I imagined, it's all just. Lost.

The day he's back at school, I've already decided, will be the day I make sure he finds out. On said day, though, I only catch sight of him twice, and I never get a chance to talk. All I get is a quick smile thrown my way, one that I secretly keep in my pocket for later, just in case.

Getting desperate, I pull my phone out in my last lesson, making sure Gabe or Bill either side of me can't see, and I send him a text from under the table. meet me at cabin straight afterschool??

It only takes him about ten minutes to come back to me, a hastily typed sure.feels like ages snce i last saw u x and I have to hide my smile beneath my hand until I can tamp it down, because it sure as hell feels like it to me too, and I'm glad he's noticed.

It feels like both too slow and too fast, the way the time goes past between then and getting to the cabin. Like I want it, but at the same time I'm fucking dreading it. I don't even want to begin to figure out what all that means, but it's making my head hurt.

As I'm leaving my house later on, after dropping my school bag just inside the door, I see Jac over the road, walking with a friend. The girl's got her arm slung around her shoulders, clearly consoling her, and I feel like the worst kind of dickhead. Her friend catches my eye, peers across the road to identify me better, and I duck my head, letting my hair fall over my eyes. I can still see them both looking out of the corner of my vision, though, can see Jac turning her face away and grasping at her friend, but I carry on walking.

Once I get to the path that leads to the trees and the cabin, I find that my feet drag of their own accord and I start to lag, start to slow. It's because there's too much going on inside my brain; its cogs are whirring to the point of overheating, trying to think of the best way to approach this. I resolve that I'll have all the words lined up by the time I get there. It doesn't work.

I see Brendon before I see the cabin, he's standing at the edge of the trees up ahead, dappled sunlight spilled on him. He's quite motionless, and he's not quite out of the cover, hasn't stepped out into the clearing yet, and it feels wrong.

I don't call out, I wait until I'm level with him, my eyes glued to him, and I say his name. He twitches and then turns to me. "I just came and I saw, and. Ryan." And I don't know what he's talking about but the crease in his brow is deep and foreboding and when he helplessly looks back in the previous direction, I follow his line of sight for the first time.

The cabin sits there, in the exact same place it always does and has, and there's a big, bold sign pitched into the grass a few metres out front of it. It reads, 'SOLD.' My jaw practically hits the floor, and I'm speechless. It must have gone up for sale and been snapped up just like that, in the time that Brendon was ill and we didn't come here, we didn't know.

The red block letters are staring at us, and the door of the cabin is wide open, movement inside. "Who's inside?" I murmur, unable to rip my eyes away.

"Um, there's. I don't know, these men—there's a truck just the other side of the trees out back." Two grubby, greasy guys in their forties emerge from the doorway, carrying the couch between them. "I think they're taking all the old stuff to a dump or something, I don't know."

"Fuck." I clasp my hands at the back of my head, squinting at the scene as if trying to morph it into something more pleasing. "It's just a stupid cabin, it shouldn't be so. Fuck."

"I know," he assures me quickly. Finally, he turns away, switches his attention onto me. His posture is strong and defiant but when I look at his face he looks so adrift, so devastated. "It was safe there," he appeals, saying it like I can do anything to stop this happening, his eyes pleading with me or the world to do something about it; and I think not many other people would understand, but I know I was thinking the same thing.

"It was ours," I comment fiercely, undeniably angry. How fucking dare they.

The people who buy it will probably replace the door for a shiny new one that shuts properly, they'll fix the drafts and get rid of the creaks, they'll swap the smashed and broken windows for double-glazing, and they'll get rid of the small patches of damp in the corners and paper over the faded patterns of the walls.

How dare they.

It doesn't belong to anyone but us.

"Ryan, I don't know what we're meant to do now," he says, sounding quiet but nowhere near calm. My eyes start to prickle hotly but I blink away the feeling, too preoccupied for ridiculous things like that.

"I don't either."

He laughs, hollow and without joy. "That's great."

Feeling drained, I suck in a breath, stand minutely closer to him, the teeny hairs on my arm brushing and catching on his. "I can't believe it's gone," I breathe, and he nods because he gets it, gets that it's not just a sign and a few guys taking the furniture, it's more. It's like watching it being destroyed, witnessing thousands of cranes and diggers and goddamn wrecking balls waltz in and take it down; knock it to the ground and splinter every single log that once made it up.

It's standing tall but it's torn down before our eyes, taking the memories and the beginnings with it.

I don't know how long it is until someone speaks next, but for the duration we stand there in a grave silence not unlike the ones birthed at funerals, and then at some point I blurt out as if in a trance, "I broke up with her."

Brendon hums, distracted, and, "Wait," there it is, "what?"

"Jac." I turn to him, butterflies and tons of other creepy-crawlies hatching in my stomach. "I broke up with her, a few days ago." It's such an effort to maintain the eye contact, especially when I know I probably look uncomfortable as hell anyway so there's not much point trying to repair it.

"Was it hard?" he asks slowly, looking at me as if I've grown another head.

I nod jerkily. "The worst thing I've ever had to do."

He smiles a little and shakes his head involuntarily. "You're not getting any sympathy."

"I'm not asking," I grit out.

"Why did you...?" he whispers, a little shaky. His lips keep forming words that don't come; he looks completely shocked, and it's not putting me any more at ease.

"Because," I flounder, hopeless under his gaze, "I can't have both. You always have to... I had to pick, you know, I couldn't do it any longer, and. There wasn't really any competition."

His eyes boggle at me even more, and his hand reaches out to land on my arm but stops, falters, and he retracts it. It's awkward and neither of us knows what we're doing but God, do we ever? "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say that you're the only one I want to do this with," I rush out, exasperated with all the fucking tension, and I grab his wrist to pull him close, tilting his chin with the other hand and catching his mouth with mine. His lips are cold at the first touch, and my tongue flicks out and over them, and I get to feel them warming up as I push into his mouth and let him sweep his tongue over my own.

He's kissing back with this surprised sort of enthusiasm, and I can taste the smile that he's trying to keep down. Something in my chest is performing flip-flops, and I don't know how we suddenly got here and nor do I know precisely where here is but, well, here we are. "Ryan, Christ, I," he breathes out against my lips. "Christ," he repeats, "finally."

I freeze up, because although I knew he was uncomfortable with it all, maybe even sad or miserable, it's an entirely different thing to hear him openly acknowledge it. "I know I'm a dick," I say quickly, and the hand that's crept underneath my hoodie and settled on my waist squeezes.

Brendon shakes his head. "It's okay, I mean. You were, don't get me wrong, you really were, but you had reasons, I get it," he reassures, if slightly begrudgingly, and I relax out of a rigidity that I hadn't known I was stuck in.

I drag my knuckles down his cheek lightly and then kiss him hard and hot, humming in response to the whimper I draw from him. I end up walking him backwards until his spine hits the nearest, spindly tree, enough force behind it that dry, crinkly leaves shower down around us from above, landing on my shoulder, Brendon's hair. He laughs enough to break the kiss, but even so I don't pull away from him.

It strikes me, out of the blue, that it may not have been that the cabin was safe; merely that it provided some kind of structure to act as scapegoat when we didn't want to know it was each other that made the shelter.

"Ryan," he murmurs, a serious tone. "You know we still don't have to tell anyone, right? I'm not gonna, like, force you into anything, I don't want you to feel obliged to say something just—"

"Okay," I interrupt, placing two fingers to his full lips to silence him. "Okay, I know," I tell him, even though I'm half-certain that he'd rather tell the world. It pains me that I'm not giving him that.

"So," he says, breathless and bright-eyed, glancing back at the cabin and jerking his head towards it. "What do we do now?"

I shrug, at a loss. This was the go-to.

"We could... go to my place," he suggests, and I raise one calculating eyebrow.

"Oh? And what would we do there?"

Brendon mimics my shrug, then leans close and says, "Whatever the hell we were going to do in there," pointing to the cabin with his thumb. His breath tickles my ear and he smells vaguely like peppermint. My head feels fuzzy in one of the best ways, and I only take one last look at the – our? – cabin before grabbing his arm and following without another thought.

* * *

When Brendon calls out, "Mom, I'm home," as he yanks me into the warm, I choke on pure nothing. Somehow, the whole walk back I was convinced in the most light-hearted way that it's be an empty house, we'd have it to ourselves and I wouldn't have to deal with that. It seems too domestic, too steady for us, the fact that his mother is here and I am here too. Then again, walking with Brendon – the hands brushing, the stupid jokes and stifled laughter, the sly digs at each other, the banter – can be blamed for taking up the most of my thinking space.

"Um," I mutter pointedly in his ear, catching his elbow, but it's all I get out before a plump woman comes bustling around the corner, with rosy cheeks and a mouth that won't stop babbling about cleaning. She stops abruptly when she catches sight of me and my heart stops with her, feeling like an intruder.

She breaks into a cheery smile, though, and rushes forward saying, "Oh! Sorry, hon, I didn't realise there was company! I'm Grace," and reaching for me. I assume she's going for a handshake but instead she pulls me into a hug like it's just normal to do that, and it's bone-crushing and reminds me a little of Spencer.

"Ryan," I wheeze, and she lets go of me. Brendon's hiding an amused smirk in my peripheral. Bastard.

"Great, fantastic, brilliant, lovely to meet you, Ryan," she beams, and then she turns on her heel and marches off, presumably in the direction of the kitchen. Brendon starts to follow her, turns and sees me still standing there.

He studies me for a few seconds, then says, "You're okay," and he takes my hand. It's warm and it's odd because it's been a while since I had a touch so simple but so covertly nice. We go into the kitchen and Brendon's mom's standing by the stove.

"So," she breezes, "are you staying for dinner, Ryan?"

Brendon answers for me, "Oh, no, it's okay. We already ate on the way here." We may have stopped at a Burger King. We may also have finished the lot way before we got to his house.

She smiles. "Well, that makes my job a whole lot easier." Brendon steps a little closer to me, and when I glance at him I don't think he means anything by it, it's just kind of habit. Brendon's mom – do I call her Grace? – cocks her head at me, at both of us, really, and asks, "How do you know each other?"

Oh. My mouth opens by itself and I forcibly close it, because I can't even attempt to attempt that answer. I can't stand the silence, though, and she's looking all expectant, so I say, "We, uh."

Brendon lays a hand on my wrist, scarily close to my hand, and he tilts his chin up as he jumps in, says, "Uh, actually, Mom, Ryan's my boyfriend." My mouth dries up and I can't quite believe my ears. I never thought I'd hear that, not from a guy's mouth and especially not from his; I didn't even realise that's what I was, but it appears we've sort of fallen into this with no discussion or pre-planning. Slipped and fell head-first but somehow landed on our feet.

"Oh!" she exclaims, face lighting up. My chest is really, really tight. I can't breathe except for shallow puffs, so when she says, "Brendon, that's so wonderful, really," I hope she's not expecting any input from me. I manage a weak smile when she looks at me, and Brendon squeezes my wrist.

Brendon grins, aiming it at both his mom and me, and it's got that smug glint to it. "It is," he agrees, nodding a little as my cheeks heat up.

"Well, Ryan, you seem like a lovely boy," she smiles, giving me another equally-tight hug. She's a hugger.

"Oh, um," I struggle, flushing. "Thanks." I feel stiff, steel skeleton holding me upright and rigid, and Brendon splays a nearly tentative hand in the middle of my back as she pulls away. I give him a brief smile, and the light in his eyes flickers a little.

"Honestly," she says confidentially, "wonderful. He's a good catch, Brendon."

"Mom," he reprimands, looking tortured, and I laugh despite myself. "We're going upstairs. Please stay here." She raises her eyebrows but she looks fairly relaxed and hell, I didn't think any parents of high-schoolers would be that placid about that particular phrase. It occurs to me that it's probably because Brendon doesn't say that too often. Or, well, at all.

Brendon leads us out of the kitchen and, okay, I'm still a little... perplexed, if you will, at what he called me. Boyfriend. Fuck, boyfriend. "Hey," I hiss, pushing him up against the wall by the hips as soon as we're out of his mom's sight, out of hearing range too. "Hey, I thought—You said we were keeping this quiet." I'm trying to keep the edge off my voice.

He regards me for a second, and then smiles, slow, letting it grow across his whole face. "Yeah, at school we are. Out there, we are. Here it's my rules, and maybe I want to show you off. Can you deal with that?"

Brendon's gaze is fierce but I can tell he's wary, doesn't know if he's gone too far. Doesn't even know if I'll walk out in a heartbeat. "Yeah," I say, dazed and half-aware. "I think so, yeah."

"Wonderful," he smirks, and then he kisses me quick and forceful, pulls me towards the stairs. He walks a step ahead of me and I can't quite take my eyes off his ass, even in his school pants. It's becoming somewhat of a problem, especially when he pauses, looks over his shoulder like he could feel my eyes on him, and I walk straight into him.

Chuckling quietly and muffling it with a hand to his mouth, he walks past a couple of doors and pushes one open. There are a lot of bedrooms up here; it's a big house, too, a lot larger than I expected, so I'm assuming his family's pretty expansive. That kind of suits him, I think.

His bedroom's spacious, like there's too much floor for all his possessions. Well lived-in, though, with clothes strewn in a heap in the corner and general crap all over his floor; a lot like mine. He closes the door and then turns and leans against it, regarding me with a coy look and biting his lip, lips just waiting to be kissed.

Leaning forward, I angle his head and take his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip until he's making these soft, breathy noises with every beat and his hands come up to tug at my hair. Pressing our hips together, he turns us and walks backwards a few steps and I go with him, keeping mouths locked, and my foot nudges something on the floor. "Don't you ever tidy?" I mumble against his mouth.

"Like you even care as long as we're doing this," he replies breathlessly.

"Shut up," I reply indignantly, because it's so true.

"You shut up."

"Ass."

"Jerk," he says, nipping my lip.

"Shut up—"

"Bite me."

I grin inches from his mouth and don't give him words in reply; just lunge forward, wind my hands around his waist tighter and duck my head down, biting at the side of his neck and sucking at the hot skin.

He groans, stumbling back. He falls and lands on the bed, rumpling the duvet underneath him and I end up pretty much sprawled on top of him. I can't stop kissing him, and his hands are running down my back, nails dragging against the layers, way too many layers.

Tearing myself away from him, I sit up and back enough to shrug my blazer off my shoulders, but I remember the company downstairs and don't go any further. Brendon tries to drag me back down but I'm pulling ineffectively at his own school jacket, and I let him up, push it off his shoulders.

There's no grace here: it's all rushed and hurried and urgent, the slip of our mouths and the hands wandering everywhere, his fingers scrabbling at the knot in my tie and loosening it enough to yank it over my head. Me, though, I'm more organised, have been working at the tie around his own neck the whole time, and without prying my eyes open I tug it loose, pull at one end gently so it snakes around the back of his neck and off.

One of my hands slips under his white shirt, palming at his hipbone before travelling further up, feeling him discreetly lean into the touch, and when I pass my fingers over his nipple, he moans lowly and I curse under my breath, cover his mouth with my own. Between my lips and his, I catch all the whines and the whimpers he's making beneath me as both hands settle on his chest, as fingers twist and rub and soothe the skin of his nipple.

He's loud, though, overexcited and repeating my name in a whole array of tones, and I want to record each and every one of them but I shush him, mumble, "God, what do I have to do to make you quiet?" into his neck.

"Not that, oh my god," he hisses, strained and pushing his hips up and searching for friction I'm not giving yet as I roll his nipples between my fingers, hard.

"Boys! Brendon!" Brendon's mom calls, probably from the bottom of the stairs. I pull away from Brendon's mouth so he can answer if he wants, the only sound in the room harsh pants and thick silence. "I'm going out, okay? I'll be back in a couple of hours. Okay? Behave!"

I freeze up at the last word, face threatening to blush, but she doesn't say it pointedly or with any insinuation and Brendon just rolls his eyes. "Uh, yeah – okay, Mom," he calls back, and the first syllable cracks and splinters.

Brendon smiles wickedly up at me and my stomach fizzles, hot and overbearing and moving lower with the head-spinning thought of me plus Brendon plus a whole house. That's so lucky, this is so fucking lucky; I never get luck like this, where things just fall into place exactly how you want them to, and when I register just how wide Brendon's smiling before he strains his head up for a kiss, I think I must surely match it.

"Jackpot," he mutters into my mouth, and I hum in response, pleased. So fucking pleased. I get his shirt off him in record time, wanting more skin to touch. The kisses melt into something slow and more thorough, more idle and out of the ordinary for us, and then comes the unmistakeable sound of the front door slamming shut with the wind.

"What do you—" I start, but I'm cut off by his lips on mine, and then he pushes up and shoves me sideways and he rolls with me and suddenly I'm on my back with a hot lapful of Brendon. He's straddling my hips but he leans down, arranges his legs and his hips so that we're lined up and rolls his hips cautiously, like he's unsure of himself. I pull him down to kiss him as my hands settle on his ass, drag him into a faster rhythm, harder and rougher, and he's panting into my mouth, my leg winding around one of his to keep him where he is. Stringing it out, I keep my hands fitted to his ass, controlling the pace and rocking my hips in counterpoint so I can't keep in the quiet groans and curse words, but eventually he breaks away from my mouth and breathes shakily, "Please."

"Please what?" I reply, and he looks hesitant to ask before an air of confidence and certainty takes over and he leans down, takes my earlobe between his teeth.

"Fuck me," he murmurs, and I gasp out, wide eyes threatening to flutter shut as my hips buck involuntarily, making him moan softly into my ear.

I make myself ask, "Are... you sure?" tripping over the vowels, and he nods, his nose dragging against my cheek.

"Don't keep asking that," he says, even though I've only said it once, but I take it anyway, kiss him with a new fire behind it and he responds with just as much urgency, fumbling with my stupidly small buttons until they're all undone. He gets stuck on the tie and I laugh at him, raising an eyebrow and leaning up on my elbows to get it off. As he watches, his eyes glaze, like he's mesmerised, but as soon as my tie's on the floor he's there to pull my shirt off me, running his hands all over, restless.

Pushing me down by the shoulders, he starts to make his way down, dragging his tongue in a teasing path down my chest; my sternum and my stomach. The muscles under his tongue flex and flutter and I'm pretty sure he's hiding a smirk. It's always a victory, no matter how much we both want it; always a win to see the other unravel.

He gets my pants open and shoves them down to where I kick them off, a little dazed, and he settles in between my legs, grabs hold of my cock as soon as he's got my boxers out of the way just enough. I hiss through my teeth and he mumbles, "Ryan, I want," before taking me in his mouth as far as he can, pumping a jolt of liquid electricity through my body.

Moans spill from deep in my throat, and I think I sound ridiculous but it's his mouth. His mouth, and when he hums around my cock he sounds satisfied, so I suppose it's okay. My eyes are shut tight, focused on the sensations and the sounds of him breathing harshly through his nose as he takes me down until his lips meet his hand and slides back up again, but they pop open now, wanting visual and colour.

When I look down I'm met with the sight of his mouth stretched around me as he sucks until his cheeks hollow; all I can see is him and his fingers prickle up the little hairs on my thighs, and it's all sloppy and messy and fucking awesome, and I suddenly have to focus really hard on not coming.

Tugging on his hair, I moan, "Brendon, Brendon, stop, you have to stop." He pulls off with a smug smile and I'm dangerously teetering on the edge, breathing heavily with my hand still resting in his hair. After I take a few moments, I refocus and he's watching me with dark, dark eyes. He has pure sex hair, and I swallow, mouth dry.

Brendon crawls up and kisses me breathless as I fumble with his zipper and push at his pants, and he mumbles, "Fuck me, please, I want," against my throat.

"Shit," I sigh helplessly. God, he doesn't have to ask so much, it's not like I need encouragement to want this.

He stands up from the bed and wriggles his hips slightly, getting the pants down and toeing them off with his shoes and socks. I can't help but stare. He crosses his arms across his middle, looking down at himself and then over at me. I get up, scrambling a little in the headiness of it all, and I grab at his arms, pull them out of the tight knot he's got them into.

"Do you even know what you look like?" I wonder, snaking a hand down to palm him through the underwear, and he whimpers. He doesn't know. He gasps my name at a particularly hard stroke, and I tell him lowly, "Get on the bed."

"Jesus," he murmurs, and then he cocks his head at me, his eyes sparkling. "How do you want me?" he says, just as low, and my knees almost give out. Just, okay. Fuck. I'm light-headed, all the blood that should be in my brain now rushing South, and he smirks like he knows. Before I reply, I tug at his underwear and he gets the hint, drops them.

"Hands and knees," I answer with a stroke of his cock, cupping his face as an afterthought and placing a closed kiss to his lips, one that he melts into. I feel like if we were face-to-face, it'd be too much too soon. And then he does, he gets back on and settles how I told him to, and a shiver runs through me as I climb behind him on my knees, smoothing a hand over his ass, his lower back.

His head is hanging, and he mutters something about, "--so exposed." And I don't want that, fuck no, I want to make him feel the best he's ever felt, I want to take him by surprise and make him feel like he's safe and wanted and all the things that someone like him should have regardless. I make a shushing sound, placing a kiss just above the curve of his ass, and he shivers.

Ducking my head down, I flick my hair out of my eyes, keep steadying hands on his hips as I pause briefly to consider and then lick a long stripe along the cleft of his ass. I want to make him remember. His hips jerk and he moans, sudden and off-guard and yeah, he wasn't expecting that. I do it again and he keens, dropping down to his elbows and visibly trying not to push back into it. My hands keep him spread open and I make it more concentrated, prodding against his entrance with my tongue, and he gasps, hips rocking.

"Jesus, what are, what are you," he babbles, and I tap his hip before flickering my tongue against him again, waiting for his whine before pressing, pressing until the tip of my tongue's inside of him. The breathy noise that escapes him then is enough to draw my hand to my cock, and I'm stiffening my tongue and pushing more, lapping at him and licking him open. Incoherent words are falling hard and fast from his lips; he's digging his forehead into the pillows.

When I finally pull back, he's panting and the muscles in his thighs are trembling. "You have lube, or," I trail off as he snaps into action, moving fluidly to rummage in a drawer by his bed, eventually retrieving a small tube. He practically thrusts it at me, so needy now, and I grin at him, have to kiss him as our fingers brush.

The pool in my hand is cool and when I touch a slick finger to the sensitive skin he jolts, jumps away momentarily before eagerly pushing back. As I push it in for the first time, he gasps and shivers and I set kisses into his shoulder, his back. I haven't gone all the way inside of him, going slowly up until now but he's impatiently restless and I want him to feel good, so I force in hard and fast with my finger, only so I can search and angle upwards, hear him moan breathlessly with no remaining edge of pain when I hit the right spot.

A couple of minutes and I try for another, hearing him wince as he tightens all around, the noises quietened. "Brendon," I murmur, "relax," and I crook them both up again, pressing into his prostate as he groans and chases the movement as I thrust them in and out.

"Oh God," he moans, "your fingers, Ryan, oh God," and I smile even though he can't see. There's occasional hisses that are clearly pain, but I use inordinate amounts of lube and he's slick and pretty stretched. I give him three, though, and I don't usually bother, two's normally enough for someone who doesn't care and doesn't matter, but it's Brendon, so. "Oh," he breathes as his back turns concave and he tentatively pushes back. "That's, that's," he mumbles, and he's looking over his shoulder at me, a crease in his brow.

"What?" I prompt, punctuating it with a sharper twist of my fingers that makes him keen.

"Jesus Christ, fuck me, fuck me," he says, the words trembling and betraying the message. He's so eager and it seems out of place, somehow, compared to last time; but it's different now, so maybe I'm thinking too much.

I want to check but he didn't want me to ask, so I keep my fingers moving, kissing and nipping up his back and murmuring, "Condom?"

"Um, I," he says, trying to catch his breath. "In that drawer, there."

There's a whole unopened pack, and I manage to reach without taking my fingers out. Brendon's bearing down on them, having dissolved into the mattress enough to thrust his hips carefully back and then forth to grind his cock into the bedding. It's a pretty awesome sight to behold. Shaking myself, I roll a condom on, spread more lube up the length of my cock as I still his movements with the other hand.

"Ready?" I ask softly, so quiet he can choose not to hear it if he wants.

He doesn't say anything at first so I nudge my hips forward, just pressing the tip of my cock to his entrance, and then he sucks in a breath and mumbles, "It just. It hurt, a lot, when he. Don't make it hurt." His voice is muffled, face hidden in the crook of his arm before I get him back up onto hands and knees again.

Thinking darkly that the bastard probably didn't bother to get him ready at all, I shake my head automatically, protesting at the notion. "I'll make you feel amazing," I promise with conviction, pushing three fingers in one last time to make sure, and he looks over his shoulder, nods an okay.

My head tips back on my shoulders and waves of pure hot bliss wash over me when I first push in, stopping to let him catch his breath and let me collect my senses. Fingertips grip hips and his heavy breathing is punctured by low grunts and gasps. Jerky thrusts and a lot of willpower are what gets me almost fully inside, and by that time he's moaning helplessly, an edge of pain evident in the way he initially twists away before he catches himself.

I skim a hand up his spine, chasing the shudders, and he whimpers, falls down to his elbows and buries his face in the pillow. It pushes his ass up but he's hiding his face, and uncertainty flickers because I don't want to break a promise I only just made. I nudge his legs further apart so mine can spread too and give me some better balance to lean down over him, kiss the back of his neck and let my teeth graze.

"Ryan," he gasps, hips twitching and minutely rocking backwards, so I straighten up and thrust in again, head reeling with how tight he is and with the fact that we're doing this, and he cries out, says my name again but more panicked, a little breathy.

"You're okay," I murmur, dropping down and planting two hands either side of him so the words can fall straight into his ear. I grind my hips into his ass and he moans unashamedly, low and long, and I can't stop myself then, can't refrain from pulling back and grasping his hipbones hard enough to bruise and slamming in fast, relief sparking at how his sounds hitch and climb higher rather than falter and turn into something I don't want to hear. Every thrust jolts him and I can see a part of his profile, see that his mouth is open and slack and he's breathing wet into the pillow.

He shifts after a minute or two and the impossible arch of his back and the stretch of his arms as he pushes himself up onto his hands again is driving me insane, the dip of his spine bending as he strains upwards and closer. I lean forward just enough that our skin is brushing, constant hot friction that makes him moan as I splay a possessive hand over his stomach, so close to where he wants it.

The heat around my cock is making me gasp, every breath encasing an "ah," sound, and it makes me so embarrassed to think about but whenever I'm particularly loud he answers it with a groan of his own and tightens around me. I drop my forehead to his shoulder blade briefly before lifting my head and licking the salt from his neck, feeling the nerves jump as he leans into it. He cranes his neck around for a kiss that's off-centre and messy and awkward, perfect, and in the same moment I angle his hips and mine just right to hit his prostate dead-on. He moans into my mouth, surprised and overwhelmed, and I grin breathlessly in response.

He drops back down to his elbows and my hands go with him, landing either side of him so I can bracket him and bathe in his body heat as my hips keep snapping, stuttering now. His skin has a sheen to it and he reaches back, back until his fingers can grip and dig into my hip, my ass, pressing me deeper, and I let out a low growl. My breaths are harsh and rattling and I curse quietly, muttering, "Brendon, I can't much longer," and he moans an agreement into the pillow.

His fingers are clenched tightly in the bed-sheets, white knuckles, and without thinking about it I bring my hand over and down onto his with a soft skin-on-skin slap, the fingers fitting between each other. He links us and when I know he's balanced I slowly move his hand, both of our hands, to where his cock is hard and leaking between his legs. And then, fuck, I'm jerking him but he is too, both of us together working slick friction over his cock and he's gasping and words are lodging in his throat and my vision is so, so blurred, and I can't hold on any longer, can't because this is happening, it's really happening after what feels like a lifetime of fucking around, and I bite down on his shoulder as I let go and come inside the condom, hips rutting, pressed deep.

"God, fuck, Ryan," he moans, frantic over his cock while my hand has gone limp, and I shake myself out of the haze to squeeze just under the head and swirl my thumb, but then he's already crying out raggedly and coming all over our hands and the sheets. "Off," he mumbles, once his breath is returned, and I realise I'm plastered over his back, practically dead weight on him.

"Sorry," I whisper, pulling back and pulling out, patting the small of his back when he hisses at the emptiness. With a little help from my nudging, he rolls over and flops onto his back, and. Looking at me with half-lidded eyes, he looks like a complete wet dream come true: he's sprawling with lax limbs and legs that fall slightly apart, his face is a delicate pink that matches his chest and his stomach is smeared a little, his hair a dark shock against the bed.

"Don't," he breathes, shaking his head violently. "You say that too much, don't apologise. Not after—don't."

I smile weakly, drowsiness tugging at my senses, and I crawl up the bed until our mouths can meet. "Didn't hurt you, right?" He sighs, shaking his head with a little content smile. Somehow, I slot myself in beside him as his arms circle around me and he buries his face in the crook of my neck, mouthing unsaid words against the skin. I shiver.

A tiny ounce of uncertainty creeps back in from somewhere, now that the chemicals and the endorphins have all ceased and the adrenaline stopped rushing, and I don't know what to do, quite simply. I don't know how to act or what to say or how to be in this version of us, so tempted to fall back into old habits, push him away and run and shut him out, but I don't want that. I just don't understand the alternative.

"So, uh. What now?" I ask him, aware that I'm putting myself on the line with a question like that.

Brendon pulls away enough to smirk at me, his eyes glinting. A clump of his hair is sticking straight up, and it makes me smile. God, it's fond, the smile. "Well," he muses, "we have at least another hour and a half."

My grin meets his in a messy kiss, and in between his hands clutching me and wanting me to stay and his lips with their unspoken implications, there's no room to be unsure anymore.

* * *

So, we're boyfriends.

Whatever.

* * *