'Cause I Don't Wanna Read The Book (I'll Watch The Movie)
Right around the part of the movie when the Baron and Sally are softly, eerily washing ashore on the silver sawdust sand of the Moon, Patrick looks to his right and finds that Ryan has fallen asleep.
He's tucked on his side, his open mouth slack against the armrest and the light from the television flickering on his eyelids. His legs have relaxed, uncurled, and lie stretched out towards Patrick, outlined long and thin under the drape of his slacks.
Patrick grins over at Pete, who rolls his eyes fondly and mouths kids before turning back to the movie.
~*~
Ryan hangs out on their bus a lot. He plays a few video games when Joe can convince him, but mostly he spends the time writing with Pete, which really means talking with Pete.
Patrick tries to give them some space at first, but the sixth time Pete hollers down the aisle for his opinion, he has no choice but to abandon the Tao of Pooh and the comfort of his bunk, make his way to the lounge and plop himself down next to Ryan, patiently explaining that no, Steely Dan does not sound like they're from the Bay Area, and this is why.
He sits in pretty much every time after that.
One afternoon, an hour out from Cincinnati, it comes to light that Ryan's movie education is firmly slanted towards the angry intellectual youth genre Fight Club, Requiem for a Dream, Reservoir Dogs, Heathers. Patrick personally doesn't think someone who cites Counting Crows as one of his greatest influences needs a lecture plus lab experiential on appreciating diversity in media, but he's always willing to champion Pete's causes for as long as they're entertaining.
"I'm not saying they're not powerful movies," Pete says, resting his chin on his knees. "Because they obviously are, and they're great commentaries, and they're art imitating life in the real overhead way, Fear and Loathing, right?"
"But there's more to cinematic satisfaction than wide-lens camera angles and disaffected rage," Patrick interjects.
"Gee, really, Mr. Ebert?"
"Shut up." Patrick kicks out at Ryan, who grins and swings his leg out of reach. "What I'm saying is "
"What he's saying is that you can connect as deeply with your Forrest Gump as you can with your Scarface."
Patrick frowns. "You think Scarface is a commentary?"
"What, you don't?"
Patrick shakes his head and Pete scowls. "I don't think you've seen it."
"I have too."
"If you don't think it's a commentary, you haven't."
"I've seen it," Ryan ventures, "it's definitely a commentary."
"But so is Forrest Gump, that's what I'm saying," Pete argues.
Ryan shakes his head, hair falling in his eyes. Patrick watches him push it away and almost offers him one of his hats to wear, just to keep the bangs at bay. "I've seen Forrest Gump," Ryan says.
"Of course he has, who hasn't?" Patrick says to Pete.
"But I thought it was kind of overdone and maudlin," Ryan finishes.
Pete sighs sufferingly and takes it upon himself to helm the effort to get Ryan as well-versed in Rob Reiner's value system as he is in Kubrick's. Patrick continues to sit in as guest commentator and general mediator.
"To give him a more balanced viewpoint," he explains, and Pete nods without a discernible trace of amusement.
~*~
The next thing Patrick knows, Pete is saying something right into his ear and a weight is settling on his legs. He blinks once, twice, and looks past the looming shadow of Pete's body to find that the end credits are rolling over the faint strains of triumphant orchestral music. The clock of the DVD player informs him that it's an hour past fuck-dudes-we-have-to-be-in-Des-Moines-and-soundchecking-in-five-hours.
Patrick looks down to where Ryan's feet lie on his thighs, his heels nearly brushing Patrick's fly, and looks back up at Pete, who spreads his hands wide in innocence before flipping Patrick off affectionately and heading for his bunk, hitting the light the way out.
The high-contrast blue of the television screen casts a ghostly indigo luminance over the lounge, darkening the shadows. The steady rolling thrum of the bus wheels turning beneath them blends with the rush of air past the windowpanes as they skim down the highway at sixty miles an hour, deep white noise.
Patrick sits still for a moment, deeply comfortable in the corner of the couch, the sweet haze of sleep still lapping at his consciousness, and the light press of Ryan's legs warm in his lap.
He shakes his head, reaches for the remote and switches off the media center, jostling Ryan a bit in the process.
"Hey." Ryan's voice is rough with sleep.
~*~
When Pete tells him about the band he discovered, just up in Vegas, Patrick's willing to be open-minded while retaining some sense of realism. Pete isn't stupid, not by a long shot, but neither is Pete immune to well-crafted appeals.
A few weeks later, when Pete introduces Patrick to Ryan Ross, and Ryan smiles coolly, calmly, from under Pete's arm and sticks out his hand, Patrick thinks okay, there's a kid who thinks he knows the score. This is his first impression of Ryan, and it sticks with him for longer than he'd like to admit, even after he acknowledges to himself and to Pete that there are some really interesting chord progressions on the Panic record that could really take it somewhere.
His impression starts to change when he realizes that he's watching for the cock of Ryan's hips, the way he flops into chairs, the attentive tilt of his chin. Ryan's small but ready smile becomes familiar to Patrick, and he begins to notice how Ryan's face easily slides from that smile into nonchalance with a protective veneer of disinterest. He finds he can anticipate when he'll turn to see Ryan with that cool look in his eyes, the way he had first looked at Patrick from the safety of Pete's side, the way he'd looked at the other guys when he met them.
Ryan later confides to Patrick that meeting him and Andy and Joe down in Los Angeles that day had actually been the single most exciting moment of his life up to that point, because that had been the day that Ryan had realized that this is all actually happening.
"IMing with Pete, talking to him, even him coming up to meet us and watching us play? That was one thing, one seriously fucking surreal and cool thing. But this this is "
Ryan's voice breaks off and his eyes are as starry as Patrick has ever seen (on anyone who isn't Pete, of course). "My band got signed," Ryan finishes, hand waving futilely, and Patrick wants to take it and tuck it against his chest and tell Ryan just how intensely and powerfully he knows what Ryan means. Instead, he nods.
Ryan looks away and when he looks back, he says measuredly, "I have to make this just what's happening to me right now. I have to adjust. So that I can handle this, because this is something that's real and I can handle this."
"No shit," Patrick says. "You can. It's much easier than it looks."
Ryan looks at him.
Patrick shrugs. "The money helps."
Ryan blinks once, then bursts out laughing. Patrick shrugs again, inwardly pleased. And it's when Ryan wipes the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, his eyes bright and his back half-turned away, that Patrick looks at him and wants him for a staggering moment.
~*~
"Hey," Patrick says, tapping the top of Ryan's foot gently. "You wanna crash here or in the spare bunk?"
"Mmmm," Ryan says by way of response, stretching his left arm up and over his head. His legs flex, lifting from Patrick's thighs for a moment before settling back down. "Did they save the town?"
"Guess you'll actually have to watch it to see, huh?"
"Yeah, man, I was exhausted." Ryan yawns widely. "Rain check on that?"
"I don't know. Pete might want to show you kung-fu movies next."
"I know kung fu," Ryan says deadpan, then raises a lazy eyebrow. "In his dreams does Keanu Reeves know kung fu."
"If he didn't know it before The Matrix, he knows it now." Patrick taps Ryan's foot again, except it's less of a tap and more of a light stroke.
~*~
So now, every few nights, Pete sits on the loveseat and Ryan and Patrick sit on the couch, and Pete points out the best part of Legend ("call that a kiss?") and Patrick begs to differ ("the Tangerine Dream crescendo when they fix the unicorn's horn"), and they argue over whether or not Fezzik could take Ludo in a street brawl. Sometimes, when Patrick turns to ask Ryan what he thinks, he sees Ryan's mouth already moving to chime in.
The other guys join them on occasion, Andy and Spence the most often, but Patrick's favorite nights are the nights that Patrick lays a blanket over Ryan while Pete gently wrestles his shoes off and they turn off the lights and wake up hours later and eat toast together, and he sometimes looks at Ryan over the jam on the rickety tourbus table and then pretends not to notice Ryan looking back at him.
~*~
"Why don't you pick the movie next time?" Ryan suggests.
"I am picking it," Patrick says. "I was thinking War Games. You know, with Matthew Broderick?"
"And the girl from The Breakfast Club."
"Oh, well, if you've seen it, that defeats the purpose."
Ryan rolls his shoulders, grimacing at the slight cracking of his joints. "Pete'll get over it."
~*~
"It's okay," Pete tells him one night, "really. I'm not fucking him. I don't want to fuck him, and he sure as hell doesn't want to fuck me."
Patrick, who is so done blushing over this, nods.
~*~
"I like this, though." Ryan shifts closer, and Patrick he doesn't tense, but he feels like his awareness has been heightened, like static electricity is lancing through him. "It doesnt matter if I've seen the movie you guys want me to see."
"It doesn't," Patrick agrees. Ryan moves even closer still, so far into Patrick's personal space that Patrick can feel the heat of his body, and suddenly Patrick has to close his eyes for a second, this bright fucking gorgeous kid practically in his lap and is this okay?
"Hey," Ryan says, his voice coming from above like he's perched over Patrick. "Am I - am I wrong here?"
"You know you're not," Patrick answers without even thinking about it. He opens his eyes as Ryan shifts over him, one leg on either side of him, arms bracketing Patrick's head. His face is intent and Patrick can't see what he's thinking. Oh, god. "Ryan. I'm not "
"I am," Ryan interrupts and leans down.
His lips are warm and dry on Patrick's cheek and when Patrick sucks in a sharp breath, they move to the tender underside of Patrick's jaw. Patrick's head tilts to the side automatically and somehow his hands have found their way to Ryan's waist, fingers spanning around to his spine, holding Ryan there above him.
"You are too," Ryan whispers into Patrick's neck, the words forming goose bumps on Patrick's skin. Patrick shivers and tightens his grip. Ryan's weight is centered on his groin and it's so delicious, so brightly, suddenly almost there, tingling anticipation, and Patrick can feel himself grow hard.
"Yeah," he hears himself say, and you know what? Yeah. Because if Ryan's offering, really offering, then Patrick's no fool. "Yeah, okay," and he lifts his chin to catch Ryan's mouth.
Ryan makes a small, desperate sound and opens for Patrick, rocking his hips forward as Patrick licks at his lower lip and pulls Ryan's tongue into his mouth. His hand traces the line of Ryan's back up to his shoulder-blades and the slim nape of his neck.
Ryan's fingers lightly cage Patrick's jaw and he kisses him thoroughly, lingering on Patrick's mouth, exploring every angle, tender and increasingly hungry. Patrick's never had a first kiss like this before. He's never had a kiss like this before at all.
Ryan cups Patrick's cheek when he pulls back, looks him with those eyes, those deep fucking eyes. Then it's Patrick who reaches for Ryan.
~*~
Patrick somehow finds himself on his back, sprawled on the couch with Ryan lying between his legs, slowly pulsing his hips down as he lips at Patrick's throat, his collarbone, his chest through his shirt.
Patrick frowns, shifting uncomfortably, sucking in his stomach as best he can these fucking skinny kids, why was he cursed? until Ryan strokes the side of his hip and fits his mouth hotly around the outline of Patrick's cock through his jeans.
Patrick shudders out a sigh, brushes his fingers through Ryan's hair, and decides not to worry about it.
Ryan's fingers work and Patrick's hips lift and god, he's hard and he doesn't want to thrust up because really, how rude is that? So he doesn't and Ryan's hand curls around the base of his cock and Ryan casts that cool look over him, the one that projects such confident acceptance, except now Patrick knows it means excited too.
"I've seen The Adventures of Baron Munchausen before," Ryan says as he strokes the flat of his palm over the damp head of Patrick's cock and then strokes down. Patrick arches slightly.
"You have?" he manages.
Ryan nods, and his hand is fucking perfection, tight and steady. "But it's cute to let Pete get what he wants."
This is something that Patrick's known about Pete almost as long as he's known Pete and hearing Ryan say it out loud makes him smile. "Psychoanalyst," he says, and oh, Ryan leans down and thoughtfully licks the underside of Patrick's dick, his tongue a wet, hot pass over every nerve ending in Patrick's body.
"Maybe. But it's also nice to spend time with you." Ryan licks again, and this time takes the whole head in his mouth, sucking hard and fierce and sudden, then taking Patrick by urgent surprise by moving his head down and taking him halfway in. Patrick swallows a moan, hard and guttural, and his head falls back against the sofa.
Ryan works up a rhythm between his hand and his mouth, going deep on every third or fourth stroke, and Patrick dizzily wonders exactly where Ryan Ross learned to suck cock like this and decides he doesn't actually care.
At some point, the rest of their clothes come off and Patrick skims his hands over Ryan's chest, the planes of Ryan's thin back. He keeps casting nervous glances at the closed door of the lounge until Ryan kisses him and grinds down in his lap and starts working, thrusting against him with steady intent, and Ryan's hair is long and it tickles Patrick's face when Ryan leans in with his tongue insistent, demanding, and Patrick's hands grip Ryan's ass, pulling him forward recklessly.
The rhythm Ryan's setting sets Patrick's blood on fire; damp skin and searing kisses and friction, god, hot pressure, fuck yeah. Patrick pulls Ryan's hips down against him as he thrusts up - Ryan's balls slide against his dick and Patrick whimpers a little. His fingers curl around and his index finger slips in, right up close, and Ryan bucks and groans and pushes backwards and Patrick's cock slides so warm, so slick and nice between the cheeks of Ryan's ass and god.
Patrick comes, shuddering, his cock jerking and Ryan kisses him all through it, his body riding it, and Ryan's cock pushes against Patrick's stomach and it only takes a licked palm and a stroke to get Ryan coming, red-faced and moaning, shaking against Patrick and mindlessly mouthing the crook of his neck as his body spends itself.
Stroking Ryan's back, Patrick wonders if it would raise too much comment should both he and Ryan emerge from his bunk in the morning.
"Hey guys," Pete's whisper comes floating through the door, "can you keep it down? Soundcheck in four hours."
Ryan lifts his head and looks at Patrick, open and flushed and smiling, and Patrick knows that he doesn't care how much comment gets raised.
~*~
"You fucking adorable asshole," Pete says the next morning. "Did I show you any movie you hadn't seen before?"
"Um. The Three Amigos?"
"Liar," Patrick says, pushing the jam across to Ryan, and Ryan smiles and takes it from him.