redorchids | Transition: Make-Out Confrontation -> Wedding of Doom (Reply)

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For a second, Brendon thinks that desire has won out, that Ryan’s hand coming up to tangle in his hair is confirmation, that they’re doing this—they’re finally, finally giving in to this. The next thing he knows, his head is being pulled back painfully, and Ryan is scrambling out of the car, yanking his jeans back up over his hips and fumbling to tighten his belt.

Brendon stays slumped on the floor for a long while, resting his head on the empty seat, trying to convince himself that a heated declaration carries just as little weight as a drunken one, trying to force himself not to give in to the dark feeling blooming in his chest.

Ryan doesn’t say anything when he comes back, just puts a hand around Brendon’s neck, urging him off the floor, pulling him into a crushing hug against the seat before moving to help refasten his pants.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Brendon hears the unspoken desperation there, the underlying longing of the short words. “Fuck, Bren, I’m so, so sorry.” It’s enough to choke him; how is he even supposed to breathe with newly-murdered hope clogging up every cell in his lungs?

He manages a nod and stumbles out the passenger door, letting some fresh air wash through the car while he walks around the hood to the other side, getting back in behind the steering wheel. The drive to Ryan’s house is as quiet as the drive from the hotel, but most of the oppressive tension is gone between them, replaced instead with lingering sadness and a dash of despair. Their hands ghost against one another on the armrest between them, and Ryan moves closer, tangling their fingers together, leaning into Brendon’s space.

Brendon drives faster.

How would you like your angst?

Simple and understated || Poetic and free-flowing