Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > Homework Was Never Quite Like This
Brendon’s cell began to ring at quarter past seven, that night. He’d been quite excited about the sudden popularity, but the number was one he didn’t recognize. He was hesitant at first, but after a few tempting rings, he answered.
“It’s Brendon, right?” Came a smooth, deep voice. Brendon’s heart skipped a beat and a smile stretched across his face so fast, scars could easily have formed.
“Mr Ross? I mean-” He shook his head in embarrassment, the smile creeping ever wider. “Ryan?”
Ryan chuckled and bit into what was probably an apple. It made a sharp crisp noise as his teeth bit into it and began to chew.
“How did you- uh, how did you get my number?” Brendon asked, amazed, if not incredibly confused. He lay down on the bed in which he was perched, and unbuttoned his jeans for comfort. He dragged his nails across his chest; scratching until a white glow and a burning sensation followed. He thought for a moment that it was his eczema, but when he looked down, he could see the blurred shadow of a deep purple bruise, dotted with red.
“One can find all sorts of information, if one looks hard enough.” Ryan replied superiorly. Brendon laughed and for a moment, he felt as though he was talking to someone of his own maturity.
“Which loosely translates to you checking my file and dialing the first contact number on the list.” He joked.
“Not true!” Ryan replied, smiling broadly as he inspected the apple for a place to take a fresh chunk out of. “You home number was the first on the list and there was no way I’d be phoning that.” There was a brief pause before another word was spoken. Brendon’s silence was due to his being so very content. Ryan’s was due to his pushing a cigarette in his mouth and taking a lighter from the table to illuminate the end of it. He breathed it out noisily, exhaling a pleasant sigh as he relaxed into a leather sofa.
“How do you feel about grabbing some dinner with me?” Ryan asked, surely and as Brendon stuttered out an agreement, he nodded to himself. Of course he would eat out with him. They agreed on a time and place and both were soon gussying up for their date. Ryan picked Brendon up in his car discretely and Brendon spent the entire car ride playing a drum beat on his knees. Ryan’s eyes darted from the stretch of road before him, to Brendon’s ever-moving hands, constantly. Part of him wanted to stop the car and demand Brendon cease the tapping, or else they wouldn’t go to dinner, but there was another part that wanted to park the car, because he really wanted to climb on Brendon’s sharp, awkward frame.
With most teachers, their lives are completely different outside of the tattered workbooks melting in the sun and painted tarmac, burning under the heat of shiny new-term shoes. Every teacher Brendon’s ever accidently stumbled into, outside of their comfortable blackboard defense, has been unrecognizable in the real world. But Mr. Ross was the exact same. He sat, very nonchalant, on his side of the booth and chewed the end of a cocktail straw. Brendon supposed he must be a smoker, because when he took it from his mouth, he held the straw between his forefinger and middle finger, twisting it every so often. Brendon stared. Those pools of saliva were thawing in his mouth again, they were rising up and filling every piece of his mouth like a cup set out in the rain, they were building like a V-Shaped Valley’s river during floods, they were drowning him. He swallowed every three seconds; trying to rid his mouth of the moisture. Ryan ate his food with such accidental decorum, but Brendon was sloppy and messy and the napkin he’d placed on his lap was quickly filled with spaghetti sauce and the splatter of a meatball. The meal was cute though- so long as you didn’t delve into Brendon’s thoughts too wildly. Brendon offered Ryan some of his pasta and Ryan fed Brendon a slice of pizza.
At the end of the meal, they shared an ice cream sundae.
They walked to Ryan’s car contently, close enough to touch, but not close enough to be considered too “coupley”.
Ryan drove them back to his apartment and offered the produce of his kettle as bait to lure Brendon in. Brendon nodded and snuck out of the car to follow Ryan through the darkness of his common stairwell. It was well after nine at night when they left the restaurant, and gone ten when Brendon’s eyes caught a glimpse of Ryan’s living room for the first time.
“Coffee?” Ryan called, from the kitchen down the hall. Brendon barely heard him; his eyes were transfixed on the expensive French, leather sofa, the completely, one-hundred-percent recycled glass coffee table sitting on a hand-woven rug, shipped over from India, with a note of authenticity written on corrugated cardboard and signed by the slave driver that sent the Indian women to work for four cents an hour, on fifteen hour shifts. And the masterpieces hanging on three walls, in bronze frames around the giant room, with the final wall supporting a flat screen television.
“N-no thanks.” Brendon finally answered, turning his head a little to answer, but incapable of turning his head from the room in front of him. “Actually, it’s getting kind of late; I should be getting home.”
The clattering in the kitchen stopped, leaving one sound and only that; the rupturing of the water inside the kettle.
“Oh.” Was all Ryan said on the matter. He was disappointed, but Brendon was, after all a seventeen year old pupil at the school he worked at. No, Brendon was probably right to leave right about now. Leaving now would be a good idea. He slipped out of the kitchen to see his front door close behind Brendon and sighed bitterly.
Then suddenly his eyes widened. No. No, this was wrong. Brendon wasn’t supposed to leave; this wasn’t how the night was supposed to end! His legs strode across the room until he found the lock of his front door. He swung it open and his mouth gaped; ready to shout after Brendon.
But he was standing there. Fighting his conscience. Wanting to go back into Ryan’s apartment and drool over him some more. Wanting Ryan. Brendon turned slowly to see Ryan’s panic-stricken face and smiled wickedly. He took one, small, calm step forward into Ryan and blinked. Then, both hands were shooting up and taking a hold of Ryan’s collar, pulling him forward into a filthy, wet, kiss. Ryan’s hands tore at Brendon’s hips and used his belt as a hook to reel him into the apartment. The door was kicked shut by a shaking adolescent foot, attached to a quaking adolescent leg, to the left of a throbbing pulse between the adolescent’s thighs.
“Ryan,” Brendon struggled, after a long hard session of kissing in the middle of his living room. “Ryan, will you-” Ryan muffled the words with another swarm off kisses. He pushed into Brendon and kept pushing until his back slammed against a wall. “Ryan!” Brendon repeated and Ryan panted heavily. He apologized and Brendon’s face became a blank. “I need to you promise me something.” Brendon began, sure of himself and taking charge of the situation, one small victorious breath at a time. Ryan was a mess; he could barely hear the smutty thoughts screaming in his head, because so many came to him at one time. He nodded though and Brendon smiled.
“I need you to promise that after tonight, I’ll still exist.” He remarked, dryly and over exaggerating the movement his mouth was required to do, in order to let the words form clearly.
“Brendon.” Ryan replied, equally as certain. “If it’s all right with you, I’d really, really like to fuck you. And I don’t just mean tonight. Today was a fucking good day and I’d like to have plenty more.” Brendon made an agreeing “mmm” sound behind his ground teeth and his eyes narrowed seductively at Ryan’s swollen lip. “This.” Ryan mumbled, planting a dirty kiss on Brendon’s jaw. “Is just the beginning.” Another kiss, higher along his jaw. Then another. Then one more. Then whispering in his ear, “Now let’s put this to good use.” Ryan whispered wetly, cupping Brendon and squeezing playfully.
“It’s Brendon, right?” Came a smooth, deep voice. Brendon’s heart skipped a beat and a smile stretched across his face so fast, scars could easily have formed.
“Mr Ross? I mean-” He shook his head in embarrassment, the smile creeping ever wider. “Ryan?”
Ryan chuckled and bit into what was probably an apple. It made a sharp crisp noise as his teeth bit into it and began to chew.
“How did you- uh, how did you get my number?” Brendon asked, amazed, if not incredibly confused. He lay down on the bed in which he was perched, and unbuttoned his jeans for comfort. He dragged his nails across his chest; scratching until a white glow and a burning sensation followed. He thought for a moment that it was his eczema, but when he looked down, he could see the blurred shadow of a deep purple bruise, dotted with red.
“One can find all sorts of information, if one looks hard enough.” Ryan replied superiorly. Brendon laughed and for a moment, he felt as though he was talking to someone of his own maturity.
“Which loosely translates to you checking my file and dialing the first contact number on the list.” He joked.
“Not true!” Ryan replied, smiling broadly as he inspected the apple for a place to take a fresh chunk out of. “You home number was the first on the list and there was no way I’d be phoning that.” There was a brief pause before another word was spoken. Brendon’s silence was due to his being so very content. Ryan’s was due to his pushing a cigarette in his mouth and taking a lighter from the table to illuminate the end of it. He breathed it out noisily, exhaling a pleasant sigh as he relaxed into a leather sofa.
“How do you feel about grabbing some dinner with me?” Ryan asked, surely and as Brendon stuttered out an agreement, he nodded to himself. Of course he would eat out with him. They agreed on a time and place and both were soon gussying up for their date. Ryan picked Brendon up in his car discretely and Brendon spent the entire car ride playing a drum beat on his knees. Ryan’s eyes darted from the stretch of road before him, to Brendon’s ever-moving hands, constantly. Part of him wanted to stop the car and demand Brendon cease the tapping, or else they wouldn’t go to dinner, but there was another part that wanted to park the car, because he really wanted to climb on Brendon’s sharp, awkward frame.
With most teachers, their lives are completely different outside of the tattered workbooks melting in the sun and painted tarmac, burning under the heat of shiny new-term shoes. Every teacher Brendon’s ever accidently stumbled into, outside of their comfortable blackboard defense, has been unrecognizable in the real world. But Mr. Ross was the exact same. He sat, very nonchalant, on his side of the booth and chewed the end of a cocktail straw. Brendon supposed he must be a smoker, because when he took it from his mouth, he held the straw between his forefinger and middle finger, twisting it every so often. Brendon stared. Those pools of saliva were thawing in his mouth again, they were rising up and filling every piece of his mouth like a cup set out in the rain, they were building like a V-Shaped Valley’s river during floods, they were drowning him. He swallowed every three seconds; trying to rid his mouth of the moisture. Ryan ate his food with such accidental decorum, but Brendon was sloppy and messy and the napkin he’d placed on his lap was quickly filled with spaghetti sauce and the splatter of a meatball. The meal was cute though- so long as you didn’t delve into Brendon’s thoughts too wildly. Brendon offered Ryan some of his pasta and Ryan fed Brendon a slice of pizza.
At the end of the meal, they shared an ice cream sundae.
They walked to Ryan’s car contently, close enough to touch, but not close enough to be considered too “coupley”.
Ryan drove them back to his apartment and offered the produce of his kettle as bait to lure Brendon in. Brendon nodded and snuck out of the car to follow Ryan through the darkness of his common stairwell. It was well after nine at night when they left the restaurant, and gone ten when Brendon’s eyes caught a glimpse of Ryan’s living room for the first time.
“Coffee?” Ryan called, from the kitchen down the hall. Brendon barely heard him; his eyes were transfixed on the expensive French, leather sofa, the completely, one-hundred-percent recycled glass coffee table sitting on a hand-woven rug, shipped over from India, with a note of authenticity written on corrugated cardboard and signed by the slave driver that sent the Indian women to work for four cents an hour, on fifteen hour shifts. And the masterpieces hanging on three walls, in bronze frames around the giant room, with the final wall supporting a flat screen television.
“N-no thanks.” Brendon finally answered, turning his head a little to answer, but incapable of turning his head from the room in front of him. “Actually, it’s getting kind of late; I should be getting home.”
The clattering in the kitchen stopped, leaving one sound and only that; the rupturing of the water inside the kettle.
“Oh.” Was all Ryan said on the matter. He was disappointed, but Brendon was, after all a seventeen year old pupil at the school he worked at. No, Brendon was probably right to leave right about now. Leaving now would be a good idea. He slipped out of the kitchen to see his front door close behind Brendon and sighed bitterly.
Then suddenly his eyes widened. No. No, this was wrong. Brendon wasn’t supposed to leave; this wasn’t how the night was supposed to end! His legs strode across the room until he found the lock of his front door. He swung it open and his mouth gaped; ready to shout after Brendon.
But he was standing there. Fighting his conscience. Wanting to go back into Ryan’s apartment and drool over him some more. Wanting Ryan. Brendon turned slowly to see Ryan’s panic-stricken face and smiled wickedly. He took one, small, calm step forward into Ryan and blinked. Then, both hands were shooting up and taking a hold of Ryan’s collar, pulling him forward into a filthy, wet, kiss. Ryan’s hands tore at Brendon’s hips and used his belt as a hook to reel him into the apartment. The door was kicked shut by a shaking adolescent foot, attached to a quaking adolescent leg, to the left of a throbbing pulse between the adolescent’s thighs.
“Ryan,” Brendon struggled, after a long hard session of kissing in the middle of his living room. “Ryan, will you-” Ryan muffled the words with another swarm off kisses. He pushed into Brendon and kept pushing until his back slammed against a wall. “Ryan!” Brendon repeated and Ryan panted heavily. He apologized and Brendon’s face became a blank. “I need to you promise me something.” Brendon began, sure of himself and taking charge of the situation, one small victorious breath at a time. Ryan was a mess; he could barely hear the smutty thoughts screaming in his head, because so many came to him at one time. He nodded though and Brendon smiled.
“I need you to promise that after tonight, I’ll still exist.” He remarked, dryly and over exaggerating the movement his mouth was required to do, in order to let the words form clearly.
“Brendon.” Ryan replied, equally as certain. “If it’s all right with you, I’d really, really like to fuck you. And I don’t just mean tonight. Today was a fucking good day and I’d like to have plenty more.” Brendon made an agreeing “mmm” sound behind his ground teeth and his eyes narrowed seductively at Ryan’s swollen lip. “This.” Ryan mumbled, planting a dirty kiss on Brendon’s jaw. “Is just the beginning.” Another kiss, higher along his jaw. Then another. Then one more. Then whispering in his ear, “Now let’s put this to good use.” Ryan whispered wetly, cupping Brendon and squeezing playfully.
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