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After He Unlocked the Door	By : druscillaryan Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Panic! At The Disco Views: 976 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Panic! At the Disco. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-After He Unlocked the Door
- 1
Inspired by the song "GINASFS".

After He Unlocked the Door.

PETE AND RYAN

I.

Things aren't the same anymore,
Some nights it gets so bad that I almost pick up the phone.
Trade baby blues, for wide-eyed browns.
I sleep with your old shirts,
And walk through this house in your shoes.
I know it's strange.
It's a strange way of saying that I know I'm supposed to love you.
I'm supposed to love you.

II.

If I would have known it was going to happen, I wouldn’t have done it. You might not believe me, no one does really, but I wouldn’t have. I didn’t know it was going to happen. He wasn’t like that when I first met him. Sure, he was new and cute and almost innocent, but he wasn’t like that. That came later, with hair products and money and clothes.

I never meant to fuck everything up. I never meant to sleep with him. I didn’t know what he was going to become. I didn’t know that he was going to become this beautiful . . . thing that my dick twitched at the mere sight of. And I sure as hell didn’t know the tricks he was going to learn, the subtle body language and angles of his hips.

He meant to. I didn’t.

It was only supposed to be once, only one time. And it’s not like I did anything wrong that time either. I mean, we were broken up. I didn’t cheat. You’re allowed to fuck people when you’re single, right?

III.

“How much make-up are you wearing?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him, scrutinizing his face.

“Enough,” he said briefly, turning his head to the side oh-so-casually and letting his fingers run down the pale skin of his neck. He turned back to me, expression blank. “Are you ready?” When he bent down to tie his shoes, the back of his shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of flesh.

I licked my suddenly dry lips. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He stood up, shaking his hair back from his face and touching two fingers to his lips as if he were thinking. “Let’s go then.”

“Is Brendon coming?” I managed to ask as we walked outside and he turned back to lock the door. I could see the pattern of his spine if I stared hard enough at his shirt.

“No.” He offered no other explanation and I knew he hadn’t asked. God, he had such a pretty face and such a dark mind underneath it. He turned, his head cocked a few centimeters to the side and an almost-smile on his face. “Just you and me.”

I swallowed and turned, walking toward the car. Just say no. Just . . . tell him you’re sick. Make up an appointment. Just lie to him, Pete! Instead I unlocked his door and adjusted the rearview mirror.

He leaned toward the door, his arm up and his chin resting in his hand. It was dark and the street lights made his skin glow and his eyes sparkle. He moved his head to the side and brushed his hair off his neck. His breath made small circles of steam on the window.

He must have known what he was doing but, fuck, it seemed so innocent. And that just made me want it more, want him more. He lead me on. I could already feel the crotch of my jeans becoming tighter.

“I hate parties,” he said suddenly. “I even hated them in high school.”

“Then why do you come?” I asked. It was what I was supposed to say, what I was expected to say. He knew that.

“Because,” he answered, cocking his head to look at me, “you ask me to.”

“Aren’t you accommodating?”

“Can I smoke?” he asked, eyes still fixed on me, acting like he hadn’t heard me speak.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Can I?”

“Roll the window down.” That was a terrible idea. The cold bit at the tips of his ears and nose, tousled his hair. I’d never seen anything so beautiful, that male Helen of Troy blowing cigarette smoke into the night.

“If you say anything about me being the new cancer, I’ll bite your dick off.” It was said with cool certainty and a raised eyebrow.

He was turning into me, once upon a time. God, his hips in those jeans . . .

IV.

The part was loud, hot, and intoxicated. He barely drank, but I was tipsy in the first half hour. It became my own private drinking game. Every time he twisted his hair around his finger, brushed his hip against mine, swooped his hair from his neck, tickled my ear with his lips—take a drink.

Then he was breathing on my neck, I could feel it on my skin, the moisture, first warm and then cool. “It’s loud. Let’s go.”

“Where?” I barely got the word out. I sounded like I was going through puberty again.

He set his glass down and then his hand was in mine, so smoothly, like it was supposed to be there. (Or not, when my hand twitched in his.) He pulled me down the stairs like he actually knew where he was going. I didn’t hear the door lock, but I remember him unlocking it when he left, so I must have missed it.

He sat down on the couch and lit a cigarette, leaning back, but turning his hips toward mine. His shirt rode up just enough to show me the top of his hipbone. My fingers found it by accident.

Then, he turned.

V.

His leg was between mine. His hand was on the back of my neck, gripping my hair tightly. It almost hurt. He blew his smoke against my neck, threw the cigarette on the floor. His lips were so close I could feel his breath in my mouth.

“Pete.” The word was almost a whisper, but more airy. His hand almost snapped my neck. My jeans were getting tight again.

His eyes were fixed on mine. Our faces were mirrors of opposites. His skin pale, mine tan. His eyes brown, mine green. His face beautiful, mine not so much. And, for some reason, the power that I usually held in my features (or maybe just thought I did) was all in his.

His lips were so close . . . I could smell the lingering smoke on his breath.

“Do you want it?”

My lips were trembling. “W-We can’t.”

“You want me.” His lips were against my ear again. Now his fingers were stroking the back of my neck. His knee was pressed against my crotch. I knew it was wrong. I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew it, I knew it, but he lead me on!

I lowered my head and kissed his neck. God, his skin felt like Heaven. “Fuck . . .”

“We’ll get there,” he said, chuckling. Then he bit my neck, sucking like he was getting paid for it. I knew there would be a dark bruise there, I’d seen them before on Brendon, seen the dirty little grin when someone pointed them out.

“Tell me you want me.” Now his hand was on the waistband of my jeans, his thumb rubbing against the silver button.

I pulled back, eyes wide. He was so assertive, so aggressive. And even in getting fucked, I was always in charge, somehow. The make-up and the hairspray changed everything. “We shouldn’t do this,” I whispered.

“He broke up with you.” It was a hiss, it was a growl, it was a snarl. Whatever it was, my ears hurt. “Grow a set of balls and fuck me. You’re single tonight. Don’t fucking waste it.” His eyes flashed, his teeth flashed, and then we were kissing. He was pushing me backwards on the couch, fingers under my shirt, hips pressed against mine. And I wanted him like I’d never wanted anything in my life, wanted to taste him, feel him, breathe him, be inside him. He was beautiful and he was mine, tonight.

“Tell me you want me,” he said again and this time I said it, rolled my hips against his, brought my hands to his back, fingers running over the small expanse of flesh underneath the gap in his jeans, the small of his back, cool to the touch but warming under my fingers.

His lips were teeth and his teeth were lips; nothing seemed to make sense. His fingers were rough and his palms were soft. His lashes were dark and his eyes were on fire. My shirt was off and so was his. I felt his lips kissing a trail across my tattoo. His nails were scratching, scraping, leaving ugly red marks in their wake.

I let out a garbled moan and he swallowed it, licking his lips before they turned upward in an ominous sort of smile. He bit my shoulder and I swore, my back involuntarily arching, my body pressed flat against his: chest to chest, hips to hips, cock to cock. And finally I felt him hard against me.

He let one of his hands drift, slowly slipping down my torso, scratching against my hipbone, sliding across denim, and finally pressing against my clothed and straining erection. He let a breath escape from his lips to my ear before I felt him kiss my neck, gently, softly. “How long?” he murmured.

I tried to answer, string words together, gain control through vocabulary. Instead, a sound very much like a whine escaped my throat as I rocked against his hand.

“How long,” he repeated quietly, “have you wanted to fuck me?”

“Ry . . .”

He undid the button and the zipper on my jeans with only one hand, taking all the time he could before his fingers finally slipped under the fabric to grab my cock. His thumb slid across the head before he casually popped it into his mouth, licking off the precome.

Then, my jeans were around my ankles.

VI.

To say he was good at it would be an understatement. His tongue was moving in all directions at once and his teeth were barely there, but so fucking noticeable. His head bobbing up and down with my hand in his hair, not protesting or saying anything when I accidentally lost control and bucked upward into his mouth. I was hitting the back of his mouth over and over and then, suddenly, it was like there was no back of his mouth, my entire cock down his throat.

And then he sat up, his thumb quickly wiping at the corners of his mouth. He stared at me expectantly and I stared back, unmoving. His nails dug into my hips, pulling just enough. Angry, red, crescent moons in my skin. Then my hands on his hips, squeezing appreciatively just once before moving to button and zipper. He stood up and kicked the jeans across the room, then he was straddling my waist, lowering himself onto my cock. No prep, no lube. Just desire, sex, necessity, want.

I moaned, trying not to swear as I palmed his hips again. The heat, the tightness, the intensity. He was arching back, grabbing his own ankles, staring at the ceiling. Long, slow movements, tightening around my cock as he slid down, loosening as he glided upward again.

Then his hands were on my chest, he was lower to me, parallel, staring into my eyes. The strokes were shorter, but quicker, harder, slamming down with such force, nearly growling with every movement, his eyes dark, sweat beading across his neck and breastbone. So beautiful, so wild, so dark.

His hand on my throat, squeezing. I could breathe, barely, my heart pounded in my ears as he came—hard—squeezing impossibly tight around my cock, hand releasing my throat, a string of profanities tumbling from those perfect pink lips, breath on my cheek.
I came inside him as his hand tightened in my hair, arching upward, squeezing his hips hard enough to bruise, to break. My head rolling back, his teeth biting my neck, scraping across the skin. Then I collapsed, my entire body going limp.

He dressed, fixing his hair in the reflection of the window. “You should get dressed. Wouldn’t want anyone to walk in on this.” Then he unlocked the door and walked back upstairs.

PETE AND PATRICK

I.

My phone rang at five in the morning, which was eight there. “Hello?” I tried to keep my voice low.

“Hi,” Patrick said. There was a long pause. He was notorious for those. “We need to talk.”

“Now?” I turned my head, eyes running over Ryan’s face. I did not want to talk to Patrick right now. Not when Ryan was lying next to me, when I still had the feeling of sex all over my body. Not when I was picturing the shower the night before (or early morning, rather). Ryan on his knees, water cascading down his face as he took my cock down his throat again, this time letting me come in his mouth, swallowing it, taking me to the bedroom and sucking me hard again before straddling my waist.

I could not talk to Patrick while all these images were running through my mind, while Ryan was looking like a marble statue next to me. A marble statue with one hell of a mouth.

There was a sigh. “If you’re busy.” It wasn’t a finished sentence. It was supposed to make my insides twist into knots and make me feel like a guilty, selfish bastard. It worked.

“Patrick . . . it’s just . . . late night.”

“Oh.” He knew what ‘late night’ meant. He hung up.

II.

I was sitting on one side of the couch. He was sitting on the other. We hadn’t said anything since he showed up thirty minutes before. He was angry and I was hoping that maybe if we didn’t say anything, the problem might go away. It wasn’t going anywhere, of course, nailed quite securely to the floor.

“Who was it?” he asked finally, not looking at me, trying to keep the anger and the tears out of his voice.

“Does it matter?” I asked. My voice was gravel, a mixture of rock and dust, of things that were worthless and pointless and just plain fucking annoying.

“If it didn’t, you’d say.” He leaned back, tilting his head toward the ceiling, eyes closed. He brought his hands up, fingers massaging his temples. “We were broken up. I can’t really hold it against you.”

“You already are,” I mumbled, leaning forward and resting my forehead against my hands.

“You always fuck someone.” There was an unsteady breath. “You always fuck someone, I always get upset, and we always get over it three days later.”

“Yeah, I know the drill,” I muttered.

“Then why aren’t you telling me?” I could feel his eyes on me, but I didn’t turn to meet their gaze. “Pete.”

I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to hear/see/taste/smell/feel the reaction. I didn’t want to tell him that I’d fucked Ryan. I knew it, I knew it. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I snapped, throwing my hands down, bringing my foot up and kicking savagely at the coffee table.

“I know him,” he said quietly, but not calmly. It was everything but calm in his voice. Anger, tears, confusion, concern, but not calm. “Don’t I?”

“Didn’t you just hear me?” My voice echoed as I yelled. I wasn’t going to do this, I wasn’t going to talk about it, I wasn’t going to admit it. I stood up without looking at him, turning and walking down the hallway to my room. Our room. Whatever. I crawled in bed and pulled the blankets over my head.

I waited for the footsteps. It would be five minutes about, I thought. It was fifteen. “You know you have to tell me.” The bed sank down and I felt his hand rubbing my back through the comforter. “It’s going to eat you up. I know you. Now tell me.”
I sat up, our heads nearly colliding with what would have been a loud, resounding CRACK, but instead was nothing. I yanked the blankets from my head, staring at him, my eyes hard, trying so fucking hard not to cry. “What makes you think you know me that well? What makes you fucking think you know me that well, you stupid . . . fucking . . .” Then it was just a scream, no real words, just a loud animal sound.

His pretty blue eyes got dark, his mouth got tight, he was angry, angrier than I’d seen him before. But I didn’t feel guilty or even scared. I was happy, proud, fucking proud that I’d finally driven him to the edge.

“I’m the one who drives you to your therapy appointments. I make sure you take your meds and that the bottles aren’t emptying before they’re supposed to. I’m the one who makes sure there’s always a spare night light and checks the closet for monsters when you’ve had too much to drink. I found you after your OD and I sat with you in that hospital room every day for seven days. I’m the one that holds your hair back when you’re vomiting from the hangover. I’m the one that wakes you up when you’re screaming from nightmares.” He grabbed the neck of my shirt and pulled until our noses were just touching. “I’d say I know you pretty damn well.” Then he pushed and the back of my head hit against the headboard. He winced, but didn’t say anything.

“You already know,” I whispered. “Why do I have to tell you?”

“Because you’re a pathetic bastard and I want to hear it from your mouth.” He stared at me, bringing his hand up to wipe at the one tear that was sliding down his cheek.

“What good does that do?”

“You signed him just so you could fuck him, didn’t you?”

My fault? My fault? How could this be my fault? It was all Ryan. He wore the make-up, rolled down the car window, locked the basement door, fell asleep beside me. This was his fault, not mine.

“I knew it.” He stood up and slammed his fist against the wall. "I knew you wanted him." There were tears now, but no crying. “How many times?” He hit the wall again. “How many times did you fuck him?!”

When I wouldn’t answer, he came back to the bed, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking. My head jerked back and forth. “Answer me, you fucking bastard!” And then he fell against me, crying. “Don’t leave me for him,” he whispered through the tears. “God, Pete, please don’t leave me for him.”

I wrapped my arms around him, kissing his hair and trying to quiet him. “I’m not leaving you. I love you. Don’t cry, baby, please don’t cry.” We sat there like that for nearly an hour, until he cried himself dry and all but passed out in my arms.

I got the text after I had tucked him in and kissed his forehead. I didn’t expect it. Ryan hadn’t seemed interested in an affair, just completely destroying my life.

You good at phone sex? I read it when I was locked safely in the bathroom, taking a pill from one of the bottles he had screamed about checking so often. My reflection was uglier than I remembered, sicker than I remembered, more disgusted than I remembered. Ryan was still in my veins, contaminating everything.

I deleted the message, took the pill, and went out to the balcony. There were no clouds, but it was dark and it smelled like rain. There was wind and Hemingway rubbing against my ankles.

Ryan was probably getting fucked right now, smirking beneath the moans, Brendon staring down at him with no idea. I wondered how many people at the party knew. I wondered how many more times this would come back to bite me in the ass.

I heard footsteps and turned.

III.

He was drinking beside me, eyes staring blankly at the television. He didn’t drink very often, especially when there was no party involved. Now he was on his fourth bottle. When he set it down, it fell, knocking into another, but no broken glass.

“You never told me how many times,” he said, words barely slurred, still refusing to look at me. I knew it was repeating over and over in his head, myself and Ryan, how it would affect us, if it would destroy us. I knew because it was doing the same in mine.

“Twice.” My hand twitched automatically, wanting him to reach for it, needing him to tell me it wasn’t over, that Ryan hadn’t managed to destroy everything as much as I had thought.

But he didn’t reach for my hand. “Are you going to tell Brendon?”

My eyes finally darted to him and I shook my head. He didn’t see, but he assumed the silence was a ‘no’. I saw him bite his bottom lip and close his eyes for a moment. “I’m going to bed,” he murmured. “I love you.” he said as he started walking down the hallway.

“I love you,” I echoed in response.

I fell asleep on the couch and woke up covered with a blanket I hadn’t gone to sleep with. My eyes flicked to the table when I heard a buzzing. My Sidekick on vibrate and a new text message, three guesses who, no need to guess. There was a nasty taste in my mouth as I opened the message, closing my eyes before finally reading the word. Pussy.

The song came quite easily after that.

He read the lyrics when I was in the shower. It took two months to finish. Showers had been torture since we got back together, always imagining Ryan on his knees, hair so messy from the water. I always ended up jerking off, trying not to say Ryan’s name too loudly, trying not to remember his mouth, his hips, his moans, his face. Trying not to think about calling him, repeating the whole fucking mistake, third time’s the charm.

When I came out, he was sitting on the couch, notebook open in front of him, shaking his head. “You don’t expect me to sing this, do you? Not really.” He turned his head, just enough to look at me, eyes dark and bloodshot.

“It’s a song.” I shrugged, trying to make it seem less than it was, as if he were excessively reading into it, like it wasn’t all about me and him and Ryan.

“I’m not an idiot. I’ve been singing your lyrics for years. I know what they’re about.” He slammed the notebook shut and threw it across the room. “I’m not singing it, and I’m sure as hell not writing music for it.”

“It’s not what you think,” I lied, sitting down beside him on the couch. I tried to put my arms around him, but it was a fight and he struggled with me for a few minutes, finally letting me hold him and kiss his cheek. “I love you. I’ve never done anything to betray you, so why can’t you trust me?”

“I can’t believe you’re asking that question.”

It was time to call Brendon.

IV.

“Dude, what’s up?” Brendon has the happiest voice I’ve ever heard, always with a smile in it.

“Hey, Bren. Where’s Ry?” I licked my dry lips and checked behind me to make sure the balcony doors were still shut.

“Shower. We had sex with frosting.” He giggled. “It was fun.”

Sex with Ryan being fun. I couldn’t imagine it. “I wanted to talk about Better. The song.”

I could see the puzzled look on Brendon’s face. I heard him licking his fingers and I hoped it was frosting and nothing that tasted like Ryan. “What about it? I mean, Ryan wrote it so . . .”

“I know.” I sighed. “But I know you didn’t want to sing it.”

His voice was constricted when he answered, tight, choked. “It’s about that night he got high and cheated. Of course I didn’t want to sing it.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Everyone knew about that night and that song. Hopefully ours wouldn’t become so infamous. “I wrote a song and Patrick doesn’t want to sing it.” I blinked the tears out of my eyes. “How did, um . . . how did Ryan get you to?”

“Begged me.” There was a heavy breath. “Begged me for weeks. Cried. Begged and cried when he gave me blowjobs. Said it would help us, said he needed me to sing it.” He sighed. “It did help.”

“How?” I sat down on the cement and reached out to scratch Hemingway’s head.

Brendon sighed again. He hated being serious. “When you sing a song over and over, it just turns into a healing thing, therapy. All the bad just becomes good. For us, at least.”

“Thanks.”

“We done now?” he asked eagerly.

Except that I was asking him to help me share the fact that I’d screwed his boyfriend with the world. “Yeah. Thanks, Bren.”

“Yup. Ryan wants a blowjob, so I have to go. Bye.”

“Bye,” I echoed, but the line was already dead.

The balcony door slid open, startling me slightly. “What do you want for lunch?” he asked.

I scratched Hem’s head one more time before I stood up, looking him straight in the eyes. “You.”

“Cute,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“I wasn’t joking.”

“I’m ordering Chinese,” he said, jaw tight, turning and walking back inside.

Like I had every day for the past two months, I blamed Ryan.

I think Patrick blamed him, too.

PETE AND RYAN

I.

“Hello?” His voice was tired and groggy. He clearly hadn’t checked the caller ID. It was four a.m.

“Hi.” Despite the fact that I had caught him off guard, my voice was still small, intimidated.

I could practically hear him smirk. I hated it. He knew why I was calling. He knew I’d caved. I wanted to hang up, but I couldn’t. “So, what are you wearing?” he asked. I heard creaking and I knew he was leaving the bedroom, probably moving to guest room or to the kitchen to make coffee.

“I, uh . . .” I swallowed, screwing my eyes shut and opening them, hoping there wouldn’t be a phone to my ear, that calling him was a bad dream. “Boxers, tee shirt,” I mumbled.

“And are you hard yet?” I heard the clinking in the background. He was making the coffee.

I hate phone sex. I always have. So why did I call him? “Yeah,” I whispered, feeling my cheeks turning red. I squeezed my eyes shut again, trying to breathe.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Y-Yes.” Two, fat, hot tears of shame rolled down my cheeks. This was wrong, this was wrong, I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be doing this, he lead me on!

“Good.” The coffee was done now. I heard him sipping it. “Take off your boxers and shirt. I want you stripped for me.”

“What if Patrick walks in?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. My face was red, my heart was in my stomach, and my hand was still sliding up and down my cock.

“If you were that concerned, you wouldn’t have called me.” He sounded so cold, so distant, as if he kept all his emotions locked in a safe. I heard him set the coffee mug down. He was probably sitting on his couch, feet on the coffee table, blinking, deciding what game to play with me this time. “Did thinking about me get you hard?” I heard the click and the exhale. He was smoking. “Were you jerking off to me? Do I get you hard, Pete?”

The tears were streaming down my face, my hand still moving at an exceedingly quick rate. Why did I do this? “Yes,” I choked out, trying to keep the tears invisible to him. “Why does it matter?”

“I wanted you to admit it.” Another exhale. “Did you take your clothes off?”

“Yes.” My breathing hitched. I wanted to see the smoke, wanted to see him, not just hear, not over the phone.

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped. “Clothes. Off. Now. You lie again and I’ll hang up on you. You can jerk off alone while I get fucked by my boyfriend.”

My hand stopped and I cursed. He laughed. I threw the clothes across the room and ran the heel of my hand across my face, wiping the tears away. “They’re off.”

“Good.” Inhale, exhale. “Now, tell me, if I were there, what you would want me to do.”

Kill me so I don’t have to tell Patrick everything’s okay tomorrow. “Blowjob,” I whispered.

“We’re not twelve. Be profane.” Exhale. “You want me on my knees right?”

“Shower.” My breathing wasn’t steady. “Your hair was all . . . all messed up.” I rushed the last three words, trying not to moan from the memory of it.

He chuckled. “So you want to pretend you’re in control of me. I’m not surprised.” I thought I heard a moan. I hoped I did. I wanted his hand to equal mine, wanted his wrist to start aching like mine. I wanted him to be just like me. “On my knees in the shower, water running down my face while you try to fuck my mouth, your hands in my hair, you saying my name, trying not to think about your boyfriend.”

“Don’t talk about him.” My hips arched and my toes curled. I was close. “Ry . . . fuck.”

“Close?” he asked. I definitely heard the moan that time. “You better say my name when you come.”

“Will you say mine?” I wanted his hand on my throat again, that almost choke, his hips in my hands, him slamming down on my cock, tensed and ready to come.

“You’ll be done and off the phone by the time I come. It doesn’t matter what I say.” He let that moan ride out, let me hear it, teasing me with every second.

“B-But . . . I . . .” I dug my heels in the bed, cursing as I squeezed my eyes shut. “Ry, please?”

“Please, what?” He moaned again. His cigarette must have been long gone. “Make you come? You want me there, right? Scratching my nails down your chest while I ride you, squeezing tight around your cock?”

I lost it.

My toes clenched so tightly that my ankles cramped up. My back arched and my teeth were grinding. I didn’t know my hand could move that fast. I was moaning out of control, seeing stars.

“My name. Now,” he snapped.

“Fuck. F-Fuck . . . Ryan. Ry, Ry, Ry . . .” I was done, spent, incoherent, muscles still tensed.

“Goodnight, Pete.” He hung up.

An hour later I was in the shower, still trying to scrub him off me.

II.

I don’t know why I was back in Vegas. He hadn’t asked and I hadn’t mentioned it. But I called him when the plane landed and he said he’d pick me up. I did not expect that song to be playing. I almost went back into the airport.

“Where’s Brendon?”

“Staying at Spencer’s. I told him you had an emergency.” He didn’t even look at me, just lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. “Where’s your boyfriend? Oh, right. Tour.”

“Fuck you,” I snapped.

He smirked. “I figured that’s why you came. But I’m driving right now,” he added in a patronizing voice. Then he turned the radio up and started singing. I wanted to shoot him, but I didn’t have a gun.

“Change it.”

He ignored me. “So. I slept with someone in Fall Out Boy and all I got was this song written about me.”

“Hilarious.” I reached for the radio. He smacked me in the face. “Fucker!”

“That hurts.” His voice was monotonous. “So which one of us is the one you’re ‘supposed’ to love?”

“Go hang yourself.”

“I thought overdoses were your form of poison.”

I spit at him. He smiled. “You’re insane, but at least you’re good in bed.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s why you call me for phone sex three nights a week.” I was shaking, my hands were fists, and I was nearly in tears. He was smoking and singing to the radio. “Cross my heart and hope to die, splinter from the headboard in my eye.”

“Shut up, shut up!” I screamed, finally just throwing my fist at the radio. I hit the power button, thank whatever fucking higher power is up there.

He finally looked at me, barely. “Well. That was lovely.” He threw his cigarette out the window and lit another, exhaling in my direction.

I was seething. “It’s not your song to sing.”

“It’s about me. Why can’t I sing a song that’s about me?” He was gloating. He was thrilled that I’d written about him, that he was so permanently etched into my being. Bastard. Fucking bastard.

My teeth were grinding, my fingernails were cutting into my palms, and I was considering throwing myself out the car door. “I didn’t write it for you. I wrote it for Patrick.”

“I’m sure he was thrilled.” Inhale, exhale. “I know that I’d love to sing about my boyfriend screwing someone else.”

“Brendon sang a song like that,” I muttered.

“Yeah. But he didn’t sing a song about me not being in love with him anymore.”

The rest of the car ride was silent. The walk up the stairs to his apartment was silent. Then we got inside and he slammed me up against the wall, lips pressed to my neck, teeth nipping at the skin, his hand already trying to unbutton and unzip my jeans. For once, he was desperate. Too bad I was in worse shape than he was. I was moaning, grinding up against him, my fingers threaded in his hair.

Then we were on the floor and my jeans were around my ankles—déjà vu—his fingernails digging into my hips, his tongue swirling around the tip of my cock before he took me in his mouth, down his throat again. My hands tight in his hair, my hips bucking up every few minutes, whimpers falling from my mouth. He let me come in his mouth, swallowing before he wrapped his hand around my cock and working me to erection all over again.

Then my shirt was off, my jeans were across the room, and he was completely naked, straddling my hips just like my memory, slamming down dry on my cock, staring at the ceiling, my hands on his hips, both of us swearing and moaning. This time his fingernails were digging into my sides and I was just waiting until his hand found my throat again. It did. Harder this time, choking for breath while he came, moaning and saying any word that wasn’t my name. When he let go of my throat, my hips arched up and he fell against me, weak, while my orgasm tore through my body, his name tumbling from my lips and onto the floor, right next to our sweat.

He rolled off of me, gasping for breath and reaching for his clothes.

“Why did you do this to me?” I asked, grasping his wrist with my hand and squeezing, hard.

“This wasn’t about you.” He tried to pull away, but failed. His shoulders were shaking. He was trying not to cry. I let my hand fall to the floor.

“You ruined everything.” I sat up as he stood up and slipped his too-tight jeans on, raking a hand through his hair, damp with perspiration.

“If I wouldn’t have done it to you, you would have done it to me,” he said, bottom lip trembling as he pulled his shirt over his head. “I had to protect me and Brendon.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked as he threw my clothes at me.

“Get dressed. I need a cigarette.” He was getting a beer out of the refrigerator once I had my clothes on and went to find him. The cigarette was in his hand and the tears were on his cheeks. “We’ve been together longer than you and Patrick.”

“No, you haven’t.” I opened the beer he handed me. “You’ve been together for two years. We’ve been together for four.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand. “But we’ve been together longer.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” I snapped.

“You’ve known Patrick for six years.” He was staring straight at me now, his eyes looked almost dead. “There were two years that you weren’t together. You know how to function when you’re not in a relationship. Brendon and I have been together since we met. We don’t know what to do when we’re not together. We’ve been together longer, for as long as we’ve known each other.”

“And what does any of this have to do with . . . with . . . what happened in that basement?” I took a drink, mainly so I didn’t look so damned helpless.

“I knew if I didn’t seduce you, that you’d seduce me. You’d ruin everything.” He walked out to the living room and sat down on the couch. I sat beside him. “You’d ruin me and Bren. I couldn’t let you.”

“And Brendon’s not going to leave you when he finds out?”

“He already knows,” he whispered, taking a drink and then a drag off his cigarette. “He read the texts we sent on my Sidekick. He didn’t leave because he doesn’t know what to do without me.”

“And this would have been different if it would have been me taking you down to the basement?” I reached for his cigarette and he let me take a drag, trying not to smile when I coughed. He took it from my fingers. Inhale, exhale.

“If you would have taken me to the basement, then I wouldn’t have had any control. I wouldn’t have been able to say ‘no’. He wouldn’t have been able to trust me because he wouldn’t have been able to trust anyone. But he trusts me, so he forgave me.” He leaned back and put his feet up on the coffee table, leaning his head against my shoulder.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I whispered.

“It’s survival of the fittest. Only, not quite so dramatic.” He gave a quiet laugh. “Patrick’s going to forgive you. But I had to save us, you know. I love him.”

“But you . . . what you did.” I leaned my head against his.

“He doesn’t understand, but he’s starting to. And he forgave me. He knows I wouldn’t have done it if there weren’t a damn good reason.”

“Why did you tell you me all of this?”

“Because you asked. And because I can’t have phone sex with you anymore.” He stood up and stretched, yawning. “This was the last time.”

“Are we fucked?” I asked. I meant the relationship, the friendship, being able to take pictures together and talk about music and records and sex and parties. I was asking if it would all go back to the way it was, if we would be the way we were before the make-up and the hairspray and the locked basement door.

He smiled and a small laugh came out of his mouth before the tears ran down his face. “Not so much as you might think.” He took one more drag on his cigarette before he put it out in the ashtray. “Let’s go get Brendon. There’s a movie he wants to see.”
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After He Unlocked the Door