After He Unlocked the Door.

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."