This piece was inspired by Clay's fabulous Ryan/Greg drawing "I wanted you to stay".  Thanks for the inspiration, my friend. TITLE:  Don't Go AUTHOR:  Makingamochrie PAIRING:  Ryan/Greg, hint Ryan/Colin RATING:  R for language DISCLAIMER:  Don't own, don't sue SUMMARY:  See above He watches as Ryan dresses in the filtered light of the moon streaming in through the gap in the stained curtains. Most of him is glad that he can’t see the expression on the man’s face, but part of him—the part that makes him say and do crazy shit on stage, the part that he readily admits is as masochistic as the day is long—needs to see. Needs to know. Because the not knowing is killing him as slowly and as surely as his two-pack-a-day habit. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. He wants Ryan to speak first, wants to hear something come out of that mouth, something that will soothe the knot in his gut. Even if it’s a lie. And it probably would be. Then again, maybe not. Ryan’s always been honest with him. Sometimes, too honest. Brutally, some might say, but Ryan’s always played it straight. Even when it’s hurt both of them, like continuous stabs with a very dull knife. At times like this, he thinks he hates Ryan. But he knows he hates himself more; has always hated himself. It’s part of what makes him who he is, after all, and he wouldn’t be quite the same without it. Sad, but all too true. So he watches and says nothing as Ryan draws his shirt over his bare shoulders, listening to the sibilant, almost secretive hiss of cloth as it caresses warm, naked flesh. The same warm, naked flesh his fingers and tongue had caressed not more than five minutes before. And finally, Ryan is dressed and looking for his shoes, tossed somewhere in the gloom that marks the rest of the room. He looks ready to step from the streaming light, and Greg vaults from the bed and into Ryan’s startled embrace. His naked flesh is immediately warmed by the heat from Ryan’s body, then warmed even more as Ryan wraps careful arms around him. His hand grips hard at the fabric of Ryan’s shirt as one of Ryan’s hands comes up to cup the back of his head gently, tenderly, almost livingly. “Don’t,” Greg whispers, hating himself even more as he speaks. “Don’t go. Stay. Please.” Ryan stands quiet for a long span of minutes; he can feel his heart beating calmly, coolly beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, and he doesn’t know whether to scream or cry. All he knows is that his own heart is like a stone in his chest; a cold, cold lifeless stone, brittle and more fragile than even he admits it to be. “I can’t,” Ryan says finally, his voice soft and low. “You know I can’t.” “Why do I know?” he demands, fisting his hand tighter. “How could I know? You never fucking say anything!” He knows his anger, never far from him even in his calmest moments, is starting to grow, but he doesn’t care. “You just pull me into my fucking room, fuck me senseless, and fucking leave! Without a word! How can I fucking know?” “You know,” Ryan continues in that same soft, low voice. “You just won’t admit it.” “Admit what? That I know you run like a cheating husband back to the gutless wonder in the next room? Does he even have spine enough to ask why you come in smelling like sex every fucking night? Or does he willingly take you into his bed because he’s too fucking hard up to find someone of his own to fuck?” Ryan’s eyes glitter down at him, and he knows he crossed a line, but goddamnit, he doesn’t care anymore. Nothing could make him feel any worse than he already does. Nothing. “Leave him out of this,” Ryan warns him, voice very near a growl. “Why? He’s the fucking cause of all this! Does he even know we fuck, Ryan? Have you ever told him that?” Ryan’s non answer is all the answer he needs, and he finds himself smiling. “Maybe I’ll tell him next time I bump into him.” He finds himself spun around, his legs tangling as his back slams up against the chipped and peeling paint on the wall. Ryan’s face is huge as it lowers to within an inch of his own. “Do that, and all this will be a memory to you.” His voice is flat and oh, so very cold. “Who says I don’t want it to be just a memory?” he asks, teeth gritted tightly, jaw aching. “I’m sick of this, Ryan. Sick to fucking death of it.” “Fine,” Ryan replies, releasing him and stepping back. “If that’s what you want, fine.” As he turns away, looking in the darkness for his errant footwear, he’s left cursing himself. He’s known for weeks that Ryan’s been trying to think up a way to break it off with him, and what does he do but give him one? On a fucking silver fucking platter, no less. Could he have possibly fucked himself over better if he’d tried? Goddamnit!! The hatred within himself for himself deepening, he steps forward and grabs Ryan’s shoulder, slips off, then gains purchase and clamps down. “Ryan,” he says softly. “Please. I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t want this to be over. I…damnit, I need you too much.” Ryan turns. His eyes have softened. There’s an almost smile hovering around his mouth. “I know,” he whispers, taking the man back into his arms. “But he needs me more.” “Right now?” he asks, eyeing the clock, whose red numbers hover just a shade past three am. “Right this very second? He’s sleeping, Ryan. He’s probably doesn’t even know you’re not back yet.” “He knows,” Ryan replies. Is there a bit of guilt there? He can’t be sure. Chalk another one up in the ‘not knowing’ column. Damn thing’s getting too long to be believed. “Let him know, then. Let him fucking deal. He’s a grown man, for fuck’s sake!” “So are you.” He comes very close to slapping him then. He can picture it in his mind, can hear the sharp sting of palm to face, can see the shocked look in Ryan’s eyes slowly turning to anger, can all but feel Ryan’s hands coming up and closing over his arms, his long, strong fingers biting in, hurting, leaving bruises. And he almost doesn’t care. None of that scares him. What does scare him is that it will be the one thing, aside from telling the spineless one in the next room, that will split up—whatever it is they have—for good and all. So, instead of doing what his body demands, he drops his hand to hang limp at his side. His head bows, brushing against Ryan’s t-shirt. The feeling isn’t warm anymore. Nor is it comforting. Instead he—finally—takes it for what it is: a prison in which he willingly incarcerates himself night after fucking night. Ryan holds the keys, but he has a file and he knows he can get out any time he pleases. Why the fuck doesn’t he? “Go back to him, then,” he finally says, bitterly. “I can’t fucking stop you.” “No,” Ryan agrees, though he doesn’t sound smug about it. “You can’t.” Gathering him in tight once again, Ryan presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. It’s the truth again. That brutal truth that he both loves and loathes in equal measures. “I know you are,” he replies. It’s the only thing in this damn mess that he does know, and it doesn’t make him feel any better at all. A moment later, his arms are empty as Ryan pulls away and strides to where he’s found his shoes. Instead of putting them on, he hooks them over his fingers and straightens. The smile on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “So…I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Yeah,” he replies, that self hatred digging in its claws just a little deeper. “You will.” “Good.” A simple nod. “Goodnight, Greg.” Then he leaves without waiting for a response, and Greg follows after the door’s closed, laying his hands against the cold metal and calling him back with his mind. It doesn’t work, of course. It never does. In the quiet of the hotel’s upper floors, he can hear Ryan’s soft tread, then the sound of the door being gently opened, and even more gently closed. With a soft, longing sigh, he rests his forehead against the chill of the door for a moment, then lifts it away, turns and heads back to the thoroughly messed bed. Without bothering to tidy up, he slips into the still damp sheets, tosses his own pillow to the floor, and grabs the one Ryan had lain upon during their bout of lovemaking. Taking in a deep breath to memorize the scent, he lays his head down upon it and waits for the tears to fall. When they don’t, he falls asleep instead. FIN