Author: Indy Baggins Title: Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking Pairing: Greg/Ryan Rating: R Summary: I could do most anything to you... Author’s comments: Written for Aeneus, who requested “Five times Greg remembered how old he was”. Beta was by Almostjulie (thank you!). Lyrics are by Snow Patrol. 1. I've got this feeling that there's something that I missed -1989- He couldn’t breathe when Ryan was inside him, fucking him into the mattress with shallow, maddening thrusts. Couldn’t think. There was only the white of the wrinkled sheets, close to his mouth, tasting of cotton; and wet, moist breaths. The brown wooden headboard, flattening his cheek on every push. His hands gripping pillows, fingers stiff as they clamped down. There had been a quick run before, feet landing noisily on wet asphalt-streets, whoops and laughs and Ryan’s white sneakers, darkly drenched beside the bed. More than anything, he needed to look Ryan in the eyes, to connect. When he did it was like a blow to the stomach, low, pulsing and wild but he did not let it show, grinning electric instead. He was twenty-nine. - Greg’s fingers cautiously stroke Ryan’s cheek, catch on stubble. Eventually he lingers on Ryan’s half-opened mouth, traces his lips. He wants to push down, fiercely wants fingers to cover Ryan’s mouth and nose, catch his exhale, hold him there (forever). He doesn’t. Don't you breathe 2. Something happened, that I never understood -1993- He couldn’t not. Sitting in a bar with a glass in front of him, a friend on each side and a cigarette between his lips, Greg suddenly, clearly had known. (Love) They had fucked just hours before (Ryan had left on a plane, went home) but even though he was gone now the need for him was there, old and deep, resonating everywhere (Ryan). Ghosts of too-close touches still creeping over his skin, a heady, heavy pounding in his head, alcohol never enough to dull the sensation of “lost” and “need” and “always”. Thirty-four. Slowly they stopped saying real goodbyes, changed into a steady, certain knowledge of I will see you again, will come back, will have this no matter… - Greg is awake (eyes wide open). Ryan isn’t, although it barely matters. He has traced his fingertips over Ryan’s skin so often now that he feels they should be forming calluses, ingrain the touch to make it theirs. He does it again. You can't leave 3. Every second, dripping off my fingertips -1999- Ryan became distant. For years, they had circled around each other, one step closer, two back. Ryan’s eyes spoke of a war almost lost now, energy faded, touches too. He sat on the edge of his seat, the bed, the stage, anticipating a coming storm (one would say “yes but forget me,” the other “I try and I can’t”) but it never came. Forty. They smoked together, endless breaks of being closer and not close enough, shoulders accidentally touching, stiffening them both, laughs too loud for middle-aged tiredness. Then sex, always sex, shaking them both to the core, open-mouthed kisses, taste like a cure (sadness). - Greg fidgets, twists and turns, uneasy. Rain drips on their bedroom window like an army of ants, scurrying, multiplying, getting under his skin. Aggressive, intricate, his mind runs in closer and closer circles, climbing up the walls, crazy with feeling. Wage your war. 4. In slow motion, the blast is beautiful -2004- Gradually, Ryan would look at him like he could break those boundaries, now, like he would. And the fear would be iron and sharp in his throat, make him tremble. Forty-three. They had been on a stage before, lights so warm, smiles lit, energy. Now there were sweat-soaked clothes crumpling on the floor, warmed hands opening up zippers, there was time but not really, comfort, good, not enough, never, too much. - Greg closes his eyes, tries to escape the moment. They’re eternally caught in a morning dew, in a glass house with opaque walls, in clammy blankets pulled up to their necks, breath condensing onto skin. He wraps his hand around Ryan’s arm, shakes him. I'm so scared 5. A clock is ticking, but it's hidden far away -2007- He had never thought Ryan was safe. Unpredictable yes, their love not even close to romantic but a two-decade fight, hate and lust and necessity altogether. But it had been (safe). No pleasure like words knowingly whispered into his ear, alcohol and smoke on breaths, kisses too violent to be good. Ryan felt real under his hands, again and again. Like living. Forty-seven Ryan had kissed him after, just a quick brush of lips, not even a promise to anything, and he could still feel it flirt over his lips, tremble his heart just that bit. He couldn’t believe they had survived (not quite there yet) - Ryan wakes up with a grunt, startled, eyes blinking open. Greg leans in too close, his nose brushing Ryan’s neck, chest, the tiny hairs covering his stomach. He doesn’t kiss but just looks, closer, closer, until he can see nothing but Ryan, can almost crawl under his skin, make sure, sure they are… Safe and sound Ryan doesn’t speak, doesn’t have anything to say, just holds onto him in return, hands grab his elbows, fingers tangle in his hair, his legs fall open. And Greg thinks “you”… (I could do most anything to you...)