The Ramen Psychosis

An inexplicable rage was building at the back of Ryan's head as he slid into his bunk, pulling the worn red sheets tight around him. He was still in full costume from the concert not an hour in the past, high-heeled boots included, and the intricate tree painted on his cheek was surely being rubbed off onto his pillowcase. Fuck, now I'm reenacting Pete's lyrics, he thought furiously to himself.

It was beyond him why that word put his boxers in such a twist. Well, if he COULD wear boxers with his tight jeans, they'd be in need of adjusting for sure. It was just a fan, a fucking FAN-GIRL, for the love of God; she'd been a sweet little one, too. There had been a cigarette tucked behind her ear, but she looked about fourteen, with her cute round cheeks and her tidy black curls and her big blue eyes full of awe. Ryan had been tempted to bend down and kiss her on one of those cheeks, just to see if she'd scream, faint, or both.

But then she'd said it. That vile, generic word had left her mouth. The fan-girl had meant it in the nicest possible context. She was just paying him a COMPLIMENT! Why did he have such a violent reaction to it?

There was noise just outside the bus suddenly. Ah, yes, the guys were arguing about who was going to come in and make sure he wasn't slitting his wrists or something. What a revolting cliche, just because he was passionate didn't make him a cutter. Ryan had cleaner means of releasing the pain. As angry tears threatened to break free, his fingernails dug into the back of his neck, leaving small, throbbing indentations in their wake. It calmed him; he didn't know why.

Brendon was winning the argument. Not too much of a surprise; he was the only one who knew how to deal with Ryan's quirks properly. Spencer tried to understand, but his grasp on the subject was clumsy. Jon was out of the question entirely, he was too much of a meathead. Ah, and of course there was the tour manager the label had stuck them with, the stiff in the track pants who smoked Lucky Strikes and was convinced he was gay. Yes, he could see himself opening up to this neanderthal. In an alternate universe, maybe. HA!

He wrapped the covers over his head, muffling the sound from outside. Brendon wouldn't be getting anything out of him this time; he was going to keep it to himself and let it fester. Maybe it would evolve into a new song...

A hand pressed down on his shoulder through the sheet. Definitely Brendon's hand, the fingers were too long and bony to be anyone else's. "Ryan, what's wrong this time?" he sighed half-heartedly. It only angered him further; he made it sound like he had a meltdown of this magnitude every day.

"Go. Away." Ryan projected his voice just a little too loudly, making sure he was heard from under the covers.

"Cut the shit, Ross, I want to know why you gave that fangirl a look like you were gonna slug her. All she said was that she thought you were-"

"I KNOW WHAT SHE SAID!" Ryan rolled over and sat up in a flash, knocking Brendon off his perch on the edge of the bunk. Bren looked up at him with an odd mixture of curiousity and annoyance. "Sorry," he offered, curling back under his sheet. "You wouldn't understand, that's all."

Never one to back down from a challenge, Brendon got up on his knees so he could reach. "Well, y'know, Ryan, I'm sure I'd figure it out if you'd just EXPLAIN it to me!" With that, he jerked downward on the sheets, bringing the feather-light guitarist with them. He hit the floor with a thud.

"Ow, fucker, that was my tailbone!" Ryan rubbed angrily at the fresh sore spot on his lower back. "Not as though I was going to, but I'm not telling you JACK now!"

"Fine, then, I'll just take educated guesses." Brendon climbed to his feet, pulling his friend up with him. "From what I can infer, you have a newfound dislike of a certain word, and you get violent every time someone tries to describe you with it. Does that cover it?"

Ryan glared hotly through his bangs, sitting back down on his bed. "The basic gist, yes."

"Why does it suddenly bother you so much?"

"I said you wouldn't get it, didn't I?" He leaned down to finally unzip his boots. "YOU haven't had to hear someone call you that every day since you were twelve. You just get girls wanting to squeeze your ass."

"Yes, and that's awkward enough in itself. Seriously, aside from its overuse, what's so bad about being called-"

"PLEASE don't say it."

"-PRETTY." Ryan twitched in fury when the word hit his ears, looking up into his friend's gaze. Brendon stared back with rising anger of his own. "People are just trying to pay you a fucking compliment , one that happens to be true. You, Ryan Ross, are a pretty bastard. Now just move on, would you?"

"No, I'm sick of it," he replied with quiet intensity, getting back to his feet. "That word has been immasculating me for years! It makes me feel less and less like a man every time someone brings it up! What do you think my beard phase was all about?! Just for one moment, I'd like to NOT feel like a FUCKING chick!" He stormed off to the other end of the bus for a bottle of water.

Brendon followed inches behind. "THAT'S what all this is about? You nearly punched a fan because you're having a MASCULINITY CRISIS?! MOTHERFUCK, Ross, you wear a vest covered in roses every night on stage! I think it's a little late to start wanting to be macho!"

"See, this is why I didn't want to talk to you about it!" Ryan turned on his heel to face him. "I know you like to think you're the only one that understands me, but I've got a fucking news flash for you, Urie, I don't understand me!"

CRUNCH

The guitarist hit the floor like a rag doll from the impact of the other man's fist connecting with his face. He reached up and touched the throbbing spot over his nose as he stared up in shock. Brendon's face was contorted in rage.

"It's no wonder you feel like a chick, Ross," he seethed, chest rising and falling rapidly with his harsh breathing. "You whine like a little bitch. And you don't take a hit much better, either. A real man would've already kicked my ass up and down this bus by now, instead of just sitting there on the floor!"

Slowly Ryan got to his feet, shaking slightly with his own fury.

CRUNCH

The retaliation landed in the vicinity of Brendon's right eye, knocking him back into the kitchen cabinets. It became a full tussle, the two clashing together, grappling around each other's necks, not paying any mind when they hit the floor. Costumes ripped and tore as they went rolling over one another, trying to get the upper hand.

On the other side of the kitchenette, Ryan came out on top, pinning his opponent down by his shoulders, legs entwined roughly, forcing their pelvises together. And it was in this moment, while he caught his breath, that he came to a very startling realization: not only was his own cock hard and straining, but so was Brendon's. He stared down at his friend, neither of their gazes having lost any of their fire. They'd come to the same conclusions.

"Do it," Brendon hissed into the space between them.

There was no need to say it more than once. Immediately Ryan reached down with one hand, the other pressing harder still into Brendon's shoulder, and undid both their slacks with inhuman speed. He groaned when the fabric had been pulled away and skin hit skin, and he could hardly contain himself. With one fluid motion he slid down and forced himself into his friend's tight hole, throwing preparation to the wind, gripping his hips for thrust as he set straight to work.

A whorish moan escaped the singer's lips as his friend pounded into him mercilessly, clawing at the stubby blue carpet. The sound surprised Ryan, making him open his eyes and watch the body beneath him without letting up his pace. He'd been caught up in the moment; he hadn't expected this response.

Brendon's eyes flew open as well, meeting his still-livid gaze. "Don't you fucking stop, you little bitch," he sneered, and he reached up and wrapped his hands behind Ryan's neck, his fingernails fitting perfectly into the angry grooves from his calming technique. The fresh twinge only added to the ecstasy flowing through him; it was enough to make him speed up even more.

"That's right, you slut...uhn, yeah, fuck, right there...POUND me, you little bitch..." Filthy phrases flowed from Brendon's mouth like a waterfall of obscenity. Their grip on each other tightened to an extreme, a small trickle of blood flowing down the guitarist's neck, bruises already forming on the singer's hips.

Their bodies slicked with sweat, shirts sticking to their skin, the pace never let up for a second until with one last moan, Brendon was clenching around Ryan, and he had release, splattering all over his friend's abdomen. Thrusting once, twice more, the guitarist pulled out and sat up on his knees, pumping himself roughly.

"Finish me off, you whore," he spat down. Without hesitation, the singer pulled himself from his afterglow, manuveuring onto his hands and knees as he took Ryan's whole cock into his mouth in one go, running his tongue along the underside. It didn't take long before Ryan felt that familiar tightening in all his muscles, and grabbing his friend's hair roughly, he release himself with a groan, reveling in the added sensation of his seed being swallowed around him.

Finally the two bodies fell limp to the floor, not bothering with a post-fuck cuddle, instead just focusing on bringing their heart rates back to a normal speed. "So, Ross..." Brendon gasped. "Do you feel like a man now?"

Ryan shook his head weakly. "All I feel right now is alive."