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Calum: I feel like i'm gonna scream (in a good way)

   Brendon was stuck in waiting mode; a special lobby his brain ticked into whenever he had plans that meant that he somehow became unable to do anything else until the time of the plans. This was why he liked to schedule everything in the morning, to avoid the risk of being put into the lobby and wasting a whole day just waiting to do something. His leg was bouncing anxiously, he was chewing the inside of his cheek, and he was rolling paper - all three of his anxious tics displaying all at once while he waited for Ryan to show up.  In 13 years they had seen each other once, briefly, exchanged an awkward nod and a brief hello in acknowledgement of each other’s presence but this would be the time that they talked.  When the doorbell rang, Brendon’s heart felt like it was going to fall out of his rear end. He glanced over at Bogart as if he were going to give him some emotional support. Oddly neither dogs barked - as if they knew who was on the other side of it. As he walked to answer the door, Brendon didn’t blink once, he could hear his blood and his pulse in the form of static in his ears, his peripheral vision disappeared completely and all he could see was that mess of dark hair and that baby face that time had weathered only a little. He took a deep breath in and he whimpered, biting back tears, silently willing he wasn’t going to open the door and get screamed at.  He opened the door slowly and looked at him, turning his head ever so slightly sideward almost as if he didn’t believe he was real. The silence was deafening, and Brendon couldn’t hide the way his lower lip quivered as he quietly said “You’re all grown up.”      He said nothing else. Just turned and walked away, wordlessly inviting him inside. 

   Brendon had spent the afternoon baking in preparation for Ryan’s arrival for dinner in the evening, it gave him something to do while he waited. He had his Mom send him her recipe for orange rolls; there were many tours she had sent them away with a container of homemade orange rolls so he hoped it would be a nostalgic taste for him - if he hadn’t fucked it of course. He also made a batch of mango Hawaiian butter mochi, just in case the orange rolls were dreadful, because a childhood spent in the kitchen with the women of the family meant he was surprisingly good at some things and mochi was one of those things, both the traditional Japanese and Hawaiian fusion - which was more cake-like - versions of the desert. He was going to make dinner when Ryan arrived.       He showered, shaved, changed into something nicer and wasn’t covered in rice flour and mango pulp, put some music on as background noise, and when his doorbell chimed he tried not to run out of excitement to get it.  Seeing Ryan at the other side of it, his face (as it often did when he saw Ryan) broke open into a bright, sunny smile that made the squint he sometimes got in his right eye more prominent. “You look beautiful.” he told him, admiring him for a couple of seconds before he took his hand and pulled him inside and closed the door behind them. 

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so this is love?

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