[identity profile] indybaggins.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] wl_fanfiction
I know this story has been gone for a while, I do have it all written, it's just a matter of getting it posted *laughs*

Author: Indy Baggins
Title: If Roses are meant to be red…
Pairing: Greg/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sixteen years after they met, Greg realizes he’s never let himself want anything quite as much as he wanted Ryan.
Author’s comments: This was my NaNoWriMo novel for 2006. The story of Greg and Ryan has for me, at its core, always been a love story. Needy, fucked up love, sure, but love none the less. And this is my attempt at telling their story, from the moment Greg met Ryan until the moment he let him go.

Beta-duty is done by Clay, for which she deserves many roses *smiles*

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four

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The-morning-after turned out not to be uncomfortable, when Ryan (‘the Ryan from London,’ he thought, ‘the uncensored, real one’) grumbled from somewhere to the left “you fucking snore Greg” and Greg, without opening his eyes, poked him in the ribs, silently grinning at the throaty, breathy laugh Ryan had first thing in the morning.

They were both hung-over, but nothing that a few aspirin (‘and a walk outside?’ Ryan proposed) couldn’t fix, and both chipper, in a strange, unexplainable way.

Ryan went back to his own room for a shower and a change of clothes, and an hour later they were walking through Central Park, their shoulders bumping together as they walked, telling stories, laughing, even momentarily joining some teenage kids in a Frisbee game when one nearly hit Ryan in the head.

It was a bright, sunny day, and they bought ice-cream (‘breakfast,’ Ryan said, and Greg groaned, clutching his stomach, but then gleefully ordered pistachio anyway) and ate it by the “Strawberry Fields” sign. They passed a man with a guitar, a hat half-filled with coins in front of him, playing the famous Beatles song, and when they went to sit on the edge of the fountain they could still hear him, his voice a little out of tune but his playing quite good.

When Ryan, half involuntarily, started humming the lyrics along, Greg joined him at the “Living is easy with eyes closed” line, and they both sung out the song, pretending very hard not to make it into any sort of significant moment when it closed, a good minute later, and they both ended on ‘…strawberry fields… forever…” under their breaths, most of the sound diluted by the sound of the water falling in the fountain, the both of them looking up at the tree line with something of a curious smile.

The moment faded away easily when Ryan started laughing about something else, and Greg told the story of the time Steve and Tony jumped into a fountain in central London, and how Josie flashed the cop to get them out of the ticket. Between the both of them, they had an endless amount of stories of performances gone wrong, drunks in the audience, other comedians, bloopers and jokes. But mainly they could be silent after a story, letting the laughter die out to a warm and shared silence.

They were silent like this, sitting on the edge of the fountain, watching the droplets of water scatter into the greenish pool, watching an endless stream of joggers, mothers with kids, students and old people with newspapers pass them by. The park was filled with laughter at that time of the day, playing kids, dogs running around, music… However, it didn’t take long before Greg’s thoughts turned to something different altogether as he got distracted by the sight of ice-cream on Ryan’s lips, mesmerised by Ryan’s tongue slowly licking it away…

Ryan always seemed to know when he was watching him, and after a quick smile, went with it, licking the errant drops off the edge of the cone, showing off a flash of tongue, uttering a moan when softly sucking at the top. Greg swallowed and looked back at the fountain, trying not to look quite so eager.

Ryan, however, was not fooled by such an act of misdirection, and doubled his efforts, ‘doing things to ice-cream no man should do to ice-cream’ Greg thought, and then he leaned in to sneak a lick of Ryan’s cone too, the fresh silky taste of cold vanilla on his tongue and the promise of Ryan’s tongue on his mind, only not there, so public…

He stilled Ryan’s hand, his own cone slowly melting in his other, and gave it a little pull. Ryan got up with a devious expression in his eyes, probably matching the one in his own, and they started walking, fast, scanning the park for somewhere, something, ditching the ice cream cones in a green garbage can, and Greg could feel his dick harden with every step, his heart racing at the prospect of Ryan’s touch.

Finally they found something that looked like a little electricity booth, surrounded by trees, not too out of sight but enough, and before Greg knew it Ryan was on his knees before him, helping him unfasten his jeans, and touching him with soft, thoughtful touches. He groaned something about “goddamnit, sex in public means fast sex Ryan” and the next moment he was being deep throated by a Ryan who managed to look both smug and a tad uncomfortable, and was too stunned by the overwhelming hotness of the sensation to say anything else but a short “oh…”.

Trying to stay in control, he tried to focus on the trees, how the sunlight filtered through their leaves. Or the crispy grass under his feet, or the feeling of cold stone at his back, the vague echo of voices and water in the air, but in the end it was of course Ryan he felt, Ryan’s tongue, Ryan’s hands rubbing his thighs, Ryan’s mouth so endlessly good and talented (‘fuck, he’s done this a million times before,’ he thought) and then he moaned, his balls tightening; he wanted to push Ryan away, but he didn’t move, and then it was the thought that Ryan would be swallowing, the thought that he was coming down Ryan’s throat that put him over the edge, groaning.

Afterwards he slid down the wall to sit in the grass, looking up at Ryan.

Ryan laughed at his grateful look, easily, and then started touching himself, first through the fabric of his pants and then in earnest, showing a sliver of stomach as he slid his hand down his pants, pulling out his dick, sighing as he fisted it.

Greg wanted to reach out, to touch him himself but Ryan eyed him firmly and batted his hand away, instead leaning over Greg, supporting his weight with one hand on the wall, and he felt trapped between the grass and the wall and so much of Ryan, so close by. And he got to watch every detail of how Ryan crumbled, his face flushed, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, his hand squeezed and went faster and faster until it was a blur and he could smell Ryan, so close. And when Ryan came, aiming for the grass and his hand, Greg violently wished he would come all over him.

When Ryan was spent he just stood there, seemingly out of the world, and so Greg snuck up, placing a small lick to Ryan’s thigh that made him flinch but smile, and after a moment or so he zipped his pants up again, and so did Greg, memorising the taste of Ryan’s sweat mingling with the left-over trace of vanilla on his tongue.

They walked out of their little hideout, Ryan discreetly cleaning his hands with the napkin they got to go with the ice-cream, and, after a moment of discussion, went to lie down on a patch of grass, near the well-maintained flowerbeds, in the full sun. They were close, but not touching, the both of them looking up at the bright blue sky, the white sun high, hardly a cloud in sight.

They didn’t talk for the longest time, and Greg was sure Ryan must have fallen asleep, when suddenly he spoke up, clearly. “You’re going home tomorrow.” Greg turned his head to look at him, but Ryan was looking up at the sky with scrunched eyes, the sun colouring his face a soft pink.

“Yeah,” he said, and he wanted to add something cynical about London being cold and some inaptness of the fucking British, but then didn’t, opting to stay quiet instead. As the silence dragged on he turned to his stomach, discarding his glasses to rest his head on his arms instead.

Ryan touched the back of his hand then, briefly, in what he supposed could have been a caress or a question or anything, but he didn’t look up, keeping his face locked in the safety of his arms, pretending to be asleep, and, after a moment, he could hear Ryan do the same.

Eventually he did fall into a light sleep, dreaming in confused flashes of sex and Ryan, but now it was he who was taking Ryan, hard and fast, but Ryan wasn’t paying attention, all he did was grasp his hand…


He steps out of the bus with an unpractised, too-quick stumble, and then walks towards a car rental place (the woman behind the glass winks at him; he feels like shouting something obscene) and rents a dark, cheap Volvo. She asks if he needs a map, and when he says he doesn’t he marvels at how strange that is, to after so much time still to know the way to a place he’s been only once, and then he’s driving of the parking lot, getting used to the wrong side of the road again, mile after mile rushing past him (“kilometres,” the road signs call it, and he thinks they’re plain bull).

Eventually it’s the driving that calms him, leaving the buzz of London behind, his hands shaking, his headache piercing; he hasn’t had a cigarette in over a day and he wants to, his entire body aches to, but he doesn’t touch the packet in his pocket, instead gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles are white and breaking the speed limit as the light outside slowly dims, an early sunset to end a grey and uninspired day.

It’s completely dark when he leaves the main roads and starts navigating through a small village, and then an even smaller, winding road, with trees on both sides.

He’s getting close. He knows so by memory, even though the last time he drove this road it was day, the roads not quite so glittering black with wet asphalt, the trees and, occasionally, a brightly lit house, not quite so oppressing. He feels anxious, a growing trepidation as he nears his destination. There is a reason he hasn’t come back here in so many years, even though he rarely lets himself think on it, but there are too many memories here. Part of him wishes the sight to be left untouched by time, by people, and part of him wishes it to be in ruins, to find no trace left of him and Ryan there, to look through the night for some indication that it was real, that he hadn’t dreamt Ryan, his touch, the idea of Ryan, and to never find it again.

When the tree line breaks, it’s with a sudden and tauntingly breathtaking view of cliffs and the sea, whispering and eternally moving, a flash of dark sky and emptiness, quickly swallowed whole again by the lights of a house, a street sign, a turn in the road. Every time it happens he has to stop himself from stepping on the brakes, from stopping the car in what he hopes would be a screeching, movie-scene worth sound, and to see the sea for himself, to breathe its air.

When he sees a larger clearing he breaks and reverses the car on the small road, driving it to the side, tires slipping in the sandy, wet underground.


When Ryan woke him up it was with something that was almost a whisper into his ear and almost a kiss to his cheek, and he, sleepily thinking it was a bug, tried to hit it until his hand grasped Ryan’s nose and he could feel Ryan’s warm face and mouth under his hand and smirked. When he sat up and opened his eyes the world seemed to have changed, the sun had changed position; the shadows were getting longer already, and he blinked a couple times, tracing his one hand over the grass behind him to look for his glasses

When he looked back at Ryan he saw him holding up his glasses with a grin, and he pushed him playfully on the shoulder before accepting them. As Ryan came into focus, he realised he looked sleepy as well, a bit flushed or maybe sunburned, but his eyes glittering and a gentle smile on his lips.

They walked back through the park at a leisurely pace, their shoulders once more bumping together as they walked, and he realised he hadn’t felt that stress-free, so loose and happy since the time he was in college.

The roads to the hotel were filled with cars. ‘It’s rush-hour,’ he thought, the air heavy and toxic. Together, they crossed the street at a run, to the blazoning of cars. They zigzagged through the masses, even held hands briefly at a particularly busy crossroads, and it felt terribly exciting in a juvenile way, the both of them grinning like ten-year olds.

His exhilaration didn’t last long however, as they suddenly heard the excited calls of “hey guys!” behind them and froze, sharing a humorous, soft look before turning around to see Chip, Colin, Richard and Brad walking in their direction.

Ryan smiled an indulgent smile at them, Greg scowled but nobody paid attention to him anyway, not when Ryan was smiling, and ten minutes later they were all sitting in the hotel restaurant, getting burgers and beer for dinner, toasting to New York and fun and life.

Still high on the run, and Ryan, more particularly the image of Ryan sucking him off, Greg was in a great mood, and didn’t even feel a tiny nick of annoyance as Colin came to sit next to him. While they ate Colin tried to make conversation about something or another in soft tones with him, apparently making up for something he had never even done, and Greg humoured him, talking, even laughing with him. Everybody was pleasant right then, he felt, and he shared a look with Ryan that left him feeling cocky, one that said ‘see, I’m making friends with your little friend here, blow me again later and I might even hug him’ and Ryan looked a tad apprehensive but not too much, and they all laughed about some silly joke together, and the day was a good one, he thought. A great one even.

That night’s taping, his last one in New York, went along the same lines. Colin laughed along with him now, gave him an occasional pat or hug, and to his surprise he found he could stand it quite well. They were all being rowdy, using so many “fucks” and sexual references that he felt the urge to check if Tony wasn’t in the studio, and when he shared his suspicion with Ryan he cracked him up, earning them a raised eyebrow from Clive.

They ended the show to a standing ovation and all got completely wasted afterwards; singing in the streets of New York at the top of their lungs, sloppily peeing on a street corner. When they made it back to the hotel somewhere near the early morning, Ryan followed him into his hotel room without question, and when he left again only an hour later because he had promised to bring Colin to the airport, Greg wasn’t annoyed at all, even saying “tell him I said bye”.

He ended up sleeping in late, and then went out to lunch with Clive (who proclaimed to be terribly suspicious of the current bounce in Greg’s step, and when Greg told him “that’s the bounce of a man who’s being fucked” shook his head and ordered another whiskey). Eventually he told him about Ryan, trying to be blasé about the whole thing, but Clive looked at him with all-too-knowing eyes over the edge of his glass, not asking anything but looking for the world as if he felt sympathy, of all things. Eventually he did admit to being bummed the tapings were over, and Clive agreed whole-heartedly, looking soft for a moment, distressed, and Greg realized he wasn’t the only one who’d rather stay and live in their little bubble of Whose Line, all about the laughs and smiles and good times…

When Ryan came back he joined them at the bar, and soon they left Clive to it and spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, fucking until it hurt, until it felt like there wasn’t one muscle in their bodies that wasn’t strained and drained, until they had heard every sound from the other, felt every touch, and then they napped, briefly, not holding each other, before fucking again, one last time, always one last time.

In the end Greg needed to hurry, and with nothing but a promise of the next year in Ryan’s eyes, he left the room, and Ryan. He felt an immense sense of annoyance as the cab drove away with him in it. At the airport, he spend the two hours waiting for his flight smoking one cigarette after another, imagining how the last taping must be going, who Ryan was playing with, who he was touching.

Eventually he forced himself to stop thinking about it and just closed his eyes, listening to the comforting sound of the over-head speakers calling the passengers of one flight or another to the gate. He knew that in all, New York for him became the time and place where things came true, and he’d never forget it for that.

Chapter Six...

mood: peaceful

January 2016

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