the wonder keeping the stars apart

Title: Red Letter Moments
Author: paraserpiente
Rating: R
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (Spencer/Jon, Pete/Patrick, others)
Word Count: ~29,000
Summary: If goddamned Ryan Ross hadn't turned eighteen, things would have continued on just dandy. But life, much as we'd like to believe it, is no fairy tale, even in faraway lands and distant futures. Aladdin AU. ...sort of.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't know them, never happened.
Warnings: Sketchy human-robot relations, the barest grasp of ~technology, outright silliness
Author's Notes: Okay, so about August, wow_katie said "Wouldn't it be funny if someone did an Aladdin AU? DON'T DO IT." "Okay," I said, and proceeded to write the following.

Thanks to her and lkgycze for the amazing beta work, as well as fielding many panicked e-mails and basically keeping me sane for the last four months.


Part 2
Part 3
Part 4



The capital city wasn't always such a bad place to live, Brendon's heard. Fifteen, twenty years ago, it was the jewel of the empire, market always abuzz with pleasure and palace a center for scholars and nobles to trade wealth and ideas. But then came the wars with Dahlia, and the trading fiasco with Shurtleton, and the empire had slowly fallen into a decline. The rich were still rich, of course, and the poor were still poor, but the middle class had turned tooth and nail against each other, fighting for blood and their shredded scraps of dignity in the streets. The merchant riots had finally died down, thankfully, but now religious tension was on the rise, with the three main factions of monotheism each deciding that their God was the only one and the Royal Court remaining stubbornly polytheistic. By the time Brendon had admitted he'd lost faith, his parents had already declared their supreme loyalty to the Overlords, who advised them that they expunge this tainted soul rather than corrupt the entire household. And just like that, Brendon had found himself on the streets of Salonga, one hand clutching a knapsack and the other firmly wrapped around the handle of his guitar.

Things could have been a lot worse, though. He hadn't been alone for long before Patrick had found him, drawn to his side by the instrument case in his hand. He'd cocked his head, eyes bright beneath his cap, and asked, "You play?"

"Yeah," Brendon had said, taking a half step back. He'd been raised in the suburbs, where almost everything was still organic and certainly everyone was kind to their own, and he still found the metallic stares of city strangers unnerving.

Patrick had regarded him solemnly for a second, then grinned, offering his palm in greeting. "Patrick Stump. You ever think of doing a duo?"

--

That was two years ago now, and Brendon's since grown lean and muscular with street knowledge and the dexterity it takes to dodge the city guards on a daily basis. He and Trick had brought in more by stealing than playing, at first, but then all the markets started installing autosensors and fancy security that'd do more than just scream if they caught you. After the first time Brendon got a neat laser burn across the wrist, he became wary of helping himself at the stalls. Patrick had these choice guitars, anyway: upgraded with homemade tuning capabilities and hotshot riff generators that neither Brendon nor the customers had ever seen before. It wasn't too hard, then, to switch from mostly thieving to mostly busking—still illegal, but at least you didn't run the risk of losing a hand. Recently, they'd even swung into a near-respectable routine: play separate corners during the day, then come together in the evening and split the loot before rocking out in duets. Sure, it made them easier to track, but it was also way preferable to the cutting-running competition they'd tried before. Surviving city life wasn’t easy, exactly, but it was manageable, and they did fine.

If goddamned Ryan Ross hadn't turned eighteen, things would have continued on just dandy. But life, much as we'd like to believe it, is no fairy tale, even in faraway lands and distant futures.


--

Brendon usually got home before Trick, swinging in through the crack in their window in the abandoned attic where they'd been crashing for the last year. Before this, they'd been sleeping on the streets, usually splitting smelly, damp hoverstations with a thousand other street kids. But Patrick's friend Andy had recently set off over the mountains for Kane, and he'd offered them his digs, which was killer. No more sleeping on wet floors, which meant Brendon didn’t spend eight months out of twelve fighting off chest colds.

Wincing, he unsheathed his guitar strap from his shoulders and set it down gently by the window before flopping down on the pile of soft rags they called a bed. The markets had been especially busy today, everyone abuzz with the news that yet another suitor was making his unsteady progress toward the city. Brendon rolled his eyes. Okay, so the prince was eighteen. So what? All he was inheriting was an empire on the edge of tipping into anarchy anyway. This hubbub about a suitable consort was completely unnecessary. Still, excited customers meant happy merchants, which meant they were way less likely to shoo Brendon away or, worse, call in the Cobras. Brendon could wistfully remember the days when all the coppers of the city were completely natural-grown, before they all started getting the bionic implants that the uppity new money and law enforcement seemed equally fond of. They still had the same brains, though, and they weren't any match for Brendon's street skills. He just had to run up the right alleys twice as fast, listening with satisfaction as they cursed his motherless ass.

Even though he knew he should be exhausted, he felt restless, flopping around the bed and checking the digital readout on the city's clocktower through the window. Just as he was starting to worry, looking through the curtain for the sixth time, a foot nearly hit him in the face: Patrick tumbling through. Straightening his hat, he accepted Brendon's outstretched hand and pulled himself up, grimacing as the impact hit his back.

"Rough day today, old man?" Brendon teased. Even though he was barely younger than Patrick, he could never resist the opportunity to taunt him about the fact that he was already going bald.

"The worst," Patrick groaned. "You hear about this prince thing?"

"Yeah," Brendon frowned. "But it didn't do me any harm."

"Well, you were on the market side of the city," Patrick said dryly. "I, on the other hand, was near the Den, and the 'Snakes were going in and out all day. Security, I guess."

"Ouch," Brendon said, making a sympathetic face. "Why not just move, then?"

"Nah," Trick shrugged. "Only place to go's the markets, really, and it was your turn today." The act of marking territory was mostly a ruse, anyway—they split the profits evenly regardless of whose day had been more successful. It secretly delighted Brendon: he knew Patrick was a better musician than he was, but he still trusted him to make his share.

"Well, it'll be your day tomorrow," he consoled. "And who knows? Maybe the prince will have rejected this guy by then."

"What's his deal?" Patrick asked, gently setting his guitar by Brendon's. "Seems awfully picky for the future ruler of the world."

"I look like I know princes?" Brendon scoffed. "Maybe the rumors aren't true, and he's lookin' for a lady."

"Nah," Patrick demurred. "I saw one of the ones he rejected—he was built like a doe, with the hips to boot."

"Breasts, though," Brendon argued.

"Hmm. True."

They both plopped down on the bed, listening idly to the fading roar of the city. "Don't worry, Trick," Brendon said suddenly, a wicked grin splitting his face nearly in half. "Tomorrow I'll go to the palace and seduce Prince Ryan myself."

Patrick snorted. "Yeah, tell me another."

"What, you don't think the emperor's baby would appreciate this face?" asked Brendon, pouting exaggeratedly.

Patrick groaned, punching him in the arm. "He really won't appreciate it if I break your nose," he pointed out, and Brendon gasped, scrambling away from him in mock horror.

"Patrick! As always, your anger is completely unwarranted!" Glancing out the window toward the balustrades of the palace, already alight for the coming of nightfall, he asked, only half-joking, "You really don't think I could swing it?"

Hoisting himself up with a grunt, Patrick joined him at the window. "Brendon, you know I love you, but they're riding in hover limos and we can barely make enough nick to get through week's end."

Brendon sighed. "Yeah, I know," he said. "Street rat through an' through."

Patrick looked at him for a second, then brightly changed the subject. "C'mon. You wanna come play with my chord generators?"

"Hell, yes!" yelped Brendon, letting the curtain swing shut behind him as the dusk fell deeper over the city.

--

Across the city, His Royal Highness Prince Ryan Ross, Future Ruler of the Clandestine Empire and Leader of the Southern World, was throwing the city's strangest temper tantrum. "Vegas, for gods’ sakes!" he wailed, the divine countenance that was recognizable to even the most illiterate street slug currently crumpled in disgust. "Vegas! Do you know what's in Vegas?"

"According to Sir Colligan, quite a lot of naked—" his valet began, but Ryan interrupted, well-bred vowels squeaky with rage, "Nothing! Nothing is in Vegas! It's an uncultured city with no values and less class, and I will not spend a single moment there!"

"Not even for your wedding, sire?" asked his manservant flatly, his features impassive save for one raised eyebrow.

"Least of all for my wedding!" Ryan fumed.

His companion shrugged, still standing at respectful attention. "My liege, I thought Sir Colligan played beautifully this evening. Quite a lot of class, as it happens. Even for Vegas."

Ryan sighed, deflating a little. "Oh, all right. He could play the bass, and the singing wasn't bad. But the words! They made no sense!"

The other man, delicately avoiding the subject of some of the prince's own poetry, suggested, "But he dedicated those words, however convoluted, to Your Highness’s affections. Surely that must mean something."

The prince exhaled, visibly beaten. "Fine. He had talent, and money, and wasn't bad-looking. You're right; I'll announce the marriage next sundown."

"I never suggested that Your Highness do any such thing," the servant pointed out, and the Prince rolled his eyes.

"For the sake of the gods, Spence, come off it. No one's around to hear you call me Ryan."

"Forgive me, sire," said Spencer, a smirk creeping up the edge of his placid expression, "But Your Highness’s father's eyes and ears are everywhere. I could be easily disposed of, should I make him or Your Highness angry."

"Spence," said Ryan casually, "How many times have I threatened to have you done away with?"

"Oh, a good many, my liege."

"And are you indeed still breathing?"

Spencer smiled. "Last time I checked, yes, Your Nobility."

"Then, as the—my nobility? That's a new one."

"Well, Highness gets boring, and you're not technically a Majesty yet."

"Fine. As the noblest in all the land—"

"Second noblest, if we're being precise."

"Interrupting the emperor is a crime punishable by death!"

"But actually, you're not the emperor."

"Spence, as the motherbleeding heir to the throne I order you to sit down and act like a normal human being!"

Spencer, grinning outright, sank down into the chair opposite the prince. "I love making you do that," he confided.

Ryan made a face at him. "I could have you—"

"I know, I know, fed to the tigers, hung from the towers, thrown in the deepest prisons, eviscerated by hoverblade, et cetera," Spencer recited.

Ryan pursed his lips. "Good. So long as you remember."

"I seem to recall you threatening me with the same thing when we were six."

"Well, you stole my yo-squared, and I wanted it back."

"And you did get it back."

"But I had to give back your holodrums. And you hit me in the face."

Spencer raised his eyebrows. "As your bodyguard in training, I clearly felt the need to teach you how to protect yourself from those who would harm you."

"I could have learned just fine without the blood, thanks," Ryan said dryly, but he looked markedly more cheerful.

"You say that. But I guess we'll never really know," said Spencer, stretching out to swing his legs over the arm of the chair. "So Colligan was that awful, huh?"

Ryan groaned. "Ugh, Spence, it was horrible. All 'delicate flower' this and 'rose of the empire' that. Where did that even come from?"

"Well, you do have those vests," Spencer pointed out. Ryan narrowed his eyes.

"Those are ceremonial, and they have deep historical significance," he snapped.

"Uh-huh."

"And, it's just—" He bit his lip, resting his chin on a fine-boned hand. "I know it's too much to ask that someone ignore the power and money. But it'd be nice if I knew it didn't matter." He shrugged, smiling sadly. "I mean, you're the only person I know who doesn't fall all over himself treating me like I can't be trusted to think on my own two feet."

"I could start," Spencer offered. "Saporta did say I should treat you with more reverence." Ryan made a horrified face. "You know, you could just make that look at the suitors and they'd probably go away," Spencer added.

"Saporta says a lot of things," Ryan said, his tone hard.

"As your father's advisor, he has a lot of influence," Spencer remarked, idly twisting one of Ryan's stray scarves around his palm. "I would do well to listen to him."

"And so would I," said Ryan testily. "But you're my friend and what I say goes."

Spencer rolled on his stomach, grinning at him. "Have I ever mentioned that you're hilarious when you've got your royal face on?"

Ryan, scowling, kicked at his head.

"Hey!"

"You should treat me with more respect, Smith. I could have you assassinated."

"So long as it wasn't you who was doing the assassinating. Remember that time you—"

"Shut up!" Ryan pleaded, turning a most undignified shade of crimson. "That was one time, and you swore on pain of death never to speak of it again!"

"Clearly, I had no need to worry about you killing me," remarked Spencer, narrowly dodging the shoe Ryan threw at him. "See? Catlike reflexes!"

A knock at the door made them both startle, and Spencer hurriedly stood up and cleared his throat, at once looking every inch the attentive servant.

"Come in," said Ryan, and a pretty, blonde-haired maid timidly opened the door.

"Um, your majesty?" she asked, averting her eyes. "Your father and Sir Colligan request your presence in the dining room for the royal supper."

"Fine," Ryan sighed imperiously. "We the heir to the throne require a moment to freshen up."

As soon as the door shut, Spencer snorted. "Good luck with that," he advised, and Ryan dropped his head into his hands.

"I hate you," he mumbled. "Go make yourself useful and see if you can kill off Sir Colligan before the dessert course."

Spencer smiled, ruffling his hair affectionately. "I'll see what I can do."

--

The next day dawned far too early, in Brendon’s opinion, but he got up without complaint. Beside him, Patrick snuffled irritably and rolled over, blinking rapidly as his improved lenses slotted into place. “’Time is it?” he muttered, squinting in an attempt to see the clocktower past the early morning glare.

“Eight and half, same as always,” Brendon told him cheerfully, rummaging among the piles for some clothes that didn’t smell too badly of street oil.

“You’re happy,” grunted Patrick, looking ready to pull the covers back over his head.

“Well, I’m thinkin’ today’s the day the new suitor arrives,” Brendon said. “I hear the old one’s still here. Maybe they’ll have a fight!” he said hopefully. A fight drew swarms of crowds, which meant hordes of people not concentrating on the contents of their pockets. Brendon was mostly an honest man now, but it was hard to deny the finger-itch.

“Hmm,” said Patrick, muffled by the blankets. “Better be careful.”

“I always am,” Brendon retorted, pulling a sweatshirt over his head.

“That’s an odd look,” Patrick commented, peering out from under the heap of rags. “Not sim fabric?”

“Nah, cotton,” said Brendon. “Found it in a trash heap, can you believe it? Check out this color!”

“It’s certainly…vivid,” Patrick agreed, and Brendon made a face at him.

“Whatever. You can’t hide your envy, Patrick Stump. I know that gleam in your eye.”

“That’s the lenses,” Patrick protested.

“Sure,” Brendon said. “Deny all you want.” He hoisted his guitar and swung the strap over his back, giving Patrick a stern salute. “Wish me luck, Captain Stump, I’m off to sail the seas of scoundrel.”

“You,” said Patrick, sounding unsurprised, “Are so strange.”

Brendon blew him a kiss and swung easily out the window onto the roof. There were certainly more crowds than usual in the markets today, but the atmosphere was not the eager, antebellum bloodthirst that always pulsed the city veins before a fight. Instead, people were tense, refusing to look anyone in the eye and veritably hiding at the first mention of the Cobras. Finally, Brendon found a newsbot. “Hey,” he goaded it. “Betcha can’t tell me today’s headlines.”

The ‘bot regarded him, expressionless. “That-will-be-fifteen-slags,” its tinny mechanical voice responded.

“Aw, c’mon,” complained Brendon. “I don’t want the laugh pages, just the main word.”

“Fifteen-slags,” repeated the bot, and Brendon grumbled.

“You’re useless,” he muttered, digging in his empty pockets.

“It’s the prince,” commented a voice from behind him. Brendon turned to see a pretty Cobra female behind him, her curves hugged in all the right places by the standard uniform.

He gulped, trying not to look guilty of anything. “Sorry?”

“The prince,” she repeated coolly. “He disappeared last night after dinner with Sir Colligan. Who, by the way, has fled the city, in fear for his life.” She sighed, tapping the ends of her aluminum-alloy nails together. “Emperor Joseph rather hoped they’d eloped, I think, but the prince’s manservant says no dice.” She straightened up, towering over Brendon. “You hear anything, kid, you tell a Cobra right away. This city’s skating thin already.”

Brendon nodded fervently, backing around a corner before turning and running. Odds were she wouldn’t pursue him, not when she hadn’t been alerted, but you never knew when they’d choose to recognize a face.

After ten minutes had passed with no sign of a chase, he relaxed, slowing down to peer at the passersby as likely marks or music fans. In the distance, he saw a slim figure with supremely-cut clothing stop to peer up at the height of the buildings, clearly unfamiliar with the territory. Perfect, Brendon thought, casually moving closer.

By the time he got within range, the boy had moved from staring around confusedly to eyeing the wares of a nearby merchant. “Fine fabric,” he commented, running long fingers over a vibrant red. “What’s it made out of?”

“Purest silk,” oozed the merchant, and Brendon fought the urge to scoff. Chances were the cloth was no more organic than that curvy Cobra’s metal manicure.

“Really?” the boy asked, brow creasing in interest. “Can I—”

“Hands off!” the merchant snarled as the boy gently lifted the material, and the boy instinctively stepped backward. “Hey! You got thief in your blood, scum?”

“No!” protested the boy, still clutching the scarf, and the merchant growled, whipping out a laser blade. He made a motion toward the boy, who just—stood there, eyes wide and terrified.

Oh, by the gods, I’m a fool, thought Brendon, before stepping in and smartly snatching the scarf away from the boy. “So sorry, sir,” he said, letting his voice slip into the practiced cadence of a Kannish native. “We’re not from ‘round here, see, and my brother Francis here gets a trifle overexcited by the bright colors. Bit slow, you see,” he added conspiratorially.

“Hey, I’m not--” the boy started indignantly, and yelped when Brendon yanked him by the arm.

“Hush, Frankie, I know, very pretty, but we must remember rules are rules!” He hastily replaced the fabric back on the table, giving it a pat for good measure and backing away, still tugging the boy by the arm. “Right then, no harm done, chap, we’ll just be on our way, shall we?”

The merchant, struck dumb by surprise, opened his mouth angrily, and Brendon quickly frog-marched the boy away. “Walk around the corner, then we run,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“What? Why?”

“Because I just took about eight more of those.” He grinned at the boy, who looked completely shocked, and then whipped his head up at the sound of a distant yell. “Oops, now!”

The boy didn’t move at first, staring at Brendon as if he really were speaking Kannish. Brendon tugged on his arm harder, wondering if maybe he truly was a bit slow. “Come on,” he said urgently, “Before he calls the Cobra on us.”

The boy blinked and surged forward with surprising speed, shoving past him, and Brendon exhaled in relief and caught up with him. “Follow me!” he called over his shoulder, and the boy, huffing and puffing, obliged. Over two chain-link fences, through three stores, and down a side street, and they were safely away from Market Lane, closer to the exclusively residential part of the city. “We’ll have to double back eventually,” said Brendon, pointing up to the top of one of the apartment buildings, “But we can shade there for a while.”

The boy, looking awed, simply nodded and scrambled up the planter behind him, wheezing as they pulled themselves over the threshold and tumbled onto the roof. Brendon lay there contentedly, enjoying the feeling of sun-warmed artificial brick and listening to the sound of the boy’s breathing gradually slow. Finally, the boy said, “Can I ask you something?”

Brendon blinked in surprise; far from the consonant-dropping cadence of a born street slug, the boy talked like a true lilylady. “Sure,” he said, trying to mask his curiosity. “Shoot.”

“What the hell was that?” snapped the boy, turning on him. “I obviously had it under control—” Brendon scoffed, but the boy plowed on, “And then you actually steal the stuff?”

Brendon spread his hands, pleased despite himself. “Street rat,” he said, grinning shamelessly until the boy’s look softened. “And you wanna tell me you had that under control? Two shakes more and you’da been without a hand.” Seeing the boy’s startled expression, he cocked his head. “You…really aren’t from around here, huh?”

The boy bit his lip, suddenly mute, and shook his head.

“Where you staying?”

The boy just looked at him, blank.

Brendon sighed. “Okay. So you’re foreign, street stupid, and homeless. And you weren’t intending to steal the push’s merch?”

The boy shook his head fiercely. “I’m not very good at planning,” he said, voice soft and sullen.

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Listen, kid—”

“I’m eighteen, you know.”

“Fancy. You don’t know the streets, so you’re a baby goat to me,” Brendon chuckled to himself, making a mental note to try that one on one of the Alexes later. “I don’t know where you come from, but round here, the streets ain’t exactly friendly. Pretty boy like yourself, you gotta watch for people tryin’ to, uh. Handle the goods.” The boy looked up at him, eyes huge, and Brendon winced. “Not that I would. Or want to! I was raised Church of One Faith, promise!”

The boy looked unconvinced, but Brendon soldiered on. “Anyway. Maybe you’d do better sticking with me.”

“I don’t even know your name,” said the boy, sounding much younger than his alleged eighteen.

“Fine,” said Brendon. “I’m Brendon. Had a surname, lost it, found it again, decided I didn’t want it after all. I live between Market and the Cobras, which isn’t ideal for location, but the view of the palace is choice.” There was an awkward silence. The boy stared at his shoes, which, Brendon noticed, were pristine and the best imitation leather he’d seen in years. “And you?” he prompted.

“Oh! I, uh. I’m—George,” hemmed the boy, and Brendon rolled his eyes. George? Kid must have taken him for a bin baby. “I was born outside the city, left on a doorstep, the works. The family that took me—“ He swallowed, obviously growing into his story, “They weren’t cruel, but they weren’t kind, and yesterday I ran away.”

Brendon frowned. “How far outside the city did you come from?”

“Uh. Twenty kilometers, give or take.” Brendon glanced at the kid’s shoes again, smudged only with street dust.

“Okay,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. Hey, the kid needed lying work, but Patrick always said he had the worst face for card games he’d ever seen, so he was no judge. “Well, I’d be happy to let you crash at my place, but Patrick would string me for the snakeys if I came home from a day’s work with only eight scarves and a country boy who can’t lie his way out of a barrel.”

George flushed, but said only, “Who’s Patrick? Is he your—uh—”

Brendon felt his eyes widen, and he guffawed before he could stop himself. “Patrick? Oh, gods. Patrick’s great, love him to pieces, but I think if I laid a finger on him he’d bite it off.” He paused, briefly contemplating it, and shuddered at the mental image. “Nah. We’re bedmates, but only ‘cause we got one bed. He’s like—I guess he’s like a brother.”

George blinked, and suddenly dropped his head into his hands, showing more emotion than Brendon had seen him display all day. “Oh, man,” he groaned, voice muffled by his palms. “Spencer’s gonna kill me.”

“Spencer?”

“He’s—my brother. He takes care of me. I wanted to ask him to come with me, but I knew he wouldn’t, and—oh gods. He’ll hunt me down and tear me apart just because he can.”

Out of everything George had said in the last hour, that rang the truest. Brendon grinned. “Well, tell you what, we’ll make you hard to find, huh? Let’s go hit the streets, and we’ll be back at my place before sundown.”

“What do you do? Play?” said George, seeming to see the guitar slung over his shoulders for the first time. He looked painfully, obviously interested.

Brendon smiled, hopping up and offering him a hand. “Do you trust me?” he said, and George hesitated, then slowly nodded, looking wary. Brendon grabbed him by the wrist and tugged him upward, stepping toward the edge of the roof.

Pulling George close, he wrapped his arms around him, surprised that despite the delicacy of his features and the slightness of his bones, he was actually an inch or two taller. They stood together for a second, an embrace just shy of strangely intimate, before George cleared his throat.

“Uh, Brendon?” he began uncertainly.

Brendon shook his head, shooting him a devils-may-care smile. “Let’s jump on down, and I’ll show you how I make the ladies swoon,” he said, swinging them off onto a clothesline to the chorus of George’s shocked yells.

--

The last streaks of sunset were fading from the night sky when Brendon and Ryan fell, laughing breathlessly, through the window into the tiny upstairs room.

“Ow,” winced Ryan from the floor, “My bones hurt. And my arms. And my ass, from where that lady pinched it. Can she do that?” he asked, incredulous.

Brendon giggled wickedly. “Dunno why she’d want to. You’re as flat as a hoverboard.”

“Hey!” Ryan protested, rolling over on his stomach to try to look at his assets to the rear. “You’re not any better!”

“False,” declared Brendon confidently. “Five out of five noble ladies say that my end is as round as an apple.” He looked so proud that Ryan had to burst out laughing again, and Brendon joined him.

“You sure you didn’t grow up street, kid?” he asked, collapsing onto the bed. “You sure can work your crowds.”

“Well, I’m used to being looked at,” said Ryan without thinking, and froze. Brendon stared at him, his mirth gradually dissolving into suspicion—an obviously foreign sentiment on his happy, open face.

“Weren’t born here, huh?” he asked again, and Ryan shook his head. “It’s odd, because you look—familiar.” He shrugged, happy to dismiss the subject. “It’s too bad I know my parents, or I’d say we were blood somehow. Where’d you learn to play the guitar, anyway?”

Ryan, delighted when Brendon had pulled out his custom Slater, had taken to busking like a meta-croc to the gutters. Brendon had claimed not to mind, saying that this way he could concentrate on the words, and the two of them had pulled in twice as much as Brendon said he normally raked. Ryan tried not to think of how he could get used to this.

Realizing Brendon was still looking inquisitively at him, he stammered, “My, uh, my adoptive father taught me. Spence can play the holodrums; he has since we were kids.”

“Oh,” said Brendon, looking appreciative. “Nice. Those holodrums can be mean little suckers.”

“So can Spencer,” said Ryan, smiling fondly. “He always said they suited him.”

Lost in thought, he jumped at the gentle hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you should go back,” Brendon suggested, his voice kind. “I mean, not that I mind having you around, no sir, but—they’re probably worried about you.”

“No,” said Ryan firmly. “I’ll get a message to Spencer somehow, and I can’t—I can’t live a life where people think I’m someone I’m not.”

Brendon nodded, his eyes hooded with grim comprehension. “Yeah, I gotcha,” he said, looking strangely guarded. “Still,” he added brightly, “This certainly won’t be what you’re used to.”

“How would you know?” Ryan asked, trying to keep the paranoia out of his voice. He thought he’d played the part rather well, thanks.

Brendon snorted. “C’mon, princess. Leather shoes? Satin shirt? Only people who can afford garb like that are the lilies, and they ain’t sleepin’ on rags.” He flopped back down on the bed, wriggling a little. “Not that these aren’t as comfortable as any duck-fluff mattress I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not picky,” Ryan shrugged, though he actually thought his own mattress was stuffed with goose down, not duck. “I sleep where I can sleep.”

“Really,” Brendon said, looking skeptical. “Well, I’d hate to bruise those pretty shoulders, but this is basically all we got.”

“Fine! That’s fine!” Ryan huffed, walking over and flinging himself on the bed the same way Brendon had. He’d wrongly estimated the relative cushiness of the rags, however, and hit the floor beneath them hard, squeaking in pain and rolling half onto Brendon.

“See?” Brendon crowed, though he didn’t sound malicious. “Hopeless!”

“Shut up,” Ryan growled, face mashed into Brendon’s armpit. He struggled to get up, but the pile shifted and he just fell back into Brendon. “Damn it,” he cursed, as Brendon cackled helplessly. “I hate you already.”

“Lies, lies, lies,” Brendon singsonged. The melody weaved its way down Ryan’s spine and he stiffened, suddenly realizing that he was curled around Brendon in a way he hadn’t been for anyone since long before he became of public marriageable age. Brendon, apparently noticing the odd set of Ryan’s shoulders, fell silent. For a moment, Ryan just lay there, feeling the warm, muscular planes of Brendon’s chest rise and fall beneath him.

“George?” Brendon finally asked uncertainly. “Have you ever, ah?”

Ryan smiled up at him, noticing the way he closed his eyes as if afraid of the answer. “Just a few times,” he fibbed, and slowly tilted his head up to kiss Brendon’s wide mouth, still echoing the ghost of a nervous smile. Brendon gulped, pausing for a moment, and then gently kissed him back, opening his lips slightly.

They kissed lazily, comfortably, without all the nipping intensity and eagerness to please that Ryan was used to. Brendon’s tongue darted quickly between his lips, and Ryan swallowed a moan, trying to remind himself that jumping the first friendly face he’d met would be a poor choice. Not that Brendon seemed to object very heavily, he noticed, feeling the firm grip Brendon had on his waist.

Finally Brendon pulled back, making Ryan sigh. His face was bright red, the thatch of thick hair on his head falling over his eyes. “Sorry,” he said, still not taking his hands from Ryan’s waist. “Got, uh—got carried away.”

“Thought you said you’d keep your hands off the goods,” Ryan teased, feeling strange and coy.

“Well, I apparently lied,” Brendon grinned, leaning down to kiss him again. They were just starting to get more enthusiastic, Ryan’s fingers deftly plucking at the hem of Brendon’s sweatshirt, when there came a loud bang from downstairs. Ryan ignored it, assuming that it was another city sound, but Brendon pushed him off hurriedly and sat up, eyes wide with fear.

“Patrick?” Ryan murmured, feeling the sudden loss of warmth, but Brendon shushed him.

“Patrick gets in through the window,” he said almost inaudibly, entire body quivering like a hare caught by the gaze of a hawk. “Only people who’d come in through there are—”

“Cobras!” a harsh, commanding voice shouted from disconcertingly nearby. “Come out, and no one gets hurt!”

“Fuck,” Brendon hissed, leaping into action toward the window. “C’mon, c’mon, grab the guitar and follow me,” he ordered, voice pitched strangely high with fear. Sticking his head out the window, he quickly yanked it back just as Ryan saw the rainbow spectrum of a laser sniper shoot across the visible patch of sky. “Oh, gods, we’re fucked,” Brendon moaned, dropping onto the bed as if his knees were suddenly too weak to stand.

Ryan couldn’t let this go on. “Brendon,” he said urgently. “Brendon, will they find us no matter what?”

“Yeah,” Brendon nodded, face gone drawn and pale. “Heat seekers, you know, and—oh gods, those fucking Cobras, how the fuck did they find us?”

“Fine,” Ryan nodded, clenching his jaw determinedly. “Brendon, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“What?” Brendon said, voice panicked, as Ryan headed for the locked door that led into the rest of the ramshackle house.

“Hey!” Ryan yelled, yanking on the doorknob until something clicked and it flew open. “Hey, we’re up here!”

“George, what the hell are you doing?” Brendon demanded.

“Trust me,” Ryan muttered to him, and then held up a hand, whipping off his cap as the Cobras ran around the corner. “In the name of the Emperor’s Throne, I order you to halt!”

“What?” Brendon yelped, and Ryan glanced at him over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Brendon,” he repeated softly, then turned to face the Cobras again. “What is your business here?”

“Begging Your Highness’s pardon,” said one of the Cobras, his aquiline nose evidence of once-noble blood, “But we were sent to find you.”

“You left a pretty little DNA trail,” said one of the others, a female. She nodded curtly at Brendon, whose eyes were huge. “I see you didn’t take my advice, little one. Pity.” She stepped forward. “You’re under arrest for charges of kidnapping and intending to cause harm to the Emperor.”

“The—Emperor?” Brendon choked.

“Technically not yet,” drawled a clipped voice from behind the three Cobras. They turned as one unit as a tall, fair-haired figure emerged from the hallway behind them. Though his hair was mussed and he was panting slightly, his expression was cool and detached. “Your Highness. Glad to see you seem to be alive.” He raised an eyebrow very slightly, but Ryan got the message loud and clear: Though you won’t be after I’m done with you.

“Mr. Smith, we recommended you stay in the car,” said the third Cobra, his hair cut to a non-regulation slant across his eyes.

Spencer shrugged, hard gaze fixing on Brendon, who visibly shuddered. “As the Emperor-to-Be’s bodyguard, retrieval of the target and disposal of those at fault are in my job description.”

“Well of course it’s a misunderstanding!” Ryan burst out, feeling his cheeks heat. “I ran away! Wasn’t kidnapped!”

“I do recall the scarf rope hanging out the window,” Spencer said dryly.

The lead Cobra tossed her hair impatiently. “We don’t have time for this,” she snapped. “Kidnapped or no, our orders were to detain the perp. Let’s cuff him so we can all get on with our lives.”

“No!” cried Ryan, lunging toward Brendon, but the Cobra stepped smartly between them. “You can’t do this! I order you to let him go!”

“Sorry, Your Highness,” she said, encircling one of Brendon’s unresisting wrists with the blue glow of a cufflight, “But we answer to your father and his advisors.”

“Saporta,” Ryan growled. “Saporta doesn’t give a rat’s rear whether I’m alive or dead.”

“Take it up with him, then,” the Cobra suggested, hauling Brendon up to his feet. Only when he stood did the boy start to struggle, the barely-contained panic in his face giving way to visceral fear.

“George!” he pleaded throatily. “George, or—Prince Ryan, or Your Highness, please, you can’t let them do this! Ryan, you can’t—let—please—” he slowed and sagged, the sedatives in the cuffs taking hold.

The Cobra smiled grimly, showing all her teeth. “There we go,” she said, satisfied, as she hoisted his limp body up on her shoulders. “C’mon, boys, back to the station with him.”

“Where will you take him?” asked Ryan, feeling himself shake uncontrollably.

She turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “The dungeons, I expect. The penalty for kidnapping a royal is execution.”

“But he didn’t!” Ryan shouted, his voice cracking as he went for the Cobra. “He’s innocent!”

Spencer grabbed his wrist, holding him back. “Don’t,” he advised, his face expressionless. “Talk to your father when we get back. They won’t disobey orders.”

“Spence,” Ryan implored, and Spencer swallowed.

“Don’t make me carry you back to the palace,” he pleaded softly.

Ryan bit his lip hard and nodded, feeling the blood rush hot and bitter into his mouth. Together they followed the Cobras out, Spencer’s hand pressing gently on the small of Ryan’s back.

--

Part 2