Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack stood frozen at the foot of the bed, the scratchy hotel towel still draped around his neck like some pathetic security blanket. The air in the cramped room felt thick enough to cut—heavy with the scent of old carpet, industrial cleaning chemicals, and something sharper beneath it all that made his pulse skip: anticipation, unspoken and electric, crackling in the space between them like a live wire.

Outside, rain whispered against the single window, a steady percussion that somehow made the silence inside feel even more profound. The city lights beyond painted shifting shadows across the faded walls, neon blues and yellows that danced across Ryan's face as he sat on the edge of the bed, remote in hand but forgotten.

"I can't believe Steve gave us one bed," Jack muttered, his voice coming out rougher than intended. It was a feeble attempt at humor, but the words died in the stagnant air between them, swallowed by the weight of everything they weren't saying.

Ryan glanced up, and for a heartbeat their eyes met—a collision that sent heat racing up Jack's neck. Ryan's mouth twitched, almost a smile, before he looked away. "Welcome to band budgets," he said, but his voice was tight, strained. "At least it's not a pull-out couch this time."

Jack forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. His fingers worried the edge of the towel, twisting the damp fabric until his knuckles went white. Every nerve ending felt exposed, hypersensitive to the smallest movement Ryan made—the way he shifted his weight, the soft exhale that ghosted past his lips, the unconscious gesture of running his hand through his hair.

"So, uh..." Jack cleared his throat, desperate to fill the silence that stretched between them like a chasm. "That drink you ordered. When's it supposed to get here?"

Ryan's phone buzzed against the nightstand, as if summoned by the question. He grabbed it, thumb swiping across the screen. "Actually, should be any minute now. DoorDash says the driver's in the lobby."

As if on cue, a soft knock echoed from the door. Both brothers froze, staring at each other for a suspended moment before Ryan scrambled to his feet. "I'll get it," he said, already moving toward the door, but Jack could see the flush creeping up his neck, the way his hands trembled slightly as he reached for the handle.

The delivery driver was a college-aged kid who barely glanced at them, probably used to strange late-night hotel deliveries. Ryan tipped him generously—too generously, Jack noted—and closed the door with a soft click that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet.

"So," Ryan said, holding up a brown paper bag that crinkled in his grip. "I got us a variety pack. Wasn't sure what you'd want."

Jack moved closer, close enough to smell the lingering scent of Ryan's shampoo, something clean and woodsy that made his head spin. "What kind of variety?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ryan's throat worked as he swallowed. "Beer, obviously. A couple of those fruity ciders you like. And..." He reached into the bag, pulling out a small bottle of whiskey. "This. For when beer isn't enough."

Their fingers brushed as Jack reached for the bottle, and both of them jerked back as if burned. The whiskey nearly slipped from Jack's suddenly nerveless grip.

"Careful," Ryan breathed, steadying the bottle with his own hands. For a moment they stood there, both gripping the glass, Ryan's fingers warm against Jack's knuckles. The touch was innocent—practical, even—but it sent electricity shooting up Jack's arm.

"Thanks," Jack managed, his voice cracking slightly. He pulled his hands away, cradling the bottle against his chest. "Good choice. I think I need something stronger than beer tonight."

Ryan's eyes darkened, studying Jack's face with an intensity that made him want to squirm. "Bad day?"

"Something like that." Jack twisted the cap off the whiskey, the sharp scent of alcohol filling the air between them. He took a sip—bigger than he probably should have—and felt the burn all the way down to his stomach. The warmth spread through his chest, loosening some of the knots of anxiety that had been building all day.

Ryan grabbed a beer for himself, the can hissing as he popped it open. "Want to..." He gestured vaguely at the bed, then seemed to think better of it. "We could sit on the floor. Might be less... weird."

Jack almost laughed at that. As if sitting on the floor would somehow make the electric tension between them disappear. As if distance measured in inches could solve the problem of wanting something he couldn't—shouldn't—have.

"Floor's probably dirty," he said instead, settling onto the edge of the bed with careful precision, leaving as much space as possible between where he sat and where Ryan might choose to sit. "Hotel housekeeping isn't exactly known for thoroughness."

Ryan hesitated for a long moment, beer can sweating in his grip, before settling onto the opposite corner of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Jack felt the subtle shift, the way gravity tried to pull them together across the expanse of rumpled white sheets.

They drank in silence for a while, the rain providing a steady soundtrack to their careful avoidance of eye contact. Jack found himself studying the pattern on the bedspread, counting threads, memorizing the faded floral design—anything to avoid looking at Ryan and seeing whatever expression might be lurking in those dark eyes.

"Remember when we used to do this?" Ryan said suddenly, his voice soft and almost nostalgic. "Just... sit and drink and talk about stupid stuff. Before everything got so complicated."

Jack's heart clenched. "When was it not complicated?" he asked, taking another sip of whiskey. The alcohol was working, loosening his tongue, making him brave in ways that probably weren't wise. "Feels like it's always been complicated. Just... different kinds of complicated."

Ryan's laugh was rueful. "Fair point. Remember that first tour? When we were sleeping four to a room and living on gas station sandwiches?"

"And you got food poisoning from that sketchy truck stop in Ohio," Jack added, a genuine smile tugging at his lips despite everything. "Adam made me hold your hair while you puked."

"God, that was mortifying." Ryan's cheeks flushed pink, whether from the memory or the beer, Jack couldn't tell. "I was so embarrassed. Here I was, supposed to be the responsible older brother, and I'm dying in a Motel 6 bathroom because I couldn't resist a questionable egg salad sandwich."

"You were responsible," Jack said, the words coming out more earnest than he intended. "You still are. You always... you always take care of us. Take care of me."

The air between them shifted, charged with something deeper than nostalgia. Ryan's eyes found Jack's across the narrow space of the bed, and for a moment neither of them looked away. The moment stretched, taut as a guitar string, until Ryan cleared his throat and took a long pull from his beer.

"Yeah, well," he said, voice rough. "That's what big brothers are for, right?"

The word 'brothers' hit Jack like a physical blow. He flinched, turning away to stare out the rain-streaked window. The city beyond was a blur of lights and motion, people living their normal lives, people who didn't have to worry about wanting things they couldn't have.

"Right," he echoed, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. "Brothers."

They fell into silence again, but this time it was heavier, weighted with all the things that word implied—and all the things it forbidden. Jack finished his first drink and poured another, the whiskey burning less now, settling into a warm glow in his chest that made everything feel slightly unreal, like he was watching this scene play out from outside himself.

Ryan had moved on to his second beer, and Jack could see the alcohol starting to relax him, the rigid line of his shoulders softening, his careful posture becoming more natural. He'd pulled his legs up onto the bed, crossing them under him, and somehow the space between them seemed both larger and smaller than before.

"Can I ask you something?" Ryan said suddenly, his voice quiet but cutting through the rain and the hum of the air conditioning.

Jack's stomach dropped. "Depends what it is."

"Are you happy?" The question hung in the air between them, deceptively simple but loaded with implications. "I mean, really happy. With all of this. The band, the tour, the... everything."

Jack stared at him, caught off guard by the vulnerability in Ryan's voice. "Are you?"

"I asked first."

Jack took another sip of whiskey, using the time to think. How could he explain that he was happier than he'd ever imagined possible and more miserable than he'd ever been, all at the same time? How could he say that every moment on stage, every song they played together, felt like flying—but that every moment offstage was torture because it meant being close to Ryan without being able to touch him the way he wanted to?

"Sometimes," he said finally. "It comes and goes. The happiness. Some days I feel like the luckiest person alive, getting to do this with you guys, with my family. Other days..."

"Other days?"

Jack shook his head. "Other days I feel like I'm losing my mind."

Ryan was quiet for a long moment, studying the label on his beer can with intense concentration. "Yeah," he said eventually. "I know that feeling."

Something in his tone made Jack look up, really look at him. Ryan's face was flushed, whether from alcohol or emotion, and there was something raw in his expression, something unguarded that made Jack's breath catch.

“Do you ever think about what it would be like?" Ryan continued, his voice so quiet Jack had to strain to hear him over the rain. "If we were... different. If things were different.”

Jack's heart started pounding so hard he was sure Ryan could hear it. "Different how?”

Ryan met his eyes across the bed, and for a moment the careful distance they'd maintained all evening seemed to evaporate. "You know how.”

The words hung between them, dangerous and electric. Jack felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, one wrong move away from falling into something he couldn't come back from.

"Ryan..." he started, but his voice failed him.

"Sorry," Ryan said quickly, looking away and draining the rest of his beer in one long swallow. "I shouldn't have... the alcohol's making me say stupid things. We should probably... it's getting late.”

Jack nodded, though his heart was still racing. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right.”

They moved around each other with sudden, careful efficiency, cleaning up the empty bottles and cans. The easy intimacy of moments before had shifted into something more charged, more dangerous. Jack was hyperaware of every movement Ryan made, every brush of his fingers as he gathered the bottles, every glance that didn't quite meet his eyes.

"You can use the bathroom first," Ryan offered, his voice studiously casual.

Jack grabbed his sleep clothes— just an old t-shirt and boxers— and escaped to the small bathroom. He brushed his teeth mechanically, staring at his reflection and trying to will away the flush in his cheeks, the wild look in his eyes. When he came out, Ryan was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone with forced concentration.

"Your turn," Jack said quietly, settling onto the far side of the bed and pulling the covers up to his chest like armor

Ryan nodded and gathered his own clothes, disappearing into the bathroom. Jack could hear the water running, the soft sounds of Ryan's nighttime routine, and his imagination supplied details he definitely shouldn't be thinking about. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think about anything else—lyrics, melodies, the schedule for tomorrow's drive.

When Ryan emerged, hair still damp and wearing just a soft gray t-shirt and sleep shorts, Jack's breath caught all over again. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling as Ryan moved around the room, turning off lights, checking that the door was locked.

The mattress dipped as Ryan slipped under the covers, and Jack went rigid. They were sharing a bed—something they'd done countless times before on tours, in cheap hotels, at their parents' house during holidays. But this felt different. Everything felt different now.

Ryan settled on his side of the bed, leaving what felt like miles of space between them but somehow still too close. Jack could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could hear every shift of the sheets, every quiet breath.

"Jack?" Ryan's voice was soft in the darkness.

"Yeah?”

"Are you... are you okay? You seem really tense.”

Jack forced himself to relax his shoulders, unclenched his fists from where they'd been gripping the sheets. "I'm fine. Just... tired."

Silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren't saying. Jack stared at the ceiling, counting the shadows cast by the streetlights filtering through the curtains. Beside him, Ryan shifted, and Jack held his breath, hyperaware of every micro-movement.

"This is ridiculous," Ryan said suddenly, and Jack's heart stopped. "We're both lying here wide awake pretending everything's normal."

Jack didn't trust himself to speak. His whole body was coiled tight as a spring, ready to bolt or break or do something catastrophically stupid.

"I can practically hear you thinking from over here," Ryan continued, and there was a note of something—frustration? Amusement? Longing?— in his voice. "Your brain is so loud it's keeping me awake.”

Despite everything, Jack felt his lips twitch. "Sorry. I'll think quieter.”

Ryan's soft laugh sent warmth shooting through Jack's chest. "That's not... Jack, look at me. Please?”

Jack's throat felt tight. Slowly, carefully, he turned his head on the pillow. Ryan was facing him, propped up on one elbow, his face barely visible in the dim light but close enough that Jack could see the concern in his eyes.

"There you are," Ryan said softly. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Jack opened his mouth, closed it again. How could he possibly explain the war raging inside him? The way his skin felt too tight, the way every cell in his body was screaming at him to move closer while his brain chanted warnings about lines that couldn't be uncrossed?

"I just..." Jack's voice came out hoarse. "I've been thinking too much. About tomorrow's show. About everything that could go wrong.”

Ryan shifted closer, concern evident in his voice. "What kind of things?”

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, grasping for any excuse that wasn't the truth. "Stupid stuff. Like... What if my voice cracks during 'Karma'? You know how stress gets me sometimes when I'm tired. And what if I'm late getting back to the stage after 'Wow I'm Not Crazy'? The crew's been cutting the transition time shorter and shorter for certain venues..."

"Jack-"

"And what if I trip? Or fall? Remember that show in Denver where I almost ate it during the bridge of 'Bang!'? What if that happens but worse? What if I completely face-plant in front of thousands of people and it ends up on TikTok forever and-”

"Hey." Ryan's voice was gentle but firm. "Breathe. Those are all normal pre-show nerves. You've never missed a cue, your voice is stronger than ever, and you're not going to fall."

Jack's throat felt tight, hating himself for the lies spilling out of his mouth. "I know. I know it's stupid. I just... I can't turn my brain off tonight. It keeps spiraling into all these worst-case scenarios."

Ryan was quiet for a long moment, and Jack could feel him studying his profile in the darkness. "Is that really what's keeping you up? Show anxiety?"

Jack forced himself to nod, even though every fiber of his being wanted to confess the truth. "Yeah. Just... tour brain, you know? Everything feels bigger and scarier at night."

They lay there facing each other in the darkness, the space between them feeling both infinite and microscopic. Jack could see Ryan's chest rising and falling, could feel the warmth of his breath, but now there was something else in the air—a sense that Ryan didn't quite believe him, but was choosing not to push.

"Okay," Ryan said finally, his voice softer now. "But you know you can talk to me about anything, right? Not just show stuff. Anything.”

Jack's heart clenched at the gentle invitation, at the door Ryan was leaving open for him. "I know," he whispered, the words feeling like both a promise and a lie.

Ryan nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Jack's face. "Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow's show is going to be amazing, just like always.”

Jack forced himself to close his eyes, to turn away, to create some semblance of the distance his rational mind knew they needed. But as he settled back against his pillow, he felt Ryan shift beside him, felt the whisper of movement as Ryan's hand crept across the sheets—not quite touching, but close enough that Jack could feel the warmth of his skin.

Jack lay rigid, every nerve ending hyperaware of that almost-touch, knowing he was a coward for not being honest, knowing Ryan deserved better than these pathetic excuses. But the truth felt too dangerous, too likely to destroy everything they had built together.

Outside, the rain continued its gentle percussion against the window, and eventually, exhaustion began to win out over both the electric tension and the guilt thrumming through Jack's body. But even as sleep claimed him, he remained conscious of Ryan's presence beside him—close enough to touch, close enough to tell the truth to, close enough to make the morning feel like both an escape and another day of living a lie.

He couldn’t sleep, not with Ryan so close. Not with how often the older would shift and his skin would graze on his own.

I need to get out of here.