Flexible--Rydon--21

"You look like shit," are the first words out of Brendon's mouth when he sees Ryan at their next band practice.

Ryan, his arm down up in a sling and his arms and face littered with bruises, slowly raises his head to look at the other boy. "You don't look too great yourself, Mr. Black-Eye," he says stiffly.

"Did you guys get in a fight?" Spencer asks sharply and Ryan throws his head back in wild, bitter laughter.

"I wish," he says, trying unsuccessfully to control his laughter. "That'd be a much better story than falling down the stairs."

Brendon grimaces. "Luck you," he says. "I got into a fight with my brother, Vic. He packs a mean punch."

Both boys are lying and neither knows that the other also suffered their injuries at the hands of their own fathers.

"Well, I hope your arm heals soon, Ryan," Spencer says. "We need you back on guitar as soon as possible if we're going to be recording demos."

Ryan cracks a grin. "So business-like, Spen," he says affectionately. "You're beginning to sound like me." He pauses, gazing around himself at his best friend since forever who he knows better than himself, the gawky boy with the bass and the long hair and the weird laugh, and the unfamiliar, oh-so-similar boy with the bruised face, like a mirror of his own. "Speaking of which," he continues. "We need to keep saving money for the recording studio. Anyone want to run a bake-sale with me?"

Brendon chokes on his own breath. "You bake?" he asks in surprise.

"He's quiet skilled, actually," Spencer says with a wry smile. "Shocker, right?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, stunned. "I … I have got to see this. I'll bake-sale with you this Saturday. Work for you, Ryan?"

Which is how Ryan and Brendon end up sitting together awkwardly at a small stand outside the local grocery store. Brendon baked simple brownies out of a box, convinced his mother to make an apple pie, and is overwhelmed by the onslaught of seemingly perfect cupcakes, flawless tarts, and exquisite cookies that Ryan baked and brought with him.

"Holy mother of sweet, baby Jesus …" Brendon mumbles, jaw dropping at the sight of the all the pastries. "You … I can't believe this."

Ryan merely smiles shyly, blushes, and carefully arranges his work on the table.

They're quickly greeted by an elderly lady and her daughter who wish to buy a selection of pastries for a potluck dinner they're attending.

"I'd suggest a combination of macaroons and kiwi tarts," Ryan says in a very professional voice. "The sweet of the kiwi makes a nice counterpoint to the coconut in the macaroon."

"Who are you and what have you done with Ryan?" Brendon demands once the women have made their purchases, a combination of macaroons and kiwi tarts.

"Spencer told you I could bake," Ryan retorts. "Why are you so surprised?"

Brendon just whistles and shakes his head. "You know," he says. "Aside from your whole fuck-the-world persona, you're pretty damn perfect."

Ryan laughs, winking at the younger boy. "I try."

And after the most successful bake sale Brendon has ever seen, the two boys pack up and head home, carrying the few leftovers in plastic bags as they walk together, until Brendon pauses at one intersection. "You live that, right?" he asks, pointing in one direction, and Ryan nods. "I guess this is where we part ways then. See you at practice, Ryan," he says, heading off in the other direction.

"Wait!"

Brendon halts and looks over his shoulder back at Ryan. "Yeah?"

"Here," Ryan mumbles, holding out a delicate specimen of a red velvet cupcake. "I … everyone says they're my best. Take. It."

Brendon blinks at the offered cupcake in surprise, a slow smile breaking across his face. "I … thanks, Ryan," he says and carefully takes it from the other boy's hand. "I'm sure it will be delicious."

"I … uh, yeah. No problem," Ryan mumbles, ducks his head, and race-walks the rest of the way back to his house.