orion's belt is in your spine

since (apocalypse fic)

2008-04-24T21:11:35Z

Since
Gerard Way/Amanda Palmer (past Gerard/Frank, Amanda/Brian Viglione)
1242 words
PG-13
Amanda doesn’t ask how he’s been; he knows she’s not stupid. Everyone’s just been surviving, been the same since— Instead she asks if he’s still drawing.

so basically they're in boston after the world has ended. yeah, i don't know either. wouldn't have been possible without theworshipper's cheerleading.

Gerard remembers Amanda’s hair being shorter. Short and curling a little around, under her ears; like Frank’s. Except no, no, because Gerard doesn’t think about that anymore. Frank was a long time ago. Frank was, but Amanda is, here and now. Here and now, with longer hair that flips up where it falls around her shoulders.

“Hey, you have eyebrows,” is the first thing he says. It startles a laugh out of her, and he thinks maybe there’s still luck, somewhere.

He first saw her in the Square. He had stopped, already late to the gallery, to stare at the girl in white, white, down to the ground, tumbling from her shoulders high above him. She had to be on stilts, he knew, but later, when he got home after being turned down, again, he drew her without them. He drew her with six-foot long legs and her head in the sky. She was looking down at him from the page, staring back at him in the same way she had earlier. Her hand was halfway between picking another flower from the bouquet and waving.

Amanda doesn’t ask how he’s been; he knows she’s not stupid. Everyone’s just been surviving, been the same since— Instead she asks if he’s still drawing. He shakes his head in a way that he knows could mean anything, but tries to keep smiling. The last thing he’d inked had been ink, but he doesn’t tell her that. It wouldn’t make any sense out loud.

She doesn’t ask about Frank, either, and he doesn’t ask about Brian.

They officially met later at some Boston bar, friends of friends of friends. She’d made him order her an Irish Coffee when they ended up sitting next to each other. It’s the price for staring, she said, light eyes glinting. Low price, he responded, and he was taunting her a little. She just shrugged. It’s not like you were seeing me anyway.

But he was there, in the yellow light. Her face streaked white with paint in places, eyebrows angry black scratches, he was seeing her, he knew. I could never do that, he said, gesturing at his own eyebrows. I’d be so obsessed with making them symmetrical. I mean, what if they’re off all day and I never realize?

It keeps me up at night, she said, monotone and mock serious.

“Where are you living now?”

Gerard laughs, which segues into coughing; he doesn’t remember the last time he laughed. “The North Church,” he says, finally. “They started renting it out after. I mean. There's no tourists anymore.”

“No shit. Ever see Revere lurking around?”

“Oh, all the time. Most annoying ghost you’ve ever heard of. Always muttering to himself about whether it was one or two if by land.”

She laughs again, and this is the best day in a long time. It’s weird to see her without makeup. Refreshing, somehow, to see the clean lines of her face.

“Really, though, that wasn’t him,” Gerard continues, and it feels important to point it out. “It was some priest or pastor or something.”

Amanda says, “Does it really matter who the ghost is?”

Gerard wants to say that it does sometimes, it really does. Sometimes he can’t keep the ghosts separate from his dreams, his nightmares. He wants to tell her why it’s just as bad to sleep as it is to not. He laughs more instead.

He drew her that night, while her bones were still loose from sex and whiskey. He traced her curves and curls with borrowed charcoal, outlining and filling in and erasing out the highlights. She sat against her headboard, unmoving and watching. She was quiet for most of it, only making Titanic jokes a few times.

Later, she said that she didn’t want to break the spell. You were more intense drawing me than you were fucking me, she said, but it didn’t sound bitter.

Days later, at his apartment, so dead compared to hers, he showed her the first drawings: her as the Bride. She smiled and smiled until she asked, Can I have them? with all seriousness. He’d been unable to say no.

Mikey hands over his coffee like it’s nothing, like it isn’t a limited supply. “How are you?” he asks, and Gerard knows it’s a stale question, but Mikey has to ask, and Gerard has to answer.

“I saw Amanda Palmer the other day,” he says instead.

“Yeah?” It’s a mark of how weird it actually is, that he can hear the surprise in Mikey’s voice.

“Yeah, at the market, you know. She’s… the same, really. I’m supposed to go over there today.”

Mikey nods, looks at his shoes, squints against the weak sun.

“It’s not like that,” Gerard adds, feels like he has to, since Mikey’s so close to—was. Was close to.

“I know,” Mikey says, simple. And it is.

When he drew Frank after they first slept together, when Frank was relaxed as he ever got, he curled on Gerard’s bed, so still it was unnerving. Halfway through, he started to make noises of discontent. They developed to painful groans in the back of his throat by the time Gerard was finished. It took Frank half an hour to stretch out afterwards, and he complained of stiffness for longer. It hurt him, Gerard realized, to be static.

Gerard lies in Amanda’s bed, dressed; she’s sitting on the windowsill, partly nude and comfortable. They pass a cigarette back and forth, stretching across the wood floor. The tree is dying, shedding its leaves all over her apartment. Climbing it had made Gerard more uneasy than it ever had before. It felt like when he’d accidentally stepped on graves as a child.

“I don’t want to fuck,” she says abruptly.

Gerard shakes his head. “I know. I mean, me neither.”

“Have you?” she asks. “Since?”

He shakes his head again.

“Me neither.”

They sang together once. He showed at some underground artist’s party, after Frank waving the flyer in his face all afternoon. He hadn’t seen Amanda in years, but she made it easy, and when everyone was introduced all around, she asked him to sing while she played.

I’ve heard you before, she said. Please?

He blushed and stuttered until Frank begged along with Amanda. He didn’t recognize the song at first, without guitar, only keyboard. She began for him, until he got the rhythm. She nodded and grinned, playing sure and steady. He met her melody with harmony, somehow.

When Frank pulled him forward, back at Gerard’s place, he sang soft, off-key into Gerard’s ear, placing fingers through the notches in your spine, while pulling at shirt hems.

“Where’re you gonna go?” he asks her, because there’s nowhere to go.

She’s readjusting the strap on her duffle, shortening it. “I’ve always wanted to see California,” she says, and it sounds definite. She carries the bag herself, dumping it in the backseat of a Toyota.

“D’you think there’s enough gas left for that?” He’s not really worried about her; he can’t figure out how to be anymore.

She smiles. “We’ll find out.”

“Send me a postcard, alright?” He leans through the driver’s side window, getting closer.

She kisses the corner of his mouth. “Farewell, Gerard Way.”

“You too,” he says, and backs up when she starts the car.

He can hear the engine long after the first turn she makes, and after the rumbling fades, the city’s quiet again.

the manifer

2008-02-29T03:53:43Z

My monstrosity of a Mikey/Pete manifesto/primer is finally done (AGAIN), and is up here at bandom_ships. In my heart of hearts, it's a MANIFER, because I couldn't disjoint enough to not do a lot of primer stuff, too.

meme porn part II

2008-02-03T13:05:08Z

And then, glorify went and did a Bandom Anonymous Porm Meme! ♥, where people made requests and then others filled them. I fulfilled two that are very much not my regular style and/or pairing. So here they are. 586 words in total.

First prompt was this: masturbation and/or handjobs! spencer smith/anyone (no pete wentz, please), which turned into:

Spencer/Brendon
NC-17
Spencer walking in on Brendon jerking off and helps him finish

Spencer's not expecting anyone to be in the back lounge. It's four in the morning, time zones are fucking with him, and everyone else should be in bed. But they're not. Well, Brendon's not.

Brendon's sprawled crooked on the couch, his head hanging over the back and jeans around his ankles. Spencer has to concentrate on moving past the way Brendon's lips look bitten to fully realize that he's stroking his cock. He's got a pattern going, slowing and speeding up, softer and tighter. Spencer thinks it must be a kind of talent to carry a rhythm while jerking yourself off, but then his own dick reminds him that, hey, he just walked in on Brendon half-naked.

Brendon who's half-naked and gasping brokenly as he brings himself closer and closer. His fingers slip a little, eyes still screwed close, and he groans, frustrated. Spencer's kneeling in front of him before he realizes, pushing away Brendon's hands so that his own can take over. Brendon's face registers shock best of all, but then he's just saying, Please, God, please, as Spencer puts his near-lack of a gag reflex to work.

________________________________________________

The second one I filled was ray being dominated like woah. i don't care who by, but one of the ways would be nice (or both, i'm not picky), and IDEK, guys, because I'm not really into Waycest, but:

Gerard/Ray/Mikey
NC-17
Ray sucking Mikey off per Gerard's instructions

Ray's not sure how he got into this situation. He's sure there are pieces he missed somewhere along the way, like of a puzzle or something. He's seen Mikey smiling at him, and the way Gerard always uses him as a headrest, but was that really par for the course?

As Ray takes more of Mikey down his throat, he really doesn't think so. Ray wasn't prepared to be gripping Mikey's bony hips, not to stop him from bucking (never), but just to have something to hold on to. Something that's solid and warm as Gerard whispers hot, dirty into his ear.

"You're doing a good job, Ray, you know you are. If you do really good, keep sucking my brother off just the way he likes it," Gerard pauses to nip at Ray's shoulder and squeeze his cock a little harder; Ray moans. "If you make him fall apart just right, the way I know you want to see it, the way he looks the best. If you're still a good boy, I think we'll let you watch."

Mikey moans loud at that, and Ray's just trying to focus on both of them at once. Trying to figure out where he fits in this, what exactly is going on. He pulls off with a soft pop to rasp out, "What d'you mean? Watch what?"

Gerard smiles something wicked, and he pushes Ray down, waiting for him to resume getting Mikey off before answering.

"I'll, we'll, let you watch us, Ray. Haven't you always wanted to know what Mikey looked like when he was on his back. The way his body would strain when he's being held down and fucked?"

Ray groans, his hands tightening on Mikey's hips. Mikey thrusts at the feeling, and Ray does his best to take it without choking.

Gerard strokes his back, nuzzles his ear. "You're doing so, so good, and I know you want to see him, spread out like that. You will, babe, you will. And trust me, it's a better view from the sidelines anyway."

Ray shudders at what Gerard's implying, that this isn't the first time they've done this and won't be the last. And God, he does want this. He's never thought about it, he hasn't, but now. Now with Mikey coming down his throat, saying both their names, he can't think of anything better.

meme porn part I

2008-02-03T12:53:00Z

Awhile ago, _soapy, held a Sex-That-Is-Not-In-A-Bed-Meme!!. I wrote William and Gabe in a shower and it's cultverse-y. See, there's this whole thing planned with Maja's side of the story, so it'll be from her POV, but this is the spawn of that story (which is in progress still).

the one that's a cultverse spin-off
william/gabe
967 words
NC-17

And really? Bill should have been expecting it. Of course Gabe has a way to get a key-card to Maja’s room, now that she’s gone. Gabe is nothing if not charming, or at least wily. So really? When Bill’s heading toward the bathroom and the lock clicks open, he should know it’s not a maid (and knows he should have dead bolted the door).

And when Gabe winds long fingers snakelike around his wrist, yanking him backwards from the bath doorway, Bill isn’t surprised.

Gabe leans heavily into him, forcing him against the wall, pressing to his front. “What’s up?” he drawls, as though Bill has more than a towel on and Gabe didn’t just break-and-enter.

Bill twitches and it looks enough like a shrug that Gabe allows it. He laughs, moving a hand to Bill’s jaw and tilting to kiss him. It’s soft at first, easy, and Bill relaxes into it, everything’s alright for a second. Until Gabe grabs hold of the towel and shoves him roughly into the bathroom with the other hand. Bill stumbles, barely catches himself on the tiny sink counter, scrapes his arm against the towel rack a little. Gabe laughs.

“You didn’t really think it’d be that easy, did you?”

Bill doesn’t play along, doesn’t reply with the line he knows comes next. (But yeah, for a minute there, he did.)

Nothing’s easy with Gabe anymore, though. Hasn’t been since he went into the desert some months before.

“Come on,” Gabe says, and there’s something softer in his tone. He reaches down to help Bill up, holding him there after. “I’m sorry,” he mutters into Bill’s hair, Bill’s jaw.

Bill nods, presses a kiss to Gabe’s neck. He knows better than to reprimand Gabe’s actions, whether or not he agrees with him. It’s not like Bill’s actually hurt; the scratch on his arm isn’t even bleeding.

“You were gonna take a shower?” Gabe asks, pulling back a little to unzip his hoodie. Bill helps him wrestle the t-shirt off.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s,” Gabe says, tries for a leer, but Bill’s a little too far in at this point with him to be affected negatively (if at all).

Bill turns on the faucet, and Gabe curves himself along his bent-over frame, trailing fingertips everywhere over miles of pale skin. Bill pushes into his touch as he pulls the metal thing, making the water stutter and then spill out of the shower head. He closes the curtain and turns to Gabe, smirking a little as he drops to his knees, going for Gabe’s zipper fly. Bill ignores how cold the tiles are, pretends he won’t get bruises for dropping down that quickly.

Mostly, Gabe just tries to stay standing. When he looks down, though, to see Bill’s lips more than halfway down his cock, he gives into the urge to buck forward, tangling hands in Bill’s too-long hair. Bill chokes a little, pulls off. Gabe can tell he’s trying not to glare. He won’t, of course. Bill knows better than that; knows he deserves this.

He resumes, not taking Gabe in quite as much, but flitting his eyes up encouragingly. Go ahead. So Gabe does, and when he comes minutes later, thanks to Bill being fucking amazing with his tongue, he rides it out in Bill’s mouth, thrusting forward.

Bill wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he stands, and they’re both a little shaky on their feet. Gabe pulls him in for a kiss and under the hot water, stepping over the porcelain side. Steam clouds are already filling the bathroom, obscuring the mirror.

Safe behind the curtain, Gabe pins Bill against the wall, presses closeclose, already half-hard again. Bill moans, definitely more than half-hard. Gabe curls his right hand around Bill’s cock loosely, the other getting a tight hold around his neck. He leans forward, his forehead resting on the wall next to Bill’s ear.

“You fucked her, didn’t you?” he asks, and his right hand’s hold gets a little firmer. Bill just moans. “Answer me,” Gabe says.

Bill nods, eyes locked closed, mouth parted around the breathy sound that follows when Gabe strokes his cock and runs his thumb along his Adam’s apple.

“And you liked it, right?” Pumps Bill’s cock slowly.

“Yes, yes,” he says, and Gabe’s not sure if he’s responding to the question or the movement. It doesn’t really matter anyway.

“Did she tie you up, like she told me she was going to? Did she have her way with you?”

Bill just groans, heading dropping forward as much as possible with Gabe’s hand around his throat still.

“Do you want her again?”

“Only, God, if you want me to.”

“That wasn’t the question. Do you want her?”

“No,” Bill gasps. “No, no, I want you. Fuck, Gabe, please, please…”

“What d’you want?” Gabe’s moves his right hand faster, can tell Bill’s close from the way he’s shaking.

“You, just you. God, anything, everything. You, you,” Bill murmurs, voice barely there, Gabe’s fingers rough against his windpipe.

“Look at me,” Gabe says, softer than he’s said anything to Bill in a long while.

Bill does instantly, eyes dark and unfocused with desperate want. Gabe kisses him, constricting his hold on both accounts, and Bill makes a choking sort of almost-noise when he comes. Gabe strokes his skin lazily as he falls back to reality, tremors still running under his skin.

“Stay here,” Gabe says, still soft, and Bill doesn’t have the option to disagree. “Stay here until the water gets cold, then come to bed.”

Bill just nods, weakly letting go of Gabe and sinking to the shower floor. He curls into himself when the shivers start, but it’s not that bad, as far as Gabe goes. Bill’s getting off light this time, and it’s worth it if Gabe will hold him while he sleeps.

I wrote porn?

2008-01-31T23:08:14Z

For dragonsinger's Bandom Het Fic Exchange, I received fueledbyxdani's requests. I chose this one to write:

2: Patrick/Greta = Patrick is really shy in social situations, but is totally the opposite in bed.

So yeah. 713 words. NC-17, I guess. Patrick/Greta during the final days of recording Goodbye Blues. Looked over by hitchedtoastar, who's all kinds of awesome.

medicine man

Their sound, it’s darker, richer, fuller this time around. Patrick listens to the playback in awe, constantly turning to Pete and going, “Are you hearing this?” in his Very Excited voice. Pete keeps nodding and smiling, trying not to laugh. But Patrick’s right. It’s fucking amazing.

The songs aren’t even mastered yet, and Patrick loves the raw quality of it all. Loves the way he can hear when Darren hits a rim accidentally, when Chris or Bob’s voices warble a little on the high notes. Greta’s voice, though, it never fails. It’s strong and pure, and her hands are the same on the keys.

Patrick’s trying to pretend that hearing her voice go husky doesn’t make him hard.

Patrick has half a mind to send Ryan Ross a fruit basket in thanks for finding these guys.

Eventually, Pete leaves, content to let Patrick hang out for however long he needs to. He makes a call once he’s outside, smiling genuinely. “Hey. Yeah, we’re in town. You should come make sure he isn’t in this studio all night.”

--

Patrick doesn’t hear the door to the little room open, too caught up in what has to be the fifth round of full-track playbacks. He’s singing along to the beginning of Medicine Man and jumps when someone sits in the chair next to him.

Greta smiles and says, “Are you just going to sit and listen to the album, or do I actually get to have you while you’re here?”

“It is a good album,” Patrick says in his defense, teasing her.

“Here,” she replies, and restarts the track, taking down the vocal levels. “Medicine man, dance me across the country. Medicine man, dance me across the sky,” she sings to him, climbing into his lap so he can get a grip on her hips. She grins and keeps singing, moving with the sound.

He cuts her off with a hard kiss somewhere around can you hear my cry, because he thinks he’ll go crazy with the looks she’s giving him.

She moans, and he’d swear it was on key still.

--

The first time they had sex, Greta was surprised to say the least. Patrick was always so, so quiet around most everyone, but as soon as he got her alone, leading her to his room by the hand, he leaned in close, whispering in her ear.

Patrick Stump, Greta realized, is very, very good at talking dirty.

And he’s been consistent through their relationship. The first time he went down on her, he moaned along with her, and resisted when she tried to push him away once she’d finished.

“Why?” he asked, his mouth and chin still wet.

“It’s too much,” Greta said, trembling with aftershocks.

Patrick ran his fingers over her again, light, making her jerk. The smile he favored her with was downright evil. “You’re that sensitive, after?”

Greta hadn’t really felt the need to answer, shaking under his touch.

“Next time,” Patrick said, hovering over her, his lips moving against her collarbone. “Next time, I want to tie you up so you can’t stop me when you’ve only come once. I want to keep licking and sucking at you. I want to taste you come again and again.”

Now, a year and a half later, Patrick’s made true on that promise several times, but Greta prefers to have him behind her while he gets her off. She likes to lean into his chest, spread her legs so that her ankles are over his, and let her head fall back onto his shoulder. That way, Patrick can talk her through it easy, can finger her until she’s a mess in his arms.

--

Patrick’s trying to get Greta to stand and turn around, so she can sit in his lap facing the mixing board. So he can have his way with her. She’s protesting though, and when she stands up it’s to put the vocal recordings back on. Patrick makes what may or may not be a pathetic sound as her voice floods the room. She smirks and puts the song on repeat, swaying to it in front of him.

“Medicine man,” she says, low, “can you heal my body?”

Patrick’s litany of yesyesyesyes is all the answer she needs.

house of cards

2008-01-07T23:35:30Z

house of cards
(569 words) // (tom/mike, tom/william)
for jun 09 07 at we_are_cities.
quiet, assuming fic for theworshipper, who asked for tom/mike, and i wrote this.

Tom doesn’t take his camera everywhere. He doesn’t. He just always has it when he needs it, somehow. When the skyline’s looking like hope, or when they’re almost done laying down keyboard in the studio, he’s always got it in his bag, ready to be yanked out.

He has it enough so that he can piece together some sort of timeline when he looks back.

Mike complained at first, when Tom got his new camera, said he’d go blind from the constant flash. Said something about being camera-shy, and they leaned against each other as they laughed. Later, Mike stood with his shoulder against Tom’s, watching him pull the wet prints out, clothes-pin them to a thin cord.

I didn’t know you were so good at this, Mike confessed, fingers itching like he wanted a cigarette.

Tom opened his mouth to tell him about chemical fires, but Mike tangled his trembles in Tom’s hair instead, pulling him down. Tom forgot about everything he’d developed, remembering the dry taste on Mike’s tongue instead.

Tom isn’t taking pictures of Empires like he did before. If it all happens again, he doesn’t want to be able to watch the fall in still images, clutching desperately at something far-gone and rational. He doesn’t want to sift through rectangles of his life and leave them water-stained.

That thing that people always say when something goes bad, the whole I wouldn’t have changed a thing, Tom says it when he gets asked. Says he’d do it all he same way. He thinks he’s conserving his pride or something, but it’s all bullshit.

Of course he’d change something, not everything, but something.

Tommy? Bill’s tired, too tired, if he’s talking in questions. Tommy, why don’t you ever take pictures of me?

Tom laughs, goes to show Bill that he’s wrong, but Bill stills him, holding Tom in place by his shoulders. No, no, not like that. Why don’t you take any of me?

And Tom freezes a little; he hopes Bill’s too exhausted to notice. Then again, he never thought Bill’d notice that he never showed anyone photos of Bill’s face: only his back, his long body, his fingers.

Bill’s fingers are shaking where he’s trying to press Tom into his seat, keep him there. Tom can’t say what’s in his head. He can’t ramble on about how beauty photographed is never the same, and how he can’t do that to Bill. Never could.

He takes Bill fingers instead, holds them together between his palms, trying to warm them. He breathes on them lightly, and Bill’s breath hitches when his fingertips touch Tom’s mouth.

Tom has In Rainbows on semi-permanent repeat; he feels old for remembering Pablo Honey. He’s sitting on his living room floor, enjoying expensive speakers and leaning back against a cheap couch. The sixth time through (but only the second with his eyes closed), his thumb moves down his address book without his mind. He almost lets it happen, because it seems wrong to not discuss a new album. He sets his phone back on the coffee table.

At 4:52am, the fourth time through with his eyes closed, Tom sends out: fall off the table, and get swept under.

Hours later, hundreds of miles away, Mike sends back: denial denial

Minutes later, wishing it was inches and not miles, Bill replies: i just want to be your lover, no matter how it ends.

who's left

2007-09-10T00:52:57Z

see? fic, I promised. inspired by the june 12 prompt at we_are_cities (read: the best). also matches #234 at a softer world (also best). there's an author's note at the bottom, too.

who's left
(1151 words) // (g-ish): p!atd gen; spencer-centric

The way Spencer sees things, he’s lucky every time he gets into a car and it doesn’t crash. He should be thankful that every time he comes home there’s still a place to come home to. That when he turns the corner onto his street his house isn’t engulfed in flames, his family huddled in fire blankets across the road.

Spencer had started thinking in the form of disasters when he was nine, the year his puppy (Millie) had gotten hit by a jeep speeding past their lawn. Somehow, seemingly miraculously, the vet had been able to revive Millie. Now when he comes home, he returns to a full-grown dog, always petting her for a good half hour before he even thinks of unpacking.

This realistic outlook (not fatalistic, never fatalistic; simply practical) began to become a problem when he started touring. Before, he’d managed to hide it, never telling his mother the main reason he made sure to hug her tightly every time he saw her, made sure to kiss all his sisters on the cheek before he left again. On tour, though, in a bus that seemed huge at first and since living in it has shrunk, it was impossible to hide his chronic worrying.

He’d text his girlfriend saying, “Hey, what’s up?” hoping it’d also mean “Are you okay?” and “You haven’t died of radon poisoning since yesterday, right?” He’d call Patrick and talk about shoes and ask how his latest production outfit was going, praying that Patrick understood he was also supposed to answer the unspoken things: “Pete and Joe and Andy didn’t get caught in a tragic L accident, did they?”

Because it wasn’t okay to ask people if their apartment had somehow been flooded or if a tornado had torn a tree out of the earth and flung it into a semi passing on the highway that then subsequently barreled into the Starbucks they’d been drinking a grande Chai Tea Latte in. (What? That could totally happen. At least, it could from what Spencer knows about tornados, being from Nevada.)

So when he gets a call somewhere between midnight and dawn the third night they’re off the Nothing Rhymes with Circus tour, Spencer wakes already worried, scenarios spinning. When he sees Ryan’s name flashing on the screen, he stops breathing for what feels like hours.

What if Ryan got hit by a drunk driver in that new, flashy car? What if he’d indeed decided to up and visit Jon in Chicago and his plane had become a heap of sinewy metal somewhere in Kansas or Missouri?

Wait. Then why would Ryan be calling?

Oh God. What if it’s Brendon? Or Jon? What if one of them is dying in some hospital bed or already dead in airplane wreckage and it was some backwoods farmer that called the police and the fire department and probably the marines to say that a meteorite or an alien spaceship had crashed in his field?

Spencer’s already reaching for the jeans he discarded earlier when he answers, still breathless. Ryan’s monotone throws him off. How can Ryan be so calm about this? One or both of their best friends could be dead and he’s all, “Did I wake you up? Sorry, man. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer croaks, trying to calm his heart, focusing on inhaling. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine mostly. Listen, though, I--” And Ryan’s cut off by something in the background. Spencer can dimly hear Brendon’s voice interrupting.

“Me too!”

Ryan sighs, continues, “We, Brendon and I, we were wondering if maybe you wanted to, like, come hang out? We can watch movies or play video games or even jam a little, just. Please?”

“We’ll make it worth your while!” Brendon calls, and Spencer knows Ryan’s flinching because that was loud even in his ear.

“It’ll be a total sleepover party thing, and you’re invited, Spencer Smith.” And yeah, Brendon’s wrestled the phone from Ryan now, his voice is closer when he says, “We’ll stay up all night and eat junk food and drink soda and tell scary stories and play truth or dare and whatever you want!”

“Brendon, it’s already--” Spencer checks his clock, “three in the morning. Night’s almost over.”

Brendon sounds exasperated when he says, “Then we’ll just keep rocking into the morning. There’s no rule against that, is there? If there is, I won’t tell if you and Ryan don’t. Loose lips and all that, you know? So are you coming? You should come. You really, really should. Ryan’s lonely and I miss you, too. It’s bad enough Jon’s not here, don’t deprive us of your greatness, too.”

“Put Ryan back on.”

Spencer hears Brendon’s sigh and a “he wants to talk to you again” before Ryan’s voice filters through. “Sorry, Spence.”

“It’s cool, don’t worry. Are you guys at your place, or what?”

“Yeah, I,” Ryan says, and his voice drops lower. Spencer can hear Brendon humming something from farther away; Ryan’s left the room. “I couldn’t do it again. Last time we were home I stayed here alone, you know? You remember, I know you do, and it just. It’s not right, Spence, not after being with you guys all the time.

“I called Brendon an hour ago and woke him up, and he was here in like five minutes. And now we’re calling you, because it doesn’t feel right without you here.”

Spencer nods, knowing Ryan’ll take his silence as that. “Yeah, alright. I’ll come over. Just give me a little while to wake up and all that.”

“Thanks, man,” Ryan says, and even though it’s still a drawl, Spencer can hear the smile in his voice. He can also hear Brendon crooning with victory in the background. “And hey,” Ryan goes on, “I’m not. I’m not lonely, okay? I just miss you idiots.”

Spencer grins this time. “Us idiots miss you, too, you know. I’ll be over in twenty.”

And the way Spencer sees things, it’s okay to relax for a little while. Okay to let Brendon jump him into a hug the minute Ryan opens the door. Okay to not worry about the crick Ryan will have in his neck if he falls asleep watching The Goonies at that angle on Brendon’s shoulder. He lets himself put impending doom and natural disasters out of his mind and just forget for a little while, dozing off on Brendon’s other side, letting himself fall asleep to Brendon quoting the entire movie softly.

Somewhere in the back of his head, though, Spencer knows he’ll be calling Jon as soon as he wakes up to check in, making sure that the inevitable fall of the Sears Tower hasn’t happened yet. But that’s even okay a little bit, because Spencer’s always going to worry about the people he loves, and he’d rather worry for no reason than have the reason.
___________________________________________________________________________
thank you first.
this overall idea was mine, through&through. thinking in disasters and wondering in ultimatums is what I do best.
I have a question for all of you. do you know of anywhere to post original fiction where it's actually worth it? if not, is anyone else interested in starting something?
edit, one more thing: this was a long time in coming. I wrote it months ago and only just brought myself to post it.

we can live like this

2007-07-11T22:26:10Z

A snippet written for all of the lovely slash-y moments in Film Five, but mostly for my Moony.

we can live like this
remus/sirius
130 words

Oh, California in the summer,
and my hair is growing long.
Fuck yeah, we can live like this.
-“Holiday from Real”, Jack’s Mannequin

Remus’s hair, it waves slightly when it gets longer than his ears, curls underneath the lobes like its made to be there, fitting perfectly into the curve of his neck. Even when Sirius toys with it, it resolutely folds back into its place, hiding in its comfort zone.

“You need to cut your hair,” Sirius mumbles sleepily, “it’s tickling my nose.”

Remus laughs, a bright, tired sound. “Then put your nose elsewhere.”

“No,” Sirius says simply, because that space behind Remus’s ear, at the top of his neck? That’s where Sirius nuzzles. That’s where he fits like he’s made to be there. That’s his comfort zone. And even if that tuft of hair was there first, has been there for years and fits perfectly, Sirius occupies the spot even better.

___
Sorry it's so short. I might write more if prompted.

never expect your lives to finish at the same time

2007-05-17T01:52:30Z

(1050 words) // (pg13)
for 8 may 07.
set in fall out boy's “a little less sixteen candles…” music video vampire world // pete&ryan
here's the video, just in case

Sometime during the night
the black sky turned to dawn
and we covered our eyes,
dizzy from being up all night.
You grabbed my hand,
we ran outside
to the city not quite yet awake.
Can we call it what it is?
We're running through alleys
and kissing in doorways.
I'm blinded by sunrise,
there's light in your dark eyes
-"Bullet Charm", Pretty Girls Make Graves

Ryan works his fingertips against the glass, breathing in the cold from the pane. And Pete, he presses his fingertips and his forehead there, because he always has to go that one step farther. He spreads his fingers wider so his palms push against the window, too. Ryan lets his hands slip away, staring at all the handprints left there. He wonders if Pete sits here everyday.

Every night, he reminds himself suddenly.

A car passes quickly, the lights sweeping over them, highlighting Ryan’s wide eyes and Pete’s pale, pale skin. Ryan wonders why he hadn’t noticed back in January, hell, back last October. Pete’s got even darker circles under his eyes now that he gets more sleep, and Ryan pieces together something he read when he was still a teenager, something about vampires not getting real sleep when they pass out. Or something about the sun draining so much of their energy that if they’re in it at all, they’re wiped. And of course, Pete still goes in the sun, probably can’t help walking the streets of Chicago when it’s daytime and there are so many people to watch and write about. Ryan wants to ask if it’s true, the people and the sunlight, but it seems like a bad time. Instead he focuses on the line of Pete’s jaw, the way his black hair falls across his right eye. Eternally emo, Ryan thinks, and fights the urge to giggle, because really? It’s an even worse time for that.

“And all of this?” Ryan asks instead, nodding out the window to the blurry city. Pete watches his mouth as he speaks, and Ryan feels something contract within him, has to refocus before he can continue. “It’s all Beckett’s?”

“Yeah.” Pete nods, finally looking away, nodding, then he’s looking again. “Yeah, it’s his. The city’s his.”

“Your city,” Ryan says, soft, feels like Pete could hear it if he only mouthed it.

“Yeah.” And Pete’s firmer this time, his jaw tightening, body tensing.

“Hey,” Ryan says, reaches over the space between them, slides his arm around Pete’s shoulder. “Hey, look at me. We’ll fix it somehow. Yeah?”

Pete grins at him, and it’s almost like his old smile, but there are fangs attached. Ryan always figured that the fangs would be where your canines are. It just seemed to make sense, but then, it would be a lot easier if they were the lateral incisors instead, he supposes.

Easier to bite, he realizes, and that something tightens in him again, almost out of fear, but not really. Really, it’s something else.

“You don’t even know, Ross, and you want to help. This isn’t a game.”

Ryan grips Pete’s shoulder harder. “I know I don’t know, but I get it. I get it and I’m helping you, somehow. I can’t not, you know that.”

He can feel Pete sigh against him, see him nod as he finally moves his head away from the window, sliding his hands down the glass, leaving more dirty fingerprints. His head falls on Ryan’s shoulder and Ryan basks in the familiarity he thought was stolen. Pete’s hand finds its way around Ryan, settling on his far hip, and the familiarity is smoldering into flame. When Pete’s clutches tighter, Ryan bites back a moan; it’s not the time, still, and God, will it ever be?

“I won’t let them get you, alright?” Pete reassures, lifting his head to stare at Ryan, somehow better at holding his gaze than ever. “Vampires will never hurt you,” he says, and Ryan laughs with him, laughs so he doesn’t cry or do anything equally pathetic, because this isn’t the end of the world, not really. Ryan can deal. If Pete can deal, Ryan can deal. Pete’s still Pete, he’s just paler and a little sharper around the edges, but that’s okay. His mind hasn’t changed, and that’s what Ryan clings to anyway. Has always clung to, ever since he first met Pete, before Ryan had ever recorded an album or gone on tour or, God, grown up. Pete’s twisting, contradictory thoughts are the same, that lyrical beat making its way out of his throat sometimes.

Pete’s still watching him, watching Ryan’s mouth as it forms half-thoughts and almost-whispers. “Can I-?” Ryan finally manages, swallowing past the cotton feeling. “Can we-?”

And Pete’s already moving in, gripping the juncture at the back of Ryan’s neck with his free hand. The fangs are an added hazard, but Pete seems to be used to them. It’s Ryan that’s not. Ryan who gets too enthusiastic (it’s been so long) and cuts his tongue. Pete holds him, tasting the blood, not letting him pull away yet. When he does, he apologizes fast, breathing harder than he should be. Wanting, but apologizing.

But Ryan’s shaking his head, saying it’s okay, moving back in, crossing lines and things he doesn’t understand, things that don’t matter, not to him. Pete goes willingly, dragging Ryan fully onto the carpet under him, not breaking their contact, trying not to break the kiss even when he’s pulling his own hoodie over his head, tugging at Ryan’s jeans.

Ryan is blinded by more headlights speeding past just as he climaxes, holding so tight to Pete, afraid that this isn’t real somehow. But Pete, he still kisses the same, still fucks the same, and that burning familiarity is all Ryan needs, because that’s real. Real as the pale expanse of Pete’s back as it arcs and he moans low.

Ryan wonders how Pete’s skin is still so warm, how he’s maintaining body heat if he’s technically not living, but then, is that a myth, too? But it’s still not the time for real questions, Ryan knows, so he opens his mouth to kiss Pete instead, relaxes back into his hold after Pete rolls off him, finds a blanket somewhere, and draws it over them.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Pete says, touches his lips to the back of Ryan’s neck in apology. Ryan shushes him, burrowing into his arms more. Ryan gets it, gets Pete. He understands that at least, even if he understands nothing else.

They stare at the window as their breaths even and shallow on that silver edge of sleep, Pete looking at the city lights, Ryan at the handprints.

note: danke to everyone who read. remember that constructive criticism is always, always welcome. this was my first time posting anything remotely sexual, and I'm considering doing more, but I'm not sure. the amazing writers over at damnyouwentz have finally convinced me (in my watching) that porn can be done well, so maybe I'll try my hand?

burning up the black space

2007-05-08T02:14:32Z

Just a bit of Harry Potter fic, old school style Puppy Love. Mostly posted here for archival reasons. Title's from Something Corporate's "Down".

burning up the black space
(367 words) // (Remus/Sirius)
His eyes are wide in the dark, pupils swollen and almost eclipsing the gray. He points into the blackness and Remus follows his long finger to the stars.

“There. That one’s my favorite,” Sirius says, tracing a constellation outline quickly. Remus rolls his eyes when it clicks in his head a second later.

“Of course it is, you idiot; it’s Canis Major,” he grumbles. “And let me guess, the really bright star is your favorite star?”

Sirius nods enthusiastically, smirk spreading into a grin. Remus ignores it and focuses his keen eyes on other stars. It works for a minute or so, and then there’s Sirius’s finger prodding him, pushing against his ribs in the most ticklish fashion. Remus gasps and scoots away in defense as Sirius’s laugh rolls gently around them and just over the edge of the Astronomy Tower.

“Bugger,” Remus mutters, settling down again. Sirius just smiles and ruffles Remus’s hair fondly.

“You love it.”

Remus smiles a little at that, content with the fingers still petting his head, trailing whisper-fine lines where his neck begins. Maybe, he thinks, maybe Sirius is named aptly, more aptly than most at least. Maybe he is like the brightest star Remus can see, because really? Remus can’t ignore him, and he definitely does not just go away. Remus can shield his eyes and try, but he can’t completely block Sirius out, never has been able to. He’s always there, glinting around the edges, insistently outlining his palm. So Remus always lowers his hand eventually, giving in to the warm glow.

“Moony?”

“Yeah?”

And Sirius is right there, nuzzled against his side like the dog he is. His chin pressing into Remus’s shoulder. “What’s your favorite star?”

You shouldn’t ask questions you already know the answers to, Remus thinks, but he doesn’t say it; he holds it in. Holds it in like the air that’s caught in his throat as Sirius kisses an imaginary constellation on Remus’s neck and jaw and just under his ear. When Sirius gets to the corner of his lips and pulls away, Remus lets out a shaky breath. Sirius grins before leaning down again.

“Yeah,” he says against Remus’s mouth, “I thought so.”

you belong to a simpler time

2007-03-27T16:51:17Z

you belong to a simpler time
(788 words) // (G)
for mar 27 07.
ryan and brendon // before any sort of fame

The first time Brendon does his own laundry, you’re there. Not helping. You’re supposed to be helping, but you can’t seem to stop laughing at him for long enough to do that. Instead, you’ve escaped momentarily, run back up to the fourth floor and his apartment to find his ancient CD player. God, you still called them “boom boxes” when this thing was made. It’s sitting off to the side in his living room, lonely and a bit dejected. All it has is the couch for company, after all. You really should buy it a friend, like a TV or something. Another quick stop by your car for your CDs and you’re back in the cramped basement laundry room.

Without paying attention to Brendon and his lights and his darks, you grin and pop in a new mix. Fuzzy guitar chords playing something that was meant to be synthesized pulls Brendon away from carefully reading the Tide bottle to look at you quizzically. Then it clicks in his head and he begins singing along shortly after you do.

“I heard you on my wireless back in ‘52, lying awake intent on tuning in on you. If I was young, it didn’t stop you coming through…”

You can’t keep it up, though, once Brendon’s falsetto expertly hits the first “oh-a-oh”, so you just giggle and turn it up. Brendon still sings parts like a girl, even if it is a man doing it on this version. In the break between songs, he asks you who it is.

“I know that wasn’t The Buggles,” he says.

“It’s the Presidents of the United States of America,” you tell him, but you’re pretty sure he didn’t hear you, since a cover of “Love Shack” has just begun. There’s more Spastic Dancing than Actual Laundry getting done now, and you feel a little guilty. You’ve been washing your own clothes since you were old enough to carry your full hamper down the stairs (somewhere around eleven, then). Granted, Dad taught you, so you still wash everything together on cold.

What? It works. Nothing’s been ruined yet. Not really.

But Brendon’s pulled you into his dance and you can’t deny him, especially not when you hear the ska cover of “Take On Me”. You bounce around with him, well aware that you both look like idiots. Somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should probably worry about Ms. Four-Oh-Three, Brendon’s nosy neighbor. After all, it would be so very like her to take offence to two boys dancing together in the six-by-six cube filled to the brim with two washers, two dryers, and vague sexual tension.

Which is imagined by her. Of course. And when Brendon’s hips brush against yours and your voice breaks on “you’re all the things I’ve got to remember”, it’s nothing. Of course.

The original version of “When Doves Cry” filters through the speakers, and yeah, you couldn’t get a cover of this, because, come on, it’s Prince. Brendon pulls you into some sort of shuffle-step, slightly off-tempo waltz. The song isn’t even that slow, but you give in anyway. There’s no room to fight him off in here, anyway. He stays holding onto you after the song fades into the fuzz between tracks. You stare at him, and he looks like he’s about to tell you something.

And then “Come on, Eileen” starts with all it’s bass, big-band bravado. His smile is wide and contagious. “Save Ferris!” he cries out before springing back to his earlier energy. He sings directly to you, crooning, as you yank his now-wrinkled clothes out of the twin dryers, folding them best you can.

Even after you’ve unplugged the “boom box” and shoved it at him, piling it on with the clothes, he’s still singing “Cruel Summer”. Even after you’re done struggling with his lock and you’ve both given Ms. Four-Oh-Three the cheesiest, most suggestive smiles you can, he’s still humming “Spirits in the Material World” softly. Even after you’ve put away all of his jeans and hung up his t-shirts (and asserted that nothing’s shrunken or stained), he can’t quite get over the refrain from “You Spin Me Right Round”.

And later, when you’re both curled up on his twin bed, lazing in the warm breeze from the open window, he’s still sighing the last strains of “Don’t You Forget About Me” into your ear. “As you walk on by, will you call my name?”

You nuzzle his neck in return, tired with the late-March sunshine. “Yeah, I will,” you say softly.

“Don’t you forget about me,” he whispers, dropping the singsong quality of his voice into normalcy.

“I won’t,” you say, and it’s solid and pure. It’s a promise.

hotel to hotel

2007-03-06T08:22:48Z

hotel to hotel
(843 words)// (PG-13ish)
for february 6th .
gen, really, but a little ryan/brendon

Cramped, hot bus. Living hotel to hotel and always on the road. Vending machine provisions. Suitcase-wrinkled shirts. And really? This is the best road trip of my life.

I lost one of my shoes a few towns back. We had to call and turn back to get it. It set us five hours behind. What? It’s the only pair that goes with my stage outfit. I couldn’t have it chilling with the dust bunnies underneath some crummy hotel bed in Columbus. Granted, I had to contend with Spencer telling me that if I would just give all of my costume to the crew every night, we wouldn’t have this problem. He’s right, of course, but I wouldn’t say so.

Part time insomnia. Late night e-mail checks. Praying for wireless signal somewhere in the middle of nowhere and everywhere. It still feels like everything underneath me is moving, even when we stop. It’s almost disappointing to wake up in a hotel and realize that I’ve gone nowhere. I like multitasking. I like saving time, because there’s never, ever enough of it. It always seems like a waste to stay in hotels, to not be on the road. To not get anywhere.

Ryan’s passed out in the bed that’s not two feet from mine. He’s still loosely clutching his Sidekick and I wonder how long he stayed up texting Pete last night. They’re always sending each other lyrics and snippets back and forth, for editing, approval, thoughts. More. Ryan always wants Pete to tear apart what he’s written, but Pete never does; he loves Ryan’s words too much. I can’t blame him. Ryan was sharing parts of their scattered conversation (that’s not really a conversation, anyway) with me last night.

charity is what i do and i’m here for your benefit
i’m blindsided and deafened and i can’t wait to crash again
i’m tearing you to pieces with my pen, but you’re better with your looks
i’m imperfection perfectly idealized. i can’t stand mirrors anymore

Around three, I think, I finally threw a pillow at him and turned off the light with a sleepy, “I’m tired, Ross. Go to bed.”

He didn’t, naturally. He propped himself better against the headboard, his face aglow with blue. He was waiting for Pete to respond to the last one. His fevered typing lulled me to sleep, eventually.

We don’t have to be ready for another couple of hours, but I won’t be able to fall back asleep now. Might as well not try. Grabbing my phone to check for missed messages, I’m struck with a brilliant idea. Seconds later, when Ryan’s phone buzzes and rings, I don’t even pretend to be asleep.

He jolts awake, always the light sleeper. Blearily he looks at it, then up at me.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice is gravelly with sleep. I give him wide eyes and what I hope seems like innocence. He rolls his eyes and sighs, reading the message. I smile when I see him typing a response.

now i am, yeah. thanks a lot.

He mumbles something incoherent when he realizes I’m texting back. He huffs and gives into the game. All his messages are full of that bitterness he always has in the morning.

just great, since my ex-best friend is depriving me of sleep, you?

yes, ex. you aren’t devastated, so stop giving me that look. it doesn’t work.

no, it doesn’t and i’m not apologizing. YOU woke ME up, this is what you get

fine, whatever, i’m sorry

yeah, you’re right. that wasn’t really sincere

i’m not a jerk, you are

i am NOT emo, dickhead

asshole

butt face? seriously? how old are you?

bitch

yes, i did just go there. ha

Ryan’s smirking at me, all tousle-haired and smug. I toss my Sidekick down, settling for a more direct approach. After all, words really aren’t my thing, but I know where all of Ryan’s most ticklish places are.

He knows this, too, but he fights back just as hard. Eventually, there’s some sort of silent truce called and our giggles fade into the whispered rush of air-conditioning. I’m sprawled half across him, and we’re still tangled. His phone’s forgotten somewhere on the floor out of reach, and he’s smoothing my hair out of habit. Digging my face further into his shoulder, I can feel myself slipping away.

“Hey, Brendon?” he asks, soft as the sheets.

“Yeah?” I say, and it’s muffled in his shirt.

“This is all worth it, right? The constant touring and the screaming and the over dramatics of everything? I mean, I’m stationary here, and I still feel like everything's rushing below me. Through me, maybe.”

I smile, because I know what he means. “I like that feeling.”

“That’s because you’re hyperactive,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. He’s quiet for awhile afterwards.

“Ryan?”

“Yeah?” He sounds tired, and I think he’s falling back to sleep.

“It’s worth it. At least, I’m pretty sure it’s worth it.”

“Okay,” he says, slowly, “I thought so.”

Lyrical Lies

2007-02-19T10:38:28Z

Lyrical Lies, also known as Silly Little Love Songs, as it's saved in my folders. A standalone, posted here under "friends only" so in case my computer crashes, I have it on record. And then you can read it, too, Moonsy-dear. So, here it is, a short in which Ryan, who's never short on words, can't just say, "I love you."

The first time Brendon says it, you’re in the recording studio. It’s after three a.m., Spencer and Brent are both passed out, and even your producer’s left for the night. But you, you’re determined to get the lyrics to fit with the melody, and Brendon’s staying up with you as long as it takes. You’re sitting beside each other on the little keyboard bench in the little studio and maybe going a little crazy. Furiously, you scratch out another line that won’t fit. Brendon groans in response. You look at him curiously.

“I liked that one,” he says, before trying to sing it into what he’s playing. “And I hope to God he was worth it, for that I’m very sorry love, and though you may have butchered us…”

His words, or rather, yours, have all run together at the end. “Okay, fine, it doesn’t really work.”

You nod, because you already knew it. You’re so tired, and you’re so sick of cutting your favorite words out of your new favorite songs. You mourned the loss of “the attention and the bullets” for weeks after finishing that demo, and Brendon noticed. He’d liked that line, too. He liked everything you wrote.

You sit in silence for awhile. Well, what you’ve come to appreciate as silence. Brendon’s still idly playing the song and humming softly along. You’re crossing out more words and trying others out in their place. Finally, after dropping your pen a half-dozen times out of exhaustion, you put it aside with your notebook, letting your heavy head drop on Brendon’s shoulder. He’s warm against your left side, and you’re glad for it; Spencer keeps turning the thermostat way down, claiming that the humidity is killing him.

Brendon takes his hand off the higher keys and puts it around you, drawing circles on your shoulder. You can feel yourself slipping off, off to where you don’t have to worry about words or notes or how you only have a few weeks left to finish this all.

“I love you.”

Just like that. Out of nowhere. You find yourself waking up again, puzzled. Brendon’s never said that before, not that you can think of. Spencer, yeah, but that’s different. Another wave of tiredness drags you down, though, so you nod and nuzzle more into his shoulder.

“Yeah, man, I love you, too,” you mumble.

You make a moan of protest when he’s pushing you up off him, forcing you to hold yourself upright. You blearily look at him, frowning. He looks serious, and you know you should probably listen. He’s not serious too often.

“No, Ryan. I love you.”

You blink at him, waking up fully. You swallow dryly before rasping out, without pausing to think, “Love rhymes with hideous car wreck.”

And Brendon’s just staring at you blankly, but not blankly enough that you can’t see that you’ve hurt him. You say something about being sorry and stumble to your feet. He makes a grab for your hand, but you avoid it, not even stopping to get your notebook.

He doesn’t say it again for about a year.

You’re on tour, somewhere in the Midwest, prairie scenery going by faster in the dark then you’d thought possible. You can’t fall asleep; it’s been hard for you lately. You think of Pete saying how he’s an insomniac, and you wonder if you can be a part-time insomniac. That’s what you are, or have been lately. Spencer says it’s the stress from touring, and from Brent showing up late to everything. It’s the simple stress of becoming famous, even though you don’t think you’ll ever feel famous.

Brendon pads into the room on sock feet, hair at crazy angles, glasses crooked. He can’t fall asleep, either, he tells you. He gives you a pleading look, pouting just slightly. You grin despite yourself as he pulls you to your feet, leading you back to your bunk. You crawl in, moving toward the wall so he has room as he follows you. After shuffling around for a good five minutes, you two have found some sort of compromise. You’re holding onto each other in the semblance of a loose hug, his head ducked just underneath yours, resting on your upper arm.

And finally, finally, you can feel yourself getting truly tired. This is the only way you’re both getting enough sleep to keep up with the shows and the interviews. This is the only way you’re surviving. You don’t discuss it; you never have. It just works, and you don’t need to know why. It works and you’re falling asleep just as Brendon breaks the silence over the motor’s steady hum.

“I love you.” His voice is muffled into your t-shirt, and you’re not sure if he’s awake or not. You tell yourself to be quiet, to just let it sit. Just let it go.

But you can’t. “Love will tear us apart,” you tell him, softly. You regret it as soon as he stiffens; he’s definitely still awake. The silence stretches until he relaxes into heavy breathing, curling closer to you in sleep. You think maybe it’ll be okay, maybe he won’t remember.

You sleep alone for the next few weeks, though, and you know he hasn’t forgotten.

The third time he says it, you think it might be acceptable.

People are finally making their way back to their cars, trudging down the slight hill, trying to avoid stepping directly on any graves. People are finally going to leave you alone. Even Jon and Spencer have left, per your request, but Brendon’s not going anywhere and everyone knows that. He held your hand all through the funeral, and thank God he was holding tight, too, or you might have cut off the circulation to his fingers.

He’s pulling you away now, so they can fill in your dad’s grave, so you can cry in peace. You shake off his hand with difficulty, unable to stop staring at that six-foot deep hole. He comes up behind you instead, wrapping both arms around your hips, pressing himself tightly to your back.

When he goes up on his tiptoes just slightly so he can put his chin on your shoulder, you’re not surprised. You’re less surprised when he says, whisper soft into your ear, “I love you.”

You nod, turning in his hold to clutch at him, burying your wet face in the shoulder of his suit. “Love is watching someone die,” you choke out, and this time he understands your remark and just holds you closer, singing something incoherent, calming you.

He says it again the first time he kisses you. Really kisses you, not a tease in front of your audience. No one else is around, and you’re not exactly sure how you ended up in this situation, but he’s right there in front of you. He’s there and real and solid, and you’re sharing the same hot air, struggling to make sense of anything and to breathe. And his lips are on yours and all you think is that you’ve been waiting for this to happen. The kiss is hard and so is the wall that he pushes you against. You’re aware that you’re pushing back with just as much fervor, and that scares you a little.

It scares you more when he murmurs against your lips, after pulling back a quarter of an inch, “I love you.”

You pull back a little more, knocking your head softly against the wall. You’re struggling for something to say, and you’re wondering how you got around to quoting the same song again.

“Love rhymes with pity.” It’s lower than your voice normally is, and you can’t stop staring at his lips.

“Then there’s a lot of pity in your eyes,” he says, and it sounds almost angry, but then he’s kissing you again, hands fisting in your hair, and you decide you don’t care what he’s implying.

You’re going to have to give up and in at some point, you know. He says it more now, and you’re running out of quotes and lyrics. You can’t just say “thanks”, either, or “I know”.

Your notebook’s open in front of you and you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor when he walks into your living room. He doesn’t even bother to knock now, and frankly, he’s pretty much living here with you. He raises his hand in greeting and you reply with a quick wave before turning your attention back to the small keyboard. He sits beside you, warm against your left side, draping an arm around your waist.

He’s drawing circles on your hip where your t-shirt’s ridden up, watching you play out a simple melody. You sigh, a little frustrated, sick of trying to get that line to fit into the chorus of your newest favorite song. He replaces your hands on the keys, and slowly you began to recognize the song.

He sings, softly, “I will go down as your lover, your friend.” And then he switches the melody, different song, different band, different lyric, just as soft. “Love me with an open heart, tell me anything.”

You look at him and he’s smirking. “I’ve caught on to you, Ross. I can play this game, too, you know.”

You’re throat’s a little dry, because you still don’t know what to say. “There are oceans of love,” you say, trying to pass it off as wise, or something.

“I’ve crossed them for you,” he replies, and his fingers have stilled on the keys. You wish you knew songs he didn’t now, wish you didn’t share your play lists with each other.

You’re quiet for what feels like forever, but he stays still beside you, patiently waiting. You’re not used to there being quiet when he’s around. You need to fill that silence, not because it’s uncomfortable, but because he needs you, too. And finally, you know what you can say, since your own words will always fail you in this situation.

“We can live like Jack and Sally, if we want to,” you whisper.

He simply stares at you for a minute, and you worry that it’s not enough. But then his face breaks into the widest smile you think you’ve ever seen, and it’s contagious. He’s kissing you, pulling you into him.

He gets it, gets you enough to know that it’s as near to parroting him as you’re going to get. Because in your secret language of other writers’ words, it’s so, so close, and that’s okay right now.

Thursday

2007-01-20T10:30:16Z

“Fell down some stairs.”

He said it with a smirk and a shrug and goddamn it, he was mocking me. He knew I’d know he was, knew I’d get the Fight Club reference. He jumped into the pool then, obscuring my view. Getting away from me.

So I didn’t ask again. At least, I didn‘t ask him. I did ask Spencer. Fuck privacy, I wanted to know. Spencer just shook his head at me.

“Brendon,” he sighed, “Ryan’ll tell you if he wants to.”

“He’s got marks on his back the length of the Great Wall, man, something’s wrong.”

The look Spencer gave me was heavy as he left my car and walked up to his front door. It meant something, I knew it did, but I didn’t know what. It gave me a sick feeling and I tried to push it from my mind.

And I succeeded, at least for awhile. For days. For weeks. For months. Until tonight when I wake up to someone pounding on my door. That someone is Ryan. Ryan soaked all the way through from a rare Vegas thunderstorm. Ryan panting and sobbing and collapsing onto the ratty carpet in the dark hall as soon as I can get the door open to yell at whoever it is.

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

It’s all he offers up before he starts shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. Not why he’s here. Not how he got past the apartment doorman. Not how of course I didn’t answer my phone since it’s the middle of the night and I sleep through the ringing most times.

I’m half-dragging, half-carrying him inside, struggling with him because of his violent tremors. And yeah he doesn’t weigh much less than me, but I can lift him up usually. Once I get the chain back in its place on the door, I’m helping him up and trying to kind of carry him into my room because this just doesn’t seem like something that should happen on my couch. It’s more important than that.

For the first twenty minutes, he just cries, and I’m as wet as he is soon because I’m holding him. And finally, finally, his gasping for breath is dry and his shaking has subsided. Aside from the occasional shiver, he’s still. Still and clutching so hard at me I know it should hurt. But it doesn’t, and I hope he’s not hurting with how hard I’m holding him. He loosens his grip and moves away.

Then I get my first good look at his face since he came in and I want to go right back to how we were.

I also want to run and never look back. I want to run away from his problems and away from him. But that’s not an option. It’s never an option with Ryan, even if the way he looks right now is beyond startling.

What’s left of the eyeliner he’d worn earlier that day for fun is smeared down his cheeks and for a minute I think that he’s put more on his left eye. But no, that’s not eyeliner or eye shadow or anything resembling cosmetics. It’s a black eye. Or the beginning of one with his eyebrow swelled slightly and his bright brown eye sticking out in the purple like white does on black.

My stomach is twisting in the way it does before you throw up everything you’ve ever eaten, but that’s not it. God, I wish it was it. There’s an angry bruise running from his cheekbone to his jaw opposite his black eye. From what I can see where his v-neck shirt is sagging with rain water, his sharp collarbone has a bruise forming, too.

And I’ve got a feeling that’s making me want to run away still, making me at least want to run to the toilet and heave. A feeling and I’m pretty sure I’d be accurate in saying that there were marks where I couldn’t see them, like those ones I saw on him months ago.

I’m trying not to shake; I need to be strong for him, right? He’s just staring at me, eyes wide with something I can’t place.

“Ryan?” I finally manage. He looks away, sighs, and looks back.

“Your dad?” I venture. He won’t meet my eye again. Almost imperceptibly, he nods. Almost.

The sick feeling is being replaced with something hot and burning. It takes me a minute to recognize it as rage because I don’t think I’ve ever been this mad. Maybe when my parents kicked me out. Maybe. It’d take second place to this, though.

I must make an unconscious move to get up, find his most likely drunken father, and fucking kill the bastard, because Ryan’s fighting to pull me back down to the bed. He’s stronger than he seems and I’m sitting again, though doing so is killing me.

“No,” he says.

“Why the hell not, Ryan?” I yell, and he flinches and I regret it. Lowering my voice to a furious whisper, I continue, “He did this to you. He fucking did this to you.”

He shrinks away from me a little but he’s still holding my arm. “It’s not like it’s the first time,” he mumbles.

I freeze. I’d had my suspicions for ages. I knew his dad was a sorry excuse for a father. I knew he was an alcoholic. I knew he didn’t really like Ryan. I’d seen the bruises before, and the scrapes, but he’d always had a plausible explanation. And I believed him because I wanted to. Needed to.

But now, now with him in front of me, a mess of tears, black eyeliner, bruises, and hurt, I can’t deny it. Some part of me still wants to, needs to. The part of me that wants to run and never see him again. The rest of me wins over, but I’m still a little torn.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He gestures to me. “Because of this. How I knew you’d react,” he says simply.

“How in the hell else am I supposed to react?” I snap. He flinches again but holds his ground. I apologize quietly, some of the anger ebbing.

He sighs, letting go of my sleeve. “Look, just, there’s nothing you can do. It’s the first time it’s happened in a long time anyway. The first time since I told him I dropped out of school.”

It clicks then. He quit college to spend more time on the band about five months ago. That night we all went swimming in the community pool after practice. That’s when I saw the scratches and bruises all over his torso.

“You fell down some stairs.” I say it weakly, feeling almost like I should be laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Kind of. He pushed me when I was on the landing. I tripped on that ugly blue throw rug and fell backwards down our stairs.”

And, oh, there’s that sick feeling again. Stronger now and I can taste the bile.

“He actually felt bad about it, I think,” Ryan muses, bitter laughter in his voice. “He hadn’t laid a finger on me for awhile actually. It’d mostly been just yelling for four or five years since Mom left. I don’t think he meant for me to end up on the first floor. He was probably just trying to get me on the ground so he could kick me around a little.”

And, God, Ryan’s too calm about this. This is too normal for him, way too normal.

I swallow back the bile. “For how long?”

“Since I was twelve. He overheard me telling Mom that I thought a boy in my homeroom was cute one night. She left that weekend for her birthday to go visit my aunt in Reno. As soon as we were alone, Dad backed me into a corner, called me a fag, and backhanded me so hard I blacked out.”

Way. Too. Calm.

“It was pretty intermittent until Mom moved out a year and a half later. He got drunk the night he found her note on the kitchen table. He came back from the bars a little after midnight, yelling that it was my fault she’d walked out. I was too skinny, too girly, too gay.

“I stayed the rest of the night at Spencer’s. When his mom found me in the guest bedroom the next morning, more black and blue than a prize fighter, I said it’d been a bully at school. Spencer backed me and I never told him everything.

“I never told anyone. Until now.”

“Until now,” I repeat. He nods. “What set him off tonight?”

“The makeup,” he says heavily. “He was supposed to be gone until tomorrow on that business trip, so I didn’t wash it off when I got home. He found me reading in the living room, saw the fucking makeup, railed about it, and them took a swing. Or twenty.

“I gave him a bloody nose, though, trying to get away. I elbowed him and ran for it. It’s the first time I’ve ever made him bleed. Hell, it’s a night for firsts, isn’t it? First time I hurt him. First time I told anyone. First time he hit me when he was sober,” Ryan says, ticking them off on his long fingers.

He laughing that bitter laugh again and it’s starting to sound a little scary, a little unhinged.

“We have to tell someone,” I say. “The police or something. He can’t do this to you anymore.”

Ryan shakes his head. “There’s no point now. We’re leaving for the tour in a couple weeks anyway. I can hold out for a little longer. I’ve already dealt with it for six years, what’s sixteen days?”

“You’re staying here.”

“What?” He’s confused, unable to understand my meaning.

“Until we leave, you’re staying here, instead of at home,” I say, talking before I think but it doesn’t matter. “Please,” I add.

Uncertainly, he nods. “If you’re okay with it, yeah, I guess I can.”

“You can’t go back home. Besides, it’ll be fun, right? We can stay up all night beating video games and playing music. It’ll be like a sixteen day long sleepover. Or something,” I say. I’m winning him over. I can tell by his slight smirk.

“Fine. I’ll run home and get my stuff while Dad’s at work tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, well, it’s after midnight, right? Yeah, so today, today’s a Thursday and I don’t work. I can go with you if you want.”

His smirk is turning into a nod and, at last, a smile, and I’m glad. He still has a pretty smile, even through the bruises and blotched makeup. He laughs then, a real laugh.

“What?” I’m the one confused now.

“Your shirt.”

And sure enough, yeah, there’s a weird-shaped smudge of eyeliner all over the shoulder of my white shirt. I laugh, too. It’s not that funny, really, but it doesn’t matter. We both need something that just resembles funny right now and him accidentally ruining my shirt is enough.

When the slightly hysterical laughter dies down, I get serious again with, “Are you sure there’s no bones broken?”

“Yeah, I’d know.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t break any when you fell down the stairs.”

“Yeah, I don’t break bones that easily. My doctor said a couple years ago it was because I drank so much milk when I was a kid. The calcium, you know.”

Yeah, the sick feeling’s back. He didn’t say why that subject was breached in his doctor’s office, but I’m sure I know why and he’s sure I know, too.

I pull him into my tiny bathroom and get him changed and cleaned up as best I can. He protests taking the bed, but I shush him. He’s asleep in minutes, which is strange for him I know. Then I remember that he ran more than a mile in the rain to get here and it’s not so strange.

After triple-checking my door locks, even though Ryan’s dad has no idea where I live, I go back to my room. I close the door and quietly slip into bed beside him. I don’t know why I do it, I just know I have to. I sneak an arm around him because I know I’ll end up holding him in my sleep anyway. He makes a sound in the back of his throat and snuggles into me. I get my other arm around him carefully and find it hard to believe that Ryan isn’t easily breakable.

All I can think of are the bruises on his ribs and the lingering scars on his back. His face is buried in one of my pillows and he still looks like an angel. With the lights off and the streetlights just barely making their way through my shades, you can barely see his bruises. I somehow manage to hold him tighter and wonder how far underneath his skin those bruises go.

Then I wonder if he’ll ever let me help him heal them.

___________________________________________________________________________________
Thanks for reading! Doubly thanks if you comment!
Tuesday [1]
Wednesday [2]
Monday [3]
Also, in case you're confused, the only ways all seven of these are (and will be) related is that
they're Ryan/Brendon and they have a Day of the Week Title. This one occurs before any of the others, obviously.

edit: I'm not actually suggesting that Ryan's dad beat him. I just felt the need to add this. It is fiction. All of this is
fiction. I understand this and, if you're reading this, I hope that you sure as hell understand. I also really hope
that the guy's never been abused, in any way, ever in his life. Just clarifying here.

Monday(s)

2007-01-15T10:41:47Z

It was a Monday when Brendon first kissed Ryan.

It was after a show, a great show. They somehow managed to be the last ones getting off stage, leaving their guitars for the crew, traveling the unfamiliar passageways of some arena in some city. Brendon couldn’t remember for the life of him where they were. Idaho? No, that was tomorrow. Utah? Yeah, Salt Lake City. Maybe. This was a whirlwind summer tour and every dark backstage had started to look like every other dark backstage. All he knew was that this one was darker than some, but less dank than others. He wasn’t too sure of the second, though, since his clothes were a sweaty second skin.

He and Ryan were half-racing each other, sprinting for maybe a couple steps before skipping back to a slow walk. They playfully shoved each other to get ahead, too tired to really run or care about winning. Ryan was facing him a few paces ahead, bent over double, panting and trying to get back his breath while laughing.

“That,” he gasped loudly, “was the best,” an hysterical fit of giggles as Brendon lunged for him but tripped on nothing and spilled at his feet, “show on this tour so far,” gasp, giggle, “maybe ever.”

Brendon rolled over, nodding up at Ryan, who grabbed his hand and pulled him up and into a hug. Brendon clutched him back, marveling at how dry Ryan was. Ryan didn’t care, though, hugging him tightly, doing the Guy Triple Back Pat. Truth be told, it was a bit more of a pound due to enthusiasm, but Brendon was too exhilarated to feel any pain. That would change the next morning, when a spectacular bruise the size (and vaguely the shape) of Alaska would be growing on his left knee where he’d fallen.

Ryan pulled back, grinning wide, still holding Brendon’s shoulders tightly. He leaned back in, close, very close, and that’s when it happened. An overhead light caught Ryan’s face just right, highlighting his big bright eyes, his dramatic makeup, his innocent beauty. Brendon’s breath caught somewhere around his sternum and his stomach was twisted into a tight little ball.

This was happening more and more when he was around Ryan. He’d given up trying to convince himself that Ryan wasn’t the cause of it a few weeks before. Brendon had been trying to resist the urge to get too close to Ryan since then, but it was so hard to avoid. Ryan was always hugging him, throwing an arm around his shoulders, mussing his hair, and now leaning into him in a dark hallway.

Brendon knew why he was leaning in. It was because the din of the crowd was still a little too loud, and Ryan had just used the last of his voice celebrating the show. He was just going to tell Brendon, as always, that he’d done amazing. He didn’t realize how close he was getting, probably. The hallway was narrow anyway. Brendon knew, knew, knew all of this, but still he couldn’t help himself.

Ryan wasn’t much taller, so it wasn’t much of an effort for Brendon to straighten up and pause Ryan’s whisper with his lips.

Ryan pulled back, eyes widening. His hands dropped from Brendon’s shoulders and he gaped at him. He st-st-stuttered something that sounded suspiciously between an apology and a “thanks” before taking off. Brendon watched him sprint toward the dressing room, tiredness forgotten.

When Brendon shuffled into the room, head down, Ryan avoided his eyes, already changed back into street clothes. Jon and Spencer both patted him on the back, cheering still about the show. The crew spattered about the room was celebrating, too. Their shouts were as dim as the faraway crowd to Brendon, though, all his attention focused across the room. Ryan still seemed happy, chatting animatedly with some techie, but it was a few levels down from his earlier enthusiasm. Brendon wondered for the millionth time why in the hell he’d just kissed his best friend.

And how in the hell he’d managed to wait so long.

It took Ryan almost a week to kiss him back.

Brendon decided that opening boxes made too much noise. Well, food boxes. But still, way too much noise. It was quarter after three in the morning and they were somewhere between Canada and California. Everyone else was asleep. Namely, Ryan was finally asleep, after haunting the lounge area for almost two days straight, ignoring them and clenching his notebook.

He’d hardly slept since that night in Utah, and Brendon was the only one who knew why. He also knew that he was ashamed to have slept fairly regularly. Yeah, he was worried over the situation, but really, there was nothing he could do but wait for Ryan to talk to him, right? Plus, hardly anything interfered with Brendon’s heavy sleep.

Spencer being, well, Spencer, had started asking Ryan questions.

Do you feel alright? Are you sick? Do you need anything? Want anything?

Secretly, Brendon always listened hard for the answer, but it was usually a silent shake of Ryan’s head.

Brendon knew it may have gotten a little out of control once Jon started asking most of the same questions, though his usually included solutions.

Hey, man, what’s up? Wanna go out tonight? Have you heard this song yet? You should, it’s got an awesome bass solo; I think you’d like it.
If Jon was sure that something was wrong, one of either two things had happened: A) Spencer had told him he was worried, or B) It had just become that obvious that Ryan was upset. Brendon hoped for his (and Ryan’s) sake that it was option A. He had a nagging feeling it was B, though, and that Ryan was furious with him and would never speak to him again, at least not more than he had to.

This led to Brendon praying that the scraping cardboard and rustling foil hadn’t woken Ryan. The kid really needed his sleep, and Brendon was worried. Plus, he didn’t want to piss Ryan off by waking him up. All he wanted were some Nilla Wafers, nothing worth dying over.

He sat in utter stillness, a rare occurrence, and listened for the steady breathing of his passed-out friends from the bunk room. It didn’t sound like anything had changed. Well, hopefully nothing had. He ate a few of the cookies, wondering whether the Cheese Nips would have been quieter. They had been a worthy contender to satisfy his late night/early morning cravings, but they were Four Cheese and, seriously, who in the hell puts three new cheeses in and fucks with the normal cheddar?

After half an hour of eating and playing Mario Kart on mute, Brendon decided he should turn in. They had a show in Anaheim in a couple days and God only knew when he’d get this opportunity to sleep again. The tour was so close to coming to end, but there would just be another seemingly endless one riding its heels. He was having a hard time remembering what it was like to not be on tour all the time.

Yawning, he put the Nilla Wafers back on a shelf, stretching his arms over his head and behind him afterwards. He barely felt his hand brush the coffee can off the edge of the counter. He did, however, hear it clatter louder than machine gun fire across the tile floor. He gasped at the sudden noise, startled. Before he could move to pick up the can, he heard a voice.

“Brendon?”

He froze. He’d woken up Ryan.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And of course Ryan knew it was him, because really, who else would be up this late who was also permanently clumsy. It just had to be Brendon. Brendon who was still frozen in place in the middle of the tiny, dark kitchen. Brendon who was fearing for his life and his (already strained) relationship with his best friend.

Ryan shuffled into the kitchen, blinking furiously at the light that was just barely spilling in from the lounge.

“Are you alright?” He sounded wide awake while still looking like he was sleep walking. “What happened?”

Brendon found his voice hiding somewhere in his abdomen and pulled it back to where it belonged. His voice was scratchy as all hell. “Yeah, I’m fine. It was the coffee can. It fell.”

Ryan made a soft noise of understanding and nodded. He quickly picked it up and put it back near the coffee pot, moving deftly around Brendon. Brendon was immensely relieved and still a little scared.

Ryan realized Brendon hadn’t moved still. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry I woke you up.” Brendon was trying to loosen his nerves back to normal. It wasn’t going well.

Ryan just shrugged before rubbing his eyes, saying, “It was bound to happen anyway. I got, what, two or three hours of sleep? That’s more consecutive hours than I’ve gotten since…” He trailed off, looking away from Brendon. This was also the most he’d spoken to him since Salt Lake.

Brendon just nodded. He knew he should say something, but he was scared. Certainly Ryan would talk to him soon. Certainly. Hopefully. Ryan began to confirm Brendon’s suspicions, tilting his head slightly and beginning to open his mouth.

And Brendon couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take the uncertainty, the rejection he knew he would hear. He overrode Ryan.

“Well, goodnight,” he said brightly, and ran to the other room.

He changed lightning fast and jumped onto his bed, yanking the curtain closed. He needed something, anything, to keep his mind from dwelling on it. Hah, book, perfect. He opened to where he’d left off in J.T. LeRoy’s Sarah and tried to read. It was Ryan’s, though, and every so often, his thoughts would be scrawled in the margins. Normally, Brendon loved the additions, but right now he needed to forget about Ryan. Otherwise it hurt. A lot. He couldn’t handle the thought of losing his best friend.

He’d read the same page five times before Ryan showed up outside his bunk. Brendon could hear him just outside, had heard him walk up.

“Can we… can we talk?” Ryan finally whispered, and Brendon unwillingly opened the curtain. Ryan was shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot and scratching at the back of his head. He was fully awake now and his eyes wouldn’t meet Brendon’s.

When they finally did for the briefest moment, Brendon nodded, sitting up and setting the book aside. Ryan crawled into the low space, pulling the curtain shut for privacy. Brendon hit the second touch light on so they could see each other better. Ryan cleared his throat softly and sat for several moments, still and silent.

Brendon couldn’t take it any longer. This was more nerve-wracking than performing in front of hundreds of people. At least there he could have a stage persona. Here, he was just Brendon, plain and simple. He had to say something if Ryan wasn’t.

“Look, what happened. What I, what I did. I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve done it and if you want to pretend it never happened, that’s fine. We don’t have to tell anyone, and I’ll forget about it. We’ll go back to being best friends who actually look at each other, because I can’t take this awkwardness anymore. I can’t lose you as a friend just because I got caught up in, well, you, and did something you obviously didn’t want, and, and… I’m sorry.”

It came out in a soft rush. Brendon’s cheeks were flushed with the exertion of his little speech, and he was embarrassed and scared and praying that he’d just fixed everything somehow. His breath hitched as Ryan looked up. He seemed confused, trying to work out what his friend had just said. His eyes widened as he realized that last part.

“No!” he said, rather louder than necessary considering Brendon was less than three feet away and there were people asleep. Brendon was startled and bewildered but didn’t have time to think about it before Ryan spoke again.

“I don’t want to forget about what happened and I didn’t not want what happened to happen. I really wanted what happened to happen, I guess, or I think I did. I mean, I’d thought about it before, and it was different then, because I never meant to run away like a little kid, and I’m sorry I did. But I was confused and I didn’t know what to do, but I wanted you to do what you did, I think. Yes? Maybe? No, yes.”

Ryan had matched Brendon’s rambling with his own, and Brendon could just barely follow. “Wait, so, that was okay? What I did?” he said. A warm feeling was spreading through him, replacing the fear.

Ryan nodded feverishly. “Yeah, I think so. I liked it, I think, I mean, it was a little too fast to really be able to tell, but I’ve going over it again and again. So, yes, I liked it and it was okay, and--”

“You talk too much sometimes,” Brendon interrupted him. “I get it,” Brendon assured him, grinning widely, feeling something like elation settle in.

“Are you sure?” Ryan still looked a little worried. He moved forward in his eagerness to make everything right. “I mean, if you’re mad at me, I totally understand why. I shouldn’t have left you just standing there like that. Or if it was a mistake or something, then-- mmph!”

Brendon had interrupted him again, but this time in a different fashion. His lips were pressing into Ryan’s, firmer this time. Ryan immediately responded, pulling him closer. Brendon broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against Ryan’s.

“What did I say about the talking thing?”

“Right,” Ryan said, a little short of breath, smiling. “Shutting up now. I promise.”

“Good.” Brendon grinned cockily, beginning another kiss.

Brendon knew they probably should talk now, should get the awkward conversation out of the way, should figure out what they were to each other exactly, but then Ryan found that spot on his neck and Brendon knew he couldn’t say anything even if wanted to. Talking could wait. God, the whole world could wait, because he had a feeling that he and Ryan were fine now. Better than fine, better than they’d ever been. And that was enough for tonight. ___________________________________________________________________________________
Thanks for reading! Doubly thanks if you comment!
Tuesday [1]
Wednesday [2]
Also, in case you're confused, the only ways all seven of these are (and will be) related is that
they're Ryan/Brendon and they have a Day of the Week Title. This one occurs way before Tuesday.

Wednesday

2007-01-12T23:56:29Z

The coffee’s just not doing much yet. I take off my glasses and rub my eyes clumsily for what feels like the thousandth time. When I take my fingers away, they’re still burning. How in the hell am I supposed to wear contacts in the foreseeable future, really? We don’t have a show tonight, right? No. No, it’s Wednesday, we’ve got a night off, so no contacts tonight. Thank God for small favors (and glasses).

So I only got six hours of sleep, that’s normal, right? Not for me. I mean, normally I get more while we’re on tour. Weird, I know. It’s just I have this God-given ability to be able to fall asleep just about anywhere and anytime. If I can lay my head down and drown everything out with headphones, I’m good. The other guys hate me for being able to do that. It almost always has to be in the mornings, though, like catnaps before interviews and such. Mornings are the slow trudge part of the day, before the shows, before a lot of food, before the Red Bull.

That’s another thing, I’m almost convinced that the guys are hiding the Red Bull from me in the morning. Ryan once muttered something about “too much energy too early in the morning” that was followed by something that sounded kind of like a death threat. You wouldn’t think a Ryan Ross Death Threat would be that ominous, but trust me, you’ve never seen the kid in the morning, have you?

As far as Not Morning People go, Ryan is the worst I’ve met. When we’re not on tour and he’s getting more than four or five hours a night, it’s one thing, but otherwise, we just avoid him until eleven or so. He barely talks for the first hour or so that he’s up, downing a few cups of coffee and retreating behind his laptop or a book. We take turns waking him up, Spencer, Jon, and I, and we always try to get out of it. Luckily, Ryan’s a light sleeper, so more often than not he’s either the first one up or wakes up when he hears us arguing over it.

Once, while we were in Europe, Spencer jokingly gave him a German newspaper to read at the hotel’s continental breakfast. Once Ryan realized that he couldn’t read it, his confusion turned to anger. Rolling up the newspaper so fast I didn’t even have time to warn Spencer, he brought it down on Spencer’s head with enough force for him to drop his full cup of coffee onto his lap. Yowling, Spencer jumped up, trying to wipe it up before it gave him third degree burns. Ryan was already leaving, headed back to our room alone.

Yes, I laughed at Spencer’s expense. I held it in (somehow) until we were in the elevator, though, and by that point Jon couldn’t help it, either. When Spence glared at me, I shrugged.

“You should have known,” I said simply.

And he should have. He’d known Ryan since they were in elementary school, how did he not know this essential piece of information? How had he never heard the Don’t Fuck with Ryan in the Morning rule? I asked Ryan about it sometime later, and he said that he guessed they were never around each other much in the mornings.

“Besides, I always had coffee in the mornings before school, so no one there really got the brunt of it,” he explained.

I didn’t add that they were lucky.

I learned the rule on one of our first tours, when the stress was really starting to get to all of us. We had to leave for an interview in an hour, and Ryan was still sound asleep in his bunk. God only knows how, since we’d all been banging around getting ready and heading out for breakfast. Ryan was hardly hungry in the morning anyway, so we always let him sleep. By the time we got back, we figured Ryan would be up brooding and making coffee. When I opened the bus door and didn’t smell the Colombian Roast, I knew something was up. Making my way to the back area with a snagged donut for him in hand, I called Ryan’s name softly.

No answer. Somehow, the kid was sleeping in today. Today of all days, the day it was my turn to wake him up. I knew he could be a bear (or a bitch) in the mornings, but I didn’t think it could be any worse than the way I was. Plus, I’d had at least four cups of coffee at the diner we’d ate at. I was feeling reckless and energized. I set down the donut and softly moved his curtain aside. He was still half curled up in his blankets, face blissfully blank.

He looks tiny and vulnerable when he sleeps. Granted, he’s not too big when he’s awake, but at least then he’s Ryan Ross, basically a rock star but more a kid with a pen who knows damn well how to use it. He’s finally got some self-confidence and just his talent alone is enough to make you think that he could conquer the fucking world if he tried.

But that’s Ryan awake. Ryan asleep is innocent and childlike. There’s worry and insecurity somewhere in the blankness of his face. They’re such fallback emotions for him, drummed into him with years of childhood memory, that sometimes I wonder if they’ll ever go away.

He needed to be happy right now, I decided. We were on tour as a real band and we were doing great and the sun was shining and birds were singing and all that jazz, so how could he not be happy? But mostly, I wanted him happy because I was happy, and I’ve always been one of those people who wants the whole world to smile with him.

So, I climbed into his bunk quickly, falling into his lap, before starting to tickle him. This all happened in a matter of seconds, and in the ones that followed I realized that even though Ryan is skinny, he can attack when he needs to. First, it was just a little yelp of surprise, but then anger and some weird form of self defense kicked in. I was shoved so hard against the wall I was almost afraid I’d go through it and out into the parking lot. Ryan was holding my wrists at an awkward angle, pinning me there with his own body, his faces inches from mine. It took a slow moment for him to realize who I was in the dark.

“Bren?” His voice was soft and scratchy. I just nodded, my breath too knocked out of me to speak yet.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he continued, his face scrunched in confused, still holding me there.

“I… I was just trying to wake you up,” I said, feeling stupid and lame and still kind of afraid. I looked up with what I hoped was a disarming smile. “Good morning!”

He growled somewhere low in his throat before pushing me toward the end of the bed and letting me go. He dug his palms into his eyes.

“Never fucking do that again,” he told me between yawns.

I still couldn’t see his face, so I thought he was joking, at least a little. “Aw, Ryan, I’m sorry. Listen, tomorrow morning I’ll steal some cymbals and wake you up properly.”

The look he sent me almost froze the blood in my veins.

“Get out.”

And even though his voice was soft with sleep still, I knew he wasn’t kidding. I sighed, and started to apologize again, this time sincerely, but he cut me off.

“Get the fuck out of my bunk!” he yelled as best he could, and it was pretty well.

I hightailed it, cowering in the corner of the couch and not speaking to him until we left for the interview. He apologized, then, and I could tell he meant it.

He always does feel awful, and he always does apologize. A scattered look, a sad apology, and a firm hug. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t piss him off sometimes just to get the I’m Sorry I Bit Your Head Off Earlier hug from him. Yes, I know, I’m pathetic.

But that’s besides the point right now. I’m rambling and I’m fucking tired and I’d kill for a Red Bull. Like, literally, if you were standing in front of me refusing to relinquish the thing, you’d be dead. I’d be willing to live with your death on my hands forever if it meant getting that thing, and then several more.

I sound heartless, don’t I? I’m not, I swear, it’s just this early morning thing and stupid coffee and damn interviews and no sleep. Six hours of sleep is nothing if you’re used to eight or nine (sometimes even ten or eleven) cumulative hours. I’ll have no time to sleep today, I know that. Right now, trying to nod off over my Starbucks cup, Jon keeps poking me in the side.

“Dude, you’re not falling asleep on me again,” he finally says. I pout at him, but he just raises an eyebrow. “You know I love you and all, man, but you drooled last time, fucking drooled.”

I have just enough pride to look embarrassed before looking to my right at Ryan. He’s out. Just, out. His head’s leaned back against the couch and he’s all burrowed down into the crease of it like Jon and I. He’s in his own little world and I can hear Mew coming faintly from his headphones. His hair and hat are falling over his eyes, and I’m not sure if he’s asleep or not. If he is, maybe I can lean on him instead of Jon. I’m assuming he’s not, though. Once Ryan’s up, he’s usually up for quite awhile, hence his not sleeping more than a few hours on the bus.

I’m trying to decide whether or not to take the risk when Spencer speaks up. He’s lying on the floor, just as tired as the rest of us. I would join him down there, but he’s sprawled out as much as possible and it’s a small room.

“I wouldn’t risk it,” he warns, and I’m betting he’s recalling the German Newspaper Incident. I’m also wondering how in the hell he knows what I was planning.

Actually, that’s not too ridiculous. He’s around me everyday, and I’m usually leaning on Ryan in someway, or touching him in someway, or smiling at him in someway, or, well, you get the picture. And yes, again, I know I’m pathetic. He returns some it, though. He’s passed out on me while watching The OC with Jon loads of times.

Is that enough justification? Would he really be so angry if I just curled up to him and caught a good twenty minutes of shut-eye? Yes, yes, he probably would be, but the idea of sleep is threatening to take over all rational thought. I shrug at Spence and decide it’s worth it. If Ryan kills me, at least I’ll be too tired to feel pain.

I set my cup on the floor and readjust myself closer to Ryan and tentatively lay against him. My head’s fully pillowed on his shoulder when he jerks, and I know his eyes are flying open to see who’s messing with him and why. I tense and keep my eyes closed, praying he doesn’t go off on me. It’s a long agonizing moment, and I know Spencer and Jon are watching in horror and more than a little sick fascination.

Then, Ryan moves his left arm, and, oh God, this is it. He’s gonna strangle me or poke my eyes out or just generally kill me. What are they going to tell the interviewer? “Oh, yeah, sorry, Brendon couldn’t be here because Ryan killed him because he was being a fucking idiot who was too tired to make good decisions,” wouldn’t really be taken well by the press. And how would they find another lead singer? Yeah, Ryan’s voice is good, and it’s getting better all the time, but he doesn’t like singing it all, and back-up vocals are kind of necessary. I guess Spence or Jon could sing, but it’d be weird to only have a three-member band. It’s a little too Hanson-y, you know?

Ryan shifts, and I just pretend to be asleep already somehow, even though I’m rigid against him. And-- what’s this? He’s slinging an arm around me, pulling me in firmly against him, and I’m relaxing. Maybe I should still be on the defensive. This could all be some cruel ploy. I whimper so softly I don’t think anyone can hear, but Ryan does, even through headphones. He lays his head on top of mine, moving to get more comfortable, shushing me gently. That’s all it takes, I’m relaxed, and no matter how ecstatic I am to be alive (or to have Ryan holding me), I’m too tired to really enjoy it. The last I feel is his fingers brushing lightly over my hair and making circles on my shoulder. This is the only way I want to fall asleep for the rest of my life, I decide sleepily as the world falls away.

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Tuesday [1]
Also, in case you're confused, the only ways all seven of these are (and will be) related is that
they're Ryan/Brendon and they have a Day of the Week Title. This one occurs way before Tuesday.

Tuesday

2007-01-12T21:56:53Z

He’s spinning typhoon-fast in the middle of the sidewalk, head tilted back, mouth open. He’s catching snowflakes on his tongue, or trying to. You don’t mention that more are sticking to his nose and eyelashes, because it’s a Tuesday, and you try your best to avoid quoting songs on Tuesdays.

He stops suddenly and stumbles, drunk from his head rush of circles. “Let’s get a cab back!” he says, eyes excited.

“I thought you wanted to walk,” you say, confused. Slightly more confused than annoyed, but only slightly. He said he wanted to enjoy the snowfall longer, so here you are, freezing to death somewhere in a Chicago suburb. (Fuck Chicago. Fuck Illinois. Fuck the pristine idea of the Winter Wonderland.) You’re fairly certain at this point that he doesn’t feel cold. He has too much energy to ever be frozen. You, however, are becoming a rather tall popsicle.

“If we get a cab, we’ll get back faster. Then we can play in it!”

You refuse to believe that he’s only a year younger than you. He’s five. Maybe six. Nineteen is out of the question, you decide, as he slips, almost falls, and gigglingly rights himself as he’s hailing a taxi. The driver is amused (so much more than you are) at his toothy smile.

He turns his attention from the cabbie back to you. “What’s Pete’s address again?”

Your eyes are rolling before you can help it, but nothing can stop his enthusiasm anyway. So you direct the driver and he cuddles in close to you, and he’s too warm for you to scoot away. His teeth are chattering, but you’re pretty sure it’s from excitement that just can’t be contained in his skinny frame. He overpays the driver and drags you back into the cold far too soon.

You know there’s no point in complaining about how you still can’t feel your face or fingers. You know there’s no point in wishing you were in sunny (hot, hot, hot) Vegas instead of snow-cloudy (cold, cold, so fucking cold) Chicago. You know there’s no point in telling him you should call Pete at work and ask if you can borrow snow clothes.

He’s too far gone to care about any of that now, throwing himself down into the snow so his footprints don’t mess up his design. He fans his arms and legs quickly, quicker than any six-year-old should be able to. You admit to yourself that he is indeed nineteen.

He scrunches his legs up at awkward angles under him and you let a small smile loose. He gets to his feet carefully, trying not to leave too many marks. He lunges out of the fresh hole in the snow, coming to stand near you. Tilting his head to the side, he admires his work, inviting you to do the same.

The angel is a little lopsided, maybe looking more like a weird blob than anything else, but he’s happy. His smile’s so big you’re almost afraid he’ll break, but he’s running, throwing himself into the growing layer of snow again.

He covers the yard with perfectly imperfect angels. You don’t realize that it’s not childish excitement that’s making him tremble anymore until he goes back to redo the first angels that are being filled back in with snow.

He protests as you pull him away, but you counter. “Look, this way, there’ll be fresh snow for you to make more in later.”

He pouts. You’re dealing with a six-year-old again. A very wet, shivering, teeth-chattering six-year-old that you have to drag to Pete’s front door, holding his sleeve with one hand while you fish the lent key out of your pocket. You push him inside before following and relocking the door, and suddenly, he’s nineteen again.

Nineteen and stripping off his wet clothes until they’re a sopping thing on the tile floor and he’s pale and naked in front of you. Nineteen and smirking at you, his best friend, boyfriend, whatever.

“I’m going to take a shower to warm up,” he declares, and pads away from you. He’s almost all the way down the hall and to the bathroom before he looks back (nineteen and damn cocky). “Are you coming?”

Somewhere between pulling off your coat and being pulled into the red-hot steam of the shower, you decide that maybe Illinois weather’s not so bad after all. And maybe (maybe) you don’t mind him acting thirteen years younger than his age sometimes.

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