why, why do they not want me to write them?
I have started this story at least three different times, and still can't get the beginning to be what it needs to be for the one scene I actually know I really want to build into a story.
So, you know, Rejected Beginning of a Story I May Never Finish, Because Spencer/Brendon Fic Is Apparently Impossible For Me to Write:
And Just...
Brendon watches the blur of wheat fields as they pass them by, his forehead pressed against the glass of the bus window, sitting on his knees, his fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of his guitar. It's way too close to sunrise now to ever get any kind of decent sleep, even by tour bus standards. His voice is going to be beyond raw tomorrow. His fingers are starting to blister over calluses, they way they haven't since maybe Maryland, at least.
He'll hit the stage anyway, like he's never wanted to be anywhere more, because that's what he does.
Spencer's shoulders are aching, his fingers starting refusing to hold pen to paper at least an hour ago, and he's so tired it's like falling asleep every time he blinks. Like he closes his eyes and too much time passes, but Brendon's still sitting there, eyes open and faceplanted against the window, humming a Sublime song Spencer doesn't know the name of under his breath, in weird stops and starts, like he's so tired he keeps forgetting what comes next.
Spencer remembers starting out-because it really wasn't all that long ago, for all it seems like a lifetime-remembers driving to L.A. too late, with Brent snoring, and Ryan glued to his Sidekick, and Brendon singing Fall Out Boy songs at the top of his lungs, better than Patrick Stump could ever sound through the shitty stereo system on Spencer's mom's station wagon.
"Hey," he says, barely louder than the tires against the highway, tapping his fingers against Brendon's ankle. He lays his head down on the same thin cushion that every tour bus back lounge sofa seems to have. He presses his forehead up against Brendon's knee, because he's too tired to even think about moving again.
He means to say something else, but his eyes close, and when they open again the room is a lot brighter, and Brendon's breathing has evened out with sleep. Brendon's hand is on the back of Spencer's neck, his thumb edging under the collar of Spencer's t-shirt. His fingers move like he's dreaming of guitar chords again.
Spencer thinks, he forgot how this felt, and can't breathe exactly right for a second, and blinks away another twenty minutes.
So, you know, Rejected Beginning of a Story I May Never Finish, Because Spencer/Brendon Fic Is Apparently Impossible For Me to Write:
And Just...
Brendon watches the blur of wheat fields as they pass them by, his forehead pressed against the glass of the bus window, sitting on his knees, his fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of his guitar. It's way too close to sunrise now to ever get any kind of decent sleep, even by tour bus standards. His voice is going to be beyond raw tomorrow. His fingers are starting to blister over calluses, they way they haven't since maybe Maryland, at least.
He'll hit the stage anyway, like he's never wanted to be anywhere more, because that's what he does.
Spencer's shoulders are aching, his fingers starting refusing to hold pen to paper at least an hour ago, and he's so tired it's like falling asleep every time he blinks. Like he closes his eyes and too much time passes, but Brendon's still sitting there, eyes open and faceplanted against the window, humming a Sublime song Spencer doesn't know the name of under his breath, in weird stops and starts, like he's so tired he keeps forgetting what comes next.
Spencer remembers starting out-because it really wasn't all that long ago, for all it seems like a lifetime-remembers driving to L.A. too late, with Brent snoring, and Ryan glued to his Sidekick, and Brendon singing Fall Out Boy songs at the top of his lungs, better than Patrick Stump could ever sound through the shitty stereo system on Spencer's mom's station wagon.
"Hey," he says, barely louder than the tires against the highway, tapping his fingers against Brendon's ankle. He lays his head down on the same thin cushion that every tour bus back lounge sofa seems to have. He presses his forehead up against Brendon's knee, because he's too tired to even think about moving again.
He means to say something else, but his eyes close, and when they open again the room is a lot brighter, and Brendon's breathing has evened out with sleep. Brendon's hand is on the back of Spencer's neck, his thumb edging under the collar of Spencer's t-shirt. His fingers move like he's dreaming of guitar chords again.
Spencer thinks, he forgot how this felt, and can't breathe exactly right for a second, and blinks away another twenty minutes.