Fic: Symphony - Prologue
Title: Symphony - Prologue
Author: beccaforever
Rating: PG-13 for now.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan. Bow to my originality. Hah.
POV: Second. Unknown person.
Summary: “Tell me about your first lover.”
“He was a musician.”
Disclaimer: Christmas is coming up soon…but for now, it is not mine
Dedication: asphyxiateaspen (because she gave me one) and sassymorg333 (because she made me cry and I was inspired).
Author Notes: I thought I could get away with not writing this, but the fandom began to stalk me. I’m serious. First I go into town and see a new printing shop called ‘Jon Walker Prints’. Then my parents see an old friend at a concert called Brendon Ryan. I am being stalked into writing this. So I hope you like it.
Shyness has always held very little appeal for you, you decide. Particularly when it becomes a disability to the one who possesses it. Some people may like that sort of thing, that shy-as-a-mouse persona, but not you. Especially in places where it should not be found.
Like in strippers, for example.
You always believed that shyness was for bookworms, poets, that girl in the back of class with no friends. When you arrived in this club, this run down old shack on a back street in Nowhere, USA, the last thing you expected was shyness.
But still, it is intriguing.
The shyness is not immediately obvious, at least to those who do not know how to look. But you can see it. The down-cast eyes, the fingers-through-hair routine, the shifting, slightly slumped posture. All these indicate a fatal shyness. You should know. After all, most of them are qualities you once possessed yourself.
But maybe shyness is the wrong word. Maybe you should call it…insecurity. Yes, that’s it. It’s insecurity.
The boy (girl? Who can tell from this distance?) that possesses this quality is apparently the most popular employee here. Who would’ve thought? But you should be used to these anomalies by now. You spend your every waking hour with them, after all.
And besides, in your experience, it’s those who shout the loudest who shake the most.
But this employee, this stripper, is fascinating. Not in the usual terms, not how any normal person would see them. You want to know them not for the personality or companionship, but for the information they can give you. For the stories.
After all, it is your job.
***
Apparently these strippers are prostitutes too.
And for the meagre price of, ooh, only $200 per hour, you can have them all to yourself in a private room upstairs.
The safety of these rooms is doubtful. One wrong move and upstairs could become downstairs, and all would know your business. Not that everyone doesn’t know what taking a stripper to those rooms means, they would just get a very, erm, intimate view of the proceedings.
You aren’t looking for sex. Not tonight. But $200 (maybe more, and straight from your employer’s purse, nonetheless) could get you the story of a fucking lifetime. Straight from the horse’s (or, rather, the shy little stripper’s) mouth.
And apparently that man there, the one in the blue suit, is the man to see about such things.
So you go to see him. Ask for that particular prostitute. But not for sex, just to ask a few questions. Get laughed at. Pull out that wonderful invention, the credit card. Watch the pimp’s eyes widen.
You have an hour.
***
The shy little stripper (if that doesn’t sound like a children’s book gone wrong, you don’t know what does) is waiting for you in room three-oh-five. Doing his (it’s a boy, for sure now) best impression of a wallflower, apparently.
He doesn’t notice your entry. Funny, you would think he would care more about his safety. But then, he does sleep with at least five customers per night, so maybe not.
You clear your throat.
He doesn’t even flinch.
“I hear you want to ask me some questions.”
His voice is a shock. It is deep, and far manlier than you ever expected to come out of that mouth.
Snap out of it.
“I do.”
“Why?”
That’s another thing. He has a fairly cultured way of talking. No gutter scum here. Even more interesting.
“Can I ask you something?”
He nods.
“You have a name?”
He snorts. “You want to know my name? How sweet of you.”
You take a seat, perching awkwardly on the edge of the bed. “I want to know your life story.”
He laughs. It is a nice laugh. Even though he seems to be mocking you.
“After all,” you continue, “I hear strippers have the most interesting ones.”
He stops laughing.
“You have no fucking idea.”
Interesting.
“Care to elaborate?”
He laughs again, this time bitter. “Where would you like me to start?”
Love stories always have plenty of interesting titbits, so let’s start there. “Tell me about your first lover.”
“He was a musician.”
Author: beccaforever
Rating: PG-13 for now.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan. Bow to my originality. Hah.
POV: Second. Unknown person.
Summary: “Tell me about your first lover.”
“He was a musician.”
Disclaimer: Christmas is coming up soon…but for now, it is not mine
Dedication: asphyxiateaspen (because she gave me one) and sassymorg333 (because she made me cry and I was inspired).
Author Notes: I thought I could get away with not writing this, but the fandom began to stalk me. I’m serious. First I go into town and see a new printing shop called ‘Jon Walker Prints’. Then my parents see an old friend at a concert called Brendon Ryan. I am being stalked into writing this. So I hope you like it.
Shyness has always held very little appeal for you, you decide. Particularly when it becomes a disability to the one who possesses it. Some people may like that sort of thing, that shy-as-a-mouse persona, but not you. Especially in places where it should not be found.
Like in strippers, for example.
You always believed that shyness was for bookworms, poets, that girl in the back of class with no friends. When you arrived in this club, this run down old shack on a back street in Nowhere, USA, the last thing you expected was shyness.
But still, it is intriguing.
The shyness is not immediately obvious, at least to those who do not know how to look. But you can see it. The down-cast eyes, the fingers-through-hair routine, the shifting, slightly slumped posture. All these indicate a fatal shyness. You should know. After all, most of them are qualities you once possessed yourself.
But maybe shyness is the wrong word. Maybe you should call it…insecurity. Yes, that’s it. It’s insecurity.
The boy (girl? Who can tell from this distance?) that possesses this quality is apparently the most popular employee here. Who would’ve thought? But you should be used to these anomalies by now. You spend your every waking hour with them, after all.
And besides, in your experience, it’s those who shout the loudest who shake the most.
But this employee, this stripper, is fascinating. Not in the usual terms, not how any normal person would see them. You want to know them not for the personality or companionship, but for the information they can give you. For the stories.
After all, it is your job.
***
Apparently these strippers are prostitutes too.
And for the meagre price of, ooh, only $200 per hour, you can have them all to yourself in a private room upstairs.
The safety of these rooms is doubtful. One wrong move and upstairs could become downstairs, and all would know your business. Not that everyone doesn’t know what taking a stripper to those rooms means, they would just get a very, erm, intimate view of the proceedings.
You aren’t looking for sex. Not tonight. But $200 (maybe more, and straight from your employer’s purse, nonetheless) could get you the story of a fucking lifetime. Straight from the horse’s (or, rather, the shy little stripper’s) mouth.
And apparently that man there, the one in the blue suit, is the man to see about such things.
So you go to see him. Ask for that particular prostitute. But not for sex, just to ask a few questions. Get laughed at. Pull out that wonderful invention, the credit card. Watch the pimp’s eyes widen.
You have an hour.
***
The shy little stripper (if that doesn’t sound like a children’s book gone wrong, you don’t know what does) is waiting for you in room three-oh-five. Doing his (it’s a boy, for sure now) best impression of a wallflower, apparently.
He doesn’t notice your entry. Funny, you would think he would care more about his safety. But then, he does sleep with at least five customers per night, so maybe not.
You clear your throat.
He doesn’t even flinch.
“I hear you want to ask me some questions.”
His voice is a shock. It is deep, and far manlier than you ever expected to come out of that mouth.
Snap out of it.
“I do.”
“Why?”
That’s another thing. He has a fairly cultured way of talking. No gutter scum here. Even more interesting.
“Can I ask you something?”
He nods.
“You have a name?”
He snorts. “You want to know my name? How sweet of you.”
You take a seat, perching awkwardly on the edge of the bed. “I want to know your life story.”
He laughs. It is a nice laugh. Even though he seems to be mocking you.
“After all,” you continue, “I hear strippers have the most interesting ones.”
He stops laughing.
“You have no fucking idea.”
Interesting.
“Care to elaborate?”
He laughs again, this time bitter. “Where would you like me to start?”
Love stories always have plenty of interesting titbits, so let’s start there. “Tell me about your first lover.”
“He was a musician.”