Fic: Symphony - Chapter Two
Title: Symphony - Chapter Two
Author: beccaforever
Rating: PG-13 for now.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan. Bow to my originality. Hah.
POV: Second. Unknown person again.
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: Hmm, none this time.
Author Notes: Yay comments! I have nothing else to say. This chapter occurs directly after the prologue
Prologue
Chapter One
The wallpaper next to the bed is peeling. A rather off topic observation, but there you go. It caught your eye, and now you can’t stop staring. You stare so hard, in fact, that you fail to notice the prostitute trailing off into silence.
Almost hypnotised, you reach out and tug on it, peeling it further away to reveal the crumbling plaster beneath. Mouldy flakes settle on your knuckles, almost blending with your pasty skin.
The prostitute coughs.
You turn.
The look on his face is strange. A dash of confusion, a few drops of amusement, and a pinch of sadness.
So you do what you do best. You raise an eyebrow, desperately trying to pull the situation out of melancholy and into happiness. Or at least something closer to normality.
Normality. The idea amuses you. What do you know about normality? Since when has your life ever been anything close to normal? You hardly know the meaning of the word.
So you try something else. If you can’t have normality, you’ll settle for satisfaction. It is, after all, what you’ve always done.
“Why the…why the face?” Sometimes your eloquence astounds you.
He laughs, bitterness mixed with longing. “You reminded me of something…”
Again with the raised eyebrows. Maybe you know what he means, maybe you don’t, but you want to see how much he’ll reveal to you.
A moment of silence.
He won’t reveal anything.
***
It turns out that, while the room may be ready to collapse at any moment, the mini-fridge (that you didn’t notice when you entered, how strange) is still in good condition. Or rather, its contents are still in good condition, which is what counts.
The contents also happen to be very good quality, which is a surprising bonus.
So you’re standing now, browsing through said contents. Vodka. Gin. Gin. Vodka. Beer. Scotch. Champagne. Score.
You can vaguely remember a time when alcohol held no power over you. When you could look into a fridge, hell, a whole fucking store full of it and not be tempted. Not even in the slightest. But that was a long time ago. That self-control is buried now, buried under layers of memory (fuck, memory, what’s that?) and nostalgia.
Or maybe it wasn’t self-control…after all, it wasn’t you controlling whether you drank or not. It was him, always him. That much you know. Your memory can tell you that much.
But he’s not around anymore.
So you’re free to drown your sorrows.
***
You’ve been in this room for twenty minutes. Or at least, that’s what the clock is telling you. Its hinges are rusted, sure, and it’s face is cracked, but it seems to be pretty accurate.
But then again, it feels as though you’ve been here for an eternity. Forever. An infinite amount of time.
And you don’t ever want to leave.
This boy is watching you, watching you sip straight from the champagne bottle, watching you watch him. He’s curled up in a rotting rose armchair by the window, filtered streetlights bringing out highlights in his hair. His insecurities are showing.
You take another sip.
This champagne is good, high quality. Some French shit, an unreadable label. You don’t know these words, these things. You never were that high class.
You can feel the alcohol running through your veins, and your mind is telling you honey, you’re drunk, but you don’t listen. You aren’t drunk, not yet. A little tipsy, a little buzzed, but not drunk yet. Maybe when you are you’ll forget why you’re here. You’ll forget about this lost little prostitute and his story. You’ll forget everything. Not that it would be hard for you.
You might even fuck him.
But for now you’re still moderately sober, and so you’ll listen to what he has to say. And try and remember it. You think maybe, just maybe it’ll get you the recognition you want. If you can remember, and write it down. Fuck, you should be writing this down. Recording it, something. What did he say before? Something about meeting a boy, and falling in love. That should be easy for you to remember. You’ve done it a few times yourself. That you know of. That you can remember.
He asks you. “What are you thinking?”
You say, “I’m not.”
He’s mocking you again now, you can tell. Always mocking. You get the vague feeling that you’ve been mocked like this before. Your memory isn’t that great. It’s all one blur of sight, sound, and feeling. Nothing spoken. You have no memories of places, dates, names.
Even though it’s supposed to be this whore, this stripper, telling his story, recalling his past, you suddenly recall a smidgen of your own. Your recent past, sometime in the past six months.
White walls and a hospital. That horrible smell they always have. A doctor asking you if you’ve made any progress. If you’ve remembered anything, anything at all.
But you don’t like memories. You don’t like the feelings they bring, the longing for moments that will never come again.
Which would explain why you can’t even remember your own name.
Author: beccaforever
Rating: PG-13 for now.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan. Bow to my originality. Hah.
POV: Second. Unknown person again.
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: Hmm, none this time.
Author Notes: Yay comments! I have nothing else to say. This chapter occurs directly after the prologue
Prologue
Chapter One
The wallpaper next to the bed is peeling. A rather off topic observation, but there you go. It caught your eye, and now you can’t stop staring. You stare so hard, in fact, that you fail to notice the prostitute trailing off into silence.
Almost hypnotised, you reach out and tug on it, peeling it further away to reveal the crumbling plaster beneath. Mouldy flakes settle on your knuckles, almost blending with your pasty skin.
The prostitute coughs.
You turn.
The look on his face is strange. A dash of confusion, a few drops of amusement, and a pinch of sadness.
So you do what you do best. You raise an eyebrow, desperately trying to pull the situation out of melancholy and into happiness. Or at least something closer to normality.
Normality. The idea amuses you. What do you know about normality? Since when has your life ever been anything close to normal? You hardly know the meaning of the word.
So you try something else. If you can’t have normality, you’ll settle for satisfaction. It is, after all, what you’ve always done.
“Why the…why the face?” Sometimes your eloquence astounds you.
He laughs, bitterness mixed with longing. “You reminded me of something…”
Again with the raised eyebrows. Maybe you know what he means, maybe you don’t, but you want to see how much he’ll reveal to you.
A moment of silence.
He won’t reveal anything.
***
It turns out that, while the room may be ready to collapse at any moment, the mini-fridge (that you didn’t notice when you entered, how strange) is still in good condition. Or rather, its contents are still in good condition, which is what counts.
The contents also happen to be very good quality, which is a surprising bonus.
So you’re standing now, browsing through said contents. Vodka. Gin. Gin. Vodka. Beer. Scotch. Champagne. Score.
You can vaguely remember a time when alcohol held no power over you. When you could look into a fridge, hell, a whole fucking store full of it and not be tempted. Not even in the slightest. But that was a long time ago. That self-control is buried now, buried under layers of memory (fuck, memory, what’s that?) and nostalgia.
Or maybe it wasn’t self-control…after all, it wasn’t you controlling whether you drank or not. It was him, always him. That much you know. Your memory can tell you that much.
But he’s not around anymore.
So you’re free to drown your sorrows.
***
You’ve been in this room for twenty minutes. Or at least, that’s what the clock is telling you. Its hinges are rusted, sure, and it’s face is cracked, but it seems to be pretty accurate.
But then again, it feels as though you’ve been here for an eternity. Forever. An infinite amount of time.
And you don’t ever want to leave.
This boy is watching you, watching you sip straight from the champagne bottle, watching you watch him. He’s curled up in a rotting rose armchair by the window, filtered streetlights bringing out highlights in his hair. His insecurities are showing.
You take another sip.
This champagne is good, high quality. Some French shit, an unreadable label. You don’t know these words, these things. You never were that high class.
You can feel the alcohol running through your veins, and your mind is telling you honey, you’re drunk, but you don’t listen. You aren’t drunk, not yet. A little tipsy, a little buzzed, but not drunk yet. Maybe when you are you’ll forget why you’re here. You’ll forget about this lost little prostitute and his story. You’ll forget everything. Not that it would be hard for you.
You might even fuck him.
But for now you’re still moderately sober, and so you’ll listen to what he has to say. And try and remember it. You think maybe, just maybe it’ll get you the recognition you want. If you can remember, and write it down. Fuck, you should be writing this down. Recording it, something. What did he say before? Something about meeting a boy, and falling in love. That should be easy for you to remember. You’ve done it a few times yourself. That you know of. That you can remember.
He asks you. “What are you thinking?”
You say, “I’m not.”
He’s mocking you again now, you can tell. Always mocking. You get the vague feeling that you’ve been mocked like this before. Your memory isn’t that great. It’s all one blur of sight, sound, and feeling. Nothing spoken. You have no memories of places, dates, names.
Even though it’s supposed to be this whore, this stripper, telling his story, recalling his past, you suddenly recall a smidgen of your own. Your recent past, sometime in the past six months.
White walls and a hospital. That horrible smell they always have. A doctor asking you if you’ve made any progress. If you’ve remembered anything, anything at all.
But you don’t like memories. You don’t like the feelings they bring, the longing for moments that will never come again.
Which would explain why you can’t even remember your own name.