Fic: Symphony - Chapter Five
Title: Symphony - Chapter Five
Author: beccaforever
Rating: M, I guess.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan. Bow to my originality. Hah.
POV: Second. ‘You’ is the “mysterious interviewer” again.
Summary: “Tell me about your first lover.”
“He was a musician.”
Disclaimer: My imagination made me do it.
Dedication: chyeaitschelsea, because we’re twins. Haha.
Author Notes: I am a terrible person and I need to work on my updating speed. Boo hiss. I don’t like the last scene. And my Word program hates me. Wah. I think I might go and cry now.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
The ceiling had water marks and you wondered, in an abstract sort of way, how long it would be until the plaster crumbled completely, dropping an undoubtedly huge load of water onto the both of you.
The both of you. Yes. Because by some strange twist (of fate), George had ended up curled into you, curled into you as you were curled into the headboard. You hadn’t been sure at first (who knew what extra weight on the bed could do to the already unsteady frame), but then you figured people tended to do much worse than lie on these beds, and so you conceded. Besides, he had insisted.
You weren’t really sure why he’d insisted. Maybe he thought he was getting paid to have sex with you, not talk to you, and he thought the conversation was some weird type of foreplay. So now he was climbing onto the bed to get the sex over with.
Or maybe he just wanted to cuddle up to someone while he spilled his life story. Something.
Not that you would’ve said no to sex with him, not under ordinary circumstances. Despite the fact that he must’ve weighed less than a hundred pounds, he (George) was extremely attractive. But you’d never been all that into casual sex. Even if you retained little to no memories of your previous life, things that that stayed with you. At least, you assumed things like that stayed with you. You didn’t really want to think about the possibility of you being some type of wanton slut prior to…well, prior to whatever had happened to you. You weren’t entirely clear on the details. And the doctors wanted you to try remembering everything on your own, or some bullshit like that. You weren’t too keen on the idea. You wanted your memories back, damnit, by whatever means possible. Maybe if they told you even the slightest detail you’d be able to remember something, anything other than random snatches of songs, poetry, whatever they were.
More than the…“Ryan?”
The prostitute (Ryan, you know that’s his name, you know it) inhales sharply. “What did you call me?”
“Ryan,” you repeat, grinning. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Ryan Ross.”
He twists around, staring at you. “How did you…what makes you say that?”
You ignore him. “That is your name, isn’t it? Say I’m right.”
He smiles, sort of. “Yeah, yeah, that’s my name.”
You grin, wider. You like that name. Ryan Ross. Much better than George.
You nod decisively. “It suits you.”
“Thanks.”
***
Twenty seven minutes, fifty seconds.
Twenty seven minutes, fifty one seconds.
Twenty seven minutes, fifty two seconds.
Fifty three seconds.
Fifty four seconds.
Fifty five.
Fifty six.
Fifty seven.
Fifty eight.
Fifty nine.
Twenty eight minutes.
Twenty eight minutes, one-
The clock stops.
***
“Do you like to read?”
“What?”
“Do you. Like to. Read?”
You stare hard at the top of Ryan’s (you probably won’t ever get over calling him that) head, considering his question carefully. “I think so.”
“You think so?”
You nod, decisive, sure of your answer. “I think so.”
He pushes further. “But you don’t know for sure.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” You don’t want to keep repeating yourself like this, really. It’s quite annoying. So, in order to divert further questioning, you ask him the same question. “What about you? Do you like to read?”
He smiles. “I used to.”
“You used to?”
“Yes.”
You can see where this is going (endless useless repetitions of the word ‘yes’), and so you ask. “Do you still?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Oh. Why not?”
“Memories.”
If there has ever been a word you hated more than that one, you can’t remember it.
“Why aren’t you sure? About whether or not you like to read, I mean.”
You answer, and no sentence has ever tasted fouler on your tongue. “Because I don’t remember.”
Author: beccaforever
Rating: M, I guess.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan. Bow to my originality. Hah.
POV: Second. ‘You’ is the “mysterious interviewer” again.
Summary: “Tell me about your first lover.”
“He was a musician.”
Disclaimer: My imagination made me do it.
Dedication: chyeaitschelsea, because we’re twins. Haha.
Author Notes: I am a terrible person and I need to work on my updating speed. Boo hiss. I don’t like the last scene. And my Word program hates me. Wah. I think I might go and cry now.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
The ceiling had water marks and you wondered, in an abstract sort of way, how long it would be until the plaster crumbled completely, dropping an undoubtedly huge load of water onto the both of you.
The both of you. Yes. Because by some strange twist (of fate), George had ended up curled into you, curled into you as you were curled into the headboard. You hadn’t been sure at first (who knew what extra weight on the bed could do to the already unsteady frame), but then you figured people tended to do much worse than lie on these beds, and so you conceded. Besides, he had insisted.
You weren’t really sure why he’d insisted. Maybe he thought he was getting paid to have sex with you, not talk to you, and he thought the conversation was some weird type of foreplay. So now he was climbing onto the bed to get the sex over with.
Or maybe he just wanted to cuddle up to someone while he spilled his life story. Something.
Not that you would’ve said no to sex with him, not under ordinary circumstances. Despite the fact that he must’ve weighed less than a hundred pounds, he (George) was extremely attractive. But you’d never been all that into casual sex. Even if you retained little to no memories of your previous life, things that that stayed with you. At least, you assumed things like that stayed with you. You didn’t really want to think about the possibility of you being some type of wanton slut prior to…well, prior to whatever had happened to you. You weren’t entirely clear on the details. And the doctors wanted you to try remembering everything on your own, or some bullshit like that. You weren’t too keen on the idea. You wanted your memories back, damnit, by whatever means possible. Maybe if they told you even the slightest detail you’d be able to remember something, anything other than random snatches of songs, poetry, whatever they were.
More than the…“Ryan?”
The prostitute (Ryan, you know that’s his name, you know it) inhales sharply. “What did you call me?”
“Ryan,” you repeat, grinning. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Ryan Ross.”
He twists around, staring at you. “How did you…what makes you say that?”
You ignore him. “That is your name, isn’t it? Say I’m right.”
He smiles, sort of. “Yeah, yeah, that’s my name.”
You grin, wider. You like that name. Ryan Ross. Much better than George.
You nod decisively. “It suits you.”
“Thanks.”
***
Twenty seven minutes, fifty seconds.
Twenty seven minutes, fifty one seconds.
Twenty seven minutes, fifty two seconds.
Fifty three seconds.
Fifty four seconds.
Fifty five.
Fifty six.
Fifty seven.
Fifty eight.
Fifty nine.
Twenty eight minutes.
Twenty eight minutes, one-
The clock stops.
***
“Do you like to read?”
“What?”
“Do you. Like to. Read?”
You stare hard at the top of Ryan’s (you probably won’t ever get over calling him that) head, considering his question carefully. “I think so.”
“You think so?”
You nod, decisive, sure of your answer. “I think so.”
He pushes further. “But you don’t know for sure.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” You don’t want to keep repeating yourself like this, really. It’s quite annoying. So, in order to divert further questioning, you ask him the same question. “What about you? Do you like to read?”
He smiles. “I used to.”
“You used to?”
“Yes.”
You can see where this is going (endless useless repetitions of the word ‘yes’), and so you ask. “Do you still?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Oh. Why not?”
“Memories.”
If there has ever been a word you hated more than that one, you can’t remember it.
“Why aren’t you sure? About whether or not you like to read, I mean.”
You answer, and no sentence has ever tasted fouler on your tongue. “Because I don’t remember.”