Lyrical Lies
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.
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.