Ficlet: Glass Slippers
For: toxickk924
Prompt: brendon/ryan, ryan/keltie. keltie-centric, possibly.
unrequited love, competing against someone with whom i can never compare, with a history i will never discover.
Also was posted over at
bandom365.
“It’s not about me, it sure would be nice if it was. But it is not. It’s a story. It’s a make believe world that I do not live in.”
*
It’s not anything incredible, not anything life altering, but Keltie’s ten years old, and there’s something about the dresses, something about the singing mice and the fairy godmother that makes her widen her eyes and part her lips. Makes her tilt her head and rock onto the balls of her feet.
There’s something about Prince Charming that Keltie won’t ever stop looking for in the real world.
*
It’s not an obsession as much as it is just a part of her. One of those things that has such a massive, massive impact on you when you’re little, when you’re not really whole yet. When you’re head is less a scull and more a bowl, more a chunk of clay or sand or dough.
It’s a thing, these days that she feels more like Cinderella than Keltie. Feels more flowing dresses than short skirts, tiaras over hair bleach, singing animals over bitching friends.
Maybe she’s not proud of it, but Keltie doesn’t deal in shame, doesn’t function in guilty pleasures and so she smiles along when her friends laugh and keeps an eye open for Prince Charming, coz, the thing is, Keltie isn’t full grown yet.
Isn’t an adult, and there’s a part of her that still dreams in fairytales.
There’s still a part of her that’ll wait outside the party for Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet and really, really she doesn‘t think it‘s fair that she‘s had everything but.
Because she hasn’t lived in abstinence, she hasn’t avoided the waters, has dipped her toe in more than she can count with guy’s that fit the part on paper and were anything but in real life. She’s sick of missing the boat; sick of all the Prince Arrogant’s, Prince Chauvinist’s, Prince Cheater, Prince I’m-Not-In-Love-With-You (and he was the worst really).
The point is, that she’s almost given up, when Charming bumps into her at the ball.
*
So Ryan Ross is gorgeous in the way paintings are, all oil and canvas, water colour skin and scrafitto hair, impasto eyelashes and splattering freckles that litter his shoulders, crawl down his back.
Ryan’s a lot of things; poetic, beautiful, snarky, monotonous. He’s young (really), too thin and he’s pretentious sometimes, condescending, sarcastic and what Keltie’s getting at is that this guy, kid, he’s not perfect, not always lovely and fuck, he’s not always charming, but right now, he’s the closest Keltie’s ever gotten.
She’s just not sure to what to yet.
*
“Nothing is ever what it looks like, nothing is as easy or as perfect as it seems.”
*
Thing about Prince Charming, is that everyone’s in love with him. That doesn’t mean he’s supposed to love the everyone else back.
She thinks that if she’s Cinderella, what, exactly, is Brendon?
*
Brendon is made of kittens, all doe eyes and freckles, lips and giggles and Disney songs and princesses and Keltie thinks they’re more alike than either will ever admit. Then again, Keltie doesn’t think she could be as much of a contradiction as Brendon is if she tried.
Coz Brendon, Brendon’s still a baby until he’s not, until he’s this thing, this man that oozes sexuality like nothing Keltie could imitate, and she can’t fault Ryan for being attracted to that, could even possibly forgive it, overlook it, if that was all it was.
It’s not though, it’s not just attraction, it’s not even just sex, it’s secrets and conversations, ideas and thoughts, moments that Keltie won’t, can’t ever be a part of and that hurts more than she thought it ever could.
*
They don’t fuck, she thinks, they make love.
Ryan’s not great in bed, not yet and Keltie thinks it’s hilarious that people assume, people think that this kid, this rock star, he’d be fantastic by default. They ignore that, fuck, that he’s twenty-one, that he’s awkward and too thin and gangly. They ignore that he’s shy, because Ryan Ross is Pete Wentz’s protégé, the fucking lyricist of Panic! At the Disco.
Ryan’s hands are too big, and he clenches them tight over her hips, fumbles with the condom, bites in the wrong places and he doesn’t find the right spots straight away.
Keltie, she’s more experienced, has had that sprawling list of faulty princes (ones that she returned, gave them back to the respective Kingdom Asshole) and she knows she’s good, knows she could find someone better.
This is why this is making love.
She wouldn’t stick around if there wasn’t more to the relationship. She just hopes it isn’t one-sided.
*
She doesn’t go out on tour with them, not the whole time, and she’s not in the cabin with them when they’re writing music. She doesn’t visit, not even when Ryan invites her, not because she doesn’t want to impose, but because she can’t guarantee she’ll like what she sees, what she‘ll hear.
*
The album takes longer than they expected and Keltie thinks she’s the only one not surprised.
There’s a break somewhere in the middle and she watches the little shows they do, watches the big ones too and even though Brendon’s the one singing, all Keltie can hear is Ryan.
They fuck, of course they fuck, but Keltie’s losing the plot, can’t remember which bit comes next and even the afterglow is stifling, out of place and awkward and she shifts against the mattress, rolls her eyes to the ceiling and blinks back tears, salt water that catch against her lashes.
“Nine in the Afternoon,” Keltie whispers, and Ryan tenses next to her, she can feel it in the space between them. Keltie thinks she should stop, wishes she could. “It wasn’t written about me, was it?”
Ryan doesn’t reply, and really, that’s all the answer Keltie needs.
“I’ll let myself out.”
It’s five to midnight, and the irony catches on the bottom of her t-shirt as she pulls it on and leaves Ryan’s apartment.
*
The thing is, the thing is Keltie is not Cinderella, no matter how much she wishes she was and life, it’s not a fairytale and that hurts more than any of the rest of it ever could.
She swipes angrily at her eyes, and thinks that this, this is stupid, sitting alone in her car in Ryan’s driveway and she hits her hands against the steering wheel, bangs her head against the rest. There’s a tap against the window and Keltie thinks she could cry, could for real - not just wayward tears, first hints of rain, but full on hysteria, a broken dam.
Ryan waves awkwardly; he’s half-naked, tired and flustered and he shivers at the breeze. Keltie winds down the window and silence crawls through between them.
“So,” Ryan whispers. “This is…it’s not-”
“Shut up,” Keltie says, and she clenches her eyes shut, wishes that the ache in her chest would stop for a moment, would pause, but it won’t, hasn’t, can’t.
“There’s no such thing as happily ever after, huh?”
Ryan stops, looks at her with half-lidded eyes, and she can hear him think, can hear white noise and words that crash together like newborn mice. “There is,” he says, “I’m just not yours.”
And that, that hurts, and Keltie clenches her fists against the steering wheel, stifles the whimper hard against her ribcage, pushes it down past her stomach. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “And I’m not Prince Charming either.”
“You were.”
“No,” he says, “I’m Prince Almost-Charming. I’m Prince Not-Quite.”
“Prince Maybe,” Keltie replies, and Ryan smiles, nods. Keltie leans back, bites her lips and takes a breath that explodes in her lungs, bites against her trachea. It’s cold, achy, too much.
“And Brendon?” Keltie asks, “Is he Charming?”
“He’s Prince Right-For-Me,” Ryan says. “And you, you’re not Cinderella, you’re Keltie, and you’re better than her, and you’re better than me.”
“I-” and Ryan shushes her with wide eyes and fingers to her lips. Keltie reaches a hand up, clenches her own fingers around his, and tries too hard for a smile. She pulls his fingers down, but doesn’t let go, not yet.
“I feel ridiculous,” she whispers, and she feels his hand tighten around hers.
“You shouldn’t,” he says, “If Brendon…if it wasn’t him, it would’ve been you.”
“Good,” she says, and she looks at him, seriously, totally, genuinely. “A kiss for the road?”
He obliges, lips on lips and Keltie wishes this could be her forever, wishes that this was it, the end of the story. Instead though, instead she thinks she needs a new fairytale.
*
“I can’t save him, I just hold his hand sometimes.”
Prompt: brendon/ryan, ryan/keltie. keltie-centric, possibly.
unrequited love, competing against someone with whom i can never compare, with a history i will never discover.
Also was posted over at
bandom365.
“It’s not about me, it sure would be nice if it was. But it is not. It’s a story. It’s a make believe world that I do not live in.”
*
It’s not anything incredible, not anything life altering, but Keltie’s ten years old, and there’s something about the dresses, something about the singing mice and the fairy godmother that makes her widen her eyes and part her lips. Makes her tilt her head and rock onto the balls of her feet.
There’s something about Prince Charming that Keltie won’t ever stop looking for in the real world.
*
It’s not an obsession as much as it is just a part of her. One of those things that has such a massive, massive impact on you when you’re little, when you’re not really whole yet. When you’re head is less a scull and more a bowl, more a chunk of clay or sand or dough.
It’s a thing, these days that she feels more like Cinderella than Keltie. Feels more flowing dresses than short skirts, tiaras over hair bleach, singing animals over bitching friends.
Maybe she’s not proud of it, but Keltie doesn’t deal in shame, doesn’t function in guilty pleasures and so she smiles along when her friends laugh and keeps an eye open for Prince Charming, coz, the thing is, Keltie isn’t full grown yet.
Isn’t an adult, and there’s a part of her that still dreams in fairytales.
There’s still a part of her that’ll wait outside the party for Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet and really, really she doesn‘t think it‘s fair that she‘s had everything but.
Because she hasn’t lived in abstinence, she hasn’t avoided the waters, has dipped her toe in more than she can count with guy’s that fit the part on paper and were anything but in real life. She’s sick of missing the boat; sick of all the Prince Arrogant’s, Prince Chauvinist’s, Prince Cheater, Prince I’m-Not-In-Love-With-You (and he was the worst really).
The point is, that she’s almost given up, when Charming bumps into her at the ball.
*
So Ryan Ross is gorgeous in the way paintings are, all oil and canvas, water colour skin and scrafitto hair, impasto eyelashes and splattering freckles that litter his shoulders, crawl down his back.
Ryan’s a lot of things; poetic, beautiful, snarky, monotonous. He’s young (really), too thin and he’s pretentious sometimes, condescending, sarcastic and what Keltie’s getting at is that this guy, kid, he’s not perfect, not always lovely and fuck, he’s not always charming, but right now, he’s the closest Keltie’s ever gotten.
She’s just not sure to what to yet.
*
“Nothing is ever what it looks like, nothing is as easy or as perfect as it seems.”
*
Thing about Prince Charming, is that everyone’s in love with him. That doesn’t mean he’s supposed to love the everyone else back.
She thinks that if she’s Cinderella, what, exactly, is Brendon?
*
Brendon is made of kittens, all doe eyes and freckles, lips and giggles and Disney songs and princesses and Keltie thinks they’re more alike than either will ever admit. Then again, Keltie doesn’t think she could be as much of a contradiction as Brendon is if she tried.
Coz Brendon, Brendon’s still a baby until he’s not, until he’s this thing, this man that oozes sexuality like nothing Keltie could imitate, and she can’t fault Ryan for being attracted to that, could even possibly forgive it, overlook it, if that was all it was.
It’s not though, it’s not just attraction, it’s not even just sex, it’s secrets and conversations, ideas and thoughts, moments that Keltie won’t, can’t ever be a part of and that hurts more than she thought it ever could.
*
They don’t fuck, she thinks, they make love.
Ryan’s not great in bed, not yet and Keltie thinks it’s hilarious that people assume, people think that this kid, this rock star, he’d be fantastic by default. They ignore that, fuck, that he’s twenty-one, that he’s awkward and too thin and gangly. They ignore that he’s shy, because Ryan Ross is Pete Wentz’s protégé, the fucking lyricist of Panic! At the Disco.
Ryan’s hands are too big, and he clenches them tight over her hips, fumbles with the condom, bites in the wrong places and he doesn’t find the right spots straight away.
Keltie, she’s more experienced, has had that sprawling list of faulty princes (ones that she returned, gave them back to the respective Kingdom Asshole) and she knows she’s good, knows she could find someone better.
This is why this is making love.
She wouldn’t stick around if there wasn’t more to the relationship. She just hopes it isn’t one-sided.
*
She doesn’t go out on tour with them, not the whole time, and she’s not in the cabin with them when they’re writing music. She doesn’t visit, not even when Ryan invites her, not because she doesn’t want to impose, but because she can’t guarantee she’ll like what she sees, what she‘ll hear.
*
The album takes longer than they expected and Keltie thinks she’s the only one not surprised.
There’s a break somewhere in the middle and she watches the little shows they do, watches the big ones too and even though Brendon’s the one singing, all Keltie can hear is Ryan.
They fuck, of course they fuck, but Keltie’s losing the plot, can’t remember which bit comes next and even the afterglow is stifling, out of place and awkward and she shifts against the mattress, rolls her eyes to the ceiling and blinks back tears, salt water that catch against her lashes.
“Nine in the Afternoon,” Keltie whispers, and Ryan tenses next to her, she can feel it in the space between them. Keltie thinks she should stop, wishes she could. “It wasn’t written about me, was it?”
Ryan doesn’t reply, and really, that’s all the answer Keltie needs.
“I’ll let myself out.”
It’s five to midnight, and the irony catches on the bottom of her t-shirt as she pulls it on and leaves Ryan’s apartment.
*
The thing is, the thing is Keltie is not Cinderella, no matter how much she wishes she was and life, it’s not a fairytale and that hurts more than any of the rest of it ever could.
She swipes angrily at her eyes, and thinks that this, this is stupid, sitting alone in her car in Ryan’s driveway and she hits her hands against the steering wheel, bangs her head against the rest. There’s a tap against the window and Keltie thinks she could cry, could for real - not just wayward tears, first hints of rain, but full on hysteria, a broken dam.
Ryan waves awkwardly; he’s half-naked, tired and flustered and he shivers at the breeze. Keltie winds down the window and silence crawls through between them.
“So,” Ryan whispers. “This is…it’s not-”
“Shut up,” Keltie says, and she clenches her eyes shut, wishes that the ache in her chest would stop for a moment, would pause, but it won’t, hasn’t, can’t.
“There’s no such thing as happily ever after, huh?”
Ryan stops, looks at her with half-lidded eyes, and she can hear him think, can hear white noise and words that crash together like newborn mice. “There is,” he says, “I’m just not yours.”
And that, that hurts, and Keltie clenches her fists against the steering wheel, stifles the whimper hard against her ribcage, pushes it down past her stomach. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “And I’m not Prince Charming either.”
“You were.”
“No,” he says, “I’m Prince Almost-Charming. I’m Prince Not-Quite.”
“Prince Maybe,” Keltie replies, and Ryan smiles, nods. Keltie leans back, bites her lips and takes a breath that explodes in her lungs, bites against her trachea. It’s cold, achy, too much.
“And Brendon?” Keltie asks, “Is he Charming?”
“He’s Prince Right-For-Me,” Ryan says. “And you, you’re not Cinderella, you’re Keltie, and you’re better than her, and you’re better than me.”
“I-” and Ryan shushes her with wide eyes and fingers to her lips. Keltie reaches a hand up, clenches her own fingers around his, and tries too hard for a smile. She pulls his fingers down, but doesn’t let go, not yet.
“I feel ridiculous,” she whispers, and she feels his hand tighten around hers.
“You shouldn’t,” he says, “If Brendon…if it wasn’t him, it would’ve been you.”
“Good,” she says, and she looks at him, seriously, totally, genuinely. “A kiss for the road?”
He obliges, lips on lips and Keltie wishes this could be her forever, wishes that this was it, the end of the story. Instead though, instead she thinks she needs a new fairytale.
*
“I can’t save him, I just hold his hand sometimes.”