Who Am I to Say [Ryan/Brendon][PATD][PG]
Who Am I to Say
Brendon&Ryan; PG; 2,147 words
Song fic based on Who Am I to Say, by Hope; you should listen, she's amazing.
I just had the urge to write this, hope you like it.
Sometimes you catch yourself walking around at night. The air crisp in your lungs. You have to breathe; you have to breathe; everything, every one, around you makes it so you can't breathe. Ever.
Maybe it's the thoughts in your head. They're on a whirlwind. It's so chaotic you can't exhale anything, except ash and slight rebellions. You think of dusty eyes every second; you think your heart skips beats and beats and beats.
You drag your feet down parkways in the middle of cities that you don't know the names of. Cars flash past so fast you get a headache. You feel cooped up, trapped, but you realize that you've been around the world and back, so that thought makes no sense at all.
Many moons have come & gone
Don't know why I'm still searching
"I can't think," you declare, and you're strewn all over him. Brendon. You have a predilection towards Brendon. He just taps his fingers against your leg and asks,
"Why not?" Like he doesn't know, like it's not his fault that you're like this. Okay, you think, he might not know. But, then, you figure, he fucking should. You want to get exasperated, and shove him, pushing him until he knows. Instead, you sigh.
"I don't even know. It's like there's a plug in my brain and it wouldn't come out." You're trying not to be you. Trying not to seem melodramatic. That's just how your words come out though, so it's hard to avoid. "Like, I'm over thinking. Over trying." Brendon just blinks down at you, smiles half-moon eyes.
"You should write poetry," he finally says, after you've dragged all your thoughts to the back of your head. You laugh, sharp and loud, surprising yourself.
"Fuck you," and you push your palm against his shoulder. He just grins at you. You lay down, your legs still over his; pressingpressingpressing; you want to grab his hand and just hold it. "Fuck," you say, and groan, letting your eyes slide shut. You press your palm to your forehead.
"Just fucking chill," Brendon mutters, his fingers still tapping out a beat on your leg.
"Yeah," you grimace. Your head feels cluttered.
You can't remember the moments that you're not thinking; about him or any one else, it doesn't even matter. What matters is that you're filled up to the brim. Your brain is reddening with the effort, stretching with keeping everything in.
You watch Brendon's face, the way he obviously refuses to acknowledge the fact that you're staring. You watch the way he catches his bottom lip between his teeth and concentrates a little too hard on his tapping on your leg.
Like he knows, you think. You feel your eyes widen in your head, your fucking face heating up and growing fucking crimson. You swing your legs over his and skitter to the back room. Fuck, you can't breathe again.
You're sure that they can hear your thoughts from the other side of the bus.
--
He catches you watching too many times. When you slip up and search his face with your eyes; too long you stare, too long you think. It's not that you're in love, you tell yourself, whispering lies; it's that you love him. He's your best friend, and that's allowed. Right?
You clench your fists so hard you leave crescent markings.
--
You're at a sound check in, Arizona, you think; you don't even know anymore. You stopped keeping track so very long ago. There's something in the air, a band of tension. It's light though, barely there. You decide to ignore it.
Overwhelming comes to mind. You try not to think about it though. Brendon just grins and dances. He's himself, but. But there's something present. Like when you chance a glance over at him, he seems melancholy. He catches your eyes though, and he's back to grinning.
Right.
You think the ground should just suck you up and swallow you now. It would get rid of the twist in your gut. Not that you don't enjoy his company, just that you need his company. That's not healthy, you decide.
You notice that he's very obviously not focusing his attention on you. You feel the breath trapping up in your lungs. Your thoughts are like a record on repeat. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, f-f-fuck. You're tripping up in your own mind.
Obviously.
Your hand slips down the neck of your guitar, tapping out the chords and tabs and not paying attention. You're on autopilot. It takes you a minute to realize it's just you playing. You smile sheepishly, patting down your hair for a second. You can hear Spencer laughing at you. Brendon's eyebrows are drawn together though.
"I'm tired," you chuckle into the microphone. Brendon just passes you a look, and Spencer counts you off.
Color me blue, I'm lost in you
Don't know why I'm still waiting
Jon catches you after a show, gives you a placid look, and you understand. He wants to talk, about stuff, and people and things. He wants to know. He wants answers. By nature you're a taciturn soul, but thinking all day long makes you worse and worse, until you utter nothing to no one. Not even..., you make a face, Brendon.
"What's up?" he asks. You give him surprised eyes, mostly false.
"You wanted to talk to me, Jon Walker," you accuse, slightly amused, but then again really not. You're becoming contentious. Yeah. Retorting when you shouldn't.
"You're... off," Jon says, giving you understanding eyes. "I mean," he's using his hands to talk, sending you small smiles. "More than normal." You just hunch your shoulders. "Want to talk?" You shake your head, because what he wants to know, you can't tell him. "Why are you being so weird?" he pushes. You shrug again.
"It's my forte," you mutter.
Love of my life, my soul mate
You're my best friend
"Fuck you!" you yell at the sky, at the nothingness that extends out and out and out. You can't remember the last time you got like this. Got so seriously pissed off that you wanted to fight some one. You don't cry. You do not cry. But you fucking yell and throw and punch things. You need an outlet, words aren't enough anymore. You start to wonder if they ever were.
You're standing on the top of the hotel, just staring. You think you're in LA, the bright city lights reflect off all the smog and the fog and there's something poetic about all that smoke. You throw rocks off the roof. Cars are honking at each other, the city babbles up drunken words. Everything around you is static.
"I love him," you say, to the wind. Quiet so the breeze can't catch it and blackmail you later. "I'm not allowed though." Your confession doesn't have the affect you wanted it to. It doesn't 'take a load' off your chest; nor does it make you feel better about yourself and your situation.
You sit on the ground heavily, groaning as you do so. Your hands tangle themselves up in your hair. You just sit there, folded up and angry.
"I can't do this," you gasp out, so beyond words. Instead, you dig out your cigarettes, breathing in smoke until that's all that surrounds you. Your brain clogs up with faux-solutions. "Fuck my life," you half-laugh into your cherry.
You inhale so deep you almost choke.
--
You remember when you first met Brendon, you instantly clicked; weird for you because you never clicked with anyone, but with Brendon you had. He had captured your interest with his huge, moon smile, and easily distracted nature.
He had quickly fallen into the habit of calling you his favorite. If you did something he liked, he would cuddle up to your side, pleased. "You're my favorite," he would purr, happily. Your insides would warm up, because no one had never implied that (let alone said it, or even meant it).
One time you got drunk around him. You were blurred around the edges, tipsy and giggling. You kissed him, square on the mouth, hard. You had said, "I didn't mean it like that," and you winked. He just giggled against the skin on your neck and exhaled, giving you goose bumps.
"That was fast," he had mumbled, grinning. Your stomach had felt light and fluffy.
The next day you said nothing. Nothing happened. At the time, it was fine with you. You couldn't think about it without shaking in your own skin; so, you were fine with not talking. Now. Now you wish you hadn't gotten so goddamn attached to the boy.
--
"We're best friends, right?" he asks, tired, against your side.
"Yeah," you answer, your stomach doing a stupid hop-skip routine. You feel his smile on your shoulder, sticking. Sweat starts up on your palms.
"I gotta admit," he slurs, the exhaustion hazing his voice. "I gotta admit, Ross. I gotta say, I love you." He's warm pressed to your arm and your shoulder.
"I love you too, Urie," you allow. I love you a lot more than I should, you think. He shakes his tired attitude out, and gives you a sparkling smile. Then, he's back to himself, jumping away and laughing out right. You feel the push of his skin against yours long after he's left.
Part of me like breathing
Now half of me is left
Brendon shoves you up against the bus one night. His hands dig into your hips, his lips frantic against yours. You press in, then back off, your vocal chords in a tight twist inside your throat. You feel your eyes wide, straining in your head; your palms start to sweat.
"Brendon," it comes out sharp and harsh in the air. Unsteady.
"I can't fucking..." he looks desperate, at a loss for words. Your composure is slipping past you blindly. You brush off his hands lamely. "Fucking. Stop it Ross," he says, almost whispering, hissing. It makes you want to throw up, or hit him, or both.
"What?" you demand. You don't know why you're pissed off. You shouldn't be, this is what you wanted. Your stomach is caving in on itself.
"What's your problem?" he blurts out, so fast you almost don't catch it.
"You are my fucking problem Brendon Urie," you watch as his forehead creases into a frown. You're swimming in confusion. "You..." you say, your eyes search his face. You let your body fall back against the bus with a hopeless thud. "You... We can't..." You can't grasp the thoughts, so you just shrug, your shoulders dragging along the bus. He backs up, keeps a palm pressed against the metal next to your shoulder, and rubs the other palm across his face. You can't breathe now that he's not near. "This is so fucked," you let your head bang against the side one more time. He gives you a weak smile, but you fail to see any humor in the situation at all.
Don't know anything at all
& who am I to say you love me
Maybe it didn't happen, you think, staring and staring and staring at the ceiling of your bunk. You feel the ground rushing past you; you feel your life slipping. You're suffocating in the clear air. You reach up, touching your lips softly, if anything, it did happen. You're crazy, but you're not that crazy.
You wander out into the lounge, past Jon and Spencer, sleeping in their bunks. Brendon is hugging an acoustic close to his frame, finger pressing against the frets. Words slip wistfully past his lips. You feel sad suddenly, like there are weights on your chest; pilingpilingpiling until you're buried, but breathing.
He peers up at you, looking as pitiful as you feel. You're suddenly reminded of a teenage melodrama. It all hurts so hard you need to sit. You can't see his eyes, but the moonlight throws his figure into sharp relief. He looks like a broken fairy tale; you wonder who the prince is.
Words spill softly from his mouth; he's staring at you so intensely your heart clenches in your chest.
Now you're a song I love to sing
Never thought it feels so free
Now I know what's meant to be
& that's okay with me
But who am I to say you love me
& who am I to say you need me
& who am I to say you love me
You can't help it; you kiss him; hard and needy, demanding, but gentle. You try to tell him everything, at one time. You can suddenly breathe as he holds you. The moon filters through the bus window, dancing over you laced hands.
I don't know anything at all
I don't know anything at all
I don't know anything at all
Brendon&Ryan; PG; 2,147 words
Song fic based on Who Am I to Say, by Hope; you should listen, she's amazing.
I just had the urge to write this, hope you like it.
Sometimes you catch yourself walking around at night. The air crisp in your lungs. You have to breathe; you have to breathe; everything, every one, around you makes it so you can't breathe. Ever.
Maybe it's the thoughts in your head. They're on a whirlwind. It's so chaotic you can't exhale anything, except ash and slight rebellions. You think of dusty eyes every second; you think your heart skips beats and beats and beats.
You drag your feet down parkways in the middle of cities that you don't know the names of. Cars flash past so fast you get a headache. You feel cooped up, trapped, but you realize that you've been around the world and back, so that thought makes no sense at all.
Many moons have come & gone
Don't know why I'm still searching
"I can't think," you declare, and you're strewn all over him. Brendon. You have a predilection towards Brendon. He just taps his fingers against your leg and asks,
"Why not?" Like he doesn't know, like it's not his fault that you're like this. Okay, you think, he might not know. But, then, you figure, he fucking should. You want to get exasperated, and shove him, pushing him until he knows. Instead, you sigh.
"I don't even know. It's like there's a plug in my brain and it wouldn't come out." You're trying not to be you. Trying not to seem melodramatic. That's just how your words come out though, so it's hard to avoid. "Like, I'm over thinking. Over trying." Brendon just blinks down at you, smiles half-moon eyes.
"You should write poetry," he finally says, after you've dragged all your thoughts to the back of your head. You laugh, sharp and loud, surprising yourself.
"Fuck you," and you push your palm against his shoulder. He just grins at you. You lay down, your legs still over his; pressingpressingpressing; you want to grab his hand and just hold it. "Fuck," you say, and groan, letting your eyes slide shut. You press your palm to your forehead.
"Just fucking chill," Brendon mutters, his fingers still tapping out a beat on your leg.
"Yeah," you grimace. Your head feels cluttered.
You can't remember the moments that you're not thinking; about him or any one else, it doesn't even matter. What matters is that you're filled up to the brim. Your brain is reddening with the effort, stretching with keeping everything in.
You watch Brendon's face, the way he obviously refuses to acknowledge the fact that you're staring. You watch the way he catches his bottom lip between his teeth and concentrates a little too hard on his tapping on your leg.
Like he knows, you think. You feel your eyes widen in your head, your fucking face heating up and growing fucking crimson. You swing your legs over his and skitter to the back room. Fuck, you can't breathe again.
You're sure that they can hear your thoughts from the other side of the bus.
--
He catches you watching too many times. When you slip up and search his face with your eyes; too long you stare, too long you think. It's not that you're in love, you tell yourself, whispering lies; it's that you love him. He's your best friend, and that's allowed. Right?
You clench your fists so hard you leave crescent markings.
--
You're at a sound check in, Arizona, you think; you don't even know anymore. You stopped keeping track so very long ago. There's something in the air, a band of tension. It's light though, barely there. You decide to ignore it.
Overwhelming comes to mind. You try not to think about it though. Brendon just grins and dances. He's himself, but. But there's something present. Like when you chance a glance over at him, he seems melancholy. He catches your eyes though, and he's back to grinning.
Right.
You think the ground should just suck you up and swallow you now. It would get rid of the twist in your gut. Not that you don't enjoy his company, just that you need his company. That's not healthy, you decide.
You notice that he's very obviously not focusing his attention on you. You feel the breath trapping up in your lungs. Your thoughts are like a record on repeat. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, f-f-fuck. You're tripping up in your own mind.
Obviously.
Your hand slips down the neck of your guitar, tapping out the chords and tabs and not paying attention. You're on autopilot. It takes you a minute to realize it's just you playing. You smile sheepishly, patting down your hair for a second. You can hear Spencer laughing at you. Brendon's eyebrows are drawn together though.
"I'm tired," you chuckle into the microphone. Brendon just passes you a look, and Spencer counts you off.
Color me blue, I'm lost in you
Don't know why I'm still waiting
Jon catches you after a show, gives you a placid look, and you understand. He wants to talk, about stuff, and people and things. He wants to know. He wants answers. By nature you're a taciturn soul, but thinking all day long makes you worse and worse, until you utter nothing to no one. Not even..., you make a face, Brendon.
"What's up?" he asks. You give him surprised eyes, mostly false.
"You wanted to talk to me, Jon Walker," you accuse, slightly amused, but then again really not. You're becoming contentious. Yeah. Retorting when you shouldn't.
"You're... off," Jon says, giving you understanding eyes. "I mean," he's using his hands to talk, sending you small smiles. "More than normal." You just hunch your shoulders. "Want to talk?" You shake your head, because what he wants to know, you can't tell him. "Why are you being so weird?" he pushes. You shrug again.
"It's my forte," you mutter.
Love of my life, my soul mate
You're my best friend
"Fuck you!" you yell at the sky, at the nothingness that extends out and out and out. You can't remember the last time you got like this. Got so seriously pissed off that you wanted to fight some one. You don't cry. You do not cry. But you fucking yell and throw and punch things. You need an outlet, words aren't enough anymore. You start to wonder if they ever were.
You're standing on the top of the hotel, just staring. You think you're in LA, the bright city lights reflect off all the smog and the fog and there's something poetic about all that smoke. You throw rocks off the roof. Cars are honking at each other, the city babbles up drunken words. Everything around you is static.
"I love him," you say, to the wind. Quiet so the breeze can't catch it and blackmail you later. "I'm not allowed though." Your confession doesn't have the affect you wanted it to. It doesn't 'take a load' off your chest; nor does it make you feel better about yourself and your situation.
You sit on the ground heavily, groaning as you do so. Your hands tangle themselves up in your hair. You just sit there, folded up and angry.
"I can't do this," you gasp out, so beyond words. Instead, you dig out your cigarettes, breathing in smoke until that's all that surrounds you. Your brain clogs up with faux-solutions. "Fuck my life," you half-laugh into your cherry.
You inhale so deep you almost choke.
--
You remember when you first met Brendon, you instantly clicked; weird for you because you never clicked with anyone, but with Brendon you had. He had captured your interest with his huge, moon smile, and easily distracted nature.
He had quickly fallen into the habit of calling you his favorite. If you did something he liked, he would cuddle up to your side, pleased. "You're my favorite," he would purr, happily. Your insides would warm up, because no one had never implied that (let alone said it, or even meant it).
One time you got drunk around him. You were blurred around the edges, tipsy and giggling. You kissed him, square on the mouth, hard. You had said, "I didn't mean it like that," and you winked. He just giggled against the skin on your neck and exhaled, giving you goose bumps.
"That was fast," he had mumbled, grinning. Your stomach had felt light and fluffy.
The next day you said nothing. Nothing happened. At the time, it was fine with you. You couldn't think about it without shaking in your own skin; so, you were fine with not talking. Now. Now you wish you hadn't gotten so goddamn attached to the boy.
--
"We're best friends, right?" he asks, tired, against your side.
"Yeah," you answer, your stomach doing a stupid hop-skip routine. You feel his smile on your shoulder, sticking. Sweat starts up on your palms.
"I gotta admit," he slurs, the exhaustion hazing his voice. "I gotta admit, Ross. I gotta say, I love you." He's warm pressed to your arm and your shoulder.
"I love you too, Urie," you allow. I love you a lot more than I should, you think. He shakes his tired attitude out, and gives you a sparkling smile. Then, he's back to himself, jumping away and laughing out right. You feel the push of his skin against yours long after he's left.
Part of me like breathing
Now half of me is left
Brendon shoves you up against the bus one night. His hands dig into your hips, his lips frantic against yours. You press in, then back off, your vocal chords in a tight twist inside your throat. You feel your eyes wide, straining in your head; your palms start to sweat.
"Brendon," it comes out sharp and harsh in the air. Unsteady.
"I can't fucking..." he looks desperate, at a loss for words. Your composure is slipping past you blindly. You brush off his hands lamely. "Fucking. Stop it Ross," he says, almost whispering, hissing. It makes you want to throw up, or hit him, or both.
"What?" you demand. You don't know why you're pissed off. You shouldn't be, this is what you wanted. Your stomach is caving in on itself.
"What's your problem?" he blurts out, so fast you almost don't catch it.
"You are my fucking problem Brendon Urie," you watch as his forehead creases into a frown. You're swimming in confusion. "You..." you say, your eyes search his face. You let your body fall back against the bus with a hopeless thud. "You... We can't..." You can't grasp the thoughts, so you just shrug, your shoulders dragging along the bus. He backs up, keeps a palm pressed against the metal next to your shoulder, and rubs the other palm across his face. You can't breathe now that he's not near. "This is so fucked," you let your head bang against the side one more time. He gives you a weak smile, but you fail to see any humor in the situation at all.
Don't know anything at all
& who am I to say you love me
Maybe it didn't happen, you think, staring and staring and staring at the ceiling of your bunk. You feel the ground rushing past you; you feel your life slipping. You're suffocating in the clear air. You reach up, touching your lips softly, if anything, it did happen. You're crazy, but you're not that crazy.
You wander out into the lounge, past Jon and Spencer, sleeping in their bunks. Brendon is hugging an acoustic close to his frame, finger pressing against the frets. Words slip wistfully past his lips. You feel sad suddenly, like there are weights on your chest; pilingpilingpiling until you're buried, but breathing.
He peers up at you, looking as pitiful as you feel. You're suddenly reminded of a teenage melodrama. It all hurts so hard you need to sit. You can't see his eyes, but the moonlight throws his figure into sharp relief. He looks like a broken fairy tale; you wonder who the prince is.
Words spill softly from his mouth; he's staring at you so intensely your heart clenches in your chest.
Now you're a song I love to sing
Never thought it feels so free
Now I know what's meant to be
& that's okay with me
But who am I to say you love me
& who am I to say you need me
& who am I to say you love me
You can't help it; you kiss him; hard and needy, demanding, but gentle. You try to tell him everything, at one time. You can suddenly breathe as he holds you. The moon filters through the bus window, dancing over you laced hands.
I don't know anything at all
I don't know anything at all
I don't know anything at all