Frosted Panes (drabble)
Frosted Panes: Brendon/Ryan drabble (PG-13)
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When Brendon closes his eyes, he sees closed doors. He sees winding roads and flickering bonfires. He sees mountain hiking paths. He sees blurred smiles and overexposed lighting.
He sees them with his eyes closed because that’s the only way to see it at all. He wasn’t there.
Obsessively, he checks Ryan’s blogs, his stupid tweets, clearing the memory on his browser each time. For some reason, it feels like the right thing to do.
He reads the words, sees the picture as an outsider, and he wonders when he became one.
Ryan’s words used to be his, only his, but now with a stream of jumbled thoughts and random quotes (things that make Ryan feel; things that make Brendon wonder why) Brendon doesn’t have that anymore.
The only words of Ryan’s that Brendon has now are the sporadic text messages. Messages that say space and working out thoughts, working out feelings and laying low. Messages that make Brendon think that, if anything, all of this has been a set back.
He can’t remember the last time he saw Ryan; the last time he saw the way his hair falls just so, framing his face, when he ducks his head, smiling; the last time he felt the way their lips would fit together, perfectly. He can’t remember when, before it all happened certainly, but he can still remember.
The way that Ryan looks after he comes is burned into Brendon’s mind, that soft, open gaze. He knows still what Ryan feels like, tastes like, smells like, but it’s been three weeks and Brendon hasn’t seen him.
He wonders if Ryan even knows how long it’s been.
Brendon, Brendon though, he watches the clock, eyes heavy. He hears each tick.
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When Brendon closes his eyes, he sees closed doors. He sees winding roads and flickering bonfires. He sees mountain hiking paths. He sees blurred smiles and overexposed lighting.
He sees them with his eyes closed because that’s the only way to see it at all. He wasn’t there.
Obsessively, he checks Ryan’s blogs, his stupid tweets, clearing the memory on his browser each time. For some reason, it feels like the right thing to do.
He reads the words, sees the picture as an outsider, and he wonders when he became one.
Ryan’s words used to be his, only his, but now with a stream of jumbled thoughts and random quotes (things that make Ryan feel; things that make Brendon wonder why) Brendon doesn’t have that anymore.
The only words of Ryan’s that Brendon has now are the sporadic text messages. Messages that say space and working out thoughts, working out feelings and laying low. Messages that make Brendon think that, if anything, all of this has been a set back.
He can’t remember the last time he saw Ryan; the last time he saw the way his hair falls just so, framing his face, when he ducks his head, smiling; the last time he felt the way their lips would fit together, perfectly. He can’t remember when, before it all happened certainly, but he can still remember.
The way that Ryan looks after he comes is burned into Brendon’s mind, that soft, open gaze. He knows still what Ryan feels like, tastes like, smells like, but it’s been three weeks and Brendon hasn’t seen him.
He wonders if Ryan even knows how long it’s been.
Brendon, Brendon though, he watches the clock, eyes heavy. He hears each tick.