P!ATD - Fic - (the space between)
Title: (the space between)
Author:
lady_deathangel
Disclaimer: This didn't happen. I don't know the boys, I don't own the boys and I didn't write this for profit.
Rating: PG-13 for naughty language
Warnings: none
Summary: The normalcy of a life gone mad.
A/N: This was written for the
we_are_cities prompt for January 23rd. This is pretty gen and takes place way back in the few weeks before they recorded the album. I like this one a lot and I hope you enjoy it as well.
(the space between)
Ryan hasn’t been sleeping well. Everyone knows it. Spencer and Brendon and Brent are all concerned but they can’t really do anything. It isn’t just the fighting, they know. It’s the fact that Ryan can’t get his brain to just shut up for more than an hour at a time (and that’s if he’s lucky) and it’s the fact that his world’s tipping out from beneath his feet and it’s what he wants, he’s just going through hell to get it.
The only one who really understands, though, is Brendon. Brendon who has moved out of his own fucking house and into a shitty apartment just to prove to his parents that he’s serious about this (and to get away from the yelling and the reproachful stares and the religious texts conveniently left around the house where he can’t ignore them). Brendon whose parents are just as against the idea as Ryan’s dad is. Brendon who makes up for the pain he feels by being even more boisterous than normal.
Ryan ends up at Brendon’s apartment more and more often, more times than he ends up at his girlfriend’s, even. Brendon doesn’t mind. Brendon encourages it.
“Just move in here,” he says. “You can get a job. Or not, whatever, I don’t care. It’s only for a couple more weeks, right?”
Ryan’s hesitant to make that leap because he doesn’t want to be dependent on Brendon of all people (he feels like he relies on him enough as it is in ways that no one is even aware of). He’s also hesitant because of everyone else in the family, he’s fucking stayed around. He’s not going to run away. Not permanently.
He does run, though. When his dad’s yelling at him about how worthless he is, how much has been sacrificed for him and what a waste he’s making of himself, Ryan glares and then spins on his heel and leaves. He doesn’t even think twice about which direction to go in and he’s standing in a dingy hallway staring at an off-blue door with peeling edges and a smudged knob before his mind manages to catch up with his body.
Brendon answers after two knocks, hair flying in all directions and eyes bleary behind the lenses of his glasses.
“Hey,” he says in greeting, holding the door open a bit wider and letting Ryan in.
Ryan mumbles something back, something that’s a cross between ‘hey’ and ‘thanks’. Brendon seems to understand it well enough and just nods and offers Ryan a small smile. It’s a sure sign of stress when Brendon’s lips can barely manage a quirk upward and Ryan feels unnecessarily guilty for being the cause of all of this. He thinks, as he stands awkwardly in Brendon’s living room, that if he hadn’t asked Brendon to sing they wouldn’t be here right now, here and miserable and hoping this all works out.
Brendon’s eyeing him as if he knows exactly what Ryan’s thinking, his lips twisting in exasperation.
“Have you eaten?” he asks (don’t be an idiot his tone says) and Ryan shakes his head and pushes his hair off of his forehead. “Well,” Brendon says, walking into his tiny kitchen. “I don’t get paid until Friday so no ordering out. Um . . . chicken noodle soup okay with you?”
Ryan nods. “Yeah,” he says.
Ordinarily, Ryan wouldn’t trust Brendon in the kitchen. He’s a horrible cook and Ryan isn’t sure how he survives when he’s not around (Brendon lives for nights that Ryan stays over because Ryan is a pretty good cook for a nineteen-year-old college drop-out). It’s just soup, though, something that Brendon can actually manage, so Ryan just falls back onto one of the poufs Brendon keeps in place of actual chairs.
They don’t talk much. They never do on nights like this. Brendon’s always exhausted from working and school on top of that and Ryan’s never feeling particularly loquacious after a fight with his dad (the words are there, swirling around in his brain like the fluffy seeds of a dandelion, but they’re always solid in his hand and mist in his mouth). Brendon patters around the kitchen while the soup boils and Ryan stretches his legs out and stares at the bony knobs of his feet through his socks.
“You okay?” Brendon asks a bit later, walking out with two plastic bowls in hand.
Ryan accepts the one he holds out and shrugs. “Fine. You?”
Brendon raises his eyebrows. “Fine,” he lies, waiting for Ryan to call him on his bluff. Ryan doesn’t.
The soup is hot and Ryan considers waiting for it to cool down, thinks about what will happen if he spoons it into his mouth without blowing on it and tells himself that he’ll burn his tongue and everything will taste like paste for the next day and a half. Brendon watches him over the bowl of his own spoon, blowing on the soup contemplatively. Ryan glances up at him and then stuffs a spoonful into his mouth, gasping at the sensation of burning and swallowing hard.
“Taste good?” Brendon asks blandly and Ryan shrugs and says, “Tastes like soup,” around a numb tongue.
Brendon rolls his eyes and they eat in silence. When they’re done, Ryan offers to do dishes.
“Leave it,” Brendon tells him. “I’ll do ‘em later. You can go to sleep.”
And it’s kind of different to have Brendon giving suggestions that sound more like orders because Brendon is usually a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. He’s not exactly a leader, even if he is an ideal frontman. But Ryan’s gotten kind of used to this and he doesn’t mind it so much because it’s nice to have someone tell him what to do for a change instead of feeling like he’s just dragging all of his best friends along on this ride that they have no control over.
Ryan lets Brendon lend him a shirt and a pair of pants that are loose and fit just right. He follows Brendon, barefoot, into his bedroom. It’s small and most of the space is taken up by Brendon’s bed which, while not massive, is more than big enough (and he still won’t say how he got it). Brendon doesn’t tuck him in, just glances significantly at the bed and leaves, keeping the door cracked. Ryan smiles a bit to himself. Brendon’s not a mother hen by nature, but living on his own has turned him into more of a housewife than Spencer.
Brendon’s bed is soft and his pillows smell like he does, which is comforting to Ryan. He settles deep into the mattress and feels the pillow cradle his head gently. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply (inhales the distinct smell of boy and broken notes), and falls asleep to the loud sounds of Brendon washing dishes and rattling around in the kitchen.
Ryan wakes up an hour later to a sharp jab in his shoulder and makes a sleepy noise of protest. He cracks an eye open as the offending . . . whatever is removed and sees Brendon, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, absorbed in a text book. There are papers spread all over his side of the bed and the bedside lamp is on, casting him in sharp white blended with pallid gold. Ryan blinks and stares. Brendon glances sideways and they just stare at each other for a few long minutes.
“History,” he says apologetically, which Ryan already knew from the twist of his mouth (Brendon always frowns for history, shifts constantly for English and curses for math).
The clock over Brendon’s shoulder glows red and tells Ryan that it’s really fucking late. He doesn’t want to move, but he does anyway, sitting up and pulling all of Brendon’s papers into a neat pile. He tucks them safely into the binding of the history book and closes it.
“Go to bed, Brendon,” he says, more order than suggestion.
Brendon sighs, but he’s too tired to complain about it. Ryan slides back beneath the blankets, watching as Brendon sets the book aside on the bedside table and switches the lamp off. The dark is sudden but welcome and Ryan makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. There is rustling as Brendon slides down and under and closer. They don’t touch but Ryan is aware of every minute placement of Brendon’s body, from the angle of his hips to the splay of his fingers.
Ryan hasn’t been sleeping very well and he knows that Brendon hasn’t either, if he sleeps at all. But somehow they manage to drift off and fall into a sleep that’s deep and dreamless when they’re like this, when it’s just Ryan and Brendon and the warmth around them and the small space between.
Author:
lady_deathangel
Disclaimer: This didn't happen. I don't know the boys, I don't own the boys and I didn't write this for profit.
Rating: PG-13 for naughty language
Warnings: none
Summary: The normalcy of a life gone mad.
A/N: This was written for the
we_are_cities prompt for January 23rd. This is pretty gen and takes place way back in the few weeks before they recorded the album. I like this one a lot and I hope you enjoy it as well.
(the space between)
Ryan hasn’t been sleeping well. Everyone knows it. Spencer and Brendon and Brent are all concerned but they can’t really do anything. It isn’t just the fighting, they know. It’s the fact that Ryan can’t get his brain to just shut up for more than an hour at a time (and that’s if he’s lucky) and it’s the fact that his world’s tipping out from beneath his feet and it’s what he wants, he’s just going through hell to get it.
The only one who really understands, though, is Brendon. Brendon who has moved out of his own fucking house and into a shitty apartment just to prove to his parents that he’s serious about this (and to get away from the yelling and the reproachful stares and the religious texts conveniently left around the house where he can’t ignore them). Brendon whose parents are just as against the idea as Ryan’s dad is. Brendon who makes up for the pain he feels by being even more boisterous than normal.
Ryan ends up at Brendon’s apartment more and more often, more times than he ends up at his girlfriend’s, even. Brendon doesn’t mind. Brendon encourages it.
“Just move in here,” he says. “You can get a job. Or not, whatever, I don’t care. It’s only for a couple more weeks, right?”
Ryan’s hesitant to make that leap because he doesn’t want to be dependent on Brendon of all people (he feels like he relies on him enough as it is in ways that no one is even aware of). He’s also hesitant because of everyone else in the family, he’s fucking stayed around. He’s not going to run away. Not permanently.
He does run, though. When his dad’s yelling at him about how worthless he is, how much has been sacrificed for him and what a waste he’s making of himself, Ryan glares and then spins on his heel and leaves. He doesn’t even think twice about which direction to go in and he’s standing in a dingy hallway staring at an off-blue door with peeling edges and a smudged knob before his mind manages to catch up with his body.
Brendon answers after two knocks, hair flying in all directions and eyes bleary behind the lenses of his glasses.
“Hey,” he says in greeting, holding the door open a bit wider and letting Ryan in.
Ryan mumbles something back, something that’s a cross between ‘hey’ and ‘thanks’. Brendon seems to understand it well enough and just nods and offers Ryan a small smile. It’s a sure sign of stress when Brendon’s lips can barely manage a quirk upward and Ryan feels unnecessarily guilty for being the cause of all of this. He thinks, as he stands awkwardly in Brendon’s living room, that if he hadn’t asked Brendon to sing they wouldn’t be here right now, here and miserable and hoping this all works out.
Brendon’s eyeing him as if he knows exactly what Ryan’s thinking, his lips twisting in exasperation.
“Have you eaten?” he asks (don’t be an idiot his tone says) and Ryan shakes his head and pushes his hair off of his forehead. “Well,” Brendon says, walking into his tiny kitchen. “I don’t get paid until Friday so no ordering out. Um . . . chicken noodle soup okay with you?”
Ryan nods. “Yeah,” he says.
Ordinarily, Ryan wouldn’t trust Brendon in the kitchen. He’s a horrible cook and Ryan isn’t sure how he survives when he’s not around (Brendon lives for nights that Ryan stays over because Ryan is a pretty good cook for a nineteen-year-old college drop-out). It’s just soup, though, something that Brendon can actually manage, so Ryan just falls back onto one of the poufs Brendon keeps in place of actual chairs.
They don’t talk much. They never do on nights like this. Brendon’s always exhausted from working and school on top of that and Ryan’s never feeling particularly loquacious after a fight with his dad (the words are there, swirling around in his brain like the fluffy seeds of a dandelion, but they’re always solid in his hand and mist in his mouth). Brendon patters around the kitchen while the soup boils and Ryan stretches his legs out and stares at the bony knobs of his feet through his socks.
“You okay?” Brendon asks a bit later, walking out with two plastic bowls in hand.
Ryan accepts the one he holds out and shrugs. “Fine. You?”
Brendon raises his eyebrows. “Fine,” he lies, waiting for Ryan to call him on his bluff. Ryan doesn’t.
The soup is hot and Ryan considers waiting for it to cool down, thinks about what will happen if he spoons it into his mouth without blowing on it and tells himself that he’ll burn his tongue and everything will taste like paste for the next day and a half. Brendon watches him over the bowl of his own spoon, blowing on the soup contemplatively. Ryan glances up at him and then stuffs a spoonful into his mouth, gasping at the sensation of burning and swallowing hard.
“Taste good?” Brendon asks blandly and Ryan shrugs and says, “Tastes like soup,” around a numb tongue.
Brendon rolls his eyes and they eat in silence. When they’re done, Ryan offers to do dishes.
“Leave it,” Brendon tells him. “I’ll do ‘em later. You can go to sleep.”
And it’s kind of different to have Brendon giving suggestions that sound more like orders because Brendon is usually a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. He’s not exactly a leader, even if he is an ideal frontman. But Ryan’s gotten kind of used to this and he doesn’t mind it so much because it’s nice to have someone tell him what to do for a change instead of feeling like he’s just dragging all of his best friends along on this ride that they have no control over.
Ryan lets Brendon lend him a shirt and a pair of pants that are loose and fit just right. He follows Brendon, barefoot, into his bedroom. It’s small and most of the space is taken up by Brendon’s bed which, while not massive, is more than big enough (and he still won’t say how he got it). Brendon doesn’t tuck him in, just glances significantly at the bed and leaves, keeping the door cracked. Ryan smiles a bit to himself. Brendon’s not a mother hen by nature, but living on his own has turned him into more of a housewife than Spencer.
Brendon’s bed is soft and his pillows smell like he does, which is comforting to Ryan. He settles deep into the mattress and feels the pillow cradle his head gently. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply (inhales the distinct smell of boy and broken notes), and falls asleep to the loud sounds of Brendon washing dishes and rattling around in the kitchen.
Ryan wakes up an hour later to a sharp jab in his shoulder and makes a sleepy noise of protest. He cracks an eye open as the offending . . . whatever is removed and sees Brendon, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, absorbed in a text book. There are papers spread all over his side of the bed and the bedside lamp is on, casting him in sharp white blended with pallid gold. Ryan blinks and stares. Brendon glances sideways and they just stare at each other for a few long minutes.
“History,” he says apologetically, which Ryan already knew from the twist of his mouth (Brendon always frowns for history, shifts constantly for English and curses for math).
The clock over Brendon’s shoulder glows red and tells Ryan that it’s really fucking late. He doesn’t want to move, but he does anyway, sitting up and pulling all of Brendon’s papers into a neat pile. He tucks them safely into the binding of the history book and closes it.
“Go to bed, Brendon,” he says, more order than suggestion.
Brendon sighs, but he’s too tired to complain about it. Ryan slides back beneath the blankets, watching as Brendon sets the book aside on the bedside table and switches the lamp off. The dark is sudden but welcome and Ryan makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. There is rustling as Brendon slides down and under and closer. They don’t touch but Ryan is aware of every minute placement of Brendon’s body, from the angle of his hips to the splay of his fingers.
Ryan hasn’t been sleeping very well and he knows that Brendon hasn’t either, if he sleeps at all. But somehow they manage to drift off and fall into a sleep that’s deep and dreamless when they’re like this, when it’s just Ryan and Brendon and the warmth around them and the small space between.