fic - PATD - stop thinking love is blind .i.
stop thinking love is blind - Part Three of the Right Where It Belongs series
lady_deathangel ~*~ 6,532 words ~*~ R ~*~ some sexual violence ~*~ past Audrey/Bren, implied Ryan/Bren, Bren/OMC
Disclaimer: This is in absolutely no way true. If you came across this by googling your name or the names of your friends, chances are you want to hit the back-button. At the very least, don't say you weren't warned.
|| So! More girl!verse. This one is much more intense, and much longer, than the last installment. There is some content that may be triggering so please heed the warnings and as always, let me know what you think!
Title from Shores of California by The Dresden Dolls. ||
Part One
Part Two
“Oh, no fair, dude, you totally blinked!”
“I did not, you’re seeing things.”
“Seeing things like you fucking blinking. That’s three outta five, man, I win.”
“No way, five outta seven, come on.”
The diner they’ve stepped into is alive with the usual sorts of sluggish sounds particular to any time past midnight. There are the quiet clacks and clinks of plates and glasses and cutlery behind the counter, the soft murmurs of conversations between the handful of strangers either working or sipping cups of coffee. Above it all, there is the sound of Ryan and Spencer having a staring contest. Bren is pretty sure staring contests are supposed to be silent, but this one has been particularly loud and annoying.
It’s maybe a little ironic that Bren of all people is annoyed by someone else’s noise level, but she has a headache, her nose is stuffed, and she’s exhausted. She can’t sleep though, not like Brent who heard that they were going to grab something to eat and just rolled over in his bunk. Technically she shouldn’t be out. The weather is terrible, wet and cold, and there’s an imminent threat of snow the closer to Chicago they get. Bren’s been sick for so long she can’t remember what a morning without congestion, a sore throat or a mild fever feels like and the short trip from the bus to the diner hadn’t been a very good idea.
Still, she’s hated being cooped up on that stupid bus ever since she and Audrey broke up. Everything feels so quiet now, and it’s stupid, it’s not like Audrey was always around, but Bren can’t help but hear the silence.
“Hey, you okay?” Spencer asks.
Bren blinks and lifts her head from where it’s been pillowed on her arms. “Fine,” she says.
Ryan reaches out and rubs a hand over her shoulders. She relaxes into the touch and smiles weakly at Spencer who grins back.
Despite the fact that she’s been trying her best to stay upbeat and normal for the past week, it’s not like she’s been able to hide from her band. The being sick thing actually helps because when she’s feeling particularly down, remembering Audrey’s smell and her taste and the sound of her voice, she can pretend that the ache is a physical one. Feeling so useless tends to makes it worse when Bren gets the blues, though, and her mood swings lately have been more violent than they were during those last couple of months of high school when she was barely eating and almost never sleeping.
Ryan and Spencer have been really awesome about it, at least. Sometimes Ryan talks shit about Audrey and Bren gets upset. Sometimes Spencer looks at her like she’s going to break any second and she’s not. Mostly, though, they’ve been offering her their hugs and support without a word except to ask if she needs more cough drops or to tell her to drink more tea. They’re willing to let her pretend that it’s the mutant cold she’s not quite over and not her ex because they’re good like that.
Bren hums low as Ryan’s hand rubs circles lower and lower and Spencer’s voice is quiet now while he challenges Ryan to another match and she loves these guys so fucking much it hurts, sometimes. How the hell did she ever live without them?
There’s a sudden rush of noise accompanied by the opening of the door, and Bren groans when she hears Mike’s voice cut through the relative quiet of the diner, followed by Bill’s softer tones and a laugh that is distinctly Sisky. She loves them, too, but fuck if they aren’t the noisiest bastards in the world, particularly when she’s miserable and just wants to eat some fucking waffles and go to sleep.
“We heard this is where the party’s at,” Mike jokes, and his words are loose and bright which means he’s been drinking.
Bren wishes she were feeling well enough to drink. She wishes she were feeling well enough to lift her head and smile at him. She lets Ryan and Spencer do the talking for her.
“Nobody invited you losers,” Spencer teases, and somebody chokes back a laugh and says, “oh, you cut us to the quick, Smith.”
They all settle into the booth behind Bren and Ryan, joking about a lack of space. Bren’s eyes are shut, Ryan’s hand warm and comforting on the small of her back, but she can distinctly hear the sounds of a fast and vicious wrestling match for the last seat next to Andy. She laughs a little when Jon curses loudly and drags her eyes open to watch him walk over to their table. Across from Bren and Ryan, Spencer slides over obligingly and Jon sits down with an exaggerated show of dignity.
“Fuck them anyway, this is where all the cool people are,” Jon says.
“Yeah, I think you’ve got the wrong table,” Ryan says and Spencer sniffs.
“Speak for yourself,” he retorts. “Me and Bren are the coolest people on tour.”
Bren manages to lift her head and croak, “damn straight.”
Jon laughs and reaches out to flick her nose gently with one finger. “You’re so cute when you’re sick,” he says, and yeah, he’s a little drunk too and Bren is totally jealous, and probably blushing (but at least she can blame that on the fever).
The waitress wanders by with more menus, pausing as she hands Jon his to cluck her tongue at Bren.
“You want some more orange juice, honey?” she asks.
It feels like Bren has been subsisting off of juice and tea for the last two weeks and she misses coffee and Red Bull. Her veins miss it. She looks from the waitress to her almost empty glass and orange juice is good, she likes orange juice.
“Yes, please,” she says, sitting up and handing the glass over.
The waitress smiles and tells them she’ll be right back. Bren sighs and pushes her hood off, rubbing her eyes and frowning at the dark smudges of eyeliner and mascara on her knuckles. She hasn’t really had the time or energy to wash the makeup off and she sighs, sure that she looks like a racoon with the flu now.
Ryan’s amused huff of breath ghosts over the side of Bren’s face and he reaches out to tilt her face toward his.
“Here,” he says, squinting at her and then rubbing his thumbs under her eyes.
Bren holds carefully still, like she does when Ryan helps her with her makeup (she will probably never live down the fact that one of her best guy friends had to teach her the proper way to apply eyeliner and continues to give her tips, but he never teases her about; he seems to like it). When Ryan smiles and leans back, telling her it’s all better, she exhales shakily. She can’t be sure because it’s late and her brain is fuzzy with sickness and sleeplessness, but she’s pretty sure Ryan was touching her with purpose, the way he did in the days before he was distracted by Jac.
Nobody else seems to have noticed, though. Bren glances up and Spencer is leaning against Jon’s shoulder, helping him peruse the menu and narrow down his choices. Behind them, Bill and Mike are telling the same story with helpful interjections from Sisky. Even Ryan has moved on, twisting a little in the seat to ask Tom a question. Bren sighs, wonders if maybe she’s just going crazy, and slumps against the table again.
She brightens when the waitress comes back, orange juice in hand.
“Here you go,” the waitress says, sliding the orange juice over.
Bren grins her thanks and carefully sips from her straw, humming happily at the first splash of citrus-y goodness against her tongue. She looks up when she feels eyes on her and catches Jon staring. He grins, crooked, and says, “so cute,” in this tone that makes Spencer and Ryan laugh. Bren just smiles cheekily and takes another sip.
_._
Instead of getting better, Bren is decidedly worse by the next morning. They’re halfway to Ohio, spending their day off on the road, and Bren is completely miserable. She tries to curl up in her bunk but the closeness of the air is making it hard to fall asleep so she stumbles out to the lounge and curls up on the couch instead.
“You don’t look so good,” Brent says when he comes into the lounge.
He walks forward and presses the back of his hand to Bren’s head, hissing a little as he draws it back.
“What?” Bren asks blearily, because Brent’s show of concern is a little uncharacteristic of him lately, and the hissing makes her nervous.
“Nothing,” he says. “You’re just running a really high fever. Maybe you shouldn’t have gone out last night.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Bren says in her own defense, shivering a little even though she’s wearing, like, three layers. “You sure I’ve got a fever? It’s fucking cold.”
Brent looks down at her for a long moment and then brushes a hand over her hair and says, “I’ll get you a blanket, okay?”
He disappears and that’s okay, Bren will just rest her eyes until he gets back. The next time she opens them, she’s got Brent’s favorite fleece blanket tucked around her waist and the quilt Spencer’s mom made over that. She’s burning up but she can’t find a way out of the blankets. Her hands are wrapped in the quilt, her legs tangled in the fleece blanket, and she’s so hot she needs the blankets offoffoff.
“Hey, hey,” someone says, reaching around her to help disentangle her from the mess of fabric.
Bren inhales sharply and lets herself be helped. As soon as the blankets are off, she’s cold again, and she whimpers. She hates this, she wants to be home and in bed, with her mom to take care of her. She just wants her mom period.
“Whoa, Bren, you okay?”
It’s Spencer settling next to her on the couch, pulling her into his arms and rubbing his hand up and down her arm.
“I’m sick, Spencer,” she whispers.
There’s a smile in his voice when he says, “yeah, I know. You gonna be okay to perform tomorrow night?”
Everything inside of Bren wants to say no, that she most certainly will not be okay to perform, she needs the night off. The longer she’s awake, though, and the more Spencer soothes her the easier it is to remember what she’s capable of. For months and months she worked and went to school and practiced for so many hours that she had to schedule sleep. She never got sick, but she didn’t need to. Every day she felt the sickest she’d ever been, exhaustion bone-deep, throat constantly scratchy from so much singing, fingers cramped and aching from holding pencils and making smoothies and playing guitars and pianos and writing papers. She survived that. She can make it through the next four nights.
“We’re almost to Chicago,” she says, and God, even her eyelids feel hot. “I can make it ‘till then.”
“Better tell Brent and Ryan, then,” Spencer says.
“You do it,” Bren tells him, but when he moves to get up she can’t seem to make herself let go.
“Bren,” Spencer says, voice low with amusement.
“Sorry,” she whispers, disentangling herself and letting Spencer get up.
By the time he gets back, she’s returned to the part with all the shivering and she’s wrapped up in the blankets again. The soles of her feet are hot, her head hurts, but she can’t sleep. She’s been staring at the blank television screen for the last twenty minutes, zoning in and out, so she’s a little surprised to realize the bus has stopped.
“What’s up?” she asks when Spencer wanders back in.
He grins and deposits a bottle of Nyquil in her lap. Bren stares down at it dumbly and then catches a whiff of something that smells hot and delicious just before Brent and Ryan move into the lounge.
Bren struggles to sit up, nearly knocking the cold medicine to the floor, and looks up at Brent and Ryan. “Soup?”
Brent smiles and hands over the styrofoam cup in his hand while Ryan nudges her up so that he can squeeze in between her and the arm of the couch. He extends a plastic spoon that Bren grabs as soon as she has her other arm free, and she’s a little surprised at how hungry she suddenly is. Brent and Spencer sit down on the couch next to her and Bren hands the soup to Ryan so that she can wriggle out of the blankets and share them; she does more harm than good while she tries to make sure everyone’s covered and snuggled in, but they get settled easily enough.
They spend the rest of the night like that, toes pushed under thighs, heads on shoulders. Someone puts on Moulin Rouge and Bren takes a cupful of Nyquil before settling into the circle of Ryan’s arms. She’s relaxed, feeling way better than she was a few hours earlier, and she can’t remember the last time they were all together like this. She’s missed it, she realizes. She’s been caught up in Audrey and Ryan’s been caught up in Bill and Jac before that. Spencer’s got a new girlfriend and she knows Brent’s been increasingly distant, even if she hasn’t said anything about it. The four of them are best friends and that’s never going to change, but they haven’t been best friends like this in a long time.
Maybe this will fix it, she thinks, squeezing Ryan’s hand when he threads their fingers together.
“You know,” Ryan says, “I’ve been thinking and maybe we should do something different this summer.”
“Hmm?” Bren murmurs, curious.
“Well, I mean, we’re headlining. We can do whatever we want.”
“Don’t you think we should stick to what we know?” Brent asks, and there’s a note of something in his tone that slips just past the medicine working to pull Bren into sleep and concerns her a little.
“That’s kinda boring though. I mean, it’s our own fucking tour.” Spencer says, and his excitement eases Bren’s mind again.
“Yeah, we should think about putting on a real show,” Ryan continues, turning back to the movie. “What do you think about a Moulin Rouge theme?”
“Like how?” Spencer asks, sounding as eager as Bren would feel if she wasn’t medicated.
Bren closes her eyes and falls asleep to the sounds of Spencer and Ryan talking about props and set design and she dreams of big stages and sell-out crowds, her voice soaring over all of them, her boys next to her every step of the way.
con.
lady_deathangel ~*~ 6,532 words ~*~ R ~*~ some sexual violence ~*~ past Audrey/Bren, implied Ryan/Bren, Bren/OMC
Disclaimer: This is in absolutely no way true. If you came across this by googling your name or the names of your friends, chances are you want to hit the back-button. At the very least, don't say you weren't warned.
|| So! More girl!verse. This one is much more intense, and much longer, than the last installment. There is some content that may be triggering so please heed the warnings and as always, let me know what you think!
Title from Shores of California by The Dresden Dolls. ||
Part One
Part Two
“Oh, no fair, dude, you totally blinked!”
“I did not, you’re seeing things.”
“Seeing things like you fucking blinking. That’s three outta five, man, I win.”
“No way, five outta seven, come on.”
The diner they’ve stepped into is alive with the usual sorts of sluggish sounds particular to any time past midnight. There are the quiet clacks and clinks of plates and glasses and cutlery behind the counter, the soft murmurs of conversations between the handful of strangers either working or sipping cups of coffee. Above it all, there is the sound of Ryan and Spencer having a staring contest. Bren is pretty sure staring contests are supposed to be silent, but this one has been particularly loud and annoying.
It’s maybe a little ironic that Bren of all people is annoyed by someone else’s noise level, but she has a headache, her nose is stuffed, and she’s exhausted. She can’t sleep though, not like Brent who heard that they were going to grab something to eat and just rolled over in his bunk. Technically she shouldn’t be out. The weather is terrible, wet and cold, and there’s an imminent threat of snow the closer to Chicago they get. Bren’s been sick for so long she can’t remember what a morning without congestion, a sore throat or a mild fever feels like and the short trip from the bus to the diner hadn’t been a very good idea.
Still, she’s hated being cooped up on that stupid bus ever since she and Audrey broke up. Everything feels so quiet now, and it’s stupid, it’s not like Audrey was always around, but Bren can’t help but hear the silence.
“Hey, you okay?” Spencer asks.
Bren blinks and lifts her head from where it’s been pillowed on her arms. “Fine,” she says.
Ryan reaches out and rubs a hand over her shoulders. She relaxes into the touch and smiles weakly at Spencer who grins back.
Despite the fact that she’s been trying her best to stay upbeat and normal for the past week, it’s not like she’s been able to hide from her band. The being sick thing actually helps because when she’s feeling particularly down, remembering Audrey’s smell and her taste and the sound of her voice, she can pretend that the ache is a physical one. Feeling so useless tends to makes it worse when Bren gets the blues, though, and her mood swings lately have been more violent than they were during those last couple of months of high school when she was barely eating and almost never sleeping.
Ryan and Spencer have been really awesome about it, at least. Sometimes Ryan talks shit about Audrey and Bren gets upset. Sometimes Spencer looks at her like she’s going to break any second and she’s not. Mostly, though, they’ve been offering her their hugs and support without a word except to ask if she needs more cough drops or to tell her to drink more tea. They’re willing to let her pretend that it’s the mutant cold she’s not quite over and not her ex because they’re good like that.
Bren hums low as Ryan’s hand rubs circles lower and lower and Spencer’s voice is quiet now while he challenges Ryan to another match and she loves these guys so fucking much it hurts, sometimes. How the hell did she ever live without them?
There’s a sudden rush of noise accompanied by the opening of the door, and Bren groans when she hears Mike’s voice cut through the relative quiet of the diner, followed by Bill’s softer tones and a laugh that is distinctly Sisky. She loves them, too, but fuck if they aren’t the noisiest bastards in the world, particularly when she’s miserable and just wants to eat some fucking waffles and go to sleep.
“We heard this is where the party’s at,” Mike jokes, and his words are loose and bright which means he’s been drinking.
Bren wishes she were feeling well enough to drink. She wishes she were feeling well enough to lift her head and smile at him. She lets Ryan and Spencer do the talking for her.
“Nobody invited you losers,” Spencer teases, and somebody chokes back a laugh and says, “oh, you cut us to the quick, Smith.”
They all settle into the booth behind Bren and Ryan, joking about a lack of space. Bren’s eyes are shut, Ryan’s hand warm and comforting on the small of her back, but she can distinctly hear the sounds of a fast and vicious wrestling match for the last seat next to Andy. She laughs a little when Jon curses loudly and drags her eyes open to watch him walk over to their table. Across from Bren and Ryan, Spencer slides over obligingly and Jon sits down with an exaggerated show of dignity.
“Fuck them anyway, this is where all the cool people are,” Jon says.
“Yeah, I think you’ve got the wrong table,” Ryan says and Spencer sniffs.
“Speak for yourself,” he retorts. “Me and Bren are the coolest people on tour.”
Bren manages to lift her head and croak, “damn straight.”
Jon laughs and reaches out to flick her nose gently with one finger. “You’re so cute when you’re sick,” he says, and yeah, he’s a little drunk too and Bren is totally jealous, and probably blushing (but at least she can blame that on the fever).
The waitress wanders by with more menus, pausing as she hands Jon his to cluck her tongue at Bren.
“You want some more orange juice, honey?” she asks.
It feels like Bren has been subsisting off of juice and tea for the last two weeks and she misses coffee and Red Bull. Her veins miss it. She looks from the waitress to her almost empty glass and orange juice is good, she likes orange juice.
“Yes, please,” she says, sitting up and handing the glass over.
The waitress smiles and tells them she’ll be right back. Bren sighs and pushes her hood off, rubbing her eyes and frowning at the dark smudges of eyeliner and mascara on her knuckles. She hasn’t really had the time or energy to wash the makeup off and she sighs, sure that she looks like a racoon with the flu now.
Ryan’s amused huff of breath ghosts over the side of Bren’s face and he reaches out to tilt her face toward his.
“Here,” he says, squinting at her and then rubbing his thumbs under her eyes.
Bren holds carefully still, like she does when Ryan helps her with her makeup (she will probably never live down the fact that one of her best guy friends had to teach her the proper way to apply eyeliner and continues to give her tips, but he never teases her about; he seems to like it). When Ryan smiles and leans back, telling her it’s all better, she exhales shakily. She can’t be sure because it’s late and her brain is fuzzy with sickness and sleeplessness, but she’s pretty sure Ryan was touching her with purpose, the way he did in the days before he was distracted by Jac.
Nobody else seems to have noticed, though. Bren glances up and Spencer is leaning against Jon’s shoulder, helping him peruse the menu and narrow down his choices. Behind them, Bill and Mike are telling the same story with helpful interjections from Sisky. Even Ryan has moved on, twisting a little in the seat to ask Tom a question. Bren sighs, wonders if maybe she’s just going crazy, and slumps against the table again.
She brightens when the waitress comes back, orange juice in hand.
“Here you go,” the waitress says, sliding the orange juice over.
Bren grins her thanks and carefully sips from her straw, humming happily at the first splash of citrus-y goodness against her tongue. She looks up when she feels eyes on her and catches Jon staring. He grins, crooked, and says, “so cute,” in this tone that makes Spencer and Ryan laugh. Bren just smiles cheekily and takes another sip.
_._
Instead of getting better, Bren is decidedly worse by the next morning. They’re halfway to Ohio, spending their day off on the road, and Bren is completely miserable. She tries to curl up in her bunk but the closeness of the air is making it hard to fall asleep so she stumbles out to the lounge and curls up on the couch instead.
“You don’t look so good,” Brent says when he comes into the lounge.
He walks forward and presses the back of his hand to Bren’s head, hissing a little as he draws it back.
“What?” Bren asks blearily, because Brent’s show of concern is a little uncharacteristic of him lately, and the hissing makes her nervous.
“Nothing,” he says. “You’re just running a really high fever. Maybe you shouldn’t have gone out last night.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Bren says in her own defense, shivering a little even though she’s wearing, like, three layers. “You sure I’ve got a fever? It’s fucking cold.”
Brent looks down at her for a long moment and then brushes a hand over her hair and says, “I’ll get you a blanket, okay?”
He disappears and that’s okay, Bren will just rest her eyes until he gets back. The next time she opens them, she’s got Brent’s favorite fleece blanket tucked around her waist and the quilt Spencer’s mom made over that. She’s burning up but she can’t find a way out of the blankets. Her hands are wrapped in the quilt, her legs tangled in the fleece blanket, and she’s so hot she needs the blankets offoffoff.
“Hey, hey,” someone says, reaching around her to help disentangle her from the mess of fabric.
Bren inhales sharply and lets herself be helped. As soon as the blankets are off, she’s cold again, and she whimpers. She hates this, she wants to be home and in bed, with her mom to take care of her. She just wants her mom period.
“Whoa, Bren, you okay?”
It’s Spencer settling next to her on the couch, pulling her into his arms and rubbing his hand up and down her arm.
“I’m sick, Spencer,” she whispers.
There’s a smile in his voice when he says, “yeah, I know. You gonna be okay to perform tomorrow night?”
Everything inside of Bren wants to say no, that she most certainly will not be okay to perform, she needs the night off. The longer she’s awake, though, and the more Spencer soothes her the easier it is to remember what she’s capable of. For months and months she worked and went to school and practiced for so many hours that she had to schedule sleep. She never got sick, but she didn’t need to. Every day she felt the sickest she’d ever been, exhaustion bone-deep, throat constantly scratchy from so much singing, fingers cramped and aching from holding pencils and making smoothies and playing guitars and pianos and writing papers. She survived that. She can make it through the next four nights.
“We’re almost to Chicago,” she says, and God, even her eyelids feel hot. “I can make it ‘till then.”
“Better tell Brent and Ryan, then,” Spencer says.
“You do it,” Bren tells him, but when he moves to get up she can’t seem to make herself let go.
“Bren,” Spencer says, voice low with amusement.
“Sorry,” she whispers, disentangling herself and letting Spencer get up.
By the time he gets back, she’s returned to the part with all the shivering and she’s wrapped up in the blankets again. The soles of her feet are hot, her head hurts, but she can’t sleep. She’s been staring at the blank television screen for the last twenty minutes, zoning in and out, so she’s a little surprised to realize the bus has stopped.
“What’s up?” she asks when Spencer wanders back in.
He grins and deposits a bottle of Nyquil in her lap. Bren stares down at it dumbly and then catches a whiff of something that smells hot and delicious just before Brent and Ryan move into the lounge.
Bren struggles to sit up, nearly knocking the cold medicine to the floor, and looks up at Brent and Ryan. “Soup?”
Brent smiles and hands over the styrofoam cup in his hand while Ryan nudges her up so that he can squeeze in between her and the arm of the couch. He extends a plastic spoon that Bren grabs as soon as she has her other arm free, and she’s a little surprised at how hungry she suddenly is. Brent and Spencer sit down on the couch next to her and Bren hands the soup to Ryan so that she can wriggle out of the blankets and share them; she does more harm than good while she tries to make sure everyone’s covered and snuggled in, but they get settled easily enough.
They spend the rest of the night like that, toes pushed under thighs, heads on shoulders. Someone puts on Moulin Rouge and Bren takes a cupful of Nyquil before settling into the circle of Ryan’s arms. She’s relaxed, feeling way better than she was a few hours earlier, and she can’t remember the last time they were all together like this. She’s missed it, she realizes. She’s been caught up in Audrey and Ryan’s been caught up in Bill and Jac before that. Spencer’s got a new girlfriend and she knows Brent’s been increasingly distant, even if she hasn’t said anything about it. The four of them are best friends and that’s never going to change, but they haven’t been best friends like this in a long time.
Maybe this will fix it, she thinks, squeezing Ryan’s hand when he threads their fingers together.
“You know,” Ryan says, “I’ve been thinking and maybe we should do something different this summer.”
“Hmm?” Bren murmurs, curious.
“Well, I mean, we’re headlining. We can do whatever we want.”
“Don’t you think we should stick to what we know?” Brent asks, and there’s a note of something in his tone that slips just past the medicine working to pull Bren into sleep and concerns her a little.
“That’s kinda boring though. I mean, it’s our own fucking tour.” Spencer says, and his excitement eases Bren’s mind again.
“Yeah, we should think about putting on a real show,” Ryan continues, turning back to the movie. “What do you think about a Moulin Rouge theme?”
“Like how?” Spencer asks, sounding as eager as Bren would feel if she wasn’t medicated.
Bren closes her eyes and falls asleep to the sounds of Spencer and Ryan talking about props and set design and she dreams of big stages and sell-out crowds, her voice soaring over all of them, her boys next to her every step of the way.
con.