any lie or confession | panic! | ryan/spencer | pg-13
any lie or confession
(492 words) // (pg-13 for language)
for nov 18 06.
Ryan, Spencer, moonlight, and ballpoint pens.
Spencer finds Ryan sitting in a pool of moonlight, back against a wall, one hand holding a ballpoint pen, the other arm covered in a mess of ink.
"Hey," he says quietly, sliding down the wall to sit next to Ryan.
"Hey," says Ryan equally quietly, eyes fixed on his middle finger. Never, it says in careful block lettering, and Spencer wonders what the rest of the thought is. "Didn't wake you up, did I?"
"Ryan, half of the time you make less noise while you're awake than Brendon does while he's asleep. No, you didn't wake me up." Ryan looks up at him, the ghost of a smile behind his eyes, and Spencer matches it. "You okay?"
"Yeah, no, I'm good." Ryan slots his fingers together and stretches his arms, cracks his knuckles at the same time, and sighs. "I was -- I couldn't sleep. Trying to write, but it wasn't working with any of the notebooks, so I thought, maybe if I write on myself something decent will come out."
"And everyone knows the only real way to write on yourself in ballpoint pen is by moonlight."
"Oh, of course."
Silence falls, then, companionable, and Ryan shifts a little so his head is on Spencer's shoulder, and Spencer wraps an arm around Ryan's waist. "When's it all gonna go wrong again, Spence?"
He doesn't bother asking what, doesn't bother saying it's not going to, because neither would do any good.
(For all he knows, the second's a lie. They don't know; that's the point.)
Instead, he shrugs, shifts a little so they're closer together. "Dunno. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in three years. Maybe when we're eighty and decide we all need to band together and build a house," he says, and Ryan laughs under him and that's all he was hoping for.
"Here," he says, lifting his other arm up and turning it toward Ryan. "Try me. Blank canvas, y'know."
"Spencer Smith, are you trying to be my muse?"
"Hell no. I'm not Greek enough for it."
"Fuck you," says Ryan, but he's reaching forward with the pen anyway, and Spencer closes his eyes and sighs as he feels the sporadic pressure on his forearm that means Ryan's writing -- something, he'll find out when he opens his eyes -- and falls asleep to steady lines of pressure, Ryan drawing on him in smooth strokes of ink.
When he wakes up the next morning there's a blanket around the two of them, and his arm is covered almost from shoulder to wrist in doodle. He looks again, sees text on his forearm, and smiles, knows Ryan's okay again, at least for a while.
Never tell anything but half-truths to those who aren't your family.
Never pick family who won't do the same.
They'll be none the wiser; you'll have a secret --
Right down near your bones.
Blood's thicker than water, so what's thicker than blood?
Truths, and secrets, and love.
(492 words) // (pg-13 for language)
for nov 18 06.
Ryan, Spencer, moonlight, and ballpoint pens.
Spencer finds Ryan sitting in a pool of moonlight, back against a wall, one hand holding a ballpoint pen, the other arm covered in a mess of ink.
"Hey," he says quietly, sliding down the wall to sit next to Ryan.
"Hey," says Ryan equally quietly, eyes fixed on his middle finger. Never, it says in careful block lettering, and Spencer wonders what the rest of the thought is. "Didn't wake you up, did I?"
"Ryan, half of the time you make less noise while you're awake than Brendon does while he's asleep. No, you didn't wake me up." Ryan looks up at him, the ghost of a smile behind his eyes, and Spencer matches it. "You okay?"
"Yeah, no, I'm good." Ryan slots his fingers together and stretches his arms, cracks his knuckles at the same time, and sighs. "I was -- I couldn't sleep. Trying to write, but it wasn't working with any of the notebooks, so I thought, maybe if I write on myself something decent will come out."
"And everyone knows the only real way to write on yourself in ballpoint pen is by moonlight."
"Oh, of course."
Silence falls, then, companionable, and Ryan shifts a little so his head is on Spencer's shoulder, and Spencer wraps an arm around Ryan's waist. "When's it all gonna go wrong again, Spence?"
He doesn't bother asking what, doesn't bother saying it's not going to, because neither would do any good.
(For all he knows, the second's a lie. They don't know; that's the point.)
Instead, he shrugs, shifts a little so they're closer together. "Dunno. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in three years. Maybe when we're eighty and decide we all need to band together and build a house," he says, and Ryan laughs under him and that's all he was hoping for.
"Here," he says, lifting his other arm up and turning it toward Ryan. "Try me. Blank canvas, y'know."
"Spencer Smith, are you trying to be my muse?"
"Hell no. I'm not Greek enough for it."
"Fuck you," says Ryan, but he's reaching forward with the pen anyway, and Spencer closes his eyes and sighs as he feels the sporadic pressure on his forearm that means Ryan's writing -- something, he'll find out when he opens his eyes -- and falls asleep to steady lines of pressure, Ryan drawing on him in smooth strokes of ink.
When he wakes up the next morning there's a blanket around the two of them, and his arm is covered almost from shoulder to wrist in doodle. He looks again, sees text on his forearm, and smiles, knows Ryan's okay again, at least for a while.
Never tell anything but half-truths to those who aren't your family.
Never pick family who won't do the same.
They'll be none the wiser; you'll have a secret --
Right down near your bones.
Blood's thicker than water, so what's thicker than blood?
Truths, and secrets, and love.