(no subject)
Title: Friends Don't Let Friends Dial Drunk
Author: Mar (notyourshot)
Pairing: Ryden
Rating: Um...PG-13 going to R.
Summary: Brendon is sick. He's not chickening, he's pushing away.
Word Count: ~240 (Drabble!)
A/N: It was actually for the 10 songs prompt thingy but I cheated and listened to the song like 5 times and, well, this is what came out of it.
“Breeeeendooooon,” you somehow manage to say. “Where are you? Why are you not here?” your words are slurred and you could almost be whining. Or moaning, I don’t know.
I just keep quiet, clutching the phone. It seems enough to you, so you add,
“Come over. I’m alone” and it’s funny how even when you’re wasted, you don’t want to say her name or refer to her directly. It’s almost nice, how you seem to care what I might feel about that. Or it would be, if you weren’t so shitfaced.
“I’m hungry and alone. And I have beer. And vodka. Or…” you zoom out for a second. “Are you coming already? Are you in the car? Jon said-“
“No” I manage to whisper.
“-chocolate cake and I’m feeling really… grabby” Drunk or not, you never listen. Not even when it’s important and I’m backing away. Actually, I think it’s pushing you away. I’m not chickening. I’m taking the last bits of dignity I have left and I’m going to try and put them back together. I’m keeping my space and kicking you out of it.
“Breeeeeen”
“I’m not coming over, Ryan”
“I have cake, Bren, and something that looks like vodka but I serious-“ I just hung up on you. I can’t deal with you, Ryan. Not tonight and probably not tomorrow either.
Author: Mar (notyourshot)
Pairing: Ryden
Rating: Um...PG-13 going to R.
Summary: Brendon is sick. He's not chickening, he's pushing away.
Word Count: ~240 (Drabble!)
A/N: It was actually for the 10 songs prompt thingy but I cheated and listened to the song like 5 times and, well, this is what came out of it.
“Breeeeendooooon,” you somehow manage to say. “Where are you? Why are you not here?” your words are slurred and you could almost be whining. Or moaning, I don’t know.
I just keep quiet, clutching the phone. It seems enough to you, so you add,
“Come over. I’m alone” and it’s funny how even when you’re wasted, you don’t want to say her name or refer to her directly. It’s almost nice, how you seem to care what I might feel about that. Or it would be, if you weren’t so shitfaced.
“I’m hungry and alone. And I have beer. And vodka. Or…” you zoom out for a second. “Are you coming already? Are you in the car? Jon said-“
“No” I manage to whisper.
“-chocolate cake and I’m feeling really… grabby” Drunk or not, you never listen. Not even when it’s important and I’m backing away. Actually, I think it’s pushing you away. I’m not chickening. I’m taking the last bits of dignity I have left and I’m going to try and put them back together. I’m keeping my space and kicking you out of it.
“Breeeeeen”
“I’m not coming over, Ryan”
“I have cake, Bren, and something that looks like vodka but I serious-“ I just hung up on you. I can’t deal with you, Ryan. Not tonight and probably not tomorrow either.