Bandslash
I haven't been into bandslash for a long time, but I decided to write a fic. This is actually a dedication fic I wrote for MG for her birthday, so I hope she doesn't mind that it's going in here.
Title: Untitled (you're welcome to help out, BTW)
Disclaimer:Not Mine
Summary: Brendon has a fetish
Pairing/Characters: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: PG
Brendon’s having those thoughts again. Those dreaded thoughts every teenaged boy has. He’s wondering if he’s gay. He’s thinking maybe he’s bi. Then, he’s chucking all of his thoughts out the widow. He’s Ryan-sexual, because, really, Ryan’s the only thing he looks at anymore, let alone person.
He can’t stop watching him and it’s fucking killing him. His eyes, his face, his hands. Christ, his hands. Brendon eyes usually settle on them. They are an easy target and it’s less difficult to explain if and when he gets caught staring.
Ryan has smallish hands. They aren’t soft or feminine, they’re just small, or maybe his are large. It doesn’t matter because Brendon could spend the rest of forever without looking at his own hands again. It’s Ryan’s that are beautiful.
Brendon has spent many a time studying them, their dexterity. They are well-defined, strong hands. The palms are flat, the heels are calloused. The fingertips are worn, but the fingers themselves are long and smooth, nails short from biting them. His thumbs are double-jointed, what you’d call perpendicular thumbs; they’re narrow.
He has memorized every vein, every knuckle, every scar.
Still, he watches, hoping he’ll catch something new, something he has failed to notice in all his observations. Ryan’s writing now and he can see the muscles flexing, moving as his pens jerks across the page. The side of his hand is blue from the ink on the notebook’s lined pages. Brendon fails to notice when his pen stops scratching.
“Brendon,” Ryan says, and it sounds like he’s trying the word on for size, to see how it fits.
Brendon emerges from his stupor and manages to look Ryan in the face before his hair covers it again.
“Why do you keep watching me that way?”
Brendon can’t speak, he can’t form the words. That’s what Ryan does and he’s damned good at it. He can’t think, he’s only the messenger.
Ryan gets up. He walks over to Brendon. He already has all the words that Brendon could ever need. He just needs him to say them for him, or at least to say them first. Ryan hands him his notebook. In the process, his fingers brush against Brendon’s sending chills down his spine.
And whatever is written in this notebook, whatever bit of Ryan’s heart he’ll read now will make or break Brendon’s life.
“I thought I’d try writing a love song,” Ryan says shyly, before Brendon’s eyes scan the page.
And Brendon? Brendon Urie has it made.