There's Feathers Everywhere But It's Fine
Title: There’s Feathers Everywhere But It’s Fine
Pairing: Ryan/Jon
Rating: Pg-13
Summary: Ryan sees feathers. No, no, there are some pieces missing. The first time Ryan sees Jon he sees feathers.
Disclaimer: These boys don’t belong to me and this is all totally fake
Authors notes: Another prompt written for the anon list. I do so many of them but this one jumped out at me right away and I just had to do it.
Ryan sees feathers. No, no, there are some pieces missing. The first time Ryan sees Jon he sees feathers. Bright, white, soft feathers that arch out and glow in the light of the mid afternoon sun. Ryan blinks, once, twice, he rubs the back of his palm across his nose. Jon smiles across the room.
Ryan thinks it must be a side effect of the cocaine.
Back home and Ryan’s with the only person who can really understand him. He waves to that person in the little grimy mirror but he only catches a glimpse of his jaw, white spots like snowflakes on his upper lip. Ryan wipes off the little square of glass on the hem of his shirt and tries to catch sight of his own eyes.
Dark, heavy, foreign.
The phone rings jarringly loud in the echoing silence of his house. Ryan thinks maybe Spencer, maybe Brendon, maybe Alex, someone, anyone who cares. He answers.
A calm voice, the voice of god, Ryan thinks.
“I want to help you,” God says.
Ryan pushes the heavy curtain of bangs that are beginning to curl over his forehead. There’s a calendar hung up on the wall to Ryan’s left, little red circles of dates that used to hold a purpose. Ryan can’t remember what they mean anymore, Alex might’ve left them behind.
“You’re very late. Where were you when I really needed you?” Ryan croaks out. All the times with his dad, when Panic was falling apart, when Alex Greenwald offered him coke for the first time, when everyone abandoned the hollow shell of what was once Ryan Ross. Where was God then?
God says that his name is Jon. Ryan tells him that it’s too average a name for someone as supposedly ‘powerful’ as god. Ryan maybe quotes Mad as Rabbits, the short story he had once started writing, a little and he maybe laughs at his own reference but God…Jon…doesn’t find it as humorous.
“Will you let me help you?” God asks. Ryan blinks down at his own reflection.
“When did I give God my phone number anyway?”
God says that they met on the sidewalk out in front of the rehabilitation center that Ryan had once attended.
‘Ryan, please, just try? For me?’
Ryan had tried but it wasn’t enough for Spencer.
Outside on the sidewalk, where Ryan met God, feathers, Jon.
By powers of deduction, Ryan realizes that Jon is in fact not God but an angel, one with pristine white feathers that glow in the sun.
“You know I stopped believing in angels when I was like ten right?” Ryan tells Jon the Angel. “In other words, I am beyond help.”
“Let me come see you,” Jon says, his voice feels a million miles away. Ryan’s not sure why an angel would want to help him? Some kind of required heavenly community service? Maybe they’ve been meaning to help him for years, since birth, and they’re only just now getting around to his name on the long list of suffering humans.
Ryan rattles off his address to Jon the Angel. He only does it because this conversation most likely isn’t even happening. Jon the Angel says he’s coming to see Ryan. Ryan hangs up the phone, sets down the little square of the dirty mirror and goes to write a song about death.
Ryan’s stretched out on his bed, thin inked skin pulled tight over bones that feel older than they are. He’s on his stomach, his guitar resting sideways on the pillows. Ryan reaches up and strums a nimble finger across the silvery strings. A few lonely notes. This song of death is grand scale in his head but he can’t do it all alone, his fingers don’t know the notes he so desperately needs.
The boy drifts off into an almost sleep, he thinks he dreams but they could just as easily be memories. He imagines holding stark white feathers between his fingers, warm and glowing, an impossibility that Ryan cannot comprehend. Ryan wakes up to a warm hand on his back. He should be alarmed but his mind is a soft ball of fuzzy curves and he allows himself to think that it’s Spencer, Brendon, Alex.
“You’re a musician,” The voice says, closer than a million miles away, echoing in the same room. Ryan turns and his joints pop and crack unpleasantly. He says it like it makes Ryan more fascinating, more of a tragic case.
“I’m a sinner, I’m a train wreck, I’m a hopeless case, I’m abandoned and used up. I’m someone I don’t really know,” Ryan says as he rolls on to his back to face Jon. “But I guess under all that. I’m a musician.”
Jon’s eyes are deep and dark but not in the same way Ryan’s own are. He looks down at Ryan with worry, with feathers that fall loose from his arching white wings, Jon’s feathers rain down on Ryan and his fingers twitch with the urge to catch one, like a child’s desperate wish to catch a snowflake on his tongue.
“I can take you somewhere,” Jon the Angel says, his voice is like a vibration through Ryan’s skin, sparking dead wires back to life. “A place where all you have to be is Ryan.”
“What if the train wrecked, abandoned, hopeless, used up sinner is Ryan?” The boy’s voice floats out, dark smog amongst the bright glowing light that’s emanating from Jon. Ryan stares up, black smoke floating to the arched ceiling, mixing and choking out the white hot glow.
“I don’t believe that,” Jon says, “I can see something here, something that needs to be saved.”
Ryan pushes himself up on his elbows, stares hard at Jon with dilated eyes.
“Come with me?” Jon asks and there’s a tiny smile ghosting across his lips. Ryan pushes one arm out straight, reaching out for Jon. His palm is facing Jon, fingers open. Jon doesn’t hesitate, isn’t scared of the little hopeless case. Jon presses his palm to Ryan’s, linking their fingers together and he tugs the thin boy up. Ryan stumbles on to his knees, mind foggy. His fingers slide down Jon’s forearm, leaving black inky smudges behind.
Ryan’s grabs on to Jon’s wings, staining them. Turning pure white to slick oil black. The dark runs in rivets down the long feathers of Jon’s wings, looking almost like blood. Ryan doesn’t want to see; he wants white, he wants glowing, soft, and bright. He buries his face against Jon’s chest and just clings to the man, the angel, God.
There’s not a lot that Ryan believes in, nothing really. But this is something he can’t deny.
Warm fingers on the back of his arms, holding on just as tightly.
It’s something he can learn to believe in.
Pairing: Ryan/Jon
Rating: Pg-13
Summary: Ryan sees feathers. No, no, there are some pieces missing. The first time Ryan sees Jon he sees feathers.
Disclaimer: These boys don’t belong to me and this is all totally fake
Authors notes: Another prompt written for the anon list. I do so many of them but this one jumped out at me right away and I just had to do it.
Ryan sees feathers. No, no, there are some pieces missing. The first time Ryan sees Jon he sees feathers. Bright, white, soft feathers that arch out and glow in the light of the mid afternoon sun. Ryan blinks, once, twice, he rubs the back of his palm across his nose. Jon smiles across the room.
Ryan thinks it must be a side effect of the cocaine.
Back home and Ryan’s with the only person who can really understand him. He waves to that person in the little grimy mirror but he only catches a glimpse of his jaw, white spots like snowflakes on his upper lip. Ryan wipes off the little square of glass on the hem of his shirt and tries to catch sight of his own eyes.
Dark, heavy, foreign.
The phone rings jarringly loud in the echoing silence of his house. Ryan thinks maybe Spencer, maybe Brendon, maybe Alex, someone, anyone who cares. He answers.
A calm voice, the voice of god, Ryan thinks.
“I want to help you,” God says.
Ryan pushes the heavy curtain of bangs that are beginning to curl over his forehead. There’s a calendar hung up on the wall to Ryan’s left, little red circles of dates that used to hold a purpose. Ryan can’t remember what they mean anymore, Alex might’ve left them behind.
“You’re very late. Where were you when I really needed you?” Ryan croaks out. All the times with his dad, when Panic was falling apart, when Alex Greenwald offered him coke for the first time, when everyone abandoned the hollow shell of what was once Ryan Ross. Where was God then?
God says that his name is Jon. Ryan tells him that it’s too average a name for someone as supposedly ‘powerful’ as god. Ryan maybe quotes Mad as Rabbits, the short story he had once started writing, a little and he maybe laughs at his own reference but God…Jon…doesn’t find it as humorous.
“Will you let me help you?” God asks. Ryan blinks down at his own reflection.
“When did I give God my phone number anyway?”
God says that they met on the sidewalk out in front of the rehabilitation center that Ryan had once attended.
‘Ryan, please, just try? For me?’
Ryan had tried but it wasn’t enough for Spencer.
Outside on the sidewalk, where Ryan met God, feathers, Jon.
By powers of deduction, Ryan realizes that Jon is in fact not God but an angel, one with pristine white feathers that glow in the sun.
“You know I stopped believing in angels when I was like ten right?” Ryan tells Jon the Angel. “In other words, I am beyond help.”
“Let me come see you,” Jon says, his voice feels a million miles away. Ryan’s not sure why an angel would want to help him? Some kind of required heavenly community service? Maybe they’ve been meaning to help him for years, since birth, and they’re only just now getting around to his name on the long list of suffering humans.
Ryan rattles off his address to Jon the Angel. He only does it because this conversation most likely isn’t even happening. Jon the Angel says he’s coming to see Ryan. Ryan hangs up the phone, sets down the little square of the dirty mirror and goes to write a song about death.
Ryan’s stretched out on his bed, thin inked skin pulled tight over bones that feel older than they are. He’s on his stomach, his guitar resting sideways on the pillows. Ryan reaches up and strums a nimble finger across the silvery strings. A few lonely notes. This song of death is grand scale in his head but he can’t do it all alone, his fingers don’t know the notes he so desperately needs.
The boy drifts off into an almost sleep, he thinks he dreams but they could just as easily be memories. He imagines holding stark white feathers between his fingers, warm and glowing, an impossibility that Ryan cannot comprehend. Ryan wakes up to a warm hand on his back. He should be alarmed but his mind is a soft ball of fuzzy curves and he allows himself to think that it’s Spencer, Brendon, Alex.
“You’re a musician,” The voice says, closer than a million miles away, echoing in the same room. Ryan turns and his joints pop and crack unpleasantly. He says it like it makes Ryan more fascinating, more of a tragic case.
“I’m a sinner, I’m a train wreck, I’m a hopeless case, I’m abandoned and used up. I’m someone I don’t really know,” Ryan says as he rolls on to his back to face Jon. “But I guess under all that. I’m a musician.”
Jon’s eyes are deep and dark but not in the same way Ryan’s own are. He looks down at Ryan with worry, with feathers that fall loose from his arching white wings, Jon’s feathers rain down on Ryan and his fingers twitch with the urge to catch one, like a child’s desperate wish to catch a snowflake on his tongue.
“I can take you somewhere,” Jon the Angel says, his voice is like a vibration through Ryan’s skin, sparking dead wires back to life. “A place where all you have to be is Ryan.”
“What if the train wrecked, abandoned, hopeless, used up sinner is Ryan?” The boy’s voice floats out, dark smog amongst the bright glowing light that’s emanating from Jon. Ryan stares up, black smoke floating to the arched ceiling, mixing and choking out the white hot glow.
“I don’t believe that,” Jon says, “I can see something here, something that needs to be saved.”
Ryan pushes himself up on his elbows, stares hard at Jon with dilated eyes.
“Come with me?” Jon asks and there’s a tiny smile ghosting across his lips. Ryan pushes one arm out straight, reaching out for Jon. His palm is facing Jon, fingers open. Jon doesn’t hesitate, isn’t scared of the little hopeless case. Jon presses his palm to Ryan’s, linking their fingers together and he tugs the thin boy up. Ryan stumbles on to his knees, mind foggy. His fingers slide down Jon’s forearm, leaving black inky smudges behind.
Ryan’s grabs on to Jon’s wings, staining them. Turning pure white to slick oil black. The dark runs in rivets down the long feathers of Jon’s wings, looking almost like blood. Ryan doesn’t want to see; he wants white, he wants glowing, soft, and bright. He buries his face against Jon’s chest and just clings to the man, the angel, God.
There’s not a lot that Ryan believes in, nothing really. But this is something he can’t deny.
Warm fingers on the back of his arms, holding on just as tightly.
It’s something he can learn to believe in.