The One Where Ryan's a Mime and Brendon's a Busker (Brendon/Ryan, G)
The One Where Ryan's a Mime and Brendon's a Busker
Brendon/Ryan, G
~1000 words
This is a completely sappy, self-indulgent thing written as a response to a prompt for anon_lovefest, where someone requested fic based off of this adorable fanart. Also, I know, the title is totally creative, right? eta. This is more of a snippet than a full story, btw. The full story is in my head, but this was the part that got written.
Brendon's first day as a busker doesn't go very well.
There really isn't much to it, so he's not sure why he's having such a hard time. Step one, find a corner, step two, provide entertainment, step three, profit! But he thinks there may be a step in there he's missing, and it definitely comes before profit, because so far he has seventy-seven cents mostly in pennies, two bottle caps, and a piece of used chewing gum. The gum is on top of one of the few silver coins he's gotten, and he's strumming an aimless tune and trying to decide whether it's worth touching the gum to get to the quarter or if he should just write it off as a loss when someone's shadow looms over him.
It's a mime. A tall, skinny, pretty-looking sort of mime, with a black heart painted on one side of his grease paint-white cheeks. Brendon waits, expecting to get yelled at for stealing his corner, or being a dumb new kid, or sucking with great suckitude or something, but the mime just glares at him. Oh. Right. Mime.
Brendon grins, full and bright, tipping his head back so far his neck twinges a little at the angle. "Any requests?"
The mime jabs a finger at him, and then points to a spot off in the distance.
Brendon nods, humming thoughtfully and then strums the intro. He sings with what might be called a slight exaggeration of emotion. "Near, far, whereeeeever you are-"
The mime kicks him in the leg. It's not a hard kick, and probably more a natural reaction to Celine Dion than anything, but Brendon frowns up at him.
"You're gonna have to be more specific, then."
The mime rolls his eyes, and Brendon has to really focus on keeping his frown frown-y, because it's hard to take someone seriously when they're wearing mime paint and a hat with a feather in it. Brendon is gallantly not speculating about the fancy suit jacket and what may actually be pajama pants. The mime points at Brendon again, raising his eyebrows expectantly until Brendon says, "Me?"
The mime nods, bobbing his head a little over-enthusiastically, and Brendon ignores the expression that clearly indicates the mime thinks Brendon is mentally deficient. The mime's still bobbing his head when Brendon starts in, pitching his voice a little lower and rougher than he usually does. "Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train, and I's feeling nearly as faded as my jeans..."
The mime almost looks impressed, and for a second Brendon thinks his day might not turn out half bad after all. He gets about a two-second interval of hope before the first crack of thunder sounds, and two seconds after that to scramble to get his amp up and under an awning before the first raindrops hit. When he gets everything under the overhang, he turns to invite the mime into his temporary shelter, but there's no one around.
Brendon sits himself down and hums the refrain of “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” until the weather clears up enough to walk home.
--
Brendon doesn't see the mime for a couple days, and he doesn't mark it down to coincidence that his first day on the corner alone he makes fifteen dollars and change (and half a Snickers bar, which, score!) and the second day he makes almost twenty (and a nice older lady gives him a cup of coffee, which he appreciates but doesn't drink, because she also gives him a pamphlet about joining a church that worships an albino goat).
On the third day, the mime shows up, and this time he's got his angry face on. Literally, he's drawn angry eyebrows over his own, dark, jagged lines meeting just above his nose, and a drawn-on grimace over his mouth.
Brendon finishes the song he was playing and sets his guitar down so he can prop his elbows on his knees and cup his chin in his hands. He waits. The mime glares. Brendon waits some more. Finally the mime very carefully begins a performance, long fingers strumming an invisible guitar, body swaying to the silent music. When he finishes, he bows, holding a hand up to stop the applause from a non-existent audience, and gently puts his invisible guitar into an invisible guitar case. He locks it up, slings it over his shoulder, and gives a jaunty little salute to the street sign. Then he skips in place, putting a hand up over his eyes and squinting into the distance.
Suddenly he stops, dropping the entire act and resuming his glare. Pointedly.
Brendon claps enthusiastically, pulling a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket and standing up so he can press it into the mime's hand.
“That was really great, seriously! Hey, do you wanna get a cup of coffee with me later?”
The mime frowns, and it deepens the drawn grimace so much that Brendon can't help but burst out laughing. The mime's glare intensifies, and a slight flush creeps up his throat. He turns on his heel, ready to march away, but Brendon grabs his elbow.
“Hey, no, don't go. I wasn't being mean, I really do want to get coffee with you.” The mime doesn't look impressed. “Or...oh! Ok, here.” Brendon lets go of him and looks around wildly, patting himself down even though what he's looking for won't be there. Finally he reaches out and plucks something invisible out of the air at random, pinching his fingers nearly all the way together and holding something steady. With his other hand, he curls his fingers around an invisible handle and tips, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he concentrates on pouring. When he's done, he offers the imaginary coffee to the mime.
There's an awkward moment where nothing happens, Brendon standing there with empty hands, offering what's in them to the mime, and the mime staring at him like he's lost his mind.
And then the mime reaches out and daintily takes the cup and saucer, lifting it to his lips and blowing over it gently.
Brendon's smile nearly splits his face.
Brendon/Ryan, G
~1000 words
This is a completely sappy, self-indulgent thing written as a response to a prompt for anon_lovefest, where someone requested fic based off of this adorable fanart. Also, I know, the title is totally creative, right? eta. This is more of a snippet than a full story, btw. The full story is in my head, but this was the part that got written.
Brendon's first day as a busker doesn't go very well.
There really isn't much to it, so he's not sure why he's having such a hard time. Step one, find a corner, step two, provide entertainment, step three, profit! But he thinks there may be a step in there he's missing, and it definitely comes before profit, because so far he has seventy-seven cents mostly in pennies, two bottle caps, and a piece of used chewing gum. The gum is on top of one of the few silver coins he's gotten, and he's strumming an aimless tune and trying to decide whether it's worth touching the gum to get to the quarter or if he should just write it off as a loss when someone's shadow looms over him.
It's a mime. A tall, skinny, pretty-looking sort of mime, with a black heart painted on one side of his grease paint-white cheeks. Brendon waits, expecting to get yelled at for stealing his corner, or being a dumb new kid, or sucking with great suckitude or something, but the mime just glares at him. Oh. Right. Mime.
Brendon grins, full and bright, tipping his head back so far his neck twinges a little at the angle. "Any requests?"
The mime jabs a finger at him, and then points to a spot off in the distance.
Brendon nods, humming thoughtfully and then strums the intro. He sings with what might be called a slight exaggeration of emotion. "Near, far, whereeeeever you are-"
The mime kicks him in the leg. It's not a hard kick, and probably more a natural reaction to Celine Dion than anything, but Brendon frowns up at him.
"You're gonna have to be more specific, then."
The mime rolls his eyes, and Brendon has to really focus on keeping his frown frown-y, because it's hard to take someone seriously when they're wearing mime paint and a hat with a feather in it. Brendon is gallantly not speculating about the fancy suit jacket and what may actually be pajama pants. The mime points at Brendon again, raising his eyebrows expectantly until Brendon says, "Me?"
The mime nods, bobbing his head a little over-enthusiastically, and Brendon ignores the expression that clearly indicates the mime thinks Brendon is mentally deficient. The mime's still bobbing his head when Brendon starts in, pitching his voice a little lower and rougher than he usually does. "Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train, and I's feeling nearly as faded as my jeans..."
The mime almost looks impressed, and for a second Brendon thinks his day might not turn out half bad after all. He gets about a two-second interval of hope before the first crack of thunder sounds, and two seconds after that to scramble to get his amp up and under an awning before the first raindrops hit. When he gets everything under the overhang, he turns to invite the mime into his temporary shelter, but there's no one around.
Brendon sits himself down and hums the refrain of “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” until the weather clears up enough to walk home.
--
Brendon doesn't see the mime for a couple days, and he doesn't mark it down to coincidence that his first day on the corner alone he makes fifteen dollars and change (and half a Snickers bar, which, score!) and the second day he makes almost twenty (and a nice older lady gives him a cup of coffee, which he appreciates but doesn't drink, because she also gives him a pamphlet about joining a church that worships an albino goat).
On the third day, the mime shows up, and this time he's got his angry face on. Literally, he's drawn angry eyebrows over his own, dark, jagged lines meeting just above his nose, and a drawn-on grimace over his mouth.
Brendon finishes the song he was playing and sets his guitar down so he can prop his elbows on his knees and cup his chin in his hands. He waits. The mime glares. Brendon waits some more. Finally the mime very carefully begins a performance, long fingers strumming an invisible guitar, body swaying to the silent music. When he finishes, he bows, holding a hand up to stop the applause from a non-existent audience, and gently puts his invisible guitar into an invisible guitar case. He locks it up, slings it over his shoulder, and gives a jaunty little salute to the street sign. Then he skips in place, putting a hand up over his eyes and squinting into the distance.
Suddenly he stops, dropping the entire act and resuming his glare. Pointedly.
Brendon claps enthusiastically, pulling a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket and standing up so he can press it into the mime's hand.
“That was really great, seriously! Hey, do you wanna get a cup of coffee with me later?”
The mime frowns, and it deepens the drawn grimace so much that Brendon can't help but burst out laughing. The mime's glare intensifies, and a slight flush creeps up his throat. He turns on his heel, ready to march away, but Brendon grabs his elbow.
“Hey, no, don't go. I wasn't being mean, I really do want to get coffee with you.” The mime doesn't look impressed. “Or...oh! Ok, here.” Brendon lets go of him and looks around wildly, patting himself down even though what he's looking for won't be there. Finally he reaches out and plucks something invisible out of the air at random, pinching his fingers nearly all the way together and holding something steady. With his other hand, he curls his fingers around an invisible handle and tips, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he concentrates on pouring. When he's done, he offers the imaginary coffee to the mime.
There's an awkward moment where nothing happens, Brendon standing there with empty hands, offering what's in them to the mime, and the mime staring at him like he's lost his mind.
And then the mime reaches out and daintily takes the cup and saucer, lifting it to his lips and blowing over it gently.
Brendon's smile nearly splits his face.