those time-stamp drabbles.
Yeah. SEVEN MONTHS LATER. Sorry, y'all. (psuedo_catalyst: I haven't forgotten you, just ran out of time tonight!)
egelantier asked for: not!fairytale , ten years after.
352 words; includes possibly horribly fractured Latin.
"Abba Brendawn!" Ailsa calls out, running towards them through the fields, her golden braids gleaming in the sun. "Equus! Venire!"
Her brother Iagan, Brendon's unwilling student for the morning, takes this as his excuse to abandon his studies and run towards her. Brendon straightens up, still clutching the flower he had been discussing, and follows him.
When he reaches them they are practically dancing in place with eagerness to get away.
"Equus?" Brendon asks, as they walk back towards the gates.
"Equus," Ailsa confirms over her shoulder, tugging her brother onwards. "Equi, currus, equestris."
Brendon stuffs the flower in his pocket and picks up the pace. They aren't expecting anyone, and Ailsa's affection for the animals aside, horses, riders, and carts may be harbingers of more unrest on the border.
When they arrive in the courtyard, though, he is not met with either the burly warriors or the terrified huddled refugees he is expecting. Instead he finds the men clustered around one horse and one wagon, their sword practice forgotten. He spots Spencer's bright braids, the original to his daughters' copy, towards the front of the crowd, and begins wiggling his way forward.
The men step aside as soon as they notice him, so his appearance is almost dignified. All of that slips away when he realizes who has come. It is Ryan, returned from the south, and there is someone with him: a tiny woman, with a fierce face, and, Brendon realizes with a little shock, a distinctively rounded belly.
"Abba," Ryan says, letting loose of the woman's hand, and stepping forward to hug Brendon.
Brendon clutches him both helplessly and tightly. He is as slender as ever, but still solid; his hair has grown long and falls over his shoulders in a riot of curls. After a moment Ryan lets him loose and steps back.
"Abba," Ryan says. "Velle nuptus?"
"Yes," Brendon says, still startled and a little overwhelmed but also deeply pleased - grateful, even - that Ryan came home to be married, whatever the reason for it.
Ryan grins broadly, and Brendon lets Spencer ask the rest of the questions.
arsenicjade asked for: the guys finding out Brendon's in the hospital, from before the start of You Could Always Sell Any Dream To Me , aka The Highly Unlikely Warped Tour fic, the story that gets more probable and works better the more it gets jossed!
Word count: 1,229. (oops.) (note: Brendon is totally alive and well right now! the double pneumonia is invented from whole cloth!)
"Be back here in one hour," the guide says, before letting them walk down to the dock. "We will leave you if you are not here on time."
Spencer rolls his eyes, but pulls his phone out anyway. He can't remember now if he enabled it for use in the Caribbean but the alarm function should still work, at least. When he's done he drops it back in his pocket and follows the hordes into the center of town.
Cruising, he's decided, is the best vacation ever. He's been on the ship for a week and has been recognized all of twice, both times by cruise employees. He signed one drumhead and a couple copies of their records, even one really elderly copy of Vices & Virtues that has been on the ship for almost a decade and looks it, repeated the usual shtick about yeah we're working on a new record soon, just chilling out post-tour right now, you know? and has been amply rewarded with free alcohol for his trouble.
Anyway, once on shore, Spencer wanders aimlessly, considering and rejecting terrible cheap t-shirts, sampling a variety of meat pies, and stocking up on rum. He's considering the merits of some earrings for his mother when his pocket starts buzzing like mad.
When he pulls it out, Pete's number is on the screen. For a moment Spencer kind of can't breathe, because it was Pete who had called him two days after they got back to Los Angeles to say I've seen all of the pictures and you are taking a rest, Mr. Smith and also informed Spencer that he would be "resting" in several different tropical locations.
The phone buzzes again and he fumbles to answer it, stepping away from the counter and trying to find a quiet, private place on the crowded street.
"Oh thank god," Pete says, and there is real relief in his voice. "Spencer? Can you hear me? We called the ship and they said you were out of pocket -"
"Who's dead?" Spencer asked, because he could only think of a few emergencies - people, same thing - that would cause Pete to call him now.
"Nobody! No-one's dead," Pete says quickly, laughing the way that he does when he's freaked out. "Though you might need a new dog-sitter."
"What." Spencer can't even make it a question.
He sinks down to a crouch, leaning against the wall for support. He wants to ask more questions but he can't quite do it.
"Brendon, um - " Pete pauses, clearly composing himself. There's less hysterical amusement in his voice when he starts talking again. "Brendon is in Cedars-Sinai with double walking pneumonia. He claims he felt fine until he collapsed at Ralph's yesterday."
"Collapsed," Spencer repeats, feeling a little bit like a broken record.
"Yeah," Pete says, his tone softening. "He's okay, dude. I mean, except for the pneumonia. The dogs are here with me and the little dude for now. I know I told you to unplug, but if you can check your email -"
"Yes," Spencer said as he stood up. "But I'll be checking it on the plane because I am coming home."
"Spencer," Pete began, his tone shifting into what Spencer had always thought of as his dad-voice.
"No," Spencer said, just as firmly, since he had some practice with the dad-voice himself now. "I'm getting my things from the ship, I'll - I'll text you my flight info."
"Okay," Pete said, sounding kind of irritated and kind of relieved. "Okay. Just - he really is okay. The doctors have pumped him full of the good drugs, and -"
"I'll see you soon, Pete," Spencer said, and ended the call.
**
"Tea?" the venue dude asked, holding out a steaming mug, and Ryan took it gratefully.
"Thanks man," he said - well, croaked - and got a total blank smile for his trouble.
Ryan suppressed a sigh and drank his tea, savoring both the bite of the lemon and the salve of the sweet at the bottom. He was contemplating going to stand side-stage to watch William and Gabe do their thing when his phone rang. His phone told him Rolling Stone was calling, which seemed unlikely if not impossible. Maybe he was running a temperature. He nonetheless answered the call.
"Ryan?" said the person on the other end, somehow sounding both officious and overfamiliar.
"Yes?" Ryan said, hoping he sounded gravelly like Tom Waits, instead of flu-y and half-dead.
"This is Annie from the news desk at Rolling Stone," the person said. "And I was just wondering if you have any comment on Brendon Urie's recent brush with death? Do you think maybe Panic's been working themselves too hard?"
"What?" Ryan said, not sure he'd heard her correctly.
"Brendon Urie," Annie said, false helpfulness dripping off her tone. "Your former bandmate? Who collapsed in the Ralph's in West Hollywood two days ago?"
Ryan held the phone away from his ear while he tried to both process that information and take a breath that didn't end in a cough, neither of which really worked. He drank some tea and almost choked on that, too, but eventually he got himself under control.
She was still talking when he brought the phone back to his ear. He put his tea down and jammed free hand between his knees so she wouldn't know it was shaking, even though she was on the phone and couldn't see him anyway.
"I hope he feels better soon," Ryan said, when she finally shut up. "That's my comment."
She inhaled, as if to ask more questions, but Ryan hung up on her before she could get them out. Then he added a little bit of whiskey - ok, maybe a lot of whiskey - to his tea before he drank the rest of it.
**
Bing! Bing! Bing!
Jon minimized the song he was fiddling with in Garage Band and fumbled through the rest of his applications before he found the source of the noise: Gchat, which he had forgotten he left open.
PrincessGreta: Helllooooooo?
PrincessGreta: Are you there, Jwalk?
PrincessGreta: Close garage band and talk to me.
jonwalker: What's shakin'?
PrincessGreta: Pete said he called you but I think he has an old number. Bden is in the hospital.
jonwalker: Wait, what?
PrincessGreta: He's totally been walking around with double pneumonia. Kind of fell over at Ralph's a couple of days ago.
jonwalker: WHAT?
PrincessGreta: He's okay. Mostly. Kind of out of it, though.
jonwalker: Double pneumonia?
PrincessGreta: Yeah.
jonwalker: wow.
PrincessGreta: yeah. Just wanted to make sure you knew. I have the # for his room if you want to try and call him.
jonwalker: yeah, can you email it to me? How's things with you? Still working on that new record?
PrincessGreta: Sure thing. We're good! Movie time right now, but record soon. Have to run now, actually - have to get down to the beach before we lose the light. Talk soon, though.
jonwalker: Definitely.
She signed off, and Jon sat there in silence, staring blankly at his computer, until the bing! of her arriving email jolted him back to attention. He glanced at the number briefly, and then at the clock - it was kind of late, and if Brendon was out of it, maybe not worth it - and then sat for another long minute, thinking carefully, before sending an email to Spencer.
egelantier asked for: not!fairytale , ten years after.
352 words; includes possibly horribly fractured Latin.
"Abba Brendawn!" Ailsa calls out, running towards them through the fields, her golden braids gleaming in the sun. "Equus! Venire!"
Her brother Iagan, Brendon's unwilling student for the morning, takes this as his excuse to abandon his studies and run towards her. Brendon straightens up, still clutching the flower he had been discussing, and follows him.
When he reaches them they are practically dancing in place with eagerness to get away.
"Equus?" Brendon asks, as they walk back towards the gates.
"Equus," Ailsa confirms over her shoulder, tugging her brother onwards. "Equi, currus, equestris."
Brendon stuffs the flower in his pocket and picks up the pace. They aren't expecting anyone, and Ailsa's affection for the animals aside, horses, riders, and carts may be harbingers of more unrest on the border.
When they arrive in the courtyard, though, he is not met with either the burly warriors or the terrified huddled refugees he is expecting. Instead he finds the men clustered around one horse and one wagon, their sword practice forgotten. He spots Spencer's bright braids, the original to his daughters' copy, towards the front of the crowd, and begins wiggling his way forward.
The men step aside as soon as they notice him, so his appearance is almost dignified. All of that slips away when he realizes who has come. It is Ryan, returned from the south, and there is someone with him: a tiny woman, with a fierce face, and, Brendon realizes with a little shock, a distinctively rounded belly.
"Abba," Ryan says, letting loose of the woman's hand, and stepping forward to hug Brendon.
Brendon clutches him both helplessly and tightly. He is as slender as ever, but still solid; his hair has grown long and falls over his shoulders in a riot of curls. After a moment Ryan lets him loose and steps back.
"Abba," Ryan says. "Velle nuptus?"
"Yes," Brendon says, still startled and a little overwhelmed but also deeply pleased - grateful, even - that Ryan came home to be married, whatever the reason for it.
Ryan grins broadly, and Brendon lets Spencer ask the rest of the questions.
arsenicjade asked for: the guys finding out Brendon's in the hospital, from before the start of You Could Always Sell Any Dream To Me , aka The Highly Unlikely Warped Tour fic, the story that gets more probable and works better the more it gets jossed!
Word count: 1,229. (oops.) (note: Brendon is totally alive and well right now! the double pneumonia is invented from whole cloth!)
"Be back here in one hour," the guide says, before letting them walk down to the dock. "We will leave you if you are not here on time."
Spencer rolls his eyes, but pulls his phone out anyway. He can't remember now if he enabled it for use in the Caribbean but the alarm function should still work, at least. When he's done he drops it back in his pocket and follows the hordes into the center of town.
Cruising, he's decided, is the best vacation ever. He's been on the ship for a week and has been recognized all of twice, both times by cruise employees. He signed one drumhead and a couple copies of their records, even one really elderly copy of Vices & Virtues that has been on the ship for almost a decade and looks it, repeated the usual shtick about yeah we're working on a new record soon, just chilling out post-tour right now, you know? and has been amply rewarded with free alcohol for his trouble.
Anyway, once on shore, Spencer wanders aimlessly, considering and rejecting terrible cheap t-shirts, sampling a variety of meat pies, and stocking up on rum. He's considering the merits of some earrings for his mother when his pocket starts buzzing like mad.
When he pulls it out, Pete's number is on the screen. For a moment Spencer kind of can't breathe, because it was Pete who had called him two days after they got back to Los Angeles to say I've seen all of the pictures and you are taking a rest, Mr. Smith and also informed Spencer that he would be "resting" in several different tropical locations.
The phone buzzes again and he fumbles to answer it, stepping away from the counter and trying to find a quiet, private place on the crowded street.
"Oh thank god," Pete says, and there is real relief in his voice. "Spencer? Can you hear me? We called the ship and they said you were out of pocket -"
"Who's dead?" Spencer asked, because he could only think of a few emergencies - people, same thing - that would cause Pete to call him now.
"Nobody! No-one's dead," Pete says quickly, laughing the way that he does when he's freaked out. "Though you might need a new dog-sitter."
"What." Spencer can't even make it a question.
He sinks down to a crouch, leaning against the wall for support. He wants to ask more questions but he can't quite do it.
"Brendon, um - " Pete pauses, clearly composing himself. There's less hysterical amusement in his voice when he starts talking again. "Brendon is in Cedars-Sinai with double walking pneumonia. He claims he felt fine until he collapsed at Ralph's yesterday."
"Collapsed," Spencer repeats, feeling a little bit like a broken record.
"Yeah," Pete says, his tone softening. "He's okay, dude. I mean, except for the pneumonia. The dogs are here with me and the little dude for now. I know I told you to unplug, but if you can check your email -"
"Yes," Spencer said as he stood up. "But I'll be checking it on the plane because I am coming home."
"Spencer," Pete began, his tone shifting into what Spencer had always thought of as his dad-voice.
"No," Spencer said, just as firmly, since he had some practice with the dad-voice himself now. "I'm getting my things from the ship, I'll - I'll text you my flight info."
"Okay," Pete said, sounding kind of irritated and kind of relieved. "Okay. Just - he really is okay. The doctors have pumped him full of the good drugs, and -"
"I'll see you soon, Pete," Spencer said, and ended the call.
**
"Tea?" the venue dude asked, holding out a steaming mug, and Ryan took it gratefully.
"Thanks man," he said - well, croaked - and got a total blank smile for his trouble.
Ryan suppressed a sigh and drank his tea, savoring both the bite of the lemon and the salve of the sweet at the bottom. He was contemplating going to stand side-stage to watch William and Gabe do their thing when his phone rang. His phone told him Rolling Stone was calling, which seemed unlikely if not impossible. Maybe he was running a temperature. He nonetheless answered the call.
"Ryan?" said the person on the other end, somehow sounding both officious and overfamiliar.
"Yes?" Ryan said, hoping he sounded gravelly like Tom Waits, instead of flu-y and half-dead.
"This is Annie from the news desk at Rolling Stone," the person said. "And I was just wondering if you have any comment on Brendon Urie's recent brush with death? Do you think maybe Panic's been working themselves too hard?"
"What?" Ryan said, not sure he'd heard her correctly.
"Brendon Urie," Annie said, false helpfulness dripping off her tone. "Your former bandmate? Who collapsed in the Ralph's in West Hollywood two days ago?"
Ryan held the phone away from his ear while he tried to both process that information and take a breath that didn't end in a cough, neither of which really worked. He drank some tea and almost choked on that, too, but eventually he got himself under control.
She was still talking when he brought the phone back to his ear. He put his tea down and jammed free hand between his knees so she wouldn't know it was shaking, even though she was on the phone and couldn't see him anyway.
"I hope he feels better soon," Ryan said, when she finally shut up. "That's my comment."
She inhaled, as if to ask more questions, but Ryan hung up on her before she could get them out. Then he added a little bit of whiskey - ok, maybe a lot of whiskey - to his tea before he drank the rest of it.
**
Bing! Bing! Bing!
Jon minimized the song he was fiddling with in Garage Band and fumbled through the rest of his applications before he found the source of the noise: Gchat, which he had forgotten he left open.
PrincessGreta: Helllooooooo?
PrincessGreta: Are you there, Jwalk?
PrincessGreta: Close garage band and talk to me.
jonwalker: What's shakin'?
PrincessGreta: Pete said he called you but I think he has an old number. Bden is in the hospital.
jonwalker: Wait, what?
PrincessGreta: He's totally been walking around with double pneumonia. Kind of fell over at Ralph's a couple of days ago.
jonwalker: WHAT?
PrincessGreta: He's okay. Mostly. Kind of out of it, though.
jonwalker: Double pneumonia?
PrincessGreta: Yeah.
jonwalker: wow.
PrincessGreta: yeah. Just wanted to make sure you knew. I have the # for his room if you want to try and call him.
jonwalker: yeah, can you email it to me? How's things with you? Still working on that new record?
PrincessGreta: Sure thing. We're good! Movie time right now, but record soon. Have to run now, actually - have to get down to the beach before we lose the light. Talk soon, though.
jonwalker: Definitely.
She signed off, and Jon sat there in silence, staring blankly at his computer, until the bing! of her arriving email jolted him back to attention. He glanced at the number briefly, and then at the clock - it was kind of late, and if Brendon was out of it, maybe not worth it - and then sat for another long minute, thinking carefully, before sending an email to Spencer.