Repetition Is Inspiration
Title: Repetition Is Inspiration.
Rating: PG.
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon.
POV: Third.
Summary: Because he said that repetition would bring inspiration, but inspiration never came.
Disclaimer: Fiction. Treat it that way.
Author Notes: Inspired by a prompt by sonstoodstammer from we_are_cities :D.
He comes here daily, to a small diner on the edge of town. The same familiar faces greet him with the same warm smile and a cup of the same steaming coffee each morning. He sits at the same booth, same side, every day. He usually hunches over the same manuscript; adding to it with the same pen. He never says much, but when he does, it’s beautiful. He’s intellectual; a genius with words.
He says he’s on the verge of a streak of inspiration on that same manuscript, but for the time being, adding fifty words per day proves to be a real challenge. He says repetition is the key. He insists seeing the same walls, the same faces, the same chipped mug filled with chocolate-brown liquid; he say’s it’ll spark something wonderful. For now, though, it’s just sparking a hand cramp.
He never questions himself. Questions lead to answers; and answers lead to doubts. He doesn’t want to doubt himself, so he never fuels it with a question. He knows one day these little pages of tattered paper will get him out of this city. They’ll get him out of the debt he’s almost swallowed in; out of the hells of being on his own. His name will be plastered on the top of best-seller’s lists. His name; Ryan Ross.
He takes a delicate sip of his coffee and looks up from his repetitive writer’s block. A boy, maybe eighteen, could be younger, or older, sits at the booth across from Ryan. He has a cup of coffee resting on his palm. Hazelnut; Ryan can smell it. Ryan looks back to his same cup of coffee, his boring, repetitive cup of coffee. Black; two spoons of sugar. Basically bland; tasteless.
He looks back to the boy, who seems to stare at nothing in particular. His eyes are fixed on something so-very-interesting on the not-so-interesting tabletop. All Ryan sees are cracks, coffee stains, and crumbs long forgotten by busboys who just wanted to go home.
The boy looks up; looks at Ryan. Ryan notices his eyes; the same color as his coffee. Warm. Brown. Perfect. Ryan looks back to his manuscript quickly, scolding himself for staring. He pretends to write, holding the same pen a fraction of an inch from the almost-blank page. He feels the boy’s eyes still on him. He can see him staying perfectly still through his peripheral vision.
He looks back to the boy for a second to find he’s still staring. His hair, the same as his eyes, brushes over his eyes slightly. His expression is passive, but his eyes are playful. He smiles, slightly, and Ryan looks away again. He occupies himself with drinking, feeling his cheeks flush a little. He doesn’t look up again; despite the fact he wants nothing more than to stare back into the other boy’s coffee-brown eyes. There seemed to be something there, like a book you read, but don’t allow to sink in. He leaves in a hurry after his third cup of coffee, leaving the boy to stare aimlessly back at the not-so-interesting nothings of the diner he spends his mornings at.
***
He comes back the next morning, welcomed by the same faces, the same walls, and the same cup of basically bland coffee. He takes his seat at the same booth, same side. He gently pulls out his same pen and same beat-up manuscript and takes stock for each page, like he does every morning. He’s missing a page; the first page. He checks his bag, checks the stack of papers. No such luck. He could have dropped it on his way, left it in his apartment. He doesn’t panic. Panic poisons reasonable thinking. He would look for it after his afternoon classes.
He leafs through the pages to come to his current page, taking his regular stance of pen-in-hand, an inch or so from the paper. He’s stuck, as usual. He knows what he wants to write; he just can’t formulate the right words and put them on a page. He’s a perfectionist of sorts.
He writes a few short words, but immediately crosses them out, showering them with blue-black ink. He curses his worsening writer’s block and simply blames it on his lack of focus.
He sees someone out of the corner of his eye, sitting at the booth across from him again. He hadn’t seen them sit down, which could easily be a result of him staring at nothing but his pitifully blank paper. He looks up to see the boy from yesterday, sitting the same place, sipping his same hazelnut coffee. Ryan looks away as he blushes profusely, pretending to write again.
He sees the boy slide out of his booth and into Ryan’s , facing him with a smile.
“You left this here,” The boy says, sliding Ryan’s missing piece of his manuscript across the grimy tabletop. “I would have given it to you yesterday if you weren’t in such a hurry to leave.”
“Thanks,” Ryan mutters as he slides the paper into its respective order.
“I’m Brendon,” he holds out his hand across the table toward Ryan. Ryan fumbles to get his own hand to let go of his pen and knocks over his coffee in the process. It spills over the table and soaks the outside edge of his papers. Some spills into Brendon’s lap, some on the floor.
“Oh shit, I-I’m sorry, h-here,” Ryan fumbles with a handful napkins and throws a few at Brendon. Brendon simply grins as Ryan’s face turns a violent shade of scarlet.
“No worries,” his smile doesn’t leave his face, despite his jeans now stained with coffee due to Ryan’s own clumsiness. “Is your story alright?”
Ryan picks up the pages and inspects them for damage. The edges are a little brown, but the words aren’t disturbed.
“Yeah it’s fine. Thanks.”
“Good. From what I’ve read, it’s quite good. You’re wonderful with words,” He looks at Ryan. He more than looks, he searches. He stares into his eyes with enough intensity to make Ryan blush again. “I’m jealous.”
“Thank you,” Ryan mutters nervously, staring down at the table. He fixes his eyes on a lonely grain of sugar, trying to make something interesting out of it. If he were to look back at Brendon, he would surely faint. Despite him being open about his sexuality, boys rarely approached him. If they did, it was to call him a homosexual fag or something equally immature.
“Either you were born with an unusually red face, or you like me like I like you,” Brendon observes with an obvious smirk.
Ryan looks up carefully, and is greeted immediately with Brendon lips against his, crashing into him with warm intensity. He can taste the hazelnut on his lips, and smiles inside the unexpected yet truly wonderful kiss.
He concludes maybe a little variety is what he needs in his same, repetitive life.
Rating: PG.
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon.
POV: Third.
Summary: Because he said that repetition would bring inspiration, but inspiration never came.
Disclaimer: Fiction. Treat it that way.
Author Notes: Inspired by a prompt by sonstoodstammer from we_are_cities :D.
He comes here daily, to a small diner on the edge of town. The same familiar faces greet him with the same warm smile and a cup of the same steaming coffee each morning. He sits at the same booth, same side, every day. He usually hunches over the same manuscript; adding to it with the same pen. He never says much, but when he does, it’s beautiful. He’s intellectual; a genius with words.
He says he’s on the verge of a streak of inspiration on that same manuscript, but for the time being, adding fifty words per day proves to be a real challenge. He says repetition is the key. He insists seeing the same walls, the same faces, the same chipped mug filled with chocolate-brown liquid; he say’s it’ll spark something wonderful. For now, though, it’s just sparking a hand cramp.
He never questions himself. Questions lead to answers; and answers lead to doubts. He doesn’t want to doubt himself, so he never fuels it with a question. He knows one day these little pages of tattered paper will get him out of this city. They’ll get him out of the debt he’s almost swallowed in; out of the hells of being on his own. His name will be plastered on the top of best-seller’s lists. His name; Ryan Ross.
He takes a delicate sip of his coffee and looks up from his repetitive writer’s block. A boy, maybe eighteen, could be younger, or older, sits at the booth across from Ryan. He has a cup of coffee resting on his palm. Hazelnut; Ryan can smell it. Ryan looks back to his same cup of coffee, his boring, repetitive cup of coffee. Black; two spoons of sugar. Basically bland; tasteless.
He looks back to the boy, who seems to stare at nothing in particular. His eyes are fixed on something so-very-interesting on the not-so-interesting tabletop. All Ryan sees are cracks, coffee stains, and crumbs long forgotten by busboys who just wanted to go home.
The boy looks up; looks at Ryan. Ryan notices his eyes; the same color as his coffee. Warm. Brown. Perfect. Ryan looks back to his manuscript quickly, scolding himself for staring. He pretends to write, holding the same pen a fraction of an inch from the almost-blank page. He feels the boy’s eyes still on him. He can see him staying perfectly still through his peripheral vision.
He looks back to the boy for a second to find he’s still staring. His hair, the same as his eyes, brushes over his eyes slightly. His expression is passive, but his eyes are playful. He smiles, slightly, and Ryan looks away again. He occupies himself with drinking, feeling his cheeks flush a little. He doesn’t look up again; despite the fact he wants nothing more than to stare back into the other boy’s coffee-brown eyes. There seemed to be something there, like a book you read, but don’t allow to sink in. He leaves in a hurry after his third cup of coffee, leaving the boy to stare aimlessly back at the not-so-interesting nothings of the diner he spends his mornings at.
***
He comes back the next morning, welcomed by the same faces, the same walls, and the same cup of basically bland coffee. He takes his seat at the same booth, same side. He gently pulls out his same pen and same beat-up manuscript and takes stock for each page, like he does every morning. He’s missing a page; the first page. He checks his bag, checks the stack of papers. No such luck. He could have dropped it on his way, left it in his apartment. He doesn’t panic. Panic poisons reasonable thinking. He would look for it after his afternoon classes.
He leafs through the pages to come to his current page, taking his regular stance of pen-in-hand, an inch or so from the paper. He’s stuck, as usual. He knows what he wants to write; he just can’t formulate the right words and put them on a page. He’s a perfectionist of sorts.
He writes a few short words, but immediately crosses them out, showering them with blue-black ink. He curses his worsening writer’s block and simply blames it on his lack of focus.
He sees someone out of the corner of his eye, sitting at the booth across from him again. He hadn’t seen them sit down, which could easily be a result of him staring at nothing but his pitifully blank paper. He looks up to see the boy from yesterday, sitting the same place, sipping his same hazelnut coffee. Ryan looks away as he blushes profusely, pretending to write again.
He sees the boy slide out of his booth and into Ryan’s , facing him with a smile.
“You left this here,” The boy says, sliding Ryan’s missing piece of his manuscript across the grimy tabletop. “I would have given it to you yesterday if you weren’t in such a hurry to leave.”
“Thanks,” Ryan mutters as he slides the paper into its respective order.
“I’m Brendon,” he holds out his hand across the table toward Ryan. Ryan fumbles to get his own hand to let go of his pen and knocks over his coffee in the process. It spills over the table and soaks the outside edge of his papers. Some spills into Brendon’s lap, some on the floor.
“Oh shit, I-I’m sorry, h-here,” Ryan fumbles with a handful napkins and throws a few at Brendon. Brendon simply grins as Ryan’s face turns a violent shade of scarlet.
“No worries,” his smile doesn’t leave his face, despite his jeans now stained with coffee due to Ryan’s own clumsiness. “Is your story alright?”
Ryan picks up the pages and inspects them for damage. The edges are a little brown, but the words aren’t disturbed.
“Yeah it’s fine. Thanks.”
“Good. From what I’ve read, it’s quite good. You’re wonderful with words,” He looks at Ryan. He more than looks, he searches. He stares into his eyes with enough intensity to make Ryan blush again. “I’m jealous.”
“Thank you,” Ryan mutters nervously, staring down at the table. He fixes his eyes on a lonely grain of sugar, trying to make something interesting out of it. If he were to look back at Brendon, he would surely faint. Despite him being open about his sexuality, boys rarely approached him. If they did, it was to call him a homosexual fag or something equally immature.
“Either you were born with an unusually red face, or you like me like I like you,” Brendon observes with an obvious smirk.
Ryan looks up carefully, and is greeted immediately with Brendon lips against his, crashing into him with warm intensity. He can taste the hazelnut on his lips, and smiles inside the unexpected yet truly wonderful kiss.
He concludes maybe a little variety is what he needs in his same, repetitive life.