to live is to release.
to live is to release.
short and sweet and 442 words.
written on a whim.
brendon turns up at ryan’s doorstep with the deep chill of an october rain on his back, chocolate hair saturated to his forehead in chunks of black, eyes wide like cities and teeming with existence.
his clothes cling to his body like skin and his shivering is more like convulsing, but when ryan says, “come in, you look ridiculous”, brendon shakes his head in violent negation and says, “no. you come out.”
and ryan takes in brendon’s windswept appearance, whispers “you’ll get sick” and absentmindedly adjusts brendon’s collar for him, guiding him by the arm through the doorway, protecting him from the unshakable downpour.
at this, a folded green umbrella emerges from brendon’s back pocket and he’s sure to point it out the door as he releases it, whispering “bad luck” while his eye recoils in a wink.
and without a word, brendon’s stepping back outside and pulling ryan under the refuge of the umbrella with nothing more than a kiss and the brushing of fingernails on the skin of each other's arms. lacking shoes and yielding nothing more than a small whimper, ryan’s being escorted down the porch steps and into the empty street, and maybe it’s the nostalgic feeling of being youthful and free that’s making his heart flutter like newspaper in a windstorm, but whatever it is, it feels refreshing and makes it slightly easier for him to submit to brendon’s whimsical idea of romance.
brendon’s hands are slippery with rainwater and it’s hard to keep a grasp on them as brendon twirls lighthearted pirouettes around him, and eventually ryan releases and prefers to wrap both hands around the umbrella handle in a futile attempt to keep himself dry.
eventually, though, brendon’s pries the umbrella from ryan’s rigid hands and lets it spiral in the wind and out of sight before ryan has half a mind to chase after it.
“umbrellas are for people who think too much,” brendon whispers into the crook of ryan’s neck. “stop thinking.”
he reconnects their hands and begins to spin both of their bodies into one singular moving form, fusing ryan’s body with his. the rain comes down in sheets on their heads and down their cheeks and ryan’s long since forgotten about how ridiculous he must look spiraling circles in the middle of a deserted city street in the rain. he’s let go of the nagging fear of catching a cold and instead allows brendon to spin the unease out of him in tight revolutions and wide grins, around and around until he can't decipher left from right.
and this time, when brendon kisses ryan hard on the mouth, all ryan can taste is rain.
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rainy sundays are wonderful days for writing. i hope you all love to dance in the rain as much as i do.