Cold [Oneshot]
Title: Cold
Author: 'Rah
Rating: Low. No swearing, secks or anything.
Pairing: Rydon
POV: Brendon
Summary: (The city and Ryan Ross have a lot in common.
Ryan is a world unto himself and Ryan is impenetrable. The only difference between Ryan and the city is that if you cut the city, it bleeds.)
Disclaimer: *raised eyebow* I am God, I own all. Bow before me and my iron fist.
Word Count: 547. Short.
Author's Note: I wrote this because it's raining and I had a f*cking bad day. Same style as Sounds Like Heartache To Me { 1/ 2}
I’m going to get lost in dense, lush rainforests. I’m going to drown in clear, blue waters. I’m going to throw myself into a mottled green-brown mesh of gears and bolts - but I will not be smothered by the city.
The city is gigantic, boundless, stretching out into the horizon, reaching on to eternity in every conceivable direction. The city is one singular, shining steel edifice, composed of little organelles and glimmering head-lighted platelets. The city is a monster that will swallow you up, despite any, every and all efforts to prevent it from doing so. The city does not respond when you shove grenades down it’s throat, and the city does not care how many arrows that penetrate its hide, because the city is apathetic and the city is Godless.
The city and Ryan Ross have a lot in common.
Ryan is a world unto himself and Ryan is impenetrable. The only difference between Ryan and the city is that if you cut the city, it bleeds.
Ryan writes. Ryan writes books and Ryan writes poetry and Ryan writes screenplays, but Ryan is a failed author and you never want to mess with those.
I only ever see him when I’m at Spencer’s house and I’m only ever at Spencer’s house when it’s raining.
Ryan looks fragile and sick and I’m pretty sure he’s suffering idiopathic thrombocytopenia and pernicious anemia and probably three different forms of apnea. I would bet you anything that he’s malnourished and has brittle bones. I bet you he has chronic, clinical and terminal depression. I bet you he’s paranoid and suffers hallucinations upon occasion. I bet you he’s a nut case.
But he’s quiet and he looks so tragic and he reminds me of the city. All of this amounts to one big contradiction in my book.
He speaks softly, he mumbles, he coughs incessantly, he rambles and he only smiles when the entire world is still and quiet and ready.
He looks awkward. He stands, slouched, too tall in his body and uncomfortable with all the sharp edges and knobbly bits of which he is composed. He should be petite, but he’s not. He looks down on me uneasily, and always seems to be chewing his lip when I’m about. He has a hidden grace about him, a way of swanning without meaning to, a jumble of languid movements and slender fingers.
“Brendon,” he tells me. “Brendon, the city was not made for you and I.” I think this is a silly thing to say, because he would look so out of place anywhere else. “Brendon,” he says. “Brendon, I can’t see the stars anymore.”
I reply that that’s okay, because there are stars in his eyes anyhow (that’s another thing that sets him apart from the city). He sort of chokes out a laugh.
He tells me that I look like I’d taste of honey.
I ask him if he’d like to find out.
He just chuckles and wanders back inside, away from the chill, turns to Spencer and sprawls an epic tale out across the landscape animatedly. I think that Ryan really does have one up on the city because no back alleyway or deserted strip in all their winter glory could ever be as cold as him.
Author: 'Rah
Rating: Low. No swearing, secks or anything.
Pairing: Rydon
POV: Brendon
Summary: (The city and Ryan Ross have a lot in common.
Ryan is a world unto himself and Ryan is impenetrable. The only difference between Ryan and the city is that if you cut the city, it bleeds.)
Disclaimer: *raised eyebow* I am God, I own all. Bow before me and my iron fist.
Word Count: 547. Short.
Author's Note: I wrote this because it's raining and I had a f*cking bad day. Same style as Sounds Like Heartache To Me { 1/ 2}
I’m going to get lost in dense, lush rainforests. I’m going to drown in clear, blue waters. I’m going to throw myself into a mottled green-brown mesh of gears and bolts - but I will not be smothered by the city.
The city is gigantic, boundless, stretching out into the horizon, reaching on to eternity in every conceivable direction. The city is one singular, shining steel edifice, composed of little organelles and glimmering head-lighted platelets. The city is a monster that will swallow you up, despite any, every and all efforts to prevent it from doing so. The city does not respond when you shove grenades down it’s throat, and the city does not care how many arrows that penetrate its hide, because the city is apathetic and the city is Godless.
The city and Ryan Ross have a lot in common.
Ryan is a world unto himself and Ryan is impenetrable. The only difference between Ryan and the city is that if you cut the city, it bleeds.
Ryan writes. Ryan writes books and Ryan writes poetry and Ryan writes screenplays, but Ryan is a failed author and you never want to mess with those.
I only ever see him when I’m at Spencer’s house and I’m only ever at Spencer’s house when it’s raining.
Ryan looks fragile and sick and I’m pretty sure he’s suffering idiopathic thrombocytopenia and pernicious anemia and probably three different forms of apnea. I would bet you anything that he’s malnourished and has brittle bones. I bet you he has chronic, clinical and terminal depression. I bet you he’s paranoid and suffers hallucinations upon occasion. I bet you he’s a nut case.
But he’s quiet and he looks so tragic and he reminds me of the city. All of this amounts to one big contradiction in my book.
He speaks softly, he mumbles, he coughs incessantly, he rambles and he only smiles when the entire world is still and quiet and ready.
He looks awkward. He stands, slouched, too tall in his body and uncomfortable with all the sharp edges and knobbly bits of which he is composed. He should be petite, but he’s not. He looks down on me uneasily, and always seems to be chewing his lip when I’m about. He has a hidden grace about him, a way of swanning without meaning to, a jumble of languid movements and slender fingers.
“Brendon,” he tells me. “Brendon, the city was not made for you and I.” I think this is a silly thing to say, because he would look so out of place anywhere else. “Brendon,” he says. “Brendon, I can’t see the stars anymore.”
I reply that that’s okay, because there are stars in his eyes anyhow (that’s another thing that sets him apart from the city). He sort of chokes out a laugh.
He tells me that I look like I’d taste of honey.
I ask him if he’d like to find out.
He just chuckles and wanders back inside, away from the chill, turns to Spencer and sprawls an epic tale out across the landscape animatedly. I think that Ryan really does have one up on the city because no back alleyway or deserted strip in all their winter glory could ever be as cold as him.