Princess Bananas and I have a collection of obnoxiously huge sunglasses that we share
I just fell in love with this fic by disarm_d which is, shockingly, Spencer/Brendon. Not a pairing I knew I liked but now fantastic and possibly my new OTP. Oh, bandom, will you ever stop fucking with my mind? I think the answer is probably, "No."
Am a little drunk, which is unsurprising considering that it's 2am on a Saturday night. And my house is hot. I get very hot when I drink, and then Princess Bananas makes fun of me for crying, "It's seventy five degrees inside and I'm dying!" Because she is a hooker.
Um. Oh. Right. I'm writing a bandom story. It's coming along very slowly because I write very slowly. I wish I could be like those authors who come out with a fantastic chapter every week, but I am not. I write like molasses, yo.
In which Ryan is a writer, Spencer is an artist, and Brendon is a cellist. Jon Walker has yet to be introduced.
The white board on the fridge says "emo ryan is emo" in Spencer's scrawl. Ryan frowns and erases it with the cuff of his sleeve, takes the pen and writes, "Spencer Smith will never be the man his mother is." He draws a picture of a gorilla in a dress next to it. He actually likes Spencer's mom, but that's not the point.
There's sour milk in the fridge, half an inch of parmesan cheese, and an empty jar that was once pickles but is now just pickle juice. Either he or Spencer needs to learn how to cook, and Ryan's pretty sure it's not going to be him.
"Why don't you learn how to cook?" he asks.
"Hmm?"
"You should learn how to cook," he says.
Spencer looks up from his sketchbook. "You should learn to blow yourself," he says.
"It could be a viable career option," Ryan says, nodding and pretending to consider it. "I'd probably make more money than I do at the coffee shop."
"Plus, you'd be famous. Or internet famous, at least."
"I'll think about it," Ryan says, closing the fridge. He grabs the box of strawberry frosted Pop Tarts and tears open the silver packet with his teeth. "We're out of Pop Tarts."
"Your turn to go to the store," Spencer says.
Ryan sighs. It totally is his turn to go to the store. It's been his turn to go to the store for the past three times, he's just better at avoiding responsibility than Spencer is.
"Fine," Ryan says. "But I'm not getting anything heavy, considering I have to carry everything home on my bicycle."
Spencer doesn't fall for the guilt trip, just returns to sketching. Ryan sighs. Spencer doesn't look up. Ryan sighs again. "Get me Cheez-Its," Spencer says.
"Fine," Ryan says, grabbing his keys and stomping out of the apartment. He pauses in the hall, knows it must be Brendon playing the music he hears. He heads over to Brendon's door to eavesdrop, notices that the door's cracked and pushes it open.
Brendon's playing with his eyes closed. For some reason, Ryan thought there would be more swaying, but there's not. Brendon's head tips to the side sometimes, but he stays mostly upright, breathing deeply, looking somehow elegant as he plays. Ryan watches his strong fingers move nimbly over the strings.
Brendon opens his eyes and sees Ryan, stops suddenly.
"You don't have to stop," Ryan says.
"Scared me," Brendon says. "I thought I locked the door."
"Oh. Yeah. The doorknob latches aren’t really worth shit. You have to flip the deadbolt if you want your door to stay shut."
"Good to know," says Brendon.
"That song you were playing, what's it called?"
"Just cello sonata," Brendon says. "By Debussy."
"That's not a very interesting title."
Brendon shrugs. "It's descriptive enough. It's the notes that count."
Ryan nods but still thinks the song should've been called something like Longest Way Round is the Shortest Way Home. That reminds him that he has to turn in a rough draft of his Joyce paper by next Tuesday.
"I'm going to the store," he says, "if you want to come. It's really boring when I go by myself." He's not quite sure why he says it, even though it's true.
"Yeah, OK," says Brendon. "I wasn't quite sure where the closest supermarket was, anyway." He loosens his bow and puts it gently into the big, metallic case. He then takes a soft red cloth and rubs it over his cello, especially beneath the strings.
"Are you actually caressing a musical instrument right now?" Ryan asks, leaning against the door frame.
"Any musician worth his salt knows to caress his instrument," Brendon says. He looks completely serious and innocent so Ryan's not sure if it was supposed to come out as dirty as it sounded. "Is it cold outside?"
"Little," Ryan says. "It's like in the 50s." He always knows what the weather's like since he has to ride his bike in it to get anywhere.
Brendon grimaces and reaches for a pale lavender hoodie. Ryan has to give him props for pulling it off--the hoodie looks really good on him, especially contrasted with the red plastic frames of his glasses. "I hate the winter," he says. "I think about Canada, where it gets down to actual freezing and there's snow and wind and stuff, and I just don't know how people survive."
"I know, right?" Ryan says. He's always cold, loves the oppressive summer heat the way most people love the novelty of rain. "So, um, we gonna take your car or do you want to ride on my handlebars?"
Brendon laughs at that and picks up his keys. "As tempting as that offer is, Ryan Ross, I'm going to say we take Vivian."
Ryan raises one eyebrow. "Please tell me you didn't name your Yaris."
"She's a hatchback," Brendon says brightly.
Brendon's car is, indeed, a bright red hatchback that looks a little bit like a futuristic insect. Ryan decides that it's got its own sort of uncool coolness going on, plus it's gas efficient, plus it really, really looks like a pregnant alien insect, which is cool in its own way. Also, it matches Brendon's glasses.
Am a little drunk, which is unsurprising considering that it's 2am on a Saturday night. And my house is hot. I get very hot when I drink, and then Princess Bananas makes fun of me for crying, "It's seventy five degrees inside and I'm dying!" Because she is a hooker.
Um. Oh. Right. I'm writing a bandom story. It's coming along very slowly because I write very slowly. I wish I could be like those authors who come out with a fantastic chapter every week, but I am not. I write like molasses, yo.
In which Ryan is a writer, Spencer is an artist, and Brendon is a cellist. Jon Walker has yet to be introduced.
The white board on the fridge says "emo ryan is emo" in Spencer's scrawl. Ryan frowns and erases it with the cuff of his sleeve, takes the pen and writes, "Spencer Smith will never be the man his mother is." He draws a picture of a gorilla in a dress next to it. He actually likes Spencer's mom, but that's not the point.
There's sour milk in the fridge, half an inch of parmesan cheese, and an empty jar that was once pickles but is now just pickle juice. Either he or Spencer needs to learn how to cook, and Ryan's pretty sure it's not going to be him.
"Why don't you learn how to cook?" he asks.
"Hmm?"
"You should learn how to cook," he says.
Spencer looks up from his sketchbook. "You should learn to blow yourself," he says.
"It could be a viable career option," Ryan says, nodding and pretending to consider it. "I'd probably make more money than I do at the coffee shop."
"Plus, you'd be famous. Or internet famous, at least."
"I'll think about it," Ryan says, closing the fridge. He grabs the box of strawberry frosted Pop Tarts and tears open the silver packet with his teeth. "We're out of Pop Tarts."
"Your turn to go to the store," Spencer says.
Ryan sighs. It totally is his turn to go to the store. It's been his turn to go to the store for the past three times, he's just better at avoiding responsibility than Spencer is.
"Fine," Ryan says. "But I'm not getting anything heavy, considering I have to carry everything home on my bicycle."
Spencer doesn't fall for the guilt trip, just returns to sketching. Ryan sighs. Spencer doesn't look up. Ryan sighs again. "Get me Cheez-Its," Spencer says.
"Fine," Ryan says, grabbing his keys and stomping out of the apartment. He pauses in the hall, knows it must be Brendon playing the music he hears. He heads over to Brendon's door to eavesdrop, notices that the door's cracked and pushes it open.
Brendon's playing with his eyes closed. For some reason, Ryan thought there would be more swaying, but there's not. Brendon's head tips to the side sometimes, but he stays mostly upright, breathing deeply, looking somehow elegant as he plays. Ryan watches his strong fingers move nimbly over the strings.
Brendon opens his eyes and sees Ryan, stops suddenly.
"You don't have to stop," Ryan says.
"Scared me," Brendon says. "I thought I locked the door."
"Oh. Yeah. The doorknob latches aren’t really worth shit. You have to flip the deadbolt if you want your door to stay shut."
"Good to know," says Brendon.
"That song you were playing, what's it called?"
"Just cello sonata," Brendon says. "By Debussy."
"That's not a very interesting title."
Brendon shrugs. "It's descriptive enough. It's the notes that count."
Ryan nods but still thinks the song should've been called something like Longest Way Round is the Shortest Way Home. That reminds him that he has to turn in a rough draft of his Joyce paper by next Tuesday.
"I'm going to the store," he says, "if you want to come. It's really boring when I go by myself." He's not quite sure why he says it, even though it's true.
"Yeah, OK," says Brendon. "I wasn't quite sure where the closest supermarket was, anyway." He loosens his bow and puts it gently into the big, metallic case. He then takes a soft red cloth and rubs it over his cello, especially beneath the strings.
"Are you actually caressing a musical instrument right now?" Ryan asks, leaning against the door frame.
"Any musician worth his salt knows to caress his instrument," Brendon says. He looks completely serious and innocent so Ryan's not sure if it was supposed to come out as dirty as it sounded. "Is it cold outside?"
"Little," Ryan says. "It's like in the 50s." He always knows what the weather's like since he has to ride his bike in it to get anywhere.
Brendon grimaces and reaches for a pale lavender hoodie. Ryan has to give him props for pulling it off--the hoodie looks really good on him, especially contrasted with the red plastic frames of his glasses. "I hate the winter," he says. "I think about Canada, where it gets down to actual freezing and there's snow and wind and stuff, and I just don't know how people survive."
"I know, right?" Ryan says. He's always cold, loves the oppressive summer heat the way most people love the novelty of rain. "So, um, we gonna take your car or do you want to ride on my handlebars?"
Brendon laughs at that and picks up his keys. "As tempting as that offer is, Ryan Ross, I'm going to say we take Vivian."
Ryan raises one eyebrow. "Please tell me you didn't name your Yaris."
"She's a hatchback," Brendon says brightly.
Brendon's car is, indeed, a bright red hatchback that looks a little bit like a futuristic insect. Ryan decides that it's got its own sort of uncool coolness going on, plus it's gas efficient, plus it really, really looks like a pregnant alien insect, which is cool in its own way. Also, it matches Brendon's glasses.