secret love, and the fastest way to loneliness. [2/?]
TITLE: secret love, and the fastest way to loneliness.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: PG13, for now.
POV: Third, omniscient.
PAIRING: Eventually Ryan/Brendon...who else? I like my comfort zone, thank you.
SUMMARY: AU, in which Ryan is half in denial and picks up transgendered hookers, and Brendon is a not-so-much transgendered whore.
DISCLAIMER: Oh please, honey.
A/N: Title credit to This Providence ♥ Chapter title goes to Forgive Durden.
He has a shitty day at work, paperwork and tension headaches and burnt coffee and stale doughnuts.
He comes outside at 5:01 on the dot and finds his car has been broken into, CD’s stolen and ten bucks change lining someone else’s pocket, now.
He smokes a cigarette outside his apartment, even though he quit months ago and swore he’d never go back. Stress makes his fingers itch, though, brings the craving to life, and the only way to scratch is to breathe in a haze of nicotine and cut five more minutes off his life. Only one, though. Just one. That’s not so bad.
He gets inside and pours himself a drink, even though he always swore he would never resort to alcohol, not like this. Then again, he’s been breaking a lot of his own promises lately. It burns his throat, fills his nose with an acrid smell that makes him think of home, reminds him he's alive.
He pours another drink and taps his tingling fingers on the table before reaching for the red plastic lighter. Okay, two. Just two.
-----------
He ends up in his beaten up black car, like every other night he’s stressed, or even when he’s not. He’s parked in the usual place, outside some seedy bar that he wouldn’t be caught dead in, not even on a dare.
Some petite brunette in a mini skirt and go-go boots taps on his door, breathes out a greeting, and he glances over, shaking his head. She shrugs her shoulders and walks away. Your loss, her eyes say, and he wishes he believed it, wishes it were her he was letting into his car.
Thank God the street is dark, because the next whore to walk by is just what he’s looking for, and he just nods when he...she, she, she, drawls out a line.
“Yes, yes,” he says, waving his hand dismissively, and the whore just snorts and walks around the front of the car in precarious high heels and fishnet, opening the passenger side door and slipping into the seat.
“Someone’s snippy tonight,” she says, and he sighs and puts the money on the seat without saying a word. “Not in the mood for conversation tonight, pretty boy?” He just shakes his head, and the whore smiles, nicotine teeth. “That’s alright, honey,” and pockets the money.
He wishes he was dead.
----------
When she climbs out of the car -her name, it’s Candy, but it’s really Carl- she stumbles in her high heels and heads off to the sidewalk, money burning in her pocket, mouth bitter.
She passes by one of the only, maybe the only, boy who work the streets in this part of town. She wouldn’t mind a piece of that one, dark eyes and fuckin' incredible blow job lips if she’s ever seen ‘em, and you better believe she has.
“Brendon, honey,” she drawls, flipping her hair. “Slow night?”
He grimaces and shrugs, rolling his neck on his shoulders to ease out the tension.
“Who’s that kid in the car you just got out of?” he asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the street with the end of his cigarette, flicking ashes onto the concrete. Candy laughs and rolls her painted eyes, purses her lacquered lips, flicks her polished nails.
“Oh, some regular john. A pretty one though,” Candy leans forward to touch his forearm lightly, breathing in his ear. “He’s so deep in his fucking closet, I doubt you could dig him out with a shovel.” She laughs, fluttery, and sashays away from Brendon, sparkles and sex.
Brendon watches the car pull away, wondering about why a guy like that needs to come to a place like this.
He makes a mental note to find out some night, to solve the mystery of the pretty boy who only pays for the queens, and then there’s a periwinkle car pulling up in front of him, and he sighs and yanks the silver handle, opening the door.
He wonders when his life became this while he slips into the darkened interior. He doesn’t want to watch it, when the middle aged guy throws money on the dashboard, he doesn't want to see what he’s become; he wishes it were a movie, and he could just close his eyes and block it out.
And later, when he stumbles out of the car with his arms holding his sweater close, a little less of himself and just a little more damned, just a little more fucked, he wonders absently what that pretty boy is doing, and lights himself another cigarette, breathing in deep to soothe his nerves and shaking hands.
----------
Four and a half blocks away, that pretty boy, well...he’s drinking himself to sleep.
Part Three.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: PG13, for now.
POV: Third, omniscient.
PAIRING: Eventually Ryan/Brendon...who else? I like my comfort zone, thank you.
SUMMARY: AU, in which Ryan is half in denial and picks up transgendered hookers, and Brendon is a not-so-much transgendered whore.
DISCLAIMER: Oh please, honey.
A/N: Title credit to This Providence ♥ Chapter title goes to Forgive Durden.
He has a shitty day at work, paperwork and tension headaches and burnt coffee and stale doughnuts.
He comes outside at 5:01 on the dot and finds his car has been broken into, CD’s stolen and ten bucks change lining someone else’s pocket, now.
He smokes a cigarette outside his apartment, even though he quit months ago and swore he’d never go back. Stress makes his fingers itch, though, brings the craving to life, and the only way to scratch is to breathe in a haze of nicotine and cut five more minutes off his life. Only one, though. Just one. That’s not so bad.
He gets inside and pours himself a drink, even though he always swore he would never resort to alcohol, not like this. Then again, he’s been breaking a lot of his own promises lately. It burns his throat, fills his nose with an acrid smell that makes him think of home, reminds him he's alive.
He pours another drink and taps his tingling fingers on the table before reaching for the red plastic lighter. Okay, two. Just two.
-----------
He ends up in his beaten up black car, like every other night he’s stressed, or even when he’s not. He’s parked in the usual place, outside some seedy bar that he wouldn’t be caught dead in, not even on a dare.
Some petite brunette in a mini skirt and go-go boots taps on his door, breathes out a greeting, and he glances over, shaking his head. She shrugs her shoulders and walks away. Your loss, her eyes say, and he wishes he believed it, wishes it were her he was letting into his car.
Thank God the street is dark, because the next whore to walk by is just what he’s looking for, and he just nods when he...she, she, she, drawls out a line.
“Yes, yes,” he says, waving his hand dismissively, and the whore just snorts and walks around the front of the car in precarious high heels and fishnet, opening the passenger side door and slipping into the seat.
“Someone’s snippy tonight,” she says, and he sighs and puts the money on the seat without saying a word. “Not in the mood for conversation tonight, pretty boy?” He just shakes his head, and the whore smiles, nicotine teeth. “That’s alright, honey,” and pockets the money.
He wishes he was dead.
----------
When she climbs out of the car -her name, it’s Candy, but it’s really Carl- she stumbles in her high heels and heads off to the sidewalk, money burning in her pocket, mouth bitter.
She passes by one of the only, maybe the only, boy who work the streets in this part of town. She wouldn’t mind a piece of that one, dark eyes and fuckin' incredible blow job lips if she’s ever seen ‘em, and you better believe she has.
“Brendon, honey,” she drawls, flipping her hair. “Slow night?”
He grimaces and shrugs, rolling his neck on his shoulders to ease out the tension.
“Who’s that kid in the car you just got out of?” he asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the street with the end of his cigarette, flicking ashes onto the concrete. Candy laughs and rolls her painted eyes, purses her lacquered lips, flicks her polished nails.
“Oh, some regular john. A pretty one though,” Candy leans forward to touch his forearm lightly, breathing in his ear. “He’s so deep in his fucking closet, I doubt you could dig him out with a shovel.” She laughs, fluttery, and sashays away from Brendon, sparkles and sex.
Brendon watches the car pull away, wondering about why a guy like that needs to come to a place like this.
He makes a mental note to find out some night, to solve the mystery of the pretty boy who only pays for the queens, and then there’s a periwinkle car pulling up in front of him, and he sighs and yanks the silver handle, opening the door.
He wonders when his life became this while he slips into the darkened interior. He doesn’t want to watch it, when the middle aged guy throws money on the dashboard, he doesn't want to see what he’s become; he wishes it were a movie, and he could just close his eyes and block it out.
And later, when he stumbles out of the car with his arms holding his sweater close, a little less of himself and just a little more damned, just a little more fucked, he wonders absently what that pretty boy is doing, and lights himself another cigarette, breathing in deep to soothe his nerves and shaking hands.
----------
Four and a half blocks away, that pretty boy, well...he’s drinking himself to sleep.
Part Three.