secret love, and the fastest way to loneliness. [4/?]
TITLE: secret love, and the fastest way to loneliness.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: Ranges from PG13 to R/NC17 eventually. It'll be marked when it gets higher...
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 Goodbye Tomorrow. Oh, and does anyone else find when writing chaptered fics that they get ahead of themselves, and want to post three parts at once? *sigh*
He rolls over when his alarm clock beeps, furious and repetitive, boring sawing digging into his skull. Who the fuck set that thing? He groans and reaches his right hand over to slap at it, eventually pushing it off the table and onto the floor, unplugging it and silencing it for good.
Seven a.m. Way too early for any day, let alone a Sunday morning, a day he should be sleeping in. But he’s awake now, no two ways about it, so he’ll just have to deal. He’ll just have to pull his skinny ass out of bed, open his eyes, and live, for better or worse.
He pushes himself up with his arms, slow, wincing when the sun filters through a gap in the faded red curtain and falls across his eyes. He gets up, pulling at the waistband of his jeans, and shoves aside the fabric, looking outside.
The sun is coming up over the buildings, golden and warm, and the streets are empty. Some little part of him drinks in the light, fills up and bursts, and then he’s standing at the dirty window in dirty jeans and crying, fucking crying, watching the sun rise over the dirty city.
And maybe, maybe, he feels a little bit cleaner.
And maybe, maybe, at least crying means he feels something, even as he’s furiously wiping at his face with the back of his hand.
Maybe.
----------
The sun starts to come in the open window, golden and white-hot, falling across his face. He screws up his eyes and groans, running a hand over his face and letting out a long breath.
Fucking light, interrupting his sleep on the one day he has nowhere to be and nothing to do, a day he has a little bit of freedom, a little time to himself. Because the little boy that lives inside of him refuses to let him work on Sunday, refuses to let him defile himself on the Lord’s Day, even though he cast off the robe of faith when he was just a teenager.
Even though, every day he lives, he scratches another sin into the grain of his life. Even though, if his parents are right, he’s going to hell for each and every breath he takes. If not for being gay, then for getting into cars every night and taking money from married, middle-aged men who are just as damned as he is.
He gets up and he goes to the window, pushing aside the blue curtain, and stares down at the awakening city. Watching the cars and the people starting to step out into the street, he feels a little better, maybe, feels a little bit more alive.
He presses his fingertips against the cold, dirty glass, and a tiny smile flickers across his face, the first one he’s really meant, really felt, in weeks.
And maybe, maybe, he feels a little bit cleaner.
And maybe, maybe, this smile is just the beginning of something bigger, even as he’s fighting it with every ounce of strength he has.
Maybe.
----------
Later, maybe around noon, he leaves to go pick up a pizza and that boy is there again, walking down the hallway with a couple grocery bags slung over his arm. He smiles at him sideways, still racking his brain to try and figure out where he knows him from.
He lets his mind wander while he walks down the hall, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, and then pushing open the glass door and walking out into the sun.
He’s a good looking kid; dark chocolate coloured hair, dark almost-black eyes, nice mouth. Definitely a nice mouth, he thinks, recalling the way the kid smiled at him in the hallway, white teeth and full lips.
And he would probably give his left arm to be able to remember where he’s seen him before.
----------
When he passes him in the hall with his arms full of grocery bags, he smiles over the bags and pushes open the door to his apartment, wishing he had a reason to talk to him, find out his name, so he’d become more than just the boy across the hall, the boy who picks up Candy and Laurie and Starr.
He’s a pretty kid, too pretty to be picking up whores, small and sandy haired and golden-eyed. He wonders how he doesn’t have a steady boyfriend, or at least a string of dates, when he remembers what Candy said, …so deep in his fucking closet, I doubt you could dig him out with a shovel.
She seemed to find that funny. He figures that’s because his denial pays for her shoes.
And he’s thankful, when he sets the bags down on the kitchen floor, that he’s never seen anyone go into his apartment. This is because he’s selfish, maybe greedy, because he likes to think that boy could maybe like him, if he had the chance. He’d like to know that boy across the hall, the ‘regular john’, even as a friend, someone to talk to when all he had was cigarettes and cheap booze.
Yeah, he’d like that.
----------
Ryan doesn’t go and park his car on the side of the road that night. Instead he stays home and eats cold pizza and watches shitty, made for T.V. movies.
He doesn’t drink, and he only smokes a handful of cigarettes, and he goes to bed at 11 o’clock without so much as a thought about whores or work in the morning.
----------
Brendon, of course, doesn’t work that night. Instead he stays home, wondering about the boy across the hall and eating Ramen noodles and listening to the radio.
He sits on the balcony and smokes, and he goes to bed at 3 a.m., because he doesn’t need to be up until the afternoon, and he's still wishing he knew that boy's name.
Part Five.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: Ranges from PG13 to R/NC17 eventually. It'll be marked when it gets higher...
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 Goodbye Tomorrow. Oh, and does anyone else find when writing chaptered fics that they get ahead of themselves, and want to post three parts at once? *sigh*
He rolls over when his alarm clock beeps, furious and repetitive, boring sawing digging into his skull. Who the fuck set that thing? He groans and reaches his right hand over to slap at it, eventually pushing it off the table and onto the floor, unplugging it and silencing it for good.
Seven a.m. Way too early for any day, let alone a Sunday morning, a day he should be sleeping in. But he’s awake now, no two ways about it, so he’ll just have to deal. He’ll just have to pull his skinny ass out of bed, open his eyes, and live, for better or worse.
He pushes himself up with his arms, slow, wincing when the sun filters through a gap in the faded red curtain and falls across his eyes. He gets up, pulling at the waistband of his jeans, and shoves aside the fabric, looking outside.
The sun is coming up over the buildings, golden and warm, and the streets are empty. Some little part of him drinks in the light, fills up and bursts, and then he’s standing at the dirty window in dirty jeans and crying, fucking crying, watching the sun rise over the dirty city.
And maybe, maybe, he feels a little bit cleaner.
And maybe, maybe, at least crying means he feels something, even as he’s furiously wiping at his face with the back of his hand.
Maybe.
----------
The sun starts to come in the open window, golden and white-hot, falling across his face. He screws up his eyes and groans, running a hand over his face and letting out a long breath.
Fucking light, interrupting his sleep on the one day he has nowhere to be and nothing to do, a day he has a little bit of freedom, a little time to himself. Because the little boy that lives inside of him refuses to let him work on Sunday, refuses to let him defile himself on the Lord’s Day, even though he cast off the robe of faith when he was just a teenager.
Even though, every day he lives, he scratches another sin into the grain of his life. Even though, if his parents are right, he’s going to hell for each and every breath he takes. If not for being gay, then for getting into cars every night and taking money from married, middle-aged men who are just as damned as he is.
He gets up and he goes to the window, pushing aside the blue curtain, and stares down at the awakening city. Watching the cars and the people starting to step out into the street, he feels a little better, maybe, feels a little bit more alive.
He presses his fingertips against the cold, dirty glass, and a tiny smile flickers across his face, the first one he’s really meant, really felt, in weeks.
And maybe, maybe, he feels a little bit cleaner.
And maybe, maybe, this smile is just the beginning of something bigger, even as he’s fighting it with every ounce of strength he has.
Maybe.
----------
Later, maybe around noon, he leaves to go pick up a pizza and that boy is there again, walking down the hallway with a couple grocery bags slung over his arm. He smiles at him sideways, still racking his brain to try and figure out where he knows him from.
He lets his mind wander while he walks down the hall, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, and then pushing open the glass door and walking out into the sun.
He’s a good looking kid; dark chocolate coloured hair, dark almost-black eyes, nice mouth. Definitely a nice mouth, he thinks, recalling the way the kid smiled at him in the hallway, white teeth and full lips.
And he would probably give his left arm to be able to remember where he’s seen him before.
----------
When he passes him in the hall with his arms full of grocery bags, he smiles over the bags and pushes open the door to his apartment, wishing he had a reason to talk to him, find out his name, so he’d become more than just the boy across the hall, the boy who picks up Candy and Laurie and Starr.
He’s a pretty kid, too pretty to be picking up whores, small and sandy haired and golden-eyed. He wonders how he doesn’t have a steady boyfriend, or at least a string of dates, when he remembers what Candy said, …so deep in his fucking closet, I doubt you could dig him out with a shovel.
She seemed to find that funny. He figures that’s because his denial pays for her shoes.
And he’s thankful, when he sets the bags down on the kitchen floor, that he’s never seen anyone go into his apartment. This is because he’s selfish, maybe greedy, because he likes to think that boy could maybe like him, if he had the chance. He’d like to know that boy across the hall, the ‘regular john’, even as a friend, someone to talk to when all he had was cigarettes and cheap booze.
Yeah, he’d like that.
----------
Ryan doesn’t go and park his car on the side of the road that night. Instead he stays home and eats cold pizza and watches shitty, made for T.V. movies.
He doesn’t drink, and he only smokes a handful of cigarettes, and he goes to bed at 11 o’clock without so much as a thought about whores or work in the morning.
----------
Brendon, of course, doesn’t work that night. Instead he stays home, wondering about the boy across the hall and eating Ramen noodles and listening to the radio.
He sits on the balcony and smokes, and he goes to bed at 3 a.m., because he doesn’t need to be up until the afternoon, and he's still wishing he knew that boy's name.
Part Five.