secret love, and the fastest way to loneliness. [10/?]
TITLE: secret love, and the fastest way to loneliness.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: Ranges from PG13 to R/NC17 eventually. Maybe.
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 Elliott Smith. That's all.
Brendon reaches a hand across the table and lays it on Ryan’s tightly clasped and twined fingers, turning white at the tips from the pressure. Ryan flinches, and his eyes lift, slowly, slowly, until they’re on Brendon’s face. And he looks scared, lost, like a child, eyes golden and wide, hair falling in soft strands across his forehead.
“Ryan?” Brendon says, soft, melody, because he doesn’t want to scare him, just wants to know what’s going on inside his head, just wants to help.
Ryan blinks, and he’s blank, blank like a freshly washed chalkboard.
“Brendon,” Ryan says, “Brendon, I think I have to go.”
And Brendon doesn’t really understand the way this has gotten under Ryan’s skin, erased his soul from his eyes and left him empty. But it has, it has, and it doesn’t matter why. It just matters that it has.
Ryan stands up and puts on his coat, black corduroy with big buttons, puts money down on the table, and turns around to walk away, leaving Brendon sitting blank-eyed and stunned at the table, mouth slack, frozen.
And then he’s up, running out the door, wind chimes singing, a few feet down the sidewalk, breath condensing in the air.
“Ryan, Ryan, I’ll walk you home,” he says, and Ryan just shrugs, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop, just keeps walking. Brendon walks alongside him, quiet, footsteps falling into synch.
When they get back to the building, they ride up in the elevator in silence, they walk down the hall in silence, and when they get to their doors, they push them open, hinges creaking sharp in the silence.
Ryan turns around and looks at Brendon, and Brendon almost falls apart.
“Sorry,” Ryan says, low, and Brendon shakes his head.
“I’ll see you later,” he says, and Ryan nods his head a little.
“Yeah, sure.”
----------
Ryan’s been lying on the floor all day, with an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes beside him.
And right now, maybe, maybe he’s a little bit drunk. Actually, alright, he’ll admit it. That bottle of whiskey was three quarters full when he got home. So, what?
So, when someone knocks on the door, it startles him a little, but he doesn’t really move. Maybe, maybe if he just lies here quietly, whoever it is will go away.
“Ryan,” Brendon’s voice floats through the door. “Open the door. Please.”
Ryan sighs and rolls his head to the side, looking at the door from his vantage point on the floor.
“I don’t think I can get up,” he says, honest, slurred.
“Okay,” Brendon says. “Okay, is the door unlocked?”
Ryan nods, before realizing that Brendon can’t see him, not through the particle board of the door. Drunkness, he thinks, doesn’t always want to obey the laws of physics.
“I think so, yeah,” he says, finally, and closes his eyes, anticipating the beam of light that’s going to come slicing across the room.
And it does, and Brendon steps in, and shuts the door behind him again.
“Ryan, what...?” Brendon mutters, crouching down beside him. “Why are you laying on the floor? In the dark?” Ryan shrugs, opens his eyes, blinking a little, Brendon’s face coming into focus in the gloom.
“Don’t know, s’just where I ended up, I guess.”
Brendon sighs, shifting his weight, leaning down to slip the cigarette out of Ryan’s fingers and squashing it out in the ashtray beside his head.
“Hey,” Ryan starts, but Brendon shakes his head.
“I’m putting you to bed,” he says, and Ryan laughs, a little hysterical, arm draping limply over his stomach.
“Of course, of course,” he says, closing his eyes. “But I can’t get up. I'll fall over, for sure.”
“You don’t have to,” Brendon says, slipping his arms under Ryan’s body, lifting him up, carrying him the few feet to the bed and setting him down gently. Ryan just laughs and closes his eyes, and maybe he feels the loss of Brendon’s arms a little more than he should when he sets him down, maybe he wants them back.
“Brendonnn,” he says, drawn out, and Brendon sighs and sits down on the bed beside him.
“Yeah, Ry?”
Ryan giggles, eyelids fluttering.
“No one’s ever called me Ry before.” He opens his eyes and looks at Brendon. “S’alright, though.” He closes his eyes again, and Brendon just sits, watches, stares, trying to figure out the fucking puzzle that is Ryan, the way Ryan seems to be sorting him out without even trying.
“Brendon,” Ryan says again, opening his eyes and fixing him with this liquid, molten stare, and Brendon’s not even sure where he is anymore. “Brendon, stay.”
“Okay, I will,” Brendon says, soft, and Ryan shakes his head.
“No, here,” and he slaps his arm on the bed. “Just, don’t go.” Brendon nods, slides down the bed and curls up beside Ryan, and Ryan closes his eyes and swallows. “Brendon, Brendon, you were right,” he murmurs, sleep crowding his mind, filling it with black, pushing out anything and everything. “Scared, so scared, and then...”
And Brendon just nods, slips an arm over Ryan’s waist.
“Yeah, I know.” He clears his throat. “Ryan?”
“Mm?”
“I’m quitting, Ryan.”
“Quitting?”
“Yeah, quitting, Ry. Quitting the whole...whore thing.”
“Not a whore,” Ryan murmurs, turning towards Brendon, because he’s cold, God, he’s cold, and Brendon is warm. “S’cold,” he says, and Brendon pulls the blankets up over him and lets out a long breath, watching him slip further and further into sleep.
Not a whore.
“No, not anymore,” he whispers to no one, because Ryan’s asleep, lips parted and eyes closed, peaceful. “Not anymore.”
Part Eleven.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: Ranges from PG13 to R/NC17 eventually. Maybe.
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 Elliott Smith. That's all.
Brendon reaches a hand across the table and lays it on Ryan’s tightly clasped and twined fingers, turning white at the tips from the pressure. Ryan flinches, and his eyes lift, slowly, slowly, until they’re on Brendon’s face. And he looks scared, lost, like a child, eyes golden and wide, hair falling in soft strands across his forehead.
“Ryan?” Brendon says, soft, melody, because he doesn’t want to scare him, just wants to know what’s going on inside his head, just wants to help.
Ryan blinks, and he’s blank, blank like a freshly washed chalkboard.
“Brendon,” Ryan says, “Brendon, I think I have to go.”
And Brendon doesn’t really understand the way this has gotten under Ryan’s skin, erased his soul from his eyes and left him empty. But it has, it has, and it doesn’t matter why. It just matters that it has.
Ryan stands up and puts on his coat, black corduroy with big buttons, puts money down on the table, and turns around to walk away, leaving Brendon sitting blank-eyed and stunned at the table, mouth slack, frozen.
And then he’s up, running out the door, wind chimes singing, a few feet down the sidewalk, breath condensing in the air.
“Ryan, Ryan, I’ll walk you home,” he says, and Ryan just shrugs, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop, just keeps walking. Brendon walks alongside him, quiet, footsteps falling into synch.
When they get back to the building, they ride up in the elevator in silence, they walk down the hall in silence, and when they get to their doors, they push them open, hinges creaking sharp in the silence.
Ryan turns around and looks at Brendon, and Brendon almost falls apart.
“Sorry,” Ryan says, low, and Brendon shakes his head.
“I’ll see you later,” he says, and Ryan nods his head a little.
“Yeah, sure.”
----------
Ryan’s been lying on the floor all day, with an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes beside him.
And right now, maybe, maybe he’s a little bit drunk. Actually, alright, he’ll admit it. That bottle of whiskey was three quarters full when he got home. So, what?
So, when someone knocks on the door, it startles him a little, but he doesn’t really move. Maybe, maybe if he just lies here quietly, whoever it is will go away.
“Ryan,” Brendon’s voice floats through the door. “Open the door. Please.”
Ryan sighs and rolls his head to the side, looking at the door from his vantage point on the floor.
“I don’t think I can get up,” he says, honest, slurred.
“Okay,” Brendon says. “Okay, is the door unlocked?”
Ryan nods, before realizing that Brendon can’t see him, not through the particle board of the door. Drunkness, he thinks, doesn’t always want to obey the laws of physics.
“I think so, yeah,” he says, finally, and closes his eyes, anticipating the beam of light that’s going to come slicing across the room.
And it does, and Brendon steps in, and shuts the door behind him again.
“Ryan, what...?” Brendon mutters, crouching down beside him. “Why are you laying on the floor? In the dark?” Ryan shrugs, opens his eyes, blinking a little, Brendon’s face coming into focus in the gloom.
“Don’t know, s’just where I ended up, I guess.”
Brendon sighs, shifting his weight, leaning down to slip the cigarette out of Ryan’s fingers and squashing it out in the ashtray beside his head.
“Hey,” Ryan starts, but Brendon shakes his head.
“I’m putting you to bed,” he says, and Ryan laughs, a little hysterical, arm draping limply over his stomach.
“Of course, of course,” he says, closing his eyes. “But I can’t get up. I'll fall over, for sure.”
“You don’t have to,” Brendon says, slipping his arms under Ryan’s body, lifting him up, carrying him the few feet to the bed and setting him down gently. Ryan just laughs and closes his eyes, and maybe he feels the loss of Brendon’s arms a little more than he should when he sets him down, maybe he wants them back.
“Brendonnn,” he says, drawn out, and Brendon sighs and sits down on the bed beside him.
“Yeah, Ry?”
Ryan giggles, eyelids fluttering.
“No one’s ever called me Ry before.” He opens his eyes and looks at Brendon. “S’alright, though.” He closes his eyes again, and Brendon just sits, watches, stares, trying to figure out the fucking puzzle that is Ryan, the way Ryan seems to be sorting him out without even trying.
“Brendon,” Ryan says again, opening his eyes and fixing him with this liquid, molten stare, and Brendon’s not even sure where he is anymore. “Brendon, stay.”
“Okay, I will,” Brendon says, soft, and Ryan shakes his head.
“No, here,” and he slaps his arm on the bed. “Just, don’t go.” Brendon nods, slides down the bed and curls up beside Ryan, and Ryan closes his eyes and swallows. “Brendon, Brendon, you were right,” he murmurs, sleep crowding his mind, filling it with black, pushing out anything and everything. “Scared, so scared, and then...”
And Brendon just nods, slips an arm over Ryan’s waist.
“Yeah, I know.” He clears his throat. “Ryan?”
“Mm?”
“I’m quitting, Ryan.”
“Quitting?”
“Yeah, quitting, Ry. Quitting the whole...whore thing.”
“Not a whore,” Ryan murmurs, turning towards Brendon, because he’s cold, God, he’s cold, and Brendon is warm. “S’cold,” he says, and Brendon pulls the blankets up over him and lets out a long breath, watching him slip further and further into sleep.
Not a whore.
“No, not anymore,” he whispers to no one, because Ryan’s asleep, lips parted and eyes closed, peaceful. “Not anymore.”
Part Eleven.