From Here You Can't See Me Stare ;; chapter one ; you're perfect, so flawless
title ;; From Here You Can't See Me Stare ;; chapter one ; you're perfect, so flawless
rating ;; PG-13
pairing ;; brendon urie and william beckett
summary ;;
"I just remembered, that time at the market
snuck up behind me and jumped on my shopping cart
And rode down, aisle 5
you looked behind you to smile back at me
crashed into a rack full of magazines
they asked us if we could leave."
- John Mayer
disclaimer ;; why do you have to pour salt into the wound?
author's note ;; chapter one in a series of ten, all inspired by abstract deviantART pictures and lyrics, all the lyrics and titles are John Mayer's. Enjoy please!
inspired by ;;
and John Mayer's "Comfortable."
You were quick, and very stealthy, as you walked up behind me; too many years of music had killed my hearing, and I'm quite sure that you were making as much noise as you wanted to. You leapt onto the shopping cart, sending the wheels screetch-screetching on the cheep linolium floor of the market, bumping into me as your arms stretched outwards, grasping into metal meshing, legs completely stretched so that your back was parallel with the floor. You laughed, a very bubbly and free sound, as you heard the unmistakable sound of me dropping a box of frosted flakes, the bits of cereal crunching under my feet as I ran a bit after you. You were the only sound I heard as you weaved down aisle five; you turned your head to stare back at me for a minute, to gauge my reaction.
At that moment, I could only laugh at you, with you, for you were so innocent, doing tricks that even a five year old wouldn't concieve. I wanted to kiss every inch of your absurd makeup, the kind that Ryan had spent an hour doing to himself and you had immitated it (albeit a little sloppily) in fifteen. Something about the mesh of colors on your face made it look like a bruise on you, despite the way the way your personal birds, in dark brown and black tints, made your left cheek look more like a mural.
Your head, light brown curls blown back by the force of wind you were creating, turned quickly to smile at my actions, and in doing so, you lost control of the cart just as soon as I reached out to grab your shirt tail. The speeding buggie was in control of too much power though, and as it slammed head first into the magazine rack, it dragged you and I down with it ("little bastard," you had whispered later about the cart when I said that I left the ice cream inside). We rolled on a pile of gossip and lies, eyes spinning as wildly as the left wheel beside your head when we stopped.
"That was a rush!" you teetered, voice sounding like you were inebriated. Your hands were pinned beneath you (as was I), ontop of my chest and folded neatly on my collar, where you could feel my pulse wildly, sporatically racing out of control at the proximity we were in. I loved when we were this close, even if it was just a mistake, like this was now. But you wouldn't move, even as a late-bloomer magazine took a dive and smacked you in the back of the head. I laughed, but without as much force as I did before; you were, to be ridiculously, utterly, amazingly cliche, taking my breath away.
You wouldn't move.
"Sirs!" Outraged employees--one store manager, added with one high school worker who would have to clean up the mess--stood disapprovingly over top of us, the manager's heels clicking the floor annoyingly close to my left ear. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
You wouldn't move, even as we did. You held onto my hand, the other placed neatly at the dip of my collar, across the back of my shoulders, as we stepped past the two, almost with an air of pride, of bravado in our marauding ways. I still couldn't breathe any better than a marathon racer when you made sure our hips bumped gently when we walked out the front door, past the very crappy and easily fooled metal detectors; yes, of course I noticed the scent of watermellon splash as we walked home together. I never overlooked a single thing about you, ever.
Straight up to your door, past the walls and into your bedroom; I spent the night at your place, and you had long ago distingushed a navy blue toothbrush to be mine, along with one of your dresser drawers for my forgotten CDs, clothing, and miscellaneous items. I couldn't figue out why you hadn't let go of me, all the way home; it could not have been the tempertaure, for you had a scarf, gloves, and a hoodie on. You didn't let go...
I'm still trying to figure out why your warmth still heats my hand when you came out of the bathroom. You rubbed my back, waiting for me to roll over to face you. I was still pondering my question, right up until the moment you kissed me. You took my hand and wouldn't let go. I asked you not to.
rating ;; PG-13
pairing ;; brendon urie and william beckett
summary ;;
"I just remembered, that time at the market
snuck up behind me and jumped on my shopping cart
And rode down, aisle 5
you looked behind you to smile back at me
crashed into a rack full of magazines
they asked us if we could leave."
- John Mayer
disclaimer ;; why do you have to pour salt into the wound?
author's note ;; chapter one in a series of ten, all inspired by abstract deviantART pictures and lyrics, all the lyrics and titles are John Mayer's. Enjoy please!
inspired by ;;
and John Mayer's "Comfortable."
You were quick, and very stealthy, as you walked up behind me; too many years of music had killed my hearing, and I'm quite sure that you were making as much noise as you wanted to. You leapt onto the shopping cart, sending the wheels screetch-screetching on the cheep linolium floor of the market, bumping into me as your arms stretched outwards, grasping into metal meshing, legs completely stretched so that your back was parallel with the floor. You laughed, a very bubbly and free sound, as you heard the unmistakable sound of me dropping a box of frosted flakes, the bits of cereal crunching under my feet as I ran a bit after you. You were the only sound I heard as you weaved down aisle five; you turned your head to stare back at me for a minute, to gauge my reaction.
At that moment, I could only laugh at you, with you, for you were so innocent, doing tricks that even a five year old wouldn't concieve. I wanted to kiss every inch of your absurd makeup, the kind that Ryan had spent an hour doing to himself and you had immitated it (albeit a little sloppily) in fifteen. Something about the mesh of colors on your face made it look like a bruise on you, despite the way the way your personal birds, in dark brown and black tints, made your left cheek look more like a mural.
Your head, light brown curls blown back by the force of wind you were creating, turned quickly to smile at my actions, and in doing so, you lost control of the cart just as soon as I reached out to grab your shirt tail. The speeding buggie was in control of too much power though, and as it slammed head first into the magazine rack, it dragged you and I down with it ("little bastard," you had whispered later about the cart when I said that I left the ice cream inside). We rolled on a pile of gossip and lies, eyes spinning as wildly as the left wheel beside your head when we stopped.
"That was a rush!" you teetered, voice sounding like you were inebriated. Your hands were pinned beneath you (as was I), ontop of my chest and folded neatly on my collar, where you could feel my pulse wildly, sporatically racing out of control at the proximity we were in. I loved when we were this close, even if it was just a mistake, like this was now. But you wouldn't move, even as a late-bloomer magazine took a dive and smacked you in the back of the head. I laughed, but without as much force as I did before; you were, to be ridiculously, utterly, amazingly cliche, taking my breath away.
You wouldn't move.
"Sirs!" Outraged employees--one store manager, added with one high school worker who would have to clean up the mess--stood disapprovingly over top of us, the manager's heels clicking the floor annoyingly close to my left ear. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
You wouldn't move, even as we did. You held onto my hand, the other placed neatly at the dip of my collar, across the back of my shoulders, as we stepped past the two, almost with an air of pride, of bravado in our marauding ways. I still couldn't breathe any better than a marathon racer when you made sure our hips bumped gently when we walked out the front door, past the very crappy and easily fooled metal detectors; yes, of course I noticed the scent of watermellon splash as we walked home together. I never overlooked a single thing about you, ever.
Straight up to your door, past the walls and into your bedroom; I spent the night at your place, and you had long ago distingushed a navy blue toothbrush to be mine, along with one of your dresser drawers for my forgotten CDs, clothing, and miscellaneous items. I couldn't figue out why you hadn't let go of me, all the way home; it could not have been the tempertaure, for you had a scarf, gloves, and a hoodie on. You didn't let go...
I'm still trying to figure out why your warmth still heats my hand when you came out of the bathroom. You rubbed my back, waiting for me to roll over to face you. I was still pondering my question, right up until the moment you kissed me. You took my hand and wouldn't let go. I asked you not to.