the blurred shape of two pyromaniacs.
(292 words) // (pg-13) // brendon/ryan
I don't have to say it for you to hear me. You don't have to hear me to know what I'm thinking. And we don't have to pretend because we're too far gone.
Ryan holds the lighter in his hand, lifts up the soda bottle, smiles as the plastic label starts to shrivel up and die. Brendon watches, silent at first. Still silent when the bottle itself begins to melt inward and the hole on the side starts to appear. Ryan tosses it toward the trash can after a moment, not bothering to get up when he misses. Someone else will. Or he will later, when he rises. It's all a matter of who and when and time and how. Timing is imperfect sometimes.
Brendon is still silent as Ryan pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. Not notebook paper, something ripped from a journal. There's words on it, he can see. Scribbled in pencil, he thinks. He says nothing when Ryan flicks the lighter again, holds it to the corner. It goes up in flames almost instantly and Ryan lets it burn, watching intently, eyebrows furrowed. Until the fire is licking too close to his fingers and he drops it in the water glass next to him.
"Lyrics?" Brendon asks, speaking finally.
Ryan shakes his head. "Lies."
"Oh." Brendon reaches his hand out for the lighter which Ryan gives to him. He watches as the younger of the pair pulls a joint from his pocket, lights it, sucks in. Oh, so typical. Ryan burns something as a metaphor so Brendon burns something functional.
But Ryan says nothing, accepts the joint when it's passed to him, inhales. "I've got a pocket full of acetone," he mutters to himself, loud enough for Brendon to hear, quiet enough so Brendon knows it's not meant for him.
And the boy says nothing. He's run out of words. Ryan's spent too much time burning them all to ashes.
I don't have to say it for you to hear me. You don't have to hear me to know what I'm thinking. And we don't have to pretend because we're too far gone.
Ryan holds the lighter in his hand, lifts up the soda bottle, smiles as the plastic label starts to shrivel up and die. Brendon watches, silent at first. Still silent when the bottle itself begins to melt inward and the hole on the side starts to appear. Ryan tosses it toward the trash can after a moment, not bothering to get up when he misses. Someone else will. Or he will later, when he rises. It's all a matter of who and when and time and how. Timing is imperfect sometimes.
Brendon is still silent as Ryan pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. Not notebook paper, something ripped from a journal. There's words on it, he can see. Scribbled in pencil, he thinks. He says nothing when Ryan flicks the lighter again, holds it to the corner. It goes up in flames almost instantly and Ryan lets it burn, watching intently, eyebrows furrowed. Until the fire is licking too close to his fingers and he drops it in the water glass next to him.
"Lyrics?" Brendon asks, speaking finally.
Ryan shakes his head. "Lies."
"Oh." Brendon reaches his hand out for the lighter which Ryan gives to him. He watches as the younger of the pair pulls a joint from his pocket, lights it, sucks in. Oh, so typical. Ryan burns something as a metaphor so Brendon burns something functional.
But Ryan says nothing, accepts the joint when it's passed to him, inhales. "I've got a pocket full of acetone," he mutters to himself, loud enough for Brendon to hear, quiet enough so Brendon knows it's not meant for him.
And the boy says nothing. He's run out of words. Ryan's spent too much time burning them all to ashes.