you belong to a simpler time
you belong to a simpler time
(788 words) // (G)
for mar 27 07.
ryan and brendon // before any sort of fame
The first time Brendon does his own laundry, you’re there. Not helping. You’re supposed to be helping, but you can’t seem to stop laughing at him for long enough to do that. Instead, you’ve escaped momentarily, run back up to the fourth floor and his apartment to find his ancient CD player. God, you still called them “boom boxes” when this thing was made. It’s sitting off to the side in his living room, lonely and a bit dejected. All it has is the couch for company, after all. You really should buy it a friend, like a TV or something. Another quick stop by your car for your CDs and you’re back in the cramped basement laundry room.
Without paying attention to Brendon and his lights and his darks, you grin and pop in a new mix. Fuzzy guitar chords playing something that was meant to be synthesized pulls Brendon away from carefully reading the Tide bottle to look at you quizzically. Then it clicks in his head and he begins singing along shortly after you do.
“I heard you on my wireless back in ‘52, lying awake intent on tuning in on you. If I was young, it didn’t stop you coming through…”
You can’t keep it up, though, once Brendon’s falsetto expertly hits the first “oh-a-oh”, so you just giggle and turn it up. Brendon still sings parts like a girl, even if it is a man doing it on this version. In the break between songs, he asks you who it is.
“I know that wasn’t The Buggles,” he says.
“It’s the Presidents of the United States of America,” you tell him, but you’re pretty sure he didn’t hear you, since a cover of “Love Shack” has just begun. There’s more Spastic Dancing than Actual Laundry getting done now, and you feel a little guilty. You’ve been washing your own clothes since you were old enough to carry your full hamper down the stairs (somewhere around eleven, then). Granted, Dad taught you, so you still wash everything together on cold.
What? It works. Nothing’s been ruined yet. Not really.
But Brendon’s pulled you into his dance and you can’t deny him, especially not when you hear the ska cover of “Take On Me”. You bounce around with him, well aware that you both look like idiots. Somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should probably worry about Ms. Four-Oh-Three, Brendon’s nosy neighbor. After all, it would be so very like her to take offence to two boys dancing together in the six-by-six cube filled to the brim with two washers, two dryers, and vague sexual tension.
Which is imagined by her. Of course. And when Brendon’s hips brush against yours and your voice breaks on “you’re all the things I’ve got to remember”, it’s nothing. Of course.
The original version of “When Doves Cry” filters through the speakers, and yeah, you couldn’t get a cover of this, because, come on, it’s Prince. Brendon pulls you into some sort of shuffle-step, slightly off-tempo waltz. The song isn’t even that slow, but you give in anyway. There’s no room to fight him off in here, anyway. He stays holding onto you after the song fades into the fuzz between tracks. You stare at him, and he looks like he’s about to tell you something.
And then “Come on, Eileen” starts with all it’s bass, big-band bravado. His smile is wide and contagious. “Save Ferris!” he cries out before springing back to his earlier energy. He sings directly to you, crooning, as you yank his now-wrinkled clothes out of the twin dryers, folding them best you can.
Even after you’ve unplugged the “boom box” and shoved it at him, piling it on with the clothes, he’s still singing “Cruel Summer”. Even after you’re done struggling with his lock and you’ve both given Ms. Four-Oh-Three the cheesiest, most suggestive smiles you can, he’s still humming “Spirits in the Material World” softly. Even after you’ve put away all of his jeans and hung up his t-shirts (and asserted that nothing’s shrunken or stained), he can’t quite get over the refrain from “You Spin Me Right Round”.
And later, when you’re both curled up on his twin bed, lazing in the warm breeze from the open window, he’s still sighing the last strains of “Don’t You Forget About Me” into your ear. “As you walk on by, will you call my name?”
You nuzzle his neck in return, tired with the late-March sunshine. “Yeah, I will,” you say softly.
“Don’t you forget about me,” he whispers, dropping the singsong quality of his voice into normalcy.
“I won’t,” you say, and it’s solid and pure. It’s a promise.
(788 words) // (G)
for mar 27 07.
ryan and brendon // before any sort of fame
The first time Brendon does his own laundry, you’re there. Not helping. You’re supposed to be helping, but you can’t seem to stop laughing at him for long enough to do that. Instead, you’ve escaped momentarily, run back up to the fourth floor and his apartment to find his ancient CD player. God, you still called them “boom boxes” when this thing was made. It’s sitting off to the side in his living room, lonely and a bit dejected. All it has is the couch for company, after all. You really should buy it a friend, like a TV or something. Another quick stop by your car for your CDs and you’re back in the cramped basement laundry room.
Without paying attention to Brendon and his lights and his darks, you grin and pop in a new mix. Fuzzy guitar chords playing something that was meant to be synthesized pulls Brendon away from carefully reading the Tide bottle to look at you quizzically. Then it clicks in his head and he begins singing along shortly after you do.
“I heard you on my wireless back in ‘52, lying awake intent on tuning in on you. If I was young, it didn’t stop you coming through…”
You can’t keep it up, though, once Brendon’s falsetto expertly hits the first “oh-a-oh”, so you just giggle and turn it up. Brendon still sings parts like a girl, even if it is a man doing it on this version. In the break between songs, he asks you who it is.
“I know that wasn’t The Buggles,” he says.
“It’s the Presidents of the United States of America,” you tell him, but you’re pretty sure he didn’t hear you, since a cover of “Love Shack” has just begun. There’s more Spastic Dancing than Actual Laundry getting done now, and you feel a little guilty. You’ve been washing your own clothes since you were old enough to carry your full hamper down the stairs (somewhere around eleven, then). Granted, Dad taught you, so you still wash everything together on cold.
What? It works. Nothing’s been ruined yet. Not really.
But Brendon’s pulled you into his dance and you can’t deny him, especially not when you hear the ska cover of “Take On Me”. You bounce around with him, well aware that you both look like idiots. Somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should probably worry about Ms. Four-Oh-Three, Brendon’s nosy neighbor. After all, it would be so very like her to take offence to two boys dancing together in the six-by-six cube filled to the brim with two washers, two dryers, and vague sexual tension.
Which is imagined by her. Of course. And when Brendon’s hips brush against yours and your voice breaks on “you’re all the things I’ve got to remember”, it’s nothing. Of course.
The original version of “When Doves Cry” filters through the speakers, and yeah, you couldn’t get a cover of this, because, come on, it’s Prince. Brendon pulls you into some sort of shuffle-step, slightly off-tempo waltz. The song isn’t even that slow, but you give in anyway. There’s no room to fight him off in here, anyway. He stays holding onto you after the song fades into the fuzz between tracks. You stare at him, and he looks like he’s about to tell you something.
And then “Come on, Eileen” starts with all it’s bass, big-band bravado. His smile is wide and contagious. “Save Ferris!” he cries out before springing back to his earlier energy. He sings directly to you, crooning, as you yank his now-wrinkled clothes out of the twin dryers, folding them best you can.
Even after you’ve unplugged the “boom box” and shoved it at him, piling it on with the clothes, he’s still singing “Cruel Summer”. Even after you’re done struggling with his lock and you’ve both given Ms. Four-Oh-Three the cheesiest, most suggestive smiles you can, he’s still humming “Spirits in the Material World” softly. Even after you’ve put away all of his jeans and hung up his t-shirts (and asserted that nothing’s shrunken or stained), he can’t quite get over the refrain from “You Spin Me Right Round”.
And later, when you’re both curled up on his twin bed, lazing in the warm breeze from the open window, he’s still sighing the last strains of “Don’t You Forget About Me” into your ear. “As you walk on by, will you call my name?”
You nuzzle his neck in return, tired with the late-March sunshine. “Yeah, I will,” you say softly.
“Don’t you forget about me,” he whispers, dropping the singsong quality of his voice into normalcy.
“I won’t,” you say, and it’s solid and pure. It’s a promise.