fic: Pig Latin
Title: Pig Latin
Author: adellyna
Pairing: Alex & Ryland beffie gen fic.
Rating: G
Word Count: 750
Summary: Pointless beffie conversations.
Author's Notes: I really just wanted random, pointless bff conversations. Thanks to airgiodslv for making sure all of the letters were in the right place.
one.
"Okay," Alex says as soon as Ryland picks up. He doesn't bother saying hello. "Okay, so, I was thinking? For Viola?"
"Slower?" Ryland can reach his guitar from the toilet, so he does. "Except in that one spot? Like, uh." He sets his fingers on the strings and strums them in the same chords they'd decided before, but lingering more here, speeding it up there. "Like that?"
"Yeah," Alex says. "Yeah, just like that. I'll write it down. I had this dream."
"I'll call you back," Ryland says. "I'm kind of taking a shit."
two.
Everyone is very drunk. "You're so fucked up right now," Ryland says. He lolls his head back on Alex's chest and peers up at him; there are mirrors on the ceiling and lights reflected in them like fireflies or far-away stars. "I don't think I've ever seen you this fucked up."
"Maybe I look so fucked up because you're seeing two of me," Alex suggests. "Posterboy. Sobriety."
"Pot," Ryland intones solemnly. "Kettle."
"You know what we need?" Alex gestures grandly with the glass in his hand. The stalwart slivers of unmelted ice clink feebly against the sides.
"Gabe?"
"More tequila," Alex corrects. He gestures again, and some of the cold condensation on the bottom of the glass drips off and falls into Ryland's eye.
"S'what I said," Ryland says. He's too fucked up to wipe at his eye, so he just blinks until he can't feel the cold anymore.
three.
"Those jeans make your ass look fat," Ryland volunteers. He flops onto the couch and props his feet up on the arm. He's wearing shoes, so he doesn't quite fit, and he has to bend his knees the barest of degrees. It is uncomfortable in the way nearly everything is uncomfortable when you're 6'5.
"Really?" Alex frowns and swings the bathroom door open, trying to turn and look at his ass in the mirror and angle the door just right all at the same time so he can see his reflection as more than a dark blur. "They're kind of loose."
"Enormous," Ryland says. "I'm sickened by you, frankly."
"Meh," Alex shrugs. "I'll just untuck my shirt."
"Your tie is sloppy too," Ryland says. "Remember when you used to take pride in your appearance?"
"Remember when I punched you in the face?"
"Um." Ryland tilts his head, blows his hair out of his eyes when it falls there. "No?"
"Give it a minute."
four.
Ryland slides the curtain on his bunk open and twists around until he can poke at Alex's. "I've been thinking," he says, once he's manuevered it open a few inches.
"No," Alex says. He slides his curtain shut again with a decisive rattle.
"It's all wrong," Ryland says. "We need to-"
"Stop it," Alex yawns. "The song is perfect. Leave it alone."
"It has to be good," Ryland insists. "I think we should drop the second verse. I could write something better."
Alex slides his curtain back open and sighs, rubbing blearily at his eyes. "Perfect is better than good. Asshole. What the fuck time is it?"
Ryland's hand is dangling down towards the floor, his fingers getting cold and a little tingly from the rush of blood. He turns his wrist toward Alex's bunk and tries to angle his watch towards whatever light there may be.
"God," Alex moans pitifully. "It's only eight. Ryland."
five.
"Would you rather be blind or deaf?"
"Easy," Ryland shrugs. "Blind. I can live without your stupid face, but what's life without The Beatles?"
"Same," Alex says. He tucks his fingers under the pull-down shade on the bus window and lifts it a few inches like the same sparse, redundant landscape they've been blurring by for hours will suddenly reveal something new.
"Would you rather," Ryland asks, pausing to think of a question. "Be in Panic or be in Fall Out Boy?"
Alex scrunches up his face and lets the blinds drop. "Panic. I'm two of Patrick."
"But Ryan's dick is bigger than yours," Ryland says. "How would you live with the shame?"
"Easy," Alex says. "We'd just go on tour with you."
Author: adellyna
Pairing: Alex & Ryland beffie gen fic.
Rating: G
Word Count: 750
Summary: Pointless beffie conversations.
Author's Notes: I really just wanted random, pointless bff conversations. Thanks to airgiodslv for making sure all of the letters were in the right place.
one.
"Okay," Alex says as soon as Ryland picks up. He doesn't bother saying hello. "Okay, so, I was thinking? For Viola?"
"Slower?" Ryland can reach his guitar from the toilet, so he does. "Except in that one spot? Like, uh." He sets his fingers on the strings and strums them in the same chords they'd decided before, but lingering more here, speeding it up there. "Like that?"
"Yeah," Alex says. "Yeah, just like that. I'll write it down. I had this dream."
"I'll call you back," Ryland says. "I'm kind of taking a shit."
two.
Everyone is very drunk. "You're so fucked up right now," Ryland says. He lolls his head back on Alex's chest and peers up at him; there are mirrors on the ceiling and lights reflected in them like fireflies or far-away stars. "I don't think I've ever seen you this fucked up."
"Maybe I look so fucked up because you're seeing two of me," Alex suggests. "Posterboy. Sobriety."
"Pot," Ryland intones solemnly. "Kettle."
"You know what we need?" Alex gestures grandly with the glass in his hand. The stalwart slivers of unmelted ice clink feebly against the sides.
"Gabe?"
"More tequila," Alex corrects. He gestures again, and some of the cold condensation on the bottom of the glass drips off and falls into Ryland's eye.
"S'what I said," Ryland says. He's too fucked up to wipe at his eye, so he just blinks until he can't feel the cold anymore.
three.
"Those jeans make your ass look fat," Ryland volunteers. He flops onto the couch and props his feet up on the arm. He's wearing shoes, so he doesn't quite fit, and he has to bend his knees the barest of degrees. It is uncomfortable in the way nearly everything is uncomfortable when you're 6'5.
"Really?" Alex frowns and swings the bathroom door open, trying to turn and look at his ass in the mirror and angle the door just right all at the same time so he can see his reflection as more than a dark blur. "They're kind of loose."
"Enormous," Ryland says. "I'm sickened by you, frankly."
"Meh," Alex shrugs. "I'll just untuck my shirt."
"Your tie is sloppy too," Ryland says. "Remember when you used to take pride in your appearance?"
"Remember when I punched you in the face?"
"Um." Ryland tilts his head, blows his hair out of his eyes when it falls there. "No?"
"Give it a minute."
four.
Ryland slides the curtain on his bunk open and twists around until he can poke at Alex's. "I've been thinking," he says, once he's manuevered it open a few inches.
"No," Alex says. He slides his curtain shut again with a decisive rattle.
"It's all wrong," Ryland says. "We need to-"
"Stop it," Alex yawns. "The song is perfect. Leave it alone."
"It has to be good," Ryland insists. "I think we should drop the second verse. I could write something better."
Alex slides his curtain back open and sighs, rubbing blearily at his eyes. "Perfect is better than good. Asshole. What the fuck time is it?"
Ryland's hand is dangling down towards the floor, his fingers getting cold and a little tingly from the rush of blood. He turns his wrist toward Alex's bunk and tries to angle his watch towards whatever light there may be.
"God," Alex moans pitifully. "It's only eight. Ryland."
five.
"Would you rather be blind or deaf?"
"Easy," Ryland shrugs. "Blind. I can live without your stupid face, but what's life without The Beatles?"
"Same," Alex says. He tucks his fingers under the pull-down shade on the bus window and lifts it a few inches like the same sparse, redundant landscape they've been blurring by for hours will suddenly reveal something new.
"Would you rather," Ryland asks, pausing to think of a question. "Be in Panic or be in Fall Out Boy?"
Alex scrunches up his face and lets the blinds drop. "Panic. I'm two of Patrick."
"But Ryan's dick is bigger than yours," Ryland says. "How would you live with the shame?"
"Easy," Alex says. "We'd just go on tour with you."