Fic: The Definition of Overthinking It
I'm really, really hoping this doesn't suck. Um.
Title: The Definition of Overthinking It
Author: DF
Fandom: Panic at the Disco
Pairing: Gen, kind of
Summary: On Tuesday, Brendon's going to meet Spencer. On Monday, though, he just plays piano and thinks.
Notes: airgiodslv very kindly agreed to let me play around in her absolutely fabulous Tell Me To Stop verse. Seriously, if you haven't read it, you should. Go. Go now.
Disclaimer: Totally not real. Tell Me To Stop verse belongs to airgiodslv.
Spencer cocks his head, not taking his eyes off of the screen. “Is that what it is for you?” he asks curiously. “Stress relief?”
“More like a release,” Brendon answers. Spencer gets to the end of the level and passes the controller back, taking a moment to stretch out his arms. Brendon punches the button to start and keeps talking, almost thoughtful. “I can let go, give up control for a while, shut my brain off and stop thinking. It gets me out of my head; I need that sometimes.”
~ Tell Me To Stop, by airgiodslv
When Brendon has some free time on Monday, he wanders into one of the practice rooms in the music building. There's generally at least one or two open, and even when there isn't, he's got a key, left over from a few years ago when he used to practice during every spare moment he could find. It was easier than therapy, and a lot more satisfying. There's something about the way his hands ache after he spends too much time playing.
Brendon sits down on the piano bench and absently plunks out a few notes, his fingers running through scales almost of their own volition.
The basics have to come first, he thinks, his hands pausing momentarily. Otherwise you're screwed later on, when you want to do something actually complicated.
He'd been surprised when Ryan had come up to him the other day, and then skeptical when Ryan had started talking about how he had a friend - except that it had turned out that Ryan actually did mean someone else, which was a first. Spencer Smith. Spencer Smith, just out of his last relationship because he doesn't know what he's doing and keeps trying to figure it out with people who aren't into that sort of thing.
It was a shitty picture, but Brendon thinks that he'll recognise Spencer on Tuesday.
Tuesday. God, that's tomorrow.
It's not like there was any question of saying no; Brendon would never force someone to figure all this out on their own. Top or bottom, it doesn't matter; anybody who doesn't know what they're doing is dangerous, to themselves and everybody else. He doesn't think Spencer should have to go through what he did.
He shifts from scales into the first song he ever learned, the chords coming out as stiltedly as if he's eight years old again and trying to practice with fingers that just won't do what they're told.
Twin-kle, twin-kle, lit-tle star, how I won-der what you are.
His freshman-year roommate, Matt the Psych Major, would probably say that once he was on his own, he overcompensated for the previous seventeen years of his life. Too-tight restrictions had impeded his self-awareness, but once they were gone, instead of cautiously testing his boundaries he was intoxicated by the freedom. Something like that, in any case, maybe with even more pretentious phrasing.
Brendon doesn't think he would put it that way, though. It's more that he suddenly had an opportunity to shake out the shiver under his skin, and he tried out a lot of options. It wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done, probably, but he'd just wanted to figure out what he was doing. He'd just wanted to be good at it.
It's like with music, when he practiced at least an hour every day because he was so sick of fumbling over keys and chords. He loved it, but he wanted to be good at it, too, and since everybody told him he had to practice, he did. He practiced until he outgrew the beginner book and the intermediate, too, because when Brendon does something he wants to do it all the way.
It'd not like he set out to be Superbottom, or anything - he takes a moment to imagine just what kind of costume that would entail - it's just that he'd wanted to try everything, find out what he could and couldn't do. And he always, always wanted to make people happy.
He still wants to, but he's learned through trial and error that he can't always, because he's had good partners but he's had not so good partners, too. Maybe that was a mixed blessing, though, because it taught him when to say no. It taught him that sometimes he has to say no.
It's still not something he would wish on Spencer.
Brendon adds in a couple flourishes, until it's a version of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star almost worthy of a grand concert hall. He breaks off in the middle of a measure to play a few classical movements, smoothly segues into a melange of melodies from various Beatles songs. It's not a combination that makes any sort of sense, but he likes the way it sounds.
He's not embarrassed by any of this; he hasn't been in a long time, not since he left his parents' house and realised he wasn't the only one out there who liked to be tied down during sex. He's not a freak, he just likes different things, just like everyone. The only people whose words ever really hurt him are hundreds of miles away.
He finished the last additions to the questionnaire yesterday. He kind of wishes he had thought of it before, with some of his previous boyfriends. It just would've been useful, is all, because in some cases they jumped right in without actually talking about it. Just for the record, that was a bad plan. Brendon likes talking. Talking is important.
There are basics, he thinks. He knows what he's doing. He can do this. He's just thinking too much.
Brendon stretches out his fingers before closing his eyes and putting his hands on the keyboard again. He launches furiously into a song he wrote two years ago, his mouth falling open as he concentrates on the feeling of the piano underneath his fingertips, the keys already slightly warm from his earlier playing. He ups the tempo, leaning towards the piano as his fingers dance over the keys.
Sometimes he thinks if he plays hard enough, he can just lose himself in it, but that only works to a certain extent. If he really wants to let go, he has to put himself entirely in someone else's hands. There's too much control in piano. For now, though, he just shakes his head and plays harder.
"Damn, boy," Marshall says from the doorway, and Brendon laughs, slowing his pace before tapering off completely.
He wipes off his forehead with the back of his hand, surprised to find it sweaty. "Hey, Marsh," he says. "You need the room?"
"Nah, just heard the music. That was pretty sweet." Marshall grins. "You going to teach me that one?"
Brendon shrugs out his shoulders and stands up, pushing back the piano bench. "Nah," he says, smiling. "Just fucking around, you know."
"If you say so." Marshall doesn't push; Brendon likes that in his friends. "Hey, you coming out to lunch with us tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow?" Brendon smiles. "Sorry, I'm busy."
Tuesday. He thinks he might be looking forward to it.
Title: The Definition of Overthinking It
Author: DF
Fandom: Panic at the Disco
Pairing: Gen, kind of
Summary: On Tuesday, Brendon's going to meet Spencer. On Monday, though, he just plays piano and thinks.
Notes: airgiodslv very kindly agreed to let me play around in her absolutely fabulous Tell Me To Stop verse. Seriously, if you haven't read it, you should. Go. Go now.
Disclaimer: Totally not real. Tell Me To Stop verse belongs to airgiodslv.
Spencer cocks his head, not taking his eyes off of the screen. “Is that what it is for you?” he asks curiously. “Stress relief?”
“More like a release,” Brendon answers. Spencer gets to the end of the level and passes the controller back, taking a moment to stretch out his arms. Brendon punches the button to start and keeps talking, almost thoughtful. “I can let go, give up control for a while, shut my brain off and stop thinking. It gets me out of my head; I need that sometimes.”
~ Tell Me To Stop, by airgiodslv
When Brendon has some free time on Monday, he wanders into one of the practice rooms in the music building. There's generally at least one or two open, and even when there isn't, he's got a key, left over from a few years ago when he used to practice during every spare moment he could find. It was easier than therapy, and a lot more satisfying. There's something about the way his hands ache after he spends too much time playing.
Brendon sits down on the piano bench and absently plunks out a few notes, his fingers running through scales almost of their own volition.
The basics have to come first, he thinks, his hands pausing momentarily. Otherwise you're screwed later on, when you want to do something actually complicated.
He'd been surprised when Ryan had come up to him the other day, and then skeptical when Ryan had started talking about how he had a friend - except that it had turned out that Ryan actually did mean someone else, which was a first. Spencer Smith. Spencer Smith, just out of his last relationship because he doesn't know what he's doing and keeps trying to figure it out with people who aren't into that sort of thing.
It was a shitty picture, but Brendon thinks that he'll recognise Spencer on Tuesday.
Tuesday. God, that's tomorrow.
It's not like there was any question of saying no; Brendon would never force someone to figure all this out on their own. Top or bottom, it doesn't matter; anybody who doesn't know what they're doing is dangerous, to themselves and everybody else. He doesn't think Spencer should have to go through what he did.
He shifts from scales into the first song he ever learned, the chords coming out as stiltedly as if he's eight years old again and trying to practice with fingers that just won't do what they're told.
Twin-kle, twin-kle, lit-tle star, how I won-der what you are.
His freshman-year roommate, Matt the Psych Major, would probably say that once he was on his own, he overcompensated for the previous seventeen years of his life. Too-tight restrictions had impeded his self-awareness, but once they were gone, instead of cautiously testing his boundaries he was intoxicated by the freedom. Something like that, in any case, maybe with even more pretentious phrasing.
Brendon doesn't think he would put it that way, though. It's more that he suddenly had an opportunity to shake out the shiver under his skin, and he tried out a lot of options. It wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done, probably, but he'd just wanted to figure out what he was doing. He'd just wanted to be good at it.
It's like with music, when he practiced at least an hour every day because he was so sick of fumbling over keys and chords. He loved it, but he wanted to be good at it, too, and since everybody told him he had to practice, he did. He practiced until he outgrew the beginner book and the intermediate, too, because when Brendon does something he wants to do it all the way.
It'd not like he set out to be Superbottom, or anything - he takes a moment to imagine just what kind of costume that would entail - it's just that he'd wanted to try everything, find out what he could and couldn't do. And he always, always wanted to make people happy.
He still wants to, but he's learned through trial and error that he can't always, because he's had good partners but he's had not so good partners, too. Maybe that was a mixed blessing, though, because it taught him when to say no. It taught him that sometimes he has to say no.
It's still not something he would wish on Spencer.
Brendon adds in a couple flourishes, until it's a version of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star almost worthy of a grand concert hall. He breaks off in the middle of a measure to play a few classical movements, smoothly segues into a melange of melodies from various Beatles songs. It's not a combination that makes any sort of sense, but he likes the way it sounds.
He's not embarrassed by any of this; he hasn't been in a long time, not since he left his parents' house and realised he wasn't the only one out there who liked to be tied down during sex. He's not a freak, he just likes different things, just like everyone. The only people whose words ever really hurt him are hundreds of miles away.
He finished the last additions to the questionnaire yesterday. He kind of wishes he had thought of it before, with some of his previous boyfriends. It just would've been useful, is all, because in some cases they jumped right in without actually talking about it. Just for the record, that was a bad plan. Brendon likes talking. Talking is important.
There are basics, he thinks. He knows what he's doing. He can do this. He's just thinking too much.
Brendon stretches out his fingers before closing his eyes and putting his hands on the keyboard again. He launches furiously into a song he wrote two years ago, his mouth falling open as he concentrates on the feeling of the piano underneath his fingertips, the keys already slightly warm from his earlier playing. He ups the tempo, leaning towards the piano as his fingers dance over the keys.
Sometimes he thinks if he plays hard enough, he can just lose himself in it, but that only works to a certain extent. If he really wants to let go, he has to put himself entirely in someone else's hands. There's too much control in piano. For now, though, he just shakes his head and plays harder.
"Damn, boy," Marshall says from the doorway, and Brendon laughs, slowing his pace before tapering off completely.
He wipes off his forehead with the back of his hand, surprised to find it sweaty. "Hey, Marsh," he says. "You need the room?"
"Nah, just heard the music. That was pretty sweet." Marshall grins. "You going to teach me that one?"
Brendon shrugs out his shoulders and stands up, pushing back the piano bench. "Nah," he says, smiling. "Just fucking around, you know."
"If you say so." Marshall doesn't push; Brendon likes that in his friends. "Hey, you coming out to lunch with us tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow?" Brendon smiles. "Sorry, I'm busy."
Tuesday. He thinks he might be looking forward to it.