(no subject)
Title: Company
Rating: PG
Pairing: UST!Jon/Ryan
POV: Jon's
Summary: It's late, near three in the morning; he wakes up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, curses softly at how arctic cold the wooden cabin floors are.
Disclaimer: Didn't happen, fake!, don't google yourself + your friends
Author Notes: Written for flimsy's Almost Kisses meme.
It's late, near three in the morning; he wakes up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, curses softly at how arctic cold the wooden cabin floors are. The others (read Spencer) have the heat cranked over seventy-five and he's sweating under his top sheet, covers long kicked to the foot of the bed. He kicks them off and throws his old Northwestern shirt onto the floor. The cabin smells like summer attic, stuffy with just the hint of fiberglass, and he's not going to be able to sleep.
Jon hates three in the morning, how everything slows down to a slow drip and there's no sound but his breathing. Even Brendon and Spencer dueling out Guitar Hero seems muted and far away, even if it's just in the living room. He debates calling Pete and complaining about how the heating cost is going to bankrupt Decaydance, that Vegas boys would give any tight-fisted Chicago father a heartattack. It's only forty degrees outside, and Ryan insisted on fancy coverlets and flannel sheets.
He steps out of his bedroom and down the stairs. Brendon cries out as end-game music plays, somewhere in the dark and behind a half-closed door. The time in the cabin, when they spend days waiting for Ryan to come out with something to work on, so they all can write the music, has done wonders for Spencer's game. No one can touch him.
His throat itches, too much dry heat, so he goes into the kitchen, turns the overhead light on without thinking. Brendon has a bad habit of leaving his shoes, muddy from the trails, in the middle of the kitchen floor, and Jon's too annoyed at being up at three in the morning, trying to ignore the damp feeling at the small of his back, to risk tripping over another one.
Jon doesn't see the dark shape, slumped in the breakfast nook, until Ryan's suddenly swearing and stretching.
"Fuck," Ryan breathes, face scrunched up towards the overhead light. He stretches tooth-pick arms over his head, and Jon's eyes adjust in time to see the large blue stain on the web of Ryan's thumb, stain running down and onto the sleeve of his long-sleeve henley. "What time is it?"
He pours himself a glass of water and grabs a bottle of juice, orange-mango-strawberry or some unholy combination for Ryan without being asked, and sits down at the nook before he answers, "Three-sixteen."
Ryan opened the bottle and drinks straight from it, even though he and Brendon are supposed to be sharing the juice. He nods. Jon taps his foot, knee brushing Ryan's. It's a tiny table, intended for couple's breakfast, his and hers coffee. They've tucked two chairs around it, use it as a meeting place when Ryan wants to talk about his vision. Jon always sits this close.
The Guitar Hero game starts up again, opening lines of Kansas undercutting the silence.
There's a laptop pushed onto Spencer's side of the table, purple notebook with black sharpie lightening bolts on top of it. Ryan was writing on a table napkin, best he can tell, with the uniball uncapped and leaking. There's a red patch on the younger man's face, imprint of the thermal material of his henley shirt, from falling asleep on his arm. Jon wraps his hand around his glass, so he won't reach over, bridge the foot of space between them, and see what it feels like.
"You should get some sleep, in your real bed," he says instead.
Ryan makes a face. "I need to get this done. I'm almost finished with this song. I just need to get it out."
Jon nods and doesn't look down at the napkin, where most of the words have been swallowed by loose blue ink, or ask what this song is about. He knows better by now, that Ryan never shares a song before he's ready.
"Do you want to see the movie again? I can probably get those two to give up the television," he says and takes a sip of his water, makes a face because it's a little too warm with the overheated cabin air. He doesn't want to watch Ryan's cracked out wolf movie, with Angela Lansbury and unsubtle metaphors, but he'll do it if it will help words hit the page.
Ryan doesn't answer right away, getting up from the table to grab a glass. He pulls a handful of ice out of the freezer, reaching in with inkstained hands instead of using the dispenser. "I don't think it's helping anymore," he says, voice soft. He drops half the handful into his glass before moving back to the table. He dropped two cubes into Jon's water and leaned against the table, closer now.
"I don't think it's working at all," Ryan whispers, barely loud enough to hear over the hum of the fridge, Brendon finally winning a game on Spencer. "I'm trying to read her book, and it keeps putting me to sleep." He tucks the last cube into his mouth.
Jon nods. They've all talked about it, how this album is like walking through drying cement, just not with Ryan. He's got something around the eyes that makes him-all of them, really-want to keep the truth hidden just long enough. "You have to let it come naturally."
Ryan crunches the ice cube instead of answering, hard sounds that make Jon's teeth ache just hearing it.
"We could hook up my portable DVD in your room. Maybe you could listen to the movie when you're sleeping and absorb its message." Jon leans his leg against Ryan's, does his best to look pleading. "Sleep might be your missing variable."
A white piece of ice sticks out from between Ryan's mouth, makes his lower lip look darker in the light, and Jon tries not to watch it, study the way the ice makes his mouth wet. He sucks it back in and then there's a wet crunch.
Jon doesn't watch that either.
"Spencer wouldn't like that." Ryan's wet mouth is almost smiling. They're bunking together, across the hall from Jon and Brendon. "He's not going to be up too much longer."
"Then you can stay in my room. Brendon wouldn't mind." Jon says it before he thinks, and he tries not to wince at himself. Stupid thing to offer.
"Maybe, but then Spencer would bitch about Brendon snoring." Ryan goes to rub his face with his now-wet hand, and Jon grabs it without thinking. It's cold, a shock just like the floorboards, and Ryan's laughing softly, head sort of leaned down. He can almost smell the juice now, more strawberry than mango-orange.
"You're going to rub ink on yourself," Jon whispers, sort of lame considering the inkstain on Ryan's shirt, the lost lyrics.
Ryan laughs softly, and he sleeps closer, breath still cool from the ice.
Jon almost leans up, but Brendon's laughing in the hall, crowing his victory over Spencer. You owe me pie, Smith, don't even think you'll get out of it. The hall light flicks on, and there's maybe ten seconds before the rest of their band joins them.
Ryan pulls back, grabs his ruined napkin, and gives Jon a half-smile with his still too red, still wet lips. "Television's free," he says before grabbing his glass and his juice and padding out of the kitchen in black-socked feet.
Rating: PG
Pairing: UST!Jon/Ryan
POV: Jon's
Summary: It's late, near three in the morning; he wakes up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, curses softly at how arctic cold the wooden cabin floors are.
Disclaimer: Didn't happen, fake!, don't google yourself + your friends
Author Notes: Written for flimsy's Almost Kisses meme.
It's late, near three in the morning; he wakes up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, curses softly at how arctic cold the wooden cabin floors are. The others (read Spencer) have the heat cranked over seventy-five and he's sweating under his top sheet, covers long kicked to the foot of the bed. He kicks them off and throws his old Northwestern shirt onto the floor. The cabin smells like summer attic, stuffy with just the hint of fiberglass, and he's not going to be able to sleep.
Jon hates three in the morning, how everything slows down to a slow drip and there's no sound but his breathing. Even Brendon and Spencer dueling out Guitar Hero seems muted and far away, even if it's just in the living room. He debates calling Pete and complaining about how the heating cost is going to bankrupt Decaydance, that Vegas boys would give any tight-fisted Chicago father a heartattack. It's only forty degrees outside, and Ryan insisted on fancy coverlets and flannel sheets.
He steps out of his bedroom and down the stairs. Brendon cries out as end-game music plays, somewhere in the dark and behind a half-closed door. The time in the cabin, when they spend days waiting for Ryan to come out with something to work on, so they all can write the music, has done wonders for Spencer's game. No one can touch him.
His throat itches, too much dry heat, so he goes into the kitchen, turns the overhead light on without thinking. Brendon has a bad habit of leaving his shoes, muddy from the trails, in the middle of the kitchen floor, and Jon's too annoyed at being up at three in the morning, trying to ignore the damp feeling at the small of his back, to risk tripping over another one.
Jon doesn't see the dark shape, slumped in the breakfast nook, until Ryan's suddenly swearing and stretching.
"Fuck," Ryan breathes, face scrunched up towards the overhead light. He stretches tooth-pick arms over his head, and Jon's eyes adjust in time to see the large blue stain on the web of Ryan's thumb, stain running down and onto the sleeve of his long-sleeve henley. "What time is it?"
He pours himself a glass of water and grabs a bottle of juice, orange-mango-strawberry or some unholy combination for Ryan without being asked, and sits down at the nook before he answers, "Three-sixteen."
Ryan opened the bottle and drinks straight from it, even though he and Brendon are supposed to be sharing the juice. He nods. Jon taps his foot, knee brushing Ryan's. It's a tiny table, intended for couple's breakfast, his and hers coffee. They've tucked two chairs around it, use it as a meeting place when Ryan wants to talk about his vision. Jon always sits this close.
The Guitar Hero game starts up again, opening lines of Kansas undercutting the silence.
There's a laptop pushed onto Spencer's side of the table, purple notebook with black sharpie lightening bolts on top of it. Ryan was writing on a table napkin, best he can tell, with the uniball uncapped and leaking. There's a red patch on the younger man's face, imprint of the thermal material of his henley shirt, from falling asleep on his arm. Jon wraps his hand around his glass, so he won't reach over, bridge the foot of space between them, and see what it feels like.
"You should get some sleep, in your real bed," he says instead.
Ryan makes a face. "I need to get this done. I'm almost finished with this song. I just need to get it out."
Jon nods and doesn't look down at the napkin, where most of the words have been swallowed by loose blue ink, or ask what this song is about. He knows better by now, that Ryan never shares a song before he's ready.
"Do you want to see the movie again? I can probably get those two to give up the television," he says and takes a sip of his water, makes a face because it's a little too warm with the overheated cabin air. He doesn't want to watch Ryan's cracked out wolf movie, with Angela Lansbury and unsubtle metaphors, but he'll do it if it will help words hit the page.
Ryan doesn't answer right away, getting up from the table to grab a glass. He pulls a handful of ice out of the freezer, reaching in with inkstained hands instead of using the dispenser. "I don't think it's helping anymore," he says, voice soft. He drops half the handful into his glass before moving back to the table. He dropped two cubes into Jon's water and leaned against the table, closer now.
"I don't think it's working at all," Ryan whispers, barely loud enough to hear over the hum of the fridge, Brendon finally winning a game on Spencer. "I'm trying to read her book, and it keeps putting me to sleep." He tucks the last cube into his mouth.
Jon nods. They've all talked about it, how this album is like walking through drying cement, just not with Ryan. He's got something around the eyes that makes him-all of them, really-want to keep the truth hidden just long enough. "You have to let it come naturally."
Ryan crunches the ice cube instead of answering, hard sounds that make Jon's teeth ache just hearing it.
"We could hook up my portable DVD in your room. Maybe you could listen to the movie when you're sleeping and absorb its message." Jon leans his leg against Ryan's, does his best to look pleading. "Sleep might be your missing variable."
A white piece of ice sticks out from between Ryan's mouth, makes his lower lip look darker in the light, and Jon tries not to watch it, study the way the ice makes his mouth wet. He sucks it back in and then there's a wet crunch.
Jon doesn't watch that either.
"Spencer wouldn't like that." Ryan's wet mouth is almost smiling. They're bunking together, across the hall from Jon and Brendon. "He's not going to be up too much longer."
"Then you can stay in my room. Brendon wouldn't mind." Jon says it before he thinks, and he tries not to wince at himself. Stupid thing to offer.
"Maybe, but then Spencer would bitch about Brendon snoring." Ryan goes to rub his face with his now-wet hand, and Jon grabs it without thinking. It's cold, a shock just like the floorboards, and Ryan's laughing softly, head sort of leaned down. He can almost smell the juice now, more strawberry than mango-orange.
"You're going to rub ink on yourself," Jon whispers, sort of lame considering the inkstain on Ryan's shirt, the lost lyrics.
Ryan laughs softly, and he sleeps closer, breath still cool from the ice.
Jon almost leans up, but Brendon's laughing in the hall, crowing his victory over Spencer. You owe me pie, Smith, don't even think you'll get out of it. The hall light flicks on, and there's maybe ten seconds before the rest of their band joins them.
Ryan pulls back, grabs his ruined napkin, and gives Jon a half-smile with his still too red, still wet lips. "Television's free," he says before grabbing his glass and his juice and padding out of the kitchen in black-socked feet.