Frosted Panes (standalone)
Title: Frosted Panes (standalone)
Author: ivesia19 / Sara
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (really vague Jon/Spencer)
POV: 3rd limited (Brendon)
Summary: When Brendon wakes up, hitting the alarm on his cell phone, he realizes that it’s March 25. He realizes that it’s been a year since the last album, and something inside of him echoes and aches.
Disclaimer: The boys belong to themselves (and possibly each other)
Author Notes: Based off of what I theorize recent events could be. Originally this was a drabble, but considering there was a fair amount of interest, and I skipped class today, I expanded it. Still pretty much a drabble though, tbh.
---
When Brendon closes his eyes, he sees closed doors. He sees winding roads and flickering bonfires. He sees mountain hiking paths. He sees blurred smiles and overexposed lighting.
He sees them with his eyes closed because that’s the only way to see it at all. He wasn’t there.
Obsessively, he checks Ryan’s blogs, his stupid tweets, clearing the memory on his browser each time. For some reason, it feels like the right thing to do.
He reads the words, sees the picture as an outsider, and he wonders when he became one.
Ryan’s words used to be his, only his, but now with a stream of jumbled thoughts and random quotes (things that make Ryan feel; things that make Brendon wonder why) Brendon doesn’t have that anymore.
The only words of Ryan’s that Brendon has now are the sporadic text messages. Messages that say space and working out thoughts, working out feelings and laying low. Messages that make Brendon think that, if anything, all of this has been a set back.
He can’t remember the last time he saw Ryan; the last time he saw the way his hair falls just so, framing his face, when he ducks his head, smiling; the last time he felt the way their lips would fit together, perfectly. He can’t remember when, before it all happened certainly, but he can still remember.
The way that Ryan looks after he comes is burned into Brendon’s mind, that soft, open gaze. He knows still what Ryan feels like, tastes like, smells like, but it’s been three weeks and Brendon hasn’t seen him.
He wonders if Ryan even knows how long it’s been.
Brendon, Brendon though, he watches the clock, eyes heavy. He hears each tick.
---
Dylan is scratching at the closed door, and Brendon lets out a huffed breath of annoyance, not really wanting to get out of bed. He had been taking a nap, Dylan curled up warm against him, but it didn’t last long with Dylan’s sharp nails now scratch scratch scratching at the bottom of the door.
“Hang on one second,” Brendon blearily mumbles, throwing the heavy covers off of himself. He slips off the bed and pads across the thick carpet. The floor in Ryan’s new bedroom is hardwood floors, wood floors that are uneven, and the only time that Brendon went up there, he came away with a splinter in his foot.
Brendon likes the feel of carpet underneath his feet, but it’s still a little foreign, a little bit like childhood after months of touring and cabins and Ryan. It’s strange.
He makes it to the door and opens it for Dylan to leave, but the dog just stares at him, unmoving.
“You wanted to leave,” Brendon reminds his dog. He feels irritation build up and nudges her lightly with his foot. “You were scratching the hell out of my door to get out. Go.”
Dylan cocks her head to the side before nuzzling against Brendon’s bare leg. That leg that was just pushing her to leave. It only takes a second of this to make Brendon’s annoyance dissipate, and he sinks down to the floor, the fluffy carpet molding around his knees as he scratches behind Dylan’s ears.
She leans into the touch.
“I don’t get it,” he says. “You say you want to leave but then you don’t.”
A wet tongue licks at Brendon’s thumb, and he smiles, the first time in a while.
It helps.
He picks himself up off the floor and starts to pick up the clothes he took off before his nap. He never could sleep well in clothing.
Dylan waits for him by the door, her tail swishing back and forth, but it’s so thin that Brendon can almost hear the sharp cut of the air.
“You know, you’re right,” Brendon says, pulling on his shirt. It seems a little dirty, so he takes it off again, throwing it in the corner, and he goes to search for another. “I should be getting up. Don’t want to waste my day doing nothing.” He pulls a shirt out of a drawer, a drawer that the last time they came back from tour, months ago, he had just dumped the clean clothes from his suitcase in.
His hand hits something that feels clean and he pulls it on, his hand smoothing down the cotton before he realizes that the shirt is a v-neck, and his hands stop.
Brendon doesn’t own any v-necks.
He plays at the neckline, wondering for a second just how pathetically sad it would be if he kept the shirt on, wondering if that would make him what he always claimed he wouldn’t turn into. After all, he had promised Ryan that.
The shirt ends up in a pile in the corner, draping over the shirt that Brendon had worn earlier that day, the pale color of the v-neck standing out starkly against the dark blue of Brendon’s shirt.
“Come on,” he tells Dylan, leaving the room, turning the lights off after he passes through the doorway. “Let’s get you some dinner.” He smiles down at his dog, a weird, almost twisted smile. “I don’t need to wear a shirt in my own damn house.”
---
Spencer visits a lot, and like most nights, he stops by in the early evening.
“I’m bored,” Spencer says without a preamble as Brendon opens the door. “I don’t know how I can move to Los Angeles and always be bored, but I am.”
Brendon stands to the side to let Spencer in, following him to the family room.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” Brendon asks, going to stand by the shelf of DVDs. “We could play video games or something.” He shrugs. “Get drunk. I have some booze, if you want.”
Spencer settles down on the couch. “Why don’t we try to write some music,” he suggests. His voice sounds calm and perfectly normal, but for some reason, the air around Brendon grows heavy. “I mean, Ryan and Jon are up in the mountains banging away on a fucking drum all night.” He looks away, looks to the side, and Brendon doesn’t need to see Spencer’s face to see the expression there. It’s the one he sees on himself all the time. “Who says we can’t work on stuff too?”
Brendon leaves the DVDs, leaves the video games and distractions behind and he sits down on the couch next to Spencer. He doesn’t really know what to say.
“I have my guitar,” he says after a moment. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite fully manifest. “I have drums too. And a cello.” He laughs, but it’s not happy. “I have a whole music room set up.”
“I know,” Spencer says.
The silence hangs between them, and neither one of them is getting up off the couch. Spencer doesn’t ask to see the instruments, and Brendon doesn’t offer. They just sit there.
“I could go for a movie,” Spencer says, breaking the silence.
Brendon nods, getting up from the couch. “Something funny?” He moves towards the DVDs, fingers playing over the smooth edges of the cases.
“Something fucking depressing,” Spencer responds. “Something that doesn’t make any god damn sense.” He looks up, his blue eyes so sharp. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Brendon.”
---
When Brendon wakes up, hitting the alarm on his cell phone, he realizes that it’s March 25. He realizes that it’s been a year since the last album, and something inside of him echoes and aches.
He thinks losing the feeling of feeling unique. He thinks if love is not enough. He thinks if the sun would come out and sing with me.
He thinks that he hasn’t heard from Ryan in far too long.
Even the text messages have stopped, those twisted sentences, the Wentzian phrasing.
It’s been a year, and now, more than ever, more than when they got done with their first headlining tour and were recognized by strangers for the first time, Brendon thinks things have changed for me, but he can’t find it in himself to finish the lyric.
---
It seems wrong, it seems so wrong for a year to pass and to not celebrate with Ryan, to not share it with him again, but Brendon stays in his house on March 25th, smoking up with Spencer, pretending to be happy for their success when they’re both thinking the same thing.
The same thing but different names.
It isn’t until Saturday, the 28th, that Brendon finds himself in his car. It isn’t until then that Brendon drives up the winding road through the mountains. He thinks that maybe he should play music in the background, because music is always there, has always been there, but he turns off the radio and lets the silence filter in from outside, only the rush of wind and the sound of tires on uneven roads filling the space.
He makes it halfway to Ryan’s house before he pulls over to the side of the road.
He turns on his signal and pulls into a scenic overlook spot.
It’s dark outside, and far below him, Brendon can see the bright lights of the city. He can see the movement in the flickering, and it reminds him painfully of Vegas.
Things were so much easier then.
He stands there for a while, ten minutes, maybe fifteen, just watching the lights, letting his eyes blur until the colors below bleed into each other, and for some reason that makes Brendon think of Ryan’s sharp collarbone. It makes him think of Ryan’s fingers and his breath hot against Brendon’s neck. It makes him think of stuttered words and shallow thrusts.
It makes him think too much, so he gets in his car and drives back home, leaving the lights of the city below him, leaving Ryan’s house behind him.
---
His house is quiet when he gets back, but he didn’t expect it to be any other way. He doesn’t live with Shane anymore. He doesn’t have Ryan and Spencer crashing on blow-up beds. He doesn’t have anyone but his dogs and the occasional hookup when he can’t bear the thought of sleeping alone again.
He toes off his shoes and locks the door behind him, throwing his keys on the counter, thinking about heading straight to bed, telling himself that he will not, under any circumstances, go online, but then he walks into the living room and his thoughts are disrupted by a dim light in the corner.
“I still have a key,” Ryan says.
He’s curled up on Brendon’s armchair, his long legs tucked underneath himself, and he doesn’t look as composed as Brendon’s been imagining all these long weeks.
“I kept it,” Ryan explains. “I don’t know if Spencer gave his back or if you wanted it, but I kept it.”
His eyes are hesitant. His hands are folded together, and he’s wearing a soft, faded shirt that Brendon can remember them picking up in some vintage store when they were on the road.
Brendon doesn’t know how to start. He knew that eventually they’d have to talk again, people are expecting a third album, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he ends up saying the truth.
“I drove halfway to your house right now before I turned around.”
Ryan looks at him. His expression is serious, and Brendon can remember a time when a smile curled at the edges. He thinks he can still possibly see it. “It’s a good thing you did,” Ryan says. “I’ve been waiting for a while.”
Brendon wonders how long Ryan’s been there, how long he’s been sitting in that chair - maybe since moments after Brendon pulled out of the garage, but there’s no way of knowing.
“I would have waited longer,” Ryan says.
Waiting. Brendon knows about that.
“Why are you here, Ryan?” Brendon asks. He’s still standing on the outskirts of the living room, not trusting himself to step any closer.
“Do you know it’s been a year since Pretty.Odd.?” Ryan asks, not really answering Brendon’s questions, but Brendon’s used to that by now.
But that doesn’t mean that he has to stand for it. “Yes,” he says, “and three days, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
Ryan’s fingers unfold and pick at a loose string on his shirt. It’s dangling off the deep v-neck. “It made me think,” Ryan says. “It made me remember.” He pulls at the thread. “It made me listen.”
Brendon scoffs. “You know, Ryan, for once you should just say what the fuck you mean.”
Ryan looks up at Brendon, but his face doesn’t show any signs of irritation or outrage or annoyance. Instead, he smiles. “I know. That’s the whole point.”
Brendon doesn’t get it.
“Can you just come here?” Ryan asks. He doesn’t move from his chair, but he uncurls his legs and leans forward. “Brendon, come here.”
He can’t stop his feet, doesn’t even try to, and before he knows it, he’s standing in front of Ryan.
Ryan’s arms reach out and circle around Brendon’s waist. He pulls himself up, his breath ghosting hot against Brendon’s chest. “I don’t know why I do it,” he says, words muffled against cotton. “I don’t know, but I’m sorry.”
Brendon’s breath hitches. Those words shouldn’t mean anything after nearly a month.
“I’m sorry,” Ryan repeats, pulling Brendon down, curling against the side until they’re both sitting on the chair, their knees touching, Ryan’s hands still clinging to Brendon’s t-shirt, Ryan’s lips brushing over Brendon’s neck.
He repeats the words, and Brendon wonders how long Ryan’ll keep the mantra up.
Brendon wants to say I know. He wants to scream don’t leave me. He wants to beg stay with me. Be with me. He wants to, but he doesn’t.
He just lets Ryan curl himself around him.
“I have a song almost done,” Ryan says quietly, his voice right by Brendon’s ear. “I tried recording a demo.”
That something inside Brendon stings again. “I know, I read it on your twitter.” He’s not even embarrassed, because it’s not like Ryan didn’t already know.
“I wrote it for you,” Ryan tells him. “I don’t want you to forget that. I write everything for you. Always.”
Brendon hums, doubt still swirling in his stomach.
Ryan repeats it. “It’s for you.”
---
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Author: ivesia19 / Sara
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (really vague Jon/Spencer)
POV: 3rd limited (Brendon)
Summary: When Brendon wakes up, hitting the alarm on his cell phone, he realizes that it’s March 25. He realizes that it’s been a year since the last album, and something inside of him echoes and aches.
Disclaimer: The boys belong to themselves (and possibly each other)
Author Notes: Based off of what I theorize recent events could be. Originally this was a drabble, but considering there was a fair amount of interest, and I skipped class today, I expanded it. Still pretty much a drabble though, tbh.
---
When Brendon closes his eyes, he sees closed doors. He sees winding roads and flickering bonfires. He sees mountain hiking paths. He sees blurred smiles and overexposed lighting.
He sees them with his eyes closed because that’s the only way to see it at all. He wasn’t there.
Obsessively, he checks Ryan’s blogs, his stupid tweets, clearing the memory on his browser each time. For some reason, it feels like the right thing to do.
He reads the words, sees the picture as an outsider, and he wonders when he became one.
Ryan’s words used to be his, only his, but now with a stream of jumbled thoughts and random quotes (things that make Ryan feel; things that make Brendon wonder why) Brendon doesn’t have that anymore.
The only words of Ryan’s that Brendon has now are the sporadic text messages. Messages that say space and working out thoughts, working out feelings and laying low. Messages that make Brendon think that, if anything, all of this has been a set back.
He can’t remember the last time he saw Ryan; the last time he saw the way his hair falls just so, framing his face, when he ducks his head, smiling; the last time he felt the way their lips would fit together, perfectly. He can’t remember when, before it all happened certainly, but he can still remember.
The way that Ryan looks after he comes is burned into Brendon’s mind, that soft, open gaze. He knows still what Ryan feels like, tastes like, smells like, but it’s been three weeks and Brendon hasn’t seen him.
He wonders if Ryan even knows how long it’s been.
Brendon, Brendon though, he watches the clock, eyes heavy. He hears each tick.
---
Dylan is scratching at the closed door, and Brendon lets out a huffed breath of annoyance, not really wanting to get out of bed. He had been taking a nap, Dylan curled up warm against him, but it didn’t last long with Dylan’s sharp nails now scratch scratch scratching at the bottom of the door.
“Hang on one second,” Brendon blearily mumbles, throwing the heavy covers off of himself. He slips off the bed and pads across the thick carpet. The floor in Ryan’s new bedroom is hardwood floors, wood floors that are uneven, and the only time that Brendon went up there, he came away with a splinter in his foot.
Brendon likes the feel of carpet underneath his feet, but it’s still a little foreign, a little bit like childhood after months of touring and cabins and Ryan. It’s strange.
He makes it to the door and opens it for Dylan to leave, but the dog just stares at him, unmoving.
“You wanted to leave,” Brendon reminds his dog. He feels irritation build up and nudges her lightly with his foot. “You were scratching the hell out of my door to get out. Go.”
Dylan cocks her head to the side before nuzzling against Brendon’s bare leg. That leg that was just pushing her to leave. It only takes a second of this to make Brendon’s annoyance dissipate, and he sinks down to the floor, the fluffy carpet molding around his knees as he scratches behind Dylan’s ears.
She leans into the touch.
“I don’t get it,” he says. “You say you want to leave but then you don’t.”
A wet tongue licks at Brendon’s thumb, and he smiles, the first time in a while.
It helps.
He picks himself up off the floor and starts to pick up the clothes he took off before his nap. He never could sleep well in clothing.
Dylan waits for him by the door, her tail swishing back and forth, but it’s so thin that Brendon can almost hear the sharp cut of the air.
“You know, you’re right,” Brendon says, pulling on his shirt. It seems a little dirty, so he takes it off again, throwing it in the corner, and he goes to search for another. “I should be getting up. Don’t want to waste my day doing nothing.” He pulls a shirt out of a drawer, a drawer that the last time they came back from tour, months ago, he had just dumped the clean clothes from his suitcase in.
His hand hits something that feels clean and he pulls it on, his hand smoothing down the cotton before he realizes that the shirt is a v-neck, and his hands stop.
Brendon doesn’t own any v-necks.
He plays at the neckline, wondering for a second just how pathetically sad it would be if he kept the shirt on, wondering if that would make him what he always claimed he wouldn’t turn into. After all, he had promised Ryan that.
The shirt ends up in a pile in the corner, draping over the shirt that Brendon had worn earlier that day, the pale color of the v-neck standing out starkly against the dark blue of Brendon’s shirt.
“Come on,” he tells Dylan, leaving the room, turning the lights off after he passes through the doorway. “Let’s get you some dinner.” He smiles down at his dog, a weird, almost twisted smile. “I don’t need to wear a shirt in my own damn house.”
---
Spencer visits a lot, and like most nights, he stops by in the early evening.
“I’m bored,” Spencer says without a preamble as Brendon opens the door. “I don’t know how I can move to Los Angeles and always be bored, but I am.”
Brendon stands to the side to let Spencer in, following him to the family room.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” Brendon asks, going to stand by the shelf of DVDs. “We could play video games or something.” He shrugs. “Get drunk. I have some booze, if you want.”
Spencer settles down on the couch. “Why don’t we try to write some music,” he suggests. His voice sounds calm and perfectly normal, but for some reason, the air around Brendon grows heavy. “I mean, Ryan and Jon are up in the mountains banging away on a fucking drum all night.” He looks away, looks to the side, and Brendon doesn’t need to see Spencer’s face to see the expression there. It’s the one he sees on himself all the time. “Who says we can’t work on stuff too?”
Brendon leaves the DVDs, leaves the video games and distractions behind and he sits down on the couch next to Spencer. He doesn’t really know what to say.
“I have my guitar,” he says after a moment. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite fully manifest. “I have drums too. And a cello.” He laughs, but it’s not happy. “I have a whole music room set up.”
“I know,” Spencer says.
The silence hangs between them, and neither one of them is getting up off the couch. Spencer doesn’t ask to see the instruments, and Brendon doesn’t offer. They just sit there.
“I could go for a movie,” Spencer says, breaking the silence.
Brendon nods, getting up from the couch. “Something funny?” He moves towards the DVDs, fingers playing over the smooth edges of the cases.
“Something fucking depressing,” Spencer responds. “Something that doesn’t make any god damn sense.” He looks up, his blue eyes so sharp. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Brendon.”
---
When Brendon wakes up, hitting the alarm on his cell phone, he realizes that it’s March 25. He realizes that it’s been a year since the last album, and something inside of him echoes and aches.
He thinks losing the feeling of feeling unique. He thinks if love is not enough. He thinks if the sun would come out and sing with me.
He thinks that he hasn’t heard from Ryan in far too long.
Even the text messages have stopped, those twisted sentences, the Wentzian phrasing.
It’s been a year, and now, more than ever, more than when they got done with their first headlining tour and were recognized by strangers for the first time, Brendon thinks things have changed for me, but he can’t find it in himself to finish the lyric.
---
It seems wrong, it seems so wrong for a year to pass and to not celebrate with Ryan, to not share it with him again, but Brendon stays in his house on March 25th, smoking up with Spencer, pretending to be happy for their success when they’re both thinking the same thing.
The same thing but different names.
It isn’t until Saturday, the 28th, that Brendon finds himself in his car. It isn’t until then that Brendon drives up the winding road through the mountains. He thinks that maybe he should play music in the background, because music is always there, has always been there, but he turns off the radio and lets the silence filter in from outside, only the rush of wind and the sound of tires on uneven roads filling the space.
He makes it halfway to Ryan’s house before he pulls over to the side of the road.
He turns on his signal and pulls into a scenic overlook spot.
It’s dark outside, and far below him, Brendon can see the bright lights of the city. He can see the movement in the flickering, and it reminds him painfully of Vegas.
Things were so much easier then.
He stands there for a while, ten minutes, maybe fifteen, just watching the lights, letting his eyes blur until the colors below bleed into each other, and for some reason that makes Brendon think of Ryan’s sharp collarbone. It makes him think of Ryan’s fingers and his breath hot against Brendon’s neck. It makes him think of stuttered words and shallow thrusts.
It makes him think too much, so he gets in his car and drives back home, leaving the lights of the city below him, leaving Ryan’s house behind him.
---
His house is quiet when he gets back, but he didn’t expect it to be any other way. He doesn’t live with Shane anymore. He doesn’t have Ryan and Spencer crashing on blow-up beds. He doesn’t have anyone but his dogs and the occasional hookup when he can’t bear the thought of sleeping alone again.
He toes off his shoes and locks the door behind him, throwing his keys on the counter, thinking about heading straight to bed, telling himself that he will not, under any circumstances, go online, but then he walks into the living room and his thoughts are disrupted by a dim light in the corner.
“I still have a key,” Ryan says.
He’s curled up on Brendon’s armchair, his long legs tucked underneath himself, and he doesn’t look as composed as Brendon’s been imagining all these long weeks.
“I kept it,” Ryan explains. “I don’t know if Spencer gave his back or if you wanted it, but I kept it.”
His eyes are hesitant. His hands are folded together, and he’s wearing a soft, faded shirt that Brendon can remember them picking up in some vintage store when they were on the road.
Brendon doesn’t know how to start. He knew that eventually they’d have to talk again, people are expecting a third album, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he ends up saying the truth.
“I drove halfway to your house right now before I turned around.”
Ryan looks at him. His expression is serious, and Brendon can remember a time when a smile curled at the edges. He thinks he can still possibly see it. “It’s a good thing you did,” Ryan says. “I’ve been waiting for a while.”
Brendon wonders how long Ryan’s been there, how long he’s been sitting in that chair - maybe since moments after Brendon pulled out of the garage, but there’s no way of knowing.
“I would have waited longer,” Ryan says.
Waiting. Brendon knows about that.
“Why are you here, Ryan?” Brendon asks. He’s still standing on the outskirts of the living room, not trusting himself to step any closer.
“Do you know it’s been a year since Pretty.Odd.?” Ryan asks, not really answering Brendon’s questions, but Brendon’s used to that by now.
But that doesn’t mean that he has to stand for it. “Yes,” he says, “and three days, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
Ryan’s fingers unfold and pick at a loose string on his shirt. It’s dangling off the deep v-neck. “It made me think,” Ryan says. “It made me remember.” He pulls at the thread. “It made me listen.”
Brendon scoffs. “You know, Ryan, for once you should just say what the fuck you mean.”
Ryan looks up at Brendon, but his face doesn’t show any signs of irritation or outrage or annoyance. Instead, he smiles. “I know. That’s the whole point.”
Brendon doesn’t get it.
“Can you just come here?” Ryan asks. He doesn’t move from his chair, but he uncurls his legs and leans forward. “Brendon, come here.”
He can’t stop his feet, doesn’t even try to, and before he knows it, he’s standing in front of Ryan.
Ryan’s arms reach out and circle around Brendon’s waist. He pulls himself up, his breath ghosting hot against Brendon’s chest. “I don’t know why I do it,” he says, words muffled against cotton. “I don’t know, but I’m sorry.”
Brendon’s breath hitches. Those words shouldn’t mean anything after nearly a month.
“I’m sorry,” Ryan repeats, pulling Brendon down, curling against the side until they’re both sitting on the chair, their knees touching, Ryan’s hands still clinging to Brendon’s t-shirt, Ryan’s lips brushing over Brendon’s neck.
He repeats the words, and Brendon wonders how long Ryan’ll keep the mantra up.
Brendon wants to say I know. He wants to scream don’t leave me. He wants to beg stay with me. Be with me. He wants to, but he doesn’t.
He just lets Ryan curl himself around him.
“I have a song almost done,” Ryan says quietly, his voice right by Brendon’s ear. “I tried recording a demo.”
That something inside Brendon stings again. “I know, I read it on your twitter.” He’s not even embarrassed, because it’s not like Ryan didn’t already know.
“I wrote it for you,” Ryan tells him. “I don’t want you to forget that. I write everything for you. Always.”
Brendon hums, doubt still swirling in his stomach.
Ryan repeats it. “It’s for you.”
---
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