everyday's most quiet need - gen-ish
everyday's most quiet need
lady_deathangel ~*~ 1305 words ~*~ PG-13 ~*~ drug use ~*~ gen-ish (implied Jon/Spencer and Ryan/Brendon)
Disclaimer: This is not true and I'm not claiming it is. If you got here by googling your name or the names of your almost famous friends, chances are you want to hit the back button right now. Or not, but don't say I didn't warn you.
||Written for prettykitty_aya who posted about the last HCT date she went to, commented on how stoned 3/4 of the band was, and mentioned wanting fic where they hotboxed the back lounge and Brendon sat on the other side of the door being pitiful. This is . . . almost but not quite that fic? It got a little bit away from me. I hope you still like it! Title taken from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's sonnet "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . ." ||
It's epically unfair. It's totally and epically unfair and Brendon is going to make Zack make a rule that if Brendon can't smoke, nobody can smoke. Because it's seriously, seriously not fair at all.
Not that anybody is listening to him as he explains this. Ryan does not understand the concept of rules and boundaries and Jon just keeps giggling, probably into Spencer's neck, and Spencer's smiling so hard Brendon can practically see it through the door and none of them are listening because they are too busy smoking up without him.
"It hurts Ryan's voice, too!" Brendon says, back against the door. "And Jon! And you too, Spencer, what the fuck, I'm not the only one who sings anymore."
"You're the only one anyone pays to hear," Ryan points out.
"And you're the only one who has to last the whole show," Jon says.
"And no, you're not getting in here," Spencer adds.
Ryan says something Brendon can't catch, probably something mean, and there's a low hum of laughter. Brendon wants to be in on the laughter. He could be sitting on Ryan's lap right now, getting cuddles. Ryan's so mellow when he's stoned that he'll let anyone cuddle him, especially Brendon because Brendon's the best at it. Or Brendon could be squished in between Spencer and Jon and they could be cuddling him; mostly it would be in an attempt to cuddle each other, but Brendon doesn't mind because it's almost like when he used to sit in between his parents when he was little and they'd watch Disney movies and Brendon could feel his dad with his arm around mom's shoulder and mom would scoot closer and Brendon would be tucked between them, safe and comfortable and warm and loved.
That's probably really creepy, and it's not like Brendon will ever admit it out loud no matter how drunk or stoned or drunkandstoned he gets, but he likes that. Instead he's cold and lonely on the floor in the bunks, sitting outside the back lounge while Spencer and Jon and Ryan are inside, getting high and loving each other and life.
And probably watching Moulin Rouge. And they know how much Brendon loves Moulin Rouge. Brendon really kind of hates them right now.
He paws pitifully at the door and says, "I really kind of hate you right now."
"We love you," Ryan says. "We love you soooooo much."
"You don't," Brendon says, "you hate me. You hate me with the fiery passion of a thousand suns."
There's another muffled giggle and then a thump which prompts louder, heartier laughs and Brendon wishes he knew what it was that was so funny because from where he is, nothing is funny at all.
"Want me to tell you how much we love you?" Ryan asks, and his voice is suddenly closer so he probably rolled onto the floor and crawled over to the door instead of getting up and walking. He does weird shit like that when he's stoned.
"No," Brendon says, but he bats his hand at the door and grins when there's an answering rap of knuckles from Ryan.
"Doesn't matter," Ryan says, "I'm gonna tell you anyway."
Brendon sighs heavily but he leans his forehead against the door and closes his eyes to listen. He loves Ryan's voice when he's stoned, when it's slow and languid and a laugh hovers on the edge of every word just waiting to be coaxed to life.
Ryan says, "how do we love thee? Let me count the ways. We love your voice unharmed by smoke. We love the way you scream whenever you walk in on Jon and Spencer sucking face. Maybe that one's just me," he says speculatively.
"They're always where I least expect it!" Brendon says, "Like fucking make out ninjas."
Ryan laughs loudly and there's another thump, this time against the door. Brendon imagines his head has fallen forward with the force of his laughter and he smiles because he can see it even if he's on the other side of the door.
"I love how ridiculous you are," Ryan goes on, a smile still in his voice. "And I love the way you laugh in your sleep sometimes, even if it scares the shit out of Spence."
Brendon can hear a soft denial coming from Spencer, but the sound is lazy and he doesn't say anything else so Ryan keeps going.
"I love that you can play any fucking instrument, like, if I handed you one right now you could learn it in an hour, but you can't remember how to tie your shoes when you're drunk."
"Shut up, Ross, shoelaces are hard," Brendon says.
Ryan hums, the sound barely audible, and Brendon settles more heavily against the door.
"I love that you're still sitting on the other side of the door even though we won't let you in," Ryan says. "And that you were whimpering like Hobo for thirty straight minutes to try and appeal to my . . ." He trails off, in search of the word.
"Better nature?" Brendon supplies, and Ryan says, "yeah, that."
Brendon says, "you're just too stoned to be annoyed by it."
"No," Ryan says, and Brendon pictures him shaking his head slow, forehead dragging across the door. "No, I always love that you stay. I love that you're never going anywhere. Right?"
Brendon huffs out a laugh and drags his knuckles over the floor. He really wishes he could be with Ryan, touch Ryan right now, but a part of him kind of wants to walk away. When Ryan's like this, Brendon maybe wants a little to much to believe what he says. He can't let himself because God only knows how much of it is Ryan and how much of it is the weed.
"Dude, I could never leave you," Brendon says. His tone is light when he adds, "I love your stupid face too much."
Ryan says, "I love you, too," and the words are sincere and make Brendon's chest tighten.
He splays his fingers across the door and feels ridiculous, but a part of him wonders if Ryan is doing the same.
"So," Ryan says, "Jon and Spencer are being gross. I'm coming out, now."
Brendon backs away and it seems to take an eternity for the door to open. When it does, Brendon can't even manage a good inhale because Ryan nudges him in the side with his toes and quickly closes the door behind himself. Brendon does, however, catch a glimpse of Spencer and Jon sprawled across each other on the couch through the thick haze.
Ryan slides to the floor next to Brendon and reaches out. Brendon lets himself be tugged forward; they move into one another slowly, Ryan because he's stoned, Brendon because he is so, so careful when he has to be. They end up facing each other, legs twined, arms tight around waists. It's not exactly comfortable in the tight space, but it feels warm and safe and Ryan's body always feels best when its pressed against Brendon's.
"I was getting lonely," Ryan says against Brendon's ear.
He smells like smoke and vanilla and still distinctly Ryan, somehow. Brendon breathes deep and tucks his head under Ryan's chin.
"Now you know how I feel," he pouts, and Ryan just rubs a hand over the curve of his back.
They sit like that for what feels like hours and Brendon didn't get what he wants, not exactly, but he nuzzles Ryan's neck with his nose and whispers I love you and he doesn't have to open his eyes to see Ryan smiling. Ryan brushes a kiss over his temple, his lips a little dry, the touch sharp and electric, and Brendon sighs.
This is enough of a drug for him (addictiveinebriatinglovelywrong) for now.
lady_deathangel ~*~ 1305 words ~*~ PG-13 ~*~ drug use ~*~ gen-ish (implied Jon/Spencer and Ryan/Brendon)
Disclaimer: This is not true and I'm not claiming it is. If you got here by googling your name or the names of your almost famous friends, chances are you want to hit the back button right now. Or not, but don't say I didn't warn you.
||Written for prettykitty_aya who posted about the last HCT date she went to, commented on how stoned 3/4 of the band was, and mentioned wanting fic where they hotboxed the back lounge and Brendon sat on the other side of the door being pitiful. This is . . . almost but not quite that fic? It got a little bit away from me. I hope you still like it! Title taken from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's sonnet "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . ." ||
It's epically unfair. It's totally and epically unfair and Brendon is going to make Zack make a rule that if Brendon can't smoke, nobody can smoke. Because it's seriously, seriously not fair at all.
Not that anybody is listening to him as he explains this. Ryan does not understand the concept of rules and boundaries and Jon just keeps giggling, probably into Spencer's neck, and Spencer's smiling so hard Brendon can practically see it through the door and none of them are listening because they are too busy smoking up without him.
"It hurts Ryan's voice, too!" Brendon says, back against the door. "And Jon! And you too, Spencer, what the fuck, I'm not the only one who sings anymore."
"You're the only one anyone pays to hear," Ryan points out.
"And you're the only one who has to last the whole show," Jon says.
"And no, you're not getting in here," Spencer adds.
Ryan says something Brendon can't catch, probably something mean, and there's a low hum of laughter. Brendon wants to be in on the laughter. He could be sitting on Ryan's lap right now, getting cuddles. Ryan's so mellow when he's stoned that he'll let anyone cuddle him, especially Brendon because Brendon's the best at it. Or Brendon could be squished in between Spencer and Jon and they could be cuddling him; mostly it would be in an attempt to cuddle each other, but Brendon doesn't mind because it's almost like when he used to sit in between his parents when he was little and they'd watch Disney movies and Brendon could feel his dad with his arm around mom's shoulder and mom would scoot closer and Brendon would be tucked between them, safe and comfortable and warm and loved.
That's probably really creepy, and it's not like Brendon will ever admit it out loud no matter how drunk or stoned or drunkandstoned he gets, but he likes that. Instead he's cold and lonely on the floor in the bunks, sitting outside the back lounge while Spencer and Jon and Ryan are inside, getting high and loving each other and life.
And probably watching Moulin Rouge. And they know how much Brendon loves Moulin Rouge. Brendon really kind of hates them right now.
He paws pitifully at the door and says, "I really kind of hate you right now."
"We love you," Ryan says. "We love you soooooo much."
"You don't," Brendon says, "you hate me. You hate me with the fiery passion of a thousand suns."
There's another muffled giggle and then a thump which prompts louder, heartier laughs and Brendon wishes he knew what it was that was so funny because from where he is, nothing is funny at all.
"Want me to tell you how much we love you?" Ryan asks, and his voice is suddenly closer so he probably rolled onto the floor and crawled over to the door instead of getting up and walking. He does weird shit like that when he's stoned.
"No," Brendon says, but he bats his hand at the door and grins when there's an answering rap of knuckles from Ryan.
"Doesn't matter," Ryan says, "I'm gonna tell you anyway."
Brendon sighs heavily but he leans his forehead against the door and closes his eyes to listen. He loves Ryan's voice when he's stoned, when it's slow and languid and a laugh hovers on the edge of every word just waiting to be coaxed to life.
Ryan says, "how do we love thee? Let me count the ways. We love your voice unharmed by smoke. We love the way you scream whenever you walk in on Jon and Spencer sucking face. Maybe that one's just me," he says speculatively.
"They're always where I least expect it!" Brendon says, "Like fucking make out ninjas."
Ryan laughs loudly and there's another thump, this time against the door. Brendon imagines his head has fallen forward with the force of his laughter and he smiles because he can see it even if he's on the other side of the door.
"I love how ridiculous you are," Ryan goes on, a smile still in his voice. "And I love the way you laugh in your sleep sometimes, even if it scares the shit out of Spence."
Brendon can hear a soft denial coming from Spencer, but the sound is lazy and he doesn't say anything else so Ryan keeps going.
"I love that you can play any fucking instrument, like, if I handed you one right now you could learn it in an hour, but you can't remember how to tie your shoes when you're drunk."
"Shut up, Ross, shoelaces are hard," Brendon says.
Ryan hums, the sound barely audible, and Brendon settles more heavily against the door.
"I love that you're still sitting on the other side of the door even though we won't let you in," Ryan says. "And that you were whimpering like Hobo for thirty straight minutes to try and appeal to my . . ." He trails off, in search of the word.
"Better nature?" Brendon supplies, and Ryan says, "yeah, that."
Brendon says, "you're just too stoned to be annoyed by it."
"No," Ryan says, and Brendon pictures him shaking his head slow, forehead dragging across the door. "No, I always love that you stay. I love that you're never going anywhere. Right?"
Brendon huffs out a laugh and drags his knuckles over the floor. He really wishes he could be with Ryan, touch Ryan right now, but a part of him kind of wants to walk away. When Ryan's like this, Brendon maybe wants a little to much to believe what he says. He can't let himself because God only knows how much of it is Ryan and how much of it is the weed.
"Dude, I could never leave you," Brendon says. His tone is light when he adds, "I love your stupid face too much."
Ryan says, "I love you, too," and the words are sincere and make Brendon's chest tighten.
He splays his fingers across the door and feels ridiculous, but a part of him wonders if Ryan is doing the same.
"So," Ryan says, "Jon and Spencer are being gross. I'm coming out, now."
Brendon backs away and it seems to take an eternity for the door to open. When it does, Brendon can't even manage a good inhale because Ryan nudges him in the side with his toes and quickly closes the door behind himself. Brendon does, however, catch a glimpse of Spencer and Jon sprawled across each other on the couch through the thick haze.
Ryan slides to the floor next to Brendon and reaches out. Brendon lets himself be tugged forward; they move into one another slowly, Ryan because he's stoned, Brendon because he is so, so careful when he has to be. They end up facing each other, legs twined, arms tight around waists. It's not exactly comfortable in the tight space, but it feels warm and safe and Ryan's body always feels best when its pressed against Brendon's.
"I was getting lonely," Ryan says against Brendon's ear.
He smells like smoke and vanilla and still distinctly Ryan, somehow. Brendon breathes deep and tucks his head under Ryan's chin.
"Now you know how I feel," he pouts, and Ryan just rubs a hand over the curve of his back.
They sit like that for what feels like hours and Brendon didn't get what he wants, not exactly, but he nuzzles Ryan's neck with his nose and whispers I love you and he doesn't have to open his eyes to see Ryan smiling. Ryan brushes a kiss over his temple, his lips a little dry, the touch sharp and electric, and Brendon sighs.
This is enough of a drug for him (addictiveinebriatinglovelywrong) for now.