i got off work early...
...so I'm posting to celebrate. This came out of no where, really. No caps, cause I'm lazy and I guess it makes it feel less formal? I don't know but
process
ryan/brendon, 872 words, drabble
ryan sucks the end of his pen in his mouth, furrows his eyebrows and thinks, nocturnal sunshine-
thinks, curling rays of scarlet- maybe, fireflies of copper-
taps his foot and sighs.
nothing's coming out right. there's all these words in his head, swirling around in this big haze of letters and ideas and every so often two words will emerge from the fog, a pair, a match, and then get sucked back into the dense cloud before ryan has a chance to introduce himself and seduce them into song. he's on the brink of something big, he can feel it; an itching in his fingers, a dull ache behind his eyes, a tingle in his wrist. and it's there, thick and stubborn on the tip of his tongue, mocking and vaguely mysterious.
it's been a while since he wrote like this, alone that is. he spent the last album sprawled out in his backyard in vegas, smoke-hazy and languid with jon threading fingers through his hair and spencer keeping rhythm on his thigh, brendon draped over all three of them, softly humming a tune. he's beginning to realize it's harder than he remembered, but it's not like he's been forced into isolation, it's just. it's the quiet when his mind is this chaotic that seems to neutralize the atmosphere and while jon's laugh coats everything in honey velvet, jon's also all the way in chicago. the distance brings up another complication: los angeles. there's a sort of baggage that comes from living in vegas for as long as ryan has, and carrying it to a different city seems so odd, as if he's traveling for a change but packed all the wrong things.
ryan shoves off from the table and rakes fingers through his hair.
the clock reads 3:47 and there's this thing he should be doing - is it sleep? that's such a waste of time - but he's flustered and wordless and so he strides across his kitchen, shakes away the simplicity of a pressing concept and dials brendon's number.
it rings four times and ryan gets, "yo! bden here, but i can't get to my phone so-" and he hangs up before brendon promises, despite his forgetfulness, to "get back to you." he waits for a few minutes, thinks maybe- and, no, that's still not right so he puts the phone to his ear again and waits.
brendon answers, voice wet and groggy, "what?"
"i'm writing," ryan says and the cheerfulness in his voice shocks him.
"woo-hoo," brendon says dryly and ryan says, "i wasn't finished." brendon grunts and ryan continues, "what i mean to say is, i'm trying to write. it's there, bren. i can feel it, it just won't- i can't see it yet."
sighing, brendon says, "dude, it's almost four in the morning. go to sleep," and when ryan hears his sheets shuffling, recognizes brendon is about to hang up, he stops him.
"brendon, i can't. i can't fucking- look, can you please come over?" he stutters out. brendon sighs again, heavier, hissing through his nose. "i know it's late but. i can't do this alone, i- i need someone."
and it's not someone as much as it is something: a hand in his hair or a chin on his shoulder or just the steady, ghosting breath of a body that isn't his own. perhaps that's what made writing so easy when it was the whole band; perhaps it wasn't the familiarity but the intimacy.
"please."
brendon says, "i'll be over in ten," and rolls out of bed.
---
the socks on ryan's feet slip a little when he scrapes his chair along the kitchen floor and goes to answer the door. he eyes the light switch on the wall with remorse, having forgotten to turn it on for brendon, and illuminates the porch before pulling the door open. at first, brendon just stands there, hair matted and tousled from sleep, still clad in his boxer briefs and faded t-shirt. he notices the chill out the same moment he notices brendon's bare feet and when his eyes flicker back up to brendon's, the dim yellow glow of the porch light glints them glossy and vibrant. and just like that, they're closed and brendon's lips are aligning with ryan's in the most delicious synchronization of mouths since jon taught them how to shotgun the good stuff in the back lounge of the tour bus.
ryan is acutely aware of the slowly encroaching buzzing in his brain and the pleasant constriction of his lungs and just when his fingers curl around the piano keys on brendon's arm, there's oxygen again and brendon's forehead is pressed against his, breathing that sleepy heat into his face.
"now," brendon huffs, nose brushing ryan's at the same time his fingers trace ryan's bottom lip. "write."
and then brendon's presence is nothing but a phantom warmth and ryan backs into his house, a little lightheaded.
ryan sits back at the table, takes up his pen and lets his mind, still lust-muggy and lazy, spill onto the page.
lanterns you say? cleverness was always your virtue
blind moths flicker close enough to kiss. can i linger in your glow?
yeah, that. that's a start.
process
ryan/brendon, 872 words, drabble
ryan sucks the end of his pen in his mouth, furrows his eyebrows and thinks, nocturnal sunshine-
thinks, curling rays of scarlet- maybe, fireflies of copper-
taps his foot and sighs.
nothing's coming out right. there's all these words in his head, swirling around in this big haze of letters and ideas and every so often two words will emerge from the fog, a pair, a match, and then get sucked back into the dense cloud before ryan has a chance to introduce himself and seduce them into song. he's on the brink of something big, he can feel it; an itching in his fingers, a dull ache behind his eyes, a tingle in his wrist. and it's there, thick and stubborn on the tip of his tongue, mocking and vaguely mysterious.
it's been a while since he wrote like this, alone that is. he spent the last album sprawled out in his backyard in vegas, smoke-hazy and languid with jon threading fingers through his hair and spencer keeping rhythm on his thigh, brendon draped over all three of them, softly humming a tune. he's beginning to realize it's harder than he remembered, but it's not like he's been forced into isolation, it's just. it's the quiet when his mind is this chaotic that seems to neutralize the atmosphere and while jon's laugh coats everything in honey velvet, jon's also all the way in chicago. the distance brings up another complication: los angeles. there's a sort of baggage that comes from living in vegas for as long as ryan has, and carrying it to a different city seems so odd, as if he's traveling for a change but packed all the wrong things.
ryan shoves off from the table and rakes fingers through his hair.
the clock reads 3:47 and there's this thing he should be doing - is it sleep? that's such a waste of time - but he's flustered and wordless and so he strides across his kitchen, shakes away the simplicity of a pressing concept and dials brendon's number.
it rings four times and ryan gets, "yo! bden here, but i can't get to my phone so-" and he hangs up before brendon promises, despite his forgetfulness, to "get back to you." he waits for a few minutes, thinks maybe- and, no, that's still not right so he puts the phone to his ear again and waits.
brendon answers, voice wet and groggy, "what?"
"i'm writing," ryan says and the cheerfulness in his voice shocks him.
"woo-hoo," brendon says dryly and ryan says, "i wasn't finished." brendon grunts and ryan continues, "what i mean to say is, i'm trying to write. it's there, bren. i can feel it, it just won't- i can't see it yet."
sighing, brendon says, "dude, it's almost four in the morning. go to sleep," and when ryan hears his sheets shuffling, recognizes brendon is about to hang up, he stops him.
"brendon, i can't. i can't fucking- look, can you please come over?" he stutters out. brendon sighs again, heavier, hissing through his nose. "i know it's late but. i can't do this alone, i- i need someone."
and it's not someone as much as it is something: a hand in his hair or a chin on his shoulder or just the steady, ghosting breath of a body that isn't his own. perhaps that's what made writing so easy when it was the whole band; perhaps it wasn't the familiarity but the intimacy.
"please."
brendon says, "i'll be over in ten," and rolls out of bed.
---
the socks on ryan's feet slip a little when he scrapes his chair along the kitchen floor and goes to answer the door. he eyes the light switch on the wall with remorse, having forgotten to turn it on for brendon, and illuminates the porch before pulling the door open. at first, brendon just stands there, hair matted and tousled from sleep, still clad in his boxer briefs and faded t-shirt. he notices the chill out the same moment he notices brendon's bare feet and when his eyes flicker back up to brendon's, the dim yellow glow of the porch light glints them glossy and vibrant. and just like that, they're closed and brendon's lips are aligning with ryan's in the most delicious synchronization of mouths since jon taught them how to shotgun the good stuff in the back lounge of the tour bus.
ryan is acutely aware of the slowly encroaching buzzing in his brain and the pleasant constriction of his lungs and just when his fingers curl around the piano keys on brendon's arm, there's oxygen again and brendon's forehead is pressed against his, breathing that sleepy heat into his face.
"now," brendon huffs, nose brushing ryan's at the same time his fingers trace ryan's bottom lip. "write."
and then brendon's presence is nothing but a phantom warmth and ryan backs into his house, a little lightheaded.
ryan sits back at the table, takes up his pen and lets his mind, still lust-muggy and lazy, spill onto the page.
lanterns you say? cleverness was always your virtue
blind moths flicker close enough to kiss. can i linger in your glow?
yeah, that. that's a start.