'You're My Big Bird, Ryan Ross' [Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross]
Title: 'You're My Big Bird, Ryan Ross'
Author: that_1_incident
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Profanity
Pairing: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Word Count: ~1,500
Summary: Ryan’s tooling around on the computer, IM-ing and blogging and he’s kind of got this thing going on PhotoShop, kind of. He’s not really paying much attention to Brendon, who is stretched out on his bed in the middle of a phone interview, his happy chatter fading to little more than background noise. And then…
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.
---<---<---@
Ryan’s tooling around on the computer, IM-ing and blogging and he’s kind of got this thing going on PhotoShop, kind of. He’s not really paying much attention to Brendon, who is stretched out on his bed in the middle of a phone interview, his happy chatter fading to little more than background noise. And then…
“The stuff I do with Ryan onstage?”
Ryan’s ears perk up. Don’t say anything incriminating, Brendon, don’t say anything about how much you like touching me, don’t think I don’t know, don’t think I don’t see the look in your eyes, I’m not blind, Brendon, just don’t say anything, please.
“I just do what feels right,” Brendon says innocently.
Ryan groans.
Brendon goes on to give some more responses, and Ryan can tell by what he’s saying that the interviewer is asking pretty generic questions. Brendon tries to vary his answers as best he can, crafting them to be new and original instead of same old same old. After a while, Ryan hears a “You too” and a “Great talking to you.” He barely waits for the phone to click back into its holder on the bedside table of the hotel room they’re staying in, the hotel room that’s just as generic as the questions, before asking a question of his own.
“Why did you do that?” His tone isn’t accusing - rather, he’s going for blank, but Brendon picks up on the slight tinge of unease that manages to slip through.
“Do what?”
Ryan frowns at his band mate’s obliviousness, closes his eyes, sighs. It’s Brendon, it’s just Brendon, it’s how Brendon is, he reminds himself.
“Just… never mind,” he mumbles.
The conversation is closed as far as Ryan is concerned. He goes back to tapping out IM’s on his laptop - Pete, always Pete. He could have killed Pete for telling that one magazine (he forgets which it was - they all blend together after a while) that 90% of the time he’s on AIM he’s messaging Ryan Ross of Panic! At The Disco, but in the end that’s just the way Pete is, and he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut anymore than Brendon does.
Brendon. As if on cue, a hand touches Ryan’s shoulder, warm and earnest and -
“No, really… what?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, Ryan. Why are you mad?”
Ryan won’t look Brendon in the eye. “I’m not mad, I just… I get frustrated when you do certain things sometimes.”
“What kind of things?” Brendon’s brow crinkles slightly and he kneels down next to the desk, regarding Ryan face-to-face.
“You know. ‘Have you ever dreamt you were in a sunflower field?’” Ryan says, and the utter bewilderment on Brendon’s face is almost comical. “‘Sweaty, angry, crazy, monstrous -’”
“Fucking?” Brendon finishes, a wry grin on his face. He’s not taking this seriously.
Ryan glares at him. “Yeah. Onstage is onstage - what you say is scripted, what we do is scripted, and even if people kind of like the idea of us being together in the real world, they know it’s just acting and they know it’s just for show. But then when you say stuff like ‘I just do what feels right’, it makes people think it might be real, and that we might be together, and that I might be gay -”
Brendon holds up a slender index finger and Ryan falls silent.
“They don’t think you’re gay.”
Ryan blinks and Brendon continues with a hint of sadness in his voice, “They think I’m gay, because I’m the one who touches you and you’re the one who pulls away.”
“Oh.” Ryan doesn’t really know what to say to this.
“Yeah.” Brendon grins at him, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “So don’t worry about it, okay?”
And with that he stands up, presses a kiss to Ryan’s forehead, and goes to bed.
--
“So wait, where are Jon and Spencer?”
“There was a rollercoaster… music store… mall.” Brendon shrugs. “I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening when they called. Maybe there was a rollercoaster near the music store in the mall. Are we anywhere near the Mall of America?”
Ryan is about to shoot back with an indignant “God, Brendon, no.” before he realizes he actually has no idea where they are. The tour dates start to blend together after a while. So do the cities.
“I don’t know, Brendon. What state are we in?”
“Something with an ‘M’.” This doesn’t help. “What are we going to do all day? Do we even have a show tonight?”
“I don’t know, Brendon,” Ryan repeats. Honestly he’s just glad that they’re not doing another early morning radio interview, because he’s getting sick of dodging the questions about the dynamic he and Brendon have onstage. Also, he really would like to stay in bed for a couple more hours.
Brendon bounds over to Ryan’s bed and sits down on the end of it, eyes wide and bright. “We should do something fun too!”
Ryan winces. “Yeah,” he begins, less than enthusiastically, “I know a fun game - it’s called ‘Let Ryan Get His Beauty Sleep.’”
Brendon pouts. “But Ry-an,” he whines, “you’re pretty enough already.”
Ryan hits him with a pillow.
--
“Ryannnn,” Brendon wheedles, walking straight into the bathroom like there’s nobody inside, which would bother Ryan immensely if he wasn’t so used to it. “I feel like a snuffleupagus.”
Ryan stops brushing his teeth, balances his toothbrush carefully on the side of the sink, and stares at Brendon in the mirror. “…What?” he says finally.
“Like on Sesame Street,” Brendon replies in a ‘duh’ sort of way, and really, Ryan shouldn’t be surprised that he’s citing a fucking kids’ TV show. “Nobody can see him but Big Bird. You’re my Big Bird, Ryan Ross.”
Ryan processes this. “Are you trying to tell me to hurry up so we can get the hell out of this hotel, find Jon and Spencer, and actually socialize with actual people?”
Brendon shrugs. “Maybe. I might just have been saying you’re my best friend, but that works too. Now put your fucking eyeliner on so we can go already,” he finishes dramatically before leaving the bathroom.
And Ryan grins like an idiot because come on, that was cute.
--
Turns out they do have a show tonight. Brendon runs a hand over Ryan’s chest and touches his hips and leans in just so… then Ryan tosses his hair and pulls away right at the last second. He swears Brendon would have pouted, had he not been singing at the time.
--
“Ry,” Brendon says, resting his head on Ryan’s chest, half-watching ‘DuckTales’ on the TV in the tour bus and half-concentrating on drawing figure-eights on Ryan’s thigh, “how is this different to what we do onstage?”
Ryan frowns and shifts slightly, and Brendon cuddles up closer. “Well… it’s not pretend.”
Brendon looks up at him and smirks. “So when you pull away from me, it’s just pretend? That’s not what you’d do in real life?”
Ryan’s frown deepens, and he massages his temples. “Brendon, what? That’s not what I meant.”
“Okay,” Brendon says with an air of something Ryan can’t quite place. “Just wondering.”
They lie on the couch in silence for a few minutes, watching Huey, Dewey and Louie scurry around Duckburg. Then…
“No, Brendon, come on. What did you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” Brendon insists. “Watch the fucking show, Ryan. Ducks in matching outfits, seriously, how could you not?”
Ryan sits up, and Brendon tumbles off him and onto the floor.
“Um,” says Brendon. “Ow.”
“Here the deal,” Ryan says almost fiercely, “I know how you feel, okay? Everyone knows how you feel. Spencer does, Jon does, fucking Pete does, oh my God, so just stop with the touching and the flirting and the being all” and he means to say “annoying,” he really does, but what comes out is “cute.”
Brendon, who has been cowering pathetically ever since Ryan started speaking, looks up in confusion. “Wait… ‘cute’?”
“Annoying,” Ryan amends lamely. “I meant… annoying.”
A ridiculously huge beaming smile appears on Brendon’s face. “No you didn’t, oh my God, no you didn’t!”
“Shut up,” Ryan mutters, desperately trying to contain the blush that’s threatening to stain his cheeks.
“You fucking like me!” Brendon crows - and really, does he have to be so gleeful about it?
“Maybe a little,” Ryan admits, refusing to meet Brendon’s eyes. He looks down at the ground and addresses the carpet. “But really, I mean, we room together when we stay at hotels, we live together when we stay on the bus, we’re best friends, we got famous together, you sing the lyrics to the songs I fucking write - it’s not like this is unprecedented or anything. Look at Pete and Patrick. And I mean, it’s just a crush, I’ll probably get over it-”
Brendon rises to his feet, cups Ryan’s chin in his hands, and gently kisses him.
“Oh,” he sighs against Ryan’s lips, “I really hope you don’t.”
---<---<---@
Author: that_1_incident
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Profanity
Pairing: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Word Count: ~1,500
Summary: Ryan’s tooling around on the computer, IM-ing and blogging and he’s kind of got this thing going on PhotoShop, kind of. He’s not really paying much attention to Brendon, who is stretched out on his bed in the middle of a phone interview, his happy chatter fading to little more than background noise. And then…
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.
---<---<---@
Ryan’s tooling around on the computer, IM-ing and blogging and he’s kind of got this thing going on PhotoShop, kind of. He’s not really paying much attention to Brendon, who is stretched out on his bed in the middle of a phone interview, his happy chatter fading to little more than background noise. And then…
“The stuff I do with Ryan onstage?”
Ryan’s ears perk up. Don’t say anything incriminating, Brendon, don’t say anything about how much you like touching me, don’t think I don’t know, don’t think I don’t see the look in your eyes, I’m not blind, Brendon, just don’t say anything, please.
“I just do what feels right,” Brendon says innocently.
Ryan groans.
Brendon goes on to give some more responses, and Ryan can tell by what he’s saying that the interviewer is asking pretty generic questions. Brendon tries to vary his answers as best he can, crafting them to be new and original instead of same old same old. After a while, Ryan hears a “You too” and a “Great talking to you.” He barely waits for the phone to click back into its holder on the bedside table of the hotel room they’re staying in, the hotel room that’s just as generic as the questions, before asking a question of his own.
“Why did you do that?” His tone isn’t accusing - rather, he’s going for blank, but Brendon picks up on the slight tinge of unease that manages to slip through.
“Do what?”
Ryan frowns at his band mate’s obliviousness, closes his eyes, sighs. It’s Brendon, it’s just Brendon, it’s how Brendon is, he reminds himself.
“Just… never mind,” he mumbles.
The conversation is closed as far as Ryan is concerned. He goes back to tapping out IM’s on his laptop - Pete, always Pete. He could have killed Pete for telling that one magazine (he forgets which it was - they all blend together after a while) that 90% of the time he’s on AIM he’s messaging Ryan Ross of Panic! At The Disco, but in the end that’s just the way Pete is, and he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut anymore than Brendon does.
Brendon. As if on cue, a hand touches Ryan’s shoulder, warm and earnest and -
“No, really… what?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, Ryan. Why are you mad?”
Ryan won’t look Brendon in the eye. “I’m not mad, I just… I get frustrated when you do certain things sometimes.”
“What kind of things?” Brendon’s brow crinkles slightly and he kneels down next to the desk, regarding Ryan face-to-face.
“You know. ‘Have you ever dreamt you were in a sunflower field?’” Ryan says, and the utter bewilderment on Brendon’s face is almost comical. “‘Sweaty, angry, crazy, monstrous -’”
“Fucking?” Brendon finishes, a wry grin on his face. He’s not taking this seriously.
Ryan glares at him. “Yeah. Onstage is onstage - what you say is scripted, what we do is scripted, and even if people kind of like the idea of us being together in the real world, they know it’s just acting and they know it’s just for show. But then when you say stuff like ‘I just do what feels right’, it makes people think it might be real, and that we might be together, and that I might be gay -”
Brendon holds up a slender index finger and Ryan falls silent.
“They don’t think you’re gay.”
Ryan blinks and Brendon continues with a hint of sadness in his voice, “They think I’m gay, because I’m the one who touches you and you’re the one who pulls away.”
“Oh.” Ryan doesn’t really know what to say to this.
“Yeah.” Brendon grins at him, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “So don’t worry about it, okay?”
And with that he stands up, presses a kiss to Ryan’s forehead, and goes to bed.
--
“So wait, where are Jon and Spencer?”
“There was a rollercoaster… music store… mall.” Brendon shrugs. “I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening when they called. Maybe there was a rollercoaster near the music store in the mall. Are we anywhere near the Mall of America?”
Ryan is about to shoot back with an indignant “God, Brendon, no.” before he realizes he actually has no idea where they are. The tour dates start to blend together after a while. So do the cities.
“I don’t know, Brendon. What state are we in?”
“Something with an ‘M’.” This doesn’t help. “What are we going to do all day? Do we even have a show tonight?”
“I don’t know, Brendon,” Ryan repeats. Honestly he’s just glad that they’re not doing another early morning radio interview, because he’s getting sick of dodging the questions about the dynamic he and Brendon have onstage. Also, he really would like to stay in bed for a couple more hours.
Brendon bounds over to Ryan’s bed and sits down on the end of it, eyes wide and bright. “We should do something fun too!”
Ryan winces. “Yeah,” he begins, less than enthusiastically, “I know a fun game - it’s called ‘Let Ryan Get His Beauty Sleep.’”
Brendon pouts. “But Ry-an,” he whines, “you’re pretty enough already.”
Ryan hits him with a pillow.
--
“Ryannnn,” Brendon wheedles, walking straight into the bathroom like there’s nobody inside, which would bother Ryan immensely if he wasn’t so used to it. “I feel like a snuffleupagus.”
Ryan stops brushing his teeth, balances his toothbrush carefully on the side of the sink, and stares at Brendon in the mirror. “…What?” he says finally.
“Like on Sesame Street,” Brendon replies in a ‘duh’ sort of way, and really, Ryan shouldn’t be surprised that he’s citing a fucking kids’ TV show. “Nobody can see him but Big Bird. You’re my Big Bird, Ryan Ross.”
Ryan processes this. “Are you trying to tell me to hurry up so we can get the hell out of this hotel, find Jon and Spencer, and actually socialize with actual people?”
Brendon shrugs. “Maybe. I might just have been saying you’re my best friend, but that works too. Now put your fucking eyeliner on so we can go already,” he finishes dramatically before leaving the bathroom.
And Ryan grins like an idiot because come on, that was cute.
--
Turns out they do have a show tonight. Brendon runs a hand over Ryan’s chest and touches his hips and leans in just so… then Ryan tosses his hair and pulls away right at the last second. He swears Brendon would have pouted, had he not been singing at the time.
--
“Ry,” Brendon says, resting his head on Ryan’s chest, half-watching ‘DuckTales’ on the TV in the tour bus and half-concentrating on drawing figure-eights on Ryan’s thigh, “how is this different to what we do onstage?”
Ryan frowns and shifts slightly, and Brendon cuddles up closer. “Well… it’s not pretend.”
Brendon looks up at him and smirks. “So when you pull away from me, it’s just pretend? That’s not what you’d do in real life?”
Ryan’s frown deepens, and he massages his temples. “Brendon, what? That’s not what I meant.”
“Okay,” Brendon says with an air of something Ryan can’t quite place. “Just wondering.”
They lie on the couch in silence for a few minutes, watching Huey, Dewey and Louie scurry around Duckburg. Then…
“No, Brendon, come on. What did you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” Brendon insists. “Watch the fucking show, Ryan. Ducks in matching outfits, seriously, how could you not?”
Ryan sits up, and Brendon tumbles off him and onto the floor.
“Um,” says Brendon. “Ow.”
“Here the deal,” Ryan says almost fiercely, “I know how you feel, okay? Everyone knows how you feel. Spencer does, Jon does, fucking Pete does, oh my God, so just stop with the touching and the flirting and the being all” and he means to say “annoying,” he really does, but what comes out is “cute.”
Brendon, who has been cowering pathetically ever since Ryan started speaking, looks up in confusion. “Wait… ‘cute’?”
“Annoying,” Ryan amends lamely. “I meant… annoying.”
A ridiculously huge beaming smile appears on Brendon’s face. “No you didn’t, oh my God, no you didn’t!”
“Shut up,” Ryan mutters, desperately trying to contain the blush that’s threatening to stain his cheeks.
“You fucking like me!” Brendon crows - and really, does he have to be so gleeful about it?
“Maybe a little,” Ryan admits, refusing to meet Brendon’s eyes. He looks down at the ground and addresses the carpet. “But really, I mean, we room together when we stay at hotels, we live together when we stay on the bus, we’re best friends, we got famous together, you sing the lyrics to the songs I fucking write - it’s not like this is unprecedented or anything. Look at Pete and Patrick. And I mean, it’s just a crush, I’ll probably get over it-”
Brendon rises to his feet, cups Ryan’s chin in his hands, and gently kisses him.
“Oh,” he sighs against Ryan’s lips, “I really hope you don’t.”
---<---<---@