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hazeofthecity at 08:00pm on 26/05/2009 under fanfiction, painting songs, panic at the disco, ryan/brendon
hazeofthecity at 08:00pm on 26/05/2009 under fanfiction, painting songs, panic at the disco, ryan/brendonBrendon Urie/Ryan Ross|Panic at the Disco**
He thought a change of scenery would help, that neutral ground wouldn’t distract him and help him to clear the mess that seems to pile in his head like a bunch of dirty laundry. But actually it is so ridiculous, he has to laugh about his own stupidity for a moment, before he feels like crying again. If a change of scenery hadn’t been working when they were in the cabin, how could he be stupid enough to believe that going to Brendon’s place would change anything about his writers block either?
But maybe it is just an excuse to leave his own house, to get some company other than his dogs, which frolic too joyfully through the house and chew on his $575.00 Paul Smith Thunder Boots, while he strikes another ten lines out of the song he’s written just five minutes ago. Maybe it’s just the need of encouraging words with warm breath ghosting over the shell of his ear instead of the hard plastic of the phone receiver pressing against it.
He doesn’t know it. Or doesn’t want to know it.
He just sits there, starring at the messy letters that row over the paper. I ran dry.
The esprit that had helped him bring all the songs for the first album to paper has vanished. And…and…and he’s only twenty one. What does he have to say? He doesn’t have that much life experience. He’s spilled the things he’s gone through, he’d hold forth about the whole thing with his father. He doesn’t want to anymore. He has to let go, move on. It’s past.
He closes his eyes, trying to get his thoughts from swirling in an ridiculous whirlwind and file them into folders to get a decent overview again.
It doesn’t happen and Ryan ends up sitting there in vain, not moving and just barely breathing – mostly because he says, unless he manages to do this he’s not worth the air he’s inhaling. Soon Brendon comes back from wherever he’s disappeared to a while ago, blithe and easy, as always. He swarms around the room, dropping his jacket here and the grey scarf on the back rest of the arm chair, humming a song Ryan doesn’t recognize.
The couch bounces a little as he plops on it, right beside Ryan, his shoulder bumping shortly against his. “I’m back.” He states the obvious, leaning in to press a kiss on his cheek, his floppy hair tickling the older male a little, but he doesn’t react to the feeling anyway. “Did you write anything?” He wants to know.
Ryan shakes his head, still starring at the three words he’s written down during the two and a half hours he’s been sitting here and he can feel Brendon lean closer, reading them as well, giving a small sigh. Not angry, not disappointed, just sympathetic. “It’s alright, Ry.”
Ryan shakes his head again, more vigerously this time, gripping the pen tightly, his lips pressing together in a thin line and he tries, he really tries to get himself together, to think, to write. But it doesn’t work.
“Hey,” Brendon says softly, his warm fingers loosening Ryan’s bony ones from around the pen. “Hey,” he says again and rests his hands on Ryan's upper arms, coaxing him gently around to face him, his warm brown doe eyes looking at him with concern.
Ryan’s honey tinted orbs stare blankly back at him, his mind is still running 180 miles an hour and the whirlwind of thoughts, ideas and the continuous ‘it must be the best’ are buzzing in his head like a jackhammer, giving him a headache.
They sit like this for a minute or two and Ryan thinks he has to go back to writing, but he can’t tear his eyes from the younger man’s face, helplessly gazing down at him. And the black haired boy holds his gaze before his hands cup Ryan’s face gently, pulling him down a bit to kiss him with his plump lips that everyone adores so much. The kiss is soft and gentle and Ryan lets himself sink forward into the comfort of his mouth. For a moment or two the cogitations of failure stop penetrating his mind, but they’re back in the matter of a breath, taken between two pecks and the role of a tongue.
He doesn’t have time for this, there’re a plenty things he has to put on paper and he’s nowhere near done.
“I have to-”
Brendon shakes his head a little and cuts him off. “You need a break.”
“Brendon, I can’t-” He insists, but the black haired boy hushes him, placing a finger on his lips, before kissing him again and, Ryan, he is just too weak to object again. Especially when he doesn’t want to object in the first place.
Before he actually knows what’s really happening he finds himself back on the still unmade bed, completely missing out on how exactly he got there. The sheets feel clammy against his back after hours sans their body heat, but Brendon’s chest presses warmly against his front. He feels roughed up finger pads tracing his sides and the slight scratch of Brendon’s beard stubble against his collarbone, dressing his whole skin in goose bump.
He loves this, more than anything else. Not because it is sex, no, he loves this so much because it is the closest Brendon can get to him and Ryan wants Brendon close - all the time.
And there it is - when Brendon slides into him and out again, building up a smooth, steady rhythm. Everything just falls into place. The collisions of their hips seem to follow a tact, their moans turn into beats and hisses become a melody, lacing together a lovely composition. And suddenly the words develop in his head without any effort, so easily - he holds his breath for a second. They seem to bubble over, like water from a fountain and just as hard to catch with your fingers. He wants to write it down, to put it in a song and have Brendon’s creamy voice singing it to all their fans, to voice how complete this feels. But he can't. There's no pen and no paper. Just Brendon.
But maybe that’s all it takes.
He doesn’t curl up against him when it’s over, like he usually does, doesn’t allow his body to regain some energy and savor the aftermath of his orgasm with Brendon’s hands straying idly over his exhausted body. He leaves the younger man alone in his bed, spent, panting, with closed eyes and kiss swollen lips.
He doesn’t bother to get dressed, just keeping a sheet wrapped around his hips, his naked feet padding over the cold hard wooden floor and back into the living room to sit down at the coffee table, picking up the pen Brendon has pried from him while ago. And the rest just happens in a rush.
The minutes fly by, accommodated by the scratchy sound the pen creates against the paper and the distant ticking of the old fashioned clock that is standing in the right corner of the room, clashing horribly with the rest of the furniture.
He’s not sure how long it took, he doesn’t care. He just looks down at the note in his hand, at the hastily scribbled letters, smeared ink and stains, because the fountain pen wasn't working and he shook it too hard, trying. His heart is still pounding, because, god dammit, ideas are something evanescent and it could be gone in the next second. He feels the sweat cooling down on his skin and shivers, because without Brendon’s warm embrace it's surprisingly cold here. He partly hisses, because his hand wasn't quite as fast as his thoughts, and partly chatters with his teeth, because the air condition always works in the wrong moments. The side of the delicate paper of the notebook--the one he bought in the expensive paper shop in Paris--is crumbled and a little torn at the corner.
It’s the song. Ryan is certain. Re-reading every verse, each word brings it back. The feeling of Brendon’s roughened thumb pads pressing against his sides is evident again and the fluttery kisses along his shoulders and collarbones, as though they’re given in just this very moment. And there’s still the faint taste of cherry bubblegum on the back of his tongue. Towards the last bit he nearly curls his toes again, just as he had done barely twenty minutes ago and his skin is all covered in goose bump as he releases a shuddery breath.
He’s done it. After months and months of trying, of thinking, of scratching together every tiny little bit of poesy he could find, he’s finally managed to bring a decent song onto paper. His lips curl into a smile and his teeth bite his bottom lip a little as he keeps on reading his lyrics over and over again.
After the third time, though his smile fades and his teeth bury almost violently into the pink flesh of his mouth.
The song is great.
It’s honest, deep, a soul strip, if you want.
And it is absolutely impractical.
It’s too blunt, it gives away too much.
The fans suspect something between him and Brendon anyway. Not that they wouldn’t be right. No, there is most definitely something going on between them. And it’s the most beautiful thing Ryan has ever experienced, better than Las Vegas at night from a hill. Or the long, floral pattern dress his mom had been wearing at the late summer barbeque when he was five years old and things were still alright. It’s definitely his greatest treasure.
The thing is that he doesn't want it public, doesn't want to share it. It's all his, every furtive touch under the paper tablecloth while signing the glossy posters, CDs and t-shirts, each kiss stolen between interviews and photo shoots. He doesn’t want them to know about all the nights he slips into Brendon’s bunk when his chest feels clammy and his lungs don’t want to take in the air he’s inhaling and the younger one has to breathe for him. He would rather keep all of that to himself.
But this feels like it's the song.
He gives a frustrated hiss, his hands reaching up to rub over his face.
“Anything good?” He’s a little startled as he hears Brendon’s voice behind him and soon feels arms wrap around his shoulders from behind, the younger one's chest warm against his back and the tip of his chin digging into his shoulder.
“No…just another trashy song,” Ryan says, glad that he doesn’t have to make eye contact with Brendon as he rips the page out of the book, crumbling it to a ball and throwing it into the stuffed bin, that was maybe three feet away from him, accommodating the failures of the last two days.
Later, when Brendon is tangled up in the sheets and snoring peacefully, he’d sneak back to fish it out again, unfold it and smooth the ceases out of the paper, before he’d slip it into the pocket of his coat, to stow it away in the box that holds his fourth grade arithmetic books and where a love letter, that he’s never given to Tracy Sherman, is turning yellow. It would be another wasted chance.
[x] Comments and concrit are encouraged and appreciated.
* - The title Painting Songs is from a song by Tegan & Sara
** - I do not own the characters used in this story.