consenting@lj

Wed, 07 Jan 2009 03:52:59 GMT

Reassurance
ryan/spencer
a quick (and i mean 20 minutes quick), little something that came to me while doing homework and i just had to get out.

It’s only a quick, quiet kiss. Lips on chapped lips, hardly moving and more spontaneous than anything else. Spencer is so tense he’s on the verge of shaking. His fingers have trouble touching Ryan’s face; the tips burn when they hit Ryan’s jaw. He can’t- he can’t think right now, not with Ryan pulling away slightly, not with Ryan taking a long, shaky breath in. Spencer’s hands and eyes drop; Ryan’s chest slowly heaves up and expands as he holds the oxygen in his lungs. Spencer briefly wonders if Ryan is having trouble breathing too, but that’s only before he remembers what just happened. His eyes wander to the sky above Ryan’s head, then down to his face. It’s completely blank and almost lifeless.

But Spencer knows Ryan’s mind is starting to kick into gear; behind his eyes his cogs are starting to creak and move. His eyes close briefly when his lungs deflate, and then he stares straight at Spencer. Their childhood is playing in high-speed in those eyes, every single instance Ryan previously missed is now suddenly crystal clear. There’s a twinkle in Ryan’s eye though, a brief one Spencer just catches before he blinks, and it’s that realization. That twinkle, that spark, is a silent oh. But it’s not a positive twinkle, and it’s not a negative one either, it’s just there. It’s indifferent, like Ryan’s face. It’s indifferent, like Ryan’s body language. It’s indifferent, Spencer thinks with his own realization, like Ryan’s feelings towards him.

Head lolling to the side with disappointment, Spencer is about to give up, accept that maybe he’s just failed at being a good best friend without crossing the line, when Ryan’s chin lifts a little. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a sideways twitch that can’t be classified as a smile or a frown, but it’s something nonetheless. Spencer is able to relax, let his fingers and the tension building in his neck loosen. He lets his own mouth twitch up into a slight smile. The reassurance Ryan has given him, these minute little details and quirks Ryan offers to Spencer and Spencer only, let Spencer’s stomach keep his lunch down. Everything is going to be just fine.

Sat, 15 Nov 2008 03:12:24 GMT

Everything Seems to Fade
greta/chris Faller
based on chris' departure.
we_are_cities april 19, 2008 prompt.

The sky is so dark here, in the middle of the United States. Like ink, the sky is smearing its way down to the interstate, dripping in fat globs onto the windows of the tour bus. Everything is covered in a thin coating of jet-black ink: the ground, the pavement, the fields filled with grass that are bound to be somewhere beyond the edge of the road. There’s not a single streetlight anywhere to be found. No houses, no rest stops, no people living here to wipe away the ink. But, that’s just as well. The sky is claiming everything by making its mark on everything. The sky is declaring its power, the power to hold everything in the world in its strong grip. Tentative fingers reach towards the ink. They want the trace of the night on their tips and they want the black to drip down. These fingers want to find their place in this world.

Greta shivers with the November cold, rubs her clean hands together. Oily fingerprints are on the bus window now. She got too excited, thought she could actually fold and tuck herself away into the shadows. Silly, silly, she knows, it’s all just so funny and naïve. But nobody understands, not since everything’s been flipped upside-down, scrambled into a jumbled mess. Pulling herself together is becoming near impossible with nothing in order, with everyone else getting on with his life. No one speaks of it; no one calls him. Trying to stay calm doesn’t work. Greta thought this would be easier with Chris seeming so disposable and all. She didn’t… she didn’t quite get it before.

How do you bounce back? Greta feels like she used all her energy trying to bounce back these past few years, with all these deaths and break ups and near-disaster-misses. All of her Get Out of Jail Free cards have been used. All of her allotted advice from others has been graciously and greedily welcomed. She can’t turn anywhere. She can’t drag others down with her problems. Bob is thrilled for a fresh face, Darren is excited. Then there’s Greta, wallowing in the corner, trying to force herself to make this situation work. But it’s hard, when nothing is like before. It’s hard carrying on.

Because Chris used to spend hours with her. Quiet, slow hours in the night. Hours spent smoking and talking in nothing above a whisper. Hours no one knew about. Special, untouched hours that didn’t involve family or friends or Bob or even Darren. It was only Chris and Greta, Greta and Chris, alone and exploding with happiness. Pure happiness to just be together, figuring each other out one minute at a time. She leaves a pack of cigarettes in her purse, just to keep a shallow balance in her life.

Hands flutter towards the window again. Overwhelmed, palms press hard against the glass, trying to push through, trying to plunge into the ink. Greta makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, shakes her wild blonde hair. To just get out there, to be black all over is all she wants. To only be around for half the day, to be hiding during the light hours, seems bearable enough. That’s all she wants! Forget the past; it hurts too much. She wants to be the sky, wants to bleed murky ink all over the world, and wants to instill fear in the world’s inhabitants. She wants to be powerful too. She wants to be able to hang over Chris for the rest of her life just to give him hell.

slow fridays

Sat, 15 Nov 2008 00:29:43 GMT

1. Bandom fangirl since:
2. First band in the fandom:
3. How, why, and when did you get into bandom? Was it a gradual thing, or did bandom basically slam you in the face? Did you resist at first? Who was involved in your downfall?
4. What did your core bandom band look like when you got into the fandom? What fashion phase where they in?
5. What was your first impression of each of them?
6. What was the first bandom fic you ever read? What did you think of it?
7. When was your first bandom concert experience? What was it like?

1. Bandom fangirl since:
oh god, since the beginning of 2006.

2. First band in the fandom:
my first fic i read was taking back sunday, but i really got into panic at the disco a little while later. panic was my first real fandom.

3. How, why, and when did you get into bandom? Was it a gradual thing, or did bandom basically slam you in the face? Did you resist at first? Who was involved in your downfall?
i found slash randomly i think. i actually don't remember how, but i just know it was a taking back sunday fic. eventually i found slashatthedisco and that just fed my already present love for those four. things progressed, reached it's peak, and then i really stopped reading slash/participating in the fandom because it got too crazy. i've picked up again recently, but it's not as strong as it was.

4. What did your core bandom band look like when you got into the fandom? What fashion phase where they in?

oh yeaaah, remember the last one? so good, so good. can't believe i even found these in my photobucket. yes please, ryan ross, yes please. they were classy in an 18-year-old kind of way. sophisticated, if you will.

5. What was your first impression of each of them?
oh, the fourteen year old me swooned over ryan ross. brendon was crazy, spencer was chubby and didn't say much (although later he got quite adorable, then grew that beard! uh.), and brent said even less. he seemed like an asshole, always pissed off, but from what i've seen he's really not. when jon came, i was indifferent.

6. What was the first bandom fic you ever read? What did you think of it?
my first fic was taking back sunday and about john and adam. they worked at a water park, fell in love, etc. good times. i can't remember if the fic was actually good, or if i even finished it, but at the time i loved it. i read all my first panic fics on slashatthedisco. they had different mods back then and a fic posted once a week.

7. When was your first bandom concert experience? What was it like?
the first bandom concert experience was probably panic's tour with the hush sound. i saw them in boston (and met greta. can't leave that out because, omg, greta). brendon and ryan were all over each other and fhasjfha. i don't even like brendon/ryan tbh, but come onnn. they made it way too easy.

Thu, 18 Sep 2008 02:42:03 GMT

What A Beautiful Buzz
Spencer/Ryan
PG-13
not exactly beta'd all that well, sorry.
Seventeen, drugs, and bit of life.

Ryan doesn’t know exactly the first time he felt like a real teenager, as in a rebellious kid who knows that they shouldn’t be doing something, yet they do it (willingly) anyways. The first time he realized he lied without hesitation wasn’t much of a shock, but it was a bit surprising. The words came quick, fluid and nonchalant. It was like a coming of age to him at the time; once you lie flawlessly, you are qualified as a standard teenager.

When Ryan was seventeen, he did a lot of things that could have fucked him over for life, but never really caught up to him. He guesses, now that he’s older, a lot of people did the same, like parents and grandparents. Ryan knows that his father used to sneak out to vandalize the local park and his high school when he was sixteen, and it’s when Ryan’s saying he’s staying at Brendon’s he realizes, yeah, okay, his father has a lot more in common with him than he had thought. And yeah, fine, his father knows he isn’t really staying at Brendon’s. But Ryan’s father let him go anyways, and Ryan didn’t even bother to turn right at the end of his driveway, the way to Brendon’s. He just went left and thought about what he could say to cover up.

There was this place a couple minutes away from Ryan’s, behind this kid’s house, that was perfect for hanging out without anyone nosing around. His parents were never home, there was plenty of parking, and, the best part, they never got caught. The same kids were always there, kids Ryan came to love and trust by the time he graduated from high school. There was always a fire that they sat around, content, as a group. They didn’t do much but be young and exist. And that’s a weird way to put it, Ryan knows, but it’s the only way Ryan can think of it now, existing. They didn’t do much but live and laugh, along with a few other things.

There was this one Saturday, perfectly clear and cool, where Spencer was hunched over his lap, moving his fingers and completely concentrated. Ryan stared, in awe, and had this smirk on his lips, like he knew. He said, “Dude, what the fuck?” A small laugh came out, because he felt relieved above everything else, like he now knew he wouldn’t die without trying, and it was about fucking time.

“Yeah, I know,” Spencer mumbled, almost proudly, as he looked up and held a blunt in his fingers. “I’m just that good,” he said when Ryan’s face lit up a bit, eager and still completely willing. “Don’t ask me where I got it.” Spencer’s eyes caught Ryan’s. “Because,” he said lighter, but almost uncomfortable, “I think you know. So just. Don’t.”

Ryan did know. Spencer’s work was filled with kids that smoked more than Ryan could imagine at seventeen (and Ryan now realizes how naïve he really was, at seventeen). He reached out, but Spencer shook his head and stood up, brushing the dirt off of his jeans. “I don’t want to share, you know? I paid for this, but you get off for free just for being Ryan Ross.” Spencer grinned some, already walking into the woods. Ryan followed, anything but reluctant, and didn’t look back.

Now, they’re on the road. Ryan is a hell of a lot older and way less naïve, and it shows in the way he’s no longer amazed by Spencer hunched over. He waits patiently in the back of the bus and watches Jon move around up front, sniffing his clothes, looking for some that doesn’t reek of pot. Ryan smirks, the same way he did when he was seventeen, because he knows Jon will never be able to find a clean pair of anything to impress his parents with. Ryan realizes that, okay, they aren’t all that much smarter when it comes to these things compared to when they were seventeen.

Spencer flinches slightly when Ryan leans in to look. “Don’t say anything. It’s not ready,” he says in the same tone he used that Saturday night. Ryan laughs. No, they haven’t changed too much in some senses. “I’m only sharing this with you because you’re Ryan Ross, alright? So ward off Brendon. He can pay for his own shit.” He digs in his pockets for a lighter.

Ryan smiles, reaches out for the blunt. “Only because I’m Ryan Ross,” he mumbles, feeling like he’s seventeen again.

Sun, 14 Sep 2008 21:42:12 GMT

so i have this awesome, epic greta/ryan fic half done. it's terribly long but filled with drama and not-so-quite love, and oh! i love it, love it, love it. and i work on it for weeks, just adding more and more. until, a virus eats my computer. but! i salvage it on a disk. and i'm told i'll have all my files and not worry. but now, i don't have my files. and now, i don't know where the disk is. and i'm itching to work on it.

this is me promising something soon. i don't know when soon is, but i can ensure you something's coming.

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 00:55:56 GMT

I’ll Always See Your Face, The Corner of Your Smile
Chris Faller/Greta Salpeter
Inspired by the Honey/Making of Honey videos, as well as the March 30 prompt at we_are_cities.
I realize some things may be off when it comes to ~*Hushie History, but work with me here! :)

Chris just wants to be in her head. Greta doesn’t talk when she’s like this, when her eyes are melancholy and her lips tight. He doesn’t like the absence of her laugh. He yearns for that smile that was carelessly lost somewhere between the venue and the bus. Sometimes he wakes up in the van with stiff limbs and finds her head on his shoulder, her hand clutching his. He wonders if this was all spontaneous, or if she really needed him.

He tries to play the piano backstage one day, but he’s anything but gifted with this talent. She’s patient, though. She places her hands over his, lets her fingers do the talking. Hunched over his back, smelling of that cusp of time between spring and summer, her body is pressed against his, and her hands are skillful and gentle. They look so endearing against the ivory of the piano keys; he wants to hold them, kiss them. His hands look just plain clumsy and wrong. Her hair hangs over one shoulder and it’s a mess of golden curls and waves. It touches his shoulder when she turns her head. But none of this is enough because he is failing in front of her. Frustrated, he scoffs and resists her fingers on top of his. The keys don’t get pressed and he bites the inside of his lip. He swears he’s making the worst noise ever. Chris grunts, “I can’t do this, Greta. This isn’t me.” But she can only smile and murmur, “You’re doing just fine.”

The phone rings, Greta’s phone. It pierces through the van as she rummages around in her bag, the shadows of the night making it more difficult than it should really be. Chris wants to smash that phone- she was just about to fall asleep. Bob curses from the driver’s seat and it’s something about that “damn phone of Greta’s.” Darren can only chime in and say it never stops ringing. Chris can feel some anger begin to boil within him. That’s not true. He wants to tell them to shut up, but stops himself when she breaks into a full-blown smile. Darren leans over to look in the rearview. “Boyfriend,” he says to Bob with a shrug. Bob only smirks with a shake of the head. “Why do they try to make it work?” His whisper is louder than needed, and although Greta is too wrapped up in her phone call to notice, Chris knows it was uncalled for. When she finally hangs up, she’s not pouting, she’s not getting in that dark place like she sometimes does. She’s smiling with dreamy eyes. Chris hates that they didn’t fight this time.

Back in Chicago, before their show and before moving on to a new city, Greta invites Chris to eat lunch with her family. “What, like my family doesn’t care about me?” Chris asks spitefully. Greta sighs and says that she knows his parents are away on business, and she wishes he would stop being such an ass about everything. But, the thing is, Chris knows she’s being very generous to share her family time with him when he has no family to share time with. It’s not that Chris doesn’t like Mr. and Mrs. Salpeter, it’s just that the boyfriend comes with the family package, and Chris doesn’t want to be the third wheel. No, he doesn’t feel like it today. Besides, when was the last time he wandered around the city?

The night keeps dragging on, and, God, hasn’t it been long enough? The boyfriend came out to the show on the East Coast, and Chris just wants to withdraw himself from the whole night. Greta isn’t the lovey-dovey type or anything, but the minor hand holding and smiles are enough! None of it is his. He can’t call her his own, and that kills him slowly inside. It’s just out of his reach and, fuck, it’s not fair. It’s not fair to tease Chris and he can’t stop. Maybe Darren saw it, because he told him to get the trout mouth the fuck off his face. Quietly, he added that Chris didn’t need to load the van up tonight. Chris ends up sinking down between the seats of the van with a pack of cigarettes and his mind racing. Five cigarettes later, the van door slides open and someone with a light step and easy breath comes in. She coughs, waves her hand in front of her face, and follows the small plume of smoke coming up from between the seats to the blanket and pillow bundle that is Chris. “What do you think you’re doing?” she says with a light smile. “All I smell in this van is you.” And she plucks the cigarette from Chris’ loose fingers and throws it onto the pavement outside. “I just needed a break,” Chris mumbles, already searching for another cigarette, but the pack seems to have found its way to Greta’s hand. She pockets it, and leaves Chris alone.

Somehow it’s just them in a hotel room, Chris and Greta. Chris suspects some secret plans made between Bob and Darren, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Greta hasn’t been herself all night. She hasn’t said a word. She sinks into her bed, doesn’t bother to talk to Chris. He shuts off the lights himself and climbs into his bed, and lies awake. He hears something not too long after. Chris can’t mistake the sound for anything else but her quiet sobbing into the pillow. It’s the same aggravated cry he hasn’t heard since the recording of ‘So Sudden.’ He’s unsure of what to do so he lies still despite his legs wanting to shuffle over to her bed. He waits, he counts the seconds and minutes, but the sobs only continue. “Greta?” he whispers. Greta only cries harder, and Chris is so torn. It’s not his place to crawl into bed with her, but he feels as if he has no choice… She’s so perfect in his arms.

The days are long as they hit the Midwest. It’s always Bob and Darren up front, with Chris and Greta settled somewhere in the back of the van. Chris has found his niche between the seats again, and he’s quiet as he watches Greta write. Greta. Greta. She didn’t stop crying for days. She clung to Chris. She never said anything, never said why she was crying, but Chris is a smart kid. He could guess it was her boyfriend. And Chris, he aches. He aches so badly for her now. Now that her smile has evolved from a fake, tight-lipped thing to the radiance it once was, Chris has been pushed gently aside once again.

“Best friend,” Greta says into his ear right before a show, “why don’t you ever push the limit?” Chris is bewildered. He didn’t even know there was a limit, and he wasn’t sure what was limited. He laughs lightly, to cover his bewilderment, and jokes, “I sometimes go over the speed limit. And sometimes I drink too much. Actually, I always drink too much when I drink.” He shrugs casually. “I push the limit.” She doesn’t smile fully, though. In fact, she looks a bit disappointed. But it’s time to get on stage, and he watches her saunter over to her keyboard. He’s forced to follow close behind, lost somewhere behind Darren and Bob. ‘We Intertwined’ only fills his head half-way, because as he plays the familiar chords, the rest of his mind is trying to figure out what Greta meant..

It’s the night that almost changes everything, the night when things almost get admitted, the night when Greta almost puts two and two together, and the night when Chris feels the most vulnerable. He chain smokes outside while leaning on the van as Bob and Darren buy things at the twenty-four hour grocery store. It’s late, too late to be up, but Bob got pretty desperate for bottled water after all he could find were empty water bottles in the van and was forced to sip at brown tap water. And Darren just likes browsing new stores and finding odds and ends. That is just Darren.

Looking at the empty parking lot and the fluorescent lights shining through the store windows, Chris feels his demeanor slowly dissipate into hardly anything. That night in the hotel was so long ago, but it haunts him. She was right there, but she got snapped back to her boyfriend so quick. He hates her boyfriend because he’s never around like Chris is. Chris is her support, her backbone, twenty-four-seven. He’s tangible and crystal clear all the time, unlike her boyfriend who is merely static coming through a cell phone. Chris is the best damn thing to ever happen to her, so why can’t she see it?

It’s funny how all these odd happenings sort of get rolled into one huge ball of memories. All her smiles, her laughs, her tears, and all those looks she gets when she’s angry, they all flash by fast in Chris’ head. He remembers her shy greeting when they first met; he remembers the tentativeness of ‘So Sudden’ and her being so hesitant about her songs; he remembers ‘Like Vines’ and her doing homework in between recordings, and how she always asked Chris for help with calculus homework (even though the figures never clicked in his head, deeming him worthless to her high school education); he remembers that time it was just them walking around Chicago, New York, Boston, getting on random subway lines and L’s; he remembers Panic at the Disco teasing her relentlessly for being the only girl on tour, and feeling the anger bubble under his skin. His cigarette dwindles between his fingers.

When the door of the van slides open and Greta crawls out, Chris has already smoked another two cigarettes. She leans next to him quietly. He doesn’t say anything because he simply can’t. Instead, he looks the other way at the endless pavement of the parking lot trying not to notice her body barely touching his. She sighs, probably to herself, and Chris flinches.

“What’s going on?” she asks. There’s no sleep in her voice. Chris wonders if she was watching him stress out through the van window.

“Bob wanted water. Darren is tagging along,” he answers simply. His voice is heavy, almost as heavy as the air between him and Greta. She doesn’t say anything. “Sleeping?” He can feel her looking at him.

“Was I sleeping? Yeah, sort of. But I saw you out here, so…” She shrugs her shoulders. Her eyes reflect the lights from the grocery store. “I sort of want some organic granola,” she mumbles, and Chris thinks it’s just as well.

“Go get some then,” he says almost sourly. He is hating her for rejecting him.

Greta looks at him, her eyes starting to get icy. “Do you need sleep or something? I swear, you’ve been the biggest ass these past few weeks, and that’s not the Chris Faller I know.” She lowers her eyes to the pavement, oily and wet under her flats. “And I’ve noticed that the Mister Hyde version of you only comes out around me. Not Darren, not Bob, not Adam.” Her voice drops to hardly a whisper, and it sounds pained. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Christopher Faller. Sometimes I really do.”

Chris knows it’s serious when his full name gets used, but he can’t bring himself to say anything to her. Conflict with Greta is new. Conflict that is out there between Chris and Greta is such a new concept to Chris, he’s not sure if he knows how to handle it. So he decides he is better off not handling it. He gives up, clenches his fists in immense frustration in himself and in Greta, and goes for a walk.

The adrenaline; he breathes heavily. His hand is resting on her cheek, so delicately. The kiss, the kiss, the director reminds them, needs to only seem perfect. And it’s when she starts laughing that he wants to just scream. The director tells them to take a minute; he needs to tend to something. She shakes her head and laughs to herself. Her eyes wander to the darkness off the set, to Darren and Bob standing around with Adam, and she goes to join them. “I crack!” she laughs. “Every time, I just can’t take it!” He jitters, thumbs the scarf around his neck. It’s not fair.

It's Here!

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 01:16:11 GMT

Not Into The Idea of Living Without You
Ryan Ross/Greta Salpeter
To Terri.
This may have some flaws, and god, I welcome your criticism, but for some weird reason I really love this. Inspired by the January 12 prompt at we_are_cities and by a recent trip.

It’s the neighborhood you see from the highway heading into New York City. It’s the grey, dismal bunch of buildings that are crumbling and falling apart. It’s the potholes in the street that fill with brown, oily water that doesn’t evaporate, and it’s the corner stores that sell canned goods that are years past their expiration date. It’s the neighborhood Ryan calls home by choice, and it’s the only place he can make himself come down from the high of being a rock star.

It’s not that Ryan is worried about his money. It’s not that he’s fed up with his friends and band mates who choose to live where he chooses not to; it’s just that he goes so fast when he’s on tour. His head, it spins and jumps and eventually turns on him. It eventually makes him sit in a quiet place for hours on end and try to sort himself out. He hates it, he doesn’t want it, but it’s something inevitable. Brendon suffers from it also, same with Spencer, but Jon is calm and collected so he doesn’t even come close to getting like them, and no one cared about Brent back then (he wouldn’t have told them anyways). Except, what sets Ryan apart from the rest, what makes him deal with things in a way that none of them can quite completely comprehend, is that they all surround themselves with great, extravagant things and friends and family. They busy themselves with life and outings, and they pull through. Ryan can pull through too eventually, but Ryan can’t connect, Ryan won’t connect, because it’s just those things, that life and those outings, that make him get melancholy and quiet.

It’s just that he needs a place to do normal things in a normal setting, a place where no one will want to visit him. But people do visit. They slink in and try not to touch the walls. They don’t mention that they can just feel their lungs turn black with tobacco smoke from the first floor and the years of dust falling from the cracks in the ceiling. They drink gallons of orange juice and take vitamins weeks before and after the planned visit to keep their immune system strong. They eat their vegetables, they stay healthy, and they don’t drink the tap water from Ryan’s apartment. They refuse guiltily (“No thanks, Ryan. I have a bottle of water in the car.”) and wonder if they locked their car doors. They listen intently for windows smashing in the street three stories below.

Greta is sedulous, scolds him for living in such a dump. She visits almost weekly, tries to relate to Ryan. She doesn’t understand though because she has a strong backbone and a mind that has been trained since birth to be a concrete wall; nothing will affect her. She parks her Toyota in the street next to the storm gutter clogged with trash and old bills carelessly tossed or “lost.” Her car, it was once new in 2000. It’s nothing all that special. Yet, Ryan still worries her hubcaps are going to ripped off every time she comes, but he doesn’t say anything.

She always sits Ryan down and says, “What the hell Ryan? Why are you living here?” She always touches his arm, his elbow. “If you would just go twenty minutes into the city you wouldn’t have to worry about getting shot on the street.” When Ryan stares at the floor that has dirt ground too far in to clean and doesn’t say anything, she always tells him his lungs are going to turn black from the pollution that’s surely in the building.

Ryan always listens respectfully and asks, “Well then why don’t you live there?” Because it’s true, she doesn’t live in an apartment building well maintained with working locks. She lives in the suburbs because she has never lived in the city, not even when she was younger. She enjoys the suburbs of Chicago, New York, and Boston. They remind her of family. Security. If she could, she would have apartments outside of each city. She would decorate them in family portraits, pictures from the months on tour, bright colors, and couches you could spend all day sinking into. But, for now, she has to be content with her suburban apartment outside of New York and her parents’ house outside of Chicago.

“You know it’s not me,” she would say, almost desperate to save herself.

“And you know,” Ryan would shoot back, his words sharp but kind, strong even, “it’s not me either.”

And it’s those words that always start off their conversations. They’re a secret greeting, something only between Ryan Ross and Greta Salpeter, Greta Salpeter and Ryan Ross. Something that other people simply wouldn’t get. Others, well, they would just brush Ryan off as a stupid prick for living in a dump like that, even with so much in the bank. It’s like shoving it in others’ faces, saying, screaming, “I can live here too, you know. I can be in the same boat! And I can relate!” And Greta? Greta would be the pushy, disapproving friend. The friend that can only see flaws, can only pickpickpick at the very flesh of her peers. That doesn’t sound like a well balanced relationship, and it’s really not. It’s just what people see, or people want to see.

In reality, they’re two people everyone else would never be able to understand. They’re friends, but they defy every boundary the “friends” term maps out. They make out after getting fucking smashed at Pete’s club (and only end up remembering the color of the sheets that are later below them). They hold hands and touch but want to strangle each other at the same time. They go on weekend getaways. They work on music together. They even share a piano and song book. Pathetic, really, but he’s toxic to her, and she’s toxic to him. Their relationship, this relationship that everyone is too blind to see, is balanced, hypothetically. It has all the elements of a perfect old married couple: desire, passion, love, hate, annoyance. Old married couples last, they are tough, and they are each other’s very best friends. They are able to shoot each other down and pick each other up. But Ryan and Greta, they’re friends, not some old married couple retired in Florida. Friends! Because Ryan has a girlfriend that’s never there and Greta has an on-again-off-again boyfriend back in Chicago.

The apartment always falls silent after their usual bickering except for the creaking of the whole building. Greta is not scared of germs or of catching rare diseases and always walks around the apartment, putting a hand on the window sill or running her fingers across the countertop.

Today, on this rainy day, Greta is visiting as per usual. She’s bundled tight in sweaters and turtlenecks because Ryan’s heat failed last night. She came bearing blankets and hot coffee. Ryan is forever grateful for her and her company. And her voice, and her soft hands that play the piano so well that he’s jealous, and her smile, and her hair, and her laugh and her eyes that give him that look that makes him simply radiate. And when she sees him smiling despite himself, she has to look away because, “We’re back together.”

Ryan shakes his head, the corners of his lips turning down, and he says as if he doesn’t know, “Who?” He swears he can hear his neighbors scheming how to break into and hotwire Greta’s car. Maybe he’s just going a bit crazy at the moment.

Greta ignores him, her eyes looking at the stained floor. She can see the indents where the years old wood is starting to sag beneath the thin faux tile. She wonders what the apartment building looked like when it was first built. It was probably grand and top notch, she bets. What she really wants to do is ask Ryan how old the building is, but holds herself back. She isn’t as tactless as some may think. Instead, she goes, quietly, “He wants me to move back to Chicago.”

The shock, the initial shock, hits Ryan right in the chest. It penetrates deep, all the way through his flesh, bones, and organs, and back again. He wants to yell, ask her if this is why she really stopped by. He wants his neighbors to smash her car into so many pieces it can’t be placed back together just so she can stay for a bit longer. His eyes stare right through her, cold and harsh. “Can’t even believe it,” he mumbles.

“I’m not going.”

“What, are you fucking with me today?” he says sourly, the shock slowly churning itself to rage.

Greta shakes her head. “What? Never, Ry.” Her hands go up in defense. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Then what was the point in telling me?” Ryan sits heavily on his couch. Greta’s in a chair across the room. Her eyes are narrowed, lips parted slightly, like she’s in disbelief. And Ryan thinks that’s good. That’s good because what is she trying to pull here?

“I thought I could tell you these things.” She pauses, and when Ryan continues to just look at her, she continues. “We are friends, Ryan Ross. I think I’ve experienced more with you these past few years than I have with anyone else.”

The silence, it’s all Ryan can concentrate on. This atmosphere is so new to him. It’s so hostile, so tense. This has never happened with Greta. She’s happiness and calmness. She’s never angry, never gives off any negative energy. Yet, here she is, her face as hard as ever, staring Ryan down.

“I don’t fucking get you.” Her words, like venom. Never has anything so harsh come from those lips. Ryan feels like he’s accomplished some sort of record. Imagine: ‘Ryan Ross- Made Greta Salpeter Shoot Steam Out of Her Ears.’ That deserves some sort of plaque or trophy, maybe even a certificate with fancy calligraphy, but Ryan would have to give it to Spencer for safe keeping; it would get stolen in his apartment.

“What, Greta? What do you want me to say?” He throws his hands up, opposite to Greta- defenseless.

“I’m staying, Ryan. I’m not leaving New York for Chicago. You, out of all people, should know…” She trails off and looks at her lap. She picks at her dress. “Besides,” she whispers, “how could I leave you behind here?” Everything suddenly cools. It’s no longer like a furnace, their bodies giving off such scalding heat. Greta softens, like she’s melting, except she’s totally not. She’s still as headstrong as ever. “You should know I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

Without thinking, like he wants her to go back to Chicago, Ryan says, “I’m not alone.”

“Shut up,” she says weakly. She stands and goes to the kitchen to close the thermos of coffee she brought earlier. It has already lost most of its warmth. When she enters back into the living room, she can only look at Ryan. It’s that moment Ryan realizes she can’t leave him. He wouldn’t be able to stand it. When she’s not there, he’s wondering when she’ll return. When they’re on tour, he wonders when their paths will cross. He wants her to tag along with them, always be there, never be able to escape from him, but she has a life too. It’s inevitable, her eventually leaving him behind, because Chris has said things about engagements and Greta and Chicago and that boyfriend of hers when he was too drunk to fully function for a couple of days. Ryan guesses he must have been just as drunk because those words didn’t hurt him then. They only come back to get at him now, at the worst time possible, and he feels like smashing his fist into something.

Greta leaves, silently, because Ryan’s head is in his hands. She’s right there, right there, just so close. He gets bits and pieces of love from her, but never the whole package. There’s always a middle man. There’s always alcohol when he does get her, alcohol that blurs his memory. Her car starts up in the street. He groans loudly. Chicago, New York, boyfriend, you, leave, stay. You should know I wouldn’t leave you alone. He wants her all to himself. He’s selfish, but she’s also losing her appeal by the day. She’s not vivid; she’s not even there suddenly. It feels like she’s slipping right through his hands and he can’t get a firm grip. It would be easier if she was just moving away instead of teasing him.

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 22:18:32 GMT

something's coming. soon. i promise. it's half done and so far i love it oh so very much.

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:48:43 GMT

Scandalous and Evil
Spencer/Ryan
Spencer hates Ryan's girlfriend.

Spencer watches her hands slide across Ryan’s back. He feels the burn in his chest, nothing like the heartburn his grandfather used to get after family dinners. He hates the pressure from the burn, like his heart is trying to push through his skin with hot hands. He shivers at the thought, places a hand over his heart nonchalantly. A sigh slips past his lips without even trying. Spencer feels cursed.

Her hands look nothing like his; they’re delicate, small, and soft, probably more graceful than his. To make them more desirable, she pumps the best Victoria’s Secret lotion onto her hands twice a day, when she wakes up and when she goes to bed, and Spencer only knows this from the times she has pried her way into their plans, mostly when she finds out Spencer is crashing at Ryan’s. Spencer never studied her habits, more like hated them.

She likes to intentionally make Spencer mad and uncomfortable. She likes to put Spencer’s secret on the tip of her tongue in front of Ryan, likes to drop hints about Spencer’s secret. She likes Ryan to wonder what she’s saying, implying, but he never knows. It’s embarrassing and fucking scary, and it’s not Spencer’s fault. It’s not Spencer’s fault. She snooped, heard Spencer gasping Ryan’s name, picked the bathroom door lock, saw Spencer’s hand jerking. It haunts him. And it’s not Spencer’s fault.

She feeds like a parasite on Spencer’s visible discomfort. Somehow, Ryan is blind to her wicked smiles and little games, blind to Spencer’s frowns and scoffs. Somehow, Ryan loves this girl, gives everything and anything he can to her.

Spencer sees her hands rub Ryan’s back, trail down to his ass as she glances over at his twisting face. He notices that Ryan leans into it all, cracks the smallest smile at the gesture, and Spencer wants to slap him and shake him. He wants to know what’s wrong with him, what’s wrong with his hands, and why he can’t be good enough for even his best friend.

Mon, 31 Dec 2007 22:17:58 GMT

Have a happy new year. I'm sorry I have no fic-goodness for you.
♥

Mon, 03 Dec 2007 17:55:30 GMT

Holding On
Ryan/Spencer
For the November 27 catch up prompt number 4 at we_are_cities.
Tried something a bit different this time around.

It’s the first time things feel a little different, maybe a little right. It’s the first time, and they’re sitting across from each other at a restaurant and they’re content with being silent. Ryan feels something move inside of him when Spencer folds the corners of his place mat.

Ryan’s eyes stay on Spencer’s fingers; his own tingle with, what is it- want?

-----

Ryan thinks it’s weird because Spencer lives far away, yet when he’s upset he drives the ten minutes out of town and the twenty on the highway and the three down side streets just to see Ryan. Just to see Ryan.

Imagine that.

-----

The world in which Spencer lives in is half-and-half: half hell, half happiness. Under hell: the world. Under happiness: Ryan.

Spencer thinks Ryan is the one he needs, the one he wants, and his heart aches when he’s in Ryan’s bed, two inches separating their bodies.

-----

Sometimes Spencer feels self-conscious over things he shouldn’t. Like, when he’s sitting in Ryan’s kitchen, will Ryan hate the way he’s sitting? Will he be turned off by this? Will their relationship crumble into nothing? Like, when he’s struggling with homework, will Ryan think he’s stupid for not getting it? Will Ryan hate him for stupidity? Will Ryan bring up that he just so happened to ace that class when he was a junior?

Spencer feels self-conscious about his looks too. But when Ryan glances at him in that way, when his eyes seem to smile, Spencer’s self-consciousness is shoved to the back of his mind.

-----

The first kiss is bad and awkward. They’re watching TV late into the night, the blue glow hurting their tired eyes. Their bodies are limp and groggy, brains half dead from the lack of sleep. So when they slowly melt into each other without notice, it’s no surprise. It’s no surprise when Ryan goes to ask Spencer if he wants to go to bed and Spencer is already looking at him with drooping eyes. And when Ryan leans in subconsciously, Spencer is shaking and Ryan is all fumbling hands and lips.

It’s not something that’s romantic, but Ryan knows he doesn’t want romance. He just wants Spencer.

-----

Lazy afternoons are spent on couches with the TV on. They are spent holding hands and whispering. They seem endless.

They’re anything but.

-----

May rolls around, then June. By June, all college applications are sent in and acceptances and rejections are all out. By June, college plans are made. By June, Spencer is well aware Ryan won’t be staying.

Ryan is graduating; Spencer is not. Ryan is thinking about it, never saying it. He’s thinking about it when they kiss, when they go out, when they’re sitting doing nothing, and when they’re not together. He’s thinking about it constantly and he wonders if Spencer is too.

He is.

-----

By mid July, they are sweating it out in cars and in parks. They’re still close, still together and strong, but things start to feel off. Things start to feel heavy; Ryan starts to get distracted.

Ryan swats a bee and closes his eyes. The sun bakes his skin and he says, barely there, “I’m going to college upstate, and I’m sorry.”

-----

Spencer helps Ryan pack. He folds clothes and buys towels with Ryan, touch always lingering longer than needed. It hasn’t hit him yet. He can’t imagine life without Ryan there, so why should he? His head, it tells him, “Stop getting so attached.”

-----

When they load Ryan’s dad’s truck, that’s when it hits Spencer. Full force, it almost makes Spencer stumble back. Ryan’s dad leaves before Ryan, blue tarp covering boxes and cracking in the wind, and Ryan stares at Spencer with his big eyes, fright just setting in.

Spencer rubs his neck. Maybe he had thought about Ryan leaving before. Maybe he’s really scared too. “I don’t want you to hold back,” he says. “We should take a break, see how things are going.”

Ryan breathes, says, “Okay.” His lips spread into a grin. “Yeah,”

“I just want you to have a good time.” Spencer smiles back. He hugs Ryan, thinks he can feel Ryan shaking beneath his clammy hands.

-----

Ryan hardly ever comes home. Spencer can’t afford the gas to drive up, but they’re not together so it doesn’t, and shouldn’t, matter anyways. The truth is that this is killing Spencer. Ryan was always there, now he’s not. Now there’s an empty space where Ryan should be.

Spencer still counts his loose change with a small amount of hope. Maybe he can afford it today…

-----

Finally, five weeks into the semester, Ryan comes home. He kisses Spencer on the cheek because that’s all friends can get away with.

They go out, sit across from each other at booths in local restaurants like old friends do, and end up on Spencer’s bed kissing.

Spencer pulls Ryan closer and says, “I still love you.”

Ryan closes his eyes and says, “You didn’t have to tell me.”

-----

Spencer receives drunken calls (the only calls he gets) from Ryan on weekends. The background is loud with blasting music and people. Through it all, Spencer hears one thing: the guy whispering into Ryan’s other ear.

-----

It’s awkward, the second time Ryan comes home. It’s Thanksgiving and there isn’t much time for Spencer, only time for family and meals. But Ryan still slips out of his house unnoticed. He ends up on Spencer’s doorstep looking older. When the door opens, Ryan just shrugs and mumbles, “Miss me?”

Spencer notices the sweater Ryan’s wearing, notices the neatness he never really had before, and he notices that Ryan looks like a college student now, not a high school kid. Spencer flinches because this Ryan isn’t quite the Ryan he knows.

When they hug, Spencer smells the beer stained into Ryan’s clothes and the cologne of someone else.

-----

They end up going to see a movie, and then find themselves on Spencer’s bed again, kissing. But it’s off, unbalanced. Spencer says, “I love you so much.” And Ryan looks hurt and just ignores his words.

Later, Ryan whispers with a blank face, “Please remember that we broke up months ago.”

Sun, 28 Oct 2007 02:18:24 GMT

Someday, But Not Today
Jon/Spencer
884 words

I think about you from time to time when my heart aches for the years that are long gone- the simpler years. Everything was so straight forward; we thought we had each other figured out so well. I could predict your next move; you always knew what I would say next. I guess we were just expected, but I would like to think that we knew each other just that well.

I was silly and foolish. I was so young, and you were not. You were mature. You had grown up problems like flipping your car on the highway and colleges. I couldn’t help but to worry about my hair or my grade in pre-calc. Two different stages in life; I would like to think they tore us right apart. I think, honestly, I think I was just completely tactless.

The thing that kept me by your side all those years was that you made me feel important. I had asked one time if you wanted to end our relationship, our friendship, one day and you had asked me if I was kidding. Sometime during our relationship, you told me I was pretty and you told me I was smart. That was all I was looking for.

You always told me so much and I found myself wondering for weeks after our big fallout if you had told me too much. Like anybody though, I couldn’t help but to keep my mouth closed when you pushed me over the edge. When you said I was childish and fake, that was it. I told your high-school-age girlfriend all you had admitted to me, like fooling around with that girl in that shitty dorm room or doing coke at that frat party. I hated knowing those facts, I didn’t even want to think about those things, but I knew it was the only way to get you really angry.

I don’t regret it. I don’t regret saying any of it at all. I only regret the nasty things I said to you and saying it all through an instant message. I had no balls, you didn’t either, and we resorted to attacking each other’s families and making threats. I was low, but you were even lower.

Years passed. Now I found myself thinking about you still. I found myself relating everything to you. I was told that you had transferred here, to my college out West, and I wanted to know how you were doing. I wanted to catch up, to gain everything we once had back. I hoped every day to pass you on the street. I hoped that we ended up in the same college classes; I hoped we ended up in the same grocery store. I kept a keen eye, but I constantly found myself scanning over unfamiliar faces.

What haunted me still were the nights we visited each other. The nights spent drinking in the backseat of your car and talking are the nights I remember best because I always felt so close to you. For once, you were all mine and your girlfriend wasn’t in the picture. The first night we drank in the backseat is the night I will always remember best because you had one hand on my leg and the other behind my head. I swear, I vowed to always keep you around right then. I don’t think I realized how difficult it would actually be to maintain a relationship with you.

Someone told me one day that you had a fiancée. I don’t know if I had ever been so crushed. The child in me wanted to find that fiancée of yours and tell her all, but I knew that would be resorting to my old, high school ways. I knew it would make you resent me even more.

One night, I thought I saw you at a party, but I lost you in the crowd of underage drinkers. To make up for it, I climbed in the backseat of my car with a few bottles of beer and rested my head on the worn cushion. I passed out. When I woke up, it was late morning and I was sweating from the early September heat.

In the library writing another dreaded paper, I caught you staring at me. I was surprised and stood to say hello, but your face looked a bit angry suddenly when our gazes met. I wanted to shrink back down in my seat. But then, you surprised me. You came strolling over, your face softened, and you stared awkwardly. I couldn’t help but say, “Jon, how are you?” It was cheesy and stupid, but I was nervous. Your eyebrows rose for a moment, and you pulled at the zipper of your hoodie. And then, you shook your head and you said, “I can’t handle seeing you around anymore.” Your mouth opened to say something, but then it closed. I gaped at you and that engagement ring on your finger. Unconsciously I rubbed at the finger where my engagement ring would be on one day. You noticed, sighed, and said to me ever so softly, “Spencer, some day we’ll sort shit out, but not today.”

You left me standing in the library wondering where I could find some alcohol, a backseat, and familiarity.

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 22:11:43 GMT

Just You and I
Chris/Darren (The Hush Sound)
All about Chris and Darren's relationship.
Title shamelessly from "Defying Gravity", a song from Wicked. I was lost at what to name this.

Darren and Chris have a weird relationship. They often sit on couches during the day watching public television and flicking through channels to find text-to-win commercials. And they enter them simultaneously because they simply can. It gives them a sort of joy, a connection. They also make plans to go to places, like Salem, Massachusetts or New York City. They jot down the dates they want to go, what airline they will take, what they will do. And they research. They save, but they never make the airline reservations. So when their planned dates come up, they make it an excuse to hang out with each other. They sleep at each other’s places and make big meals. And best of all, they smile because they’re with each other.

Some nights they spend together are spent staying up all night like they’re thirteen again, playing video games and sharing hopes. Others are quiet and warm, the television on in the corner but no one watching it. They sit together on the couch, close. And they say very few words. They stare at each other and their hands, feel the shock through their touching knees. Sometimes Chris will change the channel and act like he’s looking for something good at two in the morning. He often gets distracted though and stops on the Home Shopping Network or something equally boring. Other times, on nights they just don’t know what to do with themselves, Darren and Chris will venture out of their familiar homes into even more familiar Chicago. They’ll just walk and enjoy the lights, the people, and the sounds. If they’re lucky, they’ll get tickets to see the Cubs play. They’ll take the L, watch it weave through neighborhoods and travel beside streets as they sit close together, but not too close. And when they get off, they’ll follow the crowd on sidewalks, and they’ll enter Wrigley, and they’ll smile because everyone is so energetic and willing to do anything to get the Cubs to win. Chris will smoke and Darren will drink some. At the end of the game, they’ll wait for the L with hundreds of other fans. Darren will feel dizzy and Chris worn. When they get home, they collapse onto each other, breath smelling faintly of peanuts, alcohol, and cigarettes. It’s always the same, but Chris doesn’t mind, and apparently Darren doesn’t either. They just know before they buy those tickets that all the money spent, the energy used, will all be worth it again, because they’re with each other.

On tour, Chris and Darren keep their personal bubbles small around each other because there’s no other way to live on a bus. They never say they don’t mind being so close constantly. On tour, they are loud and obnoxious when they can afford to do so. They like going through the cities with Bob and Greta and spending money on cheap souvenirs. Most of the time, they like the variety, the different stages and soaring skyscrapers, but they still long for Chicago, and they long for the nights that are so predictable. On the road, in between longing and missing, Chris and Darren are prone to slow, gentle nights where they go undisturbed. But those don’t happen very often because The Hush Sound doesn’t stay in hotels very often. Or maybe it just seems that way to Chris and Darren. On the bus, they miss a lot of things like privacy and their families, but most of all, each other.

Chris and Darren sit together two years deep into their relationship. They plan on entering text-to-win contests advertised on TV, going to a Cubs game, smoking and drinking somewhere in the depths of Chicago, and discussing a new vacation they want to take. They want to get a hotel room to make it seem like they’re on tour again. They want, most of all, they want their time with each other to last forever.

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 22:52:46 GMT

Why Don't You Like Me, Why Don't You Like Me?
Greta/Darren
PG
Greta reveals a secret to Darren.

Leaning back to stretch his sore back, Darren glances forward. He sees a crowd, surging and shoving towards the stage, a Bob taking a swig of water, a Chris pacing back and forth and occasionally leaning forward to hear what Adam is saying from off the stage, and one Greta brushing her hair off her shoulders. Through the colored lights, and over the roar of the teenagers not too much younger than himself, Darren swears he can hear her saying she’s sorry.

---

The windows are streaked with rain drops. Darren watches them slip down the surface and eventually get whipped off by the wind. His face is pressed against the cold glass and he breathes. He closes his eyes and feels his eyelashes brush the window lightly. He knows his forehead is going to leave an imprint, and he knows he’ll see it right before they get off the bus for the last show, and he knows he’ll remember the moment he left that imprint, and he knows he’ll feel a pang of loneliness rush through his veins. He doesn’t want that to happen but he knows there’s no turning back now. No one will clean the window. It will stay there, and it will stare at him.

Darren hears rummaging from behind him. A voice, too. Bob’s he thinks. Bob’s and Chris’. Greta’s afterwards and he peels his now freezing forehead off the window and stretches out on the couch, waiting for them to come. He only expects Bob to come up front; Chris likes his bed and Greta claimed that she was tired. But the footsteps prove him wrong. They’re light and somewhat shuffling. They’re only small steps, and Darren knows who it is immediately.

He closes his eyes. He wants to shield her from his life right now. Only for a day. One day is all he needs to cleanse his mind, to rinse his brain thoroughly to get rid of her.

Greta sits across from Darren, he can hear her. He tries to keep a straight face. He wants to turn over so he can frown and wallow in his self-pity. But he knows if he does, Greta will know he’s wide awake and ignoring her.

He swears, he swears, he can feel her eyes burn into his side. He has this feeling that she is waiting and that she’s already well aware of what he’s doing. He struggles with his thoughts, the pros and cons of looking at her, and he comes to the conclusion that eventually he’ll have to wake up and do a show with her and he’ll have to smile and be okay, so he forces himself to “wake up”.

Greta leans forward and says, “Have a nice nap?” She smirks, but it fades when Darren stares straight up at the lights coming down at him. “Hey, come on.” She slides across the bus to the edge of the couch and sits. “What’s up?” she whispers because she knows Darren too well.

Darren just shakes his head. How can he tell her that he wants to unleash all fury on her? How can he possibly make her finally get the hint that he loves her so, so much? “I’m just worn out,” he lies and he bites his tongue. He feels he has already said too much.

Greta waits a few minutes and then places a hand on his shin. “No, no you’re not.” she says sternly. She waits, Darren watches her through half open, heavy eyes, and she picks at her nails. “I think you should tell me,” she finally mumbles. Darren almost didn’t catch her words, and he knows if she had said anything else he wouldn’t have heard it. She doesn’t look up at him so she can’t see his face absolutely blanch, but Darren can see she looks just as sad as him.

Rolling his head to the side and closing his eyes, Darren sighs. “It’s not that-”

Greta is quick to cut him off, almost glaring as she shoots, “Not that easy.”

Darren feels trapped, but he nods anyways. “It’s not that easy,” he repeats, but quieter. Greta looks at him, skeptical. He feels so hopeless and lost. He thinks she’s only trying to tear him down. He silently wonders how much she actually knows, or if she’s just taking a stab in the dark.

“I don’t understand it.” She shifts on the couch and tries to find Darren’s face, but fails. Darren is just listening, nose buried in the back cushions of the couch. “You… Darren!” She shakes him. “Darren, I don’t understand.” She pauses and leans in close, slithering up his side to get to his ear. “You had a chance.”

Darren’s heart stops, tries to play calm, and he clenches his jaw. “What do you mean ‘had’?” he says, eyes still closed, lips brushing the cushions of the couch.

Greta just sits back up and sighs heavily. Darren grows angry because she never, she never…

“Then- what the fuck, Greta? You never let me have a chance.” He spits his words out quickly, not wanting to lose the moment. He’s pissed to say the least, and he wants her to know that. “You fucking… Greta, you’ve had boyfriends, and, come on, this isn’t fair!”

At last, he lets his eyes open up and stare at her. He can feel her spine pressing into his ankle as the seconds go on, and as she’s shrinking into herself, holding her head in her hands with her elbows resting on her knees. “Darren,” she warns, “stop.”

Darren can’t believe this. “Then why’d you tell me? Seriously, Greta, you asked for this!” He pulls himself up and he can’t rip his eyes away from her form. This is everything he wanted, and everything he didn’t want in one big package. “What the hell,” he mumbles. “What did you expect to get out of this? It’s like you’re rubbing the fact that I can’t have you right now in my face.”

“I am not!” she cries. “Definitely not!”

“Oh, bullshit,” Darren hisses.

“Bullshit? Darren, I expected you to be over me by now! I thought, maybe, you could have some closure!” Greta stands and stares down at Darren on the couch. “Seriously, Darren, it’s been a few years now and you’re still stuck on me, and you’re still not doing anything about it. I don’t understand.”

Darren sits, perplexed at Greta’s forwardness until she leaves without a word, and he feels like a fool.

---

In the dressing room, bright with fluorescents from the ceiling, Darren watches everyone chill out after the show. He watches a Bob talk to Adam, a Chris chugging water, and Greta staring at him in the mirror. Her eyes are soft like after his own after he’s been crying. And he sees her touch her cheek with the tips of her fingers and drop her head like she’s ashamed.

Mon, 27 Aug 2007 17:05:39 GMT

Sweetness
Greta Salpeter/Darren Wilson
A short little drabble type of fic inspired by the August 21 prompt at we_are_cities.

It’s biting cold tonight, but the stars are crisp and perfect against the sky, and the snow isn’t very deep. It’s actually pretty beautiful out minus the harsh breeze blowing through the bare branches, minus the ice coating the driveways and sidewalks.

Most people are inside their homes with fires going, wrapped in blankets, and watching the ten o’clock news. Greta and Darren aren’t most people, though; they’re outside pretending it’s spring. Of course, they’re both properly dressed; Greta’s in a black pea coat with a black knitted hat, and matching gloves, while Darren is a bit more, say, daring and wears a sweatshirt and gloves, hood pulled up to protect his ears. They’re in Darren’s back yard standing in the inch of iced-over snow, grinning a laughing.

Greta keeps her body close to Darren, so close it’s always touching his. She moves strategically to keep an arm, a hip, a single finger on him. And he plays along, pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her, resting a head on her head, and laughing just as much as she is.

Friends come and go, joining them in Darren’s backyard, snapping pictures and sharing coffee. They spend time chain smoking while lying in the snow. Nobody cares if they’re backs are wet and icing up, or if their cheeks are numb, especially not Darren and Greta.

When all their friends leave, it’s just them two staring at the sky. Darren gives Greta her first kiss. It’s the type of kiss neither of them can help but to smile into. It’s the type of kiss that’s warm despite the mid-winter weather. Neither of them want to let go of each other, want the moment to end.

Later, Greta and Darren find the pictures from their friends in their mailboxes. They hold them and stare at them, and they’re both unsure of what was going on when the flash went off, but it’s the feeling of perfection that gets them both. It’s the feeling that right there, in their hands, is a sweetness they have never known in the form of ink and paper.

Wed, 22 Aug 2007 02:26:34 GMT

It Could Be More If She Learned To Never Expect
Ryan Ross/Greta Salpeter
Greta and Ryan have a secret relationship.
Mainly for the we_are_cities August 14, 2007 prompt, but others have helped.

It's been a while. I'm sorry.
I will make my OTP yours. I promise.

This is nothing new to Greta. No, not at all; she has been lying and driving to his house since she got her license. She never thought she would be able to do it. The first time, she was a wreck. She planned everything so perfectly. He didn’t like it. Ryan didn’t like it because she couldn’t relax. But now, she gets to his house without a hitch. It’s all so easy.

She wonders why, sometimes, why she needs to lie to her parents about it. She wonders why she only goes to his house when his parents are gone. She thinks it might be the excitement. Sometimes she wonders if it’s real, if he really likes her or if he just likes what goes on between them.

Greta parks her car down Ryan’s street, near the old apartment complex, and walks the rest of the way to his house. Sometimes, if it’s raining or snowing or just too cold, Ryan picks her up. Tonight, it’s nice and calm. Greta knows the road well. She knows the number of footsteps it is from her parking spot to his mailbox. She knows when to expect all the houses to be dark, and when to expect them all to be light. She knows who walks their dogs, and when. She knows who chain smokes cigarettes on their front porches.

Ryan’s house is usually dark except for his bedroom window in the left hand corner on the second floor. He usually leaves the back door open for her. The driveway is always empty, and his sister is always home. His sister understands though. His sister is quiet and stays out of their way except for when they want her around. His sister covers up for them. His sister likes Greta a lot because the nights she’s around are like a game. The game is who can spot Ryan’s parents first, and who can find a place for Greta to escape. It’s immense fun when they get close calls. Most of the time, Greta ends up underneath Ryan’s sister’s bed, or maybe in her closet, because she is always “sleeping” when their parents come home.

Greta walks in through the sliding doors. Ryan’s sitting at the kitchen table eating with his sister, and Greta can only smile. She wishes, to herself, she could capture this moment in her mind forever. She wishes Ryan would stand up and hug her tightly every night. She wonders if she’s asking too much of herself.

Ryan’s sister eats her mac-and-cheese with a smile. “It’s been a while,” she mumbles with the fork in her mouth. She looks at her older brother and smirks.

“Clean these up,” Ryan says shortly.

Ryan’s sister is defiant. “No!”

“Do it.”

But she’s also weak. “Fine,” she hisses. As Ryan and Greta climb the stairs they hear the dishwasher being loaded with dishes.

In Ryan’s room, they stand and stare at each other. “It has been a while,” Ryan whispers.

“You’re telling me.” Greta looks him in the eyes. It’s been weeks. Normally she’s scrambling for an excuse to give her parents to stay out late. Tonight, she took one off of a growing list. “But, I’ve missed you, you know?”

“I know.” He breathes and pulls her close. It’s all lust, and he hopes she understands that. “My parents are out all night tonight.” He smiles a bit. “They won’t be home until noon tomorrow. Are you gonna stay here?”

“I- I don’t know.” She runs a hand through her hair. “That’s a hard lie to come up with, Ry.”

“Yeah, but, Greta, come on. This is the first time this has happened. Think about it.” He steps away. Behind him is his uniform for work. Greta’s is similar, but more feminine. That’s where they met, work. That’s where they usually plan these meetings, at work in the break room. No one is to know. Greta doesn’t exactly know why, but it adds to the fun. At work, Ryan always places a hand on a hip or a thigh without anyone seeing. Greta’s not too sure how he does it.

“God, Ryan, I don’t know,” Greta sighs. She’s frustrated. She wants to stay.

“Say- say you’re staying at a friend’s!” Ryan raises his eyebrows and nods to convince her. “That’s pretty much fool proof.”

Greta shakes her head. “I don’t know…”

They both fall onto Ryan’s bed. They can hear the TV downstairs and Ryan’s sister on the phone. Ryan rolls onto his stomach and slings an arm around her waist. “Please? For me?” Greta stares at the ceiling. He puts his cell phone on her stomach. “Come on! Star-six-nine. They’ll never know.” He grins against his comforter, hair falling over his face.

Greta grabs the phone and sits up slowly. She looks down at it uneasily. “You think so?”

“Greta, I know so.”

Greta agrees and she calls her mom and lies while she stares at Ryan staring back at her. It works. Ryan, he’s overjoyed.

Usually, by now, they’re making out on his bed. Usually, in an hour, they have to look out for Ryan’s parents. But tonight Ryan and Greta are curled against each other, relaxed for once. They listen to each others’ stillness. And they appreciate the lack of need to rush.

Everything, tonight, is slow and quiet. Everything is spur-of-the-moment, but so gentle and careful at the same time. Greta’s on cloud nine. She briefly wonders if Ryan is just along for the ride. She forgets her thoughts, though, when Ryan kisses, and she even forgets how to breathe.

They wake up early all wrapped up in sheets. Greta’s in one of Ryan’s t-shirts. Ryan’s holding her tight. She feels very languid, very lazy and very heavy. Ryan sits up, his spine rolling and Greta watching, and yawns. His work uniform is staring back at him.

“Do you need to run home or anything?” Ryan gestures to the smock.

Greta rolls over and groans. “You are so lucky I have it in my car, Ry.” She buries her head in Ryan’s pillow. Her breath is hot on her face; the pillowcase is sticky and uncomfortable. She turns her head and tries to shield her eyes from the sun slipping through the window.

Ryan eventually drags her out of bed and they find her clothes on the floor from the night before. Greta pulls them on, Ryan watching all the while. They make their way down to Ryan’s kitchen. His sister is sitting and eating and she grins at them as if she understands. Greta doubts she does and prays she never will. Giggling, Ryan’s sister leaves. Ryan shoots Greta a wary look. “You think she knows anything?”

Greta scoffs. “She’s your sister.” From the other room they hear his sister singing a song about “Ryan’s girlfriend”. Greta sits at the kitchen table; Ryan starts to fix them breakfast. She starts to wonder while watching Ryan put bread in the toaster. She starts to sort things out in her head, tries to find all the tell-tale signs of actually being a girlfriend. She doesn’t know, though, because out of work and all these late nights, Greta doesn’t see Ryan. Ryan doesn’t call her, she doesn’t call him. He has never been to her house. Their parents don’t know what’s going on. Everything they do, every plan they make, is based around work and secrets. Greta remembers she promised not to tell anyone about them. Greta remembers Ryan promising the same thing. She breathes heavily. “Ryan,” she says and waits for him to look at her. “Ryan, what are we?”

“Um…” Ryan looks down at his feet. “I don’t really know. I mean, we’re not quite dating or anything…”

“So, are these just hook ups?” Greta is starting to feel a little sick.

“If that’s what you want to call them, I guess.” Ryan shrugs and cracks a few eggs into a bowl. For some reason, despite what Ryan just said, Greta is impressed that Ryan knows how to cook. Ryan continues. “We don’t really know each other, Greta. I’m not saying I don’t want to know you, but the first time all this happened, it was sort of an accident, you know? It wasn’t supposed to be more than lunch.” He starts whisking the eggs and turning on the stove. “But it ended up being more, and I don’t regret it.” He slows down his movements a little and looks over his shoulder at Greta. “Do you?”

Greta automatically says, “No.”

“Oh, good. I don’t want to be wasting my time.”

Greta shudders at that because, in fact, Ryan is wasting his time. Or at least, Greta thinks she’s wasting her time now. “Yeah, same here.”

“And, hey, it’s been a good time, Greta. All this shit here and at work is always fun.” He smiles back at her. She merely nods. He gestures to the refrigerator. “You can get some juice or whatever if you want.” He returns to his cooking.

Greta stares holes into his back. She’s starting to feel a bit used, if anything. The first time they hooked up, what they were supposed to be doing was not hooking up. It was only supposed to be lunch, but Ryan needed to swing by his house for his wallet. One thing led to another, and soon it became a routine for them. The first time, Greta felt sort of special. Greta liked what was happening, and she got butterflies when they would secretly plan their nights at work. She realizes the magic has washed away. Now it is just routine.

Ryan places a plate of eggs and toast in front of her and tells her again she can get some juice. She gets some, but finds it hard to stand. She forces the food down because as bad as this hurts, she wants another night like this.

She leaves for work a little later. He kisses her on the cheek and she knows he’s thinking of the game they’re going to be playing later, as well as tonight. Undoubtedly, he’s going to invite her over to his house in the break room.

At work, Ryan comes and places a hand on her hip. He’s standing a bit closer today, gripping a bit tighter. She looks around and sees little suspicious glances. She wonders why she can’t win this game of theirs. Yet again, she doesn’t want to win because that would mean no more him.

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 21:19:38 GMT

The Blackest Hole
Ryan/Greta
For the July 10 prompt at we_are_cities

She gets physical pain sometimes due to her mental anguish. She feels it seep from her chest to her arms; she knows the path well enough to know it’s going to eventually reach her fingertips, maybe even her toes. And she sits, waits, quiet, with her eyes dull and sluggish, and she rubs an arm with her dry hand, and wishes.

--

He shuffles his feet and stares down at the tile. His check book starts to slip from his right hand, but he sort-of-awkwardly catches it with his left. He knew that the bank would be crowded now, with Christmas coming in a few weeks and people getting out of work for the day, but he wanted to get out of bed.

Lately, the hours drag on. So much so he can’t tell the difference between a minute and a day, or even her from everyone else.

--

She can’t close her eyes after reading all the notes that once meant something. It’s almost dawn, she has to work today and get to class on time, and she has that inkling he isn’t dwelling on her sorry self.

--

He writes furiously. His words are all abbreviated and messy, thick and smeared from when he went too fast. His professor is spitting out facts left and right. They’re all key facts that he needs for the paper due tomorrow. He hasn’t started. He hasn’t even thought about it.

The professor pauses.

He sighs and leans back in his chair. His wrist hurts; his knuckles need to be cracked. He looks around and a few rows up is her. Her blonde hair and jacket draped over the back of her chair. He feels something in his heart. Maybe it’s want…

He just missed the rest of the lecture.

--

She closes her notebook and slips it into her bag. Her head sort of hurts and buzzes from the cups of coffee she downed earlier. She doesn’t dare look behind her because she knows he’s sitting there, and she doesn’t want to seem desperate.

--

His paper isn’t even halfway done, and here he is staring out his window. His fingers are itching to get something done. He’s too stressed. His mind is wandering here and there, mostly to her.

He keeps on thinking that she is worthless.

--

She checks her email later and she wants to throw up when she sees his name. He sent her something. She wants to open it, and she feels flushed and honored, but at the same time she wants to rip him apart.

When she opens it, her heart stops. To see her name on the top, and to know he wrote it, makes her smile. But the words that follow are vicious.

--

He feels better when he sees that she has read the message.

--

She bites her lip. He’s not nice to her. He’s useless, and yet she’s clinging to him like a little girl. She shivers, feels her eyes well up, and cries with her head on her desk.

She had just thrown out those love letters she reviewed the night before.

--

He lies awake, sweating. His conscience is killing him. He knows how sensitive she is. He knows how much she hates the words he sent her. He has heard her cry many times before over other things, but now he’s the one she’s probably crying about. He’s inhuman. He’s a monster.

He rips the picture of her off his wall and throws it under his bed.

He couldn’t see her smile, but it haunts him all night.

Tue, 19 Jun 2007 18:53:24 GMT

We'll Be Old, Children Grown Up
Ryan/Spencer
Ryan and Spencer are always getting new girlfriends and breaking up.
For we_are_cities May 29 prompt.

Spencer didn’t cry when his first girlfriend broke up with him. He was too much of a man at the tender age of twelve. She had dropped every pathetic line through AOL, her font size fourteen and lime green, but he didn’t know that it’s not you, it’s me was a lie until three years later when all of his friends seemed to receive it through emails, texts on bulky cell phones, handwritten notes, and even worse, through friends.

At the time, he was crushed. His love of his life was gone. Ryan gave him a weak smile, a pat on the back, fingers long and maybe lingering on Spencer’s spine, and reassured him that she was the biggest slut ever anyways (but he used “slut” loosely though because he wasn’t all that sure what it exactly meant). He said that she would have a new boyfriend next week anyways. Spencer grimaced because wasn’t a best friend supposed to tell him they were going to get back together?

Spencer didn’t thank Ryan. Exactly a month later, Ryan’s girlfriend dumped him through a note passed in Language Arts. Surprisingly she used the same line Spencer got and he wondered how many problems girls must have if they need to constantly break up with boys.

Ryan loved his girlfriend desperately and moaned to Spencer on Friday nights about how he missed kissing her in PG-13 movies.

--

Ryan blabbed constantly about his future wife and how madly in love he was with her. They had their whole future planned out on the back few pages of her art notebook (she was artsy; he always had to point that out). Everything was there in loopy green ink, down to how much their wedding and honeymoon would cost. They had the house they were going to build planned out. Her best friend was going to take the wedding pictures.

“Wow,” his crush breathed into his ear while staring at the pages from across the lunch table. “They’re only fifteen and already completely fucked.”

Spencer shrugged. “Maybe,” he said because he believed in true love, but had never experienced it. When Ryan smiled at the flowers his girlfriend wanted, Spencer felt a wave of fury go through him because he didn’t seem to be anywhere on those pages in green ink…

--

They were eighteen, the prime age for experiencing and experimenting, and they were deep into the summer. They were lost in band practices, late nights, hard liquor, and sticky nights in girls’ beds (or in their own if they weren’t lucky).

Spencer sat in his basement with Ryan sprawled on the floor. Ryan scratched his bare stomach and said, “I never get any from her. Ever. Seriously, this isn’t fair.” He turned his head, hair catching lint from the beat carpet, and Spencer laughed to himself.

“Yeah? Maybe she’s cheating.”

“No way, man. No way. Not her,”

Spencer shook his head. Despite Ryan’s not-so-tragic problems, he couldn’t help but to think about his girl. He had been spending his nights with her, who just happened to be a best friend, and she was beautiful. Dark hair and eyes, thin wrists and long legs; everything he wanted in a girl. They were testing the limits of friends with benefits nightly, and Spencer was quickly realizing there were none.

“I mean…” Ryan still struggled to deny his girlfriend’s infidelity. “She’s not like,” he sighed, “like that, Spence. I mean, what… what the fuck, you know?” He paused uncertainly. “No, she wouldn’t.” His eyes were wide and he sat up. He lowered his voice some. “I mean, did you hear anything?”

“No,” Spencer lied. He didn’t see her hanging on some guy at a party or anything.

“Oh, okay.” He rubbed his sweating face. He didn’t let Spencer see how worried he actually was and later he didn’t admit that the rug burn on his back was not, in fact, from squirming on the musty carpet after Spencer’s words.

Ryan caught her that night in a bedroom anything but drunk; Spencer’s not-quite-girlfriend got a boyfriend; Pete Wentz wanted to meet them.

--

The hotel, it wasn’t that nice. Mediocre was Ryan’s opinion. Spencer kept on saying it wasn’t good enough to even be a motel, but then he reminded himself why he was in Colorado; they had a whole album to record.

Although still dealing with a fresh break up (he only stayed single for a day after that girl cheated on him), Ryan was so bright-eyed lately. He got jittery when they crossed state lines and once he had told Spencer that they were closer. Spencer asked what they were closer to, and Ryan just grinned.

It was morning, all orange and yellow through the faded curtains and dirty windows of the “hotel”, and Spencer was still groggy with sleep. His eyes were still heavy, muscles not quite ready to function, and head lingering in dreams. He yawned and licked his lips: Ryan stirred quietly next to him.

Opening his eyes he saw Ryan staring back, a small smile playing on his lips and hair everywhere. “Hey,” he croaked, words laced with sleep.

“’Morning.”

“Shit, it’s early, huh?”

Spencer shrugged. “’s almost time to go,”

They sat up still exhausted. Ryan rubbed his eyes. “What the fuck.” The sun burned his bare chest. “What the fuck.”

--

Spencer peeled a piece of contact paper that was once glued on the table. “I don’t know if I like Colorado,” he admits. He looks down at his cereal bowl; it’s paper and came from a supermarket outside of Las Vegas. The cereal tastes sort of stale but he doesn’t say anything about it to Ryan.

“Why do you say that?” Ryan opens a carton of milk they got from the gift shop. He smiled and asked Spencer if he remembered how they used to get them in second grade at lunchtime.

Spencer frowns. “I guess it’s just because this isn’t Las Vegas.”

“Like you even like Vegas,” Ryan scoffs.

Spencer frowns some more. “It’s home, you know? And I don’t know where we’re going to end up after recording.”

“We’re going to end back up in Vegas waiting for shit to happen.” Ryan grinned. “One day, Spence, I swear, one day we’ll have everything we want.”

Spencer squirmed in his cheap chair and scratched the back of his neck. “Everything?” he asked.

Ryan stopped in mid bite, milk dripping from his plastic spoon, and nodded slowly. “Everything.”

Suddenly, Spencer was no longer hungry. He nodded back at Ryan and let a smile slip.

does it hurt when you find this awesome new band, but have no one to tell it to?

Thu, 24 May 2007 00:03:54 GMT

The Wake of Saturday
Ryan Ross/Greta Salpeter
PG
for we_are_cities may 22, 2007 prompt.

“What if…” Greta bites her lip, looks down at her lap, and then back up. “I told you…” She squirms, sighs and the words she wants to say are right there, right on the tip of her tongue. But her courage is somewhere else today and her stomach is uneasy. She has goose bumps despite the mild weather and she can’t seem to get comfortable. “I told you that I wanted to move east?” She blinks once, twice, three times and leans forward in her chair, letting her hair catch the wind. “Or maybe, maybe even to a farm somewhere in Europe?” She tries to look hopeful and excited, tries to get her eyes to twinkle like Ryan says they do when she really is thrilled with an idea. “Hm?”

Ryan shrugs. “Well,” he begins and meets her gaze, “I guess I’d just have to follow you east.” He winks at her, a smug smile on his lips. She lets out a small laugh, almost forced, and Ryan wonders what she’s trying to pull here. Her feet are shuffling, her eyes are sharp and darting, and those are never good signs. He shakes his head and lets his smile melt away. “Come on, Greta,” he whispers, “what do you want to say?”

“What makes you think that?” she shoots back. Her hands shake slightly when she brings them up to her face to scratch an itch that’s not there. Panic is growing in her head because what if he knows?

“When you’re lying to me Greta, you touch your face.” Ryan leans back and inspects her carefully. He wonders what on earth she’s trying to say and why she has to play these games with him constantly. “Come on. Don’t do this to me today. I’m tired,”

Greta stands and leans over the banister of the balcony. She doesn’t like this apartment now, not since last night, it’s too uncomfortable and she’s feeling so sick. Her thin fingers wrap around the metal. “Ryan…” She won’t be able to live with him after this.

“Greta.”

Her eyes are pricking with tears. The lines she rehearsed this morning are lost and jumbled in her head. She can’t be cliché; she’s not cliché, oh no, she’s definitely not.

In front of her, through the tears, is a stunning view of Chicago. All buildings and skyline, it’s what she wanted since she was twelve. She remembers how Ryan brought her right through the apartment and kissed her on the cheek from behind and said that she doesn’t have to wish anymore. And that’s how it’s been for the past two years: smiles and kisses and late nights. It’s been perfect, but she’s been so tactless.

“Greta.” Ryan spits, agitated.

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “What if I told you that last night I went out?”

“God, I knew that Greta.” Ryan hates this game, always has, always will. He can see her body quivering, though, and he grows suspicious, maybe even angry. “Is there more?” he mumbles. His suspicion, and nervousness, increases when she won’t look at him and when she sniffs and shivers.

“And what if I told you…” She stops and lets out a sob.

Ryan stares straight ahead and is trying to hope for the best but his imagination is running wild. His hands start to move over his arms, legs, through his hair, over his chin. It’s a nervous habit he has had since a kid. It used to drive his dad crazy. “Greta, just tell-”

“What if I told you, Ryan, I slept with Bob?” she whispers, words quick and short, barely there, tears running down her face. She could force a million excuses onto Ryan about how they were drunk, how every possible couch and bed at Bob’s were occupied except for his, or how Bob’s girlfriend just dumped him three days short of their three year, but she won’t because she knows it will just make things worse. That and how she’s ready to throw up on the street below.

“Well, fuck,” Ryan breathes, heart twisting.

--

Ryan hardly notices when the glasses start to disappear one by one and he doesn’t notice the boxes of Greta’s things gathering in the corner of the living room; he’s too occupied with Greta never being home anymore. He doesn’t notice Greta’s keyboard disappear from the second bedroom they use as a music room.

When Greta is home he hardly talks to her, but he longs for her delicate beauty that used to shine through just for him; she steers clear of him.

At breakfast Greta eats on the couch with the one juice glass left. Ryan uses a coffee mug for his juice, uses the plastic utensils he picked up at the supermarket, uses the cracked bowls that used to sit on the top shelf in the back, and uses the dish rags he bought at Wal-Mart to clean the few dishes.

Over a bowl of cereal he misses the large spoons that used to be in the drawer next to the stove, and fumbles with the small, flimsy one. His eyes catch Greta chewing a bagel slowly, her body tucked into the couch seemingly, and, hey, the blanket is missing from the arm rest. He stands up and walks down the hall to the linen closet, only to find it half empty. He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Greta,” he calls. He walks back to the living room, puzzled. “Greta, where’d all our-” He stops. There it is in a box next to a pile of other boxes. “Ah, nevermind.”

Greta blinks. “Okay,” she replies flatly. Her eyes subtly go to the boxes, then back to him.

Ryan goes back down the hall to the bathroom to take a shower. He’s steaming but it’s all hitting him- a lot of the things in their apartment aren’t his. They’re Greta’s. And they’re all disappearing a little at a time. Why didn’t he catch on? How did he dismiss all of this?

--

He can’t say he wasn’t expecting this. Walking in to find all of Greta’s stuff gone wasn’t a surprise. How he was missing a bed, towels, silverware, all of the art they used to have on the walls, and Greta’s miscellaneous things he used daily didn’t faze him. He simply sat down on the couch and looked at the key on the coffee table. “Right,” he says after a while because that’s all there is to say.

Sneaking Glances and Writing Lines

Mon, 14 May 2007 23:45:25 GMT

Title: Sneaking Glances and Writing Lines
Author: consenting
Pairing: Chris Faller (The Hush Sound)/Ryan Ross
Rating: PG
Summary: Chris finds Ryan staring out the window and Ryan says some crushing things.
Disclaimer: Not real, kids.

“One day,” Ryan says quietly, but he bites his tongue. The words, oddly bitter, sit in his mouth and he’s unable to spit them out, to swallow them. He shifts his weight to his arms; he’s bracing himself on the windowsill, every once in a while brushing his thumb back and forth to feel the grit of dust gather in the creases in his skin. He sighs, uncertain. Behind him is steady breathing. Chris. They’ve been standing there for twenty minutes now trying to figure out what to do and say. It’s now dark out, the room shades of blue and black. They’re both stuck in their spots and don’t have the will to turn on the lamp in the corner.

Ryan could see Chris’ reflection in the window before because of the way the sun filtered through the window across the hall. He looked so young and content with his life, and somewhat uneasy about the silence they were sharing. He seemed so quiet, but so sure of himself. He was a strong person, hardly ever saying more than necessary to anyone, and most importantly, he listened. He could listen for hours without saying a word. He wouldn’t let his mind stray. He would be all yours for a little while and that made him so appealing to Ryan. With his long hair, his small frame, he reminded Ryan of himself. And in that window, Ryan thought he saw his reflection in place of Chris’ right before the sun disappeared.

Chris’ chest heaves. He wants this more than anything right now. He wants Ryan and he won’t back down until he gets him. But Ryan, Ryan hasn’t really made a move in months, a year almost, not since their summer tour together, not until today, but even that was somewhat induced by alcohol. Ever since the summer though, Chris has had such a desperate, powerful longing for him. Chris needs Ryan’s glances. He misses hearing Greta tease him about Ryan writing about him. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to have a fluttering heart and a flushed face, or what it’s like to have Bob and Darren slap him on the back mumbling something about how great it is for him to be so happy.

Stuff came slowly crumbling down at the end of the tour when they went their separate ways, when Ryan stopped calling, when Chris stopped caring. But then, there they were, together again, with Chris sprawled on Ryan’s bed feeling Ryan’s ribs on top of his own, feeling his lungs suffocate from the lack of air. Ryan remembers how comfortable it all felt; Chris remembers the relief afterwards. They both remember today and they both remember avoiding each other, not too sure what to do or say. Awkward, silent. And they both know how they got to where they are now. It was all Ryan staring out the window and Chris watching, and the reflection, and the deep thought, and the crushed feelings, and how all this happened and Ryan was the only one to say something, but even that got cut short because of his ambiguity.

Ryan sighs, looks down at his sore hands, and then back up at the window. He lets his mouth release the words but only with a heavy heart. “…We’ll sort shit out, but not today.”

I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry.

Tue, 08 May 2007 22:43:52 GMT

Title: When Was It That You Lost Your Soul?
Author: consenting
Pairing: Spencer/Ryan in a way tbh
Rating: PG
Summary: Spencer will never be good enough. Watch as he picks himself apart, and then study the consequences.
Notes: "I bet you've been wondering, right?"
Disclaimer: Not real, kids.

His flaws are everywhere. They follow him around; they’re a permanent rain cloud hanging over his busy head. He can’t stand the sight of himself anymore. He doesn’t want to see his face staring back at him, yelling at him that he will always be a fuck up no matter what. He hates to see his body. He thinks it’s thick and disgusting; his hair always looks greasy. His fingernails are always too short and rough. His skin will always be dry, never smooth and desirable.

He talks when no one is listening. He craves attention yet hates it when people give it to him. He’s awkward. He wants, wants, wants constantly, but, he will never give. He’s stubborn. His arms are too short for his body, legs too long. He reads too much, eats too much, taunts himself on how he’s ugly and fat. He will never take a compliment. He will always pull people in then push them away with such a force they won’t want to come back.

Save me, save me, save me.

Nothing goes right. Nothing seems right. He’s having trouble finding that line between reality and fiction, between his life and nighttime dreams. He’s starting to live in his fantasies. He’s starting to take baby steps back into himself and he’s starting to shut his mouth more. He’s watching his life become a routine, all the while feeling so broken and wanting change. He will never find the strength to cement himself back together. He will never find the courage to change.

He will hide his face from everyone. He will cry. He will become a silent monster. He won’t let anyone peek inside his skin. He won’t let anyone get close anymore. He won’t sleep and he won’t eat. He’ll hardly be living. He will just be there and he will just watch. He will watch people build his world for him and he will watch himself do nothing. He will watch himself become more and more scared of everything. He will let people make his choices and he will try to be strong, but he will never be strong enough.

I will give you everything, just, please...

He will crumble. He will crumble and no one will see because he’ll construct a fake him. He will write stories in his head on what he wants to do and what the outcome will be. He will watch all his stories build himself up to be a fabricated person, afraid of everything and everyone. He will reach out, cry out, when the times are right, but he will never let himself shine through. He won’t let the real him become apparent.

He will fill with rage. He will want to ruin himself. He wants to ruin everyone else because this, this isn’t his fault. He wants this so desperately to not be his fault. He will deny his involvement. He will think of ways to shove this onto someone else, and he will ache. He will rub his arms and he will frown at the boxes of old memories.

He will watch his world explode in color. He will watch himself fade away. He will watch himself bleed his joy. He will paint a happy mask with this joy. He will face the world, but not without his mask. And when it’s time to cry, he will check the string tied around his head.

He’s going to weep and scream and he’s going to watch his empty heart… stay empty.

getoffmymindplease,becauseyou'rekillingme.

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 23:09:16 GMT

Title: How Long Will It Last Before We Scratch All The Scripts and Rework The Cast?
Author: consenting
Rating: PG
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Summary: Brendon writes about the imperfections of his relationship with Ryan.
Author Notes: Gracias, Terri for, you know, reading this.
Disclaimer: Not real, kids.

Today I opened my window for the first time in what feels like years. The fresh air that flooded my room relaxed me. I sat on my floor and felt the sinking sun slide down my body. I watched my ceiling with open, alert eyes and imbibed everything around me: the rough carpet on my arms and neck, the wafts of cool air, the slight warmth of golden sun, the intense white of my ceiling, and simply, my existence and everything that comes with it. I thought of my family, my school work from years past, my career, my calendar that never seems to have a blank day anymore, every person that has changed my life, the people I hope I have changed personally, and you. I examined you the most. You with your eyes and hands and knuckles and ears, and your heart. That heart, I kept on thinking. That heart won’t ever stop beating, I swear.

I hope this doesn’t stop your heart, though. I keep on thinking about what your heart is doing when you read these words. I can see your face. Really, I can. It’s crystal clear in my always cloudy mind. But your heart, that’s a bit more difficult to see. Looking back I have realized I never really saw your heart. Believe me, that’s not something I ever wanted to realize.

Every time I sit and think, my mind some how finds a way to you. I think about you and I hear your words echo in my head and I feel your hands on my back and arms. Your words were never all that nice. They were all very cliché, even for me, and I am very cliché, you know. I often need an Advil after this epiphany; my head crunches and spins. It makes me think of the definition of the word “lie”, and how this pretty much parallels that definition to me.

As I stood to crack my window open some more, I felt your hands grabbing at my ankles and calves. You were suddenly in my room telling me not to open my window. You wanted me to lie back down immediately. You wanted me to hold you, to get a pillow… You wanted all these things from me even if you didn’t voice them. I stood in the middle of my room, torn. I shook myself. It was silly. You weren’t even in my room and there I was, feeling obliged to comply with all your wishes. I sighed heavily and felt every serene feeling drip out of me. Needless to say, it took me about five minutes to open that window.

When I’m with you it’s like I’m fifteen again and learning to drive. I do about thirty thousand things wrong in a five second span and my parents jump on me. They simply jump on me and rip me apart so badly that I don’t want to drive anymore. I can still hear them. “Brendon, what are you doing?! Slow down! BRAKE! BRAKE! Jesus, Brendon, be a bit more careful, will you?” Then they twist and turn in their seat and order me to pull over so they can drive. They point out everything they’re doing right, and I did wrong. I remember my self esteem dropping so low. Honestly, this isn’t any different. I wish it was.

I wish I could shrug this off like I do with a lot of other things. I wish this was something I could put in a song to make it all better. I wish, I wish, I wish. My wishes never seem to come true though and like you always said, wishes are just stupid. They drag you down, you said. The beat you down to a pulp only so you can build yourself back up again and make more wishes.

I wish you weren’t like that. I wish everything was as perfect as it was in the beginning because honestly, you’re one of the best people I know and I hate for us to be so messed up. I feel like we’ve been playing a little game for months now where fighting is against the rules but holding long grudges is absolutely acceptable. How long will this game last, Ryan? When will we shatter into a million little pieces? But most importantly, how long will it before we’ll run back to each other for another round? I’m sick of this game. We’ve been playing it for far too long. I’ve counted and this is round three, and honestly, I’m willing to say that you have won but I bet you’re willing to make a round four.

So Unreal, But It Hits Close To Home

Tue, 10 Apr 2007 02:02:40 GMT

So Unreal, But It Hits Close To Home
Ryan Ross/Greta Salpeter
for we_are_cities April 07 07.
Standalone.
I'm feeling weird.

The sky, it’s black. Pitch black, starless. Lonely. Neon blue lights flicker from behind, reflecting off of the sleek tour bus towering above you, and you rub the back of your arm, bracing the phone with your shoulder and ear. You’re in a very cliché situation here. There’s this dirty, old rest stop on the side of an empty highway that stretches right across the center of the country. It has the rusty car in the parking lot and everything. The original name of this dump is spelled out in worn neon letters- ‘Susie’s Rest Stop’. The parking lot is dusty with red dirt. There’s a farm house stooping in the distance. Its roof is sagging, the shudders are about to snap off, and the off-white paint is chipping in a million places, hanging in strips just waiting to be peeled off. Everything is outdated and waiting to be thrown in a dumpster, for sure.

Something is wrong with the bus’ engine (like you would be here if it wasn’t) and there are people swarming around it. They’re all scratching their heads. You know you won’t be leaving any time soon.

The guys are all in the shitty diner. You opted out. They wanted a home-cooked meal but the acrid smell of old grease that hit you when you got near the entrance made your eyes water and stomach go sour. They all called you a wuss and laughed as they swung the door open. It shook and rattled, cob webs hanging off the corners. Another reason not to eat any food that came out of the kitchen.

To make this whole thing even better, you’re feeling a bit hollow. And you’re calling your girlfriend with a sick heart. It’s been a few days since you called her and you feel sort of bad, but she could call too, y’know? She could make an effort…

“Ryan,” she picks up, breathing into the phone.

…But she’s busy, too. You shouldn’t be so hard on her. Her schedule is worse than yours right now, and here you are complaining about her not making time for your pathetic self.

“Hey,” you say watching the guys’ backs through that dirt-streaked window of the diner. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you in forever… I’ve been so busy, Greta.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then, “I know, Ryan.” She sounds worn out and it’s now you realize it must be after one in the morning.

“Were you sleeping?” you ask sheepishly.

“Yeah, I was.”

Oh. “I'll let you go…”

“No, no. It’s fine, really,” she says but it’s not convincing. There’s annoyance in her voice.

“Really,” you mumble. She doesn’t say anything. “Our bus broke down,” you manage. She listens, still silent. All the silence is eating at you. There’s nothing but the dull sound of tools clinking outside of the rest stop, and Greta isn’t making an effort to talk. You kick a rock. “We’re at some rest stop. I don’t think anyone has actually stopped here in years,” you try. “Everyone is inside eating. I couldn’t… It looks so disgusting, Greta. I wish you could just see this place.” You pause, and spin around on your toes nervously. You have nothing else to say, really. It’s like you’re talking to a wall. You chuckle when you see the farm house again. “The house here sort of reminds me of that house in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, you know? With the columns and all?” Dirt crunches beneath you.

“Yeah,” she says flatly.

You sigh. “They said we’d be making our rounds in Chicago soon.” You want her to feel better.

“Yeah?”

“…Yeah.”

She scoffs and it stings. “I probably won’t be there anyways, so it doesn’t matter.”

Your heart sinks. “I can let you go back to bed, Greta. I can call you in the morning.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Then don’t be like this, please.” You hated saying that to her. She never meant to be so quiet and sad, but that was just how she was when she was tired and missed you terribly. Everyone said you were covering up for her occasional bad attitude; you weren’t. You said you never would. Jon noticed that she was only like that with you, and that you must be very special. Jon can be an asshole if he wants to be.

“Our show was good tonight,” she finally says lightly. “Darren’s getting sick though,”

“That’s good.” You bite your lip. “Well, you know… I hope Darren feels better,” you awkwardly admit.

That silence, the one that bites, is back. You try to come up with something to say that’s not about the rest stop you don’t want to be at. You run a hand through your hair. “I miss you,” you mumble. “Really, Greta. Sometimes I forget what it feels like to be with you.”

“Mm, I know Ryan,” she say, but her words sound strangely empty. “I miss you too.”

Then, it hits you hard. Greta doesn’t care. Greta could give two shits about how much you miss her. It all becomes so clear suddenly; it clicks. It’s just a game between you two. It’s something to hold on to; something concrete to flaunt and keep and say, ‘Look at what I have to cheer me up!’ Anger seeps into your bloodstream. This means nothing. And to make it even worse, everyone knew before you did. She was trying to shake you off gently, like a toddler grasping to his mother.

Maybe you were just as fake as her, though. Come to think of it, this isn’t the kind of love you experienced before; it’s incredibly routine. You’re not as desperate to hold her like you were with other girls. She’s something you need to fit into your long days. You’re never going to hear the end of it when the guys find out you know. They probably have a bet on you and everything.

“Hey, I have to go. I'll catch you later, okay?”

“Yeah. I love you.” You can’t seem to say it like you mean it. The words are pungent in your mouth.

“Love you too,” she spits out. “Bye, dear.”

You hang up, not moving and staring at the ground. You blink a few times and try to believe that this was all a joke and that you didn’t catch it. But, honestly, you think you knew, deep down. Greta had always been smarter than you too. No wonder she realized first.

A car whizzes by on the forlorn highway. You lift your head to watch the tail lights speed out of view, glowing red like the eyes of a monster. You look over at the window and see Spencer half asleep on the counter. Brendon staring off. Jon is nowhere to be seen. Wind whips around your small frame. Warm blankets seem so welcoming right now…

Face to the wall in your bunk, you review the facts. Your relationship with Greta is falling apart slowly. There’s no doubt in your mind that she knows it too. But it’s that little piece of familiarity you both crave that keeps you two together. God knows everything else is changing too fast for you two to even comprehend.

Sun, 25 Mar 2007 23:02:13 GMT

Title: Nerves
Author: consenting
Pairing: Chris Faller (The Hush Sound)/Ryan Ross
Rating: PG
Summary: Chris comes out to visit Ryan for the first time.
Notes: I'm doing good at getting stuff out lately.
Disclaimer: Not real, kids.

The hum of the engine makes Chris tap his chewed down finger nails on the arm rest. The plane is less than half full and when he turns around he can only see one other face staring back at him through the gaps between the seats. This is good because he doesn’t have to feel bad about his nervous habit of drumming his fingers. Greta, she always got mad at him when he would do it in the van. She couldn’t stand it. Chris couldn’t blame her but he couldn’t break the habit no matter how hard he tried, so he gave up and Greta had to deal.

Looking out the window, not missing a beat with his fingers, he can see the houses with their bright blue pools in the backyards. He can see driveways and cars, trees and gardens, and even kids with their bikes every once in a while. That’s how close they are to landing. And really, if he wasn’t so uneasy right now, he wouldn’t be paying so much attention to the detail. He would probably be closing his eyes frantically to catch another twenty minutes of sleep. A cat nap, maybe. Today though, every time he closes his eyes they snap back open and he’s launched into a new thought about him fucking up or something equally depressing.

Chris’ fingers start to numb and he brings them to his face to scratch his chin. It’s a distraction from everything else around him for five seconds. Within those five seconds, his foot starts to jump and bounce to a song he doesn’t know. Clenching his fists and tightening his muscles, he stops his leg. He sits completely still, pleading with himself to just calm down.

The first thing that catches his eye when he finally feels himself relax is the magazine sitting in the seat’s pocket in front of him. SkyMall, he reads. His hands automatically reach for it and, surprisingly, it’s filled with all these cool items. They all seem useful, but at the same time they just seem like a nuisance. It doesn’t stop him from picking out products he wants or feels he needs. Like the Lavatory Radio. It does all these neat things, and Chris, Chris is sucked in instantly.

The sudden shakes and bumps of the plane landing have Chris sucking in his breath. His stomach, it’s about to throw itself up. The tapping starts again. His fingers are fast and quick just like his mind currently. He watches the planes sitting on the runways as he pulls up to the terminal, and this plane ride was way too fast. In his hands is the magazine still. It crinkles as he shoves it back into the pocket, hands anything but steady. Maybe coming was a bad idea, he thinks irrationally. When he stands, god, he feels like he’s about to collapse in the aisle.

Susie, the flight attendant who had served Chris peanuts and a Coke, waves goodbye to him with her long, wrinkly manicured fingers. Her ruby lips are puckered in smile. He shivers.

In the terminal, he takes five minutes to sit and loosen up. He breathes in deeply. His quivering hands nearly drop his cell phone three times and he sort of wished he did drop and break it when he sees he has two missed calls from Ryan Ross. “God,” he chokes out calling Ryan back.

Ryan’s smooth voice answers. It’s hardly calming to Chris. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says flatly. Ryan should know who he is; they’re practically an item already.

“Are you here? The board says your plane has landed already…”

Chris chokes on his tongue. “I’m here. I just needed to use the lavatory.” He pauses, rethinking what he said. “Oh, fuck. The bathroom, Ryan. I needed to use the… the bathroom.” He has let himself down pretty badly. Lavatory? He slaps his forehead. What the fuck.

“Alright,” Ryan says hesitantly. “I'll see you in what, five?”

“Yeah,” Chris breathes. “See you.” He hangs up and rubs his eyes. What’s his problem? Is he that weird? Who even calls the bathroom the lavatory? Jesus, could he be any lamer?

His legs force his body up. He walks past the shops and through security towards baggage claim. He’s still feeling the effects of the word ‘lavatory’ pretty heavily. At the bottom of the escalator, he pauses. People brush by him. He feels like he’s in an ocean of people, drowning, until he hears Ryan. Ryan’s deep voice that kept him soothed so many nights.

“Chris!”

Chris’ face breaks out in a grin. “Ryan,” he says blissfully, “hey.”

“Hey kid,” Ryan returns. “How’ve you been?”

Chris doesn’t answer for a second. He realizes the label ‘kid’ didn’t hurt as bad as it would have if it came from Bob or Darren or someone. “I’m good. And you, Ryan Ross? How are you?” He looks up at Ryan and catches his eye but releases it to weave through the crowds.

“Pretty good. Your bags should be over here.” Ryan tugs at Chris’ wrist lightly before disappearing in the throng of people. Chris clumsily follows Ryan’s steps. Ryan’s so composed and collected, and, god, could Chris be a bigger idiot right about now? He’s tripping over his own feet when he walks. He’s stuttering and slurring the few words he manages to get out. He’s screwing up left and right just like he feared he would.

Automatically, his leg starts to bounce. Such a terrible habit it is.

One small suitcase rides along the belt. Chris’ only bag. It’s going so slow but it might as well be going a million miles an hour because Chris is such a failure at getting his bag off of these things. He hesitates stepping forward to get it. “Go,” he hears. A subtle hand on his back pushes him forward gently. He stumbles forward just in time to snatch his bag up and spins to find Ryan sporting a toothy grin at him. Ryan can read him so well, and Chris is reduced to hardly anything.

They walk out the doors in silence. Chris can’t stop that pleasant feeling that’s familiar to being sick; the feeling where your stomach goes in circles so fast and your heart speeds up to such an extent where you think you might die from a heart attack, but it’s such a wonderful feeling at the same time. Chris hopes that Ryan’s feeling the same way. He doesn’t want to be the only one falling so hard suddenly.

Ryan opens the car door for Chris and takes his bag, a gesture he isn’t used to. He awkwardly stands there, staring at Ryan. “Thanks,” he whispers. He takes a step towards the car, but Ryan, Ryan’s staring at him now with the gentlest eyes Chris has ever seen. It overwhelms him and he can’t seem to climb into the passenger’s seat.

He plays with the hem of his shirt, quiet. He knows what he wants to do. He’s screaming at himself from the inside to stop being such a coward and just fucking do it already. He wants to be outgoing just this once to get what he wants.

Chris leans forward on his toes. His hands fumble their way up to Ryan’s face. He kisses Ryan. Only a quick peck, but Chris feels on top of the world.

He notices his eyes are closed when he hears Ryan shuffle away. The shock of ‘what if Ryan didn’t want that’ hits him. Heavily, he slips into the seat. Ryan is sitting in the driver’s seat, face hidden by bangs and sunglasses. Chris sinks down. What if, what if, what if…

With his body turning stiffly, Ryan backs out. Chris still can’t see his face and that scares him a little bit. But as they sit and in traffic Ryan pushes the sunglasses up and smiles so genuinely. “I scared you, didn’t I?” he says seriously.

Chris sighs heavily. It’s so much like Ryan to do shit like that. He lets himself laugh, relieved. “A little bit,” he admits. “God.” He gazes out his window.

“Chris,”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for coming out.” Ryan pauses and turns onto the road. “I’ve been looking forward to this for a while, you know.”

Chris shakes his head with a smirk. “So have I.”

Ryan rubs Chris’ thigh quickly before switching on the radio. Chris eases into his seat, biting his lip and trying to calm his stomach. His fingers don’t tap a beat.

Fri, 16 Mar 2007 00:58:47 GMT

Title: You've Made A Lasting Impression
Author: consenting
Pairing: Jon/Ryan
Rating: PG
Summary: Jon is leading an average life. He's lucky goes to a friend's show only to leave with a stomach filled with butterflies.
Disclaimer: Not real, kids.

Jon stares blankly. He stares blankly and feels the goose bumps pop up on his arms. He can feel his left hand get ice cold and his right hand tingle with the loss of blood flow. That’s how his hands have always been; the left has always been colder than the right. His toes twitch involuntarily. They’re warm. His knees ache a little bit. They need to be cracked but he doesn’t have the willpower to pull himself out of the soft cradle of Wal-Mart brand sheets and comforters.

Contrary to popular belief, Jon Walker doesn’t have a fast paced life. Jon Walker occasionally spends some time on the road with his friends, works at the dirty convenience store three blocks away for pocket change, and sometimes he even sets some time aside to play bass. He’s not exciting. He’s not beautiful. He’s normal. He’s just a person with the right friends. There’s no reason to love or envy him. A quick flicker of him being worthless crosses his mind but he looks at the glass half full not half empty and rethinks all the reasons why he’s amazing with a conceited grin.

Jon stretches onto his back. His spine twists and pinches. His sheets ball up below him and, really, it’s uncomfortable. If Jon wasn’t so calm now he would shift until he was in that perfect position, all warm on the inside and out. If Jon’s heart wasn’t beating a bit faster this morning he would probably kick the sheets off into a pile at the foot of his bed. But Jon’s feeling a tad giddy today. On this grey, dismal morning he feels the warmth and light of the sun. Maybe he’s acting a smidgen like a teenage girl, and maybe he’s being mushy but he hasn’t felt this way in a long time.

It’s weird, too, because he doesn’t even remember what songs were played at that Chicago show last night. He’s someone who remembers the minutest details; he thinks they can make or break a memory. He can see everything though. He can see the couch backstage and the empty water bottles on the floor. He can see the peeling posters on the brick walls, the paint splatter on the floor, the couch in the corner that might have been red at one point and the ripped cushions, flat and stained, about to disintegrate. The one thing that sticks out in his mind though is that face. That one boyish face that Jon could read so well. He was jittery, quiet, shuffling and pacing back and forth in his suit. He was leaning over to talk to the venue’s crew and friends. His words were tight lipped and almost seemed hesitant from what Jon could see across the stage.

Jon saw that his face glowed too. He could instantly tell that this, playing music, was this boy’s dream and that he still got butterflies before going on. The way he smirked from behind his bangs and the way placed his hand on his stomach lightly as he watched the other bands play were dead giveaways. And when he played, Jon leaned against the wall watching with a quiet smile on his face. William Beckett told him the details he didn’t ask for but just got. He knows Jon too well some would say, and Jon sometimes gets annoyed when William Beckett does things like that, but at the time Jon didn’t mind at all. He listened eagerly in the weak light backstage and tried to show everyone he wasn’t in fact eager.

William Beckett introduced them afterwards before they left for the next city. Jon could only shake the boy’s hand, smile warmly, and stand tall. They talked some casual words that were punctuated by awkward pauses with William Beckett watching over them like a hawk, occasionally adding his two cents. The night went by much too quickly for Jon because before he knew it William Beckett was hugging him goodbye and climbing on the bus.

Jon thinks now he was lucky he actually went to the show. He didn’t have money for a cab to get there until William Beckett paid the fare. He didn’t have any way to get in until William Beckett pulled some strings. He didn’t know this boy until William Beckett told him all he needed to know and introduced them. Jon should thank William Beckett really, but Jon never thanked him before so why start now?

Feeling tingly and fuzzy in his two room apartment, Jon sits up and stretches. His bones crackle and his head feels heavy. The air feels warm though. The cobwebs can’t be seen in the corners and the carpet on the floor doesn’t look so bad today. The walls don’t have nicks in them. The kitchen isn’t too small anymore. His bathroom looks like something out of a hotel suite. The sky is blue despite its gloomy appearance, and the trees have green leaves on them despite it being the dead of winter.

As Jon walks to his shitty job at the convenience store on the corner he reviews the boy in his head, lanky limbs and all. Stocking the shelves in aisle three with crackers he even contemplates calling William Beckett to say a quick thanks.

Leaving with his paycheck in hand, he looks up at the buildings that tower above him. His stomach turns in happy circles. Somehow, he knows it won’t be the last he sees of Ryan Ross.