Ficlet: Marianne
Title: Marianne
Rating: PG?
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
Ficlet for
woodenduck.
*
Ryan’s mouth is an empty swimming pool, and the coffee pours in like a flood, rolls down his throat like tears, like rain, like a brand new bicycle down a particularly smooth slope.
Ryan should write that down.
“Number one,” Brendon says, and his fingers are wrapped too tightly around a foam cup, Starbucks logo on the side peaking through beneath his nails. “Buy coffee for Ryan and self.”
The sidewalk is frostbitten, and so are Ryan’s toes, deep in his boots. When Brendon speaks, Christmas pours out, and Ryan can’t quite keep the smile off his face. Ryan’s all sweetness today, he hazes around the edges, his eyes droop and his heart sighs and his head is too full of pretty words.
“Done,” Ryan says, and the park is seven blocks from the bus, four from Starbucks, and they’re there in moments. A bench, the wooden thing, it’s coarse and empty, and Ryan found it yesterday morning when he stumbled into the snow, into the flurry in search of toasties and doughnuts.
Brendon crumples onto it first, almost spills his coffee cup, but Brendon, he’s a hero for that sort of thing, saves it just in time, and Ryan folds next to him.
“Number two,” Brendon unravels a fist to reveal a piece of paper, the list (and it’s creased and crumpled, a short life spent in the pocket of Brendon’s jeans, and really, to Ryan, that’s hardly a life worth lived). He takes a too-big sip from his cup, and that, it has to burn, but Brendon just shudders a little, melts further into the bench. “Buy muffins.”
“Later,” Ryan shrugs, “not right now.”
Brendon nods, casts another glance down at the list, and he doesn’t even flinch when a fat dollop of water hits it like a missile, like colour on a black and white portrait. The ink runs down the page, and that, that makes him sigh, makes him shake off the paper.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, and he wipes it on the leg of his jeans. “Fuck.”
Ryan shakes tired shoulders and wraps his fingers tighter around the cup. The warmth seeps through his flesh, and he almost wishes it was enough to heat the bone too.
“Number three,” Brendon says, and his eyes strain, his eyelids go taught across the irises, across the pupils, and the ink is running together like nothing Ryan has seen before. Ryan can think of a million beautiful analogies, but he can put words to none of them. “Fuck.”
“I think I love this bench,” Ryan murmurs, rests his head on the back of the chair and inhales so hard that his lungs ache with the cold.
“It’s just a bench,” Brendon says, and he’s still staring at the list, still trying to distinguish between the ‘i’s’ and the ‘o’s’.
“It’s Marianne’s bench,” Ryan says, and he smiles too softly, lets his eyelids slide shut.
“Whose?”
“Marianne’s,” Ryan says, and he can feel Brendon stare now, with creased forehead and hesitant grin.
“We need to go back to the bus.”
“Yeah,” Ryan whispers, and Brendon, he leans over just far enough to pull Ryan up by the wrist, enough to get them both on their feet. Their shoes, the heavy things, they leave dirty imprints on the grey snow beneath them.
Ryan can’t say he loves this, loves this weather, or this sky, or this city (he has no idea where he is, just that it isn’t Vegas, isn’t Chicago, isn’t anywhere that he has ever called home). He can’t say that he loves anything, but he can say that he rather very much likes it all.
He likes living out of a suitcase, and the snow and the smiles and the early morning coffee. He likes this, and he likes that his head feels frozen in his skull, but his heart is burning enough to heat his toes on the coldest nights. He pulls his wrist out of Brendon’s loose hand, and interweaves their fingers, leans in so close that Brendon’s cool breath is desperately warm on the side of his neck. He presses his lips to Brendon’s cheek, and it’s in these moments that he’s most at peace, it’s in these moments that the smallest things are set to inspire.
“For Marianne,” he says, “who opened my eyes the day hers closed.”
Brendon laughs a little, coughs as the cold fills his chest, and Ryan, he lets Brendon get his breath back before he goes to steal it. Brendon’s lips are hot on his, and it melts Ryan’s head, torches his lungs, and Ryan’s skull is so full of words, and his tongue is so full of his heart that he almost can’t think, almost can’t stand up anymore.
Brendon, he tastes like coffee.
Rating: PG?
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
Ficlet for
woodenduck.
*
Ryan’s mouth is an empty swimming pool, and the coffee pours in like a flood, rolls down his throat like tears, like rain, like a brand new bicycle down a particularly smooth slope.
Ryan should write that down.
“Number one,” Brendon says, and his fingers are wrapped too tightly around a foam cup, Starbucks logo on the side peaking through beneath his nails. “Buy coffee for Ryan and self.”
The sidewalk is frostbitten, and so are Ryan’s toes, deep in his boots. When Brendon speaks, Christmas pours out, and Ryan can’t quite keep the smile off his face. Ryan’s all sweetness today, he hazes around the edges, his eyes droop and his heart sighs and his head is too full of pretty words.
“Done,” Ryan says, and the park is seven blocks from the bus, four from Starbucks, and they’re there in moments. A bench, the wooden thing, it’s coarse and empty, and Ryan found it yesterday morning when he stumbled into the snow, into the flurry in search of toasties and doughnuts.
Brendon crumples onto it first, almost spills his coffee cup, but Brendon, he’s a hero for that sort of thing, saves it just in time, and Ryan folds next to him.
“Number two,” Brendon unravels a fist to reveal a piece of paper, the list (and it’s creased and crumpled, a short life spent in the pocket of Brendon’s jeans, and really, to Ryan, that’s hardly a life worth lived). He takes a too-big sip from his cup, and that, it has to burn, but Brendon just shudders a little, melts further into the bench. “Buy muffins.”
“Later,” Ryan shrugs, “not right now.”
Brendon nods, casts another glance down at the list, and he doesn’t even flinch when a fat dollop of water hits it like a missile, like colour on a black and white portrait. The ink runs down the page, and that, that makes him sigh, makes him shake off the paper.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, and he wipes it on the leg of his jeans. “Fuck.”
Ryan shakes tired shoulders and wraps his fingers tighter around the cup. The warmth seeps through his flesh, and he almost wishes it was enough to heat the bone too.
“Number three,” Brendon says, and his eyes strain, his eyelids go taught across the irises, across the pupils, and the ink is running together like nothing Ryan has seen before. Ryan can think of a million beautiful analogies, but he can put words to none of them. “Fuck.”
“I think I love this bench,” Ryan murmurs, rests his head on the back of the chair and inhales so hard that his lungs ache with the cold.
“It’s just a bench,” Brendon says, and he’s still staring at the list, still trying to distinguish between the ‘i’s’ and the ‘o’s’.
“It’s Marianne’s bench,” Ryan says, and he smiles too softly, lets his eyelids slide shut.
“Whose?”
“Marianne’s,” Ryan says, and he can feel Brendon stare now, with creased forehead and hesitant grin.
“We need to go back to the bus.”
“Yeah,” Ryan whispers, and Brendon, he leans over just far enough to pull Ryan up by the wrist, enough to get them both on their feet. Their shoes, the heavy things, they leave dirty imprints on the grey snow beneath them.
Ryan can’t say he loves this, loves this weather, or this sky, or this city (he has no idea where he is, just that it isn’t Vegas, isn’t Chicago, isn’t anywhere that he has ever called home). He can’t say that he loves anything, but he can say that he rather very much likes it all.
He likes living out of a suitcase, and the snow and the smiles and the early morning coffee. He likes this, and he likes that his head feels frozen in his skull, but his heart is burning enough to heat his toes on the coldest nights. He pulls his wrist out of Brendon’s loose hand, and interweaves their fingers, leans in so close that Brendon’s cool breath is desperately warm on the side of his neck. He presses his lips to Brendon’s cheek, and it’s in these moments that he’s most at peace, it’s in these moments that the smallest things are set to inspire.
“For Marianne,” he says, “who opened my eyes the day hers closed.”
Brendon laughs a little, coughs as the cold fills his chest, and Ryan, he lets Brendon get his breath back before he goes to steal it. Brendon’s lips are hot on his, and it melts Ryan’s head, torches his lungs, and Ryan’s skull is so full of words, and his tongue is so full of his heart that he almost can’t think, almost can’t stand up anymore.
Brendon, he tastes like coffee.