Fic: Grace - Chapter Seven
Title: Grace - Chapter Seven
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: P!atd (Bden/Ryro)
A/N: To be perfectly honest, I am not entirely happy with this chapter. Like, at all. I wrote it out, hated it, and wrote it all again. This is the second version, and, even though I like it more than the last one, I don't like it as much as the rest of this fic. Then again, I'll be interested to hear what all of you think, in other words, much feedback, yes? So here it is...Hope you like it more than I do.
*
When you really think about it, whoever created us really knew what they were doing.
Our bodies are complex things, full of organs and systems and networks that just have to fit from birth. That just has to be thrown together in nine months, a huge multi-dimensional, multi-cultural society full of characters that are pulled from nowhere, and then expected to work together without an orientation day or a three-month probation period. No time or tolerance for racism or sexism or homophobia. I mean, what if your small intestine suddenly formed a union and refused to work because the lungs had been making discriminating jokes?
There’s just no room for that.
Society could learn a lot from our bodies.
Or maybe not, coz seriously, thing about having both a large, complex brain and intricate vocal chords in separate parts of the body, yet in very close working proximities is that sometimes they don’t get along. It’s that every so often the brain is capable of screaming a big ‘fuck you’ to the vocal chords, a ‘get the fuck out of my life, and take you’re goddamn fake jewellery with you! I want a divorce!’ When this happens, the vocal chords, true to what anyone would do in this situation, proceeds to hurl abuse back, ‘well, fuck you too, honey, hope you have fun whoring yourself off to the fucking nervous system!’ Then gets on a train and goes to China, where they proceed to get it on with the reproductive system of some Asian prostitute.
Point of all this is, the day after I said ‘yes’ to Ryan - and for the record, I still don’t know what I said ‘yes’ to exactly - my brain and vocal chords would get into three consecutive domestic disputes.
But there’s more to it than that of course.
Gimme a minute.
*
On average, a film takes about ten months to make. Ten months for all the planning and prosecution and tweaking.
For the ten months in which an actor signs on for a project, films it, sits on stand by for the post-production, the producer owns his soul.
Thing about Build God was there wasn’t a producer yet.
Hell, there were only three people committed to this fucking thing, Ryan, me and some unknown director selected by Mr. Ross himself.
This simple fact, Loretta claimed, was the reason her hair was falling out.
Course her hair wasn’t really falling out, it was just-
“You think too much.”
“What makes you think I’m thinking?”
“Either that or you’ve got the hots for Ryan.”
I swivel around in my chair so fast that I almost fall off, nearly collapse to the newly carpeted floor, a pile of Brendon. Jon’s grinning like a maniac though, all stubble, cheap cologne and flip-flop sandals, as he throws himself down on the sofa beside me. His hands are behind his head, and his legs are crossed over my lap.
“How do you figure that?” I say, eyeing him slowly and deliberately.
“Wasn’t serious at first, but after seeing that reaction, well, now I’m not too sure.”
I flip him off, turn in my seat (which is hard due to the added wait of Jon’s legs) to watch Loretta and Ryan fight. They look like a pair of particularly violent kittens. Neither threatening upon first glance, both cute and small, only I know Loretta is terrifying, and maybe Ryan is too. Catherine always told me it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for.
“That and the fact that you’ve been staring at him none stop since he got here.”
“I have not.”
“You say that, yet you’re staring at him right now.”
Jon’s still smirking when my head snaps back around to glare at him. “Whatever.”
He’s peering around me now, eyeing off Loretta and Ryan for himself.
“Are they still arguing?”
“Looks like.”
“Jesus Chris, filming’s gonna be a blast.”
I smirked, and figured I was all sorts of weird for looking forward to it.
“What are they even arguing about?”
“Cast and crew. Loretta wants a well-known director as opposed to the no-name that Ryan already has attached.”
“Spencer Smith’s attached, right?” Jon asks, lacing his fingers in front of his face, pudgy little things dancing, playing make-believe instruments, trumpet, piano, flute. I file this into the back of my mind; ready to be whipped out next time he says I’m too easily distracted.
“Wh-Yeah…how do you know?”
“I met Ryan through Spence. Great kid. A lot of talent. Let him run wild with this, he’ll do a damn good job.”
“Yea?”
Jon nods, and seems to pull a kebab out of nowhere, then again, it might have been in his hand all along. Either that, or he’s pulled it out of his jean pocket, or the crease of the sofa - none of this would surprise me.
“Should I just be going along with everything Ryan says though? I mean, should I stand my ground?”
“On what?”
“I dunno. Something. I feel like I’m being a bit of a pussy about all this.”
“You’re not a pussy, Bren, you’re a tool, there’s a huge difference.”
There’s a bit of silence after that, as Jon takes a bite of the kebab, shifts a little, makes himself more comfortable as he’s sprawled across me.
“What do I even pay you for?”
“Bit of eye candy.” He says, stroking his stubble.
*
As a producer, director, script writer, actor you are becoming a parent.
You are giving birth, nursing, aging a character, an entirely unique personality. You are developing this alternate persona, fictional yet totally realistic and believable to public eye. You are building strengths and weaknesses, inner-demons, flaws, perfections, talents, emotions, appearances, you are building habits and romances and you are building a history that will never be outright heard.
Many people are incapable of doing this.
Ryan however, is very, very good at it.
And Loretta, Loretta is very good at finding people who are good at this.
Problem with this is that they both have incredibly different ideas on who exactly should be involved in the production.
Not surprising actually, it is a big issue with all films. Chose the wrong person and the film won’t play out, characters won’t be portrayed correctly, the images will be all wrong, disjointed even. Choose the right person, you’ve got the next Pirates of the fucking Carribean on your hands.
Ryan wants alternative actors, virtually unknowns, then again, that’s the way he seems to want most of this film. He wants to give people opportunities, build fame as opposed to using reputations that already exists.
Loretta wants to take mainstream actors and let them broaden their horizons. Take not just teen actors like me, but the older ones too, the ones with so much experience and so many Oscars under their belts that they bring cash and investors with them.
They’re at each others throats, only they’re not, because there are several paces between them. Their words are slicing and degrading though, they both have goals, objectives, points of view, neither of which are being openly heard by the other.
WWE ain’t got shit on this.
It’s an hour before they’ve calmed down enough to look at each other civilly (they still can’t hear each other), and Jon and I have just come back from playing Dance Dance Revolution in the neighbouring room.
Neither even looks at us when we enter.
Loretta’s almost purple (which will never, ever cease to be funny), and Ryan’s…Ryan’s Ryan, pale and small and too thin, but he’s standing his ground, watching Loretta heave and flush.
“Right now, Ryan Ross,” She starts, desperately trying to compose herself, “you need to piss off.”
Ryan’s eyes are suddenly reduced to slits, fingers clenched, muscles everywhere tense and poised for attack. “Excuse me?”
“You need to piss off, and finish this fucking thing for real.” Loretta says, she’s fisting the hem of her shirt; eyes are too many colours to count. “In two weeks, I want the finished screenplay. Live in solitude, don’t eat, don’t sleep, don’t bathe or shit, just come back with a script that gets rid of all my fucking anxiety and assures me that we’re gonna go down with the likes of Steven Spielberg and Tim fucking Burton.”
I expect another outburst (no, that isn’t the right word. Ryan doesn’t raise his voice, he’s always soft about it, quiet and steady in his propaganda), but none is forthcoming. He just nods, and wait, that’s not right either, but his messenger bag is slung over his bony shoulder, and he’s hightailing to the door.
And I’m following him.
Wait, what?
Stop, feet, what the hell are you doing?! Of course, by this point I’m sorta freaked out by the fact I’m talking to my fucking feet.
Goddamnit.
Ryan’s out the door, into the corridor, the elevator is right fucking there.
“Wait up!”
He’s staring at me now, doe eyes…really nice doe eyes.
Hazel. Brown.
I was never good at art, not good with colour.
So here it is, the first domestic disturbance. My brain’s giving my vocal chords the silent treatment, not talking to you, bitch, “Do you want to come over…back…for dinner tonight? Before the isolation sets in?” And what the fuck did I just say?
My vocal chords are cackling at me, if I ain’t gettin’ any than I’ll hook you up for the night.
Brain thinks vocal chords are being utterly moronic, she rolls her eyes and reconnects, just so that I can apologise to Ryan, back-pedal as quickly as fucking possible. Only…
Shock is running races behind his pupils, irises, eyes.
“Sure.”
*
So there’s this tiny rat-a-tat-tat on the door, by which point I think my eyes have imploded in their sockets. Either that, or they’re watering a bit, which really doesn’t make any sense.
To be honest, a lot of things aren’t making sense at the moment. Like the way I’m sweating like I’ve just escaped a constricted room, a sauna in the heat of summer, my legs are unable to keep still and Jon thinks I’m twitching.
Which I’m not.
Or maybe I am.
The rat-a-tat-tat is there again, not so loud, it lacks in confidence, lacks in motivation and Jesus maybe it isn’t Ryan. Maybe it’s Loretta (no it isn’t), maybe it’s Pete or William or Audrey (no it isn’t).
Maybe Ryan isn’t going to come and maybe he actually doesn’t like me at all, maybe he’s just using me for my credibility in the acting industry or -
“Are you gonna get that?” Jon’s asking, though it’s kinda mumbled since his mouth is over-flowing with toothpaste foam and a sunshine-yellow brush-handle.
“Yea.” I say, and I will, just I need a few more minutes to panic and be sorta an idiot.
Jon’s just rolling his eyes, spitting out the froth into one of the houseplants. He answers the door with a big smile and an array of white teeth.
Maybe I should brush my teeth.
“Hi.” Says Jon.
“Hi.” Says Ryan.
“Ugh.” Says me, and yes, I think I really am an idiot. The second shunning of the vocal chords, the divorce papers are about ready to be signed, brain’s got her lawyers at her side.
Ryan shuffles in, all pinstripe pants and white dress-shirt. He looks really, really pretty, only he doesn’t because, y’know, I’m straight.
“So,” Jon says, after about five minutes of me trying-not-to-stare-and-failing and Ryan not saying anything. “So, Japanese for dinner. Sushi and Sashimi and all the delightful edible culture of Japan that we can manage. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.” I say, and halle - fucking - lujah, my vocal chords and brain are talking, maybe permanent divorce was a tad of an overreaction, she says…vocal chords cackle again, and wait, that was me laughing like a moron.
Shit.
So I’m moving really quickly away, coz that’s what happens when I make an ass of myself, this is what happens when suddenly both Jon and Ryan are staring at me with wide, questioning eyes.
Kitchen’s the first stop, and dinners already been delivered, set up on the table in front of me.
I’m not gonna go over the details of that sit-down meal. All anyone needs to know is that it was fine, the food was great, the conversation was…not. But that’s ok, coz I talked a lot (about nothing) and Jon talked a lot (about…well, to be honest I wasn’t listening.)
“Well, can’t say this hasn’t been awesome, but I,” Jon says, running fingers through his hair and I must’ve tuned back in, “Have a date.”
“What sort of moron eats before going on a date?” I ask, smirking.
Jon stares, quirks a brow, “a hungry one.”
And before I know it, he’s gone, and it’s just me and Ryan and this doesn’t make me uncomfortable.
I am fine and stable and completely relaxed, apart from, you know, the fact that I’m not.
“I haven’t had the tour yet,” Ryan says, gentle smile on his face, “I feel gypped.”
“Not much to see.”
“I doubt that.” And this conversation sounds familiar. Seriously.
He’s grabbed my hand now, and Jesus Christ, why the hell did he do that? But he’s pulling me to my feet, dragging me out of the kitchen, through the living room.
“I like that painting.” He says, gestures to one above the sofa that, to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. “Do you know who it’s by?”
I shrug, and he doesn’t seem surprised. His hand’s still around mine, still dragging me, and why is that all I can look at? I can’t focus on which room we’re in as he’s pulling me around, can’t see anything but him and his spidery fingers and his skinny-bird-like wrists.
Birds don’t have wrists, and it’s ridiculous that this is all I can think about.
“I like your bedroom a lot…it’s…it’s the only room in your apartment that’s…that’s, I dunno, homey.”
He’s let go of my hand, is sitting on my bed, and suddenly, ok, yeah, we’re in my bedroom.
Right.
“This book is amazing.” And how the fuck has he managed to find that thing again?
“It’s not anything.”
“Yes it is. It’s someone’s heart and soul in here, written on these pages.”
“If you love it that much,” and this is strike three, this is the third dispute between head and throat and Jesus I wish I hadn’t said this, “take it.”
His eyes are wide, but then they’re not, they’re narrowed and his brow is furrowed.
“Are you sure?”
“Yea,” I say, shrugging, “Inspiration or whatever for…for your solitude-driven writing time.”
He’s smiling, but it’s hesitant and desperately unsure.
“Positive?”
“Yes.” I say, and that’s all that’s said about it. In fact, that’s all that’s said at all, in less than ten minutes he’s turning sleepy eyes on me, running those never-ending fingers through his hair, and declaring home.
And I definitely don’t think about Ryan for the rest of the night, don’t think about him as I shower, watch television, brush my teeth, go to bed.
But I do think about him when I roll over, and feel the sharp prickle of paper beneath my cheek.
A post-it note on my pillow and I have no fucking idea where it came from. Lamps on, and all I see is familiar chicken-scrawl, tiny, disjointed letters.
Maybe when I’m done with endings, this can begin.
Huh.
*
A/N: On a side note, this has always been my fanfiction journal, but I am starting to think about posting some of my original stuff here. Is anyone interested in it?
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: P!atd (Bden/Ryro)
A/N: To be perfectly honest, I am not entirely happy with this chapter. Like, at all. I wrote it out, hated it, and wrote it all again. This is the second version, and, even though I like it more than the last one, I don't like it as much as the rest of this fic. Then again, I'll be interested to hear what all of you think, in other words, much feedback, yes? So here it is...Hope you like it more than I do.
*
When you really think about it, whoever created us really knew what they were doing.
Our bodies are complex things, full of organs and systems and networks that just have to fit from birth. That just has to be thrown together in nine months, a huge multi-dimensional, multi-cultural society full of characters that are pulled from nowhere, and then expected to work together without an orientation day or a three-month probation period. No time or tolerance for racism or sexism or homophobia. I mean, what if your small intestine suddenly formed a union and refused to work because the lungs had been making discriminating jokes?
There’s just no room for that.
Society could learn a lot from our bodies.
Or maybe not, coz seriously, thing about having both a large, complex brain and intricate vocal chords in separate parts of the body, yet in very close working proximities is that sometimes they don’t get along. It’s that every so often the brain is capable of screaming a big ‘fuck you’ to the vocal chords, a ‘get the fuck out of my life, and take you’re goddamn fake jewellery with you! I want a divorce!’ When this happens, the vocal chords, true to what anyone would do in this situation, proceeds to hurl abuse back, ‘well, fuck you too, honey, hope you have fun whoring yourself off to the fucking nervous system!’ Then gets on a train and goes to China, where they proceed to get it on with the reproductive system of some Asian prostitute.
Point of all this is, the day after I said ‘yes’ to Ryan - and for the record, I still don’t know what I said ‘yes’ to exactly - my brain and vocal chords would get into three consecutive domestic disputes.
But there’s more to it than that of course.
Gimme a minute.
*
On average, a film takes about ten months to make. Ten months for all the planning and prosecution and tweaking.
For the ten months in which an actor signs on for a project, films it, sits on stand by for the post-production, the producer owns his soul.
Thing about Build God was there wasn’t a producer yet.
Hell, there were only three people committed to this fucking thing, Ryan, me and some unknown director selected by Mr. Ross himself.
This simple fact, Loretta claimed, was the reason her hair was falling out.
Course her hair wasn’t really falling out, it was just-
“You think too much.”
“What makes you think I’m thinking?”
“Either that or you’ve got the hots for Ryan.”
I swivel around in my chair so fast that I almost fall off, nearly collapse to the newly carpeted floor, a pile of Brendon. Jon’s grinning like a maniac though, all stubble, cheap cologne and flip-flop sandals, as he throws himself down on the sofa beside me. His hands are behind his head, and his legs are crossed over my lap.
“How do you figure that?” I say, eyeing him slowly and deliberately.
“Wasn’t serious at first, but after seeing that reaction, well, now I’m not too sure.”
I flip him off, turn in my seat (which is hard due to the added wait of Jon’s legs) to watch Loretta and Ryan fight. They look like a pair of particularly violent kittens. Neither threatening upon first glance, both cute and small, only I know Loretta is terrifying, and maybe Ryan is too. Catherine always told me it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for.
“That and the fact that you’ve been staring at him none stop since he got here.”
“I have not.”
“You say that, yet you’re staring at him right now.”
Jon’s still smirking when my head snaps back around to glare at him. “Whatever.”
He’s peering around me now, eyeing off Loretta and Ryan for himself.
“Are they still arguing?”
“Looks like.”
“Jesus Chris, filming’s gonna be a blast.”
I smirked, and figured I was all sorts of weird for looking forward to it.
“What are they even arguing about?”
“Cast and crew. Loretta wants a well-known director as opposed to the no-name that Ryan already has attached.”
“Spencer Smith’s attached, right?” Jon asks, lacing his fingers in front of his face, pudgy little things dancing, playing make-believe instruments, trumpet, piano, flute. I file this into the back of my mind; ready to be whipped out next time he says I’m too easily distracted.
“Wh-Yeah…how do you know?”
“I met Ryan through Spence. Great kid. A lot of talent. Let him run wild with this, he’ll do a damn good job.”
“Yea?”
Jon nods, and seems to pull a kebab out of nowhere, then again, it might have been in his hand all along. Either that, or he’s pulled it out of his jean pocket, or the crease of the sofa - none of this would surprise me.
“Should I just be going along with everything Ryan says though? I mean, should I stand my ground?”
“On what?”
“I dunno. Something. I feel like I’m being a bit of a pussy about all this.”
“You’re not a pussy, Bren, you’re a tool, there’s a huge difference.”
There’s a bit of silence after that, as Jon takes a bite of the kebab, shifts a little, makes himself more comfortable as he’s sprawled across me.
“What do I even pay you for?”
“Bit of eye candy.” He says, stroking his stubble.
*
As a producer, director, script writer, actor you are becoming a parent.
You are giving birth, nursing, aging a character, an entirely unique personality. You are developing this alternate persona, fictional yet totally realistic and believable to public eye. You are building strengths and weaknesses, inner-demons, flaws, perfections, talents, emotions, appearances, you are building habits and romances and you are building a history that will never be outright heard.
Many people are incapable of doing this.
Ryan however, is very, very good at it.
And Loretta, Loretta is very good at finding people who are good at this.
Problem with this is that they both have incredibly different ideas on who exactly should be involved in the production.
Not surprising actually, it is a big issue with all films. Chose the wrong person and the film won’t play out, characters won’t be portrayed correctly, the images will be all wrong, disjointed even. Choose the right person, you’ve got the next Pirates of the fucking Carribean on your hands.
Ryan wants alternative actors, virtually unknowns, then again, that’s the way he seems to want most of this film. He wants to give people opportunities, build fame as opposed to using reputations that already exists.
Loretta wants to take mainstream actors and let them broaden their horizons. Take not just teen actors like me, but the older ones too, the ones with so much experience and so many Oscars under their belts that they bring cash and investors with them.
They’re at each others throats, only they’re not, because there are several paces between them. Their words are slicing and degrading though, they both have goals, objectives, points of view, neither of which are being openly heard by the other.
WWE ain’t got shit on this.
It’s an hour before they’ve calmed down enough to look at each other civilly (they still can’t hear each other), and Jon and I have just come back from playing Dance Dance Revolution in the neighbouring room.
Neither even looks at us when we enter.
Loretta’s almost purple (which will never, ever cease to be funny), and Ryan’s…Ryan’s Ryan, pale and small and too thin, but he’s standing his ground, watching Loretta heave and flush.
“Right now, Ryan Ross,” She starts, desperately trying to compose herself, “you need to piss off.”
Ryan’s eyes are suddenly reduced to slits, fingers clenched, muscles everywhere tense and poised for attack. “Excuse me?”
“You need to piss off, and finish this fucking thing for real.” Loretta says, she’s fisting the hem of her shirt; eyes are too many colours to count. “In two weeks, I want the finished screenplay. Live in solitude, don’t eat, don’t sleep, don’t bathe or shit, just come back with a script that gets rid of all my fucking anxiety and assures me that we’re gonna go down with the likes of Steven Spielberg and Tim fucking Burton.”
I expect another outburst (no, that isn’t the right word. Ryan doesn’t raise his voice, he’s always soft about it, quiet and steady in his propaganda), but none is forthcoming. He just nods, and wait, that’s not right either, but his messenger bag is slung over his bony shoulder, and he’s hightailing to the door.
And I’m following him.
Wait, what?
Stop, feet, what the hell are you doing?! Of course, by this point I’m sorta freaked out by the fact I’m talking to my fucking feet.
Goddamnit.
Ryan’s out the door, into the corridor, the elevator is right fucking there.
“Wait up!”
He’s staring at me now, doe eyes…really nice doe eyes.
Hazel. Brown.
I was never good at art, not good with colour.
So here it is, the first domestic disturbance. My brain’s giving my vocal chords the silent treatment, not talking to you, bitch, “Do you want to come over…back…for dinner tonight? Before the isolation sets in?” And what the fuck did I just say?
My vocal chords are cackling at me, if I ain’t gettin’ any than I’ll hook you up for the night.
Brain thinks vocal chords are being utterly moronic, she rolls her eyes and reconnects, just so that I can apologise to Ryan, back-pedal as quickly as fucking possible. Only…
Shock is running races behind his pupils, irises, eyes.
“Sure.”
*
So there’s this tiny rat-a-tat-tat on the door, by which point I think my eyes have imploded in their sockets. Either that, or they’re watering a bit, which really doesn’t make any sense.
To be honest, a lot of things aren’t making sense at the moment. Like the way I’m sweating like I’ve just escaped a constricted room, a sauna in the heat of summer, my legs are unable to keep still and Jon thinks I’m twitching.
Which I’m not.
Or maybe I am.
The rat-a-tat-tat is there again, not so loud, it lacks in confidence, lacks in motivation and Jesus maybe it isn’t Ryan. Maybe it’s Loretta (no it isn’t), maybe it’s Pete or William or Audrey (no it isn’t).
Maybe Ryan isn’t going to come and maybe he actually doesn’t like me at all, maybe he’s just using me for my credibility in the acting industry or -
“Are you gonna get that?” Jon’s asking, though it’s kinda mumbled since his mouth is over-flowing with toothpaste foam and a sunshine-yellow brush-handle.
“Yea.” I say, and I will, just I need a few more minutes to panic and be sorta an idiot.
Jon’s just rolling his eyes, spitting out the froth into one of the houseplants. He answers the door with a big smile and an array of white teeth.
Maybe I should brush my teeth.
“Hi.” Says Jon.
“Hi.” Says Ryan.
“Ugh.” Says me, and yes, I think I really am an idiot. The second shunning of the vocal chords, the divorce papers are about ready to be signed, brain’s got her lawyers at her side.
Ryan shuffles in, all pinstripe pants and white dress-shirt. He looks really, really pretty, only he doesn’t because, y’know, I’m straight.
“So,” Jon says, after about five minutes of me trying-not-to-stare-and-failing and Ryan not saying anything. “So, Japanese for dinner. Sushi and Sashimi and all the delightful edible culture of Japan that we can manage. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.” I say, and halle - fucking - lujah, my vocal chords and brain are talking, maybe permanent divorce was a tad of an overreaction, she says…vocal chords cackle again, and wait, that was me laughing like a moron.
Shit.
So I’m moving really quickly away, coz that’s what happens when I make an ass of myself, this is what happens when suddenly both Jon and Ryan are staring at me with wide, questioning eyes.
Kitchen’s the first stop, and dinners already been delivered, set up on the table in front of me.
I’m not gonna go over the details of that sit-down meal. All anyone needs to know is that it was fine, the food was great, the conversation was…not. But that’s ok, coz I talked a lot (about nothing) and Jon talked a lot (about…well, to be honest I wasn’t listening.)
“Well, can’t say this hasn’t been awesome, but I,” Jon says, running fingers through his hair and I must’ve tuned back in, “Have a date.”
“What sort of moron eats before going on a date?” I ask, smirking.
Jon stares, quirks a brow, “a hungry one.”
And before I know it, he’s gone, and it’s just me and Ryan and this doesn’t make me uncomfortable.
I am fine and stable and completely relaxed, apart from, you know, the fact that I’m not.
“I haven’t had the tour yet,” Ryan says, gentle smile on his face, “I feel gypped.”
“Not much to see.”
“I doubt that.” And this conversation sounds familiar. Seriously.
He’s grabbed my hand now, and Jesus Christ, why the hell did he do that? But he’s pulling me to my feet, dragging me out of the kitchen, through the living room.
“I like that painting.” He says, gestures to one above the sofa that, to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. “Do you know who it’s by?”
I shrug, and he doesn’t seem surprised. His hand’s still around mine, still dragging me, and why is that all I can look at? I can’t focus on which room we’re in as he’s pulling me around, can’t see anything but him and his spidery fingers and his skinny-bird-like wrists.
Birds don’t have wrists, and it’s ridiculous that this is all I can think about.
“I like your bedroom a lot…it’s…it’s the only room in your apartment that’s…that’s, I dunno, homey.”
He’s let go of my hand, is sitting on my bed, and suddenly, ok, yeah, we’re in my bedroom.
Right.
“This book is amazing.” And how the fuck has he managed to find that thing again?
“It’s not anything.”
“Yes it is. It’s someone’s heart and soul in here, written on these pages.”
“If you love it that much,” and this is strike three, this is the third dispute between head and throat and Jesus I wish I hadn’t said this, “take it.”
His eyes are wide, but then they’re not, they’re narrowed and his brow is furrowed.
“Are you sure?”
“Yea,” I say, shrugging, “Inspiration or whatever for…for your solitude-driven writing time.”
He’s smiling, but it’s hesitant and desperately unsure.
“Positive?”
“Yes.” I say, and that’s all that’s said about it. In fact, that’s all that’s said at all, in less than ten minutes he’s turning sleepy eyes on me, running those never-ending fingers through his hair, and declaring home.
And I definitely don’t think about Ryan for the rest of the night, don’t think about him as I shower, watch television, brush my teeth, go to bed.
But I do think about him when I roll over, and feel the sharp prickle of paper beneath my cheek.
A post-it note on my pillow and I have no fucking idea where it came from. Lamps on, and all I see is familiar chicken-scrawl, tiny, disjointed letters.
Maybe when I’m done with endings, this can begin.
Huh.
*
A/N: On a side note, this has always been my fanfiction journal, but I am starting to think about posting some of my original stuff here. Is anyone interested in it?