fic: the morning breaks us up inside (Brendon/Ryan, Spence POV)
the morning breaks us up inside
1 523, PG
Spencer, Brendon/Ryan
beta'd by violentfires, thank you ♥
one.
Ryan plays off-key. It sounds wrong and painful in correspondence to Brendon’s voice, and echoes in Spence’s ears even after he’s stopped beating a steady rhythm and started watching Ryan fumble with his guitar. It’s not the guitar, but Spence keeps his mouth shut. There is something wrong, and he heard it in those sloppy notes, and sees it in the way Ryan bites his lip, still screwing around with the settings.
He puts his drumsticks down, brushes the sweaty hair from his face and stretches, joints cracking. Maybe they need a break. Maybe Ryan needs to be alone. It feels like it, and Spence has learned to listen to his instincts, at least when it comes to Ryan.
Jon stretches, catlike, arms over his head, arching his back, and Spence gets up and waits at the threshold. The air, it’s vibrant and it makes him feel itchy. It makes him feel bad. He leaves the room with Jon; when he turns Brendon has invaded Ryan’s personal space, close up, touching, and Ryan is full of defense.
Off-key tones ring in Spence’s ears.
two.
Spence wakes. It might have been a bad dream or a sudden noise shaking him up, but he can’t remember. He opens his eyes, turning to the side to find Ryan sitting curled up on the window seat. For a moment Spence thinks he fell asleep there, but then Ryan turns his head and looks at Spence, eyes tired.
“What’s wrong?” Spence asks and sits half-up.
“I feel locked up,” Ryan says and it sounds as though he’s reading a lyric, correct intonations and perfect accentuation.
“We all do,” Spence answers. “It’ll get better. And it’s not for forever.”
“No.” Ryan shakes his head. “Not like that.” He doesn’t say any more and Spence rubs his eyes.
“Go to sleep,” he reasons after a moment.
“It’s cold.” Ryan shakes his head again, and Spence sighs and pushes his blanket back, makes space for Ryan when he crawls into his bed, toes eternally cold against Spence’s own feet.
three.
Brendon threads his fingers through Ryan’s hair and Ryan tilts his head a little; they are curled up on the couch, Ryan with his notebook on the table in front of him and Brendon with his feet on the cushion, chin on Ryan’s shoulder.
Spence has been watching them from his spot by the open fire for the past ten minutes. He remembers the things Ryan whispered to him under the blanket, voice quiet and a little shaky. It makes him uncomfortable. He wonders why it’s suddenly all so different from when they were on tour.
Ryan hisses quietly and bats Brendon’s hands away, pushes away and up, padding into the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. He looks lost and desperate, and for the first time in his life, Spence feels as though there’s something he can’t make right again.
four.
“Brendon,” he says and walks closer to Brendon, who’s sitting at the edge of the pier, feet dangling over the water. The wood croaks under Spence’s feet, but he’s not afraid.
“Hey Spence,” Brendon replies, not turning or looking at him when Spence very carefully sits down next to him, cross-legged. Spence inhales, fresh air, sweet and soft, and tries to find a way to start this conversation.
“Is he still mad at me?” Brendon asks, though, before Spence has the chance to come up with something.
He shrugs. “What did you expect?” He continues before Brendon can answer, “He needs his space.”
“I know,” Brendon answers, hugs his knees to his chest and doesn’t say any more.
three and a half.
Spence hears shouts from the practice room; he drops his book and arrives at the threshold at the same time as Jon. Inside is a mess of loose music sheets, pages from Ryan’s notebook, instruments. An absurdly long moment Spence ponders when they’ll have the time and energy to clean up, before his concentration shifts to Brendon who has Ryan pinned against the wall by his wrists.
Spence hesitates for a second, and Jon steps up and gently pulls Brendon away. Ryan slips away, shoulders hunched and Spence follows him.
“I just wanted him to listen. I just didn’t want him to run away again,” he hears Brendon say.
five.
“I wish they’d stop.” Jon sits down on patio floor, cross-legged, barefoot, and sighs. “It’s making everything so uncomfortable.”
Spence nods and closes his book, keeping his middle fingers in between the pages. “I know. Brendon, he−”
Jon shakes his head and Spence stops, tilts his head, curious. “It’s not just Brendon. Ryan, too. He knows how Brendon is, yet he, like, doesn’t act accordingly.” Jon stops, rubbing his eyes, and then looks at Spence again, eyes soft and worried. Spence bites his lip, feeling all the tension draining out of him, all the desperation and the worry.
“I wish I could fix this,” he says quietly.
“I know,” John replies gently and rubs Spence’s calf soothingly. “But this is something only they can fix.”
six.
It’s dark, the air cold, but not unpleasant. Spence wiggles out of his T-shirt and carefully runs along the deck, the water black beneath him. He stops at the edge, toes curling over it, exhales, inhales, feels a shiver run down his spine.
Behind him, Jon and Brendon are racing toward the lake, but Ryan catches up a moment later, rushing past them. Spence closes his eyes, turns away and jumps. The water closes around him, cold and silent, and he dives and feels the impact of Ryan’s jump rivet through the water.
He surfaces, gasping for air and swims out of the way when Brendon and Jon launch toward the water, grinning like children. They splash, and Ryan laughs, swimming toward them. Brendon tugs at his arm and pulls him close, and Ryan lets him.
Spence moves to swim over to them, but Jon catches him around the waist, warm against him. Spence hesitates for a moment, too long, because suddenly the water closes up over his head, and when he comes up again, Jon is giggling and trying to escape.
seven.
That night, exhausted and content, Spence dreams. He dreams of a red thread that leads through the house, moves at times as though fastened to two living things, as though both sides are pulling too hard or not enough. He dreams of himself falling over it, getting entangled. Jon is there, too, to help him up or carefully pull the thread from his flesh when he’s too deep in. He feels helpless, and the thread keeps getting tangled up more and more, various objects caught up in it. Somewhere inside Spence feels very afraid that it will snap.
eight.
Atlanta is freedom. The sound of the crowd, the bass from the amps, the rush of drumming − really drumming − inside Spence’s blood; it opens him up again. It’s like trance, hypersensibility, and he plays snares snares hi-hat bass drum faster faster, until he can’t hear anything anymore, until all he feels is muscles, stretched, and heart beating too fast.
Later when they’re signing and posing for pictures, he looks at Ryan and sees him smile, really smile, eyes alight. Relief rushes over him, weird and overwhelming, and he grins and grins, feeling back on the road, feeling free again.
nine.
Ryan and Brendon are curled around each other on the couch, watching a movie. Spence feels like he’s intruding just by sitting in the same room. They’re talking quietly, voices hidden by the screams and explosions of the film.
Ryan looks happy, he looks comfortable, and doesn’t seem to be trying to evade Brendon’s tentative fingers in his hair, on his neck.
Spence lowers his eyes to his notepad again. He’s drawing intricate lines on paper he wanted to use for something more productive, and he doesn’t know why. Line after line, from one margin to the other, swirling.
ten.
Ryan puts his guitar down after a few notes. It sounds right in Spence’s ears now, real, clear in the cold night air. Ryan lets his fingers drift over the strings again, softly. There’s almost no sound there at all, but Spence imagines he can hear the melody very clearly now. He imagines Brendon’s voice to it, and Jon’s bassline, dark and calm, and the steady beat of his own drums.
“We’ll be okay,” Ryan says gently, singing it. “I really think we will be.”
Spence tilts his head, puts down his book even though he hasn’t been reading anyway. He gives Ryan an encouraging look because even though he knows the melody by know and the right tones, he needs to hear it, too.
“He and I.” Ryan closes his eyes, and there is something in his voice, his face that startles Spence a little. “We’ll work it out. Don’t worry.”
Yes, Spence thinks and nods. He closes his eyes when Ryan starts to play again, feels the sound echo through his bones. It’s cold out here, and he shivers. Strings and notes entangle in his mind, untangle. It will be okay.
1 523, PG
Spencer, Brendon/Ryan
beta'd by violentfires, thank you ♥
one.
Ryan plays off-key. It sounds wrong and painful in correspondence to Brendon’s voice, and echoes in Spence’s ears even after he’s stopped beating a steady rhythm and started watching Ryan fumble with his guitar. It’s not the guitar, but Spence keeps his mouth shut. There is something wrong, and he heard it in those sloppy notes, and sees it in the way Ryan bites his lip, still screwing around with the settings.
He puts his drumsticks down, brushes the sweaty hair from his face and stretches, joints cracking. Maybe they need a break. Maybe Ryan needs to be alone. It feels like it, and Spence has learned to listen to his instincts, at least when it comes to Ryan.
Jon stretches, catlike, arms over his head, arching his back, and Spence gets up and waits at the threshold. The air, it’s vibrant and it makes him feel itchy. It makes him feel bad. He leaves the room with Jon; when he turns Brendon has invaded Ryan’s personal space, close up, touching, and Ryan is full of defense.
Off-key tones ring in Spence’s ears.
two.
Spence wakes. It might have been a bad dream or a sudden noise shaking him up, but he can’t remember. He opens his eyes, turning to the side to find Ryan sitting curled up on the window seat. For a moment Spence thinks he fell asleep there, but then Ryan turns his head and looks at Spence, eyes tired.
“What’s wrong?” Spence asks and sits half-up.
“I feel locked up,” Ryan says and it sounds as though he’s reading a lyric, correct intonations and perfect accentuation.
“We all do,” Spence answers. “It’ll get better. And it’s not for forever.”
“No.” Ryan shakes his head. “Not like that.” He doesn’t say any more and Spence rubs his eyes.
“Go to sleep,” he reasons after a moment.
“It’s cold.” Ryan shakes his head again, and Spence sighs and pushes his blanket back, makes space for Ryan when he crawls into his bed, toes eternally cold against Spence’s own feet.
three.
Brendon threads his fingers through Ryan’s hair and Ryan tilts his head a little; they are curled up on the couch, Ryan with his notebook on the table in front of him and Brendon with his feet on the cushion, chin on Ryan’s shoulder.
Spence has been watching them from his spot by the open fire for the past ten minutes. He remembers the things Ryan whispered to him under the blanket, voice quiet and a little shaky. It makes him uncomfortable. He wonders why it’s suddenly all so different from when they were on tour.
Ryan hisses quietly and bats Brendon’s hands away, pushes away and up, padding into the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. He looks lost and desperate, and for the first time in his life, Spence feels as though there’s something he can’t make right again.
four.
“Brendon,” he says and walks closer to Brendon, who’s sitting at the edge of the pier, feet dangling over the water. The wood croaks under Spence’s feet, but he’s not afraid.
“Hey Spence,” Brendon replies, not turning or looking at him when Spence very carefully sits down next to him, cross-legged. Spence inhales, fresh air, sweet and soft, and tries to find a way to start this conversation.
“Is he still mad at me?” Brendon asks, though, before Spence has the chance to come up with something.
He shrugs. “What did you expect?” He continues before Brendon can answer, “He needs his space.”
“I know,” Brendon answers, hugs his knees to his chest and doesn’t say any more.
three and a half.
Spence hears shouts from the practice room; he drops his book and arrives at the threshold at the same time as Jon. Inside is a mess of loose music sheets, pages from Ryan’s notebook, instruments. An absurdly long moment Spence ponders when they’ll have the time and energy to clean up, before his concentration shifts to Brendon who has Ryan pinned against the wall by his wrists.
Spence hesitates for a second, and Jon steps up and gently pulls Brendon away. Ryan slips away, shoulders hunched and Spence follows him.
“I just wanted him to listen. I just didn’t want him to run away again,” he hears Brendon say.
five.
“I wish they’d stop.” Jon sits down on patio floor, cross-legged, barefoot, and sighs. “It’s making everything so uncomfortable.”
Spence nods and closes his book, keeping his middle fingers in between the pages. “I know. Brendon, he−”
Jon shakes his head and Spence stops, tilts his head, curious. “It’s not just Brendon. Ryan, too. He knows how Brendon is, yet he, like, doesn’t act accordingly.” Jon stops, rubbing his eyes, and then looks at Spence again, eyes soft and worried. Spence bites his lip, feeling all the tension draining out of him, all the desperation and the worry.
“I wish I could fix this,” he says quietly.
“I know,” John replies gently and rubs Spence’s calf soothingly. “But this is something only they can fix.”
six.
It’s dark, the air cold, but not unpleasant. Spence wiggles out of his T-shirt and carefully runs along the deck, the water black beneath him. He stops at the edge, toes curling over it, exhales, inhales, feels a shiver run down his spine.
Behind him, Jon and Brendon are racing toward the lake, but Ryan catches up a moment later, rushing past them. Spence closes his eyes, turns away and jumps. The water closes around him, cold and silent, and he dives and feels the impact of Ryan’s jump rivet through the water.
He surfaces, gasping for air and swims out of the way when Brendon and Jon launch toward the water, grinning like children. They splash, and Ryan laughs, swimming toward them. Brendon tugs at his arm and pulls him close, and Ryan lets him.
Spence moves to swim over to them, but Jon catches him around the waist, warm against him. Spence hesitates for a moment, too long, because suddenly the water closes up over his head, and when he comes up again, Jon is giggling and trying to escape.
seven.
That night, exhausted and content, Spence dreams. He dreams of a red thread that leads through the house, moves at times as though fastened to two living things, as though both sides are pulling too hard or not enough. He dreams of himself falling over it, getting entangled. Jon is there, too, to help him up or carefully pull the thread from his flesh when he’s too deep in. He feels helpless, and the thread keeps getting tangled up more and more, various objects caught up in it. Somewhere inside Spence feels very afraid that it will snap.
eight.
Atlanta is freedom. The sound of the crowd, the bass from the amps, the rush of drumming − really drumming − inside Spence’s blood; it opens him up again. It’s like trance, hypersensibility, and he plays snares snares hi-hat bass drum faster faster, until he can’t hear anything anymore, until all he feels is muscles, stretched, and heart beating too fast.
Later when they’re signing and posing for pictures, he looks at Ryan and sees him smile, really smile, eyes alight. Relief rushes over him, weird and overwhelming, and he grins and grins, feeling back on the road, feeling free again.
nine.
Ryan and Brendon are curled around each other on the couch, watching a movie. Spence feels like he’s intruding just by sitting in the same room. They’re talking quietly, voices hidden by the screams and explosions of the film.
Ryan looks happy, he looks comfortable, and doesn’t seem to be trying to evade Brendon’s tentative fingers in his hair, on his neck.
Spence lowers his eyes to his notepad again. He’s drawing intricate lines on paper he wanted to use for something more productive, and he doesn’t know why. Line after line, from one margin to the other, swirling.
ten.
Ryan puts his guitar down after a few notes. It sounds right in Spence’s ears now, real, clear in the cold night air. Ryan lets his fingers drift over the strings again, softly. There’s almost no sound there at all, but Spence imagines he can hear the melody very clearly now. He imagines Brendon’s voice to it, and Jon’s bassline, dark and calm, and the steady beat of his own drums.
“We’ll be okay,” Ryan says gently, singing it. “I really think we will be.”
Spence tilts his head, puts down his book even though he hasn’t been reading anyway. He gives Ryan an encouraging look because even though he knows the melody by know and the right tones, he needs to hear it, too.
“He and I.” Ryan closes his eyes, and there is something in his voice, his face that startles Spence a little. “We’ll work it out. Don’t worry.”
Yes, Spence thinks and nods. He closes his eyes when Ryan starts to play again, feels the sound echo through his bones. It’s cold out here, and he shivers. Strings and notes entangle in his mind, untangle. It will be okay.