Silence
615 words | G | Ryan/Brendon - only not really
He turns to face Brendon, because he wants to say something, but his words die in his chest.
Written for prompt nov 23 08 at we_are_cities
Ryan’s been sitting in silence and by himself for ten minutes without an interruption. He should be grateful, but dead times like this allow him to think, and he hates that. He used to love dwelling in his own misery when he didn’t have time to do so, when it made him look cool in front of freshmen kids at high school or gave him somewhat of a scene cred.
He can’t remember why he used to care about those stupid things, or why he was such a hypocrite that pretended not to care and lived for the attention. Youth is to be embarrassed by it afterwards, he thinks.
Brendon plops down next to him, tired and frustrated at the stupid photographer. The band had been out, doing a photoshoot in a nice park, and this is a nice rest from the photographer’s constant bickering and bad attitude. He runs a hand through his hair, something he does when he wants to ease up and forget some of the stress of the day. Ryan doesn’t look at him.
Silence is more comfortable like this. Ryan doesn’t know why, but whenever Brendon’s around, he finds it easier to concentrate on his surroundings and forget about his inner workings. He hadn’t noticed this part of the park was so nice; it was colorful and quiet at the same time. He sniffs and scratches his chin for something to do. Brendon shifts a little and continues doing nothing. Ryan counts how many times he breathes in and out, and gets to twelve before Brendon speaks.
“Nice day, huh?”
“Yeah.”
And they fall silent again. Ryan’s got the impression his conversations are getting more and more mundane as the days go by. He’d be upset by this, he kind of is, but it’s easy to live this way. It’s simple and noncommittal. It’s - it’s so bland and light, he thinks. He sucks at thinking up adjectives, he concludes.
He turns to face Brendon, because he wants to say something, but his words die in his chest. He doesn't know what to say.
Brendon, he feels it. He feels what Ryan has to say, sees it in his eyes and knows beforehand because he’s been living and working with Ryan long and extensively enough to know how his friend’s mind works. How he feels. There’s a fraction of a second where he thinks he could take the risk of going along with what Ryan wants and what he tells himself he doesn’t want. It’s so close he can feel it - and smell it and taste it, and it’s like when it’s about to rain. So close.
But then, his conscience kicks in and he gets up before he knows what he’s doing. He pushes the corners of his lips up in what he expects looks more like a smile than a grimace and mutters something about going to find Jon for something. He turns around and walks away from what could have been a turning point in his life. Ryan’s knee jerks, but he doesn’t see it. He just shoves his sweaty palms in the pockets of his pants.
--
That night, when they’re changed into loose shirts and wearing sweat pants or only their boxers, the four of them go to sleep with not so much philosophical babble as everyday bits of gossip and details. Words that don’t say anything important.
Brendon slides under the covers in silence and knows that Ryan understands. You can’t be brave 24/7; you can’t always dive in and hope for the best. Sometimes, the only sane thing you can do is try to keep your eyes and mouth closed and keep the status quo.
He turns to face Brendon, because he wants to say something, but his words die in his chest.
Written for prompt nov 23 08 at we_are_cities
Ryan’s been sitting in silence and by himself for ten minutes without an interruption. He should be grateful, but dead times like this allow him to think, and he hates that. He used to love dwelling in his own misery when he didn’t have time to do so, when it made him look cool in front of freshmen kids at high school or gave him somewhat of a scene cred.
He can’t remember why he used to care about those stupid things, or why he was such a hypocrite that pretended not to care and lived for the attention. Youth is to be embarrassed by it afterwards, he thinks.
Brendon plops down next to him, tired and frustrated at the stupid photographer. The band had been out, doing a photoshoot in a nice park, and this is a nice rest from the photographer’s constant bickering and bad attitude. He runs a hand through his hair, something he does when he wants to ease up and forget some of the stress of the day. Ryan doesn’t look at him.
Silence is more comfortable like this. Ryan doesn’t know why, but whenever Brendon’s around, he finds it easier to concentrate on his surroundings and forget about his inner workings. He hadn’t noticed this part of the park was so nice; it was colorful and quiet at the same time. He sniffs and scratches his chin for something to do. Brendon shifts a little and continues doing nothing. Ryan counts how many times he breathes in and out, and gets to twelve before Brendon speaks.
“Nice day, huh?”
“Yeah.”
And they fall silent again. Ryan’s got the impression his conversations are getting more and more mundane as the days go by. He’d be upset by this, he kind of is, but it’s easy to live this way. It’s simple and noncommittal. It’s - it’s so bland and light, he thinks. He sucks at thinking up adjectives, he concludes.
He turns to face Brendon, because he wants to say something, but his words die in his chest. He doesn't know what to say.
Brendon, he feels it. He feels what Ryan has to say, sees it in his eyes and knows beforehand because he’s been living and working with Ryan long and extensively enough to know how his friend’s mind works. How he feels. There’s a fraction of a second where he thinks he could take the risk of going along with what Ryan wants and what he tells himself he doesn’t want. It’s so close he can feel it - and smell it and taste it, and it’s like when it’s about to rain. So close.
But then, his conscience kicks in and he gets up before he knows what he’s doing. He pushes the corners of his lips up in what he expects looks more like a smile than a grimace and mutters something about going to find Jon for something. He turns around and walks away from what could have been a turning point in his life. Ryan’s knee jerks, but he doesn’t see it. He just shoves his sweaty palms in the pockets of his pants.
--
That night, when they’re changed into loose shirts and wearing sweat pants or only their boxers, the four of them go to sleep with not so much philosophical babble as everyday bits of gossip and details. Words that don’t say anything important.
Brendon slides under the covers in silence and knows that Ryan understands. You can’t be brave 24/7; you can’t always dive in and hope for the best. Sometimes, the only sane thing you can do is try to keep your eyes and mouth closed and keep the status quo.