panic, vignettey-thing, "refraction"
770ish words of ryan ross in a hotel room, sort of ponderingish. fiction, obviously, for badfic_shelfie. also on ao3 here.
Sometimes Ryan stays up late thinking in circles about: his father, his exes, the humiliation his tenth-grade teacher made him feel when she would read out loud from student essays (it wasn't even that she thought they were bad--just the opposite, in fact; it was that he knew, even when she didn't name names, that his classmates could tell which one was his, and he could feel them staring at him while his ears grew red).
If Spencer's there, though--Spencer's pretty good with distraction. Tonight he throws a pillow at Ryan from the other hotel bed. "Stop," he says. He sounds tired, and imperative, but not particularly annoyed.
Ryan rolls over to face him. "What are you thinking about," he asks, low, mostly because he doesn't want Spencer to ask him first.
"Nothing in particular," Spencer says. He mimics Ryan, leaning up on one elbow. He yawns around his fist, and says, "I'm thinking about breakfast tomorrow, the radio interview that you and Brendon are doing. My mom says my sisters have been secretive lately so I should 'let her know if it seems like anything is wrong.'" Ryan can hear the quotes even though Spencer never uses the socially-accepted hand gestures. (Brendon would have; Ryan can't remember if he's seen Jon use them.)
"Oh, right," Ryan says, smiling mostly because he can't help it, "nothing in particular."
Spencer chuckles, then yawns again. "Shut up. Go to sleep, okay? I'm gonna turn off the light."
"Yeah, okay," Ryan says. "Goodnight."
Ryan dozes off, imperceptibly, so he doesn't realize that he's asleep when he starts dreaming. He wakes up in the middle of a tense moment, startled by a noise or maybe a face, but he can't remember it past the first few minutes of staring at the hotel ceiling. In the dark it's the same as every other ceiling, shadowed with darker shadowy textures, angular in a way that seems somehow deceptive in the dark, like if Ryan looks away from the corners of the room they'll change shape.
Inexplicably, he starts thinking about Brent.
He rolls onto his side, idly remembering how he and Brent and Spencer would goof off with their instruments in Spencer's grandma's basement, the carpeting worn down unevenly across the floor, so you had to be careful or you could trip, especially right by the stairs and in front of the TV.
He's suddenly angry, so angry, his throat closing up around it. Ryan thinks, Brent could've--he--and he knows that he shouldn't have to feel so fucking guilty when Brent was the one who clearly didn't want to be here anymore, who didn't want to do this.
Maybe it could have happened differently, he thinks, but. But.
He swallows. His jaw hurts. He realizes he's clenching it, and tries to relax. He rubs at the joints by his ears, opening his mouth wide, as if he's going to pop his ears. It sort of helps.
He falls back asleep around two in the morning, he would guess; he had turned away from the clock when the minutes seemed to go slower and slower. He wakes up in the morning tangled in the hotel sheets, too warm where the blanket is in layers on top of him and too cold where his face and his elbow and toes peek out. (Hotel air-conditioning is always like that, for him, too little or too much.)
He struggles out of the cocoon of bedding with effort. They hadn't closed the curtains all the way, and morning light--clearly still early morning light--makes the whole room glow in an unearthly kind of way, pales blues and greys, the hutch for the television a looming piece of furniture against the wall.
Spencer is sound asleep on the other bed, sprawling out on his stomach, his head tilted so his face is only half-stuffed against the pillow. He's always been a sprawler. He doesn't mind sleeping with other people but he seems to prefer it when he can have space for his legs to kick out.
Ryan slides out to the edge of his bed, putting his feet flat on the floor. "Spencer," he says, quiet.
Spencer doesn't move.
Ryan doesn't even fully stand, just takes the two steps between the beds and lifts the blankets, climbing in. Spencer is toasty, a warm oven of heat that Ryan can feel even with a few inches between them.
Spencer stirs when Ryan tugs at the sheets and nudges Spencer's feet over with his toes. "Spencer, move over," Ryan whispers.
Spencer groans, but rolls to the side. "Your feet are fucking freezing," he says, and then he stills again, already falling back asleep.
Ryan keeps his feet to himself, and rests without thinking until the wake-up call.
Sometimes Ryan stays up late thinking in circles about: his father, his exes, the humiliation his tenth-grade teacher made him feel when she would read out loud from student essays (it wasn't even that she thought they were bad--just the opposite, in fact; it was that he knew, even when she didn't name names, that his classmates could tell which one was his, and he could feel them staring at him while his ears grew red).
If Spencer's there, though--Spencer's pretty good with distraction. Tonight he throws a pillow at Ryan from the other hotel bed. "Stop," he says. He sounds tired, and imperative, but not particularly annoyed.
Ryan rolls over to face him. "What are you thinking about," he asks, low, mostly because he doesn't want Spencer to ask him first.
"Nothing in particular," Spencer says. He mimics Ryan, leaning up on one elbow. He yawns around his fist, and says, "I'm thinking about breakfast tomorrow, the radio interview that you and Brendon are doing. My mom says my sisters have been secretive lately so I should 'let her know if it seems like anything is wrong.'" Ryan can hear the quotes even though Spencer never uses the socially-accepted hand gestures. (Brendon would have; Ryan can't remember if he's seen Jon use them.)
"Oh, right," Ryan says, smiling mostly because he can't help it, "nothing in particular."
Spencer chuckles, then yawns again. "Shut up. Go to sleep, okay? I'm gonna turn off the light."
"Yeah, okay," Ryan says. "Goodnight."
Ryan dozes off, imperceptibly, so he doesn't realize that he's asleep when he starts dreaming. He wakes up in the middle of a tense moment, startled by a noise or maybe a face, but he can't remember it past the first few minutes of staring at the hotel ceiling. In the dark it's the same as every other ceiling, shadowed with darker shadowy textures, angular in a way that seems somehow deceptive in the dark, like if Ryan looks away from the corners of the room they'll change shape.
Inexplicably, he starts thinking about Brent.
He rolls onto his side, idly remembering how he and Brent and Spencer would goof off with their instruments in Spencer's grandma's basement, the carpeting worn down unevenly across the floor, so you had to be careful or you could trip, especially right by the stairs and in front of the TV.
He's suddenly angry, so angry, his throat closing up around it. Ryan thinks, Brent could've--he--and he knows that he shouldn't have to feel so fucking guilty when Brent was the one who clearly didn't want to be here anymore, who didn't want to do this.
Maybe it could have happened differently, he thinks, but. But.
He swallows. His jaw hurts. He realizes he's clenching it, and tries to relax. He rubs at the joints by his ears, opening his mouth wide, as if he's going to pop his ears. It sort of helps.
He falls back asleep around two in the morning, he would guess; he had turned away from the clock when the minutes seemed to go slower and slower. He wakes up in the morning tangled in the hotel sheets, too warm where the blanket is in layers on top of him and too cold where his face and his elbow and toes peek out. (Hotel air-conditioning is always like that, for him, too little or too much.)
He struggles out of the cocoon of bedding with effort. They hadn't closed the curtains all the way, and morning light--clearly still early morning light--makes the whole room glow in an unearthly kind of way, pales blues and greys, the hutch for the television a looming piece of furniture against the wall.
Spencer is sound asleep on the other bed, sprawling out on his stomach, his head tilted so his face is only half-stuffed against the pillow. He's always been a sprawler. He doesn't mind sleeping with other people but he seems to prefer it when he can have space for his legs to kick out.
Ryan slides out to the edge of his bed, putting his feet flat on the floor. "Spencer," he says, quiet.
Spencer doesn't move.
Ryan doesn't even fully stand, just takes the two steps between the beds and lifts the blankets, climbing in. Spencer is toasty, a warm oven of heat that Ryan can feel even with a few inches between them.
Spencer stirs when Ryan tugs at the sheets and nudges Spencer's feet over with his toes. "Spencer, move over," Ryan whispers.
Spencer groans, but rolls to the side. "Your feet are fucking freezing," he says, and then he stills again, already falling back asleep.
Ryan keeps his feet to himself, and rests without thinking until the wake-up call.