Brightly Wound. 1/1.
TITLE: Brightly Wound. 1/1.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx. Me. Kayla.
RATING: PG. Really!
POV: Third.
PAIRING: Ryan/Brendon. I have no originality.
SUMMARY: "He’s swimming in the space between asleep and awake with his fingers pressed to the glass..."
DISCLAIMER: Nope, never.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who commented on Truth or Dare...you guys pretty much made my life. ♥
It's happening all the time. When I open my eyes, I'm still taken by surprise. You have shining eyes, yes, like those forest lights, and it makes me want to cry.
The rain is running down the bus windows, and it looks like mercury, silver-white against the drab, overcast background blurring behind it. In his current state, not having slept in a few days, kept awake by nightmares and half-remembered dreams in vivid colour, Ryan imagines the rain is alive. He imagines what it must feel like to slam against a glass window, to splatter into a thousand tiny pieces, and then to run down into the hundreds of other drops, going down, down, until you fly away and hit the concrete.
He actually thinks maybe he has a pretty good idea of how that feels, sitting here on the always too-small couch with his eyes burning and stinging from lack of sleep and his neck so tense he can barely turn it. His fingers are curled so tightly they ache, and his eyes are straining with the effort of keeping them open, a battle of will against nature. He’s afraid to fall asleep, to slip into the black void that explodes into memories and images better left forgotten. Lately, the colours have been so vivid they hurt his eyes, and everything has felt so real that when he jolts awake, he’s not sure where he is anymore. Not until he feels the slow roll of the bus under him, hears the sleep sounds of his band mates, sorts out the close darkness of the bunk in his head and convinces himself it’s not a dungeon or a car crash. So eventually, he always sways and stumbles out into the lounge and pours himself something to drink, and sits on this couch and stares out the window, at flashing lights or passing cars or, like tonight, the rain.
He’s swimming in the space between asleep and awake with his fingers pressed to the glass when Brendon sneaks out of his bunk. Brendon’s not usually very good at being quiet, usually he’s loud and obnoxious and clumsy and awkward, a car wreck or a broken glass waiting to happen. Somehow, though, right now, he’s tip-toeing, shuffling quietly across the floor so he doesn’t break Ryan out of his reverie while he’s on his way to the kitchen to get a glass of water. But then, he’s looking at Ryan’s hunched back, and the way his fingers and his breath are making ghost patterns on the glass. He’s watching the rivers of rain run down the glass, wondering what Ryan sees, if it’s rain on the window or something else entirely. And Ryan’s eyes are slipping shut, fifteen pound weights pulling on his eyelids, and he’s giving up on fighting it, thinking that maybe this time, this time, it will just be sleep. Because, God, he could really use sleep, lots of it, and maybe if he just closes his eyes for a minute, the warm rocking of the bus and the cool glass against his skin will lull him into something dreamless and pleasant and sweet.
Brendon shuffles across the floor and sits down in the chair across from Ryan, sipping from his glass and crossing his legs. He wonders, when Ryan’s like this, just why Ryan’s like this. What makes him tick, why he doesn’t sleep or eat for days on end, and then one day picks up right where he left off, joking and laughing and sleeping and eating far too much for any boy his size without gaining a pound. Ryan shifts in his sleep, slipping down the window a little bit, mumbling something incoherent. Brendon wonders if it’s better to wake him up and ruin the little sleep he’s getting, or wait for another nightmare to assault Ryan and leave him gasping and scared shitless. He knows you’re not supposed to wake sleep walkers, but what about restless artists catching slips of sleep riddled with nightmares? He doesn’t know what the rule for that is, or if there is one, because for all he knows Ryan is the only one who does this. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. Ryan has always been a little bit eccentric, a little bit outside the box.
Ryan whimpers a little bit and tries to bury himself in the couch, backing away from some invisible threat that’s really nothing but the other end of the couch. Brendon decides, no, he isn’t sleepwalking, and he may want to kill me, but I’m going to wake him up. He moves as quietly as he can, scratching at his stomach, to sit at the other end of the tiny couch. He puts his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and shakes him a little, Ryan, wake up, and with little else in the way of perusal Ryan’s eyes snap open, wild and desperate, not seeming to see Brendon at all, dancing and darting around the lounge of the bus. His breath rattles in and out of his chest, gasping and choking, and Brendon thinks he really didn’t save him from the nightmare after all, maybe just made it worse. But eventually, Ryan’s breathing slows and he settles his eyes on Brendon, leaning against the window again and sighing. Brendon knows that this is hard for Ryan, not sleeping, always being tired, because the life they live isn’t always forgiving.
Ryan looks at him, and his eyes ask a thousand questions, but mostly about what Brendon’s doing awake at three a.m. Brendon just shrugs and looks out the window. Words are useless, wasted in this silence, and Brendon reaches his hand over to lay on top of Ryan’s, maybe to offer him a little comfort. Ryan wonders if he wasn’t sleeping alone, if he could make Brendon promise to stay with him, if maybe then he would sleep, if ghosts and dreams would stop chasing him into dark corners that he doesn’t want to see.
Brendon sighs and tugs on Ryan’s hand, come here, and Ryan falls effortlessly into Brendon, gelatin and boneless against his skin. I’ll stay with you, Brendon’s hand says, when it slides around Ryan’s waist, tunnels smoothly through Ryan’s hair. Ryan nods, trails his fingers over Brendon’s arm, thank you. And this time, when he feels the pull on his eyelids, he lets them slide shut, lets the darkness slide over his body in a wave and carry him out to sea.
This time, lying cramped with Brendon on the little couch, Ryan sees nothing but comforting black for a solid four hours, until a brilliant sunrise is streaming in the window and falling golden and orange across his face. He wakes up with a crick in his neck and his legs bent uncomfortably around the arm of the couch, with Brendon’s right arm around his back and his left arm trailing over his leg, Brendon’s face buried gently in the mess of hair on top of his head. He doesn’t dare move, to ruin this, because something about it is comfortable and perfect, and he hasn’t slept that well in months, hasn’t been this comfortable in his own skin since he can remember. Brendon shifts and twists, sliding against Ryan and wakes up with a yawn, and then they’re both moving and standing to start the day, to make coffee and eat Fruit Loops. Ryan grabs Brendon’s wrist and tugs a little while they’re in the kitchen, digging around for spoons and plastic bowls. Neither of them says anything, standing in the golden light from the sun, the black silence from the night before hanging in the corners of the room and the back of Ryan’s head like cobwebs. Ryan just smiles, thumbing over Brendon’s pulse, and Brendon catches the smile like a disease and wears it like skin, stuck on his mouth in a carbon copy of Ryan’s face. And Brendon doesn’t know what makes him do it, but he leans over and kisses right in front of Ryan’s ear, you’re welcome. Ryan smiles again and reaches for a glass to pour himself some orange juice. Thank you.
That’s all it takes, that’s enough for both of them to get on with the day, the unspoken words and small gestures. And when Spencer asks Ryan later how he slept, Ryan smiles at Brendon through his bangs and kicks his leg under the table, ignoring the offended look on Brendon’s face.
“Better,” he says, picking at his toast. “Better.”
“Good,” Spencer says, smiling over his orange juice.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, nodding and flinging a Cheerio at Brendon, laughing when Brendon’s eyes shoot open as the soggy ‘O’ smacks against his cheek. Ryan smiles and looks down at his cereal, stirring it absently. “Yeah, things are looking up.”
And when Brendon lands a Cheerio perfectly on Ryan’s mouth, he doesn’t even get mad, just smiles across the table and nudges Brendon’s leg with his foot. Asshole. And Brendon just smiles back and rubs his neck, and they go back to eating their breakfast. Jon and Spencer share a look across the table, and the last speck of black recedes from Ryan’s mind, and all there is are golden orange sunrises and brown eyes and the way the rain looks when it runs down the windows.
And Ryan, he’s pretty happy with that.
We were walking there, I had tangles in my hair, but you make me feel so pretty. I hold sunlight, and swallow butterflies, and it makes me want to cry.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx. Me. Kayla.
RATING: PG. Really!
POV: Third.
PAIRING: Ryan/Brendon. I have no originality.
SUMMARY: "He’s swimming in the space between asleep and awake with his fingers pressed to the glass..."
DISCLAIMER: Nope, never.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who commented on Truth or Dare...you guys pretty much made my life. ♥
It's happening all the time. When I open my eyes, I'm still taken by surprise. You have shining eyes, yes, like those forest lights, and it makes me want to cry.
The rain is running down the bus windows, and it looks like mercury, silver-white against the drab, overcast background blurring behind it. In his current state, not having slept in a few days, kept awake by nightmares and half-remembered dreams in vivid colour, Ryan imagines the rain is alive. He imagines what it must feel like to slam against a glass window, to splatter into a thousand tiny pieces, and then to run down into the hundreds of other drops, going down, down, until you fly away and hit the concrete.
He actually thinks maybe he has a pretty good idea of how that feels, sitting here on the always too-small couch with his eyes burning and stinging from lack of sleep and his neck so tense he can barely turn it. His fingers are curled so tightly they ache, and his eyes are straining with the effort of keeping them open, a battle of will against nature. He’s afraid to fall asleep, to slip into the black void that explodes into memories and images better left forgotten. Lately, the colours have been so vivid they hurt his eyes, and everything has felt so real that when he jolts awake, he’s not sure where he is anymore. Not until he feels the slow roll of the bus under him, hears the sleep sounds of his band mates, sorts out the close darkness of the bunk in his head and convinces himself it’s not a dungeon or a car crash. So eventually, he always sways and stumbles out into the lounge and pours himself something to drink, and sits on this couch and stares out the window, at flashing lights or passing cars or, like tonight, the rain.
He’s swimming in the space between asleep and awake with his fingers pressed to the glass when Brendon sneaks out of his bunk. Brendon’s not usually very good at being quiet, usually he’s loud and obnoxious and clumsy and awkward, a car wreck or a broken glass waiting to happen. Somehow, though, right now, he’s tip-toeing, shuffling quietly across the floor so he doesn’t break Ryan out of his reverie while he’s on his way to the kitchen to get a glass of water. But then, he’s looking at Ryan’s hunched back, and the way his fingers and his breath are making ghost patterns on the glass. He’s watching the rivers of rain run down the glass, wondering what Ryan sees, if it’s rain on the window or something else entirely. And Ryan’s eyes are slipping shut, fifteen pound weights pulling on his eyelids, and he’s giving up on fighting it, thinking that maybe this time, this time, it will just be sleep. Because, God, he could really use sleep, lots of it, and maybe if he just closes his eyes for a minute, the warm rocking of the bus and the cool glass against his skin will lull him into something dreamless and pleasant and sweet.
Brendon shuffles across the floor and sits down in the chair across from Ryan, sipping from his glass and crossing his legs. He wonders, when Ryan’s like this, just why Ryan’s like this. What makes him tick, why he doesn’t sleep or eat for days on end, and then one day picks up right where he left off, joking and laughing and sleeping and eating far too much for any boy his size without gaining a pound. Ryan shifts in his sleep, slipping down the window a little bit, mumbling something incoherent. Brendon wonders if it’s better to wake him up and ruin the little sleep he’s getting, or wait for another nightmare to assault Ryan and leave him gasping and scared shitless. He knows you’re not supposed to wake sleep walkers, but what about restless artists catching slips of sleep riddled with nightmares? He doesn’t know what the rule for that is, or if there is one, because for all he knows Ryan is the only one who does this. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. Ryan has always been a little bit eccentric, a little bit outside the box.
Ryan whimpers a little bit and tries to bury himself in the couch, backing away from some invisible threat that’s really nothing but the other end of the couch. Brendon decides, no, he isn’t sleepwalking, and he may want to kill me, but I’m going to wake him up. He moves as quietly as he can, scratching at his stomach, to sit at the other end of the tiny couch. He puts his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and shakes him a little, Ryan, wake up, and with little else in the way of perusal Ryan’s eyes snap open, wild and desperate, not seeming to see Brendon at all, dancing and darting around the lounge of the bus. His breath rattles in and out of his chest, gasping and choking, and Brendon thinks he really didn’t save him from the nightmare after all, maybe just made it worse. But eventually, Ryan’s breathing slows and he settles his eyes on Brendon, leaning against the window again and sighing. Brendon knows that this is hard for Ryan, not sleeping, always being tired, because the life they live isn’t always forgiving.
Ryan looks at him, and his eyes ask a thousand questions, but mostly about what Brendon’s doing awake at three a.m. Brendon just shrugs and looks out the window. Words are useless, wasted in this silence, and Brendon reaches his hand over to lay on top of Ryan’s, maybe to offer him a little comfort. Ryan wonders if he wasn’t sleeping alone, if he could make Brendon promise to stay with him, if maybe then he would sleep, if ghosts and dreams would stop chasing him into dark corners that he doesn’t want to see.
Brendon sighs and tugs on Ryan’s hand, come here, and Ryan falls effortlessly into Brendon, gelatin and boneless against his skin. I’ll stay with you, Brendon’s hand says, when it slides around Ryan’s waist, tunnels smoothly through Ryan’s hair. Ryan nods, trails his fingers over Brendon’s arm, thank you. And this time, when he feels the pull on his eyelids, he lets them slide shut, lets the darkness slide over his body in a wave and carry him out to sea.
This time, lying cramped with Brendon on the little couch, Ryan sees nothing but comforting black for a solid four hours, until a brilliant sunrise is streaming in the window and falling golden and orange across his face. He wakes up with a crick in his neck and his legs bent uncomfortably around the arm of the couch, with Brendon’s right arm around his back and his left arm trailing over his leg, Brendon’s face buried gently in the mess of hair on top of his head. He doesn’t dare move, to ruin this, because something about it is comfortable and perfect, and he hasn’t slept that well in months, hasn’t been this comfortable in his own skin since he can remember. Brendon shifts and twists, sliding against Ryan and wakes up with a yawn, and then they’re both moving and standing to start the day, to make coffee and eat Fruit Loops. Ryan grabs Brendon’s wrist and tugs a little while they’re in the kitchen, digging around for spoons and plastic bowls. Neither of them says anything, standing in the golden light from the sun, the black silence from the night before hanging in the corners of the room and the back of Ryan’s head like cobwebs. Ryan just smiles, thumbing over Brendon’s pulse, and Brendon catches the smile like a disease and wears it like skin, stuck on his mouth in a carbon copy of Ryan’s face. And Brendon doesn’t know what makes him do it, but he leans over and kisses right in front of Ryan’s ear, you’re welcome. Ryan smiles again and reaches for a glass to pour himself some orange juice. Thank you.
That’s all it takes, that’s enough for both of them to get on with the day, the unspoken words and small gestures. And when Spencer asks Ryan later how he slept, Ryan smiles at Brendon through his bangs and kicks his leg under the table, ignoring the offended look on Brendon’s face.
“Better,” he says, picking at his toast. “Better.”
“Good,” Spencer says, smiling over his orange juice.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, nodding and flinging a Cheerio at Brendon, laughing when Brendon’s eyes shoot open as the soggy ‘O’ smacks against his cheek. Ryan smiles and looks down at his cereal, stirring it absently. “Yeah, things are looking up.”
And when Brendon lands a Cheerio perfectly on Ryan’s mouth, he doesn’t even get mad, just smiles across the table and nudges Brendon’s leg with his foot. Asshole. And Brendon just smiles back and rubs his neck, and they go back to eating their breakfast. Jon and Spencer share a look across the table, and the last speck of black recedes from Ryan’s mind, and all there is are golden orange sunrises and brown eyes and the way the rain looks when it runs down the windows.
And Ryan, he’s pretty happy with that.
We were walking there, I had tangles in my hair, but you make me feel so pretty. I hold sunlight, and swallow butterflies, and it makes me want to cry.