Fic: Like the Motion Picture Endings
Aug. 25th, 2009 12:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
koritsimouTitle: Like the Motion Picture Endings
Characters: Ryan Ross, Jon Walker
Wordcount: 741
Disclaimer: I know no one and claim no truth.
Notes: This is my first ever attempt at writing bandom. I desperately want someone to tell me what would make it better, but I don't know where to post it. It's file name on my computer is "Panic. It's Gen!" but the title is taken randomly from a Spitalfield song - I had to google it to even remember that.
Inspired in places and prompted by WAC May 12
Originally Posted: July 13th 2007. Here
-----
Like the Motion Picture Endings
As the road behind them grows longer, the voice in Ryan’s head grows louder, easily heard over the whip of the wheels spinning on the wet road. What the fuck is he doing? Why did he get in the car? Spencer is going to be fucking sick with worry when he can’t be found. Or contacted. He pats his pockets lightly. Empty. He can picture his sidekick, on top of his hat and the scarf he nicked from Brendon, neatly folded up, on the bus. The bus, where Spencer is probably already pacing holes in the carpet, wondering where he is. Ryan knows any thought of Spencer being asleep is common wishful thinking. Again he is wondering why the fuck he got in this car. He doesn’t even know whose car it is or where Jon even got it. Jon. The name alone gives Ryan space to breathe. As soon as Spencer knows Jon is missing too, he’ll know Ryan is safe, he hopes.
Ryan gives Jon a quick glance. He looks tired but is sitting up, alert, both hands on the wheel, both eyes forward, staring at a fixed point straight ahead. Ryan knows he can’t see anything. Jon may be superhuman - how many people can fucking drive in flip flops? - but there isn’t anything to see.
Ryan doesn’t know how they got here. He’s not even sure where here is right now. Touring’s like that. But the bushes outside the window to his left and Jon to his right tell him he’s in England, at least.
Jon’s smiling. Well, more accurately Jon’s mouth twitched, and before Ryan notices his hands move, he’s pulled the car over to the side of the road. Jon sighs and Ryan’s pretty sure it’s the only sound he has made since they got in the car. Jon gets out and Ryan considers staying put for only a moment before he follows.
They’re in something resembling the countryside and although Ryan knows they can’t be too far out, he feels miles away from the lights, the sound and the stage of the tour. The stage. ‘All the world’s a stage,’ Ryan thinks. But Will Shakespeare could never have been out in the middle of nowhere with Jon Walker. There's no acting, no script, no need for an audience. It's just them. Just Jon and Ryan on the edge of an open field and beyond the chain-link fence, an old locked-up carnival. It looks abandoned though the well-tread paths between the machines tell otherwise. Just two boys - men, Ryan corrects himself - and an assortment of fairground attractions. It is so real that Ryan doesn’t even find himself wondering if “haunted carnival” is too alike to “circus” for their next theme.
Jon is right up next to the fence and resting his forehead against it. Ryan moves quietly to stand beside him but doesn’t look at him. Instead he fixes his eyes on the black mass in front of them, amongst which Ryan can just make out the huge teacups, which throw him into a dark nightmarish Alice-in-Wonderland story. Ryan is pulled out of danger - ravenous toves, having mistaken his miniature self for a piece of cheese, were snapping at him, their corkscrews scratching horribly at the underside of the sundial he perched atop - when Jon speaks.
“D’you ever feel like you’re going to do something wrong and it’s all just going to stop?”
Ryan threads his long spindly fingers through the fence, clinging on, and in his other hand he takes Jon’s. He doesn’t need to nod, doesn’t need to squeeze, he just holds. Ryan often feels trapped. He thinks like that a lot. It is like he has been put in a box and he has to stay there. A box, pressure from all sides, pressure from the expectations, from the predictions of exactly what he will do next - what they will do next.
Ryan doesn’t want predicted results, and inevitably, predicted ends. Ryan doesn’t want boxes, closed boxes with looming shut ends. Ryan wants it to last forever, and he doesn’t care that that’s stupid. He’d been scared they had reached the end with Brent, but it wasn’t the end, just a bump in the road. A road they haven’t reached the end of yet.
He glances at the car, its picture still and real in a mind full of metaphors.
“I think we can keep going.”
-----
What I don't know cannot hurt me
Characters: Ryan Ross, Jon Walker
Wordcount: 741
Disclaimer: I know no one and claim no truth.
Notes: This is my first ever attempt at writing bandom. I desperately want someone to tell me what would make it better, but I don't know where to post it. It's file name on my computer is "Panic. It's Gen!" but the title is taken randomly from a Spitalfield song - I had to google it to even remember that.
Inspired in places and prompted by WAC May 12
Originally Posted: July 13th 2007. Here
-----
Like the Motion Picture Endings
As the road behind them grows longer, the voice in Ryan’s head grows louder, easily heard over the whip of the wheels spinning on the wet road. What the fuck is he doing? Why did he get in the car? Spencer is going to be fucking sick with worry when he can’t be found. Or contacted. He pats his pockets lightly. Empty. He can picture his sidekick, on top of his hat and the scarf he nicked from Brendon, neatly folded up, on the bus. The bus, where Spencer is probably already pacing holes in the carpet, wondering where he is. Ryan knows any thought of Spencer being asleep is common wishful thinking. Again he is wondering why the fuck he got in this car. He doesn’t even know whose car it is or where Jon even got it. Jon. The name alone gives Ryan space to breathe. As soon as Spencer knows Jon is missing too, he’ll know Ryan is safe, he hopes.
Ryan gives Jon a quick glance. He looks tired but is sitting up, alert, both hands on the wheel, both eyes forward, staring at a fixed point straight ahead. Ryan knows he can’t see anything. Jon may be superhuman - how many people can fucking drive in flip flops? - but there isn’t anything to see.
Ryan doesn’t know how they got here. He’s not even sure where here is right now. Touring’s like that. But the bushes outside the window to his left and Jon to his right tell him he’s in England, at least.
Jon’s smiling. Well, more accurately Jon’s mouth twitched, and before Ryan notices his hands move, he’s pulled the car over to the side of the road. Jon sighs and Ryan’s pretty sure it’s the only sound he has made since they got in the car. Jon gets out and Ryan considers staying put for only a moment before he follows.
They’re in something resembling the countryside and although Ryan knows they can’t be too far out, he feels miles away from the lights, the sound and the stage of the tour. The stage. ‘All the world’s a stage,’ Ryan thinks. But Will Shakespeare could never have been out in the middle of nowhere with Jon Walker. There's no acting, no script, no need for an audience. It's just them. Just Jon and Ryan on the edge of an open field and beyond the chain-link fence, an old locked-up carnival. It looks abandoned though the well-tread paths between the machines tell otherwise. Just two boys - men, Ryan corrects himself - and an assortment of fairground attractions. It is so real that Ryan doesn’t even find himself wondering if “haunted carnival” is too alike to “circus” for their next theme.
Jon is right up next to the fence and resting his forehead against it. Ryan moves quietly to stand beside him but doesn’t look at him. Instead he fixes his eyes on the black mass in front of them, amongst which Ryan can just make out the huge teacups, which throw him into a dark nightmarish Alice-in-Wonderland story. Ryan is pulled out of danger - ravenous toves, having mistaken his miniature self for a piece of cheese, were snapping at him, their corkscrews scratching horribly at the underside of the sundial he perched atop - when Jon speaks.
“D’you ever feel like you’re going to do something wrong and it’s all just going to stop?”
Ryan threads his long spindly fingers through the fence, clinging on, and in his other hand he takes Jon’s. He doesn’t need to nod, doesn’t need to squeeze, he just holds. Ryan often feels trapped. He thinks like that a lot. It is like he has been put in a box and he has to stay there. A box, pressure from all sides, pressure from the expectations, from the predictions of exactly what he will do next - what they will do next.
Ryan doesn’t want predicted results, and inevitably, predicted ends. Ryan doesn’t want boxes, closed boxes with looming shut ends. Ryan wants it to last forever, and he doesn’t care that that’s stupid. He’d been scared they had reached the end with Brent, but it wasn’t the end, just a bump in the road. A road they haven’t reached the end of yet.
He glances at the car, its picture still and real in a mind full of metaphors.
“I think we can keep going.”
-----
What I don't know cannot hurt me