koritsimou (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
koritsimou) wrote2009-08-25 12:25 pm
koritsimou) wrote2009-08-25 12:25 pm
Fic: 4:18
Title: 4:18
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Wordcount: 494
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own, I don’t know and I declare this 100% fictional.
Notes: Wrote it on the train home. It broke my heart a little. I have no idea where it came from, as is usual with me. Inspired by rarebandom@lj’s Under 1000 challenge. Sadly not for it. Enjoying the shortness, apparently. Comments are loved and appreciated. All feedback welcome. Oh, Un-beta’d again, so if the tenses are faily, it’s all me.
Originally Posted: May 6th 2009. Here
-----
Ryan doesn’t turn on any of the lights when he gets home. Brendon can tell he’s making an effort to creep upstairs as quietly as possible. It’d almost be sweet if it wasn’t for everything else.
Brendon had given up and gone to bed at two. Ryan had left sometime after eleven, offering no explanation, as has become the norm. Brendon hears Ryan trip up on the landing and curse quietly. Hobo probably left a chew toy or one of Ryan's old man slippers there again. She has taken to dropping things in the most inconvenient of places lately. Brendon focuses on the pull on the sheets, caused by the dog settled on top of them at his feet. He listens to her soft breaths and tries to resist looking at the bedside clock.
Brendon’s eyes flicker open as he gives in. The bold red numbers glare at him in the dark. 4:18. The bedroom door opens slowly with a quiet scuffing sound and Brendon closes his eyes.
Ryan undresses slowly and even after four years, it takes every morsel of what little willpower Brendon has left not to open his eyes and watch. He wants to let his gaze travel down the pale skin of Ryan’s back, past the boxers that hang off his sharp hips. He wants to touch and Brendon realises with a mental jolt that he has opened his eyes again.
Ryan is still facing away from the bed, so Brendon closes his eyes gently, fighting the urge to clamp them tightly shut. Brendon is curled up on his side, facing the centre of the bed. He holds his hands in front of his chest as if “carefully cradling some invisible child,” and keeps still. It hurts to think that the only reason Brendon knows what he looks like asleep is because Ryan once admitted that he had written the image into one of their songs.
Brendon hears Ryan drop his watch onto the bedside table and draw back the sheets. Ryan sits on the bed and Brendon wants to ask, “Where did you go? Where do you go?” He doesn’t. He isn’t ready to have that fight.
Ryan slips his legs under the covers and stills. Brendon knows he’s looking at him, he can feel it, and he wants to reach out and pull Ryan into his arms. He wants to press a kiss to that spot under his jaw where the stubble doesn’t grow in as quick and whisper, “I'm glad you're home.” He doesn’t. Even if he was ready to let himself try, he doesn’t know that he could anymore.
Ryan slides down the bed, lying back against the pillows and pulls the covers over him. Hobo lifts her head and Brendon feels her tail brushing over the duvet in a slow wag before he hears her low whine.
“Go to sleep, baby,” Ryan says softly and Brendon wishes he could pretend Ryan was speaking to him.
-----
Take pride in being whoever the fuck you want to be
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Wordcount: 494
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own, I don’t know and I declare this 100% fictional.
Notes: Wrote it on the train home. It broke my heart a little. I have no idea where it came from, as is usual with me. Inspired by rarebandom@lj’s Under 1000 challenge. Sadly not for it. Enjoying the shortness, apparently. Comments are loved and appreciated. All feedback welcome. Oh, Un-beta’d again, so if the tenses are faily, it’s all me.
Originally Posted: May 6th 2009. Here
-----
Ryan doesn’t turn on any of the lights when he gets home. Brendon can tell he’s making an effort to creep upstairs as quietly as possible. It’d almost be sweet if it wasn’t for everything else.
Brendon had given up and gone to bed at two. Ryan had left sometime after eleven, offering no explanation, as has become the norm. Brendon hears Ryan trip up on the landing and curse quietly. Hobo probably left a chew toy or one of Ryan's old man slippers there again. She has taken to dropping things in the most inconvenient of places lately. Brendon focuses on the pull on the sheets, caused by the dog settled on top of them at his feet. He listens to her soft breaths and tries to resist looking at the bedside clock.
Brendon’s eyes flicker open as he gives in. The bold red numbers glare at him in the dark. 4:18. The bedroom door opens slowly with a quiet scuffing sound and Brendon closes his eyes.
Ryan undresses slowly and even after four years, it takes every morsel of what little willpower Brendon has left not to open his eyes and watch. He wants to let his gaze travel down the pale skin of Ryan’s back, past the boxers that hang off his sharp hips. He wants to touch and Brendon realises with a mental jolt that he has opened his eyes again.
Ryan is still facing away from the bed, so Brendon closes his eyes gently, fighting the urge to clamp them tightly shut. Brendon is curled up on his side, facing the centre of the bed. He holds his hands in front of his chest as if “carefully cradling some invisible child,” and keeps still. It hurts to think that the only reason Brendon knows what he looks like asleep is because Ryan once admitted that he had written the image into one of their songs.
Brendon hears Ryan drop his watch onto the bedside table and draw back the sheets. Ryan sits on the bed and Brendon wants to ask, “Where did you go? Where do you go?” He doesn’t. He isn’t ready to have that fight.
Ryan slips his legs under the covers and stills. Brendon knows he’s looking at him, he can feel it, and he wants to reach out and pull Ryan into his arms. He wants to press a kiss to that spot under his jaw where the stubble doesn’t grow in as quick and whisper, “I'm glad you're home.” He doesn’t. Even if he was ready to let himself try, he doesn’t know that he could anymore.
Ryan slides down the bed, lying back against the pillows and pulls the covers over him. Hobo lifts her head and Brendon feels her tail brushing over the duvet in a slow wag before he hears her low whine.
“Go to sleep, baby,” Ryan says softly and Brendon wishes he could pretend Ryan was speaking to him.
-----
Take pride in being whoever the fuck you want to be