i feel delicious. (front_thescene) wrote,
i feel delicious.

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it's when (1/2)

it's when days like these make you go 'what the fuck'.
fandom: panic! rps.
pairing: brendon/ryan
summary: moments in ryan and brendon's career together. ish.


tell me a story of love and loss.

Ever since they've become a band, Ryan's life has gone downhill. But really, he means that in the best way possible.

This is his dream; he's been wanting this for, oh about a million years, and he can feel the excitement on his tongue, the sweat and music blending together with the screams from the crowd. In a moment of stupidity, Ryan wonders what his life would be like if he wasn't performing.

Would he have taken up a profession such as medicine? ['Cause, yes. He can see it now: "I'm sorry to inform you, Mrs. Goldstein, but your husband died during surgery," here, the wife's face falls and Ryan can practically hear the tears coming but he's never been tactful, "So. That will be fifteen thousand dollars. We'll send the bill in mail, have a nice day!"] Ryan cringes and shifts in his makeshift seat.

Ryan doesn't fancy himself serving greasy fries at the local McDonald's either. Because, hello, "Drive through to the next window, please" is just not his thing. Come to think of it, nothing other than being in this band, performing, and living, seems right. Ryan knows this is what he was meant to do.

He's sitting on a stack of crates, one leg folded neatly under the other and his right hand cradling his cheek, behind the current venue and it's a brand new tour. He likes to think of it as a fresh start to a new world, but he knows it's no different from the last tour. There's new makeup and new clothes, but Ryan likes to think of themselves as the same boys who came out of Las Vegas.

The door next to him creaks open and it bumps into his hip, jarring him. Brendon pokes his dark head out and glances left and right, spotting Ryan when he turns his face. His eyes slide shut at the light glaring down from the sky as he makes his way towards the crates.

"There you are. Why're you out here?" Brendon speaks and Ryan remembers. "Just. You know." Ryan looks up at him, sheilding his face from the sun with his hand.

Brendon's shadow slides in his line of vision and soon, they're face to stomach, "No, but okay. Whatever. You just disappeared right after sound check and no one's heard from you since, is all."

"I just wanted to get some fresh air for a few minutes." And if Brendon buys this, Ryan gives him too much credit.

"Ryan, that was an hour ago."

"What do you want, Brendon?"

"No need to be a little bitch," and here, Brendon forgets himself, "I just came out here to ask if you were ready to apologize."


"You know- for being you."

And, yeah, okay. That was just about the lamest comeback ever, but Brendon was a child at heart, and third grade was reliving itself all over again. The impact of the slap is harsh and Brendon doesn't even have time to grab his face before Ryan's heading back through the door in a huff. And, jesus, what a violent kid.

And later, when Brendon returns back inside to join the other half of their band, Spencer will look at him knowingly, notice the glaring red print on his swollen cheek, and say, "Why do you antagonize him?" Brendon's heart will race and his pulse will quicken, head spinning, spinning, and he'll reply, "I don't know."

But for now, Brendon stays outside and redeems himself in the afternoon light.


tell me something you've never told anyone.

"It's your own fault, you know," Jon says to him one afternoon. They're sitting in the lounge of the bus, which is currently parked outside of a gas station, and Jon dutifully plays a game of Final Fantasy XII. Brendon watches in mild disinterest as the sun leaks through the slats of the blinds and gives a glare off of the small television.

Brendon weighs the Pros and Cons of Ignoring Jon Walker, but he prefers to not wake up outside on his mattress in a foreign lake, in some foreign state. But, really. "What is?" He likes where he is now, thank you very much.

Jon's quick to answer and Brendon is seriously considering taking this risk, "Why Ryan hates you so much." And it really is obvious. All Brendon can do is groan and hope Jon just shuts the hell up.

"Seriously," Jon continues, and Brendon twists his fingers in the hem of his worn shirt, "Like. Why bother? All bugging him does is increase his pms tenfold and decrease the chance of him ever associating with you again. And we all know you can't handle that. God forbid somebody stops paying attention to you."

Brendon thinks he should protest, maybe defend his honor but he knows Jon is right and all it would make him do is seem childish.

And that hurts Brendon more than he likes to admit. Which part, he just isn't sure.

"Unless," Jon starts, "Holy fuck." Brendon shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes, and he really needs a haircut. "You think that's the only way to get his attention. You li--"

"You're a dumbfuck, Jon Walker." Jon laughs noisily and Brendon just sucks air in through his nose, closes his eyes, and hopes.


tell me about your day.

Somewhere between Connecticut and Georgia, Brendon crawls into Ryan's bunk. Ryan's limbs are splayed across the small bed and Brendon nudges Ryan's thigh with the tips of his fingers.

"Whatthe-- fuck it, Brendon?" Ryan's incoherent, but at least he's awake. Brendon stoops low and blows on the back of Ryan's exposed neck. Ryan swats at his head irritantly, but Brendon dodges his sloppy movements. Ryan groans and wonders why Brendon couldn't have picked a better time to annoy the shit out of him. He's too fucking tired, just that much closer to letting go.

Ryan turns his head, seeking the other out in the darkness. Soft sounds of breath coming out in puffs from Brendon's mouth lulls Ryan back into a sleepy haze and he's pretty much sure the other occupants of the bus crashed out long before. Brendon is quick to nudge Ryan again, this time with his nose and Ryan would've thought it had been endearing if it wasn't so fucking annoying and the words, "Suck me off," hadn't come out of the singer's mouth.

There's a pause and, "Oh, get the fuck out of here," escapes through Ryan's lips as he shoves Brendon out from his bunk and he tumbles to the floor.

Brendon laughs all the way back to his own bunk and Ryan Ross has never wanted to punch someone in the face more than he did now.


tell me about your greatest moment.

He takes that back.

Two days later, he did punch Brendon in the face, who had once again tried to prove that Ryan was, in fact, a girl. And really, the insult was so overused anyway. The ramifications were nonexistent as Brendon sulked in his bunk with a bloody nose.

Spencer and Jon laughed and Brendon whined pathetically, Ryan feeling overall content.


tell me about your greatest downfall.

They're in New York when Ryan looks at the bright city lights and thinks of home.


bring light into the new world.

On stage, concert number three hundred and twenty-two, Brendon is dishing out some overdone metaphor on marriage. He makes his way towards Ryan's side, hand outstretched poetically, eyes laughing and mouth twisted in a deperate line. He cups Ryan's cheek in one hand, moves in, and well.

Ryan turns away and strums a chord on his guitar.


bring joy where it has been undiscovered.

It's roughly around three in the morning when Brendon finds Ryan crying in the lounge, face red and eyes terribly sad.


bring life unto the dead.

"When did we stop being best friends?"

Brendon askes the question and it's awkward, not at all how he wanted it to be, pleading and curious, but fuck it. It's out there, in the open, now and he wants answers.

Ryan is fumbling with his sidekick, fingers idly tapping at the small keys, and Brendon's close by, the closest he's been allowed in months. Brendon's breathing steadily, in and out, out and in, not seeming nervous at all, when in all actuality, he feels like he's missing out on. Something.

Ryan's head pounds, voice low, and chest tight, "Maybe when you became the biggest dick I ever met. I don't know."

Brendon sighs and he knows there's nothing here to accomplish.


bring freshness into things of old.

One morning, Brendon wakes up with the hardon of the century. He's wondering, thinking, how it happened and he sure as hell can't remember any riveting dream he may have had. But, hey. Who is he to deny the urges of man? He slides his hand down his stomach, past his hips, and under the waistband of his boxers. He grasps his cock in one hand, starting slow, fluid motions. but.

"The fuck?"

His cock is already shining and slick with some type of clear liquid, slipping and startling with heat. He's still for a moment, two, three and, jesus, what. the. fuck. His hand must of grasped himself for the right amount of time, because, oh my god.

The super glue sticks.

Between thoughts of 'oh, fuck' and more accurately, 'that bitch', Brendon shouts, ear splitting, fucking in pain.

He could hear Ryan laughing all the way up front and really, it wasn't funny at all.


tell me about your dreams.

Four days and a trip to the hospital later, Brendon reclines in his bunk, tender, red and fucking raw. Jon's been making masturbation jokes left and right and he really should stop before Brendon gets. Angry or something. It just isn't right.

Ryan is sitting in the narrow space between the bunks, feet propped up on Brendon's bed and head leaning against his own. "How the fuck did you do it?" Brendon's asking, because really, he's been meaning to ask that for a while now, the silence uncomfortable and he was just itching to know. Seriously, like. How? But Ryan's relentless and doesn't provide the right type of answers.

"It's irrelevant. The end result was still the same, wasn't it?" Brendon just basically wants to give Ryan a big fuck you, but what came out instead was.

"Prissy dyke." Affectionate.


"Thanks." Resignation.


tell me about your life.

When Ryan was eight, he broke his arm and told everyone he fell out of the tall tree in his backyard, a gnarled tree, full of old, withered branches and weather marks. Twelve years later, he's still making excuses but for all the wrong reasons. He can't stop, won't stop, doesn't.

He's hurting once again and he's only doing this to himself and he knows this, realizes it. He's confused and lonely and kind of fucking hopeless, but there's no helping him; he can't take it, he doesn't need it. It's charity and the compassion is false. Spencer's always been there, yeah, and so has Jon and Brendon, but he just has to deal, suck it up.

And well. This kinds of involves Brendon and he couldn't go to him, it's awkward and he fucking hurts but he doesn't care. He wants to, but he can't and he's been such a dick lately, making snide remarks, stooping to Brendon's level, and what is he, ten?

Lately, the air around the band has been strained and fucking weird, nobody talks, all too afraid to light the match and start the fire. Tension is thick for no reason at all other than the stupidity of its inhabitants, and really. If Ryan didn't know better, he'd say that it was all his fault.

In a way, it was. Brendon and Ryan had been in each other's hair from the very start, tangled and weaved through, pulling nerves, pulling feelings. Spencer and Jon were left in the aftermath, confused as hell and choking down chaos in silver fucking spoons.

He realizes, too, that the pettiness that has been soaking and turning in their minds for the last however long has the potential to fuck up the dynamics of the band. Making things works and keeping things ticking correctly, all that and more. On the other hand, maybe not. Ryan isn't a mind reader, nor is he a fucking magician. He can't pull answers from a magic hat or his friend's heads and he really doesn't know where to go from here.

God, he thinks, what the fuck has happened?


tell me about your fears.

In a middle of a nowhere interview, Brendon reaches for the bottle of water beneath his feet, shirt rising up above his hips and settling on his back. He takes a long sip of generic liquid, twists the cap back on, and he puts an arm around Ryan's shoulder and squeezes. Ryan stares and he's getting hot, his heart is hammering wildy and he just can't figure out why, but the interviewer is still talking, and what was that?

"-what has changed?" Brendon glances at Ryan.

Fuck, everything.

And by the look on everyone's faces, they're all thinking the same thing.


tell me about your past.

One month previous.

The hotel room is hot and the air might possibly be broken. But really, it isn't of any consequence when you've got someone else's tongue down your throat and their hand in your pants. The scene was anything but romantic, anything but good, anything at all. It was desperate and just a primal need of. something.

Brendon's got Ryan pressed up against the wall and they're so close, so close to the edge, yet so close to breaking down. Completely and fully stepping over the ledge of past excursions.

This isn't really happening, no. They're dreaming, eyes flickering with motions behind their eyelids, only not. No, no, because this is really happening and Ryan's actually moaning, incomprehensible and fucking needy and Brendon, Brendon. He's actually. going through with this. He's really going to fuck his best friend.

They're both making these little noises in the back of their throats, avoidance of the issue and utter lack of control evident. They're breathing heavy and Brendon's making moonshaped indents in Ryan's hips, wanting, craving it so bad.

Oh, fuck.

They. What are they doing?

It's obvious and neither can do it, but they can't stop. Not with Ryan looking the way he is and making those throaty, needy fucking sounds. Not with Brendon leaning over him like some dominant being with these amazing fucking lips that were just doing wonders on his body and oh my god.

This is what happened.

They knew before it ever even started what it was. What it would be.

A fucking trainwreck if there ever was one.

What the hell was wrong with them?

part the second.
Tags: bandslash, brendon/ryan, fic
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