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Title: Scratch My Phosphorus Skin [1/1]
Author: [ profile] lolab
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan; slight GSF vibe
Rating: R for drug use
Words: ~1,320
Disclaimer: Fiction as far as I know.
Summary: They all did it, once upon a time (last time; no fairy tales ever), side by side, warm skin brushing as they passed the joints back and forth.
Notes: This is a flashback-y snapshot from the PCCF 'verse, inspired by a passage from the final chapter, but you don't have to read the fic to understand this. Couldn't get this out of my head once [ profile] selectivelyurie brought it up in the Q&A. Set a few days before the infamous kiss. If the drugs bother you, know that in my world they were only ever this reckless at the cabin. ;) This is abstract and bizarre and written in the middle of the night and has no real meaning, so watch for pointlessness. Title from the scrapped cabin songs.

Once night had set, Brendon had swum out to the tiny patch of island in the center of the lake, spread himself out over the bank with no concern for bugs. It's no bigger than a couple of living rooms, but there's sand and underbrush and a few trees and it feels like escape. They all did it, once upon a time (last time; no fairy tales ever), side by side, warm skin brushing as they passed the joints back and forth. Shared beers, shared laughs, shared secrets. Some nights (nights after bad days), more; some nights it was Ryan sprawled shirtless on his stomach on the bank (pale in the moonlight, irresistible) because his back was the smoothest and flattest to spread out the lines of coke until he'd bitch about wanting his own fix. Spencer would chuckle at him, low and indulgent, lean in to kiss his shoulder and pretend no one noticed, while Jon would stroke his hair, charm a little more patience into him. Some nights, absinthe and ecstasy until shooting stars and the blinking lights of high-flying planes melted into magic and the bugs sounded more like music than anything they'd written so far. Sometimes just nothing, just the four of them listening to each other breathe until one of them would start to hum a tune.

Brendon misses it, a little; it was easier, always, with the four of them. Always three other people to look out for each one, instead of just the two of them like this, left to fend for themselves or drown in their own drama.

-- Back To the Place, Chapter 8


August 19, 2007.

Ryan's skin in moonlight is a natural A minor scale. Up, down, smooth, white. Seemingly flat until you play (stroke), finding your fingertips dipping with the keys (vertebrae).

Thinking in parentheses makes Brendon feel like a second version of himself watching from outside his body. He can see the lines of the punctuation, curved, too perfect to be a bow; perfect enough to be Ryan's spine. If anything's perfect enough to be Ryan's anything.

The same word word twice in one sentence (not Ryan spread out half naked before him) makes him dizzy.

Jon (knows everything) smiles like he sees and he does, one solid hand coming out of nowhere to close around the bottle of magic kept loosely in Brendon's hand by sheer affection. Their fingers brush, and it's not electric, not fire, not like that, but it's more of a current, like their blood pushing against the inside of their skin to escape, to burst out and become part of the other, to draw and hold them together. It's the current that runs through them all, not the universal all, but the four of them all, circular or square or whatever shape they're in when they're in this together, dependent on each other for sanity and safety and secrets.

Brendon catches Jon's eye and thinks Please and isn't thinking of the drink.

"I think you've had enough bohemian for one night," Jon says with a lisp and a smirk. Ryan snorts into his folded arms beneath his head, like he's above this. Bullshit. Brendon can almost taste the nineteenth century Parisian fantasies swarming in Ryan's head, if there's anything original left after the absinthe twisted their visions into nothing known. Brendon likes not knowing. Ignorance, bliss, and Ryan's skin in moonlight. He could die like this tonight here now and never want for another breath, another touch, or any at all.

Maybe it's better, never touching. If he never knows what it's like. Ignorance. Bliss. Fucking ecstasy, ha.

Spencer laughs, low, teeth bared, and shakes the moment to dust. It's -- he's so -- he's beautiful, even laughing at Brendon. He's sexy as hell when he thinks he's older than he is. He shouldn't forget he's the baby here, not Brendon. Brendon would corrupt him. (Did, in a hotel room two hours north, six days and a thousand years ago.)

"Fucking do it already."

Ryan stretches himself out longer in invitation, his toes touching the edge of the shoreline, dipping into the water. He's not speaking to anyone. He's a queen like this, assumes everyone will listen to him because he's the one with the power, the one giving himself over. Brendon's never seen anyone claim so much control out of their own submission, never before Ryan and never after.

Brendon wants to try. Wants to see if he could take some of it away, the control, just enough that Ryan would beg him to take more.

The bottlespillspowder might breed desires that scare him, but they're kind enough to numb him until he doesn't much care.

Spencer laughs again, but his eyes are on Jon as Jon hands him the bag.

"Let Brendon do it," Ryan orders.

Everyone freezes (ice fighting fire) and nobody looks at Ryan. Spence and Jon look at Brendon and Brendon looks at the flashes of images superimposed over his line of vision. He sees keys, all white, no black, just endless white keys. They rise from the instrument in waves, undulating and tumbling and crashing until they're nothing but shards of wood on the ground, slicing into his feet as he walks.

Brendon blinks until it's gone, until he sees three bodies and a bed of stars above him, holding him down.

They don't do this. Spencer does it every time because his fingers are steadiest no matter what's been dropped down his throat all night. Jon's hands shake like a fucking vibrator when he's tripping, and Brendon dropped half the baggie into the sand once sober and no one's let him near it since.

The current heats up, buzzes and sends sparks through Brendon's veins, and he can feel Ryan's skin under his fingertips before he's even agreed to it. It feels like pliant porcelain, reflective and shimmery, like solid water.

You know that you feel it too, he wants to say, biting and accusatory, but it sounds too much like a lyric that never existed, and fighting Ryan with lyrics would feel something like sacrilege.

Still the current runs, and Ryan shivers.

There's plastic in Brendon's hands and he remembers this, he does, he can do it, he's done it. It's business, or performance, laying out three lines of precious white powder all in a row, one for each of them. (Ryan's body is fourth; theirs; all of them.) Ryan twitches a little under the tickling sensations but his head is bent low and neck exposed, purposely immobile, reminding them all of his submission. Spencer indulges him, leaning in to drop a kiss to the curve of Ryan's shoulder and Brendon doesn't, doesn't stare at the pucker of Spencer's lips, dark against the white skin (black on white), doesn't think of notes or splintered wood, doesn't start to shake as he spots Jon's strong, solid hand out of the corner of his eye, stroking through Ryan's hair with a little tug that makes Ryan sigh in pleasure; just that extra pressure that says, Ours.

A breeze pushes through their circle, interrupting the current, and Brendon curses, cupping his hands over the display on Ryan's skin, feeling not porcelain or liquid but reality, muscle and bone and the knobs of his spine and it's too much, more contact than he'd bargained for, and when Ryan arches into it, it's to protect their stash, nothing more.

Brendon recoils from it when the breeze passes and sits back on his heels, implying for Spencer and Jon to go first. They're quick and efficient, ready to soak up the last hit of the night and collapse, but when it's Brendon's turn, he can't bring himself to move.

Ryan would bitch at him, tell him to hurry up so he can get his own. Ryan would. Ryan has. Ryan should.

He doesn't.

He turns his head, the tendons in his neck shifting with the movement, and stares up at Brendon. They can't see each other's eyes, it's too dark and there are too many colors and too many fogs, but Brendon can feel everything in that look, all questions to which he has no answers.

He lunges forward, snorting up the last line without a single point of contact, just the rolled-up paper to Ryan's skin, too fast and too much and he's already dizzy and pulling away when Ryan's arm shoots out, twisted awkwardly behind him, and bolts Brendon down against him. Brendon stumbles a bit, losing his balance until he's draped across Ryan's back, holding on tight like it's where he was headed all along, arms encircling Ryan and Ryan letting him, his face buried in Ryan's neck and suddenly there's no more magic, no visions or altered states, just Ryan's shampoo and sweat and lakewater and home, and Brendon stays there until he remembers what it feels like to know you're breathing. Until he feels Ryan breathe with him. Until Ryan's fingers lace with his tight enough to sprain and two other sets of eyes finally avert and leave them in peace.

"I've got you," Ryan whispers, no pretension, no show, nothing at all to suggest he's anywhere but in his own head, and Brendon suddenly rewinds the evening in slow motion, trying to recall a single moment the bottle ever touched Ryan's lips.

He can't.

"I've got you," Ryan says. "Shh, you're okay."

Brendon hides his face in the babysoft hair at the base of Ryan's neck, blocking out the stars, too bright and too observant, and says, "But I love you."

Ryan squeezes his hand. "Until the end of time."

His fingers trip down the scale, white on white, skating octave after octave until Ryan's trembling beneath him. Brendon stops before the keys shatter, before the shards cut any deeper, and waits for Ryan to push him off.

And waits.


(no subject)

Date: 2009-05-03 02:06 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
\o/ ANGSTY POETRY FOR FIC!!!!!!! really, really cool. i love it.

(no subject)

Date: 2009-05-03 02:10 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
thanks :) i get hella nervous about posting poetry anywhere so... i appreciate it.


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May 2009

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