John Doe and Richard Roe

Sun, 24 Feb 2008 17:31:50 GMT

Title: ADHDing to the Noise
Author: Kate lets_go_to_rome
Rating: PG-13ish, probably.
Pairing: Ryden dirty. Haha, a pun.
POV: Third omniscient.
Summary: Apocalypse AU. Need I say more?
Disclaimer: I made every word of this up, the people mentioned are not associated with me in any way, and I am definitely not making money off of this, although it I would like to point out that through dint of considerable effort (i.e. dashing about asking people who know these things) this little story is scientifically accurate and indeed possible.
Author Notes: As stated above, the end-of-the-world scenario is actually possible and I have described it properly. This took some time and some running around. But yes. At one point I went around all gleeful because I'd found out about secondary impact, which would ensure a destruction level that satisfied my intended rate of survival without wiping the planet clean. Huzzah for science! Additionally, I would like to tell you all that I did actually turn this bitch in for a short story project in the English class I am taking, but with Ryan's name changed to "Ross" and Brendon's to "Jason," which incidentally is the name of Brendon's first boyfriend in Arsenic Jade's Wednesday Night Boys (a story you should all read if you haven't already). Thank you to my beta, Krista, for dealing with me and my little issues. Couldn't have done it without you.
(cross-posted to slashatthedisco)

ADHDing to the Noise

There are fires. There are a lot of fires. Spencer is mildly surprised that there are so many fires, given how hard the snow is coming down. He would be more surprised but he's too busy calculating various odds, laying complex plans, cataloging their scant supplies, and forcing Ryan to keep moving to spare the fires more than a few snippets of distracted thought. At this point, Spencer is more grateful for the heat pouring off the burning buildings than angry that resources are being incinerated. Blankets are becoming a desperate priority, even here near the fires. He needs blankets very soon. Ryan hasn't been getting enough food lately and something twists low in Spencer's gut to see how Ryan' thin frame keeps shaking.

There are many things wrong with Ryan. There were a few things wrong with Ryan' head before the world ended, and now there are many more things wrong with Ryan' head and a lot of things wrong with Ryan' body. The most pressing of these things, Spencer feels, is probably either the pneumonia or the hypothermia. He is having trouble deciding which.

Spencer is not sure where they're headed. He just wants them to go somewhere. Possibly to warmer climes, if there are still any. Making lists and plans and things is Spencer's special little way of dealing with things, because it makes him feel like he actually has some control over the situation.

While Spencer strides and Ryan shuffles through the ruined town, Spencer calculates. It distracts him from the dead child Ryan just stepped on. (It wasn't Ryan' fault; the poor boy is barely conscious, there's been a lot of debris in the roads they've been walking, he hasn't noticed what he's been stumbling over for the past two miles; it's only when he hears the crunch of small ribs through his diseased stupor that he realizes.)

Spencer calculates that it's Tuesday. He's been obsessive about timekeeping; he stocks up on batteries every chance he gets. The front pocket of his oversize backpack is full of them. He hates not being in control, he feels very out of control recently, and what with the sun not coming up these days it's difficult to pretend otherwise. So he uses his little clock that he'd rescued—not stolen, they're rescuing things. It's not stealing—from the first store they'd scavenged. They don't loot. 'Loot' implies that there's someone still alive who might have a claim to the supplies they're grabbing. Other than the water bottles, Spencer thinks that the little clock may be his most precious possession.

Ryan has a coughing fit. It sounds like someone shot wet concrete at his chest. Spencer really, really wants to find antibiotics. Now. All he can do is hover nearby as Ryan leans carefully against a brick wall that hasn't collapsed yet and tries to catch his breath. Spencer thinks that he would give up his clock and all of his water bottles if he thought it would make anything any better for Ryan.

Spencer almost wants to find people who can give him some damn directions to a hospital or a pharmacy or something, anything that would have antibiotics for Ryan. The fires are warming Ryan up, so the hypothermia is probably going away, but Spencer has no way to tell. Ryan' shaking all the time now and Spencer is no doctor. He is majoring in Chemistry at a university that no longer exists, and he harbors dark suspicions about the chemical content of the smoke they're inhaling.

Spencer doesn't actually want to meet other people. There is far too much for him to worry about as is. He doesn't want to have to worry about some new person's temperament, or if they'll help or hinder, or if they'll betray him to—to whatever there is to be betrayed to. Spencer has no doubt that there will be gangs.

Antibiotics. Antibiotics are something that Spencer really does want to find. But they stumbled upon the hospital after two days of exhaustive wandering through this particular town. It turns out that even now, two weeks after the meteor shards hit, the hospital is still burning. Spencer the Chemistry Major doesn't even want to think about what biohazards are being released, so he hurries Ryan away. At this point he's just trying to keep Ryan from dying.

Spencer is so, so drained. He hasn't been getting much sleep. He's getting anxious about his weakened state because he thinks he's starting to see things. This is not good. Spencer is supposed to be the sane, healthy one here. Spencer is the one who has to be finding all of the food and water, who has to carry the brunt of their shared luggage, who has to be conscious and coherent and make good decisions. If they find other people it's really best for Spencer to be operating at optimum capacity.

The constant snow, and Spencer thinks of it as 'snow' only for lack of a better term, isn't sticking properly. Spencer is definitely not pondering what monstrous chemical menace must be hidden in the flakes to keep them from accumulating. He's pretending that it's simply because the fires have warmed the area. There's just shy of an inch on the ground, but it has been 'snowing' on and off (mostly on) for two and a half weeks. Fortunately, the not-snow hasn't corroded their sneakers and doesn't burn when it touches skin. It does, however, show tracks. Spencer has spotted no less than eight different tracks, although he calculates his error to be short two to four people; there may be more than one individual wearing the same type of shoe. Spencer is worried. He's seen those post-apocalyptic movies and knows there are inevitably scores of vicious gangs who randomly prowl abandoned cities, such as the one they are in, and kill people. Spencer is thinking at this point that he and Ryan are the ones who will get ruthlessly slaughtered right before the leader has a sudden change of heart and spares the attractively smudged main character survivors. Spencer figures that Ryan' hacking cough and bloodless lips sort of detract from the attractiveness of the smudging. Spencer can't find a mirror and he doesn't want to make Ryan speak to describe his appearance, so he can't really comment on himself.

Spencer is concerned about the effect the toxic gases pervading the area around the hit sites is having on Ryan' already battered lungs. Every day Ryan breathes with more difficultly and Spencer is constantly afraid that Ryan will die during his elongated coughing spasms. Spencer has made the decision to lead them away from the city center and into the residential area. There are fewer fires there, meaning more supplies and less smoke. Spencer has calculated the town's distance from the blast site--it's enough that he probably won't die immediately from the noxious gases released on impact. The town isn't exactly on high ground, but it's no valley settlement, either. Spencer prays to whatever supernatural force that sent him and Ryan camping two days before the strikes, that he and Ryan will be able to hold out a little longer. He's sure that if he can just get some antibiotics for Ryan, they'll be able to get out and keep going. He's not sure what he's doing anymore or why they need to keep going, but he remembers from his apocalypse stories that survivors are often plagued with feelings of helplessness and depression and that it's important to not let such feelings overwhelm one.

Spencer would have to admit that the characters he's read about are usually fighting zombies at this point, but... Spencer doesn't even know anymore. He wants Ryan to be comfortable, he knows that. He clamps down on the adrenaline surge the protective instinct gives him, forces the surge like a flashlight through the under-the-sink murk that seems to be filling his head these days. He trudges on through the not-snow, half-carrying and half-dragging Ryan along beside him.

It is in the last few hours of Wednesday evening by Spencer's obsessive reckoning when they find the treehouse. Miraculously unharmed, the rope ladder dangles down invitingly. Spencer coaxes Ryan up the rungs and makes several trips by himself to ferry up the supplies. He settles Ryan in with a down comforter that they had found and places three water bottles within easy reach. Ryan is already asleep. Spencer resolves to find more down comforters if he can, and adds the surrounding neighborhoods to his mental list of places to scour for supplies. Spencer coils the rope ladder in a neat bundle and stores it by the doorway. He uses one of their old blankets to cover the door, hoping to keep some of the wind and snow (and fumes) out. He lowers himself off the edge of the little treehouse platform and, dangling, drops. The tree house is a good eight feet up; Spencer's praying that it's enough of a defense against whoever might still be in the city. He's also praying that Ryan will still be alive when he gets back and that Ryan will be conscious enough to throw down the rope ladder, but he suspends that particular fear for the time being. Spencer concentrates on making sure he gets back.

He heads right back into the edges of the non-residential area, silently begging to find a pharmacy that hasn't been razed yet. He still hasn't met anyone, but he is delighted with the speed with which he is combing the streets. He knew he was traveling at a slow clip while he was dragging Ryan along, but he hadn't realized quite how slow and inefficient his searches had been. He has mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, Spencer is very happy to be traveling faster as this means he is more likely to find antibiotics before it's too late and that Ryan can escape from some of the smoke and get some much-needed sleep. On the other hand, Spencer is terrified that the people who made the tracks he is coming across with more frequency will find the treehouse and try to plunder it. Spencer is hoping that the elevation is sufficient protection if someone does try. He is semi-confident in his ability to defend himself and rock solid in his conviction that he would be able to defend Ryan, but... still.

He broke the glass doors with a street sign that had been strewn among the rubble in the parking lot. Thank goodness he's a chemistry major, Spencer thinks as he rummages through the pharmacy shelves, or he would have no idea what would be useful. He grabs as many medicines as he can carry and shoves them in an ugly red pharmacy handbasket. He starts to go back through the broken doors when a brilliant idea hits him. He doubles back to get assorted candy, playing cards, band-aids, and soft braces for various joints. He spots a display of notebooks and shoves those in as well, along with handfuls of pencils and pens. He also grabs a big plastic storage bin; he figures they can use that for storing water. In the meantime he uses it to store his rescued items.

As he awkwardly maneuvers himself and his prizes through the broken glass in the door frame, Spencer calculates that they can definitely stay at the treehouse until Ryan finishes his dose of antibiotics. Spencer wouldn't dare do otherwise, not if it would put unnecessary strain on Ryan. After the course is through, well, Spencer's not sure. He firmly believes they should keep moving so they don't deplete each city they come to. Spencer doesn't want to meet any of the other survivors, at least not until Ryan is well enough to survive a brawl, but he thinks it's only fair of them to leave resources for whatever unfortunates happen to wander through after they do. Spencer and Ryan have only been taking what they need, and that's how they intend to continue.

He heads back to the treehouse with both arms strung with baskets stuffed full of supplies and clutching the huge plastic bin in front of him. His lungs burn with the effort. He ignores it. Spencer really, really hopes that he doesn't meet any of those roving gangs. Spencer really, really hopes that Ryan is going to be all right. Spencer really, really hopes he knows what he's doing.

It has been precisely five weeks since the meteor hit, by Spencer's obsessive reckoning, and during his food-foraging he finds a fetching new friend. This new friend is not part of a gang, much to Spencer's relief. Much to Spencer's consternation their new friend is not part of himself, either.

Spencer had found this person at 1:47 pm on Eighth Street, one of the choicest rummaging routes in the area. Spencer had been strolling sedately down the cracked pavement, noting which houses he had been to and which had yet to be liberated of their worldly goods when he saw a person swinging on a two-seater, four houses down. Spencer stared. The person hadn't noticed him until he had been standing on the porch in front of the swinging seat. The person, finally noticing Spencer, had promptly burst into tears, began babbling to friends who, had they ever existed, had been dead for weeks, and offered Spencer some ice cream.

Spencer brings this person to the treehouse, and leaves Ryan to kindly interrogate. Spencer stands outside, catches his breath. He feels strangely old.

He listens in until the person, Brendon, calls him on it. Spencer learns that Brendon is about their age, that Brendon had been playing video games in his unusually deep basement the day the world ended, and that Brendon's basement was so unusually deep because it had been built in the 1950's by a couple terrified about the possibility of war with Russia. Brendon hasn't seen real people since the strikes and Brendon has consequently gone a little crazy. It's as Ryan (psychology major at a university that no longer exists) is attempting to determine the extent of Brendon's psychoses that Brendon somehow finds out that Spencer is listening at the door. Ryan later tells Spencer that Brendon claimed one of his 'friends' told him. Ryan never does fill Spencer in on the rest. Brendon brought a tub of strawberry ice cream, as a gift. He simply sat and watched Ryan and Spencer eat it, hugging himself. Ryan develops a studied dislike of seeing Brendon in such a state and takes to rocking him like a child when Brendon's head starts playing tricks. It seems to drive the dead voices off. That is, Brendon doesn't talk back.

Spencer's condition worsens by the day. He's having trouble breathing and Ryan carries him more and more as they move through desolate towns. Brendon reasons that Ryan' pneumonia protected him from the worst of it. Brendon has no hypothesis as to why he himself is not suffering the same fate as Spencer. Ryan is of the opinion that it's best for Brendon to repress the five weeks of trauma and that as long as Brendon is okay, the hows and whys don't matter very much.

Brendon talks to Spencer about Ryan, about the thing between them at one point, when it's Ryan' turn to forage. Ryan takes extra shifts so Spencer doesn't have to go out as often. Spencer considers the question, has a small coughing fit, and does his best to explain.

"We're not in love, Brendon. At least, not the romantic kind. We're more like...like platonic true loves, get it? I love him more than a brother, but I definitely don't want to kiss him or anything."

Brendon looks down and flushes, a guarded but hopeful look plastered across his face. Spencer laughs.

"You have my permission, don't worry." Spencer is silent for a moment, reflecting. "You know, Brendon--and don't ever breathe a word of this to Ryan--I'm glad it's me. I'm glad I'm the one dying. I--" Spencer looks down as he coughs.

Ryan returns at this point and the other two slam their conversation shut. Spencer volunteers nothing more and Brendon does not bring the subject up again.

It's seven weeks and two days after the meteor struck and precisely nine in the morning when they come to a city that's still partially burning. They aren't even a quarter mile inside the limits before they're surrounded by a gang in gas masks. Spencer thinks they look like giant bugs, from that one post-apocalyptic movie he saw, and just like in the movie they're carrying two human carcasses along with them. Ryan and Brendon, slinging Spencer between them, feel Spencer tense up. Ryan brings his outside arm around to rub Spencer's back, hoping a coughing fit isn't on the way. The leader of the group jerks her insect head and the circle crushes closer. Ryan wrenches his hands skyward, yanking Spencer's arm limply along.

"Dude! I mean, madam!" he yelps, jumping up an octave in mild terror.

"Yes?" The leader spits out around the mask.

"We don't want any trouble! Just passing through," Ryan repeats frantically as one of the henchmen nudges what feels like the business end of a crowbar between Ryan' skinny ribs.

The leader levels them with a cold stare. Spencer's ruined lungs choose this time to chime in with an extended bout of coughing. Ryan glances down at Spencer and winces--Spencer's coughing out blood. He tries to exchange a worried glance with Brendon, but Brendon won't look at him, too busy trying to stare down the gang leader.

"Look, we've got a dying man here. You gonna let us through or send us to join him? Cause we really don't have the time for this." Brendon interjects, bouncing almost imperceptibly from foot to foot with what could be nerves. Ryan suppresses a hollow laugh--what are they rushing toward? A hospital, medicine? What sort of medicine can you give someone with chemical burns in their lungs? They're only moving from city to city because it makes them feel like they're doing something. Ryan still hasn't been able to find any gas masks and neither he nor Spencer nor Brendon has any idea if they're heading toward the meteor sites or away. Spencer keeps them moving anyway, swearing that false hope is better than none at all.

The leader tilts her head to the side. Her expression would still have been unreadable had the others been able to see past the grime on her goggles. She stares at the bodies her gang members are cradling, then at Ryan.

"Please," says Ryan simply, without any idea why. "Please."

Her name is Vicky and she rules this part of town. Opponents join or die. Sometimes they die anyway, because Vicky is a woman of principle and it's expected of one to keep up one's reputation. Brendon wonders if she plans to take over what is left of the world; she is well on her way to doing so.

They're given gas masks and sorted into temporary sleeping quarters. It turns out that Vicky and her 'boys,' as she calls them, were just returning from a clash with an opposing gang. Vicky's boys suffered two casualties and several injuries, but decimated their rivals and returned with three bags' worth of loot.

Brendon eats with Vicky's best boys in the mess hall. Vicky gets some of her makeshift medics to take Spencer to the improvised infirmary along with her injured soldiers. Ryan comes along; he claims he isn't hungry. The infirmary is on the third floor of an abandoned office building.

She surveys the scene before them and her eyes smolder, even behind the filthy goggle lens of her gas mask.

"I've always considered it romantic," she tells him almost wistfully.

"Wait, what?" He's somewhat bewildered.

"A city burning down," she explains. "I've always thought it romantic." Her tone is strange. Ryan can't tell if it's the mask that renders it oddly sterile and muffled, or if she means it to be that way. He isn't sure if that's a bad thing. She turns to him. "Don't you think?"

Ryan thinks: If I were a better liar, I'd probably tell you that your most insignificant throwaway glance holds more fire than the whole of the end of the world we seem to be standing in. Because it does. Madam, I am honored to have met you and so I thank the apocalypse for occurring when it did even while I curse it for robbing you of what is rightfully yours. I am merely a poet, and I can tell you now that Achilles would have taken a knee before you, Aeneas taken a cloven foot to the stomach for you, and if I mix my histories it is only because there are none anymore. You spoke, however, of romance. I'm afraid I don't go in for that sort of thing these days.

He thinks carefully, nods slow, grudging agreement. He gazes out to where her eyes point, sees a treehouse. It's not their treehouse, but it's very much like it. Behind them, on the floor under blankets, Spencer lets out a low, racking set of coughs, trinkets handmade and exported from some ruined city. Ryan doesn't know if they will buy Spencer any time, but he takes them anyway. These days, Spencer's silences frighten Ryan far more than his coughing.

"Yeah, yeah, I can see how it's romantic," Ryan offers up. Poe's crackling dry tone runs through his head, ignites: nothing more beautiful than a dead nothing more beautiful a beautiful dead woman nothing more beautiful than a dead beautiful woman beautiful woman a dead a dead woman a dead porcelain woman o broken beautiful woman, Poe wails and peters off, sobbing in a dry and most literary fashion.

O Raven scholar, he shouts in his head, visions of corroded lungs beneath pale boy-skin dancing through the fumes over the city, O how almost-wrong you are.

"Last chance, boys," Vicky offers when Brendon is brought up to them after dinner. "Join my little group. I can offer you protection."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Then get the hell out of my territory by tomorrow morning." She turns her attention back to setting one of her boy's wrists, injured in the battle. "Ahh, there you go, Gabe. Not broken, my lovely, not broken. What a brave, brave boy you are!" She coos.

"Hospitable, aren't they," Brendon mutters to Ryan as they carry Spencer out.

"I'm looking after my own," she calls clearly to their retreating backs, authority and stability in a gyroscope world. "You might want to do the same. And you may keep the gas masks."

Precisely eight weeks after the first strike, almost to the hour, Spencer ceases to struggle. His quiet death-sigh is muffled by the gas mask and somewhat ruined by the fact that his lungs are hopelessly corroded, but Ryan hears it anyway.

The morning Spencer dies is a curious one. They are camped out in a yard that is still green, the astroturf soft and oddly comforting in its plastic resilience. There is a fence around the yard, and the house it belongs to has not yet collapsed and is, from their vantage point, intact. Ryan can almost pretend anything he wants. As if by some ancient magic, out of the grey, ashen sky there flutters a wren. It pecks, starved, at the discarded seed spilled from the cracked bird feeder four or five yards away. In a sudden rage, Ryan hurls a rock at this mangy wretch who chirps not twenty feet from Spencer's befouled lungs, killing the impudent intruder stone dead.

Brendon starts a fire and they roast the bird. Ryan cries into his meager little share. Brendon pats Ryan' hand, a man caressing a land mine.

"Um. I know I'm not much and I know I'm not Spencer, but, um, I sort of want to say that you have my, you know, sympathy." He says 'sympathy' like he wanted to say something else but stumbled.

Ryan stares at this boy who came up from the basement to find his city dead, who Spencer found talking to himself on a porch swing, who dares to treat Ryan like lead glass

"I have your sympathy?" Ryan scoffs. There is something insulting about the pity of someone pitiable.

"Well, I mean, it's harder, you know? Having the sun gone." He tilts his head skyward, squints at the ever-present sky-blanket of ash. He can't tell if he's struggling to explain. "It's not so bad, the end of the world, really. The meteor strike, that was radical and all-at-once and just so crazy, so completely crazy, I can totally handle it. Well, yeah, it takes adjusting, a lot of adjusting, but at the end of the day, the end of the world's not the end of the world. It's too different.

"The part that really sucks, the part that's probably going to kill more survivors than anything, is how the sun's gone. It's always been there, and now it's not, and without the sun...I mean, no one knows what to do. It kept time for us and showed us the way, you know, sunset and always rising in the east and everything. The sun was dependable. And, like, I'm no Cicero, but I gotta say that now that the sun's gone, that's the part that makes this the end of the world, you know? The sun not coming up in the morning." Brendon offers a weak, watered-down smile. Ryan takes it and flings it back in an undiluted mirage.

Ryan curls up to him that night and cries them both to sleep.

The next day, Ryan decides it's time to take care of Spencer. It takes him all morning to decide whether to burn or bury his best friend, and decides in the end to burn him. He and Brendon make a pyre out of everything that's left of a house. Ryan wishes it were his house. He salvages Spencer's second favorite outfit from Spencer's pack and dresses Spencer's body. Ryan keeps Spencer's favorite shirt for himself because, he claims, there is a rip in it. Ryan' almost afraid to touch it, afraid to imprint any of his own scent on the soft fabric, terrified that it will wipe out the remnants of Spencer's. Ryan wishes fervently that he had a plastic bag to seal it in, so he could take it out and bury his face in it precisely when he wants to, so he wouldn't feel so rushed, so he wouldn't feel so much like this really is the end of the world.

Ryan stares at the fire until the last flakes of Spencer-ash settle.

"You'll go blind," Brendon mutters, nudging Ryan' hip. Ryan shakes his head.

"I already watched the sun go out," Ryan says flatly. "Twice."

The world is silent for a little while. Brendon draws a breath. "Well, no good staying here, is there?"

Ryan says nothing.

"Which way, then?" Brendon bounces back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels, restless.

They pass through Ryan and Spencer's hometown. Ryan would've barely recognized it if it weren't for the gang leaders; he sees his next-door neighbor bludgeon an elementary school teacher's head.

They're hiding out in what turns out to be the detritus of Spencer's grandmother's house, waiting for the gang battle in the street to be over. Brendon's worried. He doesn't think they'll be able to go much longer without a gang spotting and killing them.

Brendon moves over to Ryan, who has found a miraculously unharmed photo album under some of the debris and a dead cat. Ryan has taken out one picture and holds it like the Holy Grail. Brendon eyes Ryan like a suicide.

"You don't think we should've taken her offer, do you?"

Ryan grips the picture like a drowning man, clutches the rest of the album to his malnourished chest.

"No. No, I don't."

"So where do you want to go? I'm thinking international," Brendon declares as they step over the recently slaughtered.

"I've always wanted to see the world," Ryan replies dryly, fastidiously avoiding a puddle of spilled brains.

And this.

Wed, 23 Jan 2008 02:32:14 GMT

Right. There was this. I'd forgotten.

Heath Ledger died today.

I heard it on the radio and I'd thought it was some random rumour that had popped up, you know, like when they were saying Jon Heder was dead. But no, this one's real.

Apocalypse: Now!

Wed, 23 Jan 2008 02:19:04 GMT

Stuff! Accidental movie review! Empty promises! My unending love for end-of-the-world stories! Story pimpage! And more! Click!

Well, hell, boys. (and girls. probably mostly girls. anyway.)

So this weekend I went to see this fantastically crap movie with my mum, In the Name of the King. Oh, goodness. Apparently the director is really young and this is his first movie. I hope the next ones will be better; this one is so bad it's not even good. It's so bad it's bad. It is basically this director nicking a bunch of fantasy cliches and smushing them together. And it's not even well done! There were several awesome features, though. I would say "redeeming features" but that implies that those features lent the film some small scrap of

I'd give a more thorough review, but I'm somewhat anxious to get to my original point. That and the lengthy synopsis was getting to be obnoxiously long. I'll have to wave my magic wand and *POOF* it shall be a fanfic and go to the comm! When, you know, I find one.

Hm. Well, yes. I seem to have strayed from my original topic, which was my absolute fetish for apocalypse stories. I adore them. I don't know why they give me a lovely achy warm feeling but they DO and that is enough for me.

It was kind of odd, though. I kept running into apocalypse-type things all weekend. The point of me giving you that little impromptu movie review (incidentally, I highly recommend it for a rainy day crackfest the minute it comes out on DVD) was that that was the reason mum and I found ourselves watching Resident Evil 2 on tv. We switched back and forth between that and Comedy Central and ended up on COmedy Central because I can only take so much Resident Evil Doomy Doom Doom after seeing such a cracktastic movie as In the Name of the King. I did, however, conclusively prove that my mother is a fangirl. Also, chicks with dreadlocks, shotguns, and motorcycles who bust in through cathedral windows to dispatch disgusting pink slimy things are incredibly, incredibly sexy. (It was at that point that Mum said, "If it were possible, I would have that woman's babies.")

Um. Yeah? Apocalypse stuff happened. It was nifty. Then came the commercials pimping that one "After Humans" series. Now I am as much a sucker for some rocking sweet CG post apocalyptic crack as the next girl, but really. We're going to be dead. No one will be able to care. Cool idea, but not 2 hours' worth of cool, yeah? (said the person who convinced her mother to shell out for two tickets to 2.5 hour long In the Name of the King)

There were some other really weird apocalypse references, but they don't make any sense when I try to tell them to anyone. A few of them were also from dreams that I can't really remember much of. I do recall one involved a wooden raft/loft/balcony thing and....yeah, see, this is why I'm not going to try and explain the other stuff. I have a lovely subconscious but it's not really a good conversationalist.

Yeah, so. The new season of Skins is coming up in February, I'm avoiding doing anything productive, so I'm transferring everything I can think of to this awesome, awesome site. http://del.icio.us/
It kicks such ass, I cannot tell you in words.

So whilst moving every story I've ever read ever (practically) onto there, along with all of my assorted skulking sites and general usage pages, I got to reading most of the stuff I'm transferring so I can give myself a little summary of it, because I am only going to completely forget what the story even is in about a week.

So I found some dearly loved apocalypse stories. I am going to give them to you.

'The End of the World Tour' - http://never-walk.livejournal.com/111347.html
'Sandpaper & Silk' - http://community.livejournal.com/slashatthedisco/2632075.html
'nothing quite cleanses like fire' - http://raye6.livejournal.com/55451.html

and just. They steal my heart and my guts and my everything and hang them by the fire. Or something. I don't know. I just have this apocalypse story fetish. If you ever want to make me happy, or bribe me, or whatever, write me an apocalypse story and I will most likely do whatever the hell you want.

I think that is possibly it? As in 'all I wanted to say, for now.'

<subliminal message>(Find me apocalypse stories)</subliminal message>

The Gay is back! or, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 05:50:15 GMT

Woo! I figured out how to use LJ cuts!

God, I'm tired. Click on the link below to hear my drunken ramblings. Except how I'm totally not drunk, I'm just mad sleep deprived. Includes: self-diagnosis! (Conclusion: I am screwed up) Mika! (fuck's sake, boy...) Bandom interviews! THE GAY!

Okay, so. Shit happens. This is why we have music, yeah? Only my comfort songs seem to be along the lines of "Girlfriend" and "Scotty Doesn't Know".

There is some shit really wrong with me.

In other news, I've started (and will hopefully finish at some point...) a Peter Pan story for the bandom.

Speaking of the bandom, Panic!'s next album ("Pretty. Odd." yes, that is the name of their album. Did I mention that I love them?) is due out March 25th. I am not usually into CDs, youtube and the radio being my main sources of music, but I am buying that bitch the minute it is out (at a reasonable hour, of course...).

http://www.out.com/detail.asp?id=23395
Check the above link out. Seriously. It is a JonandSpencer interview. Where they talk about The Gay. You do not want to miss this.

Now someone write me some twin bed porn, dammit!

In other news, I have Lollipop by Mika stuck in my head. How in fuck's name has he not come out yet? "Sucking too hard on your lollipop / oh, love's gonna get you down". Really.

The song...it switches between adorable, overtly, embarassingly innocent and downright sordid. And then back again. "take a look at the girl next door / she's a player and a downright --" Wait. Wait a minute, Mika. You just said "bore", the girl next door is a player and "bore". Now, you and I both know you meant "whore".

And then he goes on talking about sucking too hard on lollipops! And then it's these completely innocent lyrics, where you can totally forget about the blatant references to oral sex. Then it's onto the ambiguous "Mama told me what I should know / too much candy gonna rot your soul".

Mika, honey, it's okay. We like The Gay. You can stop with the borderline creeptasticness now.

To get my mind off that (hahaha yeah right), I give you this: http://youtube.com/watch?v=mRaY_bYFA6g
Lots and lots of pictures of lovely boykissing, set to AFI's Miss Murder. Ahhh.

And finally: http://youtube.com/watch?v=ThIJvWqSfg0&feature=user

Santa, you bitch. You've been holding out on us here.

I am off to possibly sleep but mainly ponder over the oddity that is Mika. Or, you know, read some more quality bandslash.

Infinity On High [1/1]

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 05:29:18 GMT

Title: Infinity On High
Author: Kate (<lj user="lets_go_to_rome">)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Nothing overt; Brendon/Ryan, Brendon/Spencer, Pete/Patrick, Spencer/Brendon, Spencer/Jon can be read into this, among others.
POV: Third.
Summary: Death and redemption, in a manner of speaking.
They get the results back from Ryan’s blood test. Worst fears confirmed: it is indeed AIDS. Spencer’s face is terrible and blank. His arm is around Ryan, who can’t stop staring at the floor. Brendon is trying to remember everything he can about RENT and still listen to the doctor at the same time so he can be Helpful when they get back to the bus.
Disclaimer: Very definitely not mine. Lyric belongs to the Panic! boys, and the Panic! boys themselves belong to Pete Wentz. As does practically everyone else mentioned. Not mine, you know? I'm just a slasher. None of this is true, to my knowledge. Et cetera.
Author Notes: This is about the third time I've tried to post this. I accidentally deleted it once and then my computer spazzed. In any case, this was only partially beta'd because my beloved Krista has rather a lot to worry about at the moment. So I kind of stuck this up without her going through this last draft. Therefore all screwups are mine. (Also: wtf? Aparrently "Girlfriend" is one of my comfort songs...? How the hell did that happen?)

I
Ryan’s in one of his funks again, and the whole bus feels it. Brendon gets sent in to see what’s wrong this time (not that he’s unhappy about it). He flips back Ryan’s curtain and Ryan’s curled up with headphones in, facing the wall. Brendon sits down, nudges his leg against Ryan’s back.

“Hey,” Brendon says, tugging at one of the wires.

Ryan glances behind him, sees it’s Brendon, and launches himself at him. Ryan’s arms lock around Brendon’s neck and Ryan presses himself desperately against Brendon.

It’s less sex-me and more save-me.

After a minute Ryan pulls back and sniffles. Brendon will bet you his entire stash of Red Bull that there are about six people in the whole world who can manage to look adorable when they’re crying, and Ryan’s one of them. It was one of the things Brendon used to hate Ryan for, in the beginning. Brendon can’t stand himself when he cries, so he doesn’t, mostly.

But there’s Ryan, pink blotches magically accenting his sculpted face like makeup. Ryan’s ducking under his bangs and Brendon’s thinking unfair, except for how it totally isn’t.

Ryan sniffles and Brendon rubs his arms, his neck, his back, everything he can reach, brings Ryan back in close and soothes him like a baby, bouncing Ryan very gently in his lap.

“What’s wrong, Ryan?” Brendon asks softly, as soon as Ryan quiets down a little.

“Nothing.” Ryan swipes at his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s nothing.”

“Well, it’s gotta be something, Ryro. You wouldn’t be sitting in your bunk sobbing if it was nothing.”

Ryan aims a half-hearted whack at Brendon’s chest and leaves his hand there. His fingers dig into the pink fabric and he shudders convulsively.

“I had this dream last night,” Ryan starts.

“What was it about?”

“Shut up, man. I’m telling you!”

“Bitch.”

“You love it,” Ryan snaps back, but it’s more out of habit than any indication of lifting spirits.

“So…?” Brendon prompts.

“It was awful, Bren,” Ryan pushes closer, twists his fingers further into Brendon’s shirt. “It was awful.”

Ryan looks up at Brendon with haunted eyes and says, “Brendon. Brendon, I don’t want to die.”

II
Ryan seems to think that something awful is going to happen, soon, and the band is on edge. Brendon’s been getting Ryan cookies and candy and sugary sweet things at every stop they make, in case it makes him feel better. Spencer’s been forcing them all to act normally because he knows that doing anything else will put Ryan in an even worse state. Jon’s called a couple of the guys, including Pete, who suggested that Ryan get laid by Pete as that makes everyone feel better or, failing that, at least let Pete take the kid out to a party or three because come on Jon Walker you‘re not his fucking mom, let the kid have a bit of fun, it‘ll get his mind off things. Spencer vetoes the first suggestion with a feral look but grudgingly agrees to the second.

At the same time, he can’t help remembering the rough patches early on in the band’s history when Ryan was so, so convinced, against all reason and evidence, that they’d make it big. His ‘feeling’ that out of the zillions of other young, eager bands, Pete would not only get the chance to listen to their stuff but would love it. The stuff in high school, where Ryan’s gut instincts had led them safely through like a guardian angel.

Spencer doesn’t think a party with Pete is the best idea, but Ryan’s agreed to it. So Ryan’s going.

III
It’s six or seven months later and Ryan has a cold. He refuses to go to the hospital, even though he’s had the same cold for three weeks. He insists it’s seasonal, no matter what arguments Spencer lines up. All Spencer can get from him these days is an eye roll and “It’s just a cold, Spence, god!” so he gives up and sends in the heavy artillery. (There’s a small part of Spencer, low in his chest, wispy and curled in on itself, that remembers the days when Spencer was the heavy artillery.)

Brendon bounces over to Ryan’s bunk and whips back the curtain to find Ryan staring at some lyrics he’d scribbled a while ago, not writing anything.

“So, Ryro--hey, that rhymes! Anyway, whatcha doing?’ Brendon drops down besides Ryan, wraps his arms around Ryan’s middle, hooks his chin over Ryan’s shoulder.

Ryan plays with a frayed edge of paper.

“Brendon. I want to tell you something, but you have to swear, swear that you won’t tell anyone. Especially Spencer.” Ryan turns, breaking free of Brendon’s grip, takes Brendon’s face carefully in his hands.

“You promise me?” Ryan says.

“I promise,” Brendon answers, eyes wide and serious. Ryan takes a deep breath.

“So. Remember that party I went to a while ago?” Brendon nods. “Well, it was kind of wild.”

Brendon nods again, remembering.

“And you remember I got high, how I was high when I came back to the bus?”

Brendon nods. That was another thing he wasn’t supposed to tell Spencer, but Spencer had found out anyway. Ryan’s first and last brush with drugs.

“Well. I. It was heroin. I think. Or something. I don’t know what it was, and I don’t know who brought it. But I do know I wasn‘t the first one to use the needle.”

Brendon’s eyes widen.

“Do you--do you think you, you know, caught something?” Brendon inquires cautiously, like asking will make the possibility real. Ryan’s eyes flick down to the blanket.

“Um,” Ryan says.

“Oh,” Brendon replies. He swallows. Ryan does too, a second behind.

“Um, but I might not have? That’s the thing. I don’t know and I--fuck, I couldn’t stand it if Spencer knew I’d done something this stupid.” Ryan buries his face in his hands, pulls away form Brendon, curls up. “I mean, I‘m not in high school anymore. I should be fucking smarter than this.”

Brendon leaves quickly, hearing Ryan mutter behind him. He knows where this is going; every time Ryan thinks he’s done something wrong he rips into himself until someone makes him stop. That someone is usually Spencer or Jon; Brendon doesn’t have the steel in his voice to make Ryan do anything.

“Fucking stupid. So stupid. Fuckup. Why…can‘t believe this--”

Brendon weighs the pros and cons of telling Spencer the whole story as he walks away from Ryan’s voice quietly tearing its owner apart.

IV
They get the results back from Ryan’s blood test. Worst fears confirmed: it is indeed AIDS. Spencer’s face is terrible and blank. His arm is around Ryan, who can’t stop staring at the floor. Brendon is trying to remember everything he can about RENT and still listen to the doctor at the same time so he can be Helpful when they get back to the bus.

Ryan’s been lucky so far, very lucky, but even a cold can kill him if he’s not careful.

They leave loaded with prescriptions. Jon thanks the doctor for keeping everything so confidential and for seeing them on such short notice. The doctor gives them a wan smile.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he tells Jon. He tilts his head, the gesture encompassing the four young men. “My daughters are big fans.”

He clasps each of their hands in turn, bends down to look Ryan in the eye.

“Best of luck,” he tells them.

It‘s unspoken as he leaves the room: you’ll need it.

V
They tell Pete because they have to tell Pete. When he’s done flipping out and Patrick’s done yelling at him for taking Ryan to the party in the first place and not keeping a good enough eye on him, they form a game plan.

The FBR gang is notified and sworn to secrecy on pain of Patrick. And Spencer has been promised what little would be left when Patrick’s done with them. They’re told for two reasons. First, they can help out on tours with whatever comes up. Second, Pete really loves threatening people with Patrick.

(Patrick puts his foot down when Pete suggests applying the same strategy to the media.)

It’s agreed that everyone will keep it absolutely quiet until Panic! decides otherwise.

VI
I: And now a question for Ryan. You’ve been looking peaky lately; anything wrong?

R: No, I’m fine.

B: He’s just pregnant. The morning sickness is the worst part.

I: (chuckles) Who’s the lucky father?

B: Me!

J: Pete Wentz.

S: Keltie.

R: Spencer.

(all laugh)

I: (chuckles) Quite the list.

R: (laughs) No, but really. It’s just overwork. Between the tours and the album, it’s been taking a lot out of all of us.

I: So, yeah. Your third album! What can we expect on it?

S: Well, it’s not going to be out for a while, obviously--

B: (interrupting) Yeah, right after we finish this tour we’re hopping on the Damage Control tour with Fall Out Boy and the rest.

S: Yeah, it’s busy, but we want to get it out as soon as we can. We know a lot of people are waiting for it…

VII
Ryan presses his face against Spencer’s neck.

“I’m so sorry, Spence. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, over and over and over again.

Spencer rocks him gently and holds him close and says nothing. He can’t.

There’s really nothing to say.

VIII
They’re on the floor, Indiana Jones fighting Nazis for background. Ryan wriggles closer to Brendon. (Spencer’s off with Jon, somewhere.)

Brendon grunts, shifts, blinks, glares like a child.

“I was almost asleep, you bastard.” He nudges Ryan’s abdomen with his hip, turns over and grabs Ryan. There’s a brief wrestling match. Too brief, because Ryan gets tired easily these days.

Brendon waits for Ryan to catch his breath.

“So what’d you want?” Brendon asks finally.

“I want,” Ryan says gravely, boring into Brendon’s soul, pinning him to the wall with his gaze. “I want to not die.” He gestures at the Peter Pan DVD lying next to the case for the Indiana Jones movie. “I want Neverland, Brendon. I used to not want to get old. Now I feel like I should just not want to die, but. I don’t just want that. And it’s selfish and thoughtless and I’m stupid for even thinking it--”

Brendon tries to stop the slide into self-deprecation, but Ryan pulls back from the edge.

“I want everything. I want to really, really live, you know?”

Then he flops down beside Brendon and pokes him in the ribs. Soon, he’s asleep, clutching at Brendon’s upper arm. Brendon leans against the couch and adjusts the two of them so Ryan’s resting on Brendon’s chest.

He watches Ryan’s head bob up and down as Brendon’s heart beats in Ryan’s ribcage pillow and he wonders how he’s going to get Ryan what he wants.

IX
It’s two, maybe three weeks later. Brendon comes back on the bus, looking around furtively. Spencer and Jon are playing video games, Jon having dragged Spencer away from his scrapbooking (“Just so we have something for, you know, when.”).

Ryan’s in his bunk pretending to sleep.

He gives up when Brendon tumbles in beside him, grinning nervously.

“What,” Ryan says, “are you doing.”

“So. You remember how you were saying you wanted to find something that made it so you didn’t die?”

Ryan nods slowly.

“Yes, Brendon, that’s what I have the medications for.”

“Yeah, but they won’t work as well as this does.” Brendon flourishes a little jar, roughly the size of a bottle of nail polish. It looks as though it’s full of very small iridescent beads. Ryan’s curious.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure, but”--Brendon pulls out a sterile disposable needle, the kind used at hospitals--“if you take this then you’ll be better again. You won’t have to worry about getting sick, because you won’t ever get sick again.”

“What?” Ryan asks incredulously, eyeing the needle with apprehension.

“No, really! You’ll never get sick and your body won’t age and it’ll never wear out! Not unless you get, like, shot or something. It doesn’t protect you from that. But you do heal a lot quicker,” Brendon assures him.

Ryan laughs and shakes his head.

“Yeah, right.”

Brendon’s eyes are wide, earnest.

“No, really!”

“Brendon, thanks for trying, really, but I doubt that’s going to do anything good to me.”

Brendon tugs at a strand of hair, thinking, then spots a pair of scissors lying on Spencer’s bunk among colored paper and glue. He separates the blades and drags one heavily across his arm.

A gash opens up and blood begins to well. Brendon repeats the action several times until he has a deep gouge in his forearm.

Ryan’s mouth is open. He wants to shout something, grab at Brendon, but Brendon is biting his lips and shaking his head no, no, look.

And as Ryan watches, the torn flesh is beginning to heal itself, slowly, then gaining momentum until it’s closing and with a noise like zzzzzzp! Brendon’s arm is smooth and there’s a faint white line where the scissors had met skin.

The whole process had taken maybe four minutes.

Ryan’s eyes are popping out of his head. Brendon grins so widely his mouth hurts.

“You didn’t think I’d give it to you without knowing it would work, did you?” Brendon ruffles Ryan’s hair.

“How--that’s impossible,” Ryan gapes.

“Yeah, well, it just happened.” Brendon shrugs. “If it does that, I mean, that’s the only way to really test, because the other ways would be either, like, hanging out with the Ebola crowd or waiting sixty years.”

Ryan still can’t believe it.

“Where’d you get this shit, Bren?” Brendon shakes his head. His grin drops to a smile.

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Who’d you get it from?”

“They didn’t tell me who they were.”

“What’d you have to pay for this?” Ryan cannot imagine how much it would take to get someone to part with such a miracle.

Brendon’s smile turns glassy and brittle.

“Not money,” he says.

“What, then?”

“That, you really don’t want to know,” he says flatly. “Anyway, you ready?”

Brendon fills the needle. Ryan offers his arm.

X
They called a meeting in Brendon and Ryan’s room as soon as they get to the hotel. Band members only.

Spencer’s reaction when Ryan finishes explaining is similar to what Ryan‘s own had been. Jon is very carefully not looking at them.

“So. Um,” Brendon says. “We thought that since, you know, half the band has taken this stuff, the other half should at least have the option.”

“Now, this magic whatever-it-is, it lasts forever? No boosters?” Spencer asks suspiciously.

“No, no boosters. The person I got it from, they said it lasts as long as you do. The only way you can die is decapitation or if your heart’s destroyed. Also, I don’t think your brain cells regenerate, because they can’t anyway. They said that all this does is boost your cells, make them better.”

Jon starts humming ‘Harder Better Faster Stronger’. Ryan laughs.

“As far as I can tell, something happens so it’s coded into your DNA. It’s been a couple of days since I took it and a little longer for Brendon and it takes about a week to reach every cell in your body. But I’m looking so much better, Spence. I feel so much better. I don’t feel like a dead man walking,” Ryan tells them.

Spencer’s eyes gleam. “That’s fantastic. I’ll take some too.”

They all turn to Jon.

Jon takes a breath, looks at Ryan, lets it out. He glances at Brendon, then Spencer.

“Actually,” Jon says slowly. “Actually, I think I’ll pass.”

XI
Brendon ends up getting Spencer’s dose, too. He’s the only one who knows where to get the stuff and he said that he didn’t want Spencer to have to worry about anything. He glances sideways at Spencer and says softly that Spencer shouldn’t have to pay the price they ask, so Brendon can go. It’s no trouble; he’s done it twice already. It’s fine. Really.

He looks a bit faded and hollow when he comes back with the little bottle, but they never get him to say what the price is.

There are no marks on Brendon but, like Spencer points out, they heal so fast these days that any mark would be long gone by the time Brendon gets back.

XII
This doesn’t change anything, not radically; it doesn’t turn them into a Christian rock band by any means and Brendon’s young. He didn’t have much time to accumulate any heavy sins anyway, so there isn’t really anything to fix there.

Since that first time Brendon went out to get the miraculous stuff, he’s been a lot more into religion. Not Mormon stuff, necessarily--he reads the holy books from a lot of different religions. He likes the Bible, though, because it reminds him of when he was little and church seemed like the answer to everything.

No one asks why Brendon does this. He offers no explanation.

XIII
Things have changed for Jon. Where he used to be the communal big brother, the pillar of strength, the steady, capable one, the other three now treat him a bit more softly, like he’s going to break. He’s still the strong, steady, capable man of the band, but it’s like a cousin who’s going to go to war while the younger ones are going to go to college. He’s still strong, he’s still capable, but.

He feels older now, not that he didn’t used to, hanging around with what everyone half-jokingly called the jailbait band, but.

They’re immortal now, or close to it, and that’s changed things.

Jon’s reread Brendon’s old high school copy of The Iliad. He wonders if any of them ever felt like he does, walking with gods.

XIV
They tell Pete about it, because they have to tell Pete. Pete grabs Patrick and Joe and Andy and they fly out (they’re between tours) and arrive on the Panic! bus the very next day.

Jon makes everyone snacks while the other three explain. The Fall Out Boy members listen raptly. Pete is beside himself with euphoria.

It’s decided that all four members of Fall Out Boy will take some, and Brendon pulls Pete aside to explain in a low voice what will have to happen in order for them to get four doses.

Pete just stares at him as Brendon leads him back towards the others.

“Seriously, man?”

Brendon nods. They’re back; the other guys can hear them now.

“And you did that four fucking times?”

“Three,” Brendon says tightly. “Jon’s still. You know. Normal.”

Ryan and Spencer look down. Jon doesn’t turn away from the microwave where he’s watching the popcorn.

Andy and Joe and Patrick exchange glances.

They don’t ask why Jon hasn’t taken any, bless them.

“Come on, Pete. We should get going. After tomorrow I don’t think we’ll be able to find anything again,”
Brendon calls.

They head out. The other guys play video games to kill time.

Jon says nothing.

XV
Pete and Brendon return with the bottles. There are a few extra because Pete has some other people he wants to have this stuff.. Pete’s visibly shaken, Brendon’s his usual hollowed-out self, same as every other time he’s gotten things.

(Pete only paid for enough for himself and Patrick. The toll for the rest was too high for him. Brendon paid for those.

Brendon never mentions this, not even when Andy and Joe and the others die after a thousand years or so. He goes to their quiet funeral looking like hell had just spat him out, says only, “Oh, Lazarus” and wails, fucking wails. It‘s Pete that tells the gang afterwards, tears in his eyes.

“All my fucking fault,” he‘ll say, reverting in his grief to the ancient slang he grew up with. “All my fucking fault. I‘d gotten him to get theirs for me…I was so…” and he breaks down. Patrick comforts him. Brendon is silent in Ryan and Spencer‘s arms.)

Brendon and Spencer administer the doses to Patrick, Andy and Joe. Ryan does Pete’s.

“Brendon fucking Urie. Fuck the pyramids, I swear to you that boy should be one of the seven manmade wonders of this fucking earth,” Pete tells Ryan, his voice low.

Ryan nods his head yes.

“He didn’t ever tell you what it takes to get one of these bitches, did he?” Pete asks Ryan casually. He winces as the needle goes into his arm, grasps the hand Ryan’s not holding the shot with.

Ryan shakes his head no.

“Yeah, I figured. Well. I’m just gonna say, man, that he really loves you guys.” Pete moves his hand to the back of Ryan’s neck, squeezes a little, pets Ryan. “He really fucking loves you guys. Jon too. Remember that.”

Ryan’s never quite sure whether Pete meant that Brendon loves Jon too or that Jon loves them all too. He never asks, and they both forget.

Ryan rests his forehead against Pete’s temple. He looks over at Brendon, laughing at something with Patrick.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “I know. I‘ll remember.”

XVI
It’s not so bad, really. All they have to do is fade into obscurity every five or ten years. One of them will always stay on, make sure they definitely, for sure can get back in, and then it’s the name roulette, and then it’s the same deal until the non-aging could get noticeable.

Come on, it’s the music business. Bands shunting in and out practically every hour, like one big, exclusive public school. But once you’re in for real, not just showing up to a class or two, you never forget how it‘s done. The back door is usually open for you.

(Repeat all.)

Jon is usually the one to stay in the scene; everyone likes Jon. He’s aging normally so he doesn’t have to play the name game, just does a few stints in other bands while his guys are working back up the ladder and ping! Wonderful new, young band discovered by veteran Jon Walker, bassist for dozens of other bands that you’ve forgotten about already!

Jon’s been in long enough that he knows he’s never getting out. Music is the love of his life. Well, there’s Cassie, too, and the kids, but music was his first. He loves them all, though. Till death do them part.

Not that, you know, he’d want it any other way.

XVII
Brendon adjusts Ryan’s tie, brushes off Spencer’s jacket. Spencer holds Ryan’s hand like Ryan’s going to disappear if he lets go. Spencer’s other hand is gripping Brendon and Ryan is holding the phone to his ear.

“Yeah, Pete. No. Um, about two miles, so yeah. Left. No, it’s a blue sign. That’s the one. See you in a minute.”

Ryan shuts his phone, takes a shaky breath. He looks at the other two with tears in his eyes, looking just as fucking beautiful as he did sixty-some years ago when Brendon found him crying in his bunk about the terrible dream he had.

“Ready to go, guys?”

“Let’s give Jon the best fucking funeral he’s ever had,” Brendon says fiercely.

“It’s the only fucking funeral he’s ever had, dumbass,” Spencer snarls, but there’s no bite in it and they all know why.

XVIII
It’s a very pretty ceremony, Jon’s coffin is nice, and Brendon forces himself to walk by the open casket. He glances around, then places a tender kiss on Jon’s cheek.

“We’ll miss you, you bastard.”

Spencer and Ryan don’t come up close to see the wrinkled, distinguished gentleman corpse Jon Walker has become.

Brendon touches each of his smooth palms to Jon’s grey face, transferring Ryan and Spencer’s goodbye kisses.

Jonathon Jacob Walker is buried beside his wife of fifty-five years, Cassie. Their children and grandchildren sob.

The members of Jon’s third band, Mad As Hatters, give short speeches when it’s their turn, then stand at the back respectfully with a few other men in dark glasses. The family nods at them when the service is over. Just Grandpa’s Music Friends.

“It would have been nice,” one offspring says sharply to another as they all head to the parking lot, “if Dad’s first band--what was it? Panicking Disco? --had showed up. I mean, I know that the rest of his second band died in that awful crash--remember, they never recovered the bodies?-- but he’d always said the Panicking crew was still alive. I just think it’s awful, leaving old friends like that…”

Ryan, or Tory Tripp as he’s known these days, guitarist and lyricist for Mad As Hatters, leads Matthew Marier (drummer) and Danny Weber (singer, pianist) back to the car.

“ ‘Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love‘,” Danny quips, throat tight with sorrow.

The others nod. They drive away.

XIX
It’s the early 2110’s and Panic! At the Disco is all but forgotten, even though there are double-twenty-somethings walking the streets who were twenty for real when Panic! was in its heyday, a hundred years ago. The boys have been around the world; they’re still traveling. They figure they’ll get back into the music business in another decade or so. Pete and Patrick and Andy and Joe are there. No rush. They’re young; they’ve got all the time in the world.

XX
Once, on a particularly long train trip, Ryan asked Brendon what the price was, for all this. What Brendon had to do to give this to all of them. Spencer had been sprawled across both of their laps and listened intently.

“Orpheus,” Brendon says, “was lucky.” He takes a shuddering breath to continue, but lunch arrives and neither Ryan nor Spencer could muster the courage to ask him again.

They are never sure if Brendon was joking (what he meant).

XXI
On a different train, they talk about Jon. This is a rare thing; it’s been so, so long.

It’s been hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years and they still look like they’re in their early twenties. Jon wouldn’t have understood the language they normally spoke. They still talk to each other in their old English, sometimes, when they don’t want to be understood by other people.

“Why do you think he didn’t want to do it?” Ryan asks.

Spencer shrugs, outlines various hypotheses that none of them really believe in.

“This was no accident, this was a therapeutic chain of events,” Brendon says in a singsong, quoting one of their very first songs.

It’s terribly cheesy and Ryan wants to hit him and hug him and break down and cry all at once.

“Sing it for us,” Spencer says, cuddling closer to them both.

The train chugs on to the tune of the twenty-first century.

Maxxie Picspam

Mon, 24 Dec 2007 07:06:49 GMT

It is the wee hours of the morning and I cannot sleep. So here you go. A Skins picspam, my very very first! It's all of Maxxie, but it's all good, yeah? He's pretty. I'll do one for everyone later.

Let's start with my favourite, shall we?

This is Maxxie. Say hi, Maxxie. He likes toast and boys and dancing.

Maxxie pouts a lot. But only because he knows you love it.

Maxxie's kinda gay.

I'm sorry; did I say "kinda"? I meant "as a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide", if I may borrow the phrase. Maxxie is the only canonly gay main character.

Although Tony does make out with him sometimes.

And Tony said he'd give him head, to cheer him up, you know, and, and Maxxie didn't mean anything, but he lost his head and then Tony gave him head and...he's really really sorry for being a slut, okay?

I really want someone to write me a Chris/Max where Chris is so high and Maxxie hasn't gotten any in ages and he's sort of debating whether or not to take advantage of a totally out of it Chris, then decides oh fuck it, he'll do it, and then there's hot druggie boysex and Chris just thinks the whole thing's hilarious and the next morning Maxxie is all slightly worried about the consequences but trying not to be because he gets annoyed by people like that, and then Chris is just so totally cool with the whole thing and maybe wants to do it again.

He can be very butch sometimes. Yes, that is a gun. No, I couldn't get a larger picture. Sorry. Gay boys with guns...mmmm.

This picture is gay and very hot but mostly it's really really funny.

Aww, poor baby. Cheer up! I didn't mean it...

There you go. Good boy. Er--bad. Whatever. Shut up and smoke attractively, kay honey? You're good at that.

Or, you know, play with Tony.
(He moved in, lips brushing where Tony's met the cigarette; Tony smirked into the kiss, around the cigarette, breathed out into Maxxie's mouth, fit his mouth against Maxxie's where they could both take a drag at the same time. If it were anyone but Tony, it wouldn't have worked. The cigarette would've dropped, or singed someone's cheek, but it was Tony and everything somehow worked. Maxxie wondered idly how Tony managed it as he felt a hand sneak under the hem of his shirt like a kid after curfew--)
Wait, what, I meant smokingisbadforyou.

He knows. But he wants his fags anyway.

Ok, yeah, you're right, bad joke. Hush.

Maxxie's sleepy. So am I, actually. It is now 1:4sodding3 am. I think we should all go snuggle and then sleep.

Maxxie agrees.

Night!

SKINS

Mon, 24 Dec 2007 03:09:27 GMT

Well, I have just discovered the glory and awesomeness that is Skins.

I also slept for about sixteen hours last night and damn but I feel fantastic.

Skins is a British show that aired in spring '07. It is the *perfect* mix of comedy and drama and. Just. You know, totally stole my heart. It is amazing! It's just about the lives of these seventeen-year-old kids in Bristol. They're all fucked up to some degree, one way or another, and I love them *all*.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=CpRjbuRBlh8
^ This, my darlings, is the link to the first part of the first episode. If I recall correctly, you can watch all of the episodes on Youtube.

Anyway, love love and all that. But I was more than slightly disappointed that there is no decent comm for Skins slash. There is one for femslash (YAY!) and a general Skins fanfiction one, but nothing slash-specific. So I made one! DO check it out once you've watched the show.

http://community.livejournal.com/skins_slash/

Let there be slash!

***Spoilers below***

I personally want to write some Maxxie/Anwar. I mean, the whole Russia episode. Come on. Anwar getting a boner on the plane, the drawings, "a real girl! with boobs!", everything. Anwar's all embarrassed when they get there, because of the whole plane incident, and that's why he blows up at Maxxie, like a denial thing, and he's all confused on the plane ride back, you know, because he slept with the Russian chick and really likes her, he does, he likes girls and boobs and everything, but there's this little part of him that kind of thinks "well, maybe?" every time he looks at Maxxie and he totally has no idea how to deal with it so he just doesn't, just goes over to Chris' and gets high or whatever and manages to bury it for a while.

And Anwar really does try, he really does, to be a good Muslim boy and everything, and he does like girls and he knows he's not supposed to be having sex at all, but he still kind of wonders if it would really be that bad. And he's secretly terrified he's gay, even though he's really not, he likes girls most of the time and only a few boys, but it still freaks him out. So maybe he mentions this to Chris who then mentions it to Tony who decides that he's getting kind of bored with occasionally fucking Sid and maybe he'll see if he can start something between Maxxie and Anwar as sort of a project and sleep with them both in the process, because Tony really really likes sex and sees nothing wrong with wanting the occasional bout of boysex as he is so completely comfortable in himself. And that confidence will play off of Anwar's total confusion and Maxxie's discomfort and. I'm not sure how it would end, but yeah.

I really adore every single character on that show. They are so awesome.

I'm off to read some fic.

":D" does not even begin to cut it.

Thu, 15 Nov 2007 03:25:00 GMT

I FOUND HARRISON!!!! I FOUND HARRISON!!!! MY LIFE IS NOW THE MOST AWESOME THING EVER!

Harrison was my bestest best friend when we were small. We totally ruled preschool; we were the top bitches. It was awesome. We were so tight. And then we went to different schools, so we weren't the height of the rich bitch mafia together anymore, but we were still totally tight and we hung out on weekends and our families went places together and stuff. And we were so damn cool. And then I moved. Twice. And we lost touch and I have been thinking about him lately. ANd today I heard what used to be one of his favourite songs on the radio. So I went looking on Facebook (yeah, yeah, I know.) and I found him! And he wants to get back in touch! And he looks like he's ok!

I had this dream back in February where he was running away and I helped him get on a train to get away. And. Yeah. I've been thinking about him on and off since, and I sent him a letter this summer but I never heard back. But now I have!

(See, I'm kinda almost completely positive he's gay, and where we grew up wasn't the best place to grow up gay...)

But yeah.

Funny thing; he ended up moving so that he's now living less than 15 minutes from where I lived last move.

BUT I FOUND HIM!!!! THIS MAKES ME ECSTATIC!!!!

I am going to be in a good mood for the rest of the week, if not the month and year.

I miss him sooo much; he was my very first hag fag.

Heh. It amuses me that I was a total fag hag even when I was little.

BUT :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D!!!!!!!

<3

So it was a bad week. Have some Ouran links!

Sat, 10 Nov 2007 23:16:52 GMT

In general, I have an insanely awesome life. But not this past week.

This week was an absolute bitch, and not the attractive, powerful kind. The petty, menial kind of bitch who is behind the counter giving you a hard time at the DMV. The kind of bitch that will DQ a tiny freshman on the JV cross country team during the first invitational meet of the year because she has a two-toned scrunchie instead of a solid colour one, because It's The Rule. (And yes, that does happen.)

That kind of bitch.

Especially Thursday night. Oh. My. God. A saga of narrowly averted mortification.

So in free period, Krista and I are on the computer and she decided to send me some kinky porn links. Like a list of mems. It's great; I'll post it here when I'm done regaling you with my averted troubles. So she types a bit of a message to me and she's going through her email and collects them all, types in 'k' in the 'to' line (you know, and then you scroll down through the options and select the person you want to send to. saves time. we're lazy.) and if James hadn't been there to point it out, she would've sent the list of kinky pwp to our old math teacher. In an email that mentions both me and Krista by name. Wonderful, eh?

That list would cause more trouble later in the evening. But let us look at a separate incident:

My sister Bee is going to see FOB on the Young Wild Things Tour in about two weeks. I was ever so slightly jealous, but she's sworn to get me a t-shirt so I am somewhat mollified. Anyway, Beebee is really excited. She found a picture of Pete and Ryro and has it as her background. So she's all like "look!" and I'm like, "Bee, I have much better pictures. Come see." I've been lurking around LJ, among other places, and I have picked up quite the amusing collection of Panic! and FOB pictures, most of them more than a bit risque. So I'm about to pull up the pictures on my computer and Mum walks in and asks what I'm doing.
Kate: "Oh, just showing Bee some pictures I found."
Mum: "Oh. Cool."
Kate: "Um. Yeah."
Mum: "Well, what are you waiting for? Show us the pictures!"
K: *cough* "Um. Yeah. Bee said she had to go take a shower, so, um, she can do that first. I'll just show her the pictures later."
M: "Why don't you just show them to her now?"
K: "Because. Because. Because I have like a zillion of them and it would take ages to show her and she wants to get a shower in before she goes to bed."
M: "Ok. Sounds reasonable."

My mother is a very shrewd woman. She certainly knew what I was up to with the pictures. This is why God made password protection. I am the only decent codebreaker in my immediate family, thank goodness. Also the most sneaky. I hope.

Sadly, I just got a new thumbdrive and it is not yet password protected. This thumbdrive has copies of all my pictures and all of my stories. And Thursday night, I couldn't find it. I was freaking out and running around the house, terrified that Mum had gotten ahold of it. Fortunately, I found it. No harm done. It is currently hidden in my room until I have time to fix it.

Remember the kink list? Well, I was looking through it right before dinner and there was a vaguely amusing incident in which my sister came up and shouted 'dinner' rather loudly when I was reading something involving food. So I tell her I'll be down in a sec and I type out a quick email. It says something along the lines of: "Krista my dear, those kink fics you sent me were great. Blah blah, I was just in the Harry Potter slash kink list and blah blah blah. And now I really want to write a chokefic!" and I hit 'send.'

If my computer hadn't taken offense at the addresses in the cc: line I would have sent that email to Magister and all of the people going on the Latin trip, including my mother, and I wouldn't be here now, having died of shame. It's not that Mum would've seen this, it was that Magister would've seen this. A couple of friends and I were once talking about Magister. No one is sure if he is gay or not; Marcia says he is "asexual, like a delicate little flower" and that he probably doesn't even wank because he'd just feel so embarassed and think it so uncouth. We have great respect for this man, and I almost sent him an email about kinky fanfic porn. The entire rest of the night, I was terrified that somehow I hadn't deleted the draft and that it had gotten sent. Ohhh, it was bad.

HOWEVER:

OURAN LINKS!
Note: These are Stage6 videos. You will need Divx player to watch them. You can download it at the site; I have it on my computer and it's pretty good; no bugs that I know of.
Warning: the theme song sucks. The series, however, does not. Enjoy!

Episode 1: "You Are A Host Starting Today" http://stage6.divx.com/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-english-sub/video/1591081/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club---01
Episode 2: ""
http://stage6.divx.com/user/aintme/video/1028307/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-02
Episode 3: ""
http://stage6.divx.com/Video-en-vostfr/video/1371676/Ouran-high-school-host-club-03-vostfr
Episode 4: "The Invasion of the Female Manager"
http://stage6.divx.com/user/Amberlin/video/1082448/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-Ep4
Episode 5: "The Twins Fight"
http://stage6.divx.com/user/Amberlin/video/1082479/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-Ep-5
Episode 6: "The Elementary Host is of the Naughty Type"
http://stage6.divx.com/user/Amberlin/video/1092688/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-Episode-6
Episode 7: "Jungle Pool SOS"
http://stage6.divx.com/user/Amberlin/video/1093690/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-Episode-7
Episode 8: "The Sun, the Beach, and the Host Club"
http://stage6.divx.com/user/Amberlin/video/1094721/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-Episode-8
Episode 9: "Lobelia Girls' Academy's Challenge"
http://stage6.divx.com/user/Amberlin/video/1100410/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-Episode-9
Episode 10: "Daily Life of the Fujioka Family"
http://stage6.divx.com/user/Amberlin/video/1100390/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-Episode-10
Episode 11: "Oniichama is a Prince"
http://stage6.divx.com/kaotan-channel/video/1322764/ohh-#11(eg-sub)
Episode 12: "Honey-senpai's Not-so-Sweet Three Days"
http://stage6.divx.com/user/Amberlin/video/1176415/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-Episode-12
Episode 13: "Haruhi in Wonderland"
http://stage6.divx.com/user/Amberlin/video/1176493/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-Episode-13
Episode 14: "Interview the Famous Host Club"
http://stage6.divx.com/kaotan-channel/video/1322804/ohh-#14(eg-sub)
Episode 15: "Karuizawa Refreshing Battle"
http://stage6.divx.com/kaotan-channel/video/1322835/ohh-#15(eg-sub)
Episode 16: ""
http://stage6.divx.com/Ouran-Host-Club-Channel/video/1535878/ouran-16-subbed
Episode 17: "A Holiday that Kyouya Didn't Ask For"
http://stage6.divx.com/Ouran-Host-Club-Channel/video/1536922/Ouran-Host-Club-17-ENG-SUBBED
Episode 18: ""
http://stage6.divx.com/Ouran-Host-Club-Channel/video/1536224/Ouran-Host-Club-18-Eng-Subbed
Episode 19: "The Counterattack of the Lobelia Girls' Academy"
http://stage6.divx.com/Ouran-Host-Club-Channel/video/1536388/Ouran-Host-Club-19-Eng-Subbed
Episode 20: ""
http://stage6.divx.com/Ouran-Host-Club-Channel/video/1536562/Ouran-Host-Club-20-Eng-Subbed
Episode 21: "Until the Day It Becomes a Pumpkin"
http://stage6.divx.com/kaotan-channel/video/1243346/ohh-#21(eg-sub)
Episode 22: "Mori-senpai Has an Apprentice Wannabe"
http://stage6.divx.com/Ouran-Host-Club-Channel/video/1537604/Ouran-Host-Club-22-ENG-SUBBED
Episode 23: "Tamaki's Unconscious Melancholy"
http://stage6.divx.com/user/Amberlin/video/1103705/Ouran-High-School-Host-Club-Episode-23
Episode 24: "And Thus, Kyouya Met Him"
http://stage6.divx.com/Ouran-Host-Club-Channel/video/1539434/Ouran-Host-Club-24-ENG-SUBBED
Episode 25: ""
http://stage6.divx.com/Ouran-Host-Club-Channel/video/1539603/Ouran-Host-Club-25-ENG-SUBBED
Episode 26: "This Is Our Ouran Festival"
http://stage6.divx.com/kaotan-channel/video/1244232/ohh-#26-(eg-sub)

It took forfuckingever to get the links and make sure they work properly, and I have to go pick up Stephanie so I am not going to finish with the titles. I also didn't really look this whole bastard over before I posted it. Forgive me?

When I have a few hours to kill, I intend to collect links for Supernatural. So, you know, something to look forward to over Thanksgiving break.

Stephanie's coming over! :D

Bugger, Vexation, and Supernatural

Wed, 07 Nov 2007 02:06:09 GMT

Fucktarts.

See, over the summer I developed a penchant for Supernatural. Sadly, I am a lazy bastard and my source for the episodes was tv-links.co.uk, since shut down because the owner was involved in illegal stuff, despite the fact that tv-links was not actually doing anything illegal. It was basically a storage spot for links to places like toudou and youkou or wherever, korean sites and google movies and junk. It had them so I didn't have to go out and sniff through sites to find the bloody things. And now tv-links is shut down, and I am vexed.

I mean, it's been shut down for a while, but I've only just gotten to a point where my head is not being chewed on by my schoolwork. Finally. And it's still early enough in season 3 that I could possibly catch up, so damn. I'll have to actually physically go out and get the damn things somehow.

But really. If any kind person has access to Supernatural, preferably season 1 (especially 18 and on), please send them to me and I will love you forever.

So, yes.

Guitar news: I still cannot play chords worth a damn. I can sort of mostly play notes without having to look; I'm good at notes. But I haven't even started learning chords. My friend Amy says I could try base. But you know, I like the look of a girl with a guitar. Plus I have a lovely guitar. And, as I have said, I'm a lazy bastard and also can't afford to get myself a new base *and* buy birthday/christmas prezzies and a new graphing calculator (mine is MIA, presumed dead) and ...yeah. I would have to beg my parents, and they just helped me get the guitar this summer, so I'll stick with the guitar.

Amy is amazing. She is actually in a band; does the lead vocals for it. They're called White Raven (don't let the name put you off; they're an indie band that is quite good, actually.

Yes, I am kind of pimping them out but they really deserve it. They just finished their very first cd; check them out. Here is their myspace: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=152156081

I am especially fond of The Comic Book Son and The Latin Song. She did stick with Latin, just so's you know. She's a section behind me, actually. And she plays the bassoon! Amy is just a wonderful, fabulous person. Who encourages me with my guitar attempts despite my utter crapness, and who gives concrit on the non-fanfiction stuff I write (I mention this because she also recently got this children's book she wrote approved by I forget which company. It is about an autistic kid who thinks in music. Amy...Amy is just fucking amazing.)

Amy writes the lyrics; her brother writes the music. I love Amy. I would be jealous as all hell but she's so cool about everything. That and we've been friends for ages. So. Yeah. End of tangent.)

This is turning out kind of lengthy, but oh well. It's my sodding post; I've not had any in a while and I feel rather long-winded this evening. So humbug.

To balance my little rant, I shall provide links to amusing Ouran vids. In the next couple of posts, I shall try to sniff out links for the actual show so those of you who have not seen the wonder that is Ouran High School Host Club may share in its sheer fucking spectacularity.

In any case, the vids:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=eYUHy_WKaGo "haruhi's gay boyfriend" The sparkles! The sparkles! Tamaki/Haruhi with a super special awesome tweak.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=GyUoxVm6b5c Yeah...this one just has a catchy song. *snaps fingers to beat*
http://youtube.com/watch?v=0HzK11KlP3o Statistics show that 98% of teens are bringing sexy back. Sexy never left the other 2%. And yes, this is yet another of the mildly amusing and ubiquitous 'sexyback' anime amvs. Oh well. It's still pretty good for a laugh.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=IMsLdwLX_VY "shut up and sleep with me" This bitch is six minutes long, most of which is filled with techno music and the refrain "shut up and sleep with me / shut up, why don't you sleep with me". After the first minute and a half it ceases to be catchy and sinks to the level of 'oh god I am never getting this out of my head this side of Tuesday, am I'.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=dJiM4ja5YZg "bad boy" *snickers* Now, see, this is one of those soprano songs to a synch beat like "butterfly" and that ilk that, despite yourself, you end up being fond of. But in a cultured, ironic way. (that's our story and we're sticking to it.)

Hell, it's all in good fun. XD

TWINS! God, I love the twins:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=D3uXBRPHnSo "every me and you" TWINS!!! Just. Guh. So, so perfect. And what's even more awesome: so, so canon. 8D
http://youtube.com/watch?v=CeSnXVTM6pA "dirty little secret" more twins. The adorableness! The song! The everything! This one is particularly well done; it is one of the best vids I have seen. Comment and tell this person that; it'll make them feel good.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=udwUoPPugJQ "every time we touch" Yes. Another soprano snych beat-y song you secretly like.

super-special twincest bonuses:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=8JGkwm2nEmU weasley twins v ouran twins. 8D
http://youtube.com/watch?v=EkBfS3W_6nA the weasley twins watch ouran. not great, but will put a smile on your face. "for the girls. yes." :)

And my favourite:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=ZgVWc9OZVnM "I like a boy in uniform"

OH god. This has a story behind it. Besides being, like, the theme song of people like me, my friend Krista and I were singing this as we walked down the hallway and came face-to-face with Magister (our Latin teacher. Magister = latin word for teacher. hence the nickname.). See, Krista and I have this platonic love thing going. She is my true platonic love, my one and mostly. Yeah. So. About a third of the school thinks we're dating, and we're not sure if this includes Magister. But we were singing and scooting down the hallway with our arms round each other's waists and...then we see Magister. He *never* comes by that part of the school. He just gave us one of his looks, the one that we can't quite read (and we're good at reading looks). It's sort of a happy smiley face, like "I approve but please cut down on the PDA as it makes me slightly uncomfortable". He is such a darling, he really is. We cannot figure out if he is gay or not. Rest assured that by the end of the school year, I will have figured it out!

Hmm. You know, I'm not sure what the point of that was. Ah well. No worries.

Next time I will give you links to amusing Supernatural vids I have found, because I have a lot. :D

I should also be getting some stories up fairly soon. I am almost finished with two of them and a third is coming along, and I sent two to Krista, my dear darling beta, about a zillion years ago and she hasn't given them back yet. They're mostly beta'd; she's just as scatterbrained as I am and hasn't gotten 'round to sending them back yet.

And with that, I bid you all good night.

*scurries off to read latest stories on </a></a>slashatthedisco*

<3

Out of Place and Under-dressed [oneshot]

Fri, 31 Aug 2007 03:53:13 GMT

Title: Out of Place and Under-dressed
Author: Kate lets_go_to_rome
Rating: PG for language. Nothing to get your knickers in a twist about.
Pairing: Ryden. Ish. Mentions of Ryan/Pete. (what's their cutesy pair name?) If you like Joncer then you may interpret it that way as well.
POV: 3rd, Ryancentric.
Summary: It's Ryan's 21st birthday and he's on the fricking bus. He just got over a fever. He can be maudlin and ramble-y and rant-y at Brendon, right?
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot (or lack thereof). The boys own themselves. Probably. If they don't then they're at least not mine. I'm making this all up as I go; it is completely false.
Author Notes: This one is fluffy and really odd. So. Yeah. Don't kill me. My beta's sick and I really wanted to get this up so I had one of my friends look it over. Blame him. This is my first ever fic posted to LJ. Don't kill me, please. I've been writing for a couple of years now but only really on fanfiction.net and some very tiny sites. This is my first (completed) one about real people. Yay! Erm. Enjoy, and again, please don't slaughter me for the less-than-pwp fic I have here for you.

*

Ryan is just getting over a bit of a fever. He’s at that point where in theory he could move but would prefer not to. He’s also at that point where he can think something other than “NNN OMG PRETTY COLORS *sleep*” but not yet at the point where his thoughts are under his control.

It’s his birthday and it’s rainy and it’s the morning and he wants a muffin or—or something, and no one else is in their bunks and he’s feeling like a maudlin run-on sentence, emphasis on the maudlin. So he stares out the window for a bit and thinks deep thoughts.

Sometimes Ryan just wants to hide in his bunk, bury his head in the stale, comforting pillows and—

He wonders how this all got so big. It’s his birthday, his twenty-first birthday, and this is supposed to mean he’s an adult.

Like his twentieth birthday.

Or his eighteenth birthday.

Or his sixteenth birthday.

Let’s see, he thinks, because Ryan is hiding in his bunk and he does have his head buried in the stale, comforting pillows, pillows that he brought from home (Spencer’s house) that are thicker than the horrible thin pads in hotels, pillows that are covered in pillowcases also from home that have that minesafemybedsafemine sleep-scent on them with a grimy edge that comes from being in a bus for a months on end because Ryan tends to forget to wash it. He means to; he’s not a total slob, but there’s just so much going on and the pillowcase doesn’t smell bad, exactly, and there’s just no time.

Let’s see, he thinks again, because Ryan is somewhat fond of the way the words sound, as if they’re some magical combination that will force everything that comes after it to make sense.

Ha. He wishes.

My sixteenth birthday, he continues in his head, was five years ago. Half a decade. I turned sixteen on August 30th, 2002. Brent and Spence and I were still in high school. I hadn’t met Brendon. Panic! At the Disco wasn’t even a ghost of a shadow of a fever-dream. It still feels like that, Ryan thinks, sometimes.

How did he ever get to here? When did this all get so big?

It’s not that he doesn’t love it, because despite his ‘cripplingly shy’ personality there is a little part of him that curls and writhes in joy at the back of his head and the pit of his stomach, that warms and glows that ~~George~~ Ryan Ross II (I’m different, I’m first, I’m me) is getting this attention. Because Ryan does like attention, really. It just makes him uncomfortable earning it and dealing with it, but. But with Brendon and Spence ~~and Brent~~ and Jon it’s different, mostly.

(Ryan doesn’t really like confrontation. In fact, he tries to avoid it. That’s why he always went over to Spencer’s, that’s why he had Brendon talk Spencer into making the phone call to Brent, that’s why he hides out in Spencer’s room when Brendon comes in and it’s obvious he’s been drinking and Ryan can’t trust himself not to start some flaming row because he hates it when Brendon does that to himself and Brendon should--does--know that by now.)

Ryan sometimes tries to reconcile the ‘shy’ with the warm feeling of the spotlight and thinks that maybe the ‘shy’ only kicks in when he gets like this, stepping outside of himself to look. And then the outside-looking-Ryan realizes that everyone is looking at Ryan and that means outside-looking-Ryan is being looked at too and it makes Ryan quietly uncomfortable to be watched while he’s watching. Because then he might be missing something.

He buries his head further into the pillows, makes a small noise of helplessness and Ididn’tknowIdon’tknow in the back of his throat that rises up and pushes past his lips and escapes, dancing out into the world in a costume that is part moan and part whimper and part something else.

Ryan thinks all this, and for a fleeting moment considers writing some of it down. He discards the idea because he probably won’t be able to fit it anywhere anyway and in any case, it wasn’t that beautiful a thought after all.

Ryan likes having thoughts that sound beautiful. Ryan likes having songs that sounds beautiful. Ryan is a musician but Ryan is also a writer and sometimes Ryan wonders if it’s all right to be both, if it’s all right that he’s stealing the bits of both worlds that he likes best and fusing them together like some quirky, greedy god.

Ryan likes thinking big thoughts like this because he gets that quiet thrill of reaching for something you certainly can’t have

(likepetedidn’tithinkicouldn’thavepetebutihadpete, sudden flashbacks and snatches of memories when young Ryan jerked off furiously at the thought of being near THE Pete Wentz, what a god, how could anyone ever be so perfect and powerful and be in the eyes and hearts and minds of so very many people and now somehow there are people thinking the same things about him, how could that have ever happened, how could he ever be put on the same level as someone like Pete?)

but it also makes him want to curl up and turn his back on the universe because while he was in Vegas he wanted to get the hell out but now he’s out he wants to go back to the flat and dull and unbearable suburban streets because the world is so very, very huge and Ryan is so very, very small.

Ryan can’t think too deeply about fans because it gives him a slimy, sick, cold feeling of ‘this-almost-didn’t-happen’ as he contemplates the hundreds of thousands of people all over the world who know his face and name and favorite kind of cookie but will never actually know him. How he used to be like that and it still seems insane and completely surreal that he’s touring--actually ~~fucking~~ touring-- with bands that he’d listened to wistfully on the radio.

Ryan’s thoughts stop there, because suddenly the curtains to his bunk are being flung back and Brendon's singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and trying to get him to eat a cupcake that Brendon made his very own self in the miniature kitchen that’s so tiny you can barely fit food in it.

Ryan grumbles and waves an arm vaguely. He mumbles that he’s not hungry and that Brendon should get that poisonous slop out of his face before he dies. On his birthday.

Brendon puts on his best kicked puppy face. He resorts to poking Ryan’s unresponsive back, as Ryan is not looking at him. And, you know, obviously the kicked puppy face can’t work unless you’re looking at it. Even Brendon isn’t that good.

Ryan just hugs his pillow tighter, shaking his head ‘no’.

Brendon stops, and puts the cupcake down (on Spencer’s bunk, but Spencer won’t notice because he’s off with Jon trying not to get his ass completely handed to him in Super Smash Bros.) and hauls himself up to sit beside Ryan.

“Um, dude, can you move over a bit?” Brendon asks, because his kind gesture is somewhat ruined by that fact that Ryan has him crowded on the very edge of the bed. Ryan moves over a bit.

“Thanks,” Brendon says.

There is silence.

“So. Wanna tell me what’s got your panties in a twist?” Brendon begins in his legendarily tactful way.

Without looking, Ryan reaches up and whacks Brendon with a pillow.

“Unnecessary,” Brendon whines, nudging Ryan. “C’mon. It’s your birthday. You can’t be moping around on your goddamn birthday—“

Brendon’s cut off, sort of, by Ryan’s sudden movement. In the space of a few seconds, Ryan has relinquished his death grip on the pillow and flipped himself over, burying his face in Brendon’s side. He snakes his arms around Brendon as well, for good measure.

“Um.” Brendon says. Ryan starts to talk. His voice is understandably muffled but clear enough for Brendon to make out most of what he’s saying.

Ryan tells him about everything he’s been thinking. Ryan tells him about the let’s see and about his sixteenth birthday and about how everything’s gotten so huge so fast and it’s not that he’s not thankful, it’s just that he kind of misses when they were still just messing around and when the whole world (so it seems) wasn’t staring at their every breath.

Brendon is quiet (for once) and listens, running the fingers of one hand through Ryan’s hair in a way that Ryan enjoys much more than he’s willing to admit aloud. The fingers of Brendon’s other hand fiddle absently with a small rip in Ryan’s sheets.

Then Ryan starts thinking deeply again and only half-registers that his mouth is still moving. Brendon thus hears Ryan muse on how Ryan doesn’t mind change as such; it just takes a lot of adjusting and adjusting scares Ryan just a little.

Most of the change in Ryan’s life hasn’t been much to look forward to, either, Ryan continues. Maybe that’s why he’s bad at dealing with things. Not exactly bad, he supposes, but it’s probably not good for him to deal with things by not dealing with him. He just puts them in a box in his head and shuts it carefully and shoves it under the metaphorical bed.

It’s pretty crowded under Ryan’s metaphorical bed, but there’s always enough room for one more thing to be placed carefully under and never examined again.

It’s certainly not perfect and probably not healthy, but that’s how Ryan deals with things. So far it’s been working pretty well. After all, that’s how Ryan dealt with ~~his mom, then his dad, and the~~ stuff ~~in high school, and Brent, and~~—

“But Ry,” Brendon interrupts smoothly. “The band changed things. You moved out, and that was a change. I came, and that was a change. Those are good changes, right?” There’s the quietest hint of pleading in the way he says it.

Yes, Ryan tells him, but those had things that had to go under the bed too. When they formed a band, playing guitar helped him put things under the bed. And he knew he wasn’t the right singer, and that did sting a little because he kind of likes his voice and they are his words and it frustrates him to no end sometimes because he can never actually say them, only pin them to the page and have them fly from someone else’s lips.

Staying at Spencer’s was a good change, but there were things about that that had to go under the bed too. Living in such close proximity to someone who was like a brother led to fighting like brothers, and because they knew each other so well they knew exactly what would hurt the most. They would make up later but they would never, ever bring up the fights. Ever. It was easier that way.

That’s yet another thing that’s screwed up about Ryan Ross, Ryan mumbles. Ryan doesn’t like putting things into words.

Ha, well, he does, but only in writing. That way he can go over things and decide exactly how much to say and exactly how much to give away and he can think about things before they’re laid bare for anyone to see.

That’s what was so difficult about Brendon coming, because there were so many things Ryan had to hide under the bed for the band’s sake.

—Brendon stops himself from asking “Like what?” because he figures he’ll get a better answer out of Ryan if Ryan’s still talking in his monologue-y trance. —

Ryan envies songs and books sometimes, because they are much more convenient than real life. In real life, you have your view and your view alone. You can’t help it. It makes situations incredibly confusing because all you have to go on is you.

In books, Ryan explains, you get more than one point of view. You know what’s going on, and that’s great. Everybody’s on equal footing, and has some idea of what’s going on. In songs, you get less than one point of view. Everybody’s slightly confused and not sure what’s going on, and that’s all right too. But in real life it’s really quite unfair, that some people know what’s going on and other people don’t,

For example, Brendon probably knew what was going on. Despite his immature, hyperactive ways he can be vexingly accurate in his observations. And it wouldn’t do for the guitarist to be wanting the singer, especially the singer he was sort of jealous of and sort of proud of at the same time. That would lead to either fighting or fucking and no matter which way it went it couldn’t be good for the band.

They couldn’t lose focus, Ryan explained. Not if they wanted to get out of Vegas. But they did stay focused and they are out of Vegas and Ryan sort of wants to pull that bit out from under the bed but he’s not sure he can find it and even if he knew he could he’d still be more than a little scared to go down there.

Brendon pushes Ryan away, very gently. Ryan freezes, acutely aware of the sap he’s been spewing for god-knows-how-long. He keeps his eyes down, insides curling in on themselves, trying to prop himself up after such kind rejection.

The bunk shifts as Brendon lets himself down. He picks up the discarded cupcake and says brightly, I’m going to try and get Jon to try this, all right? Make sure my cooking’s ok.

Ryan smiles wanly, the incident already being placed carefully inside a mental box.

Brendon studies him carefully. Ryan has to look away from the intense scrutiny. Eventually Brendon comes to some sort of a decision and leans forward, giving Ryan a quick peck on the nose.

“I’ll bully Spence into making you some chocolate chip cookies, okay? Go back to sleep so you’re all better when everyone comes by with your presents.”

“Everyone? Where? Presents?” Ryan shoots up in bed, deeply interested. Brendon grins fondly at Ryan and ruffles his hair.

“You are so adorable when you’re out of it.”

Ryan pouts but Brendon is busy gazing at his own fingers, which have trailed from Ryan’s hair to skirt his eye. They move slowly down to trace his cheek and then they’re moving along Ryan’s bottom lip and then Brendon licks his own lips and takes a breath to say—

“Is the birthday boy up yet?” Jon calls loudly, stumbling into the sleeping area with Spencer. They’re laughing and exchanging jibes about the latest virtual bout.

Brendon whips his hand away from Ryan’s mouth like it’s burned him.

Brendon still fools around with Ryan for the rest of the day, but they’re never alone and Ryan doesn’t get the chance to ask what Brendon was going to tell him.

Ryan wishes sometimes that his life was like a song, because then even if it wasn’t the best it would still sound pretty. Ryan sometimes wishes that his life was like a book, because maybe then he wouldn’t be this confused about everything.

Ryan thinks Brendon is a book disguised as a song, because Ryan feels like he should be able to tell what Brendon means but all he can hear are his own words bounced back at him to the tune of Brendon.
*
Yeah. Erm. Sorry. I just wanted to post this one in time for Ryro's birthday. Happy birthday! Yet another story suggesting that he's gay for a bandmate is probably not what he'd want, but that's ok. That's what he's getting from everyone here. Hope you liked it! And dammit, can someone please explain to a poor noob how in the hell I can do the nifty cut thing so I don't have to post the story like this? Bugger it all...

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Yeah. So. Been trying all evening to post a oneshot. Am a total noob at lj. Am failing miserably and am extremely vexed.

And for some reason I feel silly if I tell people about my life when I have nothing to give them. So. Here is an odd story with Ryden in it. A gift.

Happy birthday, Ryan Ross!

....despite the fact that, you know, we'll probably never meet.

Still, it's the thought that counts, yeah? Yeah.

Fuck, I'm tired. And I have to get up in six and a half hours. And I have eight minutes to post this bitch so I'll get my ass in gear. Woo! Then I'll read more slash because I am up anyway and I need a pick-me-up.

I think I may be addicted.

Oh well!

Joy Unbounded!

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 00:57:10 GMT

Six cheers for self for finally getting one of these!

That said, I now feel the slightest bit pathetic.

Ah well. I'll live, I'm sure. I usually do.\

Well, I'm off to read more slash and listen to music and possibly watch more Ouran. And fiddle around and see what I can do with this site, of course. Woo!

:)