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Title: I. Obsession
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
POV: Third
Summary: In a cramped apartment in a far-off land lived a young painter who was in love with a boy he'd never met.
Disclaimer: Never happened. Title of series belongs to Francesca Lia Block. A little bit inspired by Weetzie Bat.
Love is a dangerous animal.
The hunt for that beautiful head to hang on the wall of one's heart, gruesome and graceful.
Strengths in a hunter being smooth talking, charm, muscles, bronze skin, and money, none of which one Ryan Ross was in possession of; weaknesses being slight depression, disfunctional childhood history, lack of any skin color whatsoever, and financial issues, all of which he was.
This story, convoluted and full of frustration, it should start with a once-upon-a-time, but it doesn't.
None really do.
This will have to suffice.
In a cramped apartment in a far-off land lived a young painter who was in love with a boy he'd never met.
He romanced him with thick paint spread over canvases, the smell of the oil like the most aromatic perfume, the colors blending like lovers united. He painted him every day, trying to get him perfect. Every canvas Ryan's brushes came across ended up bearing the likeness of the same boy.
Well, not quite. Always different, this boy was. Tall and heavy-set or pixie-height and skeletal, dark-skinned or light-skinned, bald or with hair flowing to the floor, sometimes even a girl, sometimes even a bird or a dog or a butterfly or a tree. But always, always, always with the intense stare of one full of life, of energy, of love.
The boy had no name and didn't need one; his "names" were many, but all Ryan called him outside of little paper labels mounted on walls next to framed beauties was The One. The Only One.
These paintings were rarely offered for sale, and even more rarely did someone buy one. This was probably because the only ones Ryan was ever able to let go of, the only ones he didn't want to hang on his walls and cherish forever, they were the paintings of The One as trees or flowers or smears of color, and trees and flowers and color-amoebas with burnt-umber-with-a-touch-of-sienna-and-ochre eyes staring out of the canvas are too drugged-up-looking to hang on rich people's walls.
The only walls The One belonged on, really, were the walls of Ryan's heart. The walls of his home would have to do. Home is where the heart is, is it not? And what a home it was.
Home was peeling wallpaper and waterspots on the ceiling. Grout worn off on the shower tiles, and more tiles falling off every morning. ******** carpet pressed down so much it was like having a wood floor, but more rancid and less comforting. Home was sometimes so filled with paint fumes that Ryan had to stumble out to the balcony, gasping for air, before he could stand straight again. Home was turpentine and the squeaks of mice and stepping on roaches and boxes upon boxes of ramen bought in bulk, usually undercooked and often crunchy due to lack of water that wasn't beige and slightly chunky.
Most of all, home was hell on earth.
Ryan wanted, needed to get out of this shithole. Not helping when he couldn't sell a single ******** painting. He was on the verge of just moving into a cardboard box; maybe that wouldn't smell quite so much like mold and Failure.
Then came The Subway.
Subway being the first subway ride Ryan was able to afford in a long time; apparently some rich man liked his burnt-umber-with-a-touch-of-sienna-and-ochre-eyed butterfly triptych, at least enough to shell out a bit of money for it. Hence the subway, which Ryan was riding half just because he missed the feeling of moving while sitting (Sitting! He had forgotten that was possible) and half because he needed some new brushes.
Subway being standing there (not sitting, sadly. He supposed the Subway God had decided Ryan wasn't ready for that miracle just yet), gripping a pole with red-blue-green-violet-yellow-ochre-thalo-blue hands, grinning from the rush of all this movement.
And Him. The One. Across the aisle from Ryan. Him, Him, Him.
Ryan wanted to shriek with joy and grab Him and kiss Him and never let go.
He looked different than Ryan had thought He would look. Ryan had never known, really, but he had expected... well, he didn't know what. What he got was pale skin (rather like Ryan's was under all that paint caked on), skinny body (except for, it seemed, a rather nicely-proportioned bottom half), and dark, messy hair. Red framed glasses. Skinny jeans, too skinny to be possible, and yet there (and flattering). Lavender hoodie. ******** lavender hoodie. This was too good to be true. And the Eyes. Like strokes of color on his canvases, burnt-umber-with-a-touch-of-sienna-and-ochre and intense. Watching Ryan check Him out. s**t. Ryan's glance shot back to the person in front of him, but eventually slid back.
"Like what you see?" The One said softly, right side of his mouth (full and soft and perfect) pulling back into a smirk. Just stare at that other person. Pretend to not have been looking. "I said, like what you see?" Ignore Him. Don't want to say something stupid. "One of those, huh?" Ryan's eyes burned holes into his shoes. "Deniiial," The One sang lightly, like a ******** five-year-old. Who does that? Ryan didn't know. This was The One? An immature little geek-boy with no tact? Ryan was definitely disappointed.
And then it was his stop.
Looking back, Ryan couldn't believe how badly he'd ******** up. The One he'd been searching for for years, his muse, his Only, Him, and he'd walked away. The only good (or maybe bad) result was that his artwork, his paintings, once treasured, they weren't good enough anymore. He needed to paint new paintings, the way He really looked, so Ryan went on the hunt for somewhere to sell the old.
Amazingly enough, some local gallery was willing to show the stuff, and for a modest price. Ryan's life was just filled with miracles.
That night, The Night in Ryan's mind, he actually washed the paint stains off his hands. He actually took the time to style his hair. He actually dressed up in a suit, with a tie, of all things. He could afford it, hopefully, after Tonight.
The Night started uneventfully enough, with Ryan freaking out (silently, with plenty of pacing and biting his lip) about the fact that no one had shown up yet, regardless of the fact that the show wouldn't open for about an hour. Freaking out about how this painting was too bright, this was too dull, he was forever destined to be a Failure.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, because people seemed to flow in. Although few carried anything away at first, there was Hope Of Not Being A Failure. Wrong, because by the end of the night, almost everything was gone. Wrong, because, of all people, He was there.
He'd been there since pretty much the beginning. Ryan tried to hide as much as he could, but in the end, He caught him.
"You never answered my question," Ryan heard a voice whisper from behind him. He couldn't forget that voice. Melodic and deep and just so fitting. "Do you or don't you?" Spinning Ryan around and close, so close. Ryan couldn't breathe.
He choked on a yes. Then on His lips, forced at him. His eyes widened, then snapped shut as his body relaxed into His. The One pulled away much too soon.
"Brendon Urie. Find me if you liked that." And The One was out the door. This Boy (Brendon. It sounded right somehow.) was just too much. Ryan wasn't going to be reduced to a whimpering mess of desperation. He wasn't going to go find this Brendon boy's house just to possibly be laughed out the door. He wasn't.
That lasted a few days, after which Ryan's resolve cracked and fell to the floor with a clang he could almost hear. He got out a phone book.
One wouldn't think there would be that many Urie, Bs in this city.
Too many "No, there's no Brendons here" later, and finally the door opened on Him.
"I knew you'd show up sooner or later," Brendon said, chuckling. "Come on in." This was weird, creepy, and yet Ryan wanted to go in. Needed to go in. "So," Brendon stated, like it meant something by itself.
"So... what?" Ryan answered.
"Who are you and what have you done with my ******** brain?"
"Ryan, and I should be asking You that."
Brendon fiddled with His shirt for a second, then not-so-gracefully changed the subject. "So you paint?"
"Yeah. You."
"What?"
"You. I paint You. Except I'd never seen You before the other day."
"Well."
"Well, what?"
"Well, just ******** kiss me already."
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
POV: Third
Summary: In a cramped apartment in a far-off land lived a young painter who was in love with a boy he'd never met.
Disclaimer: Never happened. Title of series belongs to Francesca Lia Block. A little bit inspired by Weetzie Bat.
Love is a dangerous animal.
The hunt for that beautiful head to hang on the wall of one's heart, gruesome and graceful.
Strengths in a hunter being smooth talking, charm, muscles, bronze skin, and money, none of which one Ryan Ross was in possession of; weaknesses being slight depression, disfunctional childhood history, lack of any skin color whatsoever, and financial issues, all of which he was.
This story, convoluted and full of frustration, it should start with a once-upon-a-time, but it doesn't.
None really do.
This will have to suffice.
In a cramped apartment in a far-off land lived a young painter who was in love with a boy he'd never met.
He romanced him with thick paint spread over canvases, the smell of the oil like the most aromatic perfume, the colors blending like lovers united. He painted him every day, trying to get him perfect. Every canvas Ryan's brushes came across ended up bearing the likeness of the same boy.
Well, not quite. Always different, this boy was. Tall and heavy-set or pixie-height and skeletal, dark-skinned or light-skinned, bald or with hair flowing to the floor, sometimes even a girl, sometimes even a bird or a dog or a butterfly or a tree. But always, always, always with the intense stare of one full of life, of energy, of love.
The boy had no name and didn't need one; his "names" were many, but all Ryan called him outside of little paper labels mounted on walls next to framed beauties was The One. The Only One.
These paintings were rarely offered for sale, and even more rarely did someone buy one. This was probably because the only ones Ryan was ever able to let go of, the only ones he didn't want to hang on his walls and cherish forever, they were the paintings of The One as trees or flowers or smears of color, and trees and flowers and color-amoebas with burnt-umber-with-a-touch-of-sienna-and-ochre eyes staring out of the canvas are too drugged-up-looking to hang on rich people's walls.
The only walls The One belonged on, really, were the walls of Ryan's heart. The walls of his home would have to do. Home is where the heart is, is it not? And what a home it was.
Home was peeling wallpaper and waterspots on the ceiling. Grout worn off on the shower tiles, and more tiles falling off every morning. ******** carpet pressed down so much it was like having a wood floor, but more rancid and less comforting. Home was sometimes so filled with paint fumes that Ryan had to stumble out to the balcony, gasping for air, before he could stand straight again. Home was turpentine and the squeaks of mice and stepping on roaches and boxes upon boxes of ramen bought in bulk, usually undercooked and often crunchy due to lack of water that wasn't beige and slightly chunky.
Most of all, home was hell on earth.
Ryan wanted, needed to get out of this shithole. Not helping when he couldn't sell a single ******** painting. He was on the verge of just moving into a cardboard box; maybe that wouldn't smell quite so much like mold and Failure.
Then came The Subway.
Subway being the first subway ride Ryan was able to afford in a long time; apparently some rich man liked his burnt-umber-with-a-touch-of-sienna-and-ochre-eyed butterfly triptych, at least enough to shell out a bit of money for it. Hence the subway, which Ryan was riding half just because he missed the feeling of moving while sitting (Sitting! He had forgotten that was possible) and half because he needed some new brushes.
Subway being standing there (not sitting, sadly. He supposed the Subway God had decided Ryan wasn't ready for that miracle just yet), gripping a pole with red-blue-green-violet-yellow-ochre-thalo-blue hands, grinning from the rush of all this movement.
And Him. The One. Across the aisle from Ryan. Him, Him, Him.
Ryan wanted to shriek with joy and grab Him and kiss Him and never let go.
He looked different than Ryan had thought He would look. Ryan had never known, really, but he had expected... well, he didn't know what. What he got was pale skin (rather like Ryan's was under all that paint caked on), skinny body (except for, it seemed, a rather nicely-proportioned bottom half), and dark, messy hair. Red framed glasses. Skinny jeans, too skinny to be possible, and yet there (and flattering). Lavender hoodie. ******** lavender hoodie. This was too good to be true. And the Eyes. Like strokes of color on his canvases, burnt-umber-with-a-touch-of-sienna-and-ochre and intense. Watching Ryan check Him out. s**t. Ryan's glance shot back to the person in front of him, but eventually slid back.
"Like what you see?" The One said softly, right side of his mouth (full and soft and perfect) pulling back into a smirk. Just stare at that other person. Pretend to not have been looking. "I said, like what you see?" Ignore Him. Don't want to say something stupid. "One of those, huh?" Ryan's eyes burned holes into his shoes. "Deniiial," The One sang lightly, like a ******** five-year-old. Who does that? Ryan didn't know. This was The One? An immature little geek-boy with no tact? Ryan was definitely disappointed.
And then it was his stop.
Looking back, Ryan couldn't believe how badly he'd ******** up. The One he'd been searching for for years, his muse, his Only, Him, and he'd walked away. The only good (or maybe bad) result was that his artwork, his paintings, once treasured, they weren't good enough anymore. He needed to paint new paintings, the way He really looked, so Ryan went on the hunt for somewhere to sell the old.
Amazingly enough, some local gallery was willing to show the stuff, and for a modest price. Ryan's life was just filled with miracles.
That night, The Night in Ryan's mind, he actually washed the paint stains off his hands. He actually took the time to style his hair. He actually dressed up in a suit, with a tie, of all things. He could afford it, hopefully, after Tonight.
The Night started uneventfully enough, with Ryan freaking out (silently, with plenty of pacing and biting his lip) about the fact that no one had shown up yet, regardless of the fact that the show wouldn't open for about an hour. Freaking out about how this painting was too bright, this was too dull, he was forever destined to be a Failure.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, because people seemed to flow in. Although few carried anything away at first, there was Hope Of Not Being A Failure. Wrong, because by the end of the night, almost everything was gone. Wrong, because, of all people, He was there.
He'd been there since pretty much the beginning. Ryan tried to hide as much as he could, but in the end, He caught him.
"You never answered my question," Ryan heard a voice whisper from behind him. He couldn't forget that voice. Melodic and deep and just so fitting. "Do you or don't you?" Spinning Ryan around and close, so close. Ryan couldn't breathe.
He choked on a yes. Then on His lips, forced at him. His eyes widened, then snapped shut as his body relaxed into His. The One pulled away much too soon.
"Brendon Urie. Find me if you liked that." And The One was out the door. This Boy (Brendon. It sounded right somehow.) was just too much. Ryan wasn't going to be reduced to a whimpering mess of desperation. He wasn't going to go find this Brendon boy's house just to possibly be laughed out the door. He wasn't.
That lasted a few days, after which Ryan's resolve cracked and fell to the floor with a clang he could almost hear. He got out a phone book.
One wouldn't think there would be that many Urie, Bs in this city.
Too many "No, there's no Brendons here" later, and finally the door opened on Him.
"I knew you'd show up sooner or later," Brendon said, chuckling. "Come on in." This was weird, creepy, and yet Ryan wanted to go in. Needed to go in. "So," Brendon stated, like it meant something by itself.
"So... what?" Ryan answered.
"Who are you and what have you done with my ******** brain?"
"Ryan, and I should be asking You that."
Brendon fiddled with His shirt for a second, then not-so-gracefully changed the subject. "So you paint?"
"Yeah. You."
"What?"
"You. I paint You. Except I'd never seen You before the other day."
"Well."
"Well, what?"
"Well, just ******** kiss me already."
