Strictly Under the Influence
Let's Play a Game
When Brendon wakes up the next morning, the first thought that pops in his head is, Why only his shirt? Then he rolls over to face Ryan, who's just now rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. And, unfortunately, still has on last night's sweatpants. After Hayley left that night, they both changed into something more comfortable, too bad they didn't make it all the way dressed. For that matter, they didn't get all they way undressed, either.
It was a loose-loose situation, with some added benefits to spice it up.
“Morning sunshine,” Brendon says, predicting that today will be a good day. He doesn't know how he knows; he can just feel it. He's very excited, too.
Ryan lets a crooked, sleepy grin cross his face before burying his face in Brendon's pillow. “Ugh,” he groans, “coffee. Now.”
From where Ryan stands, rubbing his eyes near the door, he can see the perfect view of Brendon's backside as he searches for his jeans that somehow got lost in the hustle and bustle of last night. Not that Ryan minds, of course, it's not exactly a bad view. Quite pleasant, come to think of it. “Ryan,” Brendon says, snapping his fingers in front of Ryan's face, “Coffee? Are you coming?”
Nodding, Ryan lets Brendon take a hold of his hand and pull him towards the kitchen, wondering what he got himself into.
_
Something was wrong. Something was, oh so terribly wrong. The picture was wrong. Everything was just wrong.
Ryan doesn't know where he is, what he was doing, or even why he's here. Wherever here is. It doesn't feel right. Nothing does. He places his hand on a table that stands nearby. The house, or apartment, or warehouse, is a complete and utter dump. It stinks, and the floors are covered in trash. Trash from places he knows, at that. Port Of Subs. Wal-Mart. Even Freddie's. “Ryan,” a familiar, but totally strange voice calls. He follows, thinking he's out of his mind because what in the world could he be doing at a dump like this at. Then it hit him that he doesn't know what time it is. “Ryan.” Oh God, this can't be good, he tells himself. It's not very reassuring, but he doesn't know what else to tell himself.
“Hello Ryan,” another voice he definitely recognizes says. He hates to say it, but it sounds like Jigsaw, from the Saw movies. “We're going to play a game,” it continues. He's scared now, out of his brains, scared. It makes no sense, but he's so terrified that he wants to crawl away without being seen and just leave. “You see that young man over there?” Ryan looks to where the puppet on the screen is nodding towards and gasps when he sees Brendon; all dirty and defeated looking. “On your leg, is a device that will cut you in half, all you have to do is get the key.” When he looks down, there's a God-awful looking machine that will cut him in half if he doesn't get the key. But, since when is this wack-job real? He thought he was only in the movie. “Look at that young man, Ryan.” He does what he's told. “The key has been surgically inserted in his leg, which one, you will have to find out on your own. It's your choice, Ryan. Live or die.” Static.
Sweat. Ryan shoots up where he's laying in, well he thinks, his bed. There's sheets. That's a good sign. There's, also, Brendon at his side, rubbing at his eyes. Ryan leans down and pats his leg down. No ugly looking machine. He slowly looks to Brendon, who's clean as a whistle, and then he sighs. “What is it, Ryan?”
Ryan leans over and presses his lips to Brendon's rather forcefully and lies back down on the pillow. “It's nothing, go back to sleep,” Ryan answers.
Propping himself up on his elbow, Brendon looks at Ryan with half-glazed over eyes from being woken up. “No, you've got my attention now: what is it?”
“It was just a bad dream, go back to sleep,” Ryan coos. He glances at the clock, which reads 3:42 a.m. and rolls over towards the wall. Brendon scoots closer and wraps his arms around Ryan's tiny waist, falling instantly asleep.
_
Alcohol. That's the first thought that pops into Ryan's mind the next afternoon when he and Brendon are watching television. He thinks it's been about two months since he's had anything remotely alcoholic to drink. He also thinks it's been about two months since he's met Brendon. Reality check? It's been that long?
Ryan didn't realize. That's odd; he usually needs it to survive. Well, that's what he thought. But apparently not. “Brendon,” he says, turning to face the younger boy, “how long have we known each other?”
“A few months, why? What's on your mind, Ryan?”
“I haven't had a drink since that night I met you, or morning, whichever your prefer,” he says, taking the remote off the coffee table and turned the TV off. “It's more than a little weird, I don't know why, but I haven't even thought about it.”
“Huh,” Brendon says, “that is odd.”
_
“Hayley's coming back over tonight,” Spencer says, glaring from his place at Brendon's doorframe.
Brendon looks out from his closet, contemplating his chances of Ryan being pissed if he shows up at Diane's Books, and stares at the blonde for a second before comprehending what was said. Brendon says, “Ryan and I will be on our best behavior,” in a flat tone, looking for that stupid scarf that he loves. It's getting close to winter, which means Christmas, and gift giving, and SNOW! Brendon loves snow. He sticks his head back in the closet digging around on the bottom for it.
“I hope so,” Spencer says, somberly, exiting the room.
“While she's in sight,” Brendon adds when he leaves, to himself. Now, where is that God-forsaken scarf? He spots something grey, just under a pair of forgotten jeans and tugs it out. It's the scarf! Finally, Brendon thinks. Now he can finish getting ready and walk a few blocks to Diane's.
After slipping on his warmest pair of jeans (which aren't very warm, weirdly) and a plain, black, t-shirt under a jacket and wrapping his scarf around his neck, Brendon's off to the bookstore. When he arrives, Ryan looks up from the counter and the corner of his mouth sort of turns up in an attempt at smiling. Brendon just thinks it's cute. The older boy slips a bookmark into an already well-read book and sets it aside, saying, “Well, well, well, what can I do for you, Mr. Urie?”
“Please,” Brendon jokes, putting a hand up, “call me Brendon.” He leans his elbows on the counter and places his head in them, wiggling his eyebrows. “So what time do you get off work, cutie?”
Ryan glances up at the clock behind him and the long column of his throat gives Brendon detailed fantasies, that, at the moment, he's trying to tuck into the farthest nook of his brain. Looking back at the dark-haired boy, Ryan says, “N…Now.” He stands up and Brendon watches as he leans down to pick up his jacket and keys off the small table behind the counter.
“Spencer's Hayley is coming over again, tonight,” Brendon says.
It was a loose-loose situation, with some added benefits to spice it up.
“Morning sunshine,” Brendon says, predicting that today will be a good day. He doesn't know how he knows; he can just feel it. He's very excited, too.
Ryan lets a crooked, sleepy grin cross his face before burying his face in Brendon's pillow. “Ugh,” he groans, “coffee. Now.”
From where Ryan stands, rubbing his eyes near the door, he can see the perfect view of Brendon's backside as he searches for his jeans that somehow got lost in the hustle and bustle of last night. Not that Ryan minds, of course, it's not exactly a bad view. Quite pleasant, come to think of it. “Ryan,” Brendon says, snapping his fingers in front of Ryan's face, “Coffee? Are you coming?”
Nodding, Ryan lets Brendon take a hold of his hand and pull him towards the kitchen, wondering what he got himself into.
_
Something was wrong. Something was, oh so terribly wrong. The picture was wrong. Everything was just wrong.
Ryan doesn't know where he is, what he was doing, or even why he's here. Wherever here is. It doesn't feel right. Nothing does. He places his hand on a table that stands nearby. The house, or apartment, or warehouse, is a complete and utter dump. It stinks, and the floors are covered in trash. Trash from places he knows, at that. Port Of Subs. Wal-Mart. Even Freddie's. “Ryan,” a familiar, but totally strange voice calls. He follows, thinking he's out of his mind because what in the world could he be doing at a dump like this at. Then it hit him that he doesn't know what time it is. “Ryan.” Oh God, this can't be good, he tells himself. It's not very reassuring, but he doesn't know what else to tell himself.
“Hello Ryan,” another voice he definitely recognizes says. He hates to say it, but it sounds like Jigsaw, from the Saw movies. “We're going to play a game,” it continues. He's scared now, out of his brains, scared. It makes no sense, but he's so terrified that he wants to crawl away without being seen and just leave. “You see that young man over there?” Ryan looks to where the puppet on the screen is nodding towards and gasps when he sees Brendon; all dirty and defeated looking. “On your leg, is a device that will cut you in half, all you have to do is get the key.” When he looks down, there's a God-awful looking machine that will cut him in half if he doesn't get the key. But, since when is this wack-job real? He thought he was only in the movie. “Look at that young man, Ryan.” He does what he's told. “The key has been surgically inserted in his leg, which one, you will have to find out on your own. It's your choice, Ryan. Live or die.” Static.
Sweat. Ryan shoots up where he's laying in, well he thinks, his bed. There's sheets. That's a good sign. There's, also, Brendon at his side, rubbing at his eyes. Ryan leans down and pats his leg down. No ugly looking machine. He slowly looks to Brendon, who's clean as a whistle, and then he sighs. “What is it, Ryan?”
Ryan leans over and presses his lips to Brendon's rather forcefully and lies back down on the pillow. “It's nothing, go back to sleep,” Ryan answers.
Propping himself up on his elbow, Brendon looks at Ryan with half-glazed over eyes from being woken up. “No, you've got my attention now: what is it?”
“It was just a bad dream, go back to sleep,” Ryan coos. He glances at the clock, which reads 3:42 a.m. and rolls over towards the wall. Brendon scoots closer and wraps his arms around Ryan's tiny waist, falling instantly asleep.
_
Alcohol. That's the first thought that pops into Ryan's mind the next afternoon when he and Brendon are watching television. He thinks it's been about two months since he's had anything remotely alcoholic to drink. He also thinks it's been about two months since he's met Brendon. Reality check? It's been that long?
Ryan didn't realize. That's odd; he usually needs it to survive. Well, that's what he thought. But apparently not. “Brendon,” he says, turning to face the younger boy, “how long have we known each other?”
“A few months, why? What's on your mind, Ryan?”
“I haven't had a drink since that night I met you, or morning, whichever your prefer,” he says, taking the remote off the coffee table and turned the TV off. “It's more than a little weird, I don't know why, but I haven't even thought about it.”
“Huh,” Brendon says, “that is odd.”
_
“Hayley's coming back over tonight,” Spencer says, glaring from his place at Brendon's doorframe.
Brendon looks out from his closet, contemplating his chances of Ryan being pissed if he shows up at Diane's Books, and stares at the blonde for a second before comprehending what was said. Brendon says, “Ryan and I will be on our best behavior,” in a flat tone, looking for that stupid scarf that he loves. It's getting close to winter, which means Christmas, and gift giving, and SNOW! Brendon loves snow. He sticks his head back in the closet digging around on the bottom for it.
“I hope so,” Spencer says, somberly, exiting the room.
“While she's in sight,” Brendon adds when he leaves, to himself. Now, where is that God-forsaken scarf? He spots something grey, just under a pair of forgotten jeans and tugs it out. It's the scarf! Finally, Brendon thinks. Now he can finish getting ready and walk a few blocks to Diane's.
After slipping on his warmest pair of jeans (which aren't very warm, weirdly) and a plain, black, t-shirt under a jacket and wrapping his scarf around his neck, Brendon's off to the bookstore. When he arrives, Ryan looks up from the counter and the corner of his mouth sort of turns up in an attempt at smiling. Brendon just thinks it's cute. The older boy slips a bookmark into an already well-read book and sets it aside, saying, “Well, well, well, what can I do for you, Mr. Urie?”
“Please,” Brendon jokes, putting a hand up, “call me Brendon.” He leans his elbows on the counter and places his head in them, wiggling his eyebrows. “So what time do you get off work, cutie?”
Ryan glances up at the clock behind him and the long column of his throat gives Brendon detailed fantasies, that, at the moment, he's trying to tuck into the farthest nook of his brain. Looking back at the dark-haired boy, Ryan says, “N…Now.” He stands up and Brendon watches as he leans down to pick up his jacket and keys off the small table behind the counter.
“Spencer's Hayley is coming over again, tonight,” Brendon says.
♠ ♠ ♠
I know this is shortSORRY