Status: We'll see
Devil in the Details
005
Brendon Urie is an idiot and Ryan's fucking drunk.
I like it when you sing.
I like it when you sing.
Ryan wants to cry. Ryan wants to punch a mirror, watch his eyeliner smudge in the shattered shards and drive those disgusting fragments of his reflection into his arm. Damn himself to bleeding out in the tiny bathroom of their bus.
Instead - instead, Ryan just drinks. He's itching for more, for that sweet, precious powder. The white-out and then the thoughts, the words he put together. He's worth a damn when he's high. It makes him the goose laying the golden eggs, anything but the sober dead weight he is now.
Alcohol is nothing compared to Her.
He shivers, in this god forsaken parking lot, and stares at the faded lights a block down the road, their reflection glinting in the sheen of fallen rain on tarmac. He puts the bottle down, Johnnie Walker scotch because it's always been so, so funny to everyone. A little inside joke.
Ryan hasn't laughed about it for weeks.
From his leather jacket he procures a battered box of Richmonds and a shitty, white bic lighter because the ones with the wheels always hurt his thumb. He lights the cigarette angrily after a few tries, the slight wind and the rain it brings with it making it unnecessarily difficult.
Fucking Brendon.
He was so god damn empty, so ready to fade out into nothingness and then that fucking... that fucking moron had to say something stupid and start it all off again. Hope. And it's so desperate, so disgusting Ryan chokes on a sob, smoke leaving him in forlorn, abrupt puffs. Maybe he's the moron. The butt of the joke. Ryan can't just be nice to someone like Brendon, can't just give a little and let them be. It's all or nothing.
And Brendon has it all, and now Ryan is nothing.
I like it when you sing.
I like it when you sing.
Ryan wants to cry. Ryan wants to punch a mirror, watch his eyeliner smudge in the shattered shards and drive those disgusting fragments of his reflection into his arm. Damn himself to bleeding out in the tiny bathroom of their bus.
Instead - instead, Ryan just drinks. He's itching for more, for that sweet, precious powder. The white-out and then the thoughts, the words he put together. He's worth a damn when he's high. It makes him the goose laying the golden eggs, anything but the sober dead weight he is now.
Alcohol is nothing compared to Her.
He shivers, in this god forsaken parking lot, and stares at the faded lights a block down the road, their reflection glinting in the sheen of fallen rain on tarmac. He puts the bottle down, Johnnie Walker scotch because it's always been so, so funny to everyone. A little inside joke.
Ryan hasn't laughed about it for weeks.
From his leather jacket he procures a battered box of Richmonds and a shitty, white bic lighter because the ones with the wheels always hurt his thumb. He lights the cigarette angrily after a few tries, the slight wind and the rain it brings with it making it unnecessarily difficult.
Fucking Brendon.
He was so god damn empty, so ready to fade out into nothingness and then that fucking... that fucking moron had to say something stupid and start it all off again. Hope. And it's so desperate, so disgusting Ryan chokes on a sob, smoke leaving him in forlorn, abrupt puffs. Maybe he's the moron. The butt of the joke. Ryan can't just be nice to someone like Brendon, can't just give a little and let them be. It's all or nothing.
And Brendon has it all, and now Ryan is nothing.