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bandomstuffsit2010-12-31 01:31 pm
stuffitmod.livejournal.com) wrote in bandomstuffsit2010-12-31 01:31 pm
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Quarters Minted Before 1964: Gift for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
redorchids
Title: Quarters Minted Before 1964
Author:provetheworst
Pairing(s): Brendon/Ryan
Rating: PG
Warnings: Needless experimentation with structure and format.
Word count: 6,926
Summary: Ryan wakes up in a place very different from where he went to sleep.
INT. A DIRTY NEW YORK APARTMENT, DAY.
Our hero RYAN lays sleeping on the couch, wearing only one shoe – unlaced - and two socks, mismatched. The other shoe is on the floor somewhere near his friend ALEX’s guitars, which are set up in a corner. The couch should be covered in stained tweed, or, failing that, some incredibly bright color.
RYAN and his friends have just finished partying in celebration of finishing finals. Another friend lies asleep on the armchair that RYAN and ALEX found in an alleyway.
RYAN:
(mumbling)
That’s my shoe. Give it back. You’re a dog, it doesn’t even fit.
RYAN shifts in his sleep, rolling over onto his stomach with his head facing the front of the couch.
Lightning flashes outside the window. The sound of rain can be heard, the volume slowly rising.
Dim the lights.
-
Ryan wakes up.
He stares up at the blue, blue sky, then quickly rolls over, pushing himself up so he’s sitting and wipes frantically at his mouth. The grasshopper that had been wandering across his face dislikes this turn of events and jumps away as quick as it’s able.
After a moment, feeling a bit stupid for having freaked out over a grasshopper, Ryan gets up. The ground’s a little damp, wetness soaking through his socks. Looking around doesn’t provide any good hints as to where he is just now, but off one way – he thinks maybe east, if he’s reckoning the sun right, but fuck knows for sure – there’s a road, so he heads off toward it.
Everything here is very green. Ryan’s from Vegas, has been living in New York to finish off his degree – transferred, his junior year – and this looks like neither locale. It doesn’t look like LA, either, or really, anyplace he’s spent any amount of time in. At first he figures it’s a shitty joke his friends decided to play, but none of them own cars in the city so they couldn’t have driven him out here.
Ryan’s a bit confused, so he figures he’ll just accept it. Maybe it’s a dream.
He gets to the road, which isn’t actually paved, and starts walking, eventually taking off his socks to let his toes curl against the most earth and squelch against the muddier patches. He rolls up his pants because he’s only worn them one day and doesn’t want to wash them just yet, not since they’re going to need dry cleaning.
He should have thought of that before passing out in them, actually, but whatever.
-
Ryan gets to a weird little fairy-tale town after not too long, with scruffy dogs behind fences barking out his arrival. The better-built buildings have gabled roofs with brightly colored trim. Some houses have thatched roofs, instead, and are generally smaller. All have immaculately kept yards, and most have little gardens out front. The fences are all white picket, and cheery flowers grow in the roadway. A few kids playing some esoteric game with hoops and sticks look up for a moment, disinterested, then ignore him to go back to their game.
A goat trots across the street in front of Ryan, paying him no mind.
With nothing better to do, Ryan keeps walking. The sunlight wanes, and the day draws nearer to an end, and Ryan explores and finds the town tavern without too much more trouble.
The only trouble he has is deciding if it’s a tavern or a pub or an inn, or some other classification he’s unaware of.
-
INT. PROVINCIAL INN – EVENING
A COMELY LASS bustles to and fro, cheerfully serving the inn’s patrons. She wears a long gingham dress and a bright white apron with only a few stains. A group of men sit at a table in the corner playing poker; a husband and wife eat dinner at another table. A YOUND LAD skulks about the corner, fussing with the strings of an OUT-OF-TUNE GUITAR.
COMELY LASS:
Are you all right, there? Need some help?
YOUNG LAD:
I’ve got this, Greta. Don’t worry. Just give me a – oh, fuck! I mean, uh. Oops.
A string snaps. A few of the men playing poker turn to look, briefly, before returning to their game. The COMELY LASS – GRETA, as we now know – hustles behind the counter and fetches, rather miraculously another set of strings, which she throws to the YOUNG LAD.
Enter RYAN.
GRETA:
Oh, hi! Haven’t seen you around. Are you passing through?
RYAN:
I guess so. Are you a ghost?
GRETA:
(amused)
A ghost? No.
RYAN:
So this is some Wizard of Oz stuff? I don’t get it.
GRETA:
I’m not a wizard, either.
The YOUNG LAD has finally gotten the guitar tuned, and strums a venturesome chord. GRETA fetches a rag and begins cleaning.
RYAN:
Well, you’re a ghost.
YOUNG LAD:
Me?
RYAN:
Either you’re a ghost, or I’m dreaming. Hi, Brendon.
YOUNG LAD:
Ryan?
RYAN:
I knew it.
YOUNG LAD – or BRENDON:
But you died!
RYAN:
(laughing)
I did not. Fuck off.
BRENDON:
When we were eight. You drowned. I remember. Greta, you were there, right? At least at the funeral. Not when he drowned, at least.
RYAN:
(defensive)
How would I have drowned if I’m still here? I know how to swim. If anyone’s a ghost, it’s you guys, even though I’m pretty sure you’re not dead.
BRENDON:
How are we – oh my god, what if we’re all dead? Holy shit.
GRETA looks up from wiping off the countertop.
GRETA:
What on earth?
BRENDON:
I mean, if all of us, right now, if the reason we’re talking to Ryan is because we all died and this is the afterlife! I didn’t think heaven would be like this, though. Or hell, for that matter.
GRETA:
We’re not dead. And this can’t be the same Ryan, anyway.
BRENDON:
He looks like Ryan. Or like Ryan would look, I guess. I mean, he looks like Ryan’s mom and dad, and Ryan, only older. Whatever. He’s got that montone bullshit going on, too.
GRETA:
Ryan, look. Would you like a drink? Brendon, shut up and play.
GRETA searches for a clean glass behind the counter, pouring out a warm brown liquid from an old glass bottle. She slides it across the bar in RYAN’s direction, and he steps up to take it gratefully.
RYAN:
You tried out for my band, but then you couldn’t join for some reason. We broke up not too long after that anyway. We weren’t very good. You were a good singer, though. Maybe we would have lasted long enough to put out an album or two with a decent vocalist.
BRENDON:
I don’t even know what you’re talking about, man.
-
Ryan gives up trying to convince Brendon what reality’s really like, and instead lets himself be regaled with stories of that time when he died.
“You were, like, eight,” Brendon says. “And I was six, seven? It was summer, anyway, a really hot day, so we went down to the pond. Spencer had the flu so he couldn’t come. Mom didn’t want me to go, but I snuck out.”
“Dude,” Ryan says, a little incredulous. “Did you let me drown?”
“Shut up,” Brendon says. “Let me finish. Man, telling someone how they died is so weird. Are you sure you’re not a ghost? If you find out, are you going to haunt me?”
“Sure,” Ryan says. “Yeah, I’ll haunt you, why not.” A little paranoid, Ryan scratches at the back of his hand, but it hurts. He’s pretty sure he’s alive. Then again, he looks up. “Hey, can you touch me?”
“Uhm.”
“To see if I’m alive,” Ryan says.
Brendon stares at him for a moment, then cups a hand against Ryan’s heart, leaning in with exaggerated care and a big-eyed, goofy expression, like he’s ready to play it off either way. His hand’s warm through Ryan’s shirt. “You’ve got a heartbeat.”
“Sick.”
Brendon stands back and looks at him, then grins wide. “You look healthy.”
“Are you supposed to be playing now?”
Brendon shrugs. “Maybe. You should get some dinner. The cook, Alex, he’s pretty good.”
“Greenwald?”
Brendon tilts his head sideways. “What?”
“Alex.”
“Oh, no,” Brendon says. “You know an Alex? Wait, why am I asking. Everyone knows an Alex. No, this is Suarez.”
“Oh,” Ryan says. He’s never met an Alex Suarez, as far as he knows but it’s possible his friend Alex back home has mentioned one before. Either way, Ryan isn’t sure and doesn’t especially care. “I don’t think I can pay, though. I don’t have my wallet on me.”
“It’s chill,” Brendon says. “Greta will cover, like usual.”
“I heard that!” Greta calls from halfway across the room. “And I will not!”
“Not even for the crazy ghost?”
She finishes up whatever it is she’s doing and meanders back to the little stage where Ryan and Brendon are sitting and not playing music. “We take copper, silver, gold. Whatever you’ve got.”
“Haven’t got any of any of it,” Ryan says, then digs in his pockets thoughtfully until he finds a quarter which he holds out. “Is this silver?”
“Hm,” Greta says, taking the coin between thumb and forefinger and holding it in front of her face to examine. “Looks to be so. Might be a little of something else in it.”
“So can I get dinner with it?”
“You can get quite a few dinners with it, in fact,” Greta says, cheerfully. “I’d even let you stay two nights, breakfast and dinner, for this.”
“Don’t do it,” Brendon tells him, seriously. “You can stay at my place and save the money.”
“You can’t cook.” Greta gives Brendon a vaguely condescending, over-sweet smile, then laughs a little, turning back to Ryan. “It’s up to you.”
“Staying with friends is always nice,” Ryan decides, nodding to Brendon.
Brendon raises his eyebrows a little, but smiles anyway, faintly confused and still friendly.
“Well, I assume we’d be friends if I weren’t dead,” Ryan says. “Since apparently we knew each other as children.”
“You didn’t know me as children?”
“No.”
“Oh,” Brendon says. “Man, this is really weird. So are you from the future?”
Ryan blinks, considering it. “I could be, but I don’t think this is the real past. It’s like – a fake past.”
“Maybe you’re from the fake future, though,” Brendon says.
Greta smiles a little and then ducks away to get back to work. Ryan looks after her for a moment, then back to Brendon. “So do you like her, then?”
“She’s okay,” Brendon says. “Why?”
“Nothing,” Ryan says.
-
Brendon has a tiny little cabin out at the edge of town. The door is unlocked, and a skinny little dog bounces an excited greeting as they enter.
“Thank you,” Ryan says. “For letting me stay.”
“It’s not as comfy as the inn,” Brendon says. “But they have bed bugs, so it evens out.”
“Oh, ew.” Ryan makes a face. “Thank you.”
Brendon grins, and goes to dig through the cupboards for some simple food to prepare. He has potatoes and onions, and gets out a pot to cook a bit of rice as well. “It’ll take a while, by the way. Sorry.”
“That’s fine,” Ryan tells him.
After dinner, Brendon gives up his bed and Ryan doesn’t bother arguing, though he knows he’s expected to. He’s feeling sort of off-balance and confused just being here, and having trouble acknowledging any of it is real at all. Pretending to be polite to a ghost or dream or whatever feels pointless.
-
Ryan wakes up to the sound of movement and the clatter of a spoon in a pot. He squints his eyes shut tight, rubbing at his nose, then blinks his eyes open against the morning light.
There’s a thatched straw roof overhead, and the mattress is a little lumpy, and he’s still – wherever he is. He sits down and swings his feet over the edge of the bed and watches Brendon cooking breakfast, whatever it is.
He presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose and tries not to sigh too overdramatically. He lifts his shoulders then lets them drop.
“Morning,” Brendon says, cheerfully, not turning from the stove.
“I’m still here,” Ryan says.
“Yup.”
“I think I want to go home,” Ryan says.
“You think?”
“I do,” Ryan says. “Want to go home. I’d really like that a lot.”
“Well, I mean,” Brendon says, thoughtful. “I guess – I don’t know how you’re here in the first place, since you died so long ago. Maybe you died in your weird bullshit future, too.”
“No,” Ryan says. “We already figured out I’m not a ghost.”
“True,” Brendon says. “True, okay, right. I’m sorry.”
“So you don’t know how I can get home.”
“I – no,” Brendon says, vaguely amused.
“Can you think of anybody who might?”
“No.”
“Right,” Ryan says. “Okay, cool.”
“We could ask Suarez, though.”
“The cook would know?”
“No,” Brendon says, patiently – though he looks as if he’s trying hard not to laugh. “But he might know if anybody would. He’s pretty smart, dude. He’s been places.”
“If he’s smart, why wouldn’t he know?”
Brendon frowns. “He just doesn’t seem like the type. He’s more the guy who knows a guy than the actual guy, man.”
Ryan stares at him for a moment, then starts laughing.
Brendon finishes preparing breakfast, and they both sit on the edge of the bed to eat. Ryan doesn’t help with the washing-up afterwards. He sits and tries to think if he did anything, or if anyone else did anything, that would land him here, but he’s coming up with nothing because he’s drank and smoked countless times before. He’s never heard of marijuana transporting anyone to a dumb alternate universe where they’re dead, anyway, so that theory is out the window.
The trip to the inn seems even quicker in the morning. Distances in this town are all pretty small, such that even the edge is near to the center.
Ryan takes classes in buildings set further apart than the whole breadth of town.
-
INT., A COZY KITCHEN, DAY.
SUAREZ:
Oh, well sure, yeah.
BRENDON:
So where does Captain McCoy live, anyway?
SUAREZ:
All over the place.
RYAN:
That doesn’t help. How do we find him?
SUAREZ:
I guess you could head to the city and wait for him to pass through.
RYAN:
(flatly, moreso than usual)
Wait for him to pass through. A city. So we just sit around wherever we feel like and hope we manage to run into him?
SUAREZ:
What? No, you keep an eye on the sky, and if you see his ship come in you head over to the docks.
RYAN:
He flies an airplane or something?
BRENDON:
(incredulous)
Of course he flies an air-ship. That’s what that whole conversation was about.
RYAN:
Oh.
BRENDON:
What’s this about we, anyway?
RYAN:
I thought – never mind.
BRENDON:
(laughing)
You want someone to show you the way?
-
Brendon doesn’t take very long to pack, and Ryan sits and plays the guitar while Brendon gathers up a few extra clothes and some food for the journey.
“We’ll need to get more in town before we go,” Brendon explains, as he puts some hard cheese into his bag. “What’re you playing?”
Ryan blinks, realizing he’s been humming along. “Song I wrote. It sounds weird on the acoustic, though.”
“Eh?”
“Never mind,” Ryan says. He practices his scales a few times, feeling weirdly shy for no particular reason he can place. Brendon stills for a moment, like he might say something, but he doesn’t. Ryan’s grateful.
The day is young yet, so they get more food and set out on foot. It’s three days by foot to the city, though Brendon says it’ll be visible a day out.
He’s carrying Brendon’s guitar, since Brendon has all the heavy stuff. “Why’re you bringing the guitar?”
“Oh, in case we need more money,” Brendon says.
Ryan blanches a little. “You’d sell it? Dude –“
Brendon laughs, delighted. “Come on, you say you’ve met me. some other me. Would I sell my guitar if I had a choice?”
“I didn’t know you very well.”
“Well. I’m not selling it, man.”
“Good.”
“I figured I’d offer to play. If we need a hotel or whatever.”
“I’ve got plenty of quarters,” Ryan says.
“Of – oh, like that coin you showed Greta?”
“Yeah. I needed to do laundry.”
“You’re a weird dude, Ryan,” Brendon says, amused.
Ryan shakes his head. “People keep telling me that.”
“It’s not like it’s a bad thing. You’re just weird.”
“Yeah.” Ryan smiles wryly.
Brendon readjusts the bag on his shoulder, looking out at the road ahead. “You were a weird kid, too, but now you’re less – like, you grew up, I guess, is all.”
“That happens when time goes by, yeah.”
“Only,” Brendon starts, then shakes his head, laughing. “So weird. You’re lucky I still like you, or else I wouldn’t have come.”
“You can’t still like me, though,” Ryan says. “I’m not the same person.”
Brendon looks at him and makes a ridiculous face, and even though it’s over exaggerated Ryan still can’t figure out what it means. “Oh, dude, believe me. I know.”
-
They head to the docks first thing, just in case. Apparently McCoy was here a week ago, and should return in another week.
Ryan looks at Brendon. Brendon looks at Ryan.
“Sweet,” Ryan says. “Okay. So we wait?”
“So we wait.”
They set out to explore the city, looking for a decent inn, though none (Brendon insists) will be as nice as Greta’s even if there aren’t any bed bugs.
Even in the big city, Ryan’s quarters go pretty far; only a few people ask him what nation’s mark it is upon them. He learns quickly to sort of shrug and mumble. Most people just nod and pretend they caught it, and none seem to care overmuch. Silver is silver, apparently.
Two days in, Ryan buys himself a guitar with some local coins he’s gotten as change. Brendon decrees that they must play together at the same market where he bought it, and then buys a goofy hat to set out while they play.
Ryan doesn’t know too many of the same songs, but the progressions are generally simple enough to follow after, and no one notices that they’re sitting around practicing. When they start actually playing, that’s when people pay attention.
A few people even toss coins in the hat, though one woman misses and Brendon goes scrambling after the money in a wholly undignified manner that leaves Ryan feeling a little embarrassed for him. They make a good amount, though, and come back the next day a little earlier to catch the morning crowd of families buying vegetables for the day.
Ryan’s enjoying learning the new songs, and he teaches Brendon a few of his, and mostly just lets Brendon do the singing even though his own voice isn’t so bad. People even continue to give money when he’s singing, which he takes as a positive enough appraisal.
One guy, though, throws an apple core in the hat. Brendon starts off after him, but Ryan grabs his sleeve. “Hey.”
“He used our hat as a trash can!” Brendon says, sounding more hurt than angry.
“It is a pretty ugly hat,” Ryan says, soothingly, and Brendon shakes his head laughing. “Look, let’s not – I don’t know what law enforcement is like here? But I don’t really want to find out, either.”
“Yeah, that’s cool,” Brendon says. “Being in jail would suck. He started it, though.”
Ryan grins at him, smile a bit crooked, then realizes he might want to let go over Brendon’s sleeve. It takes him a second to follow through, though Brendon seems pretty content to smile right back at him.
Ryan rolls his shoulders back and picks his guitar back up, settling back down on the ground.
Brendon sits back down, too, and their knees knock together.
-
“I just,” Ryan says, as he’s getting ready for bed that night. “Like, fuck, it’s like some ridiculous fairy tale, or a really shitty play.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen any plays with people coming from the fake future, but okay.”
“It’s not the fake future,” Ryan says. “All this is the fake.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” Ryan starts, then shakes his head. “Whatever, fine.”
“Hey,” Brendon says, inching over and putting an arm around his shoulders hesitantly. “Dude. You’ll get home soon.”
Ryan lets out a slow breath. “I’d better.”
“C’mon. We’ll see Captain McCoy, and he’ll figure out what we gotta do to get you home.”
Ryan gives Brendon a thin smile. “Sure, or I’ll be stuck here forever, and nobody’ll get my shitty movie jokes.”
“Sorry,” Brendon says.
“Man.”
Brendon pats awkwardly at Ryan’s back. “At least you’re alive?”
“That’s pretty cool,” Ryan agrees, nodding to himself and making a conscious decision to stop moping. Maybe after a proper hug, though. He turns in toward Brendon, leaning his head on Brendon’s shoulder.
Brendon freezes in place, seeming a bit startled, then gives Ryan’s back another awkward pat before deciding the better of it and rubbing a hand in circles instead. Ryan knows he’s being dumb, but getting a hug is helping him be calm as usual, so whatever.
He thinks he’s doing a great job at not freaking out about the whole stuck in a weird parallel dimension thing, honestly. Brendon finally relaxes a little, too, which is great since Ryan feels like slightly less of a douche since the hug action’s consensual.
Anyway, he pulls back, says, “Thanks,” and goes to bed. It takes him a while to get to sleep.
-
“Excuse me,” the inn’s owner says. “We’ve got a lord demanding a room with separate beds, and yours is the only one we’ve got at the moment. Would you mind terribly –“
“Uh,” Brendon says. “What, now?”
“We’d move you into another room with one large bed,” the innkeeper says. “Of course, we could find a cot, or –“
“It’s cool,” Ryan says. “As long as we get extra pillows.”
“Of course, sir,” the innkeeper says, bowing humbly. Ryan blinks at him, slightly baffled until he stands up straight again. He shrugs it off, and wanders outside carrying his new guitar, figuring it’ll all be taken care of.
Brendon has to jog to catch up with him. “Dude, why’d you run off?”
“I didn’t run off.”
“You were gone!”
Ryan squints at Brendon for a moment. “Yeah, since we’d been leaving anyway. I thoght that was the point.”
“We have to move our stuff.”
“They should move it,” Ryan says. “Since they’re the jerks making us switch rooms in the first place.”
“I – guess,” Brendon says, though it’s not especially earnest. Ryan suspects him of facetiousness.
The whole thing’s forgotten when they get to the market, though, because music helps Ryan forget most things. He wants to write new songs, even though they don’t have their current repertoire perfected. He thinks maybe writing together would be nice.
Back in the real world, or whatever, when Brendon tried out for the band, he showed off some of his compositional and arrangement skills, and Ryan was impressed to the point that Spencer accused him of being obsessed and starry-eyed and shit. He’s pretty sure he would have gotten over it, and anyway, Brendon had also done a sweet Gollum impression and had seemed like an all around good guy.
He figures, since this Brendon is a musician professionally, he must be a pretty good songwriter. “Hey,” he says, after they finish yet another local folk song. “Play something of yours.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Brendon makes a face. “The stuff I write? It’s not very good.”
“Is not,” Ryan says.
Laughing, Brendon says, “You’ve never even heard it.”
“I heard stuff the other you wrote.” Ryan shrugs.
“Yeah, but the other me apparently plays all kinds of fake future instruments.”
“You play guitar, too.”
“Hm,” Brendon says, eyeing Ryan suspiciously before strumming an unfamiliar progression in 5/4 time, tapping his foot along to help keep the time.
Ryan stares.
Brendon turns to look at him for a moment, then shrugs and plays something in a standard time signature instead. Both songs sound pretty good. Brendon gets this intense focus playing his own songs that’s interesting to watch. Ryan doesn’t care that staring is rude even though he’s spent most of his life having people try to convince him of that fact.
“Uhm,” Brendon says. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No,” Ryan says. He doesn’t look away.
“Oh.”
-
The week ends quick, and both of them start watching the skies. There are any number of airships in and out of the city at any time.
“How are we going to recognize Captain McCoy’s, again?” Ryan asks, dazedly looking up at the six or so ships currently drifting in the cloudless skies.
“We’ll recognize it,” Brendon tells him with a sly grin.
“Great,” Ryan says. “What if we don’t?”
“No, I just meant I know what it looks like, but it’s a surprise, for you, and you’ll probably figure it out.”
“Uh-huh,” Ryan says.
-
EXT. THE DOCKS – DAY.
BRENDON and RYAN have trouble staying out of the way as the docks swarm with life, crews loading and unloading ships, untethering one as it launches and helping tie down another that’s just come in.
BRENDON:
There it is!
RYAN:
There what is?
BRENDON:
Seriously?
RYAN:
Is that McCoy’s airship?
BRENDON:
(smug)
Hell yes, it is. We should let them land before we go say hi, though.
RYAN:
How was I meant to recognize it, again?
BRENDON:
(rolling his eyes)
Really? It’s only the coolest ship here.
RYAN:
It looks like the rest of them. It’s wood. It flies.
BRENDON:
But it’s cool.
RYAN:
Okay, sure.
BRENDON:
Okay, c’mon.
BRENDON hustles forward to find a crewmember who’s just disembarked, and greets him with a cheerful hello.
CREWMEMBER:
(with a stutter)
W-what do you want?
BRENDON:
Do you think we can talk to Captain McCoy?
CREWMEMBER:
About w-w-what?
BRENDON:
My friend here is from some fake version of the future, and we want to get him home.
CREWMEMBER:
Are you high?
RYAN:
He’s serious. But it’s not the fake future. This is just the fake past.
CREWMEMBER:
I guess you’re p-pretty funny, at least. I’ll go check.
The CREWMEMBER heads back onboard. RYAN and BRENDON stand around waiting, occasionally glancing at each other but mostly watching the ship impatiently. Eventually the CREWMEMBER returns, with a taller figure in tow, evidently CAPTAIN McCOY.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
(to BRENDON)
So I hear you’re a time traveler?
BRENDON:
No, not me. My friend RYAN here. He’s dead.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
Well, shit, I can’t do anything about that.
RYAN:
I’m not dead. Apparently I died as a kid in this world, but I’m alive in my world.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
And ours, it looks like.
RYAN:
I’m alive here now, sure.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
(laughing)
So what city are you from?
RYAN:
Las Vegas. I’ve been living in New York, though.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
New York’s the shit.
RYAN:
You’ve been there?
CAPTAIN McCOY:
Sure. Who the fuck hasn’t?
RYAN:
Losers.
BRENDON:
I’ve never heard of it.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
So were you wanting to go back?
RYAN:
Yeah. This guy, Alex Suarez, said you might be able to help?
CAPTAIN McCOY:
Suarez is pretty cool. Yeah, I can help you out, I bet. I gotta check in with the oracle first, but I can get you home.
RYAN:
Really?
CAPTAIN McCOY:
Of course not. Nah, I’m just playing. I can get you back to New York. I don’t know about Las Whatever, though.
RYAN:
No, New York is cool.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
Sweet. Let’s talk prices.
-
“We should get our stuff from the hotel,” Brendon says, a little anxiously.
“We’ve got our money and our guitars,” Ryan says. “It’s fine.”
“I’ve got clothes back there, though.”
“Ugh.” Ryan shakes his head.
The crewmember from earlier cuts in, saying, “We aren’t leaving for a few hours, if you need to get anything.” He isn’t stuttering this time.
“Oh,” Brendon says. “Awesome, thanks.”
“I’m staying here,” Ryan tells him. “Just in case.”
Brendon draws his shoulders in a little. “Seriously?”
Ryan laughs, picking up his guitar case which he only just set down against the well of their little cabin. It’s even smaller than the second hotel room, but Ryan supposes that makes sense enough. It’s a fucking ship that flies through the sky, not a hotel. “Why? Do you want me to walk you there or something?”
“Yes.” Brendon grins, proving he’s not serious, but Ryan has reason to doubt the veracity of his expression and just sighs. Brendon looks nervous. “What?”
“Come on,” Ryan says. “Let’s go.”
Brendon seems a bit confused and slow to act, so Ryan takes hold of his wrist to tug him into movement, and then he just never bothers letting go as they walk.
Brendon wriggles his hand a little, and Ryan thinks he wants free so he opens his fingers and lets go but before he’s actually pulled his hand away Brendon has caught hold of his hand. Ryan looks at him curiously, but Brendon is looking resolutely straight ahead.
Packing is a simple matter. Brendon picks up the hat they were using to collect money in and stares at it for a moment before grinning big and mischievous. He plonks the hat down on Ryan’s head, pulling it a little too low so it covers Ryan’s eyes.
Ryan flails, laughing, and pulls the hat back up so he can see. “This hat is terrible.”
“It’s amazing, and lucky,” Brendon says. “And you should have a souvenir.”
“To remember you?”
“Or to remember the trip.”
“It wasn’t really a trip,” Ryan says. “More just an accident.”
“You can have trips on accident. That’s how most people do it, I think. I knew a guy who tripped and fell on a rake, that was messed up.”
“Why was there a rake?”
“Why wouldn’t there be?”
“Touché,” Ryan says, shaking his head in borderline awe. “I feel like an orphan wearing this hat.”
“A really cool, grown-up orphan with great fashion sense?”
“Yes.”
“Because I was thinking you just look like a weirdo.”
Ryan pulls the hat off and throws it at Brendon, who looks startled when he catches it but laughs anyway, and Ryan grins to show he didn’t mean it like that. Brendon grins back at him, and Brendon throws the hat aside and has a hand buried in the curls at the back of Ryan’s neck before Ryan is wholly sure what’s going on.
He’s all caught up with current events by the time Brendon drags him down for a kiss. Ryan has to stoop just the slightest bit to make it work, but he does because he’s been very intently refusing to notice the fullness of Brendon’s lips for the past week or whatever and has done a very good job of it ‘till now. He figures he deserves a bit of overindulgence.
After a moment, he pulls back, breathing through his nose. “We have to go.”
“Yeah,” Brendon says, staring at him wide-eyed.
Ryan looks at him. He looks at Ryan.
Brendon drags Ryan back in.
-
“Really, though,” Ryan says. “Leaving.”
“Ah, yeah,” Brendon says. “Where’s my shoe?”
“What?” Ryan laughs. “Why would – what the hell?”
“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “Taking it off seemed like a really good idea.”
“When did you take off your shoe? How? I wish I hadn’t missed that.”
“I did it with my foot,” Brendon says. “The other one.”
“Lame. I thought you had a secret trick.”
“No, sorry,” Brendon says. “Help me find it.”
“Hm.” Ryan says, “Is this a ruse?”
“What?”
“Like a distraction.”
“No, dude,” Brendon says. “Where the fuck is my shoe?”
“We were supposed to be leaving.”
“I can’t leave without my shoe.”
“You have feet.”
“I – yes,” Brendon agrees. “I do, thanks for noticing.”
“I need to get home, man, we can’t look for your shoe now.”
Brendon bites his lip, like he’s holding back, and lifts his eyebrows. Patiently, he says, “The airship won’t take off for hours. I’m not – it’s not like I’m being creepy. I just want to find my shoe.”
“You seriously took off your shoe, though,” Ryan says. “You’re like Cinderella. Was that Cinderella, with the shoes?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe it was – no, Snow White had the apples. Rapunzel had all that hair. Alex is Rapunzel, not you. Yeah, you’re Cinderella. Fuck off, Cinderella.”
Brendon tilts his head sideways.
“Fine,” Ryan says. “Fine, we’ll look for your shoe.”
-
They find Brendon’s shoe way underneath the bed. Ryan has to lie down on his belly and wriggle forward to grab it, and backing out is a dusty process that includes some cobwebs in his hair, but eventually Brendon gets his shoe back on and they leave for the docks.
Captain McCoy’s ship remains thankfully docked. It doesn’t even take off for another twenty minutes, and the crew needs them out of the way, which means hanging ‘round the guest quarters for a while.
Mostly that means making out on the narrow bed.
Ryan considers undoing Brendon’s pants, but then he considers that they’re in an unlocked room on a ship with a bunch of strangers who could very well be evil or something. Not that any of them have seemed evil, and Suarez seemed pretty trustworthy – or at least, Brendon seemed willing to trust him, and for some reason Ryan wants to believe that’s enough.
The point is, he keeps his hands above the waist, and so does Brendon.
Eventually the ship lurches with take-off, and everything feels at odd angles as it ascends to greater heights, and Ryan ends up falling off the bed as the ship banks to the right.
“Do you think they actually know how to get to New York?” Ryan asks.
“Sure,” Brendon says, easily.
“Okay. Good.”
There’s a knock at the door. Ryan swipes blindly at his hair, hoping it’s vaguely orderly, and goes to open the door. The crewmember from earlier is there. “Dinner’s a few hours from now. There’s snacks down in the mess, though, if you need. The c-captain’s busy right now, but if you need something you can ask m-me or, or anybody else.”
“Cool, thank you,” Ryan says.
“Are you going to ride in a taxi?” the crewmember asks, shyly.
“When I get back to New York?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh,” Ryan says. “Maybe?”
“I’ve always wanted to ride in a taxi.”
“Go for it, man. Live the dream.”
“I will,” the crewmember says. “Thank you.”
-
Once night falls, Ryan goes out on the deck to look at the sky all around them. The wind is strong, but less overwhelming than he might have imagined. He’d ask, but probably there isn’t a lot of science he’d understand behind it.
Possibly there’s magic. He hasn’t seen anything else outright magical, but it seems like a possibility since he’s in some weird other world where he’s dead.
The ship passes through the night, and Ryan leans on the balcony and watches it go by, the airship’s nose cutting through the clouds. Depending on the angle and height of the clouds, some end up dusting the deck in mist. Ryan’s clothes are soaked through within ten minutes, but he stays outside shivering until Brendon comes out.
“Hey, you’re awake,” Ryan says.
“You were gone.”
“Yes. I was here. Which isn’t actually gone, but yeah, gone.”
Brendon squints at him, confused. “What?”
“Nothing,” Ryan says.
On the distant horizon he thinks he sees the crackle of lightning. He hopes that’s not where they’re headed.
-
That’s where they’re headed.
-
First light breaks, and the ship passes through the darkness and storm. Strong winds toss it turnwise and flipwise, and every other way you could want. Ryan feels a bit airsick, but the turbulence ends after only a few moments.
Ryan lets out a sigh of relief. Then he realizes things are much louder, suddenly, than they were before, a strange constant roar. The dull sound overwhelms his ears a little, so he opens the door quick and covers his ears.
The sky is dotted with more clouds, most very high in the sky. There’s a bit of a haze in the air, and when Ryan looks down, he can see cars, very tiny specks of them, zipping down the miniscule highways.
Everything down there is normal sized, but he doesn’t care for perspective. He’d rather imagine the cars really are that tiny, ant-sized, and that there are little miniature people driving down there.
“Is that New York?” Brendon asks, staring ahead at the skyscrapers rising proudly above the cityscape. The island bristles with buildings, and as the airship draws closer the ever-present rooftop water towers are more and more visible.
“Yeah.”
“It’s sort of scary, isn’t it,” Brendon says. It doesn’t sound like a question.
“A little, I guess.”
“How many people live there?”
“On Manhattan, or in the whole city?”
“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “The whole city.”
“Almost twenty million people.”
“Well, shit,” Brendon says. “How does that even work? So many people in such a little space.”
“The buildings are big enough,” Ryan says. He holds a hand up above his head. “They go pretty high.”
“So I guess. Okay. You’re going home.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says.
Brendon takes his hand again. “It was nice seeing you alive again.”
“You too,” Ryan says. “Not that you’re dead.”
Brendon laughs. “You should go tell me that.”
“You think?”
“I guess.” Brendon shrugs. “I mean, maybe? Or maybe not, if I live someplace far away.”
“I could always call you.”
Brendon looks like he’s going to question that, but he shakes his head. “True.”
“Okay, good,” Ryan says. “Well. That’s good, then.”
Captain McCoy comes over, cheerfully enough. “Check that out. Home sweet home.”
“I’m glad to be back,” Ryan says. “Thank you.”
“Me too, man, no problem.”
“Wait,” Ryan says. “Are you from here?”
“Yeah, man,” Captain McCoy laughs. “Born and raised.”
Ryan shakes his head, impressed. “No shit.”
“I’m for real, dude,” Captain McCoy says. “I gotta drop in with my friend Gabe while I’m here. You ever want to visit, you let him know. We keep in touch.”
“I probably won’t,” Ryan says. “Thank you, though.”
“You’re welcome.” Captain McCoy smiles, looking genuinely pleased, then turns to yell at someone who’s fucking up something involving docking procedures at the very tip-top of one of the downtown skyscrapers.
“Okay, so,” Ryan says to Brendon. “I’ll, uh. I won’t see you around, but maybe I’ll see the other you, if you’re not some creepy cult member or anything.”
“Right,” Brendon says. He looks down. “So, cool, I’ll go home and – do that.”
“Do what?”
“Be at home.”
“Cool,” Ryan says, a little awkwardly.
“And you’ll be dead.”
“Sounds about right, yeah,” Ryan says, attempting a laugh. “What do you want me to do, man?”
Brendon shakes his head, his smile a bit lopsided.
“You could – hang out for a bit? If – Captain McCoy, are you coming back soon?”
“Not for a few months.”
“Oh,” Ryan says.
“I’m not leaving for like four or five days, though, if that helps. Gabe would kick my ass if he found out I was in town and didn’t come hang with him. Plus he’d probably, like, pull Bill into a taxi and ride off with him into the sunset or some shit, and I can’t let him get away with that, you know?”
“Not actually,” Ryan says. “But okay, if you say so. Brendon. Hey. You want to stay for a bit?”
“It’s probably a pretty bad idea,” Brendon says.
“Oh, with the whole never seeing each other again thing,” Ryan says. “Right, yeah. I guess that’ll kind of suck. We probably shouldn’t draw it out.”
“Yeah, that,” Brendon says. “I mean, I’d like to? I’m sure you have a really nice place, but I don’t want anything else to miss, or whatever, I guess.”
“Real subtle,” Captain McCoy says. “You want to stay on the ship the whole time?”
“Not really,” Brendon says. “But I probably will.”
Ryan huffs out something generally laugh-like. He takes a step, and he means to be stepping towards the gangplank and off of the ship but he moves toward Brendon instead, and ducks in, quickly, to brush his lips against Brendon’s.
Brendon lifts a hand and his fingertips just brush against Ryan’s arm before he quits the gesture and steps back. “Okay,” Brendon says. “Okay. Bye. Have – like, a good life, or whatever.”
“You, too,” Ryan says, and he smiles before turning to leave.
He doesn’t let himself look back.
-
INT. A MESSY NEW YORK APARTMENT, DAY.
RYAN is pacing back and forth, staring at his phone. He sets it down on the table for a moment and goes to the refrigerator to get a beer, then crosses back to the table, sets the beer down unopened, and picks up the phone to finally dial.
RYAN:
(balancing his cell phone on his shoulder)
Yeah, hey, Brent? No shit, man, it’s been forever. Right. Right. Hey, this is – sorry, I’m about to be an asshole, but do you still talk to that Brendon kid? The one from high school. Yeah. Do you have his number? I’m thinking of, uh, putting together a band or something.
Author:
provetheworstPairing(s): Brendon/Ryan
Rating: PG
Warnings: Needless experimentation with structure and format.
Word count: 6,926
Summary: Ryan wakes up in a place very different from where he went to sleep.
INT. A DIRTY NEW YORK APARTMENT, DAY.
Our hero RYAN lays sleeping on the couch, wearing only one shoe – unlaced - and two socks, mismatched. The other shoe is on the floor somewhere near his friend ALEX’s guitars, which are set up in a corner. The couch should be covered in stained tweed, or, failing that, some incredibly bright color.
RYAN and his friends have just finished partying in celebration of finishing finals. Another friend lies asleep on the armchair that RYAN and ALEX found in an alleyway.
RYAN:
(mumbling)
That’s my shoe. Give it back. You’re a dog, it doesn’t even fit.
RYAN shifts in his sleep, rolling over onto his stomach with his head facing the front of the couch.
Lightning flashes outside the window. The sound of rain can be heard, the volume slowly rising.
Dim the lights.
-
Ryan wakes up.
He stares up at the blue, blue sky, then quickly rolls over, pushing himself up so he’s sitting and wipes frantically at his mouth. The grasshopper that had been wandering across his face dislikes this turn of events and jumps away as quick as it’s able.
After a moment, feeling a bit stupid for having freaked out over a grasshopper, Ryan gets up. The ground’s a little damp, wetness soaking through his socks. Looking around doesn’t provide any good hints as to where he is just now, but off one way – he thinks maybe east, if he’s reckoning the sun right, but fuck knows for sure – there’s a road, so he heads off toward it.
Everything here is very green. Ryan’s from Vegas, has been living in New York to finish off his degree – transferred, his junior year – and this looks like neither locale. It doesn’t look like LA, either, or really, anyplace he’s spent any amount of time in. At first he figures it’s a shitty joke his friends decided to play, but none of them own cars in the city so they couldn’t have driven him out here.
Ryan’s a bit confused, so he figures he’ll just accept it. Maybe it’s a dream.
He gets to the road, which isn’t actually paved, and starts walking, eventually taking off his socks to let his toes curl against the most earth and squelch against the muddier patches. He rolls up his pants because he’s only worn them one day and doesn’t want to wash them just yet, not since they’re going to need dry cleaning.
He should have thought of that before passing out in them, actually, but whatever.
-
Ryan gets to a weird little fairy-tale town after not too long, with scruffy dogs behind fences barking out his arrival. The better-built buildings have gabled roofs with brightly colored trim. Some houses have thatched roofs, instead, and are generally smaller. All have immaculately kept yards, and most have little gardens out front. The fences are all white picket, and cheery flowers grow in the roadway. A few kids playing some esoteric game with hoops and sticks look up for a moment, disinterested, then ignore him to go back to their game.
A goat trots across the street in front of Ryan, paying him no mind.
With nothing better to do, Ryan keeps walking. The sunlight wanes, and the day draws nearer to an end, and Ryan explores and finds the town tavern without too much more trouble.
The only trouble he has is deciding if it’s a tavern or a pub or an inn, or some other classification he’s unaware of.
-
INT. PROVINCIAL INN – EVENING
A COMELY LASS bustles to and fro, cheerfully serving the inn’s patrons. She wears a long gingham dress and a bright white apron with only a few stains. A group of men sit at a table in the corner playing poker; a husband and wife eat dinner at another table. A YOUND LAD skulks about the corner, fussing with the strings of an OUT-OF-TUNE GUITAR.
COMELY LASS:
Are you all right, there? Need some help?
YOUNG LAD:
I’ve got this, Greta. Don’t worry. Just give me a – oh, fuck! I mean, uh. Oops.
A string snaps. A few of the men playing poker turn to look, briefly, before returning to their game. The COMELY LASS – GRETA, as we now know – hustles behind the counter and fetches, rather miraculously another set of strings, which she throws to the YOUNG LAD.
Enter RYAN.
GRETA:
Oh, hi! Haven’t seen you around. Are you passing through?
RYAN:
I guess so. Are you a ghost?
GRETA:
(amused)
A ghost? No.
RYAN:
So this is some Wizard of Oz stuff? I don’t get it.
GRETA:
I’m not a wizard, either.
The YOUNG LAD has finally gotten the guitar tuned, and strums a venturesome chord. GRETA fetches a rag and begins cleaning.
RYAN:
Well, you’re a ghost.
YOUNG LAD:
Me?
RYAN:
Either you’re a ghost, or I’m dreaming. Hi, Brendon.
YOUNG LAD:
Ryan?
RYAN:
I knew it.
YOUNG LAD – or BRENDON:
But you died!
RYAN:
(laughing)
I did not. Fuck off.
BRENDON:
When we were eight. You drowned. I remember. Greta, you were there, right? At least at the funeral. Not when he drowned, at least.
RYAN:
(defensive)
How would I have drowned if I’m still here? I know how to swim. If anyone’s a ghost, it’s you guys, even though I’m pretty sure you’re not dead.
BRENDON:
How are we – oh my god, what if we’re all dead? Holy shit.
GRETA looks up from wiping off the countertop.
GRETA:
What on earth?
BRENDON:
I mean, if all of us, right now, if the reason we’re talking to Ryan is because we all died and this is the afterlife! I didn’t think heaven would be like this, though. Or hell, for that matter.
GRETA:
We’re not dead. And this can’t be the same Ryan, anyway.
BRENDON:
He looks like Ryan. Or like Ryan would look, I guess. I mean, he looks like Ryan’s mom and dad, and Ryan, only older. Whatever. He’s got that montone bullshit going on, too.
GRETA:
Ryan, look. Would you like a drink? Brendon, shut up and play.
GRETA searches for a clean glass behind the counter, pouring out a warm brown liquid from an old glass bottle. She slides it across the bar in RYAN’s direction, and he steps up to take it gratefully.
RYAN:
You tried out for my band, but then you couldn’t join for some reason. We broke up not too long after that anyway. We weren’t very good. You were a good singer, though. Maybe we would have lasted long enough to put out an album or two with a decent vocalist.
BRENDON:
I don’t even know what you’re talking about, man.
-
Ryan gives up trying to convince Brendon what reality’s really like, and instead lets himself be regaled with stories of that time when he died.
“You were, like, eight,” Brendon says. “And I was six, seven? It was summer, anyway, a really hot day, so we went down to the pond. Spencer had the flu so he couldn’t come. Mom didn’t want me to go, but I snuck out.”
“Dude,” Ryan says, a little incredulous. “Did you let me drown?”
“Shut up,” Brendon says. “Let me finish. Man, telling someone how they died is so weird. Are you sure you’re not a ghost? If you find out, are you going to haunt me?”
“Sure,” Ryan says. “Yeah, I’ll haunt you, why not.” A little paranoid, Ryan scratches at the back of his hand, but it hurts. He’s pretty sure he’s alive. Then again, he looks up. “Hey, can you touch me?”
“Uhm.”
“To see if I’m alive,” Ryan says.
Brendon stares at him for a moment, then cups a hand against Ryan’s heart, leaning in with exaggerated care and a big-eyed, goofy expression, like he’s ready to play it off either way. His hand’s warm through Ryan’s shirt. “You’ve got a heartbeat.”
“Sick.”
Brendon stands back and looks at him, then grins wide. “You look healthy.”
“Are you supposed to be playing now?”
Brendon shrugs. “Maybe. You should get some dinner. The cook, Alex, he’s pretty good.”
“Greenwald?”
Brendon tilts his head sideways. “What?”
“Alex.”
“Oh, no,” Brendon says. “You know an Alex? Wait, why am I asking. Everyone knows an Alex. No, this is Suarez.”
“Oh,” Ryan says. He’s never met an Alex Suarez, as far as he knows but it’s possible his friend Alex back home has mentioned one before. Either way, Ryan isn’t sure and doesn’t especially care. “I don’t think I can pay, though. I don’t have my wallet on me.”
“It’s chill,” Brendon says. “Greta will cover, like usual.”
“I heard that!” Greta calls from halfway across the room. “And I will not!”
“Not even for the crazy ghost?”
She finishes up whatever it is she’s doing and meanders back to the little stage where Ryan and Brendon are sitting and not playing music. “We take copper, silver, gold. Whatever you’ve got.”
“Haven’t got any of any of it,” Ryan says, then digs in his pockets thoughtfully until he finds a quarter which he holds out. “Is this silver?”
“Hm,” Greta says, taking the coin between thumb and forefinger and holding it in front of her face to examine. “Looks to be so. Might be a little of something else in it.”
“So can I get dinner with it?”
“You can get quite a few dinners with it, in fact,” Greta says, cheerfully. “I’d even let you stay two nights, breakfast and dinner, for this.”
“Don’t do it,” Brendon tells him, seriously. “You can stay at my place and save the money.”
“You can’t cook.” Greta gives Brendon a vaguely condescending, over-sweet smile, then laughs a little, turning back to Ryan. “It’s up to you.”
“Staying with friends is always nice,” Ryan decides, nodding to Brendon.
Brendon raises his eyebrows a little, but smiles anyway, faintly confused and still friendly.
“Well, I assume we’d be friends if I weren’t dead,” Ryan says. “Since apparently we knew each other as children.”
“You didn’t know me as children?”
“No.”
“Oh,” Brendon says. “Man, this is really weird. So are you from the future?”
Ryan blinks, considering it. “I could be, but I don’t think this is the real past. It’s like – a fake past.”
“Maybe you’re from the fake future, though,” Brendon says.
Greta smiles a little and then ducks away to get back to work. Ryan looks after her for a moment, then back to Brendon. “So do you like her, then?”
“She’s okay,” Brendon says. “Why?”
“Nothing,” Ryan says.
-
Brendon has a tiny little cabin out at the edge of town. The door is unlocked, and a skinny little dog bounces an excited greeting as they enter.
“Thank you,” Ryan says. “For letting me stay.”
“It’s not as comfy as the inn,” Brendon says. “But they have bed bugs, so it evens out.”
“Oh, ew.” Ryan makes a face. “Thank you.”
Brendon grins, and goes to dig through the cupboards for some simple food to prepare. He has potatoes and onions, and gets out a pot to cook a bit of rice as well. “It’ll take a while, by the way. Sorry.”
“That’s fine,” Ryan tells him.
After dinner, Brendon gives up his bed and Ryan doesn’t bother arguing, though he knows he’s expected to. He’s feeling sort of off-balance and confused just being here, and having trouble acknowledging any of it is real at all. Pretending to be polite to a ghost or dream or whatever feels pointless.
-
Ryan wakes up to the sound of movement and the clatter of a spoon in a pot. He squints his eyes shut tight, rubbing at his nose, then blinks his eyes open against the morning light.
There’s a thatched straw roof overhead, and the mattress is a little lumpy, and he’s still – wherever he is. He sits down and swings his feet over the edge of the bed and watches Brendon cooking breakfast, whatever it is.
He presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose and tries not to sigh too overdramatically. He lifts his shoulders then lets them drop.
“Morning,” Brendon says, cheerfully, not turning from the stove.
“I’m still here,” Ryan says.
“Yup.”
“I think I want to go home,” Ryan says.
“You think?”
“I do,” Ryan says. “Want to go home. I’d really like that a lot.”
“Well, I mean,” Brendon says, thoughtful. “I guess – I don’t know how you’re here in the first place, since you died so long ago. Maybe you died in your weird bullshit future, too.”
“No,” Ryan says. “We already figured out I’m not a ghost.”
“True,” Brendon says. “True, okay, right. I’m sorry.”
“So you don’t know how I can get home.”
“I – no,” Brendon says, vaguely amused.
“Can you think of anybody who might?”
“No.”
“Right,” Ryan says. “Okay, cool.”
“We could ask Suarez, though.”
“The cook would know?”
“No,” Brendon says, patiently – though he looks as if he’s trying hard not to laugh. “But he might know if anybody would. He’s pretty smart, dude. He’s been places.”
“If he’s smart, why wouldn’t he know?”
Brendon frowns. “He just doesn’t seem like the type. He’s more the guy who knows a guy than the actual guy, man.”
Ryan stares at him for a moment, then starts laughing.
Brendon finishes preparing breakfast, and they both sit on the edge of the bed to eat. Ryan doesn’t help with the washing-up afterwards. He sits and tries to think if he did anything, or if anyone else did anything, that would land him here, but he’s coming up with nothing because he’s drank and smoked countless times before. He’s never heard of marijuana transporting anyone to a dumb alternate universe where they’re dead, anyway, so that theory is out the window.
The trip to the inn seems even quicker in the morning. Distances in this town are all pretty small, such that even the edge is near to the center.
Ryan takes classes in buildings set further apart than the whole breadth of town.
-
INT., A COZY KITCHEN, DAY.
SUAREZ:
Oh, well sure, yeah.
BRENDON:
So where does Captain McCoy live, anyway?
SUAREZ:
All over the place.
RYAN:
That doesn’t help. How do we find him?
SUAREZ:
I guess you could head to the city and wait for him to pass through.
RYAN:
(flatly, moreso than usual)
Wait for him to pass through. A city. So we just sit around wherever we feel like and hope we manage to run into him?
SUAREZ:
What? No, you keep an eye on the sky, and if you see his ship come in you head over to the docks.
RYAN:
He flies an airplane or something?
BRENDON:
(incredulous)
Of course he flies an air-ship. That’s what that whole conversation was about.
RYAN:
Oh.
BRENDON:
What’s this about we, anyway?
RYAN:
I thought – never mind.
BRENDON:
(laughing)
You want someone to show you the way?
-
Brendon doesn’t take very long to pack, and Ryan sits and plays the guitar while Brendon gathers up a few extra clothes and some food for the journey.
“We’ll need to get more in town before we go,” Brendon explains, as he puts some hard cheese into his bag. “What’re you playing?”
Ryan blinks, realizing he’s been humming along. “Song I wrote. It sounds weird on the acoustic, though.”
“Eh?”
“Never mind,” Ryan says. He practices his scales a few times, feeling weirdly shy for no particular reason he can place. Brendon stills for a moment, like he might say something, but he doesn’t. Ryan’s grateful.
The day is young yet, so they get more food and set out on foot. It’s three days by foot to the city, though Brendon says it’ll be visible a day out.
He’s carrying Brendon’s guitar, since Brendon has all the heavy stuff. “Why’re you bringing the guitar?”
“Oh, in case we need more money,” Brendon says.
Ryan blanches a little. “You’d sell it? Dude –“
Brendon laughs, delighted. “Come on, you say you’ve met me. some other me. Would I sell my guitar if I had a choice?”
“I didn’t know you very well.”
“Well. I’m not selling it, man.”
“Good.”
“I figured I’d offer to play. If we need a hotel or whatever.”
“I’ve got plenty of quarters,” Ryan says.
“Of – oh, like that coin you showed Greta?”
“Yeah. I needed to do laundry.”
“You’re a weird dude, Ryan,” Brendon says, amused.
Ryan shakes his head. “People keep telling me that.”
“It’s not like it’s a bad thing. You’re just weird.”
“Yeah.” Ryan smiles wryly.
Brendon readjusts the bag on his shoulder, looking out at the road ahead. “You were a weird kid, too, but now you’re less – like, you grew up, I guess, is all.”
“That happens when time goes by, yeah.”
“Only,” Brendon starts, then shakes his head, laughing. “So weird. You’re lucky I still like you, or else I wouldn’t have come.”
“You can’t still like me, though,” Ryan says. “I’m not the same person.”
Brendon looks at him and makes a ridiculous face, and even though it’s over exaggerated Ryan still can’t figure out what it means. “Oh, dude, believe me. I know.”
-
They head to the docks first thing, just in case. Apparently McCoy was here a week ago, and should return in another week.
Ryan looks at Brendon. Brendon looks at Ryan.
“Sweet,” Ryan says. “Okay. So we wait?”
“So we wait.”
They set out to explore the city, looking for a decent inn, though none (Brendon insists) will be as nice as Greta’s even if there aren’t any bed bugs.
Even in the big city, Ryan’s quarters go pretty far; only a few people ask him what nation’s mark it is upon them. He learns quickly to sort of shrug and mumble. Most people just nod and pretend they caught it, and none seem to care overmuch. Silver is silver, apparently.
Two days in, Ryan buys himself a guitar with some local coins he’s gotten as change. Brendon decrees that they must play together at the same market where he bought it, and then buys a goofy hat to set out while they play.
Ryan doesn’t know too many of the same songs, but the progressions are generally simple enough to follow after, and no one notices that they’re sitting around practicing. When they start actually playing, that’s when people pay attention.
A few people even toss coins in the hat, though one woman misses and Brendon goes scrambling after the money in a wholly undignified manner that leaves Ryan feeling a little embarrassed for him. They make a good amount, though, and come back the next day a little earlier to catch the morning crowd of families buying vegetables for the day.
Ryan’s enjoying learning the new songs, and he teaches Brendon a few of his, and mostly just lets Brendon do the singing even though his own voice isn’t so bad. People even continue to give money when he’s singing, which he takes as a positive enough appraisal.
One guy, though, throws an apple core in the hat. Brendon starts off after him, but Ryan grabs his sleeve. “Hey.”
“He used our hat as a trash can!” Brendon says, sounding more hurt than angry.
“It is a pretty ugly hat,” Ryan says, soothingly, and Brendon shakes his head laughing. “Look, let’s not – I don’t know what law enforcement is like here? But I don’t really want to find out, either.”
“Yeah, that’s cool,” Brendon says. “Being in jail would suck. He started it, though.”
Ryan grins at him, smile a bit crooked, then realizes he might want to let go over Brendon’s sleeve. It takes him a second to follow through, though Brendon seems pretty content to smile right back at him.
Ryan rolls his shoulders back and picks his guitar back up, settling back down on the ground.
Brendon sits back down, too, and their knees knock together.
-
“I just,” Ryan says, as he’s getting ready for bed that night. “Like, fuck, it’s like some ridiculous fairy tale, or a really shitty play.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen any plays with people coming from the fake future, but okay.”
“It’s not the fake future,” Ryan says. “All this is the fake.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” Ryan starts, then shakes his head. “Whatever, fine.”
“Hey,” Brendon says, inching over and putting an arm around his shoulders hesitantly. “Dude. You’ll get home soon.”
Ryan lets out a slow breath. “I’d better.”
“C’mon. We’ll see Captain McCoy, and he’ll figure out what we gotta do to get you home.”
Ryan gives Brendon a thin smile. “Sure, or I’ll be stuck here forever, and nobody’ll get my shitty movie jokes.”
“Sorry,” Brendon says.
“Man.”
Brendon pats awkwardly at Ryan’s back. “At least you’re alive?”
“That’s pretty cool,” Ryan agrees, nodding to himself and making a conscious decision to stop moping. Maybe after a proper hug, though. He turns in toward Brendon, leaning his head on Brendon’s shoulder.
Brendon freezes in place, seeming a bit startled, then gives Ryan’s back another awkward pat before deciding the better of it and rubbing a hand in circles instead. Ryan knows he’s being dumb, but getting a hug is helping him be calm as usual, so whatever.
He thinks he’s doing a great job at not freaking out about the whole stuck in a weird parallel dimension thing, honestly. Brendon finally relaxes a little, too, which is great since Ryan feels like slightly less of a douche since the hug action’s consensual.
Anyway, he pulls back, says, “Thanks,” and goes to bed. It takes him a while to get to sleep.
-
“Excuse me,” the inn’s owner says. “We’ve got a lord demanding a room with separate beds, and yours is the only one we’ve got at the moment. Would you mind terribly –“
“Uh,” Brendon says. “What, now?”
“We’d move you into another room with one large bed,” the innkeeper says. “Of course, we could find a cot, or –“
“It’s cool,” Ryan says. “As long as we get extra pillows.”
“Of course, sir,” the innkeeper says, bowing humbly. Ryan blinks at him, slightly baffled until he stands up straight again. He shrugs it off, and wanders outside carrying his new guitar, figuring it’ll all be taken care of.
Brendon has to jog to catch up with him. “Dude, why’d you run off?”
“I didn’t run off.”
“You were gone!”
Ryan squints at Brendon for a moment. “Yeah, since we’d been leaving anyway. I thoght that was the point.”
“We have to move our stuff.”
“They should move it,” Ryan says. “Since they’re the jerks making us switch rooms in the first place.”
“I – guess,” Brendon says, though it’s not especially earnest. Ryan suspects him of facetiousness.
The whole thing’s forgotten when they get to the market, though, because music helps Ryan forget most things. He wants to write new songs, even though they don’t have their current repertoire perfected. He thinks maybe writing together would be nice.
Back in the real world, or whatever, when Brendon tried out for the band, he showed off some of his compositional and arrangement skills, and Ryan was impressed to the point that Spencer accused him of being obsessed and starry-eyed and shit. He’s pretty sure he would have gotten over it, and anyway, Brendon had also done a sweet Gollum impression and had seemed like an all around good guy.
He figures, since this Brendon is a musician professionally, he must be a pretty good songwriter. “Hey,” he says, after they finish yet another local folk song. “Play something of yours.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Brendon makes a face. “The stuff I write? It’s not very good.”
“Is not,” Ryan says.
Laughing, Brendon says, “You’ve never even heard it.”
“I heard stuff the other you wrote.” Ryan shrugs.
“Yeah, but the other me apparently plays all kinds of fake future instruments.”
“You play guitar, too.”
“Hm,” Brendon says, eyeing Ryan suspiciously before strumming an unfamiliar progression in 5/4 time, tapping his foot along to help keep the time.
Ryan stares.
Brendon turns to look at him for a moment, then shrugs and plays something in a standard time signature instead. Both songs sound pretty good. Brendon gets this intense focus playing his own songs that’s interesting to watch. Ryan doesn’t care that staring is rude even though he’s spent most of his life having people try to convince him of that fact.
“Uhm,” Brendon says. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No,” Ryan says. He doesn’t look away.
“Oh.”
-
The week ends quick, and both of them start watching the skies. There are any number of airships in and out of the city at any time.
“How are we going to recognize Captain McCoy’s, again?” Ryan asks, dazedly looking up at the six or so ships currently drifting in the cloudless skies.
“We’ll recognize it,” Brendon tells him with a sly grin.
“Great,” Ryan says. “What if we don’t?”
“No, I just meant I know what it looks like, but it’s a surprise, for you, and you’ll probably figure it out.”
“Uh-huh,” Ryan says.
-
EXT. THE DOCKS – DAY.
BRENDON and RYAN have trouble staying out of the way as the docks swarm with life, crews loading and unloading ships, untethering one as it launches and helping tie down another that’s just come in.
BRENDON:
There it is!
RYAN:
There what is?
BRENDON:
Seriously?
RYAN:
Is that McCoy’s airship?
BRENDON:
(smug)
Hell yes, it is. We should let them land before we go say hi, though.
RYAN:
How was I meant to recognize it, again?
BRENDON:
(rolling his eyes)
Really? It’s only the coolest ship here.
RYAN:
It looks like the rest of them. It’s wood. It flies.
BRENDON:
But it’s cool.
RYAN:
Okay, sure.
BRENDON:
Okay, c’mon.
BRENDON hustles forward to find a crewmember who’s just disembarked, and greets him with a cheerful hello.
CREWMEMBER:
(with a stutter)
W-what do you want?
BRENDON:
Do you think we can talk to Captain McCoy?
CREWMEMBER:
About w-w-what?
BRENDON:
My friend here is from some fake version of the future, and we want to get him home.
CREWMEMBER:
Are you high?
RYAN:
He’s serious. But it’s not the fake future. This is just the fake past.
CREWMEMBER:
I guess you’re p-pretty funny, at least. I’ll go check.
The CREWMEMBER heads back onboard. RYAN and BRENDON stand around waiting, occasionally glancing at each other but mostly watching the ship impatiently. Eventually the CREWMEMBER returns, with a taller figure in tow, evidently CAPTAIN McCOY.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
(to BRENDON)
So I hear you’re a time traveler?
BRENDON:
No, not me. My friend RYAN here. He’s dead.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
Well, shit, I can’t do anything about that.
RYAN:
I’m not dead. Apparently I died as a kid in this world, but I’m alive in my world.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
And ours, it looks like.
RYAN:
I’m alive here now, sure.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
(laughing)
So what city are you from?
RYAN:
Las Vegas. I’ve been living in New York, though.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
New York’s the shit.
RYAN:
You’ve been there?
CAPTAIN McCOY:
Sure. Who the fuck hasn’t?
RYAN:
Losers.
BRENDON:
I’ve never heard of it.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
So were you wanting to go back?
RYAN:
Yeah. This guy, Alex Suarez, said you might be able to help?
CAPTAIN McCOY:
Suarez is pretty cool. Yeah, I can help you out, I bet. I gotta check in with the oracle first, but I can get you home.
RYAN:
Really?
CAPTAIN McCOY:
Of course not. Nah, I’m just playing. I can get you back to New York. I don’t know about Las Whatever, though.
RYAN:
No, New York is cool.
CAPTAIN McCOY:
Sweet. Let’s talk prices.
-
“We should get our stuff from the hotel,” Brendon says, a little anxiously.
“We’ve got our money and our guitars,” Ryan says. “It’s fine.”
“I’ve got clothes back there, though.”
“Ugh.” Ryan shakes his head.
The crewmember from earlier cuts in, saying, “We aren’t leaving for a few hours, if you need to get anything.” He isn’t stuttering this time.
“Oh,” Brendon says. “Awesome, thanks.”
“I’m staying here,” Ryan tells him. “Just in case.”
Brendon draws his shoulders in a little. “Seriously?”
Ryan laughs, picking up his guitar case which he only just set down against the well of their little cabin. It’s even smaller than the second hotel room, but Ryan supposes that makes sense enough. It’s a fucking ship that flies through the sky, not a hotel. “Why? Do you want me to walk you there or something?”
“Yes.” Brendon grins, proving he’s not serious, but Ryan has reason to doubt the veracity of his expression and just sighs. Brendon looks nervous. “What?”
“Come on,” Ryan says. “Let’s go.”
Brendon seems a bit confused and slow to act, so Ryan takes hold of his wrist to tug him into movement, and then he just never bothers letting go as they walk.
Brendon wriggles his hand a little, and Ryan thinks he wants free so he opens his fingers and lets go but before he’s actually pulled his hand away Brendon has caught hold of his hand. Ryan looks at him curiously, but Brendon is looking resolutely straight ahead.
Packing is a simple matter. Brendon picks up the hat they were using to collect money in and stares at it for a moment before grinning big and mischievous. He plonks the hat down on Ryan’s head, pulling it a little too low so it covers Ryan’s eyes.
Ryan flails, laughing, and pulls the hat back up so he can see. “This hat is terrible.”
“It’s amazing, and lucky,” Brendon says. “And you should have a souvenir.”
“To remember you?”
“Or to remember the trip.”
“It wasn’t really a trip,” Ryan says. “More just an accident.”
“You can have trips on accident. That’s how most people do it, I think. I knew a guy who tripped and fell on a rake, that was messed up.”
“Why was there a rake?”
“Why wouldn’t there be?”
“Touché,” Ryan says, shaking his head in borderline awe. “I feel like an orphan wearing this hat.”
“A really cool, grown-up orphan with great fashion sense?”
“Yes.”
“Because I was thinking you just look like a weirdo.”
Ryan pulls the hat off and throws it at Brendon, who looks startled when he catches it but laughs anyway, and Ryan grins to show he didn’t mean it like that. Brendon grins back at him, and Brendon throws the hat aside and has a hand buried in the curls at the back of Ryan’s neck before Ryan is wholly sure what’s going on.
He’s all caught up with current events by the time Brendon drags him down for a kiss. Ryan has to stoop just the slightest bit to make it work, but he does because he’s been very intently refusing to notice the fullness of Brendon’s lips for the past week or whatever and has done a very good job of it ‘till now. He figures he deserves a bit of overindulgence.
After a moment, he pulls back, breathing through his nose. “We have to go.”
“Yeah,” Brendon says, staring at him wide-eyed.
Ryan looks at him. He looks at Ryan.
Brendon drags Ryan back in.
-
“Really, though,” Ryan says. “Leaving.”
“Ah, yeah,” Brendon says. “Where’s my shoe?”
“What?” Ryan laughs. “Why would – what the hell?”
“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “Taking it off seemed like a really good idea.”
“When did you take off your shoe? How? I wish I hadn’t missed that.”
“I did it with my foot,” Brendon says. “The other one.”
“Lame. I thought you had a secret trick.”
“No, sorry,” Brendon says. “Help me find it.”
“Hm.” Ryan says, “Is this a ruse?”
“What?”
“Like a distraction.”
“No, dude,” Brendon says. “Where the fuck is my shoe?”
“We were supposed to be leaving.”
“I can’t leave without my shoe.”
“You have feet.”
“I – yes,” Brendon agrees. “I do, thanks for noticing.”
“I need to get home, man, we can’t look for your shoe now.”
Brendon bites his lip, like he’s holding back, and lifts his eyebrows. Patiently, he says, “The airship won’t take off for hours. I’m not – it’s not like I’m being creepy. I just want to find my shoe.”
“You seriously took off your shoe, though,” Ryan says. “You’re like Cinderella. Was that Cinderella, with the shoes?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe it was – no, Snow White had the apples. Rapunzel had all that hair. Alex is Rapunzel, not you. Yeah, you’re Cinderella. Fuck off, Cinderella.”
Brendon tilts his head sideways.
“Fine,” Ryan says. “Fine, we’ll look for your shoe.”
-
They find Brendon’s shoe way underneath the bed. Ryan has to lie down on his belly and wriggle forward to grab it, and backing out is a dusty process that includes some cobwebs in his hair, but eventually Brendon gets his shoe back on and they leave for the docks.
Captain McCoy’s ship remains thankfully docked. It doesn’t even take off for another twenty minutes, and the crew needs them out of the way, which means hanging ‘round the guest quarters for a while.
Mostly that means making out on the narrow bed.
Ryan considers undoing Brendon’s pants, but then he considers that they’re in an unlocked room on a ship with a bunch of strangers who could very well be evil or something. Not that any of them have seemed evil, and Suarez seemed pretty trustworthy – or at least, Brendon seemed willing to trust him, and for some reason Ryan wants to believe that’s enough.
The point is, he keeps his hands above the waist, and so does Brendon.
Eventually the ship lurches with take-off, and everything feels at odd angles as it ascends to greater heights, and Ryan ends up falling off the bed as the ship banks to the right.
“Do you think they actually know how to get to New York?” Ryan asks.
“Sure,” Brendon says, easily.
“Okay. Good.”
There’s a knock at the door. Ryan swipes blindly at his hair, hoping it’s vaguely orderly, and goes to open the door. The crewmember from earlier is there. “Dinner’s a few hours from now. There’s snacks down in the mess, though, if you need. The c-captain’s busy right now, but if you need something you can ask m-me or, or anybody else.”
“Cool, thank you,” Ryan says.
“Are you going to ride in a taxi?” the crewmember asks, shyly.
“When I get back to New York?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh,” Ryan says. “Maybe?”
“I’ve always wanted to ride in a taxi.”
“Go for it, man. Live the dream.”
“I will,” the crewmember says. “Thank you.”
-
Once night falls, Ryan goes out on the deck to look at the sky all around them. The wind is strong, but less overwhelming than he might have imagined. He’d ask, but probably there isn’t a lot of science he’d understand behind it.
Possibly there’s magic. He hasn’t seen anything else outright magical, but it seems like a possibility since he’s in some weird other world where he’s dead.
The ship passes through the night, and Ryan leans on the balcony and watches it go by, the airship’s nose cutting through the clouds. Depending on the angle and height of the clouds, some end up dusting the deck in mist. Ryan’s clothes are soaked through within ten minutes, but he stays outside shivering until Brendon comes out.
“Hey, you’re awake,” Ryan says.
“You were gone.”
“Yes. I was here. Which isn’t actually gone, but yeah, gone.”
Brendon squints at him, confused. “What?”
“Nothing,” Ryan says.
On the distant horizon he thinks he sees the crackle of lightning. He hopes that’s not where they’re headed.
-
That’s where they’re headed.
-
First light breaks, and the ship passes through the darkness and storm. Strong winds toss it turnwise and flipwise, and every other way you could want. Ryan feels a bit airsick, but the turbulence ends after only a few moments.
Ryan lets out a sigh of relief. Then he realizes things are much louder, suddenly, than they were before, a strange constant roar. The dull sound overwhelms his ears a little, so he opens the door quick and covers his ears.
The sky is dotted with more clouds, most very high in the sky. There’s a bit of a haze in the air, and when Ryan looks down, he can see cars, very tiny specks of them, zipping down the miniscule highways.
Everything down there is normal sized, but he doesn’t care for perspective. He’d rather imagine the cars really are that tiny, ant-sized, and that there are little miniature people driving down there.
“Is that New York?” Brendon asks, staring ahead at the skyscrapers rising proudly above the cityscape. The island bristles with buildings, and as the airship draws closer the ever-present rooftop water towers are more and more visible.
“Yeah.”
“It’s sort of scary, isn’t it,” Brendon says. It doesn’t sound like a question.
“A little, I guess.”
“How many people live there?”
“On Manhattan, or in the whole city?”
“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “The whole city.”
“Almost twenty million people.”
“Well, shit,” Brendon says. “How does that even work? So many people in such a little space.”
“The buildings are big enough,” Ryan says. He holds a hand up above his head. “They go pretty high.”
“So I guess. Okay. You’re going home.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says.
Brendon takes his hand again. “It was nice seeing you alive again.”
“You too,” Ryan says. “Not that you’re dead.”
Brendon laughs. “You should go tell me that.”
“You think?”
“I guess.” Brendon shrugs. “I mean, maybe? Or maybe not, if I live someplace far away.”
“I could always call you.”
Brendon looks like he’s going to question that, but he shakes his head. “True.”
“Okay, good,” Ryan says. “Well. That’s good, then.”
Captain McCoy comes over, cheerfully enough. “Check that out. Home sweet home.”
“I’m glad to be back,” Ryan says. “Thank you.”
“Me too, man, no problem.”
“Wait,” Ryan says. “Are you from here?”
“Yeah, man,” Captain McCoy laughs. “Born and raised.”
Ryan shakes his head, impressed. “No shit.”
“I’m for real, dude,” Captain McCoy says. “I gotta drop in with my friend Gabe while I’m here. You ever want to visit, you let him know. We keep in touch.”
“I probably won’t,” Ryan says. “Thank you, though.”
“You’re welcome.” Captain McCoy smiles, looking genuinely pleased, then turns to yell at someone who’s fucking up something involving docking procedures at the very tip-top of one of the downtown skyscrapers.
“Okay, so,” Ryan says to Brendon. “I’ll, uh. I won’t see you around, but maybe I’ll see the other you, if you’re not some creepy cult member or anything.”
“Right,” Brendon says. He looks down. “So, cool, I’ll go home and – do that.”
“Do what?”
“Be at home.”
“Cool,” Ryan says, a little awkwardly.
“And you’ll be dead.”
“Sounds about right, yeah,” Ryan says, attempting a laugh. “What do you want me to do, man?”
Brendon shakes his head, his smile a bit lopsided.
“You could – hang out for a bit? If – Captain McCoy, are you coming back soon?”
“Not for a few months.”
“Oh,” Ryan says.
“I’m not leaving for like four or five days, though, if that helps. Gabe would kick my ass if he found out I was in town and didn’t come hang with him. Plus he’d probably, like, pull Bill into a taxi and ride off with him into the sunset or some shit, and I can’t let him get away with that, you know?”
“Not actually,” Ryan says. “But okay, if you say so. Brendon. Hey. You want to stay for a bit?”
“It’s probably a pretty bad idea,” Brendon says.
“Oh, with the whole never seeing each other again thing,” Ryan says. “Right, yeah. I guess that’ll kind of suck. We probably shouldn’t draw it out.”
“Yeah, that,” Brendon says. “I mean, I’d like to? I’m sure you have a really nice place, but I don’t want anything else to miss, or whatever, I guess.”
“Real subtle,” Captain McCoy says. “You want to stay on the ship the whole time?”
“Not really,” Brendon says. “But I probably will.”
Ryan huffs out something generally laugh-like. He takes a step, and he means to be stepping towards the gangplank and off of the ship but he moves toward Brendon instead, and ducks in, quickly, to brush his lips against Brendon’s.
Brendon lifts a hand and his fingertips just brush against Ryan’s arm before he quits the gesture and steps back. “Okay,” Brendon says. “Okay. Bye. Have – like, a good life, or whatever.”
“You, too,” Ryan says, and he smiles before turning to leave.
He doesn’t let himself look back.
-
INT. A MESSY NEW YORK APARTMENT, DAY.
RYAN is pacing back and forth, staring at his phone. He sets it down on the table for a moment and goes to the refrigerator to get a beer, then crosses back to the table, sets the beer down unopened, and picks up the phone to finally dial.
RYAN:
(balancing his cell phone on his shoulder)
Yeah, hey, Brent? No shit, man, it’s been forever. Right. Right. Hey, this is – sorry, I’m about to be an asshole, but do you still talk to that Brendon kid? The one from high school. Yeah. Do you have his number? I’m thinking of, uh, putting together a band or something.
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THANK YOU SO MUCH MYSTERY AUTHOR! :DDD
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*sniffles* But well, it was pretty amazing. <33 YAY for the band xD