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Wednesday, 3 December 2008 23:26![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
extemporallyThe Beginning Is The End Is The Beginning
four ways ryan could have met spencer and one way he did (spencer/ryan)
some Ryan/Spencer, mostly gen. PG
one
Ryan's at a club after work. People are grinding on the dance floor when it's only nine. Normally he would be down there but he's tired even though his nerves are thrumming. he presses his forehead to the bar, a little. Work's a grind.
When he looks up there's someone else at the bar. He couldn't have known if this stranger was here all along. The beautiful stranger is looking at him wryly, and he wonders if he should perhaps say something.
"Tired, huh?" Beautiful Stranger has saved him the effort already. Ryan smiles, just a little. This stranger has an expression that seems to say I guess it's just you and me not hooking up in the dance floor then. He's wearing a pink t shirt and white hoodie but still he looks like he could take anyone in a heartbeat.
Beautiful stranger might be - no, definitely is - a bitch.
Ryan ducks his head, hopes the rainbow lights do enough to hide the shadow under his eyes, and says, "I'm sure I could be revived if someone helped." He bites his lip and maybe hopes that's enough. He wasn't sure it wasn't too corny. But he's sure Beautiful Stranger isn't going to judge him based on the quality of his pick-up lines. Then again he might.
Beautiful Stranger doesn't seem to mind, though. He looks at the dance floor, and smirks once, as if to say, well we don't have to go through that to hook up. Ryan keeps a blank expression on his face but he meets the other's eyes and thinks, we're better than that.
They make it to the toilet before actually starting to make out, but all the way there Ryan can feel his breath puffing against his neck and curls his toes against his shoes. He can feel his heart beating, just slightly out of sync against the thumpthumpthump of the awful techno music reverberating throughout the building.
Afterwards, when they're both slumped against each other, the guy leans forward. "My name is Spencer," he says, and Ryan feels the sibilants of his words against the outline of his cheek.
"Oh," Ryan says, awkwardly, "of course." He hadn't expected this. Spencer doesn't say anything else, just smiles a real smile. He whips a Sharpie out the back pocket of his girl jeans and pens a number onto Ryan's arm.
two
Ryan takes the day off from school to stand in line for the Fall Out Boy gig. Friday, and had he been in school now he would be in Religion class listening to his teacher. Not really his thing.
It's hot in Vegas at this time of the year. Ryan has nothing to do, stares at the sear the branches of an inexplicably leafless tree makes in the sky. Impossible, though, to mistake the thrill in his stomach. He's been waiting months to see the band again. Maybe this time he'd even get into meet and greet. He thinks about what to say without embarrassing himself. In his jeans pocket he clutches his money with his fist, and stares at the scene girls ahead three places of him, with the pink streaks in their hair. He bets if they turn around just about now at least one of the three would have a nose ring.
Behind him the people that had come as a group had grown restive. He could tell it without turning his head, from the lull in the conversation. Quite soon they lapse into pushing each other, just like he thought they would. One of them was shoved into him, unexpectedly. Ryan hadn't been expecting that and collapsed, shoulder-first, into the person in front of him. Even as he fell he thought about the entire line falling, like a line of dominoes.
The guy in front of him doesn't lose his composure, and turns around, raising an eyebrow at him. Ryan ducks his head and mutters a "sorry", jerking his thumb at the group behind him. He hears a raucous "sorry, man!" that seemed to ring in the hot summer air.
The guy doesn't seem to hold it against him, and even smiles. "I'm Spencer," then a pause, as though he's expecting something important in return. Ryan blinks, then says: "Ryan", accompanying it with a slight quirk of his lips, as if to say what you got wasn't quite as good as you expected, I'm afraid.
Another silence. Spencer doesn't turn back around and in fact angles his body so he's almost standing next to him. "So," Ryan says, since conversation is clearly expected of him, "you like Fall Out Boy much?" Spencer laughs and began to talk. Beside him, Ryan can still feel the imprint of Spencer's back against his left shoulder.
three
Ryan's working the thursday afternoon shift at the record shop when someone comes in. He lifts his head a little at the tinkle of the bell at the entrance, as if to say I noticed you, and then returns to his magazine. This is a slow shift. From under his eyelids he watches the someone.
This certainly isn't anyone Ryan has seen before. He's probably a student at the university nearby, where Ryan takes three courses a week and works and the store almost full-time. Brown hair, hipster clothes. His face isn't as narrow as most of them, though. And Ryan certainly hasn't seen him at any of the shows he's gone to.
He browses the collection slowly and methodically, spending much of his time at their vinyl collection. When he meanders close enough to the service desk Ryan can see when he raises his eyebrow (left only, in profile) when he gets to the mid-Rs.
Ryan waits until he's too close to the counter to not require help. Then he lowers his magazine. "Can I help you?" He figures most people come to indie record stores like this as much for the indie attitude as anything else, so he's just adding to the experience, really.
When he looks up, though, he's faced with a raised eyebrow that is as strong as anything he's ever seen on his own face. Well. The expression on this customer's face is not quite a bitchface yet, but it certainly looks threatening.
"Have you ever heard of a band called The Wave Pictures?" he pronounces it carefully, as though he's used to asking this in record shops all over town and being requested to say it again, by a shop assistant with a furrowed brow.
Ryan raises his eyebrow - a band he hasn't heard of. "No," he says, "but you can request it and my employer will try to get it." The guy's face brightens, and it's clear that he hadn't been expecting this. Ryan perhaps doesn't like to admit that this is possibly the favourite part of his job.
"Here," he shoves a piece of paper across the desk "fill this up with any bands whose music for, any particular records if applicable, and leave your name and phone number. We'll call you if or when we find any copies of what you're looking for." Spencer leans on the counter and starts scribbling, raising his head occasionally to ask about about the availability of whatever bands he's just thought of. Ryan's only heard of three of them.
When he leaves with a slightly dazed expression and a "thanks", Ryan looks at the form again. Spencer Smith, it says. Huh, Ryan thinks.
four
He's at youth group, as ever trying not to roll his eyes too hard. He glances across the room and notices there's someone new this week. The kid is sort of chubby, and he wears baggy pants and a black shirt and a cap backwards on his head. It's very different from what all the other church kids are wearing. Almost cool, for a given value of cool.
"My name's Spencer," he announces when the youth leader asks him, "I came here because I wanted to try religion out for a while."
Ryan can't help but be a little impressed. He's never had the freedom of choice - was shoehorned into church and youth group for a long time, and even goes to Catholic school. He's trying to get up the courage to quit youth group. He only goes every other week and his father doesn't notice anyway. He notices very little these days.
This week, it seems, is Convert Spencer Smith Week. They all sit around in a circle of plastic chairs while everyone has a turn and talks about how church and religion has changed their life. When it gets to Ryan's turn, he says, "It hasn't. This church is all I've ever known."
Their youth leader stiffens a little, while all the other kids look at each other, then smoothly asks him if he feels he would be a different person if not for the role of religion in his life. Ryan heads him off with an answer that manages to be both brief and painfully indirect. He leans into his chair and looks at Spencer across the circle, looking at him with an expression both surprised and thoughtful.
five
Ryan's in his yard pretending that it's the middle of the largest kingdom you ever saw, and that the front lawn - which cannot be seen from here - is the country next to it. The grass is green in the way it only manages to be in childhood, or memory. Its tips brush nearly against his knee - no one ever really bothers to mow the lawn until it's midsummer.
He knows that in roughly five minutes his mother will call him in for a snack, but he also knows five minutes is roughly an eternity. He bends down - tightens his grip on the neck of the glass bottle he's holding, and adjusts his pose until it's practically similar to the golfer they saw on tv - and hits the ball on the ground between his knees.
It goes off better than he ever could have imagined. The ball flies an inch above the ground, enough to whizz through the air, and bounces against the fence before rolling back to him. Ryan beams so hard he feels his cheeks are going to split into two.
When he looks up properly there's another kid looking at him through the fence. He looks impressed at what Ryan just did, but when he sees Ryan he quickly adjusts his expression. He's just a little smaller than Ryan.
"I'm Spencer. What's your name?"
"I'm Ryan."
ETA Edited for tenses. Thanks for alerting me,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
synthetic_z!
four ways ryan could have met spencer and one way he did (spencer/ryan)
some Ryan/Spencer, mostly gen. PG
one
Ryan's at a club after work. People are grinding on the dance floor when it's only nine. Normally he would be down there but he's tired even though his nerves are thrumming. he presses his forehead to the bar, a little. Work's a grind.
When he looks up there's someone else at the bar. He couldn't have known if this stranger was here all along. The beautiful stranger is looking at him wryly, and he wonders if he should perhaps say something.
"Tired, huh?" Beautiful Stranger has saved him the effort already. Ryan smiles, just a little. This stranger has an expression that seems to say I guess it's just you and me not hooking up in the dance floor then. He's wearing a pink t shirt and white hoodie but still he looks like he could take anyone in a heartbeat.
Beautiful stranger might be - no, definitely is - a bitch.
Ryan ducks his head, hopes the rainbow lights do enough to hide the shadow under his eyes, and says, "I'm sure I could be revived if someone helped." He bites his lip and maybe hopes that's enough. He wasn't sure it wasn't too corny. But he's sure Beautiful Stranger isn't going to judge him based on the quality of his pick-up lines. Then again he might.
Beautiful Stranger doesn't seem to mind, though. He looks at the dance floor, and smirks once, as if to say, well we don't have to go through that to hook up. Ryan keeps a blank expression on his face but he meets the other's eyes and thinks, we're better than that.
They make it to the toilet before actually starting to make out, but all the way there Ryan can feel his breath puffing against his neck and curls his toes against his shoes. He can feel his heart beating, just slightly out of sync against the thumpthumpthump of the awful techno music reverberating throughout the building.
Afterwards, when they're both slumped against each other, the guy leans forward. "My name is Spencer," he says, and Ryan feels the sibilants of his words against the outline of his cheek.
"Oh," Ryan says, awkwardly, "of course." He hadn't expected this. Spencer doesn't say anything else, just smiles a real smile. He whips a Sharpie out the back pocket of his girl jeans and pens a number onto Ryan's arm.
two
Ryan takes the day off from school to stand in line for the Fall Out Boy gig. Friday, and had he been in school now he would be in Religion class listening to his teacher. Not really his thing.
It's hot in Vegas at this time of the year. Ryan has nothing to do, stares at the sear the branches of an inexplicably leafless tree makes in the sky. Impossible, though, to mistake the thrill in his stomach. He's been waiting months to see the band again. Maybe this time he'd even get into meet and greet. He thinks about what to say without embarrassing himself. In his jeans pocket he clutches his money with his fist, and stares at the scene girls ahead three places of him, with the pink streaks in their hair. He bets if they turn around just about now at least one of the three would have a nose ring.
Behind him the people that had come as a group had grown restive. He could tell it without turning his head, from the lull in the conversation. Quite soon they lapse into pushing each other, just like he thought they would. One of them was shoved into him, unexpectedly. Ryan hadn't been expecting that and collapsed, shoulder-first, into the person in front of him. Even as he fell he thought about the entire line falling, like a line of dominoes.
The guy in front of him doesn't lose his composure, and turns around, raising an eyebrow at him. Ryan ducks his head and mutters a "sorry", jerking his thumb at the group behind him. He hears a raucous "sorry, man!" that seemed to ring in the hot summer air.
The guy doesn't seem to hold it against him, and even smiles. "I'm Spencer," then a pause, as though he's expecting something important in return. Ryan blinks, then says: "Ryan", accompanying it with a slight quirk of his lips, as if to say what you got wasn't quite as good as you expected, I'm afraid.
Another silence. Spencer doesn't turn back around and in fact angles his body so he's almost standing next to him. "So," Ryan says, since conversation is clearly expected of him, "you like Fall Out Boy much?" Spencer laughs and began to talk. Beside him, Ryan can still feel the imprint of Spencer's back against his left shoulder.
three
Ryan's working the thursday afternoon shift at the record shop when someone comes in. He lifts his head a little at the tinkle of the bell at the entrance, as if to say I noticed you, and then returns to his magazine. This is a slow shift. From under his eyelids he watches the someone.
This certainly isn't anyone Ryan has seen before. He's probably a student at the university nearby, where Ryan takes three courses a week and works and the store almost full-time. Brown hair, hipster clothes. His face isn't as narrow as most of them, though. And Ryan certainly hasn't seen him at any of the shows he's gone to.
He browses the collection slowly and methodically, spending much of his time at their vinyl collection. When he meanders close enough to the service desk Ryan can see when he raises his eyebrow (left only, in profile) when he gets to the mid-Rs.
Ryan waits until he's too close to the counter to not require help. Then he lowers his magazine. "Can I help you?" He figures most people come to indie record stores like this as much for the indie attitude as anything else, so he's just adding to the experience, really.
When he looks up, though, he's faced with a raised eyebrow that is as strong as anything he's ever seen on his own face. Well. The expression on this customer's face is not quite a bitchface yet, but it certainly looks threatening.
"Have you ever heard of a band called The Wave Pictures?" he pronounces it carefully, as though he's used to asking this in record shops all over town and being requested to say it again, by a shop assistant with a furrowed brow.
Ryan raises his eyebrow - a band he hasn't heard of. "No," he says, "but you can request it and my employer will try to get it." The guy's face brightens, and it's clear that he hadn't been expecting this. Ryan perhaps doesn't like to admit that this is possibly the favourite part of his job.
"Here," he shoves a piece of paper across the desk "fill this up with any bands whose music for, any particular records if applicable, and leave your name and phone number. We'll call you if or when we find any copies of what you're looking for." Spencer leans on the counter and starts scribbling, raising his head occasionally to ask about about the availability of whatever bands he's just thought of. Ryan's only heard of three of them.
When he leaves with a slightly dazed expression and a "thanks", Ryan looks at the form again. Spencer Smith, it says. Huh, Ryan thinks.
four
He's at youth group, as ever trying not to roll his eyes too hard. He glances across the room and notices there's someone new this week. The kid is sort of chubby, and he wears baggy pants and a black shirt and a cap backwards on his head. It's very different from what all the other church kids are wearing. Almost cool, for a given value of cool.
"My name's Spencer," he announces when the youth leader asks him, "I came here because I wanted to try religion out for a while."
Ryan can't help but be a little impressed. He's never had the freedom of choice - was shoehorned into church and youth group for a long time, and even goes to Catholic school. He's trying to get up the courage to quit youth group. He only goes every other week and his father doesn't notice anyway. He notices very little these days.
This week, it seems, is Convert Spencer Smith Week. They all sit around in a circle of plastic chairs while everyone has a turn and talks about how church and religion has changed their life. When it gets to Ryan's turn, he says, "It hasn't. This church is all I've ever known."
Their youth leader stiffens a little, while all the other kids look at each other, then smoothly asks him if he feels he would be a different person if not for the role of religion in his life. Ryan heads him off with an answer that manages to be both brief and painfully indirect. He leans into his chair and looks at Spencer across the circle, looking at him with an expression both surprised and thoughtful.
five
Ryan's in his yard pretending that it's the middle of the largest kingdom you ever saw, and that the front lawn - which cannot be seen from here - is the country next to it. The grass is green in the way it only manages to be in childhood, or memory. Its tips brush nearly against his knee - no one ever really bothers to mow the lawn until it's midsummer.
He knows that in roughly five minutes his mother will call him in for a snack, but he also knows five minutes is roughly an eternity. He bends down - tightens his grip on the neck of the glass bottle he's holding, and adjusts his pose until it's practically similar to the golfer they saw on tv - and hits the ball on the ground between his knees.
It goes off better than he ever could have imagined. The ball flies an inch above the ground, enough to whizz through the air, and bounces against the fence before rolling back to him. Ryan beams so hard he feels his cheeks are going to split into two.
When he looks up properly there's another kid looking at him through the fence. He looks impressed at what Ryan just did, but when he sees Ryan he quickly adjusts his expression. He's just a little smaller than Ryan.
"I'm Spencer. What's your name?"
"I'm Ryan."
ETA Edited for tenses. Thanks for alerting me,
synthetic_z!![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: Thursday, 4 December 2008 00:39 (UTC)no subject
Date: Thursday, 4 December 2008 16:58 (UTC)You did that really well, and I loved the way they really met.
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Date: Thursday, 4 December 2008 17:06 (UTC)You did it really well and I loved the way that Ryan and Spencer actually met. Although the first one was very good as well. ;)
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Date: Friday, 5 December 2008 01:05 (UTC)Yay, thanks for the encouragement! Mind if I add you?
no subject
Date: Friday, 5 December 2008 16:26 (UTC)Of course not!