fic: Don't Mind Taking A Photograph
Saturday, 17 April 2010 16:51![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
extemporallyDon't Mind Taking A Photograph
Ryan/Z Berg
PG
1326 words
Five photos of Ryan and Z, five ficlets. Not chronologically accurate at all.
This would not have existed without![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
egelantier, who told me to tell her a story over chat and sent me five pictures when I asked for a single one as a prompt. She betaed too, the pushy wench. ♥
Title and cut-tag from (who else?) The Young Veins.
one.
"We shouldn't be together," Z tells Ryan. "If we did get together, we'd probably break up in five seconds flat. Or we'd be together for five months, and it'd be weird and messy and we'd break up in the most dramatic way ever, and we'd end up writing really bad albums about each other."
Ryan knows all this. It's not the first time he's thought it about Z, and it's not even the first time he's thought it, period. But hearing her say it - and say it while her arms are tucked around his neck – takes the whole thing to a whole new level of bizarre truth.
Ryan likes Z, he really does. He likes her music and her dry crackling voice and the way she wears makeup really well. His own days of makeup are over and well behind him, but it doesn't mean he has to stop appreciating, and he appreciates the aesthetic of a fine red lip. Especially when her mouth is hovering not an inch from his.
In her heels, Z is practically his height. Her eyes are cool and assessing, and Ryan's willing to bet that her heels are digging into the hotel carpet. There’s a guy around toting a camera but he doesn’t care.
"But you're still going to kiss me, aren't you?" he says. He'd intended for that to come out all knowing and suave, and he's a little bit surprised by how much he actually wants this.
Z can tell, because she throws him an amused look.
"Totally," she says, and she leans close so he can smell her perfume, and they do.
---
two.
Ryan blinks at Z. "You look like Jessica Simpson," he says. It's not intended as a compliment.
Z is completely unfazed. Ryan wouldn't expect any less, which is why he's going to keep needling her until he gets a reaction from her one of these days, or something. She might get angry, though.
"I know," she says. "That's kind of the whole point."
Z's wearing denim cut-offs and a short blue singlet, and Ryan can see her bra. Her hair's unbrushed, and Ryan shouldn't be staring at her bellybutton as much as he is. He just keeps finding his eyes drawn there again, and again.
Z's noticed, of course. "Classy, Ross," she says, voice low with amusement and a edge of -- something. She doesn't try to cover her belly, though, just leans against the table reaches up to touch her hair and squinches her face at him.
Ryan's noticed she hasn't shaved under her arms, either. Their visit had kind of been a surprise. Under her arms, a pale growth of hair, blonde enough that you wouldn't notice unless you were looking for it, or it'd caught the light, or something.
Z smells of male deodorant and salt.
"Looking nice, Z," Jon comments, and takes a picture of her.
"Oh my god," Z says, dropping her pose and turning to him wide-eyed, like she hadn't known Jon was there with his camera phone all along.
"How do I look? Am I making a stupid face? Can you see my underarm hair?!" Her eyes are wide with mock dismay.
"Weird, yes, and... maybe," Jon says, squinting at his phone. "If you zoomed, maybe."
"Oh, awesome," Z says. "Post it to Twitter. Now."
---
three.
"I am so tired," Ryan complains. He's slumped in the big beige couch, Z and Tennessee on either side of him. Tennessee looks at him sympathetically.
"Poor baby," she says, and he can't tell if she's mocking, or really being nice.
Ryan moans pitifully. They'd been up the whole night working on music, and now they are paying the consequences. Very badly indeed.
"This reminds me," Z says in a dreamy voice, "Of high school. And working on papers, and deadlines, and things."
Z sounds almost wistful. Ryan turns around to look at her while trying to ensure that every possible inch of his body is supported by couch. It's just too tiring to get up properly.
"Wow," Ryan says, "Your high school experience must have been a lot more intense than mine."
Tennessee laughs, her voice fond. "Z was the biggest nerd ever," she says. "She'd be like, no, can I slip another allusion to Shakespeare in these lyrics?"
Ryan closes his eyes and tries to remember what his own high school life was about. Lots of band practice, really. Some parties, and if any work got done he doesn't remember that part of it. He basically hated high school.
"My English teacher wept when I told her I didn't have any college plans," Z says lazily. "I told her I wasn't sorry."
"You could go back to school one day," Tennessee says. "It's always an option. My grandmother thinks I'm just taking several gap years."
Z laughs, and Ryan falls asleep.
---
four.
"Is that my shirt you're wearing?" Ryan asks. They're in her hotel room and Z's just wandered out the bathroom.
Z quirks an eyebrow at him. "Do you actually own any official Panic at the Disco merchandise?" she asks.
No. No, he doesn't. Just his Reinvent Love T-shirt, which was the original prototype. Ryan doesn't know where it is now, probably on the floor of his closet in his house. He tries not to think about it.
That means Z actually went out and bought a Panic T-shirt of her own volition, of course.
"What?" Z says, like she knows what.
It's just weird, Ryan doesn't say, because he doesn't want to say something Z already knows.
"Nothing," Ryan shrugs. "Wear what you like." He pauses and wonders if that sounded a bit too – off, maybe or bitter, but then it doesn't matter because Z is crossing the room and putting her hand on his head. He closes his eyes.
"You should wear black more often," Ryan says. He shrugs again, because his mouth feels clumsy. "You know. If that's what you feel like."
"I do feel like," Z muses. She makes a quarter-turn, her hand still on his head, and looks at herself in the full-length mirror. "It constantly surprises me how hot I look in black."
"You look hot in anything," Ryan says, and means it.
Z laughs, and puts her boots on.
---
five.
The air is chilly for this time of the day and year, but Ryan isn't going back in to the party yet.
It's a nice party. A surprisingly subdued one, more a causal gathering than anything else. Not like the parties he had in high school, all noise and clandestine beer and some truly terrible music. Is this a sign he's grown up?
Beside him, Z exhales loudly. Ryan glances at her, but he doesn't say anything. When she'd arrived in the morning he'd said, "You cut your hair!" and she'd smiled at him.
He hasn't gotten used to it yet. Her hair's smooth against the back of her head, like she's pulled it back into a bun. From some angles it looks like she doesn't actually have short hair. Mostly it makes her eyes look really big.
"I can't wait for tour to start," Z says.
"I can," Ryan replies.
Silence. They both listen to the slow blur of cars far beneath them, on the street. Ryan looks at Z again. She's wearing wooden cross earrings that dangle from her ears and a black fringed shawl. Considered in this moment she looks Spanish, or like a serene madonna.
"Why?" Z asks.
Ryan shrugs. "Nervous, I guess." he says. "I'm looking forward to it but -- it's also like the first day of school used to be, I guess. I could never sleep the night before."
"You'd better sleep," Z says, her voice rich and thin. Rusty, Ryan'd once heard it described as. "You'll need it."
Ryan doesn't say anything, but his hand creeps across the railing and finds hers.
Ryan/Z Berg
PG
1326 words
Five photos of Ryan and Z, five ficlets. Not chronologically accurate at all.
This would not have existed without
egelantier, who told me to tell her a story over chat and sent me five pictures when I asked for a single one as a prompt. She betaed too, the pushy wench. ♥Title and cut-tag from (who else?) The Young Veins.
one.
"We shouldn't be together," Z tells Ryan. "If we did get together, we'd probably break up in five seconds flat. Or we'd be together for five months, and it'd be weird and messy and we'd break up in the most dramatic way ever, and we'd end up writing really bad albums about each other."
Ryan knows all this. It's not the first time he's thought it about Z, and it's not even the first time he's thought it, period. But hearing her say it - and say it while her arms are tucked around his neck – takes the whole thing to a whole new level of bizarre truth.
Ryan likes Z, he really does. He likes her music and her dry crackling voice and the way she wears makeup really well. His own days of makeup are over and well behind him, but it doesn't mean he has to stop appreciating, and he appreciates the aesthetic of a fine red lip. Especially when her mouth is hovering not an inch from his.
In her heels, Z is practically his height. Her eyes are cool and assessing, and Ryan's willing to bet that her heels are digging into the hotel carpet. There’s a guy around toting a camera but he doesn’t care.
"But you're still going to kiss me, aren't you?" he says. He'd intended for that to come out all knowing and suave, and he's a little bit surprised by how much he actually wants this.
Z can tell, because she throws him an amused look.
"Totally," she says, and she leans close so he can smell her perfume, and they do.
---
two.
Ryan blinks at Z. "You look like Jessica Simpson," he says. It's not intended as a compliment.
Z is completely unfazed. Ryan wouldn't expect any less, which is why he's going to keep needling her until he gets a reaction from her one of these days, or something. She might get angry, though.
"I know," she says. "That's kind of the whole point."
Z's wearing denim cut-offs and a short blue singlet, and Ryan can see her bra. Her hair's unbrushed, and Ryan shouldn't be staring at her bellybutton as much as he is. He just keeps finding his eyes drawn there again, and again.
Z's noticed, of course. "Classy, Ross," she says, voice low with amusement and a edge of -- something. She doesn't try to cover her belly, though, just leans against the table reaches up to touch her hair and squinches her face at him.
Ryan's noticed she hasn't shaved under her arms, either. Their visit had kind of been a surprise. Under her arms, a pale growth of hair, blonde enough that you wouldn't notice unless you were looking for it, or it'd caught the light, or something.
Z smells of male deodorant and salt.
"Looking nice, Z," Jon comments, and takes a picture of her.
"Oh my god," Z says, dropping her pose and turning to him wide-eyed, like she hadn't known Jon was there with his camera phone all along.
"How do I look? Am I making a stupid face? Can you see my underarm hair?!" Her eyes are wide with mock dismay.
"Weird, yes, and... maybe," Jon says, squinting at his phone. "If you zoomed, maybe."
"Oh, awesome," Z says. "Post it to Twitter. Now."
---
three.
"I am so tired," Ryan complains. He's slumped in the big beige couch, Z and Tennessee on either side of him. Tennessee looks at him sympathetically.
"Poor baby," she says, and he can't tell if she's mocking, or really being nice.
Ryan moans pitifully. They'd been up the whole night working on music, and now they are paying the consequences. Very badly indeed.
"This reminds me," Z says in a dreamy voice, "Of high school. And working on papers, and deadlines, and things."
Z sounds almost wistful. Ryan turns around to look at her while trying to ensure that every possible inch of his body is supported by couch. It's just too tiring to get up properly.
"Wow," Ryan says, "Your high school experience must have been a lot more intense than mine."
Tennessee laughs, her voice fond. "Z was the biggest nerd ever," she says. "She'd be like, no, can I slip another allusion to Shakespeare in these lyrics?"
Ryan closes his eyes and tries to remember what his own high school life was about. Lots of band practice, really. Some parties, and if any work got done he doesn't remember that part of it. He basically hated high school.
"My English teacher wept when I told her I didn't have any college plans," Z says lazily. "I told her I wasn't sorry."
"You could go back to school one day," Tennessee says. "It's always an option. My grandmother thinks I'm just taking several gap years."
Z laughs, and Ryan falls asleep.
---
four.
"Is that my shirt you're wearing?" Ryan asks. They're in her hotel room and Z's just wandered out the bathroom.
Z quirks an eyebrow at him. "Do you actually own any official Panic at the Disco merchandise?" she asks.
No. No, he doesn't. Just his Reinvent Love T-shirt, which was the original prototype. Ryan doesn't know where it is now, probably on the floor of his closet in his house. He tries not to think about it.
That means Z actually went out and bought a Panic T-shirt of her own volition, of course.
"What?" Z says, like she knows what.
It's just weird, Ryan doesn't say, because he doesn't want to say something Z already knows.
"Nothing," Ryan shrugs. "Wear what you like." He pauses and wonders if that sounded a bit too – off, maybe or bitter, but then it doesn't matter because Z is crossing the room and putting her hand on his head. He closes his eyes.
"You should wear black more often," Ryan says. He shrugs again, because his mouth feels clumsy. "You know. If that's what you feel like."
"I do feel like," Z muses. She makes a quarter-turn, her hand still on his head, and looks at herself in the full-length mirror. "It constantly surprises me how hot I look in black."
"You look hot in anything," Ryan says, and means it.
Z laughs, and puts her boots on.
---
five.
The air is chilly for this time of the day and year, but Ryan isn't going back in to the party yet.
It's a nice party. A surprisingly subdued one, more a causal gathering than anything else. Not like the parties he had in high school, all noise and clandestine beer and some truly terrible music. Is this a sign he's grown up?
Beside him, Z exhales loudly. Ryan glances at her, but he doesn't say anything. When she'd arrived in the morning he'd said, "You cut your hair!" and she'd smiled at him.
He hasn't gotten used to it yet. Her hair's smooth against the back of her head, like she's pulled it back into a bun. From some angles it looks like she doesn't actually have short hair. Mostly it makes her eyes look really big.
"I can't wait for tour to start," Z says.
"I can," Ryan replies.
Silence. They both listen to the slow blur of cars far beneath them, on the street. Ryan looks at Z again. She's wearing wooden cross earrings that dangle from her ears and a black fringed shawl. Considered in this moment she looks Spanish, or like a serene madonna.
"Why?" Z asks.
Ryan shrugs. "Nervous, I guess." he says. "I'm looking forward to it but -- it's also like the first day of school used to be, I guess. I could never sleep the night before."
"You'd better sleep," Z says, her voice rich and thin. Rusty, Ryan'd once heard it described as. "You'll need it."
Ryan doesn't say anything, but his hand creeps across the railing and finds hers.