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fan_flashworks2020-07-10 11:40 pm
dreamersdare) wrote in fan_flashworks2020-07-10 11:40 pm
Entry tags:
Panic! at the Disco: Fanfic: Sleeper lines
Title: Sleeper lines
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco
Characters: Spencer Smith/Ryan Ross, Brendon Urie
Rating: Teen
Length: 1,131
Content notes: Contains swearwords, insomnia, (exceptionally mild) sensory deprivation
Author notes: Sliding in under the wire, because it's been a rotten few weeks - like Spencer, I am also exceptionally tired (and can't sleep in vans)
Summary: Spencer can't sleep in the van
The windows are grimy.
Outside, the landscape flashes by, too quickly to be seen in the pre-dawn twilight, and Spencer knows that means that Brent is driving too fast, keen to get… home, maybe. Or another venue. He thinks he knew, at one point, but he’s been awake for more hours than he can count, and he can’t really remember now. Maybe it doesn’t matter. He should sleep.
But the windows are grimy, and the tyres rumble, and Spencer can’t sleep in the fucking van.
He feels like a window; stretched thin and transparent, grimy and smeared, like he’s bleeding out around the edges. The wind whistling past the van as they eat up the miles feels like it’s buffeting him as well; their tour is like trying to breath into the wind, he thinks, making his chest feel tight and full at the same time as his lungs ache. Maybe, Spencer thinks tiredly, he’d break like a window too, if anyone hit him too hard; shattering with a decaying resonance that would sound like his crash cymbal, as he tumbled apart into tiny Spencer-shaped fragments.
Maybe. At this point, he might even be okay with it.
His eyes are gritty, like the grime from outside has seeped through to coat him as well, and he brings his fist up to rub tiredly at them. It doesn’t help, more of an irritation than a relief, and he regrets it as soon as they start to burn. He lets his hands drop awkwardly back into his lap, blinking slowly, and it’s like rubbing sandpaper across his eyeballs. He wonders, randomly, if this is what it feels like to be a wiped window, when smeared dirt and scum is scraped across the surface and nothing is cleaned away.
“Go to sleep, Spence.”
Ryan’s pressed up against him, sandwiched in with Brendon on his other side, but he pitches his voice low enough that Spencer doesn’t think Brendon hears. He’s crashed out; slumped against Ryan’s side, snoring open mouthed and drooling a little onto Ryan’s shoulder, and it’s simultaneously gross and ridiculously cute. Any other time, Spencer thinks, Ryan would have shrugged him off already, and Spencer thinks it says a lot that he hasn’t.
Ryan’s a bony fucker, but he has his soft spots, for those who know where to look. Spencer knows. He thinks Brendon might be starting to, as well.
“Brendon’s drooling on you,” he says, and the words grate in his throat, crawling out whiskey rough and scratchy in a way that doesn’t sound like him at all.
Ryan hums quietly, and Spencer can see his eyes glittering like cut glass in the near dark. “I know. Go to sleep.”
“M’okay” Spencer mumbles, looking back toward the window. It’s starting to rain; thick, fat clear blobs splattering against the filth, and then trembling their way horizontally across the glass, leaving clear trails behind them. It’s a good metaphor for the band, Spencer thinks, stupidly. Moments of musical clarity breaking through the everyday humdrum grind in random places, and tracking their way across America, leaving a trail of people hungry for more in their wake.
At least, he hopes that’s what they’re leaving, and, fuck, he really is tired if he’s thinking like this.
Ryan tugs his arm out from where it’s wedged between them, elbowing Spencer twice in the ribs in the process. They’re sharp jabs that leave aching spots in their wake, and Spencer should probably bitch him out, just on principle, but he can’t bring himself to care. He just shifts to accommodate, and Ryan snakes his arm around Spencer’s neck, angling his hand up to press the flat of his palm across Spencer’s eyes, blocking out Spencer’s view of the window. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut on instinct, ignoring the way they burn in protest. Ryan’s hand is cool against his skin, a little clammy, and he smells; old sweat, that weirdly chemical cloying smell that wafts out any time he opens his make up box, and a sharp-sweet mix of lemon and sugar that Spencer thinks comes from the donuts they’d had in lieu of actual food at whatever the hell time they’d eaten tonight.
Ryan leans in closely enough that Spencer can feel his mouth brushing against his ear; his breath warm and sticky where it washes over Spencer’s skin and Spencer shivers. “Idiot,” Ryan says, in that low monotone that Spencer’s been interpreting as fond since some time in the second grade. “You’re so tired you’re shaking. For fuck sake, go to sleep.”
“M’not… oh,” Spencer says, because even as he starts to deny it, he realises that Ryan’s right. He is trembling; tiny continuous shivers running through him like glass being hit with a too loud bass note.
He has no idea when the fuck that started.
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Exactly. So do as you’re told.”
“S’my line,” Spencer says, or at least tries to, but it comes out muzzily, like his voice has been smeared around the edges and parts of the words have fallen away. “Fuck.”
Ryan doesn’t answer, instead tugging him down until Spencer’s head is resting against his shoulder. He’s skin and bone and Spencer knows it should be uncomfortable as hell, but he’s spent too many years curled around Ryan in a bed that got increasingly too small for them to share for that to bother him. He can already feel himself sinking into Ryan, exhaustion drawing over him like a curtain and he shifts, looking for the position he instinctively knows will be most comfortable.
“That’s it,” Ryan whispers, somewhere above his head. “I’ll wake you up when it’s your turn to drive.”
Spencer snorts, disbelievingly, because his eyes feel gummed closed and a noise is less effort than actual words that he’s not sure he can make any more. He knows it’ll be enough; he’s been talking to Ryan without words for years, and he’s proven right when Ryan’s arm tightens around his neck in a silent acknowledgement that tells him that Ryan understands exactly what he didn’t say.
“Sleep, Spence,” Spencer can hear the smile that won’t be on Ryan’s face, and it sends a warmth rushing through him that makes him want to curl up closer and smaller against Ryan’s side, leeching Ryan’s heat everywhere they’re pressed together, losing himself in the familiar rhythm of Ryan breathing and sinking himself into Ryan’s familiar scent of sweat and show and van, until he forgets whatever it is that’s been stopping him from drifting away. And with anyone else, he might not, but this is him and Ryan, and Spencer knows none of the usual rules apply to them.
He’s so caught up in thinking about it he doesn’t spot the moment when sleep steals him.
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco
Characters: Spencer Smith/Ryan Ross, Brendon Urie
Rating: Teen
Length: 1,131
Content notes: Contains swearwords, insomnia, (exceptionally mild) sensory deprivation
Author notes: Sliding in under the wire, because it's been a rotten few weeks - like Spencer, I am also exceptionally tired (and can't sleep in vans)
Summary: Spencer can't sleep in the van
The windows are grimy.
Outside, the landscape flashes by, too quickly to be seen in the pre-dawn twilight, and Spencer knows that means that Brent is driving too fast, keen to get… home, maybe. Or another venue. He thinks he knew, at one point, but he’s been awake for more hours than he can count, and he can’t really remember now. Maybe it doesn’t matter. He should sleep.
But the windows are grimy, and the tyres rumble, and Spencer can’t sleep in the fucking van.
He feels like a window; stretched thin and transparent, grimy and smeared, like he’s bleeding out around the edges. The wind whistling past the van as they eat up the miles feels like it’s buffeting him as well; their tour is like trying to breath into the wind, he thinks, making his chest feel tight and full at the same time as his lungs ache. Maybe, Spencer thinks tiredly, he’d break like a window too, if anyone hit him too hard; shattering with a decaying resonance that would sound like his crash cymbal, as he tumbled apart into tiny Spencer-shaped fragments.
Maybe. At this point, he might even be okay with it.
His eyes are gritty, like the grime from outside has seeped through to coat him as well, and he brings his fist up to rub tiredly at them. It doesn’t help, more of an irritation than a relief, and he regrets it as soon as they start to burn. He lets his hands drop awkwardly back into his lap, blinking slowly, and it’s like rubbing sandpaper across his eyeballs. He wonders, randomly, if this is what it feels like to be a wiped window, when smeared dirt and scum is scraped across the surface and nothing is cleaned away.
“Go to sleep, Spence.”
Ryan’s pressed up against him, sandwiched in with Brendon on his other side, but he pitches his voice low enough that Spencer doesn’t think Brendon hears. He’s crashed out; slumped against Ryan’s side, snoring open mouthed and drooling a little onto Ryan’s shoulder, and it’s simultaneously gross and ridiculously cute. Any other time, Spencer thinks, Ryan would have shrugged him off already, and Spencer thinks it says a lot that he hasn’t.
Ryan’s a bony fucker, but he has his soft spots, for those who know where to look. Spencer knows. He thinks Brendon might be starting to, as well.
“Brendon’s drooling on you,” he says, and the words grate in his throat, crawling out whiskey rough and scratchy in a way that doesn’t sound like him at all.
Ryan hums quietly, and Spencer can see his eyes glittering like cut glass in the near dark. “I know. Go to sleep.”
“M’okay” Spencer mumbles, looking back toward the window. It’s starting to rain; thick, fat clear blobs splattering against the filth, and then trembling their way horizontally across the glass, leaving clear trails behind them. It’s a good metaphor for the band, Spencer thinks, stupidly. Moments of musical clarity breaking through the everyday humdrum grind in random places, and tracking their way across America, leaving a trail of people hungry for more in their wake.
At least, he hopes that’s what they’re leaving, and, fuck, he really is tired if he’s thinking like this.
Ryan tugs his arm out from where it’s wedged between them, elbowing Spencer twice in the ribs in the process. They’re sharp jabs that leave aching spots in their wake, and Spencer should probably bitch him out, just on principle, but he can’t bring himself to care. He just shifts to accommodate, and Ryan snakes his arm around Spencer’s neck, angling his hand up to press the flat of his palm across Spencer’s eyes, blocking out Spencer’s view of the window. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut on instinct, ignoring the way they burn in protest. Ryan’s hand is cool against his skin, a little clammy, and he smells; old sweat, that weirdly chemical cloying smell that wafts out any time he opens his make up box, and a sharp-sweet mix of lemon and sugar that Spencer thinks comes from the donuts they’d had in lieu of actual food at whatever the hell time they’d eaten tonight.
Ryan leans in closely enough that Spencer can feel his mouth brushing against his ear; his breath warm and sticky where it washes over Spencer’s skin and Spencer shivers. “Idiot,” Ryan says, in that low monotone that Spencer’s been interpreting as fond since some time in the second grade. “You’re so tired you’re shaking. For fuck sake, go to sleep.”
“M’not… oh,” Spencer says, because even as he starts to deny it, he realises that Ryan’s right. He is trembling; tiny continuous shivers running through him like glass being hit with a too loud bass note.
He has no idea when the fuck that started.
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Exactly. So do as you’re told.”
“S’my line,” Spencer says, or at least tries to, but it comes out muzzily, like his voice has been smeared around the edges and parts of the words have fallen away. “Fuck.”
Ryan doesn’t answer, instead tugging him down until Spencer’s head is resting against his shoulder. He’s skin and bone and Spencer knows it should be uncomfortable as hell, but he’s spent too many years curled around Ryan in a bed that got increasingly too small for them to share for that to bother him. He can already feel himself sinking into Ryan, exhaustion drawing over him like a curtain and he shifts, looking for the position he instinctively knows will be most comfortable.
“That’s it,” Ryan whispers, somewhere above his head. “I’ll wake you up when it’s your turn to drive.”
Spencer snorts, disbelievingly, because his eyes feel gummed closed and a noise is less effort than actual words that he’s not sure he can make any more. He knows it’ll be enough; he’s been talking to Ryan without words for years, and he’s proven right when Ryan’s arm tightens around his neck in a silent acknowledgement that tells him that Ryan understands exactly what he didn’t say.
“Sleep, Spence,” Spencer can hear the smile that won’t be on Ryan’s face, and it sends a warmth rushing through him that makes him want to curl up closer and smaller against Ryan’s side, leeching Ryan’s heat everywhere they’re pressed together, losing himself in the familiar rhythm of Ryan breathing and sinking himself into Ryan’s familiar scent of sweat and show and van, until he forgets whatever it is that’s been stopping him from drifting away. And with anyone else, he might not, but this is him and Ryan, and Spencer knows none of the usual rules apply to them.
He’s so caught up in thinking about it he doesn’t spot the moment when sleep steals him.