Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco
Bath Toys
“Ryry, I think I’m dying!”
The older of the two doesn’t even look up from his notebook, just carries on scribbling away as though his headphones are actually loud enough to drown out the melodramatic cries of his boyfriend. The writer carries on writing and, to keep the balance, the whinger carries on whinging.
“If I don’t make it, let it be noted that I rock guyliner; totally different from eyeliner.”
And so it continues; the moans of the sick going by relatively unnoticed by the scribbling wordsmith. Apart from it is of course noticed, simply chosen to be ignored until the threat of imminent death becomes more imminent and less like some sort of ploy intended to get the earnest worker into bed with the bunged-up younger boy. It wouldn’t be the first time and, for once, the older refuses to fall victim to his better and caring nature.
After a few hours of this though and a few horribly convincing coughs, a pen is laid flat on an old oak desk and a worn, leather-bound journal is finally flipped shut. This is largely because there are two things in this world that George Ryan Ross cannot stand; the first being bearing witness to another living thing’s suffering, be it from a mosquito or a man, and the second is being interrupted whilst trying to write. Especially while trying to write lyrics.
Because how is Ryan meant to become a rock star and earn enough money to buy his boyfriend a nice house with a koi pond out the back if he never gets any lyrics written?
“What’s up, Brendon?” Ryan’s voice is scratchy, a side-effect of having a shouting match with his dad earlier in the day, and more than a little fed up; he’s been lacking inspiration lately and aforementioned shouting match was finally freeing his creativity, up until a certain sixteen-year-old decided to be act like a damn prima donna.
Brendon just rolls over on the bed so that his back is glaring into his boyfriend’s eyes, the gesture having the fully intended effect of making Ryan feel akin to someone who’s just burnt down an orphanage. No, completely destroyed an orphanage and a puppy pound both at the same time, as well as the maternity ward of the local hospital.
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that, Honey-B.” The elder sighs, wheeling his swivel desk chair over to the bed and placing a hand on one of Brendon’s bony shoulders. He knows he isn’t really in the doghouse when nothing is done to remove the far-too-comforting touch. “I’m sorry I ignored you, I was just really busy.”
Almost immediately Brendon flips back over, almost crushing Ryan’s fragile little hand in the process. He fixes Ryan with a stare that Ryan is pretty sure would melt him if he were made of something as sweet as the colour of his boyfriend’s irises; Brendon’s lower lip is jutted out like a toddler throwing a tantrum and his eyes are wider than windows, huge pools of melted chocolate streaked with something akin to mild hurt.
If Ryan didn’t know any better, he might be convinced by the look Brendon’s giving him and feel extremely guilty. Luckily for Ryan, however, he does.
“I could have been dying, Ryan!” The younger man’s voice takes on a gratingly squeaky pitch in its attempt to sound incredulous. “But oh no, Mr Deep-And-Profound decided that his notebook was more important than moi. Don’t you know I could be getting my dick sucked by Pete Wentz right now if I wanted?”
For a second Ryan’s worried by the scarily convincing act, worried that he maybe really has just ruined the best thing in his fucked-up little life.
Until Brendon’s lips twist into a smile and then into the grin of true joker. Ryan's not smiling though. In fact, Ryan’s barely breathing; the thought of losing his boyfriend, his entire fucking world no less, to that pretentious prick from across the street burning a hole through his heart like a burning arrow through a wedding dress.
“Don’t say that, Bren. Please, don’t ever say you’ll leave me.”
Brendon’s giggles cut out at that, much like a dying car engine juddering to a kaput, and he reaches out a hand to caress the side of his boyfriend’s face. He might be the youngest of the pair, but Ryan is by far the most sensitive. Perhaps, Brendon thinks, this is because of how his father treats him.
After all, being constantly put-down must take a toll on a guy’s self-esteem after a while. Especially when the putting-down is being done by said guy’s own flesh and blood. Especially when the put-downs are the things that Brendon’s had the misfortune to occasionally overhear down the phone.
“Hey, Sweetie, look at me.” Ryan cautiously does as told, half scared that he’ll see his father’s venom-green eyes in place of Brendon’s comfortingly deep portals of vision. “I will never leave you. Never. I was just messing with you; you know what I’m like.”
Ryan nods because, yes, he does unfortunately know what Brendon Boyd Urie is like. He knows all about how his boyfriend likes putting custard in people’s shoes when they aren’t looking, how he thinks it’s funny to turn on the kitchen taps when Ryan’s in the shower, about how every other word out of his devilishly perfect mouth is some sort of stupidly seductive euphemism.
Sometimes Ryan thinks that when God built Brendon, he only had funny bones left in stock.
He wouldn’t change a thing about his boyfriend though, not a thing and not for anyone.
“What did you want anyway, Honey-B?”
Brendon drops his hand, sadly accepting his boyfriend’s vicious abandonment issues are something that they’ll probably never discuss openly, and uses it to wipe across his red, swollen nose instead.
“I’ve got a cold. Might even be flu.” Now that it’s been mentioned, Ryan can hear how stuffy he sounds and feels more than a little bit dreadful for having ignored him. “I was wondering if you’d run me a bath?” Ryan nods eagerly, desperate to make up for his neglect. “With rubber duckies and everything?”
“Of course, Honey-B. I’ll put in my big one with your little one and then you can play rubber duckie families, just the way you like to in the bath.” Ryan nods as he walks through to the en suite, remembering how lucky he is to have such an adorable kid to call his own.
And then Brendon sees it; his chance to pounce. His chance to claim what is his.
“Actually, forget the duckies!” Brendon yells, his voice suddenly sounding suspiciously healthy, and if Ryan were still in the bedroom he’d be able to see the Cheshire cat grin adorning the younger’s sharp face.
“Oh?” Ryan calls back, straining to hear over the sound of running water filling the oversized tub.
“Yeah. I think I’d much rather play with you in the bath.”
And to that Ryan can’t help but smile. Because this is just them, being Them.
A/N: Just a short little Rydon I cooked up for youcanstakemyheart, based on the prompt “Rydon involving rubber duckies”. Sorry that the rubber duckies didn’t make a physical appearance, but I hope this was alright. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)
“Ryry, I think I’m dying!”
The older of the two doesn’t even look up from his notebook, just carries on scribbling away as though his headphones are actually loud enough to drown out the melodramatic cries of his boyfriend. The writer carries on writing and, to keep the balance, the whinger carries on whinging.
“If I don’t make it, let it be noted that I rock guyliner; totally different from eyeliner.”
And so it continues; the moans of the sick going by relatively unnoticed by the scribbling wordsmith. Apart from it is of course noticed, simply chosen to be ignored until the threat of imminent death becomes more imminent and less like some sort of ploy intended to get the earnest worker into bed with the bunged-up younger boy. It wouldn’t be the first time and, for once, the older refuses to fall victim to his better and caring nature.
After a few hours of this though and a few horribly convincing coughs, a pen is laid flat on an old oak desk and a worn, leather-bound journal is finally flipped shut. This is largely because there are two things in this world that George Ryan Ross cannot stand; the first being bearing witness to another living thing’s suffering, be it from a mosquito or a man, and the second is being interrupted whilst trying to write. Especially while trying to write lyrics.
Because how is Ryan meant to become a rock star and earn enough money to buy his boyfriend a nice house with a koi pond out the back if he never gets any lyrics written?
“What’s up, Brendon?” Ryan’s voice is scratchy, a side-effect of having a shouting match with his dad earlier in the day, and more than a little fed up; he’s been lacking inspiration lately and aforementioned shouting match was finally freeing his creativity, up until a certain sixteen-year-old decided to be act like a damn prima donna.
Brendon just rolls over on the bed so that his back is glaring into his boyfriend’s eyes, the gesture having the fully intended effect of making Ryan feel akin to someone who’s just burnt down an orphanage. No, completely destroyed an orphanage and a puppy pound both at the same time, as well as the maternity ward of the local hospital.
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that, Honey-B.” The elder sighs, wheeling his swivel desk chair over to the bed and placing a hand on one of Brendon’s bony shoulders. He knows he isn’t really in the doghouse when nothing is done to remove the far-too-comforting touch. “I’m sorry I ignored you, I was just really busy.”
Almost immediately Brendon flips back over, almost crushing Ryan’s fragile little hand in the process. He fixes Ryan with a stare that Ryan is pretty sure would melt him if he were made of something as sweet as the colour of his boyfriend’s irises; Brendon’s lower lip is jutted out like a toddler throwing a tantrum and his eyes are wider than windows, huge pools of melted chocolate streaked with something akin to mild hurt.
If Ryan didn’t know any better, he might be convinced by the look Brendon’s giving him and feel extremely guilty. Luckily for Ryan, however, he does.
“I could have been dying, Ryan!” The younger man’s voice takes on a gratingly squeaky pitch in its attempt to sound incredulous. “But oh no, Mr Deep-And-Profound decided that his notebook was more important than moi. Don’t you know I could be getting my dick sucked by Pete Wentz right now if I wanted?”
For a second Ryan’s worried by the scarily convincing act, worried that he maybe really has just ruined the best thing in his fucked-up little life.
Until Brendon’s lips twist into a smile and then into the grin of true joker. Ryan's not smiling though. In fact, Ryan’s barely breathing; the thought of losing his boyfriend, his entire fucking world no less, to that pretentious prick from across the street burning a hole through his heart like a burning arrow through a wedding dress.
“Don’t say that, Bren. Please, don’t ever say you’ll leave me.”
Brendon’s giggles cut out at that, much like a dying car engine juddering to a kaput, and he reaches out a hand to caress the side of his boyfriend’s face. He might be the youngest of the pair, but Ryan is by far the most sensitive. Perhaps, Brendon thinks, this is because of how his father treats him.
After all, being constantly put-down must take a toll on a guy’s self-esteem after a while. Especially when the putting-down is being done by said guy’s own flesh and blood. Especially when the put-downs are the things that Brendon’s had the misfortune to occasionally overhear down the phone.
“Hey, Sweetie, look at me.” Ryan cautiously does as told, half scared that he’ll see his father’s venom-green eyes in place of Brendon’s comfortingly deep portals of vision. “I will never leave you. Never. I was just messing with you; you know what I’m like.”
Ryan nods because, yes, he does unfortunately know what Brendon Boyd Urie is like. He knows all about how his boyfriend likes putting custard in people’s shoes when they aren’t looking, how he thinks it’s funny to turn on the kitchen taps when Ryan’s in the shower, about how every other word out of his devilishly perfect mouth is some sort of stupidly seductive euphemism.
Sometimes Ryan thinks that when God built Brendon, he only had funny bones left in stock.
He wouldn’t change a thing about his boyfriend though, not a thing and not for anyone.
“What did you want anyway, Honey-B?”
Brendon drops his hand, sadly accepting his boyfriend’s vicious abandonment issues are something that they’ll probably never discuss openly, and uses it to wipe across his red, swollen nose instead.
“I’ve got a cold. Might even be flu.” Now that it’s been mentioned, Ryan can hear how stuffy he sounds and feels more than a little bit dreadful for having ignored him. “I was wondering if you’d run me a bath?” Ryan nods eagerly, desperate to make up for his neglect. “With rubber duckies and everything?”
“Of course, Honey-B. I’ll put in my big one with your little one and then you can play rubber duckie families, just the way you like to in the bath.” Ryan nods as he walks through to the en suite, remembering how lucky he is to have such an adorable kid to call his own.
And then Brendon sees it; his chance to pounce. His chance to claim what is his.
“Actually, forget the duckies!” Brendon yells, his voice suddenly sounding suspiciously healthy, and if Ryan were still in the bedroom he’d be able to see the Cheshire cat grin adorning the younger’s sharp face.
“Oh?” Ryan calls back, straining to hear over the sound of running water filling the oversized tub.
“Yeah. I think I’d much rather play with you in the bath.”
And to that Ryan can’t help but smile. Because this is just them, being Them.
A/N: Just a short little Rydon I cooked up for youcanstakemyheart, based on the prompt “Rydon involving rubber duckies”. Sorry that the rubber duckies didn’t make a physical appearance, but I hope this was alright. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)
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