Fake Plastic Trees

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Fake Plastic Trees [oneshot, 3,218 words]

Jun 15, 2011 02:29

Title: Fake Plastic Trees
Author: sexontoasties 
Pairing(s): Ryan/Brendon
Rating: PG
Summary: Ryan feels a twist in his heart, because god, what he would give just to hear Brendon sing. To hear his voice. To hear him laugh. To hear him cry. To hear him gasp. To hear his own name fall from those lips. 

He shakes his head because he hates thinking about things that he knows will never, ever happen.
POV: Third person
Beta: the_black_disc0 
Disclaimer: All fake. Title belongs to Radiohead.
A/N: Based loosely off of the episode 'True Life: I'm Deaf' 

The sense of touch: 

Soft fur brushing the tips of his fingers as he pets the neighbor’s dog. Cold wooden floors as he gets up in the middle of the night to grab a glass of water. Warm skin pressing against his own, raising goosebumps and making him shiver even though he’s not cold at all. 

The sense of sight: 

Dull brown and orange leaves blowing across the driveway, signally autumn’s beginning. Bright colors flashing across the television screen as he tiredly eats his cereal, watching early morning cartoons. Deep pools of chocolate irises staring back at him, blinking slowly in the darkness of his room as they’re huddled under the covers. 

The sense of smell: 

The bittersweet scent of those weird bamboo air fresheners his mom is addicted to buying and placing randomly all over the house. Humid, wet air filling his nose as he walks to school after a nightly storm. The sweet smell of fruity shampoo as he buries his face in soft, dark hair. 

The sense of taste: 

Warm, metallic drops of blood when he bites his lip a little too hard. The exploding sweetness of those freshly grown oranges his mother buys him from the market in the springtime. Salty tears cascading down his cheeks and catching in the corners of his mouth before gentle thumbs can brush them away. 

The sense of sound: 

Silence. 

-- 

“Can you feel that?” 

Ryan nods as he presses his palms harder on the lid of the baby grand piano. Brendon plays a single note, and a soft vibration runs through the palms of his hands. It’s not enough, not nearly, so Ryan slowly lowers his head until his ear is pressed flat against the sleek wood. He closes his eyes. 

Brendon plays. 

It feels like his eyes are shaking inside his skull. Electric and steady, a low thrumming with an erratic beat. He concludes Brendon’s playing Bach, because Brendon would talk for hours after his weekly piano lesson about how Bach is going to be the death of him. Ryan thinks this piece sounds pretty deadly. 

He opens his eyes about halfway through and they land on Brendon’s face. Chin lowered and eyes darting back and forth across the keys, intent and dark. Intimidating and pulling at the same time. He looks up when the song ends and catches Ryan’s eyes, half lidded and focused on the rumbling that was soaking into his skin. Ryan stands upright again and signs, 

“What was that?” 

Brendon turns sideways on the piano bench and smiles as he says with his hands, “Solfeggio by Bach. But you knew that didn’t you?” 

Ryan smiles, small but still there. “I had a hunch. When you play Bach for me I kind of feel like the world’s ending.” 

Brendon laughs and runs a hand over the top of the piano. “Yeah. Bach tends to evoke that description a lot.” 

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