Ryden Oneshots

Off The Record

Off the Record

bunniewabbit

Summary:

Brendon had no idea that recording an album would be so complicated and frustrating

Notes:

Takes place during recording of "A Fever You Can't Sweat Out," and if not inspired by, it's certainly informed by the first two minutes of this video.

Work Text:

Brendon stood anxiously plucking at the hem of his t-shirt, shifting from foot to foot as he looked down at the huddled form on the bunk. He glanced around the recording studio, eerily quiet now that everyone else had left; Matt, their producer, had made a tactful exit at some point during the height of the yelling, and Spencer and Brent had cut and run once it had become apparent that Ryan was pretty much done dealing with any of them for the rest of the day.

The fidgeting finally paid off -- Ryan rolled over and just looked up at him, expressionless, and let out a small huff of breath before sliding away from Brendon, leaving behind an open expanse of mattress the approximate width of a person. Brendon sank down gratefully and stretched out on his back beside Ryan with a sigh, fixing his eyes on the upper bunk. He lay quietly for awhile, putting considerable effort into keeping still.

“I'm sorry,” he said, before the silence could grow too thick between them. When Ryan didn't respond, he tried again. “I'm sorry. About today. I was a prick.” One beat. Two. “Ross.”

“I know!” A pause and then an immense sigh that sounded like it came all the way from Ryan's toes. “I know,” he said again, more quietly. “You're such an asshole, Brendon.”

“It's a gift.” Brendon giggled uncertainly. “Uh. Look, I...”

“Just shut up, Brendon. Just... I don't want to talk about it anymore today, okay?”

Brendon lay there, still staring straight up, until it felt like he couldn't breathe anymore. “I need to talk about it, Ryan.”

“Jesus, Brendon,” Ryan groaned, and twisted away to face the wall.

“You don't need to say anything, all right? I just need to get this out.” He paused, waiting for acknowledgment, protest, something, but when he got nothing he forged ahead. “I can't say that I know what it should sound like, or that I can hear it in my head, or something, because I can't. But I know, just know when it's not right. Or when it is. I can feel it. I wish you would trust my instincts a little more, like you do your own, instead of just... automatically disagreeing with everything I say.”

“That's not what I'm doing,” Ryan said tightly.

“It sure as hell is what it feels like.” Brendon could feel the anger from their earlier argument kindling again and took a deep breath, trying to keep it at bay. He rolled over on his side and looked at the dark tangle of Ryan's long hair inches from his face. “I think we can make a good record -- are making a good record, here. But you need to stop fighting me and let me help more.” Tentatively, he put his palm on Ryan's back, feeling the slight expansion of his ribs with each indrawn breath, wishing he could read Ryan's state of mind from the soft in-and-out of air through his lungs. At least he wasn't pulling away. “Ross? Come on.” He moved his hand in small, soothing circles on Ryan's back, over and over the long lines of his ribs and the bumps of his spine, going still at the sound of Ryan's voice.

“I want there to be a second record,” Ryan said, his voice hushed. “And one after that. I don't know if anyone will listen to this one, but it has to be good enough to get us a second one. It has to.”