Ryden Oneshots

But In Time

Summary: The one where Brendon's song lyrics have a habit of coming true.

The first time Brendon had sat down and wrote a song – actually had the idea to get his words down on paper and scribbled out verses with a leaky blue pen – he didn’t really think anything of how quickly the words had come to him.

All it had taken was the press of his pen, blue ink bubbling under the pressure, for the words to come out. It wasn’t deliberate or conscious – not in the strictest of senses – and when Brendon had read back over what he had written, he was a little surprised with what was there.

When he had sat down at his desk, pushing aside his homework, he had meant to write something about suffocating rules from parents who don’t remember what it was like to be young. He had meant to write about Elders and disapproving looks and sisters who take too much time in the bathroom. Instead, the song in front of him – written in Brendon’s messy scrawl in less than five minutes – was about light brown eyes and a voice that hinted at expression but never quite got there.

Brendon didn’t know where the hell that had come from, but when his mom called him to get ready for Youth Group, he stashed the fully formed verses into his desk drawer, not really giving the song another thought.

---

Brendon met Ryan on a Tuesday. He had been nervous about trying out for the band, but Brent had just given Brendon a small smile and said, “Don’t worry. It’s not like we’re really any good, or anything.”

Still, as Brendon walked down the stairs into the drummer’s grandmother’s basement, he was nervous. He was thinking about the song he had written the night before – written in a haze of nerves – and he wondered aimlessly as Brent opened the door to the basement why all the songs he wrote addressed a ‘you’.

The ‘you’ always seemed to be the same person. After two years of writing songs – songs that always just seemed to come so easily, without really thinking – Brendon knew that the ‘you’ he wrote about – he wrote to – was the same person.

He just didn’t know who it was.

Someone with eyes that were like unpolished amber – though Brendon had scratched out that line after he wrote it, embarrassed. Someone who Brendon only knew through the lines of his songs – words that were never fully given a melody, because Brendon didn’t know what they were saying.

He didn’t think it was normal to write something and not know where it came from or who he was talking about, but Brendon had tried forcing himself to write about things he knew, and nothing had ever come from it.

At the end of the day, whenever Brendon tried to write a song, it was always the ‘you’ Brendon wrote about.

Next to him, on the last stair leading to the basement, Brent said, “Good luck,” as he pushed Brendon forward into the dim light.

There were two boys in front of him. One, the one with a rounder face and bright blue eyes, was sitting behind a drum set. He looked Brendon over with assessing eyes and said, “Hey,” with a tone that sounded as if he wasn’t too sure about whether or not he should trust the boy in front of him. “I’m Spencer. That’s Ryan.”

Brendon smiled the best that he could through his nerves. “Brendon. Hey, nice to meet you.”

“Brent says you play guitar,” the other boy said, and the flat tone of his voice made something in Brendon tighten. When he looked over toward the speaker, he was met with soft brown eyes, and Brendon thought you, but he didn’t say that.

“Uh, yeah.” Both boys nodded, but Brendon couldn’t look away from the boy whose long fingers plucked at a worn guitar string.

“Why don’t you play something,” Brent prompted, and Brendon nodded, pulling his guitar out and setting his fingers on the frets.