Unfinished (With Fear in Your Smile) [1/?]

[longerthanwedo]

Title: Unfinished (With Fear in Your Smile) [1]
Author: longerthanwedo
Beta: melody_so_sweet
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan for now.
Rating: PG-13
POV: 3^rd, Brendon centric.
Summary: He’s writing in blood; a feeble attempt to finish the story. The story of his life, of him and him and him. It’s a story of life, of love, of lions and fireworks and years gone by.
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters. Title and inspiration from Something Corporate.
Author’s Note: The thing about this is that I have very little plot planned out. So make guesses on the outcome, and feel free to tell me those guesses, because I’m pretty much blank.

 Prologue

 

A poster hung on the wall, ninety degrees from the angle of his eyes. It was a brightly colored poster, the kind where the letters and images stay burned into your mind for hours after you first see it. But the electric bulbs of the candle-less chandeliers threw a glare upon the glass, right through the center, so that any meaning was obscured from his sight.

He stared at that reflection, maybe thinking that if he looked long enough, the light would somehow move, and he would finally see what he was looking at. It didn’t, though. The chandelier stayed put, and he didn’t move. He didn’t really want to read the poster anyway.

“Hello, how many are with you?”

He looked away from the wall to find he’d moved to the front of the line and ended up face to face with the Please Wait to be Seated sign, and the young man in front of it.

“Just…yeah. Just me.”

Families of four, small children included, flanked him on either side and a curious look passed across the employee’s brown eyes before he looked down at the clipboard he held in his hands.

“It should only be a few minutes. You can have a seat over there, if you like.” The man gestured to a set of maroon, faux-leather chairs in the corner of the room. “Can I get a name?”

“First or last?”

The waiter shrugged. “Either.”

“Okay. Name, Brendon.”

The tall man nodded, jotted Brendon’s name on his clipboard, and then turned to the next customer.

“Hello, how many are with you today?”

Brendon wandered to the corner, eyeing a chair with slightly narrowed eyes before settling down, crossing his legs and linking his hands. He looked up, past the frames of his glasses and through the slightly dusty lenses, and found that his eyes snapped to the exact same spot, to the exact same poster on the wall. The light had moved; the colors were bright and vibrant, but the paper was now too far away for Brendon to make out the words.

Still, he stared, having nothing better to do as he waited for his table. His eyes were fixated on the tiny, bold letters as the restaurant buzzed around him and the clock ticked, barely audible, from its place on the wall above his head.

Brendon tapped his feet. A baby girl started crying as her mother rushed past, carrying the infant in her arms. A couple with arms linked were called and made their way into the crowded dining area. Brendon’s stomach rumbled. He could smell the food, all the delicacies with aromas floating as they were transferred back and forth from the kitchen. Brendon scratched the side of his head. He wished only slightly that he had something to do, to occupy his time.

He pictured walking in here with his guitar and settling down at the chair, drowning out the noise of the crowd with a song or two, something old, maybe well-known. He imagined walking up to the sign inside the door and saying that he’d like a table for two, please, for him and his guitar.

Brendon’s eyes never left the splotchy color of the poster on the wall.

“Brendon!”

Finally he looked away, planting his feet on the floor and smoothing his pants with his hands as he made his way back to, and passed through the line. The young man at the front smiled at him, and Brendon glanced at his face and then at the poster on the wall, which he could finally see clearly.

It was a circus poster, which explained the flashy colors and swirling fonts. A smiling man, his bright red nose seeming to glow, filled the center of the page. To his right was a lion, mane and eyes fierce, but that also seemed to be smiling, long canines not so much intimidating as inviting.

Brendon had never liked circuses.

When he was a kid his grandfather had told him stories, stories about his youth, about his days in the circus. He ran away when he was only a teenager, lured in by the bright colors and intrigue of the carnival that was passing through his town. He wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to work alongside the clowns, and alongside the lions as well. He learned how to swing the trapeze and got used to sleeping on the floor, and he was happy with his life.

Brendon’s grandfather had glorified the circus, he knew. Brendon knew he’d skipped over the grizzly bits, maybe because they were kids listening to his tales, and maybe because he wanted to forget them himself. He’d said the lions were his favorites, said that their roar was the mightiest of all, and that, for all their ferocity, they really were no more than enlarged house cats, friendly to those they knew.

He had a scar on his right forearm that Brendon always suspected was a gift of these cats, though he never said so outright.

“I’ve never liked the circus,” said a thoughtful voice from behind him.

Brendon looked around, moving his eyes and not so much his head, to see that it was the waiter again. A quick glance at his nametag said his name was Ryan. Brendon turned from the poster altogether and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, voice not loud. “Yeah, me too.”

He moved past Ryan and found his seat at a table by the window. He sat, looking at the glass but not quite past it, and thought how Ryan’s eyes were the same color as the lion’s.