Fic: Symphony - Chapter Three (original) (raw)

Title: Symphony – Chapter Three
Author: beccaforever
Rating: PG-13 for now.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan. Bow to my originality. Hah.
POV: Second. Unknown person again.
Summary: “Tell me about your first lover.”

“He was a musician.”

Disclaimer: Christmas is coming up soon…but for now, it is not mine.
Dedication: acrylicktears, because her comments are just so awesome. And because she loves me.
Author Notes: Yay comments! I have nothing else to say. I know this sounds dumb, but I don’t want to confuse people, so this chapter occurs directly after the last chapter. Oh, and I feel kind of lame using the quotes I did in this chapter, but the similarities between the Edgar Allan Poe text and Panic! lyrics were too good to pass up. This may be the last chapter for about a week, as I’m going to a place with no internet access for about a week or so over Christmas. So if I don’t update again before Christmas, a very Merry Christmas to you all!

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two

A quote comes to mind as you sit here, clutching the champagne bottle, watching the boy across the room from you. His legs are curled up underneath him, and it is almost silent. But you can, vaguely, hear a heart beat. His or yours, you don’t quite know. It could be both. But, either way, your mind provides you with a titbit from a story you only faintly recall.

‘_But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst._’

Which in turn provides you with something else, song lyrics maybe, you don’t know. You don’t remember. But still, they’re there, in your head. Repeating.

Let’s get these teen hearts beating faster, faster!

You’ve been told, over and over, that remembering anything, even supposedly random things, is positive. Although you can’t quite see how remembering quotes (songs? Stories? - we only do it for the scars and stories, not the fame) is helpful in the slightest.

“Thinking again?” The prostitute (you’re getting really sick of calling him that) asks, looking more than slightly amused.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “So what?”

He ignores this. “I thought so. I recognise some of those mannerisms.”

“From where?”

“Memories.”

“At least you have memories.” You don’t mean to sound bitter, really you don’t, but it’s hard. Everyone else has memories, why can’t you?

He (you really need to find out his name) raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have memories?”

You shake your head. “No…but this isn’t about me. This is about you. I’m sure you have more to tell me.”

He really looks amused now. “I do have more…but who says it has to be all about me?”

“I want it to be. Besides, I’m the one conducting the interview.”

“That you are.”

“There is one specific thing I want to know…”

He inclines his head. “Yes?”

“Your name?”

He smirks. “Call me George.”

***

You’ve moved into the centre of the bed now, curled up against the pillows. They smell kind of off, yeah, but it’s more comfortable than perching on the edge. And you can’t see any dodgy stains. That doesn’t mean that they aren’t there, but as long as you can’t see them, it doesn’t really bother you. Not too much, anyway.

The prostitute (George, you remind yourself) is still in his chair. You have been trying to call him George, you really have, but it just doesn’t suit him. He is clearly not a George. And even though you feel horribly uncomfortable calling him the prostitute in your thoughts, you feel even worse calling him George. Why that name should be worse than being called a whore, you don’t know, but it just doesn’t sit right with you. You feel as though he should be called something else.

But that’s just silly.

You’re clearly imagining things again.

Not like that’s anything new.

***

You seem to have learnt a lot in this (a glance at the clock) twenty two minutes. But the lesson foremost in your mind at the moment is something completely mundane; that is, that champagne is only pleasant when consumed in small qualities. Any more than a few glasses and it starts to taste disgusting, to make you feel sick.

When the shock sets in and the stomach acid finds a new way to make you get sick

Fucking words again.

You’ve decided that, really, this is just ridiculous. It must be the alcohol or something, because you’ve never had this many strange recollections in the space of (check the clock again) three minutes. And you really, really don’t appreciate it.

But, judging by the clock, you don’t have much time left, and you really want to hear the rest of this kid’s story. Twenty three minutes and counting.

The boy (fuck this, you can’t call him George) is staring out the window. The view can’t be too beautiful, or even too visible, judging by the amount of grime on the window, yet he’s still staring. Watching something.

You clear your throat, and he turns toward you.

“Tell me more?” You request. Simple.

He complies, no questions asked. Just begins the next chapter of his story.

“That’s one thing I remember vividly,” he says, gesturing to the (nearly empty) bottle of champagne. “In the beginning, before he knew me, my boy drank a lot…too much. That was how it all began, really…with a drunken kiss.”

Author’s Note: So, did I totally give away who the “mysterious interviewer” is? Because I think I did. Meep. Oh well.