Summary: Shameless domestic!fic set in the pre-fame era. Where Ryan tries to cook. And Brendon eats it, anyway.
I knitted you a hat all blue and gold
To keep your ears warm from the Binghamton cold.
It was my first one and it was too small.
It didn't fit you at all, but you wore it just the same.
At the age of seventeen, Brendon learns that there’s no such thing as perfect.
He knows there is no perfect family, even if some pretend. (It takes Brendon awhile to reconcile that – the fact that his family, after all those years of goodnight kisses and warm hugs, isn’t standing by him now).
There is no perfect after school job or apartment or audition for a shitty band held in a basement where Gollum impersonations are used as last-minute ammo.
In fact, very little in Brendon’s life could be considered perfect, but it’s moments like these when Brendon thinks that perfection isn’t that far off.
The apartment that he’s sitting in is small. The wallpaper on the walls – once bright white and clean – is peeling in slightly grimy curls along the edges. From where he’s sitting on a futon (one that is currently in its sofa-mode, even if it leans a little too far back to be comfortable), Brendon can see into his small kitchen. The water from the facet varies pressure every couple of minutes, but at least it’s a clean, clear color. The lights, however, flicker if they’re left on for too long, and Ryan’s been in there for almost twenty minutes.
“What are you making, Ross?” Brendon calls. The words cause pressure on his lips that still hurt a little from forcing a smile all day as he made smoothie after smoothie, and his voice is rough from the seemingly never-ending practice that Ryan had insisted on yesterday. Still, Brendon smiles as he asks.
“It’s a surprise,” Ryan answers.
Brendon knows it’s fruitless to pester Ryan any more. He doesn’t know the other boy very well, but he knows that Ryan likes being mysterious. Brendon doesn’t fault him for that – there’s too little excitement in his life nowadays.
He just watches as Ryan moves around the kitchen – his shoes making strange sticking sounds every so often as he scuffles across the linoleum floor that most definitely needs to be cleaned.
The thought makes Brendon want to pull a blanket over his head and sleep forever or possibly go running back to his parents’ house where the floor is always clean and smoothies are made for him.
But he won’t do that.
His life isn’t perfect now – far from it, in fact – but it’s his life. All his. And Brendon wouldn’t trade that for anything.
He shifts down on the futon, watching as Ryan clangs pots and pans together, and he really hopes that Ryan cleaned them out well before he started cooking, but he can’t worry about that now.
“Are you almost done?” Brendon asks. “I’m hungry.” As if trying to back up his claim, Brendon’s stomach gives a loud grumble, and Ryan’s laugh echoes the sound.
“One second,” he says. “I’ll bring it out to you.”
“Don’t forget napkins,” Brendon says, and he starts setting his laptop up, perching it precariously on the far-too-small-to-be-called-a-coffee-table thing that he had picked up from the curb last week.
Ryan’s sticky feet shuffle across the floor, squeaking until he sits down next to Brendon on the futon.
“I made my specialty,” he says grandly, handing Brendon a bowl of what looks and smells like stir-fry, but Brendon’s still a little wary.
He thanks Ryan all the same, and once Ryan’s settled, he hits play and watches Ryan’s face glow in the bright light of the opening credits for The O.C.
The first bite that Brendon takes is mostly rice. It’s good, if not a little overcooked, but he smiles at Ryan’s searching glance.
“It’s good,” he says, and immediately regrets it as he takes a bite of far too salty and way undercooked broccoli. It crunches loudly under his teeth, but he doesn’t mention it to Ryan. He doesn’t mention how there is way too much soy sauce or that he really hates red peppers.
Brendon just eats his food as the laptop plays the latest drama in a place where Brendon can never even imagine living, and leans a little closer to Ryan.
To many people, Brendon knows that this would seem like a boring Saturday night, but he can’t think of anything he’d rather be doing. Sure, the food isn’t very good and he gets annoyed at Marissa, but somehow, when he’s with Ryan, nothing else seems to matter.