Life goes on; life stays the same; everything changes (с)
Потому что просто таки была песней вчерашнего дня.
А еще как раз под эту песню читала фик и считаю, что друг с другом оно сочеталось просто прекрасно. Знаю, что ни автор, ни фик, ни фандом никому особо интересны не будут, но мало ли и хотя бы для себя повешу под кат отрывки этого ее фика. И вообще это просто таки один из любимых авторов, атмосферу и стиль которой таки сложно спутать с чьими-то.
читать дальшеRyan put his dad's house on the market right away. The real estate agent drove round to hammer the 'For Sale' sign in the ground beside the mailbox the day after the funeral. The asking price was two hundred and ten thousand, which in those boom days was considerably less than he could have gotten, even with the property needing some TLC (as it was described in the listing). It sold quickly. He went in the day before the closing and boxed up what he thought he wanted and moved it over to his condo. Spencer offered to help but Ryan went by himself. He paid for a cleaning company to come in and get rid of the rest.
He often thinks about those strange men in his father's house, how they must have gone through each room and systemically and terribly tore the pictures from the wall and knocked the books off the shelves and busted up all the furniture. The refuse they carted everything outside to a dumpster, where it all got buried, buried, buried. It was all garbage to them: the autographed baseballs his father had collected and the clothes that smelled of cigarette smoke and the cologne he wore. The cleaning company offered a guarantee of customer satisfaction, promising a full refund for any complaints. Ryan thinks of writing them, at night and when he is alone. They were supposed to make it all vanish -- poof! -- without a trace, but it's all still there, inside Ryan's head.
***
He makes a peanut butter sandwich and cuts off the crust but he can barely eat a quarter. His car is in the driveway but there's nowhere he can think to drive. This kind of desperation is not novel. When he was a kid it was nights like this that drove him to the internet, to the solace of anonymity and blind flattery. He's too old for that now, or too well known. Fame or whatever it is he has is not as comforting as he had counted on it being. It has not been accompanied by any increase in certainty.
So he leaves the television on and lies on his back on the bed that he shares with a woman who does not love him and who he does not love. He stares up at the cobwebs that trail like streamers from the blades of the ceiling fan. His father's bronze star is on the bedside table. Spencer had taken it and kept it safe when Ryan wanted to pretend his father never existed, had never been worthy of any merit, and now Ryan has taken it back. It is nothing to do with his dad, really. He wants to strike Spencer in the softest, most tender spot, to show that he doesn't care and can act just as callously, but he worries that it has been to no avail. He doubts that Spencer is thinking of him. It seems likely that nobody is thinking of him, not one soul in the entire world, or at least nobody who really matters.
***
The opener is a girl with a solemn voice accompanied by a banjo, a voilin, and a cello. They play traditional songs, reworked. It's interesting. It's not the kind of music Ryan has spent much time listening to before. He wishes sometimes that everything had happened a little later, that they'd all had a little more time to discover new things. Maybe it wouldn't have seemed so much like a straight jacket, at the end -- the band and the name and the stupid fans that wanted him to be something he just wasn't any more. Maybe it wouldn't have seemed so important then to find something new and completely different. He doesn't know. He can't go back, so it's just conjecture.
The main act is charming. He's an older gentleman with a black beret and an English accent. He wrings such music from his guitar that Ryan aches with envy. It's hard for him to imagine playing music for years, to have enough to say that he'll be able to keep writing and performing and keep people interested for decades. He orders a vodka and tonic and tips the waitress too generously. Even she is older than he is. He leave a little before the set is done, but stops and buys another of the man's CDs on the way out. He unwraps it and throws the cellophane in the garbage. He listens all the way home, but that's not long enough. He sits in the car and only goes inside when the album is over.
***
Garnet walks with a difficult gait, shifting her hips from side to side. She moves like she's in pain, but Dayle reassures Ryan that's she's in good shape for her age. In dog year's she's an octogenarian. He doesn't take her out every time he goes in to the shelter, but he's always glad when he does. Her shambling pace suits him. Nobody looks at him askance when he's watching the traffic with distant eyes if she's snuffling in the curb. He's glad to let her take her time. He starts bringing treats for her and hiding them in his coat pocket. She catches on and presses her slick black nose against his palm as soon as he walks into the kennel.
He thinks about asking Dayle if he can adopt her. He knows he's a good candidate. He's financially secure, and he doesn't work, so they can spend all day together. She wouldn't be lonely. They could walk to the dog run in the park at the bottom of the hill, and in the mornings she could lay by his feet while he reads the paper. He could bathe her on the patio in the warm weather. He doesn't know what Z would say about a dog. He doesn't know if she's a dog person or a cat person, or if maybe she prefers something a little less cuddly, like a fish. She's on the road still, weaving through the rust belt. She posts pictures on twitter and emails, but they haven't spoken on the phone in a while.
He and Spencer get lunch at a little taco place near the beach. The air is salty and rich, and the plastic chairs are hot from the sun. Their food takes longer to come than it should, and they make small talk. Spencer and Brendon are writing, thinking about a new album sometime soon. Ryan talks about the shelter and Garnet. They drink Coronas with thick wedges of lime. Ryan has a cut on his finger, and the acid burns. Slowly, smoothed by the food and the beer, words come easier. Spencer's smile is a slice of brightness. The weather is a balm. Ryan closes his eyes and listens to Spencer laugh and feels some secret worry evaporate.
***
Spencer starts humming something quietly. Maybe it's some melody he and Brendon are assembling; it's not something Ryan recognizes. Two boys are playing catch. The taller of the pair throws and it goes wildly astray. The other kid runs after it. They could be brothers, but they don't look like it. One is fair, and the other darker. Spencer isn't paying attention.
"I'm sorry," Ryan says.
"What?" Spencer opens his eyes a little.
"I'm just sorry," Ryan says. "For being an asshole. For everything, I guess."
"It's okay," Spencer says, a little dreamily. "I already forgave you."
А еще как раз под эту песню читала фик и считаю, что друг с другом оно сочеталось просто прекрасно. Знаю, что ни автор, ни фик, ни фандом никому особо интересны не будут, но мало ли и хотя бы для себя повешу под кат отрывки этого ее фика. И вообще это просто таки один из любимых авторов, атмосферу и стиль которой таки сложно спутать с чьими-то.
читать дальшеRyan put his dad's house on the market right away. The real estate agent drove round to hammer the 'For Sale' sign in the ground beside the mailbox the day after the funeral. The asking price was two hundred and ten thousand, which in those boom days was considerably less than he could have gotten, even with the property needing some TLC (as it was described in the listing). It sold quickly. He went in the day before the closing and boxed up what he thought he wanted and moved it over to his condo. Spencer offered to help but Ryan went by himself. He paid for a cleaning company to come in and get rid of the rest.
He often thinks about those strange men in his father's house, how they must have gone through each room and systemically and terribly tore the pictures from the wall and knocked the books off the shelves and busted up all the furniture. The refuse they carted everything outside to a dumpster, where it all got buried, buried, buried. It was all garbage to them: the autographed baseballs his father had collected and the clothes that smelled of cigarette smoke and the cologne he wore. The cleaning company offered a guarantee of customer satisfaction, promising a full refund for any complaints. Ryan thinks of writing them, at night and when he is alone. They were supposed to make it all vanish -- poof! -- without a trace, but it's all still there, inside Ryan's head.
***
He makes a peanut butter sandwich and cuts off the crust but he can barely eat a quarter. His car is in the driveway but there's nowhere he can think to drive. This kind of desperation is not novel. When he was a kid it was nights like this that drove him to the internet, to the solace of anonymity and blind flattery. He's too old for that now, or too well known. Fame or whatever it is he has is not as comforting as he had counted on it being. It has not been accompanied by any increase in certainty.
So he leaves the television on and lies on his back on the bed that he shares with a woman who does not love him and who he does not love. He stares up at the cobwebs that trail like streamers from the blades of the ceiling fan. His father's bronze star is on the bedside table. Spencer had taken it and kept it safe when Ryan wanted to pretend his father never existed, had never been worthy of any merit, and now Ryan has taken it back. It is nothing to do with his dad, really. He wants to strike Spencer in the softest, most tender spot, to show that he doesn't care and can act just as callously, but he worries that it has been to no avail. He doubts that Spencer is thinking of him. It seems likely that nobody is thinking of him, not one soul in the entire world, or at least nobody who really matters.
***
The opener is a girl with a solemn voice accompanied by a banjo, a voilin, and a cello. They play traditional songs, reworked. It's interesting. It's not the kind of music Ryan has spent much time listening to before. He wishes sometimes that everything had happened a little later, that they'd all had a little more time to discover new things. Maybe it wouldn't have seemed so much like a straight jacket, at the end -- the band and the name and the stupid fans that wanted him to be something he just wasn't any more. Maybe it wouldn't have seemed so important then to find something new and completely different. He doesn't know. He can't go back, so it's just conjecture.
The main act is charming. He's an older gentleman with a black beret and an English accent. He wrings such music from his guitar that Ryan aches with envy. It's hard for him to imagine playing music for years, to have enough to say that he'll be able to keep writing and performing and keep people interested for decades. He orders a vodka and tonic and tips the waitress too generously. Even she is older than he is. He leave a little before the set is done, but stops and buys another of the man's CDs on the way out. He unwraps it and throws the cellophane in the garbage. He listens all the way home, but that's not long enough. He sits in the car and only goes inside when the album is over.
***
Garnet walks with a difficult gait, shifting her hips from side to side. She moves like she's in pain, but Dayle reassures Ryan that's she's in good shape for her age. In dog year's she's an octogenarian. He doesn't take her out every time he goes in to the shelter, but he's always glad when he does. Her shambling pace suits him. Nobody looks at him askance when he's watching the traffic with distant eyes if she's snuffling in the curb. He's glad to let her take her time. He starts bringing treats for her and hiding them in his coat pocket. She catches on and presses her slick black nose against his palm as soon as he walks into the kennel.
He thinks about asking Dayle if he can adopt her. He knows he's a good candidate. He's financially secure, and he doesn't work, so they can spend all day together. She wouldn't be lonely. They could walk to the dog run in the park at the bottom of the hill, and in the mornings she could lay by his feet while he reads the paper. He could bathe her on the patio in the warm weather. He doesn't know what Z would say about a dog. He doesn't know if she's a dog person or a cat person, or if maybe she prefers something a little less cuddly, like a fish. She's on the road still, weaving through the rust belt. She posts pictures on twitter and emails, but they haven't spoken on the phone in a while.
He and Spencer get lunch at a little taco place near the beach. The air is salty and rich, and the plastic chairs are hot from the sun. Their food takes longer to come than it should, and they make small talk. Spencer and Brendon are writing, thinking about a new album sometime soon. Ryan talks about the shelter and Garnet. They drink Coronas with thick wedges of lime. Ryan has a cut on his finger, and the acid burns. Slowly, smoothed by the food and the beer, words come easier. Spencer's smile is a slice of brightness. The weather is a balm. Ryan closes his eyes and listens to Spencer laugh and feels some secret worry evaporate.
***
Spencer starts humming something quietly. Maybe it's some melody he and Brendon are assembling; it's not something Ryan recognizes. Two boys are playing catch. The taller of the pair throws and it goes wildly astray. The other kid runs after it. They could be brothers, but they don't look like it. One is fair, and the other darker. Spencer isn't paying attention.
"I'm sorry," Ryan says.
"What?" Spencer opens his eyes a little.
"I'm just sorry," Ryan says. "For being an asshole. For everything, I guess."
"It's okay," Spencer says, a little dreamily. "I already forgave you."