Panic all having Twitters = distracting, y/y. Y.
ryan blames what happened to brendon on himself. he always has. that’s what he tells spencer while he lays delicately on the floor, stomach exposed on the wood that’s warm from windows and a mississippi summer (remembers sweating through his shirt, though several younger years, tugging at the neck of his shirt, wearing smiles in the day and biting lips at night and breathless high laughter, long fingers and ice crushed on his skin), and spencer cranes his neck from across the room to hear him better. i should have watched him more, ryan says, or: it should have been me, been us. we could have dealt with it.
“we don’t really deal with anything.” spencer says, seriously, and ryan raises his neck from the crook of his arms and almost smiles at him, almost laughs at the look on his face. “i’ve noticed that, lately.”
It has Brendon/Shane and Ryan/Spencer and Ryan/Spencer/Brendon. And Quentin/Caddie, Faulkner's incesty pairing of uncomfortable love. And suicide! And crying! And cuddles!
Why, why, why do I do this. I actually have Gossip Girl het fic I have to finish writing for lastfallen_hope, but this is apparently the story of my soul.