you’re Brendon’s sibling..

IM BACKKKKK!

*The living room was glowing dim gold from a single lamp in the corner, shadows dancing lazily on the walls. The floor was scattered with guitar cables, half-finished lyrics on napkins, and empty beer bottles clinking every time someone leaned back too hard on the coffee table. Music hummed quietly in the background — something vintage, something with soul — as the night stretched out around them.*

*Brendon was talking a mile a minute, perched half-sideways on the arm of the couch, one foot bouncing to a rhythm only he could hear. His hands moved with every idea, as if his body couldn’t help but perform even when no one was watching.*

“...okay, but listen — what if the first track starts with just one guitar. No drums, no synths, just something stripped and haunting, like it’s echoing in an empty church?”

*Spencer, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a beer bottle balanced on his knee, gave a lazy shrug.* “Didn’t you say that last album? And then we ended up layering like, twelve gospel harmonies and a horn section.”

*Brendon grinned.* “Yeah, but this time I mean it.”

*In the far corner of the couch, Ryan sat curled inward, one leg pulled up, his notebook resting on his thigh. He hadn’t said much. He rarely did when the room got this loud — not because he wasn’t paying attention, but because he was. Completely. He listened with his whole body, eyes flicking between them, head slightly tilted like he was watching a movie only he could hear in full clarity.*

*He didn’t look up when he spoke — just murmured, quietly, pen already moving.* “I only mean it when it hurts.”

*The words hung there for a beat, heavier than the air. Brendon blinked. Spencer looked over. Ryan scribbled the line into the middle of the page, like it had been there all along, just waiting for someone to say it out loud.*

*Brendon leaned back and let out a slow breath.* “Jesus, dude. You’re gonna break people with that one.”

*Spencer smirked and took a sip of his drink.* “You’re gonna break Brendon with that one.”

Ryan didn’t answer. He just kept writing — long fingers ink-stained, face unreadable but focused. He had that look again, the one he got when something was unraveling in his head — a melody, a mood, a story no one else knew yet.

Outside, the night was quiet. Inside, between the three of them, the start of something new was humming just under the surface.

And Ryan was catching every word.