DAMN YOUR KISS; ryden

Chapter Five: And If You Decline My Invitation, What Can I Say?

It had been years since he had last even so much as looked at one of them, but right now, Ryan reckoned he wanted nothing more than a joint. He wanted a toke of a freshly rolled bad boy to make his head feel fuzzy, and crackly like an old radio broadcast, and to deaden his anxiety about what was waiting for him on the other side.

He then got a little mad at himself. Why was he thinking that? Why would he go there? He had given that shit up, turned his back on it, because he knew it was no good for him, and since he had, he’d never been in better health, he’d never had such a fresh, new perspective on the world. He had been fucking proud when he had shook his head when offered, kicked that habit into touch. Hell, his influence had even been enough to stop Brendon and Jon, too. (Spencer, bless him, never even went there in the first place).

He really, really hoped that when he’d left, Brendon hadn’t gone back to it, at all. A high Brendon was a fun Brendon, but a clear conscience, functioning Brendon was actually fantastic. Whereas most geniuses intelligence rose with drug use, Brendon was much more brilliant without it.

Ryan didn’t know about himself. Was he better, or worse? Judging by the critics reaction to the words, the lyrics, the direction of the second album … No. But he’d found and learnt that he much preferred his mistakes to commercial success.

He scuffed his shoes, butting it against the door. Much longer, he was gonna think himself a sore head. Maybe he’s not in. Maybe no one’s in. Maybe

He nearly stumbled back, and fell on his butt when the door swung inward, hell, he hadn’t even heard the lock being slid back…

He looked exactly the same and nothing alike the guy he used to be. A new haircut, clean shaven, hard set jaw, jeans, bare feet, a fitted white t-shirt and a bottle of liquor dangling by the neck from his fingers by one hand, a cigarette – normal, regular nicotine – in the other, ash glowing red, smoke trailing from it. And he raised that cigarette to his mouth, took a drag, and then switched, taking a swig from the bottle. “You better come in then.” He cleared his throat, voice low and gruff.

Ryan’s wide eyes flickered from his assessment of this man in front of him, focusing on the Adam’s apple working in the throat, the unzipped fly, to meet big brown eyes carefully avoiding his. Could he speak? He should probably speak. “Hi Brendon.” It was weak, at best. Better than gawping.

Brendon nodded in return. “Ryan.” And then he took one more drag, looked at the finished cigarette, before flicking it away, past Ryan, who involuntarily jerked to the side to avoid it, and then he stood, pressed himself to the wall and gestured with the bottle into the hall.

And Ryan hugged the strap of the guitar to himself, and stepped in. He paused, in the doorway, at Brendon, but instead of looking at him, he sighed, and nodded once, and continued on past. He wasn’t gonna stop – maybe just go to the main area, circle a bit, then head back out, if not for the tap on his shoulder as he entered. And he half-turned his head to see Brendon shake the bottle at him, smile with half his mouth and say ‘want a drink?’