Ryden Oneshots

Oranges

Oranges

boxparade

Summary:

Brendon wakes up to the sunset and realizes he’s the only one on the bus.

Work Text:

Brendon wakes up to the sunset and realizes he’s the only one on the bus. It feels like morning, or maybe not because he’s lost track of time lately and only knows when to eat because Spencer will bring them food at set points in time, like there’s an alarm clock programmed into his brain from a lifetime spent babysitting Ryan.

Thinking of Ryan sets a sleepy smile on Brendon’s lips and he stretches out on the couch with a breathy sort of moan, leaving his arms above his head where they fall and closing his eyes to the fading orange light. He teeters on the edge of sleep for a few minutes before the bus shakes just a little bit and someone steps into it.

Brendon’s eyes shut automatically because Miranda-the-tour-manager will yell at him for taking up all the seating (she probably yells even when he’s asleep), Spencer will tell him he should be doing something productive, and Jon will crack jokes about how he missed this whole episode with a crazy fan and Gerard, and right now he wants to be left alone.

“Brendon?” The voice is not the voice Brendon expects to hear, because it’s Ryan’s and it’s only Ryan’s. His breath catches and he considers opening his eyes, but he knows he would end up masking himself behind his campy voice and constant jokes and he doesn’t want Ryan remembering the ten-things-he-hates-about-Brendon. Not right now.

The footsteps stop when Ryan reaches the lounge and sees Brendon, and there’s a slight sigh and something tapping against the counter. The smell of Chinese seeps into the air and Brendon almost smiles when he realizes it must be dinner, and Ryan was bringing him food. Brendon waits and wonders if Ryan is going to just leave it there and let him sleep, or wake him up, but he does neither because Brendon hears a soft fshhwhen Ryan sits down from somewhere to his left on the opposing couch.

Brendon waits, tries to figure out with his eyes closed what Ryan’s doing, but he can’t hear Ryan eating, or speaking, and he’s certainly not sleeping because he snores just a little bit when he sleeps. Brendon’s heart is beating faster and he tries to force it to slow down before his cheeks turn pink and he gives himself away. He must have failed because there’s a wisp of a laugh from Ryan’s lips and Brendon fights like hell not to blush even harder, or move.

He’s surprised he can hear Ryan’s movement at all over the rush of blood in his ears, but he recognizes the soft tap of his fingertips against the upholstery, strumming out a beat Brendon thinks is one of Spencer’s. Brendon doesn’t want to risk opening his eyes, but after another minute passes with nothing but the occasional tap, tap, tap or the steady hum of breathing, he can’t not look. His eyes open into slits and he very slowly shifts his head to see Ryan, perched on the couch with his head leaned back against the window, eyes closed and something Brendon thinks looks like a smile, but he can’t tell and doesn’t particularly care because Ryan’s neck is endless and screaming kiss me, bite me and Brendon shuts his eyes because his pants gave a little twitch. He curses his skinny jeans and thinks about dead puppies for a moment, and not Ryan, sitting across from him in a completely abandoned bus, skin still sparkly and clothes sticking to his frame from the heat outside.

Brendon reminds himself breathing is important, and slowly drifts back into his mock sleep, heartbeat fading from his ears as the sound of Ryan shifting on the couch fades in. Brendon’s never been good at sensing what people were going to do, or what they were thinking—that always seemed to be Spencer’s forte—but he swears he can feel Ryan’s eyes watching him, prodding at him, and he vaguely wonders what he’s thinking about, right now, watching Brendon in the dimming light. Brendon figures he probably looks ridiculous, all stretched out and lanky, shirt bunched up around his middle, arms splayed out above him, one leg dangling off the edge of the couch, all spindly and thin in his white-wash skinny jeans. He suddenly realizes his mouth is open, has been open, dangling limply and stupidly, and the treacherous heat rises to his cheeks again.