Ryden Oneshots

Will Eventually Mend

will eventually mend

preromantics

Summary:

Brendon would be lying if he said he didn't miss having Ryan around. Post-split.

Notes:

For Amanda. Originally posted on LJ 8/24/09.

Work Text:

Brendon would be lying if he said he didn't miss having Ryan around. Jon, too -- but there's something about staying late in the studio this time around, even after Spencer and all the various sound people have left, and not being able to turn around and find Ryan in the other room, or right beside him. Something about Ryan not being there to help him hash out ideas or to start up an argument from earlier about cord progression or pronunciation.

He can move on, sure. Brendon was perceptive enough to know that the fights and too-rushed words between just him and Ryan were enough for the entire band to grow apart, he just never realized what it would mean.

It's on an all-too frequent night of staying late in the studio that Brendon does it. He gives in after two months of no speaking other than shouted imput and greetings from his kitchen as Spencer was on the phone with Ryan.

It takes him a minute after he decides, just scrolling up and down over Ryan's name on his phone, kicking off his shoes and curling his sock covered toes into the ratty pillow on the practice space couch.

He almost hangs up when Ryan doesn't pick up after four rings, feelings springing up tight and stupid in his chest while he stares at Ryan's name on the calling screen, the picture of him making a twisted face with bright, humored eyes and it's --

"Brendon?" Ryan's voice is quiet, obviously surprised on the other end and Brendon hates that he sounds that way.

"Hey, hi," Brendon says, after a second. "Uh."

"Yeah," Ryan says. He follows it up with a small sigh.

"So," Brendon says, trying to figure out what had made him call Ryan in the first place, what made him think it wouldn't be awkward. "So, you haven't seen our studio yet, or really heard any of our stuff."

Ryan laughs on the other line. Brendon pretends it's the quaility of the call on his cell that makes him sound so hollow. "No, no I haven't."

"I want -- I think you should come down and listen. You could bring some of your stuff, too, maybe," Brendon continues.

Ryan hesitates on the line. Brendon can hear the crack of his fridge opening, can see Ryan vividly -- standing in the middle of his kitchen in the dark, long pajama pants and a well worn shirt, maybe one of Brendon's shirts that Ryan never gave back, peering into his fridge like maybe it has an answer.

"Sure," Ryan says, finally. "Sure, okay, when?"

Brendon settles back into the couch a little, the tension between his shoulder blades lessening. He wants to see Ryan's face, more than he has in months. Wants to play him music on acoustic, mess around with a melody until Ryan starts humming and have their legs press together again, shoulder's, he wants to trace the line of Ryan's throat and --

"Brendon?" Ryan asks, soft on the other side of the phone.

"Could you, I mean. I'm here now, at the studio. You could come out," Brendon tells him, a little more rushed than he means.

"It's past two in the morning," Ryan says, but there's a tilt in his voice that Brendon can't find dismissiveness in, doesn't want to.

"You're awake," Brendon presses.