Ryden Oneshots

My Body Doesn't Turn That Way (Right Hand:Yellow)

They’ve been living on a diet of Ramen noodles, instant mashed potatoes, and tap water for the past three weeks and with paychecks only big enough to get both of them by (to pay the bills and afford gas to and from their dead end jobs), fast food seems like a five-star cuisine right about now. 

Ryan lazily flicks his wrist towards the TV, ushering the pixels into a different channel, a different picture, and stares over his wobbly wooden TV tray, decorated with the delicious remnants of (“Oh my god, Brendon we could afford this?”) microwavable pasta and a half empty glass of Coke, thanks to the liter bottle perched gloriously on the counter in the kitchen. The last time Brendon had enough money to come home with Coke was when his parents had come down to visit and well. Fuck, he didn’t want to seem that broke. 

Okay, so maybe they live like they’re poor. And maybe the fact that they sleep on two mattresses splayed across the hardwood floor of an apartment that isn’t very good on upkeep is a person’s first hint that they’re not financially well off. And quite possibly, the second hint is the fact that there’s hardly anything -- a worn out, busted up, wire spring couch, greasy with all sorts of stains and…spots, a small, dim floor lamp (which doesn’t even have a bulb in at the moment because, seriously, bulbs are their last priority right now), and an ancient television set -- littering their living room floor. And perhaps the third hint is the fact that there is a total of seven items in their refrigerator and even less in their pantry. And conceivably, the fact that as of right now there is only a few dollars in change on the counter is the last hint that yeah, they’re fucking broke. 

But what can they say? They’re college students, aspiring musicians, boys with little to no money to their name and more pride than they should have when it comes to calling home for a few hundred dollars for rent. Technically they’ve brought this financial burden upon themselves because, “Yes Brendon, I really do need every Beatles album ever made,” and, “Ryan, oh my god, Ryan! Look at these shoes! I love them!” can really waste your money away. 

But on nights like this, when they’ve spent so much of their minimum wage paychecks on their responsibilities as “adults” and they’ve blown the rest on music, entertainment, and well, shit in general, what is there to do? 

“Nothing. There’s nothing to do,” Brendon voices, punctuating each of his words with a thunk of his head to his own TV tray, now void of any leftovers since he just returned from the trashcan in the kitchen. 

Ryan grunts in agreement, presses mute and tosses the remote on the vacant couch cushion next to him. “There’s nothing good on,” he states, all monotone voice and heavy eyes. 

Sighing, Brendon props his feet up on the tray and leans back against the couch, arms behind his head. He stares at the ceiling in contemplation. “You working tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” Ryan says, scratching his arm. “Eight to six,” he says and Brendon nods, files away Ryan’s schedule. He says, 

“Me too; ten to four.” 

There’s silence for a few moments. The drone of the refrigerator overpowers the hum of the air conditioning and the buzz on the television drowns out every other noise produced within the house (they‘ve grown to ignore it, really). Ryan looks blindly at the flicker of pictures in the box before him, attempting to create dialogue within his mind of what the characters on the screen might be saying, of what they should be saying. 

Brendon fidgets on the couch, tucks his feet beneath him, says, “Let’s play a game.” 

Ryan says, “Brendon, we don’t have any games.” 

“Sure we do,” Brendon insists, removing himself from the couch, ignoring the sickening sticky noise that emerges from his ass leaving the fabric. “We’ve got plenty of games.”