Ryden Oneshots

Bad Habit

**!SELF-HARM WARNING!**

Ryan has a problem. Only, he’s just now realized it’s a problem.

Just now, with Brendon giving him that look. It breaks his heart and he swears to himself he’ll never do it again. He won’t.

“Ryan, what happened?” Brendon asks, eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

Ryan tugs his sleeves back down, over the scars that are there, and over the fresh wound, the one that’s still stinging and he bites back a whimper when his fingers brush across it. “It was an accident,” he says. “It won’t happen again.”

They both know it’s a lie. It wasn’t an accident, and it will happen again, even if he has promised himself otherwise. But Brendon only bites his lip, nods, because he loves Ryan. He will always love Ryan, and he has to give Ryan the benefit off the doubt. Perhaps, he tells himself, over and over like a mantra, Ryan is telling him the truth.

*

Ryan holds the knife in his hand, tilting it so the light reflects off the glinting metal. The blood in his veins is begging to be released, to be set free, and he wishes for nothing more than to oblige that wish.

The knife he holds in his hand was a gift from his Father, for his thirteenth birthday. He’s never used it for anything other than this, his bad habbit. Everytime, he tries not to think about what his Father would say to him if he knew. Or what his Mother would say. But most of all, he’s worried about what Spencer would say, what Spencer would think of him.

But, everytime, he pushes that aside. Like now, as he slides the knife against his skin. The pain is blinding, at first, but then it gives way to mind numbing pleasure.

It amazes him how much he enjoys this, how much it sickens him at the same time.

He holds his arm over the tub and let’s the blood fall in tiny splashes to the bottom, eventually forming a puddle.

Because the pain is starting to subside, Ryan runs his fingernail down the cut. It sends a sharp needle of fresh pain all the way down his body and makes him cry out, but it fades into a moan as he shivers at the pleasure.

He hears footsteps, quick and steady and they could only be Brendon’s, and then there’s a knock at the door.

“Ryan! Are you alright? I heard you scream!” Brendon sounds frantic, worried.

“I’m fine, Bren,” Ryan assures, already tucking his knife into his pocket and reaching for a rag to mop up the blood. Dressing the wound sometimes hurts more than making it, and it’s his favorite part.

Brendon bangs on the door, hard. “Please, Ryan. Let me in.” His voice is still high-pitched and worried, but Ryan can’t let him see this.

Ryan pulls his sleeve down without dressing the wound and the fabric sticks to the fresh blood and makes him wince. “All right,” he says, and opens the door.

He realizes too late that there’s still blood in the tub. Brendon’s already stormed in and is staring at the red substance like he’s never seen it before.

They stand for several minutes in silence until Brendon finally croaks out a quiet, “What happened?”

“It was an accident,” Ryan says. “It won’t happen again.”

*

Ryan has a notebook. Well, he has several notebooks, actually, but this one is special. It’s pages are full of his other bad habit.

Everyday, he pulls this notebook out, opens it to a random page, and will write whatever is bouncing around in his head until he just can’t write anymore. Sometimes the the words only fills one page, but other times they fill five whole pages.