Ryden Oneshots

You & Your Hand

.:. Rating : NC-17 .:.

Brendon feels pretty dumb when he thinks about it later, but the first time he walks in on Ryan, he's not actually sure what Ryan's doing. He stands and stares for like a whole minute, frowning in confusion, because what, is Ryan in pain or something? That would explain the tensed muscles and twist of the mouth, but somehow Brendon doesn't quite think that's it. Next he thinks, wait, he's crying, because of Ryan's hitching breath and shuddering shoulders -

and then he sees where Ryan's hand is, and the realization hits him like a punch to the gut.

He makes a tiny squeaking noise and backs right the fuck out of that hotel room, because Ryan's - oh god, he can't even say it in his mind, what Ryan's doing - and thinking about Ryan that way, thinking about Ryan doing that, makes him feel funny from his ears right down to his toes.

Brendon's not a total prude. It's not like he himself doesn't jerk off, and he hardly even feels any guilt over it anymore. Seriously. He doesn't even have a problem with other people doing it, theoretically (although, during the brief and disastrous Audrey Thing - as he likes to call it in his mind - she'd referred offhandedly, once or twice, to getting herself off, and it still weirds him out pretty hard to think that girls do it too). It's just that he's never actually seen a guy masturbating before. Aside from himself, of course, but that's not the same: all he can see then is his own lap and hand and dick, no arresting visual there. The whole Mormon upbringing thing was not exactly conducive to any quality time spent with gay porn, and as for band camp? Totally not as exciting as "American Pie" made it sound.

So it makes sense, really, the slow roll of his stomach in those few frozen moments between the Sudden Flash of Understanding and the Abrupt Fleeing of the Scene, and he's just glad that Ryan's eyes were closed the whole time. He escapes to Jon and Spencer's room - where, thankfully, there's an epic Halo showdown raging and nobody at all has their head tossed back and their hand down their pants - and he deals with it, because, you know. These things happen on tour, probably all the time - hell, what was that story that Patrick used to tell about the time he'd walked in on Pete, Pete's laptop, the kinky anthropomorphic internet art, and the whipped cream? But anyway, the point was, it was no big thing. A little awkward, but. No big thing.

Except then he starts noticing Ryan jerking off all the time.

Brendon's bunk is directly above Ryan's, and Brendon's never before noticed much in the way of untoward noises from down there. Ryan's generally a quiet sleeper; Brendon's seen him passed out on a spare bed or couch or floor often enough to know that he curls up into himself, knees tucked to his chest, and unless he has a nightmare he generally stays silent and still all night. So the first time a soft, breathy sound drifts up from the bunk beneath him, Brendon kind of knows it's not just Ryan restless or Ryan dreaming, even as he hopes it might be.

He would fumble for his iPod in the sheets if he could, fumble frantically and snap the headphones over his ears and dial something bass-heavy and hardcore all the way up - because, ack, Ryan - but that would make noise and making noise strikes Brendon as a really really bad idea right now. Instead, he just presses his head hard into the pillow and tries not to hear: tries to block out with the sheer power of his mind the gentle rustle of Ryan's sheets and the rhythmic slide of Ryan's hand on his own skin and the long, shaky breath when Ryan comes.

Brendon lies awake for hours, after.

-

As it turns out, that's only the beginning. It gets so much worse for Brendon, because apparently Ryan's chronic horniness (seriously, he gets himself off every night, often twice. What normal human being does this? Brendon doesn't really believe anymore in the old refrain of You Will Go Blind/Grow Hair On Your Palms/Make It Turn Black And Fall Off, but if it were possible, it would happen to Ryan) is contagious, god. Brendon finds himself needing to jerk off before shows, after shows, and, on one memorable occasion, halfway through lunch with the guys (and Brendon isn't grossed out by much, but just the memory of that diner bathroom makes his skin crawl). As for mornings, oh man. He knows that morning wood is normal, but this is another order of magnitude entirely. Every single day he drifts awake with his dick incredibly, painfully hard, as if he's been dreaming about banging Jessica Alba all night or something. It's not fair. Brendon thinks that at the very least his subconscious could let him remember all the amazing imaginary sex that he's apparently having.