Ryden Oneshots

Irrevocably Combined

.:. Rating : NC-17 .:.
(you're welcome!!!)

Ryan's sitting in the lounge, reading, when something tickles at the base of his spine, reminding him. Brendon, he thinks, wistful, and is suddenly a little uneasy. He drops his book and walks back to Brendon's bunk, where the curtains are drawn tightly shut. He stills his breathing and listens, straining with his whole body to hear. And just there, at the edge of awareness, he can hear soft choking sobs. He strokes his fingers at the material of the curtain, curls his hands around the hem, and hesitates.

There's a sudden harsh hitch in Brendon's breathing, and sharp exhale, and Ryan backs away, slowly, shaking his head. It's late. He should be sleeping, they both should be.

--
It's the next morning and Ryan's curled up at the kitchenette table when Brendon and Jon stumble from their respective bunks, both with red-rimmed eyes. He looks up from his bunk and can practically see the miasma of a hangover drifting up and away from Jon, blinks and shrugs internally. Brendon, though, he's in a different mess, he's sick from something that wasn't aged in an oak barrel.

He puts down his spoon, swallows thickly a few times, takes a heavy gulp of coffee to clear his throat and jolt his tongue, and pauses. Brendon pillows his head on his forearms and Ryan reaches out to stroke the short soft hairs at the base of his neck, and doesn't, held back by Jon's sharp glance, aware of a potential conflict even as his head is obviously pounding.

He draws his hand back and lets Brendon rest, instead, uneasy with the choice he's not making.

--

They get a hotel room for a change and Brendon doesn't say anything when they close the door, when Zack gives them a long-suffering grin and reminds them to call if they need anything. Ryan takes the first shower because he knows Brendon will want to curl up under the spray for close to forty minutes, they have a nice routine in place now. Ryan showers quickly, rubs his makeup away as best he can and doesn't even bother to dress, just slings a towel around his waist and opens the door, lets Brendon push in past him. Brendon is likewise unselfconscious and strips right there, steps into the water that Ryan didn't even bother to turn off.

Ryan moves to the counter and begins mechanically setting up face cleanser, moisturizer, toothpaste, toothbrushes, floss, mouthwash, contact lens cases and solution, everything superfluous and necessary. His eyes flick up to the mirror and he sees Brendon staring at him from behind the mist and the steam.

Staring is possibly the wrong word for it; it implies that there is force and intensity in the action, and that's wrong because it isn't even an action. He and Brendon are at an impasse, and have been for a while, now. They are the consummate inaction, the two of them, in everything they do. Ryan's throat constricts.

"Make a decision," Brendon says, eyes clear and voice even, and jerks the shower curtain shut, turns the cold water off and slides to his knees under the pounding heat. Ryan watches his silhouette and sleeps without his headphones that night so he can listen to Brendon's breathing.

--

"Guilt will get you nowhere," Brendon says philosophically, and Ryan looks at him.

"What?"

"Guilt," Brendon repeats. "It's pointless."

"All right," Ryan allows. "Okay."

--

When they get three weeks off, Ryan moves into his apartment and hates it. He liked the apartment lifestyle right after Brendon left home and he was always crashing with Brendon, sleeping on a creaky fold-out bed mattress, but now he's not so sure he likes the feeling of being totally alone in a compound of people who all know each other. Some of them have lived here for years, and he isn't sure what he's supposed to say when the older tenants ask him what he does for a living. Ryan doesn't want to tell them how many people know his face and his name and his words, but at the same time, he doesn't want to say musician and watch them nod indulgently, as though they're dismissing him.