Ryden Oneshots

Before Midnight

Apparently, the New Year deserved only Christmas’s leftover decorations.  Brendon glared at the holly and pinecones that were tied with red velvet ribbon to the centerpieces of the table he sat at.  How he’d gotten himself roped into coming to this ridiculous party, he’d never know.  His father’s co-workers were all pompous asses—a fact that was brought to immediate attention by the extravagant (albeit past-relevance) decorations and five-course dinner.  Spending his New Year’s Eve with these people in a suit instead of with his loud and improper friends made him loathe his parents that night.

To make matters worse, James was going to be at his friends’ party.  James was tall and blond with muscular shoulders that Brendon had ached to run his hands across all through gym class in high school.  Now they were older and wiser and Brendon was just as infatuated with James as he was then.  College had been very nice to James and Brendon was determined to show James that college had been just as nice to him.  Brendon could see those broad shoulders and blond hair.
Hell, he swore he could smell that sweet scent of aftershave and see those beautiful cocoa brown eyes.

Wait.  Brown?

Brendon was brought back to reality, confused.  Standing over him was a man about his age, holding out his arm.  Brendon looked from those dark eyes down to his attire and noticed that he was wearing the same black and white uniform as the rest of the wait staff.

“Excuse me, sir,” the waiter said quietly, reaching around Brendon’s head to grab his empty plate.  Brendon moved his head over and took another glance at the waiter’s soft features and five o’clock shadow.  With a wide smile accented with bright teeth and pink lips, the waiter was gone.

Brendon turned back to face the table, his eyebrows furrowed.  What had he been thinking about?  Right, James.  Brendon looked up to the entrance to the large ballroom, searching for the waiter. Another smile flashed out to him, halfway hidden by a heavy velvet curtain, but directed at him nonetheless.

“Your father tells me that you’ve been going to UNLV, Brendon.”

Brendon looked over at the man sitting to his left.  He was every cliché of a rich man—fat with rings on every finger and a designer suit.  The man, or Mr. Decamp as he was more commonly known, had been boring Brendon all night with inane facts about his days on the UCLA football team and his investment in a new, extravagant casino.  He was no investment banker, but Brendon was sure the stories would bore even the best of them into a coma.

“Yes, sir,” he answered with a wide, fake smile.

“So, what are you studying there, my boy?  Accounting no doubt, with a father like yours.”

“No, sir.  Architecture,” Brendon lied.  In a room filled with pretension as that one was, Brendon tended to tell people his minor when such a question was asked.  For some reason, he found himself a great target of ridicule when he told people that he was studying music production.

“Well, that’s certainly respectable,” Mr. Decamp said with a hearty laugh.  “Some boys your age, they have fanciful dreams of being rock stars.  With all of their heads in the clouds, it’s any wonder if we have any reputable young men in the future.”

Brendon, with a look at his father, bit his bottom lip until he thought he might break skin.

“Ah, the dessert,” Mr. Decamp said, rubbing his hands together in the very portrait of gluttony.

Again, Brendon’s nose was filled with the sweet musk of aftershave.  He looked up at the waiter with a smile and a “thank you” this time, having found his tongue.  The waiter returned his smile before serving Brendon’s mother and Brendon noticed the thin layer of eyeliner around his eyes.  When all twelve people at their table were served and the waiter had gone, Mr. Decamp snorted.