Ryden Oneshots

The White Noise Beneath Your Skin

.:. Rating : NC-17 .:.

It's the bus pulling to a stop that lulls Brendon awake. He really should be used to it by now, but the only time he can really sleep on the bus is when it's in motion. The sound of the tires as the tread grips and releases the asphalt at seventy miles an hour or more creates the perfect tidal wave of white noise that plays counterpoint to his thoughts until it swallows them completely and he's allowed a few moments reprieve from the whirring in his head. It's heaven.

It's the bus pulling to a stop that lulls Brendon awake, but it's the growing pressure in his bladder that actually pulls him out of the bunk and across to the bathroom. On his way back to the bunk he takes a quick detour through the front lounge and slips one of the curtains aside to peer out. He can tell that they're at a Flying J in what appears to be the middle of nowhere. He's not sure what time it is, because the microwave timer hasn't had the right time on it since Jon 'helpfully' set it forward two weeks ago in a misguided attempt to get Spencer out of bed on time, but he can see that outside the flourescently haloed bank of gas pumps it is still very dark and still very much night time. He yawns and scratches absently at the patch of stomach where his boxers don't quite meet his t-shirt and ambles back toward the bunk.

The sounds of people moving about outside are filtering in through the wall, but they're not loud enough to drown out Jon rolling over and fighting his blankets, Spencer snuffling quietly, Ryan— And Brendon isn't quite sure what to think of the noises coming from Ryan's bunk.

There's a soft, rhythmic shuffle of fabric and Brendon can hear Ryan's breath through the curtain. It's erratic and shallow and deep, and a few soft whines escape before he gives a soft grunt. Brendon stands in between the bunks with his hand resting on the edge of his, ready to climb back in, and he can't bring himself to move. Ryan's bunk lapses into silence and the rest of the night noises fill back in. Brendon doesn't even realize they'd gone, that he had been honing in on that one thing in particular, until it has disappeared.

He wills his limbs to move just as the bus is swaying back into motion and climbs up into his bunk. He closes the curtain and lies in the dark, welcoming sleep. It doesn't come, and not even the white noise can shut out the thoughts he's having. He's picturing Ryan touching himself, jacking himself off, and Brendon feels transparent even though no one is looking at him. He lets his right hand trail up his stomach and ruck his shirt up so that he can brush lazily at his nipples. Brendon tries to imagine Ryan doing that with his unoccupied hand. Pictures him licking his fingers and getting them wet with saliva so that when he puts them back to his chest it's like someone else is licking, or kissing, or pinching at him with their lips.

It takes about thirty seconds for Brendon to be fully hard, four minutes to get himself off, and what he assumes is about a hundred hours to get back to sleep. When asked the next morning why he looks so rough he'll whine and complain that he counted sheep to a million. Twice.

. . .

That night they stop somewhere cheap for dinner. Really cheap. Ryan is relaying a story from he and Spencer's childhood to Jon. Something involving a skateboard and about three feet of rope which culminates in a quarter inch scar Spencer has on his right knee. Brendon kind of tones it out because he's heard that one at least ten times and he's exhausted. What he can't tone out is the way Ryan is licking the salt from the french fries off his fingers and how they glisten before he wipes them on his napkin. Brendon shivers and he's suddenly alert again, which is why it's completely unnecessary when Ryan kicks him hard on the shin under the table.

“What?”

“Jon needs out, dickhead.” Ryan is looking at him, eyes slightly narrowed, and the way he licks the grease from his lips reminds Brendon of a bird of prey. Never mind that birds don't have lips, and don't eat fast food; Brendon still feels like a mouse in an open field.