Ryden Oneshots

A Little More Touch Me

.:. Rating : NC-17 .:.

Brendon had a thing about Ryan's hands. His long, thin fingers and narrow palms. The way his fingertips peeked out of his fingerless gloves while he carefully strummed his guitar. They were just…wow.

If he were Ryan, he could write some dirty, pornalicious song about them that still managed to include, like, fourteen Doug Coupland references. But then, if he was Ryan, they’d be his hands, and so probably not as interesting.

Oh, wow. Being Ryan and having Ryan’s hands. What Ryan does to himself with his hands. Oh, oh, wow.

Brendon’s thing was, maybe, becoming a problem.

***

It was some time after three in the morning, and they were all crowded into a booth at a roadside diner they’d come across, somewhere in the middle of Ohio. They left Zach asleep on the bus, because no one in the place, staff included, was under the age of forty.

Brendon had used the puppy dog eyes – perfected over a lifetime of being the youngest child – to convince their waitress, a plump, motherly woman named Theresa, to make him a pb and j sandwich. She also included some homemade potato chips and a side dish of orange and pineapple slices and maraschino cherries on the plate. Even though Brendon was still drunk, his high from the bowl they'd smoked earlier had faded. He felt clearheaded enough to say with certainty that this was the best meal he’d eaten in his life.

Brendon took a long slurp from his Diet Coke and sighed, feeling the need to share his revelation with the rest of the group. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Beside him, Jon was eating a cheeseburger and coleslaw and was on his thirteenth cup of coffee. Across the table, Ryan and Spencer were sharing a huge plate of cheese fries between them.

“No, dude, no,” Spencer said. “You have to try our fries.”

“These are real potato chips,” Brendon said, waving one in Spencer’s face before popping it into his mouth and moaning exaggeratedly (though not by much) at the salty flavor.

But the cheese,” Spencer said while Brendon was busy chewing. “The cheese, Brendon.”

Jon snorted and then downed one of the individually packed creamers like a shot.

“That’s disgusting,” Spencer said.

“Give me one!” Brendon cried, stretching his arm across the table.

“Fuck off, they’re mine,” Jon said, wrapping his arms around the bowl of creamers possessively.

“You’re a selfish drunk, Jon,” Brendon said. “I’ll ask Theresa for more, she loves me.” He took a bite from the second half of his sandwich and promptly forgot about the creamer in the face of the most perfectly made pb and j in the history of the world.

“These fries are really good,” Ryan said, speaking for the first time in almost ten minutes. When he got drunk, and especially when he was stoned, he tended to become quiet and relaxed. Picking the last cheese-soaked fry from the plate, Ryan slid it into his mouth and lapped at the cheese left on his thumb and forefinger.

Brendon found himself watching, helpless, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open unflatteringly, as Ryan’s spit-slick fingers popped out from between his lips.

“They…” Brendon croaked, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed and tried again. “They look good.”

“Mmm…” Ryan agreed, bending down to lick a smear of cheese off of his palm. Had Brendon seriously missed a whole plateful of this because of a stupid (okay, amazing, but still) sandwich? “Messy though. I’m going to wash my hands.”