Part 1/2 #Ryden. He's never really had someone to chit-chat with.
These things happen right?
But Brendon found himself tangled with a "friend", who happened to be married to a woman and also happened to know how much money Brendon was willing to to sell all sense of morality for. This particular "friend" helped Brendon to survive rent until college.
Honestly, he couldn't explain how it got to this; the sleazy motels, the cab rides, the fucking alleys on a bad night, but it had come and it was there and he seemed in no hurry to reconcile his dignity. Easy money, really.
His college roommate was pretty, but nothing special. He was bland and sarcastic and honestly, Brendon was disappointed.
"Brendon, right?" he had offered, and Brendon had nodded, vaguely heard the brunette boy mutter, "Ryan," unpacked his belongings and turned in for the night. When he awoke the next morning, he took note of Ryan's half of the room; his bed was identical, but the comforter was red, whereas his own was blue. On his nightstand was a stack of course books and notebooks and a glass ashtray. The thing that caught Brendon's eye though, was a series of pictures, hung up in a pretty row- Ryan and an older man, probably his dad, Ryan with a group of friends, a recurring theme of Ryan with a boy with blue eyes. Brendon briefly wondered if that could be his brother, or his boyfriend, or neither... or both.
As the weeks progressed, classes and "work" interfered with the two being faced with each other too often. When the rare occasion occurred, Ryan would be hunched over literature and barely gave Brendon a second glance. In turn, Brendon said not a single word to his roommate, seldom gave a polite smile and more often than not, acted as though Ryan's existence was irrelevant to his. It kind of was.
Almost two months had gone by before Ryan tried to tackle Brendon's exterior again, a "busy day?" being his initial words. So delicate, Brendon thought, like a moth. He replied with a simple, "yeah" and collapsed face first onto his bed. Ryan huffed into a hardback and snapped it shut. He crossed his legs and set aside his novel.
"You don't talk much, huh?"
Brendon thought for a minute, screwed his eyes tight. He never really had anyone to chit-chat with. It was a kind of sad thought, or at least, he thought it probably should have been.
"I guess I don't." he replied, voice groggy from a cheap, ten-dollar-and-a-carton-of-smokes, blow.
Ryan smirked, "Hey, y'know, your voice is pretty sexy." he teased and Brendon's eyes shot open. "I'm just saying." Ryan chuckled, when he saw Brendon's limp figure jerk in shock or embarrassment or something.
That was the end of their conversation, but as Ryan slept that night, Brendon found himself watching the boy's comforter breathe in and out around him, and after a long while, he whispered back a meek "thanks."
One night, Brendon had pounded far too many vodka-cranberries and been taken home by a young-ish looking guy, black hair, dark eyes, wide face, kind of slyly dressed. When they'd reached his apartment, Brendon's client- he hated that word- asked very plainly, "how much to tie you to my bed and make you beg for it?" He looked so calm that Brendon couldn't make out if he was serious or not, but after a lapse of silence that felt everlasting, Brendon muttered "a hundred" and expected the man to laugh in his face. He didn't though, just nodded and smiled, a slight groan in his exhale as he counted out money from his wallet.
Brendon had never been paid to indulge before- well not exactly. He'd been paid to fuck or blow, which he sometimes enjoyed a little, and be fucked, which he, admittedly, liked a touch more. No one had wanted to get him off before, just, to get him off. In all honesty, he felt like he should have been throwing money at this man- not the other way around. Despite the awkwardly placed, and far too tight, restraints around his ankles and wrists, he genuinely was beginning to feel desperate. When it was over, the man asked if he'd like to shower, but Brendon declined, said he was on the clock.
The next morning, Ryan asked about his wrists- well, his eyes scanned over them and his eyebrow cocked up in curiosity. Brendon toyed with the idea of ignoring him, but he'd slept rather well and hell, he was far from ashamed, so settled on a playful wink. The look of concern swept from Ryan's face as he draped a jacket over his shoulder and left, shrugging as he closed the door behind him. Tracing rope burns on his wrist with a grubby finger, Brendon began to think about Ryan. He thought about how Ryan smiled when he found an amusing line in a book, how his lips curved around cigarettes, how smooth he sounded when he'd told Brendon his voice was sexy, how Brendon kind of wanted to hear him say it again. He thought about Ryan's milky flesh and whether or not he'd be warm to hold, if he'd adopt hickeys easily, how he was always immaculately clean and how much he wanted to dirty him up a bit. So okay, Brendon had a little crush, but it was no big deal.
It was okay to beat off in your own bed at night if your roommate was asleep, Brendon convinced himself. He was sure he was quiet, making slow, steady squeezes and pulls. Easy, soft moans barely left his mouth.
Maybe Ryan was awake already, or maybe Brendon just wasn't trained to be quiet, but when Brendon's completely blown pupils trickled over to Ryan's corner, he could just about see the shadow of Ryan facing him; cat-like eyes piercing his skin. He would have stopped, really, he would have- a paid audience is one thing, but this? This was a whole other bracket of whatthefuckdoido. Just as he was uncurling moist fingers from himself, Ryan made a soft, edible humming sound and Brendon couldn't not come. He licked his lips and moaned, but his eyes never left Ryan's. And Ryan's stayed fixed on his.
Suddenly, being around Ryan became difficult. He was irrelevant no longer, but Brendon was as quiet. They didn't talk about the night Brendon came staring into Ryan's eyes, because, obviously that would be embarrassing. That being said, they didn't really talk at all, Ryan maintained a loose posture and absent-minded beauty and Brendon continued dodging Ryan's attempts at conversation.
When Ryan's lighter flaked on him, Brendon heard him curse for the first time. It was one of those moments that shouldn't have replayed in his mind a thousand times, but it did, shouldn't have made Brendon feel a twinge between his thighs, but it did, should not have made Brendon want to bite Ryan's tongue and tell him to behave himself, but it really did.
He really needed to stop thinking about Ryan while he was working.
Without even meaning to, Brendon made his way to where Ryan was perched, reached into his pocket, pulled out a cheap disposable lighter and lit Ryan's smoke for him. He could feel his heart thump against his ribs in a "what are you fucking doing?!" kind of way, and he tried to find something particularly ugly about Ryan from so close. Nothing came to mind. He had no extravagant features; just a pale face, short, straightened bangs, a line of grey around his eyes, and wet lips that begged for attention. Their eyes met slowly and, in this light, It was undeniable that there was a spark between them, Brendon was sure of that.
He had to say something now, because he had lingered in Ryan's face for so long, to turn around and retreat would seem gutless and Ryan would be able to see through him like cellophane. After searching inside and out for a conversation starter and finding nothing, Ryan came to his rescue.
"Thanks," he smirked, "want one?"
Brendon let out a relieved sigh. "Sure." he croaked in return, then kicked himself for sounding weak. Ryan fell back and tucked his legs under his hand, probably making room for Brendon to sit, but his nerves had deserted him, so he tried for a lame smile and turned on his heel, clenching his teeth and screwing his eyes.
Ryan sighed. "Sure." he repeated, sarcastically.
Brendon was starting to resent his job, if it could even be called that. He couldn't keep his mind from wishing it was Ryan. Every time. Every moan and every angle, every washed up, wet, sweating night. There was one occasion, one of the more classy motels he'd been taken to, when Brendon's client had roared "harder" and Brendon's eyes flashed open in terror- he could have sworn the voice was Ryan's.
His subconscious refused to let him live that down; he started to confuse Ryan's voice with everyone's- in classes, on the street, at work, in the coffee shop near college. He took to plugging into his sidekick and blasting songs wherever he went, just to escape.
"My friend's coming over."
This time it actually was Ryan who Brendon was hearing, it startled him awake and his head lifted from his pillow to see Ryan propped up smoking.
"Now?" Brendon asked.
Brendon nodded. Was he supposed to make himself scarce? Was Ryan telling him to try and hint he wanted Brendon gone? Or maybe he wanted his friend to meet him, scope him out. Regardless of the intention, Brendon decided this "friend" coming over was a good excuse to leave.
"I think you'd like him." Ryan mumbled, more to his toes than to Brendon. It took all the power Brendon had no to smirk back, instead he tilted his head at Ryan.
"Oh yeah?" he asked. Ryan hummed, then his eyes flickered to his wall. "Him." he announced, pointing at the most common companion in the photos Ryan treasured. Definitely boyfriend then.
"Next time, maybe," Brendon replied, braving a smile. When Ryan looked disappointed, Brendon felt himself blushing. "Work." he explained.
As he crept into the dorm room early the next morning, Brendon overheard Ryan still awake, talking to the guy Brendon assumed was his boyfriend.
"Brendon!" Ryan called out as he stepped into the room. Brendon's jaw dropped. He managed to compose himself long enough to turn up his lips in an almost grin. Ryan was lying shirtless, a cigarette in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, with his legs draped over the boy from the photographs.
"Want one?" Ryan chirped, jumping to his feet and picking up a new bottle to hand Brendon.
"Thanks." Brendon offered, eyes darting from Ryan's bare shoulders to the rumpled bed sheets, to the boy still on it. Bright green flashes of envy swiped over Brendon.
"So you're the infamous Brendon, huh? I'm Spencer." The guy announced, winking as he stood. He laced an arm around Ryan's back. "You're right, he is cute." Spencer chuckled.
Ryan blushed. Brendon blushed. Brendon started to shake. He dug his nails into the beer bottle and Ryan produced a bottle opener from his belt.
Spencer dawdled over Ryan as Ryan watched Brendon neck the entire bottle at once. He breathed out a heavy bubbly breath and said thanks again, catching sight of Ryan and Spencer exchanging a sly look. Honestly, it felt like Brendon was being interrogated by these two.
"So you work?" Spencer perked up and Ryan slithered away to sit against his bed frame. Brendon nodded at Spencer, but followed Ryan with his dark eyes. He heard Spencer speak again, asking for more information about Brendon's work and without realizing- because he was still wrapping his brain around Ryan's naked torso- he blurted out the word "hooker."
All fell silent for a moment; Ryan's eyes widened in shockshockshock! and Brendon grew embarrassed. The silence was broken by Spencer; the cocky, shameless, flash of smug drunkenness.
"So, like, you must be great in the sack then?"
Brendon spat out an unintentional laugh and caught one of Spencer's wide smiles.
"For fifty bucks, you can be the judge of that." he chuckled back. Spencer slapped Brendon's back in an accepting sort of way and retrieved another beer for the both of them.
"Spencer likes you." Ryan cooed when Brendon rose the following morning. The shower was running, so Brendon guessed Spencer was in it. "I didn't know you were a- your job..."
"Didn't see the relevance." Brendon shrugged. "Unless you have money to burn and a tough time finding someone to suck your dick, I still don't." he smirked slyly at Ryan, having realized his tone was a little too blunt.
"How much for the night, stud?" Ryan replied, winking.