Ryden Oneshots 【2】

The Rift In The Lute

Summary: Ryan is a bitter hipster jerk and a terrible barista, Brendon is the ill-advised hook up that just won't go away, and The Starbucks Up The Street is the Enemy, possessed of sinuous, serpentine wiles and insidious prowess. No quarter must be given, and no quarter shall, at least on Ryan's watch.

When his alarm goes off, Ryan thinks very, very seriously about skipping his classes and calling in sick to work. Utterly, direly, impossibly seriously. He even lies in bed for a minute or two with his eyes still sealed shut, carefully sketching this fantasy out; imagining it, every sweet second of the rakish dissipation and general slothfulness which he really fucking deserves.

His alarm continues to sound, a dull blaring throb which immediately finds resonance somewhere around his temples. He's about to roll over and turn it off – he really is – when someone jabs him in the shoulder and says, far too loudly, "Um, dude, your alarm's going off. Just, F-Y-I."

"Yeah, I noticed," Ryan mutters. He doesn't turn off the alarm, and after a second, the someone leans over him and silences it.

Which is really too much, all things considered. If you're ill-mannered enough to goddamn hang around in the morning after a one-night stand, instead of doing the decent, non-embarrassing thing and getting the fuck out afterwards, or at least sneaking out sometime in the early dawn, you really shouldn't be manhandling and making free with one's possessions. Ryan feels very strongly about this.

"That's my clock," he says, cracking open one eye. "Don't touch my clock."

The guy from last night – he can remember picking him up, of course, it's not like he was on a bender or anything, he just hadn't expected him to be still here – blinks back at him. His face is way too close, inches away, and Ryan can't focus on him properly. Way, way, too close. Granted, it's only a twin bed, but he's not looking to get laid anymore and this guy is all up in his space, pressed against his side, legs still curled round his. Seriously, what.

"Sorry?"

"Whatever." He's being rude, maybe, but – and a squint at the clock verifies this – he's cutting it close if he's going to haul ass and make it for his morning shift, and he has three classes this afternoon, and seriously, why is this guy still in his bed? Does he not know how these things work?

The guy – Brandon? Ben? Brent? – grimaces comically at him, mouth pursing. It's a pretty mouth. Ryan notes distantly that his eyes are very dark and almost liquid, and, if he remembers correctly, his hair looks okay when it's brushed and smoothed down and not standing up all over his head in licks and hillocks hither and yon.

"Whatever," he says, and finally throws first one leg and then the other over the side of the bed. Brian (Bruce?) eyes him appreciatively as he snatches up his jeans from the floor. Ryan doesn't have time for this shit.

"You can use the shower after I'm done," he calls out over his shoulder. "Pull the front door shut behind you when you go, it locks. Don't steal any of my stuff."

"Hey," the guy says, sounding wounded. "I wouldn't do that."

"Sure, whatever."

Ryan's trying to find a clean, decent-looking shirt (she might come into the coffeehouse today, you never know) when the guy – Bret? – gets out of bed, too, and starts gathering up his own clothing. He pushes his disastrous hair out of his eyes and smiles up at Ryan as he does it, and okay, he's hot, there was a reason Ryan took him home, eyeshandshipsmouth.

"So," the guy says, carefully casual, "what's your number? We could reprise this at some point, maybe. Maybe hang out."

"Sure," Ryan says, rolling his eyes. He finds a clean shirt at last; it's Spencer's, but what's Spencer's is Ryan's, at this point. Mostly. They're roommates; they're childhood friends; they're practically brothers.