Ryden Oneshots 【2】

Like Lights Ends, With A Z

.:. Rating : NC-17 .:.

Summary: Mexico, present day. Vaguely falls within the criteria of sexpollen, but a bit different.

Oaxaca

Mexico is even warmer than Ryan thought it would be, the dusty tianguis bustling, noisy and bright in the Saturday morning sun. He keeps his smallest finger hooked onto Brendon’s, anchored as they weave their way through the crowds and the merchants. His gaze is drawn from stall to stall as they shuffle along, but not quite landing, taking it all in quietly, ears filled with unfamiliar sounds and syllables and Brendon’s running commentary.

Ryan turns a corner and is immediately distracted by hand-woven rugs and black ceramics, stepping closer and contemplating the craftsmanship, the possibility of souvenirs. He thinks of home and the people there for the first time in four days, quirks a half-smile at the chatting vendor, polite, and murmurs an apologetic no hablo español. When he looks up again, expecting Brendon to be right beside him, he’s met only with a sea of shifting sun-bronzed faces.

He pushes his sunglasses up onto his head, thinking it will help, looking one way and then the other, squinting in the brightness. Several stalls down there is a small commotion, and Ryan steps quickly in that direction, cautiously hopeful, but is nearly run over by two small boys who dart past him. The crowd shuffles, rearranges, and then he hears Brendon’s voice behind him, calling his name.

“Chinchillas, oh my god,” Brendon declares when Ryan catches up to him. There is indeed a small, open-topped metal crate of tiny, curled-up creatures, grey and tan and black, almost like round fur toys. Guarding the crate and perched on a folding chair is a surly looking woman, old enough to be their grandmother.

Ryan moves to take hold of Brendon’s hand again but Brendon moves faster, reaching into the crate, collecting one of the tiny, ebony animals, spurring an eruption of chiding from their keeper.

“Brendon, I don’t think—”

“They’re so cute—” Brendon says at the same time, and then suddenly shouts in surprise, dropping the animal. It lands with a pained squeak in the crate, disrupting the others, and then the old woman is definitely yelling at them.

Ryan blurts out an apology and physically pushes Brendon away, hand on his back and arm, marching him off until the rest of the noise of the market swallows up the shouting.

“That thing bit me!” Brendon exclaims in disbelief, showing Ryan the fleshy part of his thumb, where the skin is broken and bleeding.

“Good thing you had your rabies shots,” Ryan deadpans, looking around to get his bearings, and then steering them toward the direction of the gravel lot where they left the rental car.

Acapulco

Ryan can’t dance. But he knows he can’t, and Brendon knows that Ryan knows he can’t, but Brendon loves to dance so Ryan joins him anyway. The club is dark enough, crowded enough, far enough from the tourist district, and there’s enough rum in his drink that Ryan smiles, pressed to Brendon’s body hips to chest as they move. The music is loud, the bass thudding hard up through Ryan’s feet from the floor, buzzing, Brendon’s bandaged hand cupping his cheek. When they kiss, Brendon is not gentle, doesn’t hold back, possessive and insistent, and Ryan feels himself letting go, clenching the back of Brendon’s shirt and grinding against him.

Brendon pulls him closer, breathing heavily, one hand squeezing and lifting at the back of Ryan’s jeans, surprising him enough that he nearly loses his grip on the plastic cup of his drink. Brendon’s skin is as hot as his breath in Ryan’s ear, and they’re still swaying, thighs tangled, Brendon’s hips rotating around until he’s pressed hard up against Ryan, groaning with appreciation.