Oneshots | Ryden

Fade Theory

Ryan, Brendon, and a stubborn city that pushes them together.
Rating: Nc-17

Chicago, 2009

He gets into a fight with a boy, and he knows, he knows– those never end well.

It starts with a club. A seedy, trashy club that had a way of making you feel like a different person entirely. He has a cigarette firmly between his fingers, and pinpricks under his sleeve. It must have only been September, but it was cold.

He watches as other people come falling out the back entrance too, some doing the same thing he was; shivering for a smoke, escaping the thick air inside for the sharp air out here.

There’s a group of twenty-something year old guys sharing joints over by the curb; every time a car drives by one of them gets shoved towards the road in a fashion that will inevitably result in a ambulance.

Ryan shifts from one foot to another, annoyingly distracted by the forthcoming car crash, and he’s speed smoking now, flicking his cigarette, one, two, three.

The metal backdoor of the club bangs open again suddenly, breaking the raucous of the drunken guys by the road, and the tapping of Ryan’s finger. He moves his flattened hair out his eyes and sees a guy step out, young, short and innocent looking. He’s got dark cropped hair that shows a face pulled into a frown. When he looks up, he catches the eye of someone by the road. A wrong thing to do, by any standards.

“Hey, faggot!” one of the guys stumbles over.

The boy backs up, just a tiny bit.

“Stay the fuck away from me Len, seriously.”

His voice is unexpectedly deep, and sounds far too confident for the situation. Ryan can’t even see the kid’s glare properly, not in this light, but his reply makes Ryan stand up straight from his position slouched against the wall.

Four of the guys corner him in a way anyone would find at least vaguely threatening.

“How did ‘stay the hell away from here’ translate to you, kid?” the tallest guy says. Len. He’s got a wrinkled, weathered face and a buzzcut, and he’s straight up into this boy’s face. Even Ryan is put off, but the kid sticks it out, standing firm.

“Oh fuck you! Stop marking out streets for yourself, you fucking–”

Ryan sees it coming before the kid is punched hard in the abdomen by one of Len’s crew, his mouth widening and emitting a howl of pain. To his credit he throws one right back, and Ryan is suddenly intervening, because he’s an idiot, he’s always been an idiot.

“Okay, Okay, hold the fuck up–”

The kid’s face snaps towards Ryan, and there’s a flurry of movement as Ryan gets shoved against one of the other guys, a shout of anger erupting. Ryan loses his balance completely, landing on the ground, scraping and cold on his hands. The kid is fuming, though.

“Stay the fuck out of this, asshole!” It’s directed down at him.

Ryan squints up in disbelief at this kid’s nerve – all the he was trying to do was help, and now he was sprawled on the fucking filthy ground.

Len’s guys get bored of the situation quickly, drunken minds not able to keep up with the boy’s quick movements. They slump off, and Len kicks the kid one last time. Right in the kneecap, causing him to keel over in pain. “I mean it when I say stay away,” he says, bitter and low, and then he’s walking away, shouting profanities over his shoulder as he heads back into the club.