Ryden Oneshots

Fake Plastic Trees

It’s hard sometimes, Ryan thinks as he watches Brendon pluck a few random keys on the piano. He was born this way, so he doesn’t exactly know what he’s missing, but with the way Brendon talks to him about music, the passion and brightness and sadness and everything in between, Ryan sometimes feels like he did experience it once before, and now it’s gone. 

Someone taps his arm, and he glances up at Brendon, who smiles and pats the piano bench, nodding his head for Ryan to sit next to him. Ryan shuffles over and plops down, their shoulders pressing together, warm and familiar. 

“Play something,” Brendon signs, smiling encouragingly. Ryan eyes him and gives a short laugh, shaking his head. 

“I can’t play the piano.” 

“Doesn’t matter.” Brendon reaches down and grabs Ryan’s hands, running his thumbs briefly over the other boy’s knuckles before placing them on the piano keys. Ryan gives Brendon a hesitant look, but then presses a random white key with his pointer finger. Brendon grins. 

“That’s an A,” he signs, and then, “Go ahead. Make some music.” 

Ryan turns back to the piano and takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes and runs his fingers along the cool keys before pressing all five fingers down at the same time. He can feel something running through his skin, and he opens his eyes. Then he plays. 

He presses random notes, random chords, because he still doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he presses softly, and presses harder, he bangs on the keys, and he can’t hear anything but when he looks at Brendon and sees him laughing, Ryan’s eyes glow because even though he can’t hear it, he’s making noise. He’s making music. 

He’s maybe flailing a little, and he jumps when he feels a hand on his arm. He looks over and sees Brendon beaming at him, eyes glittering in amusement. 

“Don’t break my piano now,” he signs jokingly, but Ryan blushes anyways, retracting his hands carefully and gripping his thighs. Brendon rolls his eyes and reaches down to thread his fingers through Ryan’s, cheeks tinting pink. Ryan looks at him fondly, lips twitching on a smile, and thinks, I made music with him. 

-- 

Brendon’s been Ryan’s neighbor since he could walk and talk. He never really was concerned that Ryan never spoke or responded back when Brendon would yell for him across the street, wanting to play four square or Adventurers. 

When he was ten years old, Brendon’s mom explained to him that Ryan was born deaf, which means he can’t hear anything and he doesn’t speak because he can’t pronounce things very well. Brendon asked if there was any way he could communicate with his best friend, and his mom had gotten this glint in her eyes and smiled. 

She enrolled him in a sign language class at the community center two days later. 

-- 

The bathroom mirror has fingerprints all over it, but Ryan just looks past the dirt and grime and stares intently into his own eyes. He takes a breath and pushes noise from his lips, moving his mouth in the shapes he thinks are right. He can’t hear what he’s trying to say, but he keeps talking. It feels weird, his tongue feels heavy and unfamiliar in his mouth. 

“Mom,” he says, “Dad. Ryan.” It comes out more like ‘muh’ and ‘dahd’ and ‘ryhan’, the words thick and loosely pronounced. He squints at himself, a small frown on his face, and says, 

“Bruduhrn.” 

He doesn’t know if it’s right, most likely it’s not, but he feels a bit better. It feels nice, saying that name. He repeats it a few more times, and when he turns and sees his mother standing in the bathroom doorway, he pauses and blushes, embarrassed.