Ryden Oneshots

Kiss And Tell

Brendon's hands were sweating way more than usual. He was used to moving through a filmy layer of sweat at all times, but right now he could actually feel moisture beading on his palms, making his fingertips slide where they wanted to clench.

He shortened his strides as much as possible, wanting to drag out the distance between the pavement and the front door of the pretty but ramshackle little house. There was no way he could dither on the doorstep, not when the occupants could be watching. Not that he cared about more than one particular occupant, but the girls he'd overheard talking in study hall had said that Ross kept a lookout between four and six. Brendon was already enough of a tool for even doing this; looking nervous at the same time would only cube his fail.

He started listing everything he saw in his head, which was a habit he'd developed to avoid actual thinking. He was well practised in it by now. Gate, he said, peeling paint; silly Celtic name-plate. Cracked paving stones with curious moss poking through the gaps. Pretty purple flowers slowly being choked to death by weeds. White wooden steps, sagging in the middle like they'd been jumped on by an angry giant. Matching white railings on the porch, dangling a few neglected hanging baskets displaying nothing but dust. A scuffed welcome mat. Peeling flyscreen. Door. Bell.

Brendon took in a long gasp of breath, wiped his hands quickly on his pants in case Ross was right there, and knocked. In the pause, he rubbed the sweat off more thoroughly, then was struck by a fear that his pants now had sweat marks. He was busily inspecting the knee of his jeans when Ross opened the door.

"Hi?" said Ross. Brendon gaped, still balanced on one leg. Ross' face went from mildly questioning to hostile. "Can I help you?"

"Um." Brendon could not stop staring. His mom had drummed it into him how rude it was to stare, and Brendon had learned from bitter experience that staring at jocks and girls who were too pretty for you and guys in general could only end unhappily, but - he couldn't help it. Behind the flyscreen, Ross crossed his hands over his chest, tugging up the tiny t-shirt he was wearing to expose even more of the flat stomach and jutting hipbones than were already on display. Under the frail curtain of his hair, Ross was frowning fiercely.

"I'm here. That is, I heard - you do kissing lessons? Um."

All at once, Ross' face cleared. He dropped his arms and opened the flyscreen. "You heard right," he said. "Come in."

+++

Ross threw a couple of amused glances over his shoulder as Brendon followed him up the stairs and concentrated on not tripping over his own feet. The interior of the house bore the same unloved look as the outside. Framed family portraits hung in the stairwell, but they were crooked and dust was caked in the corners. The carpet hadn't seen the business end of a vacuum cleaner for longer than Brendon had been questioning his sexuality.

"Through here," said Ross. He gestured at a door painted black with white stripes, as if Wolverine had tried to claw his way in. "I'll be right back."

Brendon wanted to ask where he was going, beg him not to bring a camera, but his tongue was frozen to the roof of his mouth. He just nodded tightly and hoped he could get his tongue unstuck before the lessons started. If Ross was going to use tongues, that was. Brendon felt a cold-hot shiver race through the pit of his stomach and quickly started cataloguing things in his head again.

Ryan's room was pretty typical of a teenage boy's. It wasn't all that different from Brendon's on a given weekday, although it was abundantly clear that Ross had no mom scolding him to tidy his room on Saturday evenings in preparation for the Lord's Day. The bands featured most prominently were Blink 182 and Green Day, although Taking Back Sunday and Fall Out Boy had their fair share of representation.