All This Hope Is Getting a To My Head (Ryden Fanfiction)

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Ryan wakes up to an unbearable pounding in his head that closely resembles an incessant hammering action. When he opens his eyes his vision is bleary and fuzzing around the edges, and something nags at his conscience, though just can't put his finger on what it is. Ryan scrubs at his eyes, and looks around the room. There's nothing obviously out of the ordinary like you would expect to come with such a feeling. Instead of overthinking it, he strips his duvet away from his sleep-warm body, the cooler air of the room hitting him like an avalanche. He dangles his legs over the sides of the bed, twisting his hands in the sheets for ensured balance, and pats the ground with his toes until his skin comes in contact with a fur-like material, in of which he recognises as his slippers. Ryan wriggles his toes into the warmth, and drapes his thick covers over his broad shoulders as he waits for his head to stop spinning.
When Ryan shuffles past his father's room on the way down for breakfast, the snores drifting out from inside assure him that his dad is okay. Down in the kitchen, he produces a packet of Oreos from one of the bare cupboards, munching through half a pack in fifteen minutes while sat on top of a counter. (When he imagines Brendon's commentary the last time he consumed a full packet all on his own, he grins dozily, the boy's voice ringing out in his head. "I swear to god, Ry, it's so unfair. How are you not fat?")
He glances around the room he's in as the memory fades, taking in the minimalistic set-up of it all, save for the empty snack wrappers or tin containers from all the Chinese they usually eat, and sighs. The house has been empty and lifeless ever since he was younger, and he misses looking forward to a comfortable family dinner to arrive home to every evening. His father had honestly tried when Ryan's mother had first departed - leaving the pair for some rich guy living in a mansion- cooking up a concoction of his mind to try and keep the tradition going, even if they both knew it wasn't the same. Before long, however, Mr. Ross developed a chronic case of depression, trading his job for the drink and his dignity for just one more bottle, and left his son to fend for himself. Ryan's been an adult ever since he was six.
He sighs for the second time in not very long, dropping his eyes to the cookies, before lobbing them in the direction of the bin. He downs a glass of water with paracetamol thrown in the mix, before pattering off to the living room, eyes shut as he throws himself face-down on the couch in a bundle of blanket. Only when he looks to the side, a flimsy, scant fir tree coming in to sight, does he remember his earlier pensive cluelessness. It's Christmas.
His eyes naturally trail down the thin trunk to the space beneath, where, in most houses, would be piled high with bright-coloured gifts. He tries to kid himself that the lack of presents doesn't bother him, because it's been like this for years, and he doesn't know why it still disappoints him every single year. A bitter feeling that he doesn't enjoy wells up inside of him, so Ryan looks away, sporadic shivers plaguing his body.
When he drags himself back up to his bedroom, the gust of wind whipping his hair around his face reminds him of the window he left open in the evening, just before he went to sleep. It had been too hot to sleep under his comforter without some form of air conditioner, and heaving the old fan from the basement had not been on the top of the list of things he'd wanted to do at that moment. Ryan leaves the covers on the bed, and battles against his body to walk straight into the cold, and slams the window shut. The force of it causes the walls to shake.
A sliver of light thrashes through a gap in the newly-shut curtains, casting an odd sense of illumination around the room. Ryan just stares at the ceiling, relishing in the warmth that closing the windows has brought, when a familiar jingle piques his attention. He snaps up his phone, and for once doesn't spend half an hour staring at the photo of his boyfriend that happens to be his background, and instantly accepts the incoming message. It reads, "merry xmas, babe xxx used propa gramma just 4 u <3,' and Ryan wants to pretend that his heart didn't just jump.
He texts back, 'shame theres no snow, huh? vegas sucks. merry christmas baby xxxx.' Ryan collapses on his back on his bed, holding the phone up in the air as he embarrassingly gazes at the screen, waiting for an answer. He feels like a clichéd teenage girl.
'Right? Fuckin desert. Can u come 2 mine?? Xxxxx.'
'yh, ik. Um. Can I? will ur mom mind?its family time.xxxxxx' Ryan makes sure to count six kisses before he sends the message, and feels a longing to see his corny boyfriend. This is a game they often play - who can send the most kisses - and Ryan usually gives up around the eleventh 'x.' Or so, that's what he likes to let Brendon believe, because really, he just can't be bothered to add more than that, and the smile that comes onto Brendon's face every time he wins is totally worth the chip in his pride.
'nah. she knws ab u. she dusnt care if u.. attnd. Xxxxxxx.'
Ryan giggles childishly at the innuendo Brendon had cunningly avoided, but chooses not to mention it. 'k. ill cum ova in an hr? xxxxxxxx.'
The reply is instant, ';) ;) Yh. C ya. Xxxxxxxxxxxxx.'
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Ryan straightens out the front of his coat, as he lingers outside of the Urie's front door, contemplating whether or not he should knock. On the one hand, it would be the socially expected thing to do, but, on the other, if it were anyone other than Brendon or Grace Urie - his mother - who had opened the door for him, he'd feel extremely uncomfortable having to explain that he is Brendon Urie's boyfriend, and yes, he's sure. Brendon's family is made up of a lot of Christians, and Ryan's never been good with dealing with people who believe in some unreachable, unprovable power.
And then the door opens up to reveal a grinning Brendon dressed in a cute Christmas jumper and the tightest skinny jeans Ryan's ever seen him wear, and his problems are resolved. Brendon squeals gleefully, throwing himself at Ryan before the other boy even has a chance to comprehend what's happening, and then there's arms around his neck and legs around his waist, and all he can do is take a balancing step backward, bury his face in Brendon's shoulder, and encircle the boy's torso with his arms. Brendon squeaks, "Baby!" at the same time Ryan breathes, "Brendon," and twirls him in a graceful circle, still hugging him tight.
The chilly air on both of their backs is nothing compared to the joy they feel every time they see each-other, so naturally, when their lips finally meet after a week and a half of living off Skype calls - they stay attached to one another for far longer than should be adequate, both giggling as they pull apart. "I missed you," Brendon whispers, not-very quietly into Ryan's ear, as the other boy hoists him higher up on his body. For someone with such a skinny frame, Ryan has surprising strength, and it never fails to bemuse and delight Brendon.
Ryan only twists his neck, kissing Brendon hard on the lips once again, and letting him slip down his body, until his feet are set down on the pavement again. His hair falls over one eye as he lifts a hand to Brendon's chin, tilting his head until it's at just the right angle, and parts the younger boy's pliant lips with his tongue, tickling the roof of Brendon's mouth before forcing himself away. He laughs softly at the younger boy's flushed face, and turns a deep shade of red when he chances a glance over Brendon's shoulder, only to see his mother and older sister gushing over the pair. Brendon giggles, as Ryan finally replies with an, "You know I missed you, too," before he's dragged into the house by his boyfriend by the hand.
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