how to kill a straight guy // ryden

step 1: introduce yourself.

How completely and unreasonably awkward.

It had started when Brent had pulled him over in their guitar class, muttering a long string of sentences that Brendon was really only half listening to. A band? Brent had a band?

Pfft. So did about fifty percent of the school.

It was really silly to think that this kid's musical ensemble would reign supreme in the mainstream, but Brendon just sat in his chair, doing that thing where you would nod your head a few times and mumble, 'Uh huh', now and again. Wilson wasn't quite his 'BFF', but the kid played a pretty nice bass...and, well, that was pretty much all that Brendon knew him for.

"So, what do you think, Brendon?"

Shit. He hadn't been listening.

"Oh, uh..." He tried to remember the last thing Brent had said. Something about grandmas? His friend's grandma? That was a silly topic—agreeing with him should be safe. "Yeah, sure."

"So you'll come and play with us?"

Damn.

Swallowing the urge to sigh incredibly loud, Brendon shrugged his shoulders, leaning forward in his chair to snap the locks shut on his guitar case. "Well, how about this?" Didn't want to be rude. A way to weasel around it should work well enough. "You give me the address to the place where you guys practice, and maybe I'll head over there one day." He loved the English language. 'One day' meant that he could come over tomorrow, the next day, or pretty much a big, put-off never. What a wonderful twist on words.

Brent bought it though, folding up an old bass tab and using the music stand in front of him as a table to scribble the address along the back of the paper. When it was handed to him, his eyes scanned across the text to find it actually wasn't too far away from where he lived.

"It's at Spencer Smith's grandma's house."

Damnit! It had been about grandmas.

His bed was starting to sink in. He could feel it, the cushioning making his back curve as he lay across it. It wouldn't really surprise him, the bed was at least three years past its prime and the frame would creak in wooden deterioration—the bed passed around by three other, older brothers. Oh yes. Every time he'd shift his body to reposition his acoustic on his stomach, he'd feel the faint pressure of a mattress spring. One day one of those would poke him in the wrong spot and he wouldn't hesitate to file a case of child endangerment on his parents for the inadequacy of purchasing him a new bed—the thing was a complete hazard to his health.

Well, it wasn't really.

He was just crabby teenager.

Brendon rocked his head side to side on his pillow, headphones pouring music into his ears as high as the volume on his player would go. Fingers skimmed over the neck of his guitar, silently matching chords with the ones that blasted in his ears. True paradise.

"Dinner's done, Bren."

Paradise lost.

"I'm not hungry," he muttered back, letting his head roll on its side to stare at his mother in the doorframe. She was wiping her hands on a dishcloth, remnant liquids from the roast she had cooked smearing onto the material. How awful—probably killed the thing herself.

"Brendon, eat with us, please," his mother pleaded with that puff of disappointed breath. She knew it was a wasted effort by now, but no matter what she'd still try. At least she had admirable determination. "I've made you something special—a soup with no meat at all."

Doubtful. "Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Not even the soup itself?"