It's not like Ryan goes looking for something. It's rounding on dawn and he's pretty sure the total amount of sleep he's had in the last thirty-six hours is twenty-seven minutes, and that's counting the forty-five seconds he'd dozed off earlier, during an infomercial for some weird mineral makeup, with his chin in his hand, counting the ticking of the second hand on Brendon's watch.
Ryan's not looking for anything. And yeah, probably the best thing in the world is the fact that he doesn't need to, maybe. Because he sighs, heavily, and rolls over again on the hotel bed (not helpful, not at all. At least in his bunk on the bus he can be forced to stillness by sheer lack of space.) and Brendon sighs with him, all the way across the two feet that separate their beds.
It's sleep-heavy and thick, and Ryan goes still. The red numbers on the bedside clock mock him, and Brendon breathes heavily into his pillow and it sounds like, "Ryan Ross, you think too loud for me to sleep."
"You were snoring twenty seconds ago," Ryan hisses. "And your watch is so loud it makes my teeth hurt." Ryan twitches, fingers curled tight into the sheet he's got pulled over his shoulder, and adds, as an afterthought, "I'm not thinking loud anyway. You just have voices in your head. We should--"
"Ryan," Brendon says, and Ryan is really, really tired, because he didn't even notice when Brendon's feet hit the thin hotel room carpet, just noticed he was suddenly sitting up. "Ryan," Brendon says, "Ryanryanryanryan, oh, god, I will kill you with my hands, Ryan Ross. With my hands and my rage and other very vicious things." And, well, Ryan's not scared, because Brendon can't see shit without his glasses, and his hair is sticking up in at least eleven different directions, and the only angry lines on his face were left there by the creases in his pillowcase.
"I'm not scared," Ryan tells him, calmly, and doesn't even curl his fingers any tighter into his sheet. Except for how he maybe does.
Brendon doesn't--strictly speaking--climb into Ryan's bed, so much as push himself up off of his bed and fall face first, mostly on top of Ryan, on the closest horizontal object. "Your heavy sighing wounds my soul," Brendon yawns, against the soft skin beyond Ryan's ear. "And my sleep patterns. I was having a very pleasant dream, you know. There were even puppies."
"You are a puppy," Ryan says, letting go of the sheet to curl his fingers into Brendon's hair, instead, fingernails scratching along his skull, lightly, and Brendon, poor, poor half-sleeping Brendon purrs. Ryan files that away for later, and doesn't even lie to himself about pure, not blackmail related intentions.
"You're a puppy," Brendon replies, and bites Ryan's shoulder so lightly he mostly just gets too-often-washed-t-shirt between his teeth. He manages to wiggle until his feet are under Ryan's covers, toes cold when they press against Ryan's ankle. "I should get a puppy. I will love him, and hug him and call him George and we'll be best friends forever. And he'll sleep all night and not wake me up with horrible, soul tearing sighs."
Ryan is not typically a fan of predictability, so he makes a list of excuses quickly: it's been a very long day; he has not had nearly enough sleep to deal with brushing his teeth, let alone Brendon and the way that his (cold!) fingers have slipped under Ryan's t-shirt and are doing this crazy soothing circle thing on his hip; he's maybe a little bit in love; pot really is a gateway drug; there are not enough hours in the night; he only watches Bugs Bunny when he's high; he really likes puppies. Then he sighs, heavily.
"Oh my god," Brendon groans, and shoves his knee into the inside of Ryan's left thigh, "please die now. But not really because decent lyricists are hard to find. So just fall into a coma for a little while, please."
Ryan grins against Brendon's forehead, maybe, his knuckles against the back of Brendon's neck. And he means to sigh again, he does, but Brendon wiggles again, and his thumb slips, slides into the hollow of Ryan's hip, and Ryan stutters on the exhale.
Brendon sighs instead, around a smile, eyelashes against Ryan's throat. "Sleep now, Ryan," he whispers, and sweeps an arch on Ryan's hip with his thumb.
Ryan doesn't bother to disagree.