Straight out of a university that was both not very widely admired and had given him a rather useless English degree, Ryan realised he did not have many career avenues ahead of him. He surveyed countless Starbucks barista applications - because that's where all his classmates went, after all, unless they holed up in their parents' basement and transcribed or digitalized documents from the comfort of their childhood home - but it all felt so... below him. Of course, there was the fact that most everyone started a career this way, with some shitty retail job that paid off rent and gradually built on savings until you could actually pave your own path. But Ryan was impatient and his full-ride had gotten him so far without any real expenses to worry about; now that he'd been in student housing long enough for his dad to forget about him, probably, he had to figure out something.

And then some Forbes motherfucker was dumb enough to open applications to normal people to help deal with his son, or whatever. Well, maybe the son was the reason for that kind of liberty, actually. Ryan did know who Brendon Blake was before he read the application and did his own research - he'd seen magazine covers that never seemed to capture him in a negative light to match their disapproving headlines in the way that they could always make the most attractive celebrity ugly. No, out of thousands of pictures they must have taken from paparazzi, any variation of "Brendon Blake Possibly Fucking Himself Over and Ruining Any Chance at an Inheritance" seemed to accompany Brendon grinning charmingly at whomever he was courting, or catching the camera and winking just on time, or - and this was about as 'messy' as they could make him out to be - leaning over a club's bar counter looking slightly dazed but sweeter because of it. He was lucky he didn't have a bad angle, because then there was no actual evidence of the real fuckery that must take place in his life (unless you looked away from the enticing smile on his face to the glass in his hand or the person hanging off his shoulders or any number of questionable things taking place behind him).

Anyway, the application itself was easy. Ryan knew how to make himself look good despite having about as many skills as a sixth grader with a reasonable literacy level. He could cook, ish, he knew how to purchase things from a goddamn cashier, he had some amount of interpersonal skills... and for good measure he noted that he had extensive knowledge of how to use Microsoft Office. The job description was, ironically, nondescript, after all. He supposed even Boyd didn't know what the fuck his kid was going to request from a glorified servant, or what said glorified servant would have to be thrown under the bus for. Ryan sort of accepted that part of it - he might have to rescue Brendon from his impulsive habits one day, either taking responsibility or getting him out of there altogether. That was about as risky as a job that was close to three figures got, though, so he considered himself endlessly lucky that the standard for Brendon's personal assistant position were so ridiculously low (or, maybe they were indeed reasonable, but easy to lie about). 

Ryan would have done just about anything for independence at that point so he applied and was miraculously called in. The setting was beyond uncomfortable but Ryan was familiar with how to conceal how he really felt - and, eventually, that extended from pretending he preferred Brendon's personal lounge to acting like he didn't think Brendon was sort of kind of a little bit crazy. Most spectacularly, he accepted wine from him simply because it seemed rude not to, and Ryan even pressed the rim to his lips as if he really intended on drinking any of it. Had it been anyone else conducting the interview, Ryan would know such a question was a test maybe on his responsibility or something else; this, though, was Brendon Blake, and it was probably just a glass of wine. Despite not drinking it very much at all, Ryan gathered some sort of courage throughout the interview, Brendon's naturally positive response to him making him feel accomplished for whatever reason (and now the magazine phenomenon was starting to make sense). He instantly regretted it, but he opted to try to confirm or deny the truth of a very popular rumour floating around.

For the first few seconds he regretted it, and then Brendon seemed to come to terms with the inquiry, like he'd developed some newfound respect for Ryan's forwardness - or he just found it funny. Either way, Ryan stayed looking dumbly remorseful, nodding when Brendon tested the reality of the situation and then immediately explaining himself using Brendon's public image. He never got a full answer for that, and Ryan had always figured maybe his memorability with that complete fuckup was what gave him the job. Maybe Brendon just [i]forgot[/i] everyone else who was far more qualified and wasn't just having mostly a normal conversation with Brendon the entire time... actually, yeah, that was believably impressive to the rich kid. In any case, 'the rich kid' wasn't so bad. Ryan had entirely misjudged him, thinking him some asshole who could just wear any mask well. He looked good, sure, whatever, but he was also endlessly talented, clever and witty in unconventional ways Ryan wouldn't have guessed. Of course, he had to catch Brendon in his element during passing moments to truly pick up on these things - when he bragged about them openly it didn't seem as extraordinary.

Most worryingly, Ryan found himself to be developing something of a puppy crush on him. It was stupid - maybe he was secretly just into that 'boss-underling' cliche that every other romcom went off of. But Brendon wasn't really a boss as much as he was a super demanding friend, and although Ryan compulsively called him 'sir' or 'Mr. Blake,' they were never formal with one another for long. Ryan actually eventually got comfortable with talking to him just like anyone else, even showing when he was annoyed by him (at the risk of losing his money, which was shockingly something he wasn't afraid of given the nature of their relationship by now) - particularly when he answered phone calls in the middle of the goddamn night. [i]Wow, chill the fuckin’ attitude. I want some soda, I’m out. Get me some?[/i] He hadn't been asleep, of course, because he majored in English and was therefore vampiric, but Ryan just didn't feel like making the trip to the nearest 7/11 sometimes. Whatever. The $2.50 he'd inevitably pay for a case of Dr. Pepper was reimbursed exponentially.

Ryan pushed aside all the writing he wasn't doing and the guitar he hadn't been playing and his third watch of [i]The Machinist[/i] to go complete this very crucial task, and Brendon got the affirmative message he'd meant to convey with all the shuffling sounds. Ryan rushed out in all his button-up clothing and no touch-ups on his appearance otherwise because it was fucking three a.m. and Brendon was probably only going to see him for ten seconds anyway, and he was at the destination with his delivery in almost fifteen. He nearly just set them at the door and left but then, since Brendon had no awareness of his surroundings, he'd never notice it, so Ryan approached him on the balcony, setting the case on the ledge within Brendon's reach. [i]So good of you to come at 3am. What more could I ask for from an assistant, huh?[/i] Ryan's gaze naturally dropped to the floor as Brendon caught his lip - but not before he'd already stared during a long stretch - which was, admittedly, a new habit he'd picked up in Brendon's company. Usually he didn't present himself so shyly, but this was better than looking, like, lustful, or whatever.

[b]"No problem,"[/b] he said, rather contained for someone who'd just semi-snapped at Brendon over the phone. In person, it was somewhat more difficult to be short to him, for reasons Ryan suspected involved the way he could easily look so goddamned [i]hurt.[/i] Or, on the flip side, completely smug and self-assured. It was either heartbreaking or infuriating. [i]Hey, you should just crash here.[/i] With this offer, he looked at the cigarette presented to him skeptically, identifying the brand and comforting himself with the fact that it was in fact not just carefully disguised weed. He didn't want to take a cigarette and say no to staying over. But he also didn't want to not take the cigarette, so Ryan compromised and took it, then said, very eloquently, something like [i]'uh'[/i] under his breath. He turned aside, avoidant, and hung his chest over the ledge to take a drag, studying the city. [i]Ever slept with silk sheets before?[/i] Ryan looked at him and laughed softly, smoke escaping towards Brendon, and then furrowed his brow with suspicion. He abandoned formalities for once to level with him. [b]"No, Brendon. I don't think I intend to, either."[/b] 

Yeah, he shouldn't have accepted the cigarette. It was a menthol, too, fuck. Ryan felt kind of like an asshole, so he didn't turn tail and leave, as much as he wanted to. Since it was past two a.m. and these were the hours of the day when people took chances, Ryan considered Brendon for a moment, another drag from the corner of his mouth, before speaking again. [b]"Were you actually out, or were you just lonely?"[/b] It's not like he'd never been called for not-very-legitimate requests before, but Brendon hadn't been quite as inviting. [b]"You could just ask me to come over."[/b]