Brendon, in contrast, was no stranger to ‘one night stands’. There were rarely nights when he went to bed alone, because in honesty, he detested the silence and emptiness of a huge apartment to himself; though he could find lots of ways to entertain himself on his own, he was a social creature, and preferred human company to his own thoughts in a lavish but lonely penthouse. He wasn’t particularly picky, but then he was spoilt for choice every night, and his phone was full of unsaved numbers and an average of five ignored texts from each. He preferred not to fall on the same person twice, out of some misplaced fear of somebody actually getting to know him and advance from surface-level, usually meaningless physical intimacy to some kind of emotional connection, one he simultaneously had craved all his life and avoided whenever it became even the most minuscule of possibilities. This vulnerability was closely guarded by defensiveness, almost a shell of self-preservation, in that he avoided growing close to people simply because he was convinced that nobody would even want him beyond physically, beyond materialistically, beyond for his wealth and status. Years of his father telling him [i]they only want you because you’re famous[/i] and [i]you’ll never find real love if you live your life a thousand times[/i] (rich, coming from a married man- but then his father hadn’t started off as he did, and was one of the lucky ones who ascended so far from nothing) had rendered him almost afraid of people showing apparent affection beyond the two-dimensional. He saw lovers in the street and he was both stupefied and angered by their stupid comfortability.

It wasn’t all bad, though. Again, he very much enjoyed the endless affection that practical strangers showered him with, and sometimes when he saw couples he just wanted to ask them how they weren’t bored of sticking with one person for so long. He could barely make a relationship last five days, let alone five years. Brendon knew that his attention was easily lost- if somebody didn’t command it completely, if only briefly, he wouldn’t even bother continuing a conversation. He tended to cut people off mid-conversation or just walk away while they were talking, and he was rich and famous enough for people to just nod and shrug, as if to say [i]that makes sense, everybody says he’s an asshole.[/i] As much as he hated to admit it, the endless amounts of headlines trashing his name had almost lead him to just believe it, and if not, he’d play along- if you can’t beat them, become what they say you are. Ironically, it didn’t take much for Brendon to do so.

Though he often wasn’t serious, sometimes his offhandedness lead people to think his comments were geniune; for example, now, when he mentioned that he had a thousand other people willing to call aside from Ryan, and if he left he could be replaced in an instant- this was a lie. Ryan was high on his list of favourite people already, and brendon could count the people who actually, geniunely cared about him as a person and not as the heir to a huge inheritance on one hand. He didn’t like to complain, save denounce every other ridiculous privilege he had in life, but it really was lonely at the top. Overindulgence was the only thing that kept him vaguely fulfilled, but there was an always an emptiness that any manner of luxuries couldn’t fill. Once he realised Ryan was pretending not to care, he looked over in slight concern, wondering whether it was appropriate to say something- but he decided instead to move on, and his assistant seemed to appreciate the distraction.

[i]You remember the brand and the artist, despite the language barrier.[/i] Brendon laughed incredulously, eyes flicking quickly down to Ryan’s mouth for a split second then back to his eyes. [b]”That’s what you’re fucking surprised about? Not the fact I spent $60,000 on a bottle of [i]water?”[/i][/b] He grinned, relaxing again despite the odd sort of tension in the air, and reminisced on the evening he bought that. In a small triumph, he had succeeded in getting his uptight older brother (Mason) pissed out of his mind, but then said brother had convinced a similarly wasted Brendon into splashing on a very luxurious bottle of water. As it stood, intoxicated Brendon was easy to persuade. [i]Right, well, tap water works, too, in case you weren't aware. It's 2018, you've got filters.[/i] In the manner of a true pompous ass, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. [b]”Ew, what am I, poor?”[/b] [i]No need for some Louvre water or whatever, rich boy.[/i] Rich Boy. Brendon smiled faintly. Was Ryan flirting with him?

There was only so far a conversation about a water bottle could go, even if said water bottle was based on the works of a late Italian sculptor and cost an exuberant amount of money. So Brendon effortlessly started to execute one of his most practiced habits- flirting like Ryan was the first and most attractive man he’d ever seen. Which, honestly, wasn’t too far from the truth, from Brendon’s point of view. Those [i]eyes.[/i] His [i]hands.[/i] Brendon really couldn’t believe that Ryan had nobody of romantic interest in his life- he wondered whether this was voluntary or not, and also wondered why he’d never asked before. [i]Yeah. No one.[/i] [b]”You say that like it should be obvious. You’re gorgeous,”[/b] Came his soft, easy response, his voice taking on a sensual lilt as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. [b]”Really fucking... God.”[/b] Quite obviously his poor assistant was taken off guard. Brendon liked it. He liked sweeping people off their feet.

To his amusement, he swore he could almost hear Ryan’s erratic, quickening heartbeat as he let his shirt fall back off his shoulders and then he rolled them forward to loosen the knots. All of this felt like a replay of a broken record in Brendon’s mind, he’d done this countless times, and honestly he wasn’t sure what was motivating him this time apart from very intense attraction. This was his friend, one of his only geniune friends- what the hell was he doing? Ryan seemed to be one the same wavelength and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder before he got too close. [i]Please don’t he messing with me.[/i] Messing with him? Was Ryan blind? He just stared up at him, eyelashes still lowered. [i]Listen- I don't know if, if you know what you're doing. I don't even really know.[/i] [b]”I know exactly what I’m doing, and so do you,”[/b] He said in a low voice, persisting and moving closer against his hand, reaching out himself and moving his hand down to hook his fingers in the belt loops of his jeans and tugging almost playfully. [i]I’m not that kind of guy, Brendon.[/i]

That was a line he’d heard before. [b]”What kind of guy, Ryan?”[/b] He asked, liking the way his name felt and sounded on his tongue. [b]”I’ll [i]make[/i] you that kind of guy.”[/b] There was a promise in his words of things he didn’t care say aloud. Ryan wasn’t stupid- nor did he have much of a willpower. A man who was both so, so easy and painfully pretty- Brendon felt a prickle of anticipation, could see Ryan’s chest rise and fall, and his breath catch in his throat- and he let his lips part again. [b]”C’mon.”[/b]