During the arduous, four-hour cab drive, Brendon had used the last of his data looking up [i]Ryan Ready[/i] And [i]Fever[/i] on his phone. He figured that maybe it wouldn’t go down well with someone that Brendon predicted had his own head up his ass if he admitted that he hadn’t actually [i]read[/i] his dumb book series, so he attempted to familiarise himself with what the fuck they were even about. The first in the series was just called [i]Fever[/i], and Brendon had frowned; surely a guy so supposedly intelligent and talented could think of a better title for a novel than one unassuming word. [i]Fever[/i], Brendon mused to himself in his head, sitting back and thinking about the connotations- flashes of hot and cold, sweating, illness, going from one extreme to the next. Maybe it was fitting- but he still didn’t know what it was [i]about.[/i] The second novel in the series (he’d always assumed pretentious and successful authors never wrote sequels or prequels or whatever, that it somehow ruined the quality of the original- but from what he’d heard, Ryan sounded strange anyway) was titled [i]Camisado,[/i] again, one word. He didn’t even know what that one meant, so he googled it. 

[i]Camisado,[/i] an attack made under the cover of darkness, or something. Nobody used that word- the dictionary even said [i]formerly.[/i] This guy was pretentious or something, because god knows what the fuck he was talking about in the transcripts of the few interviews he could actually find. Under [i]Ryan Ready,[/i] he found next to nothing; apparently he wrote under a pen name, which Brendon also didn’t get- why wouldn’t he want all the recognition that came with writing a wildly successful book series? Then again, he didn’t seem like the kind of person who particularly enjoyed the limelight. He lived upstate, in the middle of nowhere, for god’s sake, and Brendon assumed he lived by himself. It would be kind of awkward if he had to dodge around some lover, and Brendon didn’t do well in awkward situations. He had texted Jon about it just to make sure- [i]Does ryan live alone-[/i] and he received a fruitful answer that mentioned Ryan was a recluse, always had been, preferred to be alone, and didn’t exactly get out much, never mind date. Where would he even meet anyone? Brendon had grinned because Jon said it how it was, and he sent a text in reply, but his bars of signal had run completely out. He sat against the seat, wondering how Spencer was, making himself worry about his oldest friend. He brushed it off, somehow- after all, worrying about Spencer never seemed to help him.

Brendon was a little annoyed that his knock wasn’t immediately followed by the door opening and Mr. Ready declaring he was instantly hired. Instead, he hung around on the porch, staring distastefully at the dying potted plant, listening to the birds overhead and wondering again how he wrote such dark shit when he was surrounded by such a lovely atmosphere, such calmness. Admittedly, he still wasn’t sure exactly what he wrote about, because Brendon became bored instantly a few sentences into the synopsis of [i]Fever[/i] and then his phone promptly died, reflecting how he knew nothing about literature and he didn’t have much writing ability himself. Then again, he never got time to write anything- disappointing, for a lover of music, who, when he was younger, was always scribbling down lyrics that he thought were profound but were really cliche and cookie-cutter and unoriginal. That’s what his dad had told him, he remembered grimly, but then decided it was too nice a place to be miserable, even if he was kind of expecting a vampire to turn up at the door and invite him inside. But no- nobody invited him inside. So he took initiative- Ryan Ready, apparent self-made literary genius, didn’t seem to be.

So, he went around the porch, marvelling at how even though everything looked vaguely overtaken by nature, the wood didn’t creak under his feet as he walked carefully, not sure what to expect when he walked around. There were flowers blooming wherever there were cracks and dirt, and when Brendon inhaled, the scent was strong and heady and intoxicating- but even that was overpowered by the scent of cigarette smoke, which he detected before he even saw that Ryan was smoking. He eyed the frequently used ashtray and then Ryan’s cigarette enviously, before looking up to make eye contact with his unexpectedly handsome author. It was a surprise- he’d expected someone messier, somehow, who didn’t take care of themselves- Ryan wasn’t exactly dressed smartly (it was eleven in the morning and he was in his own home, Brendon couldn’t blame him), but his hair was curly and his eyes were bright and he was tall and well-built. It was a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. He looked back at Ryan’s cigarette, and realised he had an explanation to make. Ryan, thankfully, didn’t look [i]pissed[/i], Just a little uncomfortable and confused.

He stuttered out a quick summary, but he still didn’t look wholly convinced, or impressed. Brendon was about to get defensive- what did he imagine a New Yorker looked like? He paused. There was a silence. He remembered Ryan’s affronted questioning from just moments before. [b]”Why are you smoking on your back porch at eleven in the morning? Ruining the air, man,”[/b] He said, raising an eyebrow, but he still kind of wanted a cigarette. Even when Brendon mentioned he was a friend of Jon’s, Ryan looked at him like he was an alien. [i]The job. Right. The city thing.[/i] Brendon was honestly shocked at how blunt this man was, but then he imagined he didn’t talk to people much. Maybe this was acceptable in his perfect little word of no people and a fuckton of money and time. Some had it all, he thought sourly, then shrugged a shoulder. [b]”Sorry to disappoint,”[/b] He said finally, sarcastically, but he was smiling, amused- and then he told himself to shut the fuck up, he couldn’t fuck this up as well. He was running out of other options, he couldn’t be picky about his employer.

[i]Sorry. Wasn’t expecting anyone.[/i] [b]”Oh, yeah?”[/b] Brendon drawled, a glint in his eye, [b]”From what I hear, you’re on a deadline. Didn’t you need someone by today?”[/b] He squinted, tilted his head, examined his clothing choice. [b]”You certainly [i]look[/i] busy.[/b] [i]Do people from New York usually bypass doors?[/i] Brendon looked sheepish; staring at his feet, he tried to conjure up a good excuse, but in the end he just shrugged. Couldn’t be helped, right? He was here now, and he hoped Ryan’s neutral, resigned acceptance was a job guarantee. He was kind of desperate to hear some kind of confirmation, maybe find out what he was being paid for his trouble. Brendon eyed him still as he turned and opened his back door fluidly after stabbing out his cigarette, and paused for a second. It seemed otherworldly in there, like he didn’t belong. He certainly felt out of place. [i]Feel free to use this one.[/i] Brendon nodded and walked inside first, still uncertain, trying not to seem too entranced by all the luxury.

The interior of the house was no less grand than the outside, and he proceeded to remember exactly what he had been thinking when he first stepped out of the cab. This guy was filthy rich. Brendon wanted to ask if he was really the only person living in this lavish palace, even though Jon had already told him, if he was that selfish to keep this much space to himself, but that was just the pessimistic side of him pushing itself to the forefront. Everything was tidy, clean, almost empty- it looked like Ryan had half-moved in and not bothered to do the rest. He wondered how Ryan gained inspiration from a place that seemed so soulless to him. [i]I don’t think Jon told me about you, so why don’t you do the honours?[/i] Brendon wasn’t really paying attention- he was glancing around the house, amazed by its extravagance, and compared it to his apartment back in the city. Depressing. He turned around as Ryan closed the door behind them. 

[b]”I’m Brendon Blake,”[/b] He managed, though he was distracted, because he was offended that Jon hadn’t actually mentioned anything to his supposed ‘friend’. Maybe he used that term for lack of a better word- Ryan looked like he had lots of ‘friends’, but not a lot of real ones. Or maybe he did. Brendon had no idea, and he wasn’t going to judge until he knew the guy properly. [b]”Twenty-three, bork in New York City, if you couldn’t tell,”[/b] He laughed, referring to the accent that none New Yorkers tended to make fun of. [b]”Uh, I’m an Aries.”[/b] Brendon wondered if Ryan cared much about astrology. He entertained himself briefly, wondering what his star sign was- most likely Virgo, or Libra, something. [b]”...And I used, like, five hundred dollars to get here. Not to make you feel bad or anything.”[/b]