The worst part of needing help with his writing was the part where he was very likely to be interrogated about the other books already written. [i]Fever[/i] delved into topics he wasn't ready to talk about with anyone, especially not someone he'd probably dismiss after five days' worth of talk, maximum; [i]Camisado[/i] lined most of the same subjects. If he was pushed to actually explain, he'd have to talk about his eighteen year old self's grievous memoir of a childhood with one distant, ill parent, of academic success but failure in most every other aspect of life, the typical teen angst bullshit that sent audiences wild. More than that, in the second novel, it would involve other people's stories, too, twisted into his own to create a new and unique narrative. And that was, like, [i]basically[/i] betraying all the poor people on Forensic Files whose lives he half-plagiarized. Sad, really. Regardless, Ryan was pretty sure he already had a knack for avoiding even general questions about anything, anyway, so he was probably safe.

The man - which felt like the wrong word, considering said 'man' barely looked like he just walked off stage with his high school diploma, but then the same could be said for Ryan - who welcomed himself onto Ryan's back porch didn't look like the nosey type, thankfully. So, since he was evidently so interested in this job, Ryan could just ensure he met all of the qualifications: no being a curious little snoop, be from NYC. Done. And the longer the guy stood there looking like he had no idea where he was or who exactly he was looking at, the more Ryan came to think maybe he didn't even know much about what he was getting into. This was probably the best deal he could get, actually. Someone who was in it for the money and not to see their favorite author was peak ideal. He'd ask no questions, accept the producers' cash without argument since he needed it so badly anyway, and he might even leave Ryan the hell alone during the day. It'd he like no one was staying here, as usual. The dream.

But the guy, a Brendon, apparently, had an attitude right back at him. In Ryan's defense, he'd forgotten what normal politeness looked like, and couldn't recognise when [i]he[/i] was being rude, just other people. Okay- not much of a defense, just an explanation. [i]Why are you smoking on your back porch at eleven in the morning? Ruining the air, man.[/i] Not amused, Ryan continued staring at him, less confused now and more with repugnance, but that was mostly because 'with repugnance' was his natural expression. He inhaled the ruined air audibly, raising his eyebrow at Brendon. [b]"It's my air, on my back porch. Look, nature and I have a deal. I let it eat my house if I get to fuck up the air quality."[/b] He gestured out to the sides of the house where weeds and miscellaneous plant life was climbing the old wood, where flowers grew up from the cracks beneath each plank in his porch. He didn't mind it, really, but he needed some quip for Brendon's weirdly accusatory response. Was it accusatory? Ryan wasn't sure. He really needed to get out more, 'cause this was proving to be a pretty awkward confrontation.

[i]Sorry to disappoint.[/i] Ryan supposed the twinge in his gut was something like remorse, but then he came to the conclusion that Brendon was joking. Even so, he'd never speak like this to an employer. Guy had some nerve. Ryan tried to mirror his smile despite being unused to those facial muscles, but didn't have any response to grace that with, simply accepting his apology. [i]Oh, yeah? From what I hear, you’re on a deadline. Didn’t you need someone by today?[/i] No, fucker, not really. Ryan crossed his arms over his chest while he felt Brendon's eyes wander. He had plenty of time! Maybe. Unless the contract changed. Shit. [b]"Not necessarily. But the sooner, the better, I suppose. With my job, deadlines are pretty flexible."[/b] Jon was correct in his analysis of the situation: his production company was one hundred percent up his ass. After all, if he had been older than eighteen when they found him, they'd have felt it necessary to pay him double what he got and take less from the deal themselves. Ryan didn't mind either way, but he could pretend to give a fuck if it meant they'd meet all his demands, which included setting back due dates, time after time.

Ryan was learning he either didn't like the kid or he didn't like native New Yorkers in general. But he was fairly tame compared to the, like, five other people Ryan had interacted with in the past two months, so Ryan let it be. [i]You certainly [/i]look [i]busy.[/i] Sharp, wasn't he? Ryan's gaze narrowed - maybe he'd asked for that kind of response when he started speaking so shortly with him. He didn't care enough to alter his own behavior, honestly. [b]"I am,"[/b] he said, voice flat, and it sounded more like a 'fuck you.' He wasn't even mad, it wasn't in his nature to be - he was just [i]that[/i] uncomfortable in social situations.  Now that they were on the same page, having made equivalent social faux pas, and Brendon looked sheepish about his door mistakes, it seemed like the right time to invite him inside. Unsurprisingly he looked uncertain about accepting the invitation; Brendon clearly hadn't seen an accumulation of wealth like this all in one place. So he really hadn't left the city much before, then. Even when Ryan was a poor teenager he had seen other people's huge properties, was used to rich kid mansions, but Brendon looked like this world was entirely too new.

Ryan trailed in behind him, watching him with withheld fascination as he looked around the place. Distantly, he wondered what he thought of it all. From pure habit Ryan still kept the place looking mostly unlived in, despite the fact that he hadn't needed to make a quick escape from any place or impress a resigned father for six years. He figured that was impressive to most people, keeping a place looking completely clean and new (apart from literature lying about freely and all the greenery outside), but Brendon looked torn between that and something else that wasn't impressed at all. [i]I’m Brendon Blake.[/i] Alliterative. Me, too, was Ryan's first thought, but he'd feel way too pretentious repeating a name Brendon probably already knew to him. His hand twitched at his side, wondering if shaking was still a thing that people did, but Brendon didn't go for it first, so he stayed put.

[i]Twenty-three, born in New York City, if you couldn’t tell.[/i] Ryan half-smiled, genuine for the first time, and nodded comprehensively. He had yet to hear the typical NYC accent buzz words, but even still, Brendon sounded like such a stereotype it wasn't even funny. All right, kinda funny. In fact, he probably came from down south, not from Staten Island 'cause he wasn't quite annoying enough and he was still shocked by a big house, but from Brooklyn, more neutral but still with an amusing as hell twist to his voice. [i]Uh, I’m an Aries.[/i] Oh, cool. So he was gay. Or gay-ish. Ryan nodded again and looked pretty obviously like he was suppressing a real smile. Either way, he wasn't sure how he felt about welcoming an Aries into his home. It'd go from quasi-unlived in to needing a fire extinguisher on every corner within a week, and Ryan knew Brendon was going to need to stay on for a while for his sake and his editing teams'. [i]...And I used, like, five hundred dollars to get here. Not to make you feel bad or anything.[/i] Brooklyn kid spending five hundred big ones? Ryan tilted his chin up, impressed at the sacrifice he made for a job that wasn't even promised to him.

[b]"Oh, trust me, I feel awful."[/b] He smirked, finally walking further past Brendon and starting to dig around the place, through desk drawers and between couch cushions with no explanation for his erratic behavior. [b]"You must be pretty confident, if you spent that much without even calling before coming here."[/b] Or it was a genius scheme into receiving compensation for a job he didn't deserve. Either way, Ryan found his wallet lost behind a pillow and popped back up, pushing a hand through his hair while he peeked into the bill fold. Good thing he was a bank-hating cynic who carried cash at all times - and didn't spend it, either way. It looked like he had even more than the cab price on hand. Ryan pulled bills out at random while he approached Brendon, tossing the wallet over his shoulder back at the couch once he was close enough to hand over his money. This was sort of not a normal human thing to do, but what the hell did he know. [b]"For your trouble. And, in the future, don't waste your money on cabs, I have a car you can use. A few, actually."[/b]

So apparently despite their weird as fuck introduction, Ryan figured he didn't need to interview any more people, or even conduct a legitimate interview with Brendon. Luckily for Brooklyn boy, Ryan had absolutely no clue how any of this worked himself, and did everything in his life on a whim anyway. Additionally in his mind it wasn't necessary to formally tell him he was on for the job - he'd just make implications one after the other 'til Brendon got the idea, apparently. [b]"So, how much did Jon tell you?"[/b] He made a mental note to get back in touch with Jon, a note he'd inevitably forget all about. [b]"I'll probably need you around for a few weeks. Don't know if you knew that part. If you need anything, like, clothes or whatever, just say so."[/b] One thing he was bad at was being specific, and another was keeping people in the loop. So Brendon probably barely knew about the job description and didn't know that Ryan's seemingly aimless walking off in one direction was him showing him around the place, despite knowing full well he'd just get lost either way.