Part of him didn't even trust Brendon very much, even if he was starting to pick out key traits here and there that were charming and likeable. It wasn't even a little bit Brendon's fault, though. Actually, Ryan was more worried that he'd learned things from Jon (and, again, if they'd even met, maybe Spencer) that he wasn't comfortable sharing with just anyone. Jon and Spencer had that childhood friendship privilege, where even if he hadn't volunteered information to them, they likely learned of it through observation alone; he hadn't explicitly told them his mom mysteriously disappeared up to her parents' place and never came back when he was little, but when they visited his house with no maternal influence or lived-in appearance, it became pretty obvious. Similarly, he never said a word about his dad, but the smell that followed him to school or his constantly neglected appearance or the secretive way he held himself around anyone, among other things, were pretty telltale.

What was comforting was that he had only been looking for an NYC spokesperson for a short time, and, and considering there would be no other precedent for talking about Ryan before that, Jon and Spencer would have had very little time to talk all about his mysterious youth. Granted, it was unlikely they'd even bother to do that, regardless of whether they felt malicious enough towards him to betray all of those best-friendship-trio secrets. Still. He had good reason to be paranoid - the whole literary world knew at least the [i]subtext[/i] of everything he'd ever worked very hard to keep tightly under wraps, and he'd sacrificed it all for a tiny bit of money when he was still virtually a kid. He didn't [i]really[/i] regret it, just wished the circumstances were different. And now he was vaguely on edge, thinking maybe this guy secretly knew everything about him when all he ever wanted was for everyone in the world to know nothing.

But it didn't look like Brendon was giving him the pity glances or judgmental looks that came so typically from people who would probably be clued in, so he was good. Maybe. It definitely didn't seem like he was on the best of terms with him, but there were other reasons for that, one of which being every single word that came out of his mouth thus far in addressing Brendon. He wasn't even sure he'd be doing better if he had time to prepare for a visitor. In fact, he didn't even know he was going to be offending Brendon until Brendon looked offended. [i]Whaddya mean, suspected?[/i] Ryan looked panicked for half a second, wondering if there was a cool and casual way to communicate 'oh, you just don't seem like you read much,' which basically sounded like he was calling him stupid, but Brendon relaxed. As if on cue, Ryan did, too, body language reflecting his easily. [i]Okay, yeah. Sorry, don’t get a lot’a time to be reading. I’ll once-over the synopsis on Wikipedia, though. Don’t stress.[/i] Oh, so he thought Ryan really cared about whether he read the series or not. Made sense.

Ryan put up a hand, waving it dismissively. [b]"I don't mind at all. I'm not a huge fan of my own work, anyway. Sort of glad you haven't read it before - even [i]I[/i] can make a better first impression than that garbage."[/b] He smiled right back, slightly cynical, and realized belatedly Brendon had seemingly been kidding about the Wikipedia thing, but that totally worked in his favor. He much preferred some kid's interpretation of his plotless, orderless misadventures than he did his own writing, so if Brendon was going to read anything, it should be that. Or maybe he could glaze over some of the major newspapers' reviews, since they apparently couldn't get enough of Ryan's pretentious word vomit. Anyway, Ryan was just glad he didn't have to explain away the whole 'you don't seem like a reader' thing, 'cause then he'd be out of his only candidate, and probably the only person who would have been as cool with him.

[I]It’s deadass, like, the prettiest room I’ve ever seen.[/i] Ryan's smile faltered minutely, because he thought he was a walking dictionary and yet 'deadass' was not in his vocabulary. He tilted his head a little, using context clues to assume it was, like, 'honestly,' but didn't interrupt. [i]Was the decor your choice, or do you leave it to someone else?[/i] Ryan wondered how to come clean about it being his choice without explaining that he was a cheapskate who wasn't going to hire some interior designer who probably would want to give him, like, wicker fucking chairs or pure white furniture, no inbetween. He pursed his lips. If Brendon was willing to come out through talking about his [i]star sign,[/i] Ryan could admit to his weird fashion sense/design complexes and be safe. [b]"Mine,"[/b] he said, with a tiny shrug. [b]"Thank you. No one's ever stayed before, so... good thing my first guest comes with a note of approval."[/b] He smiled weakly, feeling lame as hell because this was less of what a 24 year old might talk about and more like a 50 year old homemaker. Screw it, he was excited about Brendon actually liking something here.

Sharing a tiny tidbit of his own life with Brendon proved to not be the end of the world, because he looked almost happy to hear it - even though it was just an anecdote about how tiny his home used to be. Plenty more where that came from. Anyway. He was sure he had Brendon's name right, if you could count 45% sure as that. [i]Charming.[/i] Fuck. He nearly jumped to his own defense again, something like 'I haven't had to remember a name in years!' but that was sad as hell. He bit it down, looking sheepish when Brendon didn't even bother answering to his confirming question. So, yeah, not Brandon. He was stepping away towards the end of his awkward apology, knowing his presence was probably not wanted for quite as long as it'd been, but suddenly Brendon was moving closer, reassuring him with the tiniest gesture of kindness.

Ryan looked down at his outstretched hand speculatively, blinking at the ink that danced up from his forearm and disappeared under the sleeve of his shirt. For someone as observant as him - hell, he was a writer - it'd taken a damning amount of time for him to notice the array of colors painting his skin. [i]Thanks, man.[/i] Ryan was still busy admiring, barely listening. He'd always wanted tattoos himself. Probably some Tom Waits quote he'd liked forever. Right now he'd never impulsively wanted to get it done so badly. Ryan took his hand after the pause, shook it lightly, then turned Brendon's hand over, holding it in both his own hands so he could keep his arm steady while he looked at the piano keys that splayed out where veins should be. He owned a Steinway he very rarely used. God, if he could get Brendon to play sometime... [b]"You play piano?"[/b] He still had Brendon's hand in his and realized it was probably time to let go, but not before registering the faint callouses, telltale. He dropped his hands and again wrung them behind his back, eyebrows raised. [b]"And other instruments, I take it. You should've said so. I'll show you where all of mine are sometime."[/b]