Brendon had been stuffed in the back of the cab for almost four hours, in a silence with the driver that didn’t exactly grow warm as time passed, but wasn’t explicitly uncomfortable. He watched the counter as the amount of money he’d have to pay for this trip clocked up into the multiple hundreds, and even though he knew if this job didn’t work out, he’d have no way back to New York, he didn’t really feel nervous, just faintly apprehensive. No room for regret now, he told himself- and he exhaled, clicking his tongue, dragging his eyes finally away from the counter and out of the window. As the hours passed, the landscape had morphed from mostly grey and neutral to green and blue and brown, and the wondered why the hell this guy had to live so damn far away. He grimaced. What was he doing? Spending the last of money on a one-way trip to the middle of nowhere to land a temporary but long-term job (that he still didn’t know the full details of- Jon had been impossibly vague) that he might not even get.

”We’re almost there,” The cab driver piped up loudly, and Brendon was blinking at the counter, but barely listening. Five hundred and twenty dollars. Sitting back and exhaling, he banged the back of his head against the worn leather of the seat, then turned his head towards the window mournfully. He realised he hadn’t actually responded to the driver, but decided he probably didn’t want much conversation, so he entertained himself for the final minutes of their journey by thinking back to how the hell he ended up sharing a car with this guy for the past four hours.

He’d been fired, obviously. As his manager gave me the worst news of his life, he had smiled, probably in an effort to lesson the blow, but Brendon knew he relieved to be rid of another liability.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Blake.” Brendon bit his lip as he remembered how the motherfucker had wrestled with that god forsaken smile, probably embarrassed to show his glee but too relieved to hide it. “Your track record with this company is fantastic, but-” Brendon had scoffed, cutting in. ”But you can’t have someone with jacked medical insurance, I get it,” He snapped, already letting his disdainful thoughts warp into reckless, biting attacks, as he imagined ways in which he could fuck up his neat office. Maybe set fire to his potted plant. ”Let go of the weak links first.” His manager had stuttered something about how Brendon misunderstood, but he just narrowed his eyes, clenched his fist, all he could see was the plant in the corner going up in flames. ”I understand just fine,” He had cut in again finally, smiling the sweetest smile he could, knowing full well he’d regret this all later. He didn’t know where this was coming from- some repressed place in the back of his mind, maybe; Explosive altercations were never the direction he enjoyed to go, but in this case he has been willing to let loose, even if he knew he might swallow his pride enough to come back later groveling on his knees.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” His manager had broken eye contact and shuffled with the papers on his unnaturally neat desk. ”You will receive pay for two more weeks- plenty of time to find a new job. Have a nice rest of your day.” His eyebrows lifted in mock sympathy. I’m real sorry about all-” he waved a hand, ”this. If I could I would’ve done it differently.” Brendon leaned forward and raised his eyebrows right back, snatching the paper he had been offered right out of his hand before standing up suddenly from his seat and turning towards the exit. ”See you in hell.” He stormed out of the office before he could muster any accusations of insubordination, slamming the door as hard as he could on the way out. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the concerned glances his coworkers, no, former coworkers, threw his way as he cleaned out the small table that was his desk, his hands shaking as they tossed scraps of paper and old reminders into the trash.

Uncovering a yellowing photograph interrupted his frantic, desperate cleaning. It was a snapshot of when he had just graduated high school, an arm around his ex-girlfriend. She was smiling from ear to ear and his eyes were bright and grin just as gleaming, and though he looked like he couldn’t be happier at the time, Brendon had to really think to remember her name. For a moment he considered discarding it too, starting anew completely; but then again, no good has ever come from forgetting the past, only learning from it. He ran a hand through his hair and tucked it into his jacket pocket pressed against his quickened heart, and briefly he felt his pulse through his shirt. For some inexplicable reason, it was comforting. Maybe he liked to remember that he was alive underneath it all. The screwing up, the clean starts that were never really clean. His heartbeat was the only constant in his life- that and Spencer, who he now had to break the news to that he didn’t have a job any more, one that had supported both of them.

He finished stuffing the remnants of his latest job into his work bag, slung it over his shoulder, and left, not really sure where he was going, but knowing this wasn’t where he belonged. One thing about New York City was that no matter what time of day it was, or who had died, or whatever tragedy in the world was occurring, the city kept moving, like a merciless train with no care for anything other than staying on time. It didn’t get its nickname for nothing. This city never slept; not for Brendon, not for anyone. Nothing puts life in perspective like having millions of people crammed into one place, all independent, all perfectly capable of caring for themselves. Brendon descend into the subway, getting shoved around a couple of times by people far wearier than him- Another benefit of New York, he thought, was that someone always had it worse than him; that made complaining superfluous. Even so, he gave it his best shot.

Good on his boss for firing him on a Friday; he sure knew how he’d handle it- he called up Jon, not Spencer (he was putting that phone call off because Spencer was more likely to freak out), because he was the one person Brendon trusted to be in a bar on a Friday night. He picked up after three rings.
”What d’you need?” he mumbled, probably already a couple drinks in, which was admirable at five in the evening, although not particularly surprising. Jon had been fired himself a couple of weeks prior, and now drowned his sorrows with the last of his savings. Brendon clicked his tongue when he realised it reminded him of himself at a time that wasn’t far away enough to be comfortable.
 
”Got fired.” Brendon plugged his other ear, the roar of the subway station making it almost impossible to hear Jon’s feathery voice. ”Need to forget about it for a little while.”
 
”Mhm.” No questions asked- he didn’t sound particularly concerned or sympathetic, and Brendon wasn’t sure if he was glad about that or not. He heard rustling through the phone, likely Jon figuring out where he was. “Come down to Stanley’s, the one on the east side. Drinks  on me.” Brendon laughed, because they both knew there was no way that was happening, but Brendon would entertain the little joke for a while. ”How generous of you.”
 
”Yes. I am the bestest friend and you are lucky to have me,” Jon agreed. ”See you later, dude.” ”Yeah, bye.” He hung up, exhaled, dropped his phone into his satchel. So, at least he had plans- he felt a little less directionless, even though he knew that afterwards he’d probably feel worse. The train pulled up and its doors slid open, beginning the mad dash to board before they automatically closed with no exceptions.
 
A couple of tourists were trying to figure out where to go, holding an outdated map of the wrong burrow. Normally, Brendon would have stopped to direct them, thereby missing his train in the process, but not today. As much as he tried to ignore his upbringing, that deep-seated, Mormon politeness was too ingrained in his mannerisms to brush aside. Judgement clouded by contempt, he managed to ignore them, stepped on the train and let the door slide shut, the metallic sound of it clanking against the body of the subway sending a jolt of pain through his head. Brendon had a constant headache nowadays. As he thought about it, sitting not uncomfortably in the back of a cab in the middle of beautiful, fresh-aired nowhere, it came back, a stab of pain at his temple. He blinked it away, and remembered how he’d rested his head against the inside of the train car, closed his eyes, and let the thundering roar of the vibrating car drown out his thoughts.

Leave it up to Jon to pick the one well-kept bar in all of Brooklyn. Brendon’s work clothes seemed almost informal compared to the immaculately dressed revelers working their way around the bar, until he saw Jon, sitting at the far end of the counter, looking tipsy and it was barely even six. He collapsed into the empty chair next to him and dropped his satchel onto the floor as Jon slid him a drink before he could even look up. Unexpected- he’d thought Jon was joking, but he wasn’t about to complain, and He flashed a gracious smile, taking a long swig before his friend changed his mind. It burned his throat, which meant it was way too strong for his own good, but eventually pooled warm in his stomach, relaxing his shoulders inch by inch.

“So,” Jon propped up his chin with his hand, ”What happened, dude? I thought this was supposed to be your, like, big break or somethin’, and the last I heard you were about to be promoted.” His voice was usually monotone, but it was lilted from alcohol, and he even thought he detected a hint of concern. He didn’t sound judgemental- Even so, he couldn’t stop himself being defensive. “I was!” He snapped, then reeled himself in a little, guiltily, after Jon winced at his harsh tone. ”Sorry. But yeah, the company apparently had to do some,” He did air quotations, “ downsizing. I call bullshit. The government showed up last month and implemented new mental health regulations on the company, so now they have to pay for any part of that in our company healthcare. Guess who has the biggest track record of mental health problems.” he gestured to himself grimly, and turned to look at Jon, who himself looked somber.

”Shit, man,” He said slowly, shaking his head like he was still taking it in. ”That fuckin’ sucks. Brendon nodded, but he just looked tired. ”And I gotta tell Spence, fuck.” Jon stayed silent, and Brendon downed another drink, liquid courage for when he eventually called his roommate. It was 7pm- not late enough to leave, though he didn’t want to get wasted- he was much more unlikely to do well at any interviews if he was hungover, and job hunting started tomorrow. A comfortable silence had settled between him and Jon, and Brendon turned to him eventually, smiling, finally sort of relaxed. ”Any chance you know any company that I haven’t worked for yet that needs someone with a music degree?” He asked, joking, and Jon laughed, because this was a running joke. Brendon’s dreams to be a musician, Brendon’s music degree that he had never once used. But Jon stopped laughing, furrowed his brow. ”Y’know, Bren, If you want to be a musician you have to actually play music, go to clubs, and get your name out there. Why the hell are you doing blue-collar jobs and shit? Just do it, man.

Jon was right, but it wasn’t that easy. ”If I could catch a break I would do that,” He huffed, running a hand habitually through his hair and resting his elbows on the table. ”The real issue is my income is small and right now, rent is sky high. My roommate sure isn’t working, so I have to sustain two people with one job. Spence also happens to be my oldest friend, so I can’t just kick him out.” He paused, staring dejectedly into his glass of whiskey.

”Oh, woe me,” He mocked, rolling his eyes when Brendon shot an insulted look his way.  ”Dude, we’ve all dealt with this. As much as we all want to pursue our dreams, it usually doesn’t happen. The only person I know who- wait a minute.” Brendon looked mildly interested, pushing his whiskey away, no longer feeling like drinking. Jon’s face was scrunched in concentration as he tried to remember something. Two beats passed, then a slow smile crept onto his face. ”I may have an answer for your job problem.”
 
Really?” Brendon drawled, more than skeptical. [i]”Duh, trust me.” He cracked his knuckles - Brendon went to copy him, but he’d already cracked them from due to constant nervous energy - and leaned back in his chair. ”Have you heard of the book series ‘Fever’?” It rang a bell, but Brendon didn’t read much- or at all. He looked at Jon helplessly, bit his lip, mulled it over. ”Uh, kind of.” ”That’s a no, then, Jon remarked, and Brendon shrugged a shoulder. ”It’s basically a young adult series about the complexities of growing up in today’s world. Every teenager in the world is obsessed with it. Y’know, they cling onto anything super hormonal and nuanced.”
 
”You know this how? And how is this in any way relevant to my job?” Brendon hissed, amused, but exhausted with Jon’s tipsy ramblings that never got to the point. “Some of us had angsty phases that weren’t skateboarding and smoking pot.” Brendon rose his eyebrows, about to raise the point that that’s exactly what Jon did, but he was already moving on. “Anyway, the author grew up with Spence and I in Colorado. He called the other day, which, like, never happens, so it was weird to begin with, and he said he needed someone who grew up in the city for a long term position.” Brendon was interested, but apprehensive. One of Jon’s old friends? Spencer’s? Why had he never been mentioned before, if he was so famous and successful? I think he needed a source. He could always do his own research, but the dude is a freaking hermit who’s terrified of people and crowds. Brendon clicked his tongue, because how was this guy going to write about New York if he’d never even been there, even with a source? ”This all sounds very informal,” He said doubtfully, drumming his fingers on the bar surface and looking away. ”Where would I even work? Is it reliable?”

”He’s already worked it out with his publishing company. They’re far enough up his ass that he can basically get anything he wants. Most authors don’t get that lucky, but he’s too clever for his own good,” Jon mused. Yeah, whatever. ”Jon, I need a date and time, and place, at least. And what about Spencer? This is a bad idea.”

“Upstate,” he mumbled. ”I think he wants someone by, uh, this weekend, or he’s probably gonna have a nervous breakdown.” So, tomorrow. Brendon couldn’t find a place for Spencer to stay by then. He bit his lip nervously, shaking his head. ”I’ll find another job, I-“ Jon hushed him. ”Just send him to my place. He’ll be fine, okay? There was a silence, and finally, Brendon caved, nodded. ”Can’t believe I’m gonna fuckin’ do this.”

Finishing the rest of my drink, he bid goodbye to Jon, who was using the counter to keep himself upright at that point, and maneuvered my way out of the bar. He’d be fine; if anything, Jon had mastered the art of dragging his sorry ass home even intoxicated beyond reason. The crisp night air whipped down the boulevard in short gusts, and while Brendon was inside the sky had darkened into its usual blank canvas, with only the occasional helicopter or plane to decorate it. He pulled his jacket tighter around his form, a shiver travelling down his spine. It was strangely cold for September, even for New York, and although many people brushed it off as a cold spell or global warming, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was some kind of omen. An omen of what, he had no clue. Maybe some parental superstition had rubbed on off him more than he thought. Brendon grimaced at the idea, and pulled out his phone, staring at it for a moment before calling Spencer.

He was so lost in thought by the time they arrived that the driver had to speak up. ”That’ll be... Five hundred and twenty-three dollars. Paying in cash?” Brendon nodded, handing over the last of his money, receiving twenty-seven in change and hastily shoving it back into his wallet before stepping out of the cab and mumbling a ‘thanks’. Then he finally saw the house. He stared at the gigantic wooden structure that stood in front of him. That house looked like it had room for a family of at least ten, including a chef, two maids, a butler and, fuck him, a bartender. A wide terrace stood on six wooden posts, and he could barely see the entrance from here. Jesus, this guy was filthy rich. There was something strangely comforting about the atmosphere as he stepped out of the car, the smell of the humid earth and the trees around offering their leaves and branches as shelter to the house - no, mansion - as though accepting it as part of the landscape. A wooden staircase on the left side seemed to be the only way up to the terrace, with no doors at ground-level. Ivy was crawling up what once must’ve been the hand-rail, already engulfing parts of the staircase itself, like Nature made attempts at taking over but decided that there was no urgency in the matter. As he let his eyes travel further along the wooden planks that built up the structure, He noted that the house itself was half-reclaimed by plants, its cracks and crevices full of still life. A small part of him wanted the forested mountain to absorb the house completely, turn it into a temple for the birds and other mountainous animals, but the rest of him knew better. The rest of him knew that this was his one shot to get out of his self-induced hell.

Oddly, the wooden steps didn’t creak under his weight, the only audible sound being of the wind in the leaves overhead and the faint crashing of the small waves lapping the shore of the lake he’d spotted from the window of the cab. Everything seemed so gentle compared to the constant, endless chaos of the city, and yet it wasn’t mild or inconsequential. Each element of the picture had its place in it, one part of a whole. There was an abandoned potted plant on the porch, long dead after what seemed like weeks, if not months, of neglect. Maybe the poor guy didn’t know how to water plants. A shame, to live in the countryside and not know how to tend to the wildlife. Not that he was any better in the botany department, but still, it felt like a waste.
 
He took five seconds to try and dispel the anxious tapping of his foot against the porch, but when it refused to stop, he simply sighed and rapped on the door with his knuckles. Immediately, he had his usual nervous, internal dialogue where he convinced myself not to take off running, although this time, there was nowhere to run to.  A minute of standing awkwardly on the porch passed, and he leaned to his right to peer through the darkened window, searching for any sign of movement on the other side of the glass. God, he wasn’t home, was he? Just his luck. He bit his lip, not willing to give up- he had no other option- and saw that the porch wrapped around the back of the house. Maybe he was in the garden, or something. Brendon followed it around, and suddenly he was stood on a stranger’s back porch, and a stranger who either hadn’t heard him knock or didn’t care was standing there, cigarette in hand, clearly almost as confused as Brendon was.

“Um,” He managed eventually. ”Hi.” He looked up at the other presence. From where he stood, he seemed a few inches taller than Brendon, slightly slimmer. His chestnut hair grazed didn’t quite graze his shoulders in curly, longer-than-average locks, and his eyes were steadily staring him down, both surprised and unimpressed at once. He knew immediately this was Ryan, and felt extremely awkward for barging onto this guy’s back porch.

”Hi. What the literal fuck are you doing on my porch at eleven in the morning?” The man asked, voice dripping with sarcasm that made Brendon wince a little. ”Right, right.” He nodded and scratched the back of his neck. “I’m Brendon, uh- a friend of Jon’s?” Brendon wondered if Jon had even said anything about it to him, considering they were apparently friends. Ryan still looked suspicious, almost distasteful, but looked like he was weighing his options, and Brendon stood his ground. Again, he had nowhere else to go. ”Uh... for the job?” While he was waiting, he studied his possible future employer again. So, this author dude smoked on his back porch at eleven in the morning. He wondered briefly whether he was also one of those ridiculously routine-bent artists, like Van Gogh or Hemingway, sucking on his daily cigarette before going back to his desk and working his magic, spurting out a few thousand words in an hour or two. He tried not to laugh at the image, and breathed out, raising an eyebrow.

'Resourceful' was, for most people, maybe just a term that looked good on a résumé, not really accurate because they never had to utilize said resourcefulness. For Ryan, though, it stood true, and was in fact the reason for his more than modest success. Really, he was sneaky. The only way to write a compelling enough story when you were young with little life experience was to draw from your own absurd tragedy, build it up or wrench excruciating detail from the slightest misfortune. Then, once all that was accomplished, slap it under a 'young adult' section of your local bookstore - teens who pretend to like reading will be raving within weeks. Ryan was eighteen when he decided his university courses were moving too slowly and followed this procedure, digging through all of his old, disjointed writing and making it into a cohesive piece; once he'd slung together a slightly morose but 'coming of age'-esque novel, publishing companies stumbled over one another to respond to his inquiries.

He was stupid enough - or just insecure enough - to call it luck when he was really just a talented writer. Ryan had wanted Fever to be a one-time occurrence, then he could move on to bigger and better things; his publishing company had different ideas, knowing he'd already drawn an audience within the first six months of sales and he had to please some sort of cult following from now on. So now it was a series. Ryan's first book had been a rearranging of his own experiences, a rephrasing of all the stories he had stuck in his head. Everything was basically a 'SWIM' version of his life, all the names changed or not even mentioned, morphed into metaphors and poetic syntax that turned real stories into only vague gestures at things that had happened to him. At the time of writing, it'd been... cathartic. The few times he was called on to answer to interviews (which, by the way, he was careful enough to stray from the spotlight and avoid fame of any kind altogether), generally over e-mail or phone, he got questions about the specifics, and that made him regret coming clean at all. People always wanted to relate.

Well, they couldn't, and he wasn't going to allow it. So Ryan made sure the next one was even more vague, and it wasn't just about him so he wasn't trapped in the knowledge that the general reading public was eating up his stories and turning them into their own. This was why he stayed under a pen name. Continuing a series contractually would be his way out of letting his own experiences becoming public domain - although to be fair that'd been his young, dumb choice in the first place. Sure, now he had all the financial security of maybe, like, fifteen other writers in history, but still. If his name got out, he'd feel like he sacrificed all of his personal life left, and it wasn't even like he'd made anything clear. Someone truly dedicated to literary analysis may have figured out the things he was alluding to, or decoded the fact that he wasn't making a story for all the other teens and twenty-somethings reading, he was making something for himself, a glorified diary. And they could maybe piece out the fact that he was distancing himself further and further from that narrative to avoid his own past the more he added to the series, but that would probably take a while. Hopefully he'd be, like, dead, or on a remote island by that time. Would be nice.

For now, though. Ryan was safe in the solitude of a gigantic fucking piece of property in upstate New York. Not the city, because that was too much, and even the city was out of his price range if he wanted something other than maybe a penthouse. In rural New York, yeah, he made it quite well. He was surrounded by trees and mountains and nature and the occasional editor or Fedex guy stopped by, but otherwise no one visited, no one came or went, and he preferred it that way. Supposedly he wrote better when he was alone, but that was a hypothetical considering he hadn't practiced any other way. Even when he was younger he was tucked away in his room, far lonelier then because it looked unlived in, immaculately clean with no posters or décor so he could make a quick escape when he did eventually get out of the house. And he did. So fuck that place. Ryan was probably definitely never going back to Colorado. Without leaving the country entirely, he'd gotten as far as he could while remaining within a reasonable distance to all of his assets, everything involved with the production company.

One thing about the series was, the further Ryan got from his original unclear wordplay and nameless, faceless descriptions, the closer he got to a real story with a real plotline and distinct characters. This meant he needed to actually know about places, needed to actual build a universe, and knowing about the places he wanted to write was an unrealistic goal to give himself, considering he never actually went anywhere. If he was to attempt to write a realistic cast of characters he would for certain fail. His best was a protagonist, and that protagonist would likely just end up being himself, for lack of another person to base it off of. And if he needed a setting, well, it'd be a huge fucking mansion in the middle of nowhere, because what other place did he know besides a lonely, desolate room in Colorado? Nowhere. Thankfully, his production company was understanding rather than mocking of his inexperience - after all, they'd be hypocritical to do that now after being so impressed by his youth and naïvety the first time he signed a book deal. Their compromise was to pay someone with real life experience to coach him through whatever details he needed.

It was his third book in Fever (and as far as people knew- just not in general). Everything was practically written, but needed a once-over by someone who knew their shit. And Ryan had no clue where to find someone. He had a couple of friends in the city, which is where he'd very pretentiously chosen for the story to take place in, but Jon and Spencer hadn't grown up there. Ryan needed that kind of detail. Someone who could list off a whole neighborhood in detail, talk about bodegas and what they stocked or didn't stock, someone with the ridiculous accent and everything that he totally wouldn't make fun of if they came up here. He needed someone who could relate to the character or make the character relatable, who would actually improve the story with their additions instead of just fulfill the basic requirement of realism. It was a tough pick. Ideally he could just walk onto any subway and yell for people whose certificate read 'New York City, New York,' but that would most certainly leave him wanting better. So he needed someone he could trust. Even if neither of his friends could help, he dropped a hint and hoped they'd take the bait to find him someone, save him the trouble.

But Jon and Spencer were little shits who took 2 to 35 business days to complete any task, so in the meantime, Ryan decided to stew over what'd already been written, criticize his writing until it reached perfection. Then he'd get to do it again later once there was inevitably someone standing over his shoulder, breathing down his neck annoyingly while telling him all about how the Big goddamn Apple doesn't work like that, or whatever. He didn't mind as much as he made it out to see that way, honestly, he liked the proofreading part of it all, but he was ready to get over with the obligatory contract, publish number three of four finally. The handwritten copy was on his porch with him while he lit up his already-fifth cigarette of the morning, a habit he'd picked up as soon as he could afford it just because he could afford it, and he paged through it restlessly, tapping the ashes away far more often than was absolutely necessary. This was typical, honestly. Ryan stood up after ten minutes of trying to reword a sentence - "'with disdain' or 'disdainfully'?" - and stared out at the garden, watching it eat more and more of his home.

He heard footsteps and didn't turn very quickly for someone who lived by himself and existed by himself 99% of the time. Apparently nothing surprised him much anymore. Even so, he still looked incredibly confused upon taking in the sight of some dude meandering onto his porch looking about ready for a road trip, bag slung over his shoulder and all. Um. Hi. Okay. Ryan had the decency to feel a little self-conscious in his 'I'm alone in my house so I wear whatever the fuck I want' lounge clothes, blinking at this guy who seemed still dressed for a real job, dark hair and dark eyes a contrast against evenly pale skin. He didn't see other people often enough to really care about how attractive they were, but shit. He could still notice. Nevertheless, if his intruder was pretty, he was still an intruder, and Ryan tapped nervously at his cigarette again with his index finger, ashing unnecessarily for the umpteenth time.

"Hi. What the literal fuck are you doing on my porch at eleven in the morning?" was his unconventional for most, but very conventional for socially inept and dry Ryan's response. He didn't really have experience talking to people - he had, obviously, just not much recently, and in fact not much since the first edition of Fever came out and hit instant commercial success. He was pretty lucky that way. Anyway, his reclusiveness really made him not give a singular shit about how offensive or abrupt he might come off to some people, particularly not to someone who'd turned up uninvited. The guy seemed to catch on to how weird it was. Right, right. I’m Brendon, uh- a friend of Jon’s? 'kay. Ryan wasn't sure why that was relev... oh. When he told Jon about the job, he didn't consider the fact that Jon wasn't going to be, like, delivering him people's CV's or signing on interviews for them. That was on Ryan. Maybe this was part of that. Shit.

Uh... for the job? Ryan nodded but still didn't really like the fact that he was here at all. Maybe if he stayed quiet the guy could redeem himself and, like, say something interesting to get insta-hired. What the hell was his name again? Brendon? Maybe Jon had mentioned something about him. Considering how infrequently he and Jon spoke, Ryan should be more attentive and memorize the things they talked about, but. He couldn't remember any mention of the guy for his life, and now he wasn't sure he'd even captured his name right. "The job," Ryan repeated inconclusively, then drew from his cigarette, still staring at Brendon. "Right. The city thing. Sorry. Wasn't expecting anyone. Do people from New York usually bypass doors? And- knocking on them?" He turned and stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray before turning and opening the door inside, all in one swift motion. "Feel free to use this one. I don't think Jon told me about you, so why don't you do the honors?"

During the arduous, four-hour cab drive, Brendon had used the last of his data looking up Ryan Ready And Fever 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 read 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 Fever, 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. Fever, 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 about. 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 Camisado, again, one word. He didn’t even know what that one meant, so he googled it.

Camisado, an attack made under the cover of darkness, or something. Nobody used that word- the dictionary even said formerly. 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 Ryan Ready, 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- Does ryan live alone- 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 Fever 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 pissed, 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. ”Why are you smoking on your back porch at eleven in the morning? Ruining the air, man,” 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. The job. Right. The city thing. 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. ”Sorry to disappoint,” 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.

Sorry. Wasn’t expecting anyone. ”Oh, yeah?” Brendon drawled, a glint in his eye, ”From what I hear, you’re on a deadline. Didn’t you need someone by today?” He squinted, tilted his head, examined his clothing choice. ”You certainly look busy. Do people from New York usually bypass doors? 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. Feel free to use this one. 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 don’t think Jon told me about you, so why don’t you do the honours? 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.

”I’m Brendon Blake,” 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. ”Twenty-three, bork in New York City, if you couldn’t tell,” He laughed, referring to the accent that none New Yorkers tended to make fun of. ”Uh, I’m an Aries.” Brendon wondered if Ryan cared much about astrology. He entertained himself briefly, wondering what his star sign was- most likely Virgo, or Libra, something. ”...And I used, like, five hundred dollars to get here. Not to make you feel bad or anything.”

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. Fever 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; Camisado 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, basically 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 he was being rude, just other people. Okay- not much of a defense, just an explanation. Why are you smoking on your back porch at eleven in the morning? Ruining the air, man. 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. "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." 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.

Sorry to disappoint. 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. Oh, yeah? From what I hear, you’re on a deadline. Didn’t you need someone by today? 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. "Not necessarily. But the sooner, the better, I suppose. With my job, deadlines are pretty flexible." 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. You certainly look busy. 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. "I am," 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 that 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’m Brendon Blake. 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.

Twenty-three, born in New York City, if you couldn’t tell. 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. Uh, I’m an Aries. 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'. ...And I used, like, five hundred dollars to get here. Not to make you feel bad or anything. 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.

"Oh, trust me, I feel awful." 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. "You must be pretty confident, if you spent that much without even calling before coming here." 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. "For your trouble. And, in the future, don't waste your money on cabs, I have a car you can use. A few, actually."

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. "So, how much did Jon tell you?" He made a mental note to get back in touch with Jon, a note he'd inevitably forget all about. "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." 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.

Some people got all the luck, Brendon had thought as soon as the cab pulled up in front of the wooden mansion, extravagant even when half-claimed by nature, occupied by an undoubtedly pretentious asshole who was way too young to have so much money. Brendon was bitter about it, because although he knew Ryan wasn’t a fluke, Jon said he was smart, his writing was apparently incredible, he was successful and rich in his early twenties, Brendon had been a prodigy, a talented vocalist and musician with a music degree and nothing to use it for. Life had thrown him in at the deep end and it went to show that sometimes you could have all the talent and ambition in the world and life would just be cruel, give you the short end of the stick, and you’d wind up in a tiny apartment in New York he could barely afford with an unemployed roommate and a habit of being hired for about six months before inevitably fucking it up. As far as Brendon knew, this job was definitely much shorter than even that, so he’d have to constantly be thinking about where his next paycheck came from. He just hoped this guy- or his publishers- were generous to a Brooklyn kid who definitely looked out of his element and completely unprepared.

Spencer was at the forefront of his mind a lot of the time, and on the way there, instead of brushing up on the apparently amazing book series, he had been distracted by his doubts about this Ryan character. When Brendon made that phone call to Spence after a while evening of trying-not-to-get-wasted-but-getting-wasted-anyway with Jon, he’d sounded worried, weary, but then that was just his voice nowadays. His chest tightened with worry- and then anxiety, confusion, because when he mentioned Ryan, Spencer went quiet, seemed liked something was bothering him. He wouldn’t say what it was, and if Brendon had the choice, he’d go with his gut and not even go upstate to even meet Ryan- but he didn’t have that kind of freedom, that kind of leverage. He was embarrassingly desperate, and he hoped it would show around this young man who had everything he could ever want already. Brendon tried to convince himself not to despise him just for being successful- so he found another reason to distrust him; if he and Spencer had really once been so close as Jon had told him, why was he letting Spencer rot away in a tiny apartment? Clearly he never meant that much to him. Or maybe Spencer was too proud to accept help. It sounded a lot like him.

It’s my air, on my back porch. Brendon nodded, eyebrows raising, distracted from his mental tangent as he looked around, mockingly pretending to agree that this was indeed Ryan’s air. ”I’m honoured you’re even letting me breathe it,” He said quietly, tilting his head and exhaling pointedly. It was a strange mixture of fresh country air and the smoke from Ryan’s apparent frequent habit, and though he was more than used to the constant smell of cigarette smoke in the city, out here, it was more obvious, because everything else smelled so sweet and clear and clean. Who was he to judge, though- if Ryan had offered, Brendon would have taken the opportunity instantly to finish one off with him, join him in tainting the air. Look, nature and I have a deal. I let it eat at my house if I get to fuck up the air quality. He shrugged, couldn’t argue, followed Ryan’s gaze to the all manners of plant life that seemed to quite enjoy springing up where it wasn’t supposed to, flowers between the cracks in the wood, moss and ivy climbing up beams and walls. What a strange man, he thought again, distantly, and suddenly he wanted to know more about him, but then he remembered he didn’t really care.

Brendon tried to gain an upper hand, play on the possibly-false information Jon had given him (that Ryan was already kind of behind schedule and he needed somebody by the weekend), but Ryan didn’t seem shaken, just irritated and adamant, clearly offended that somebody somewhere thought he was desperate. Brendon wondered how many other New Yorkers he’d seen and turned away, and wondered how he was going to make himself the exception. Not necessarily. Fuck. He’d fucked up. Brendon was thinking grimly about the very real possibility of having to hitchhike all the way back to New York City. But the sooner, the better, I suppose. He even spoke pretentiously. Must be the life of the party. With my job, deadlines are pretty flexible. Oh, fuck you, Brendon thought, feeling defensive, expendable, hopeless. It wasn’t like there was anything he had to make him stand out prior to now other than a rapidly approaching deadline, and now apparently that wasn’t even a think in the first place. Four hour journey home, here we come, he thought distantly, and figured he’d already fucked this up, he had nothing else to lose. So he kept with the attitude.

I am. Certainly didn’t look busy. Brendon was about to semi-seriously insult him further, out of amusement more than anything, but suddenly Ryan was inviting him inside, and Hope swelled again inside his chest- maybe Jon was right, maybe he was secretly stressing about his own personal deadlines, never mind the production company’s. Or maybe he was a good fit. Fuck, he didn’t care, he just wanted to job- so, after a moment of hesitation, apprehensive about being amongst such luxury, he stepped inside, feeling like a fish out of water. But then, he’d felt like that since the cab pulled up in the enormous driveway. Brendon was so enthralled with the minimalist but clearly wildly expensive decor, he barely even heard Ryan’s low voice asking him an actual question, so there was an obvious pause as he orientated himself, turned around and processed his request. Talk about himself- okay, not a big deal- but how much depth did he want? Brendon decided he’d go surface level- if he wanted more, Brendon could face that later, decide how much he wanted to tell this stranger.

It would have been irrelevant to tell his possible future employer his star sign if he wasn’t just trying to establish whether he had to read about boring, completely forced straight romance subplots, or whether he and Ryan shared some ground. Nothing changed in Ryan’s expression when Brendon casually dropped the fact he was an Aries, and he waited impatiently for a few beats- nothing. Frustrating. How was this guy straight? Brendon shook his head, knew he was basing this off nothing but speculation (as he often did, but granted, successfully), and it wasn’t a big deal. So he said nothing, eyed Ryan (who he now thought was definitely a Virgo), and then shook himself out of his brief daze, moving on to talk about how broke he was. That was impressive to an employer, right? Oh, trust me, I feel awful. You must be pretty confident, if you spent that much without even calling before coming here. ”Less confident, more like running out of options,” Brendon shrugged, clearing his throat but trying to sound as lighthearted as he could. ”Got axed, like, fuckin’- yesterday.” He frowned. It felt like longer. Suddenly, he was embarrassed, and ran a hand through his hair. He was joking, mostly, when he mentioned making Ryan feel bad, and though confused when Ryan started rooting around his own couch, he was even more confused when he was handed a wad of money.

Confused, maybe, but not stupid, he took it before Ryan had a chance to backtrack, second guess himself about paying this kind of ratty-looking Brooklyn kid before he’d even done anything worth paying for. For your trouble. And, in the future, don’t waste your money on cabs. I have a car you can use. A few, actually. Jesus. Brendon nodded, folding the money away hastily. ”Uh- thanks.” He was grateful, sure, but this was probably fuck all to this guy. God, why was he so spiteful? So, how much did Jon tell you? Brendon slung his bag from his shoulder suddenly, carefully placing it on the nearest sofa, glancing at Ryan to make sure it was okay. Then he straightened up, shrugging his jacket off, and folded it over his arm. ”That he knew you in Colorado, you were an author and you needed a source- a NYC native,” He clicked his tongue, gesturing at himself, ”And I here I am, nothing but a kinda pretty face from Brooklyn. Although- he wasn’t mad specific.”

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. Brendon noticed he was starting to walk away and followed him after a moment, not before pulling his phone out of his pocket. ”Um,” He began, checking it before looking up, ”Ryan? So, man, do you have WiFi up here? Or are you a strong believer that the internet distracts us from one of life’s greatest pleasures- reading,” He grinned, but it dropped a little when he realised there was still hardly any signal. ”How do you even survive?”

Ryan actually had to convince himself that Brendon wasn't making fun of him in order to maintain a composed expression - relatively composed - although he knew for sure that the act of dedicated listening and comprehensive nodding was just that, an act. Ran thought he was a fairly assertive person, but here Brendon was, totally cool with doing whatever in front of a stranger. Again, probably a New York thing. I’m honoured you’re even letting me breathe it. Ryan continued his choice made thus far to just keep staring at him, more fascinated than anything else with how comfortable he got so quickly. He didn't argue with Ryan's logic, though, so that was all right, Ryan could deal with some irritation, no problem. It didn't even cross his mind to offer a smoke over, nor had any other usual courtesy occurred to him to present Brendon with; maybe this was a hire not just for facts and information but also to recalibrate to the outside world.

He might have considered Brendon lucky for being the most impressive candidate thus far if he wasn't the only candidate. Ryan was in charge of looking for someone all by his lonesome, probably more because his company knew how huge of a control freak he was and didn't want to get in his way than anything else. That said, he did a piss poor job of making a list of prospects, hadn't even started looking for any profiles online or anything. There were plenty of professional consultants he probably could've called, line operators who were familiar with New York City for their career or tourism coordinators who knew every nook and cranny of the place. But Ryan had fucked up priorities, so his mind was usually on fixing the wording of every tiny meaningless sentence in his novel rather than on finding the person who would become an indispensable instrument in making the thing realistic at all. After all, he took life iteratively, didn't multitask to ensure his concentration was narrowed down into as tiny a focus as possible. That way, less mistakes were made.

And maybe Brendon wasn't perfect, because he didn't seem like the same kind of person, but Ryan heard somewhere that two very different people meant that there were two very different perspectives, and after being the only person with a real lead say on his last two books he knew he had to incorporate some variety. So. Enter Brendon. Brendon, of course, didn't know that from the second he walked into Ryan's view that he had a job already, and Brendon didn't know that it wasn't just because he fit the most basic requirements, but also that he had this insanely unusual attitude Ryan wasn't used to. So unused to, in fact, that he didn't want Brendon to know that his absurd brazenness was getting him places, 'cause then he'd probably just kick it up a notch and Ryan really wasn't up to getting his patience tested. For now, though, he was interested in him, wanted to know why someone so young and with so muc potential had landed on such a weird short term opportunity, unless it was just for the cash. But he had barely given Jon any information about pay, so, maybe it wasn't even that, and he was just on his last leg employment wise.

As awful as he was at interacting with other real live breathing humans by now, Ryan knew he shouldn't just come out with 'you're fascinatingly weird,' so he stayed relatively quiet throughout the rest of their conversation, trying to eke more information about Brendon out of him while he stayed as surface-level about himself as possible. Less confident, more like running out of options. So he was right. Ryan looked at him speculatively, something unreadable in his gaze, and he knew Brendon couldn't have gotten that out as easily as he tried to. He nodded very gently, understanding quickly. Got axed, like, fuckin’- yesterday. Before he turned away, Ryan registered the look on his face, and he wasn't too socially inept to pick up on facial cues. He felt for the guy. He couldn't sympathize, necessarily, because it's not like he'd had to hold a job in his adult life to stay sheltered and fed, but he understood feeling like he was losing control. "I see," he said carefully just before starting the search for his wallet, sounding softer than he had throughout their entire bizarre interaction.

It's not like it was a guilt trip by any means, because Ryan already knew he wasn't going to even try to look for anyone else, although he knew for damn certain there were people better suited for the position. Brendon had been the one with initiative (or the only one to know, unless Jon had really gone more out of his way, or even Spencer). The same went for the money he handed over next; it just felt fair. Brendon had gone so far out of his way for such a huge favor, staying over here and putting his own life on pause for the sake of a series he appeared to know nothing about. Unless, of course, Ryan was being presumptuous, and Brendon read more than he looked like he did. Which was a grand total of zero books a year. Uh- thanks. Ryan looked at him slightly oddly, wondering why he was being thanked for what he thought was basically a debt being paid, but shrugged anyway and slung his hands into his too-low pockets.

He watched Brendon go to painstaking measures not to fuck anything up while he settled in, putting his bag down on the couch he treated like fine china but that Ryan could give less of a shit about, then held his jacket rather than set it in the same place or hang it up, whatever. Ryan wore an amused look, reservedly eyeing the coat hanging off his arm, and wondered how exactly to tell him he could do whatever the hell he wanted and Ryan wouldn't care. Actually, he needed a reason to keep his housekeeper coming, because all they ever needed to do was, like, move a book to a shelf or throw away a couple of crumpled up papers he missed himself. At least now he knew that Brendon wasn't as much of a fireball as he expected - he was actually too well-mannered for his own good from the looks of it, so much so Ryan was afraid he wouldn't be able to get comfortable in what would virtually be his own home for an indefinite amount of time. Or maybe he was wrong, and this was just Brendon in the first thirty minutes. Hopefully that was the case.

He needed to stop making assumptions about the guy, either way. That he knew you in Colorado, you were an author and you needed a source- a NYC native. Ryan wasn't sure how he felt about that much information being passed on, as little as it was. He'd become accustomed to complete anonymity. He pursed his lips but didn't comment on the facts, just slowly tried to extract Brendon's jacket from his arm and hang it on a hook behind them directly beside one of his own. And here I am, nothing but a kinda pretty face from Brooklyn. Although- he wasn’t mad specific. Mad specific. Ryan was endeared to his slang, and maybe made a mental note of it - if Brendon's speech patterns were this distinctively Brooklyn then he was definitely going to need to pick up on them and incorporate them into the story. Not just for the realism, but it really was heartwarming. He forgot the appropriate boundaries of socialization before replying. "Kinda pretty?" was all he said, raising an eyebrow at Brendon over his shoulder but not offering much else. That alone, though, was fairly telling itself.

Um, Ryan? So, man, do you have WiFi up here? Or are you a strong believer that the internet distracts us from one of life’s greatest pleasures- reading. Ryan glanced back at him again, once again wearing an odd, curious look. Brendon really was eccentric. He was about the first person Ryan had met in a very long time who didn't drop to the floor to kiss his feet just for being young and wealthy - and, that being said, the first person who called him 'man' like that, like he may as well have said 'yo' too. He wasn't sure whether he liked or disliked that fact just yet. How do you even survive? Ryan stopped in front of a door abruptly, without warning, and smiled at him, offbeat. "Yeah, man, I've got WiFi," he replied just as casually, and leaned in close to Brendon to check out the settings app sitting open. There were a few different routers throughout the place simply because of the size, and he picked out the strongest, pointing at Brendon's screen as if this kind of distance between two strangers was acceptable. "That one. The password's just, uh, 'password.' To be honest, I'm not sure how I survive, 'cause technology is beyond me." And he was only a year older than Brendon. He shook his head tragically.

Ryan opened the door he'd stopped in front of, strolling into a guest room fully furnished; a queen-sized bed with sateen and Egyptian cotton, faintly silvery-white, and the rest of the room reflected the same color scheme with an accent of light-light-lavender. All the wood in the room was pine, all the furniture characteristically vintage looking (likely because it was actually antique, and not just on purpose), two sidetables and a dresser and a filled out bookshelf and a desk with a laptop/office set, the works. Out of nervous habit he flicked the lights in the connected bathroom on and off, worried a little that the place had gone untouched so long that it was hardly livable, but the space was pristine. Guess that housekeeper found work after all. "Also, I think the Internet made people read a lot more, actually," he commented absently, as if Brendon truly cared. "Writing is more readily available, most everything is public domain... it's kind of incredible."

Ryan looked like he was still dwelling on that for a few moments more, then suddenly gestured around the room as if they'd only just arrived rather than having stepped inside a minute and a half ago. "I hope this is okay. The guest rooms all sort of look the same, so... if you need anything, just say so, no problem." As if he'd told Brendon he'd be staying here already, beyond a couple of implicating words. Honestly. It'd been a long time since he'd spoken this long with a person around to hear it. "What's your place like back in the city? I could try to get the same stuff here."

Though Brendon had known Ryan for about ten minutes, he could tell that there was probably more to this guy than being a socially inept asshole- he was an assertive socially inept asshole, clearly used to taking care of himself, doing everything independently, and holding some kind of not-official but definitely-there authority over everyone he worked with. That distinctive energy- that Ryan was unassuming, but did command some obedience even if he didn’t explicitly ask for it- was interesting, and since Brendon was often intentionally disobedient, stepped out of line, caused trouble (read: all of his short jobs in the last three years, save the last one- that was just unfortunate timing and bad luck), he hoped that Ryan would keep him under check more than others had. It was strange to think about it like that- he knew he should be responsible for his own behaviour and actions, but when somebody was as impulsive as he was, he needed some kind of failsafe to stop him doing dumb shit and fucking everything up again. Ryan was also relatively irresponsible to Brendon’s constant jokes and sarcasm, so great. That meant he’d probably think Brendon was being serious. Things weren’t looking great.

He wondered what kind of qualities the ideal ‘source’ should have- the only requirements Jon had mentioned were ‘born in NYC, over eighteen at least’. At 23, maybe he was on the young side, but Ryan looked about the same age as him, even if he was annoyingly over two inches taller. But Brendon was used to being shorter than everyone else, so it didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. So, Brendon was born there, to the south in Brooklyn, had lived there his whole life. In fact, this was probably the furthest and longest he’d ever been away from the city, and the city kid was feeling completely out of his element in a country house overtaken by nature. It was refreshing, but alienating. NYC might be chaotic and merciless and unforgiving for the most part, but it felt like Home, like somewhere he belonged. So stepping in through the door of Ryan’s pristine wooden mansion made him feel like a fish that had flung himself out of the water onto the land, that he could enjoy the heat and the view for a while, but eventually he’d suffocate because he didn’t belong. Or maybe he was being fake deep. It happened a lot.

He didn’t know why he was revealing that he was fired literally yesterday to somebody who hadn’t even hired him yet- it probably wouldn’t sound very impressive, would raise some questions, usually- but Ryan didn’t say much the entire time he was explaining he’d been fired- just a neutral, kind of vague I see- in fact he turned away, started rooting through the drawers and the sofa with no explanation, leaving Brendon standing there awkwardly, taking the chance he was given to gawk around the room. When he turned back around, and Ryan handed him the money, he immediately wondered whether this was Ryan telling him to get a cab all the way back home, and looked dejected, trying not to panic. But no dismissal came, and instead Ryan gave him a funny look when he thanked him for giving him five hundred dollars. So this money really was nothing to Ryan- he wished he could give money away that easily. If Brendon could, he’d tip every street musician he passed by, supporting their dream, the one he’d never even had the chance to try and follow. But he couldn’t. Ryan could- but apparently he chose to not even help his friends. Spencer.

Since Ryan hadn’t kicked him out yet, Brendon was beginning to trust that maybe he got the job, and Ryan was just unintentionally- or intentionally, it didn’t matter- vague. As long as he got to stay here, and earn what he hoped would be a generous amount for his troubles, it didn’t matter. Deciding to test the water, he carefully placed his bag down like the sofa was fragile and would break with ease- he really had no idea how to behave around such extravagance and wealth, and this particular sofa was probably worth more than his entire apartment. He sensed Ryan’s eyes on him and felt uncomfortable, scrutinised- so he turned around, looked at him questioningly, almost pleadingly, asking him how the hell he was supposed to behave at a place like this. Ryan didn’t seem to respond to his silent calls for help, and just carefully took his jacket away, hanging it on a hook nearby. Brendon dropped his arms down by his sides, freed of his load, and then loosely crossed them over his chest, because he had no idea what to do with them. He then launched into a brief description of himself, all the while wondering why Jon didn’t take the initiative and help him out by actually telling Ryan who he was and that he was coming. It was sort of frustrating how Ryan asked all this questions but never reacted to his answers- he only said one thing about his entire brief self-description. Kinda pretty? Brendon blinked, meeting Ryan’s eyes when he looked over his shoulder, was thrown for a loop. He’d mentioned the ‘pretty’ thing as a joke, but Ryan seemed to more than agree- and Brendon was stumped by this guy. One moment he was a distant, pretentious asshole, and suddenly he seemed to be hitting on him. Was he hitting on him? Brendon wasn’t even sure if he was gay. He just stared back, and shrugged a shoulder, simply offering a nervous half-smile.

Yeah, man, I've got WiFi. It didn’t sound right, Ryan saying man. Maybe he was trying to pick up on Brendon’s dialect, or whatever. Who knew. This guy was full of surprises. Still, whatever, he was just glad this guy wasn’t a technology-free advocate or anything. That would be hell on Earth, even in a place as nice as this. He was taken by surprise again when Ryan leaned over, way too close for comfort, and though Brendon was a physical person with his friends, he realised he’d have to teach Ryan that New Yorkers, though packed together most of the time, strongly appreciated and advocated for their own personal space. He was uncomfortable, unused to a stranger being this overbearing, but he knew Ryan had no idea, so he just let him do his thing. That one. The password's just, uh, 'password.' To be honest, I'm not sure how I survive, 'cause technology is beyond me. Brendon nodded, but raised an eyebrow, typing in the very inventive password. ”Interesting choice of password for a literary genius,” He mused, smiling, and then nodded when Ryan admitted he was inept with technology. ”I’m not surprised. No offence.”

Once he had successfully connected to the surprisingly fast WiFi, Brendon had to hurry to catch up to Ryan, because he’d already started walking and his legs were a lot longer than Brendon’s. They stopped outside a room and Brendon almost ran into him, but successfully steadied himself. He waited for Ryan to open the door and then followed him in. He tried not to let his jaw hang open when he saw the room he’d presumably be staying in- it was beautiful, pristine, and he already mentally confirmed it was bigger than his whole apartment back home. Brendon wondered if you could fall in love with a house, a room, because if you could, Brendon was having a full love affair with the decor of this guest room- guest room! What did Ryan’s bedroom look like? He’d ask, but it might sound unintentionally suggestive, so he stayed quiet, just moving to the centre of the room and moving in a slow circle to look around. ”Wow,” He said out loud, running a hand through his hair when he looked at the bed because it looked incredibly comfortable and he kind of wanted to just nap right now. Turns out four hours of sitting in a cab really took it out of him.

Also, I think the Internet made people read a lot more, actually. What? Brendon glanced over, wondering what the hell he was talk about and also wondering when Ryan thought he actually cared. Writing is more readily available, most everything is public domain... it's kind of incredible. Wow, okay, nerd. Brendon raised an eyebrow as he looked away, back at the bed and then to the lavender of the walls. I hope this is okay. The guest rooms all sort of look the same, so... if you need anything, just say so, no problem. Brendon nodded enthusiastically. ”This is tight as fuck,” He commented, grinning in the genuine way that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners, finally looking back over at Ryan. What's your place like back in the city? I could try to get the same stuff here. He almost laughed, and just shook his head dismissively. There was nothing at his own place that could improve this. Brendon was a fan of new starts, and this clean, luxurious room was a good place to begin. ”I mean, this one room is bigger than my apartment,” He commented absently, then finally tore his eyes away and looked back at Ryan expectantly.

Ryan wished he could've gotten some sort of résumé or value sheet or a goddamn handwritten note from Jon about the guy, not because he needed to know about his skills or experience for professional reasons but just because he was so intriguing that taking his sweet time trying to naturally learn more about him was almost frustrating. And Brendon wasn't the oversharing type, it seemed like, which would be wonderful if Ryan didn't want to hear about everything he had to say. He wanted to know what part of Brooklyn, what was it like, who the hell taught him that sharing his star sign was at all a quality he thought was imperative for his employer to know, how did he know Jon, why was he so ready to disband all of his old life for this uncertain shaky one, what was that old job he'd got the ax from. So much. And Ryan knew he could be a bothersome shit when he - not wanted to, but accidentally was, so, he tried to keep that under control.

In fact he was already a little bit afraid Brendon didn't like him. There were no distinct signs, really, just tiny things here and there that said Ryan wasn't his absolute favorite: sometimes he'd cast him a relatively unfriendly or offput glance, or he didn't say something in the sweetest tone ever. It was the combo of Ryan not being used to someone being casual and normal instead of crawling at his feet, and Brendon being unintentionally mysterious, that made him paranoid. For the umpteenth time, he so rarely talked to people, but it was even rarer that he actually gave a shit what they thought. He probably wouldn't, not so much, if he wasn't already feeling bad that someone had to be staying in his place for a while, practically on some kind of forced not-so-vacation. It was a nice enough environment, but no one would want to be stranded with an offbeat reclusive author with no telltale background to speak of. Basically, he had a lot to make up for, and he wasn't sure how to go about it with Brendon.

Money was a start, and Brendon already seemed shocked at how he so easily handed it out. By no means was Ryan filthy rich, he couldn't walk into a room of proclaimed business magnates and philanthropists and the like and stand up to them easily, but to 'normal people' all kinds of rich were the same. And he supposed, since he wasn't born into the life, he sort of thought the same thing - which was why he placed the same or similar value into his accumulated wealth. He hadn't been stupid in the start. The success of his book felt like something completely unreal that he'd wake up from and find himself penniless again, halfway bankrupt by university, so he'd started tucking away at least 90 percent of every check he received and saving it all without touching it. It was like that for three years, and sometimes he saved even more than that just 'cause; all throughout he worried that his sudden good fortune would disappear at any second. Needless to say, he lived in an apartment probably even worse than Brendon's while all of his money sat locked away in a bank account, and all he spent his money on was rent and school. No debts, but no luxuries, either.

Then, when he did earn his degree, Ryan was quick to buy a house and escape literally everything, continue his bizarre spending habits way out where no one could see. It's why décor existed everywhere but the spaces he most frequently occupied. He wanted so desperately to be ready for anyone else's necessities, but for his own he didn't bother much. He made donations when he could, when he cared, but ironically for old friends he hardly chipped in. Vaguely he wondered whether Jon had mentioned anything about that... and if Jon had made any mention of Spencer, who was ten times more likely to be annoyed by Ryan's hoarding, to Brendon. After all, the three of them had sort of been a package deal until he basically ran away to live in isolation. A fucked up story, but hey, that's what he made a living through. Fucked up stories.

Surrounded by said wealth, Brendon looked entirely lost, out of his element. Ryan felt for him, smiling small when he looked at him so helplessly, but he couldn't do much other than valet his coat for him. Honestly, he was barely used to it all himself - after all he ignored basically every room except for the living room, which had become a writing space and a sleeping space and an eating space on the infrequent days he chose to do that, all in one. Someone who knew how to respond to a disproportionate influx of cash like his would be utilizing the mansion in its entirety, most likely. Brendon looked like just about everything Ryan had to offer him was confusing, though, including the compliments. Maybe Ryan hadn't been genuine enough; it looked almost like he didn't want to hear the facts that were him being just. Gorgeous. Suddenly wondering whether he'd crossed a line, like maybe that wasn't what you said to someone so new in your life, he quickly looked away, tense. At what point had straightforwardness gone out of fashion? He had to remember that, break the habit.

Interesting choice of password for a literary genius. Ryan cast him a serious look, blinking slowly. Genius? Critics said that because they pretended his metaphorical ability was something worthy of applause. Teenagers said that because sometimes he made the cut for a social media quality quote, uncredited and purely there for the depressive appeal. He rarely believed any compliment anyone paid him, and he hardly believed this one. "I suspected you hadn't read my writing before, but now if you're calling me a genius then you really must not have," he half-joked, and he was so unfamiliar with the concept of kidding around that it came off a little too darkly until he smiled, sort of sideways. I’m not surprised. No offence. Oh, good, so maybe he wasn't prone to giving Ryan way too much credit. Or Ryan just actually acted like a hundred year old raisin like he felt. Damn. He shrugged unwittingly in reply, not offended at all.

He was starting to pick up on it not being exactly appropriate to stare, but Ryan allowed himself some leeway while Brendon slowly circled around to admire hisroom, silently praying that he didn't just like it - loved it. Again, if he was going to have to stay here, Ryan wanted him as happy as possible, and this was starting to apply more and more resoundingly to Brendon specifically the more he became endeared to him. Brendon's gaze roamed freely around his new space, awestruck, but Ryan's was fixed on him, a tiny smile threatening his lips when he felt kind of accomplished. Wow. "You like it?" he asked carefully, sounding uncharacteristically worried, and closed the space between them to stand beside Brendon, see it all more from his perspective. This is tight as fuck. Ryan gave him yet another slightly bewildered look, only to find that he had the sweetest smile of all time, and his peculiar slang was instantly forgiven. He looked confused for a fraction of a second more before he naturally broke down into mirroring Brendon's sunnier-than-possible grin, barely measuring up to the amplitude of his, but still.

It took a moment for him to grow nervous about it, shoving his hands in his pockets again and forcing himself to look at the floor, biting his cheek to cut off his smile. Tight as fuck. Sure. He had a feeling he'd be picking this stuff up in no time. I mean, this one room is bigger than my apartment. Ryan looked up again, his expression once again closer to flat, but empathetic nonetheless. "Oh. Well," he said simply, hesitant, and decided maybe it was time to throw Brendon sort of a bone. He may as well know a little about Ryan if he was going to be, like, stuck in his house. "Well, I used to be the same, so. Don't worry. Hopefully when it's time for you to go, you'll be able to afford an upgrade, if you want." Maybe he could hook Brendon up with some entitlement to the royalties. It's not like he needed all of it, anyway. He felt weird talking about himself, though, and shifted on his feet sort of awkwardly, like a kid being forced to talk to the cashier rather than his mom taking over.

Thus far he thought he'd maybe sort of made up for the relatively rude introduction his general accidental bluntness. It's not like he could by any means control it now, but he could at least retroactively recognize his mistakes, and he felt bad enough that he thought to comment on it before, like. He didn't know. Leaving Brendon alone to get settled? Maybe that was the right thing to do. Anyway, first things first. "Hey, Brendon. Brendon, right? Not Brandon," he said, totally nailing this whole 'play nice' thing by fucking his name up potentially. "I don't talk to people much, obviously. Sometimes I can be a little too- direct. I've been told." Translation: he didn't see it, eighty percent of the time. But if people thought he was an asshole they were probably right. "I'm sorry about earlier. I hope you know you're totally welcome here, especially considering you came all this way, and everything." That was about as nice as it got, but he still said it in the most monotone voice ever and with strictly dubious eye contact. He had his hands wrung nervously behind his back and was already stepping away, preparing to escape and leave Brendon to his own devices, but he still needed to tie up all the loose ends on pleasantries.

Honestly, Brendon didn’t really like Ryan; at least, not right away, else maybe he just didn’t feel strongly enough either way. To him, a struggling native New Yorker who had about ten minutes ago been unemployed for the umpteenth time in three years, and had the responsibility of not only supporting himself, but a friend recovering from addiction, Ryan was privileged, and rude, and a straight-up asshole. He wasn’t being entirely fair when he sneered about him in his mind; this strangely dressed and annoyingly handsome recluse of an author never spoke to anyone, didn’t interact with other humans enough to know what was rude or not. Brendon was a cynic, but in the back of his mind he told himself he was being presumptuous, and knew he’d be mad if Ryan thought him some kind of stereotype. What was interesting to him was how Ryan came to be alone in this mansion of his, with scarcely any visitors besides members of his production team- was he born into privilege, did he know nothing besides wealth and isolation? Was he self-made? The latter was more likely, as much as Brendon hated to admit, because hell, he’d been friends with Spencer and Jon back in Colorado. Brendon knew better than anyone that Jon and Spencer certainly hadn’t been born into the high life, and doubted they ever got opportunity to mix with people who were- they often didn’t want to. Maybe that’s why they never spoke about Ryan, Brendon mused. Maybe they felt betrayed in some way by his success.

So, Brendon wasn’t overly fond of this strange author, but it wasn’t like he could pick and choose who he’d be working for any more. Not that he ever had. Blue-collar construction work hadn’t exactly been his first choice of career, but before the company let him go because they didn’t want to pay for his jacked health insurance, he’d been getting better at it, like Jon said, on the road to a promotion. He brought himself back to those brief weeks of calm- he’d been planning on what he could do with the higher wage, maybe fix the shower, double glaze the windows, and save the rest up. He’d never had the opportunity to save money for himself- so Brendon was happy, Spencer was happy, Jon had been doing well then, too. But, like always, things went wrong for Brendon, and he was back at square one. And, he realised guiltily, he’d run away from it all. Sure, it was to get a job, but he knew in his heart he could’ve found a more convenient one back in the city- but Spencer, New York, Jon, everything that reminded him he was nothing was wearing him down. This was almost an escape plan, a chance to breathe some new air, even if the unfamiliar was frightening to Brendon, who had hardly ever even been out of the city. He reflected on this guiltily for a second- damn it, Spencer. He’d promised he’d call Spencer when he got there. He told himself he’d remember, knowing full well he’d forget.

Asking for the WiFi password was a precursor to everything if he wanted to survive in this mansion, which was, now he looked at it, kind of minimalist and bare behind all the expensive ‘necessities’ like a sofa and a TV that was clearly never switched on, and had an ambient mode that let it blend in with the wooden panels of the wall. Brendon planned on spending a lot of time in his room, scrolling mindlessly on his phone, and a lot of time in the pool he’d seen out back, but he kind of new deep down that Ryan would want his money’s worth, and authors apparently took their shit really seriously. Who really cared about realism? Who wanted to read about real life? Brendon was sick of that anyway. He had a feeling he wouldn’t enjoy Ryan’s books if he read them- which was unlikely to happen, considering he had the attention span of someone constantly on a sugar rush. Maybe he should’ve thought about that before he signed up for this- a job that would involve a lot of reading. He almost felt like asking Ryan to read it out for him, but that would a) be very awkward, and b) Brendon would tune out in the first thirty seconds. Fuckin’ adhd did a number on him.

I suspected you hadn't read my writing before, but now if you're calling me a genius then you really must not have. Brendon looked alarmed, scratched the back of his neck awkwardly- but then he looked affronted. Suspected. He straightened up a little, defiant. ”Whaddya mean, suspected?” A pause, and he relaxed his shoulders. There was no point in pretending- besides, that would be awkward later on when Ryan asked who was his favourite character, or something, and Brendon would inevitably reply ‘the main one- protag- protagonist, was it? Fuck, what was he doing here? ”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.” Brendon wondered if Ryan could tell he was joking, and then wondered to himself whether he was actually joking. Like he said earlier, reading entire novels? Not his thing. He purely didn’t have the attention span to sit still long enough and not get distracted. To reassure Ryan, he flashed him a grin.

Worries about his qualifications (or lack thereof) for this job were quickly cast aside when Ryan showed him the room he’d been staying in for an undetermined amount of time. Right now, he was hoping forever was on the table, and was wondering whether he could realistically live here after he was dismissed without Ryan noticing. Probably quite easily- the guy didn’t even hear him knock, quite loudly, on his front door. To be fair, there was a long distance between the front door and his back porch, but Brendon was being liberal with his realism. Fuck, he’d gone off topic, again. He moved his attention back to the room. You like it? Brendon’s grin was wide, his eyes were glinting, and for a moment he wondered whether he was overreacting. It was just a guest bedroom. But fuck, it was so pretty... ”It’s deadass, like, the prettiest room I’ve ever seen. Was the decor your choice, or do you leave it to someone else?” Probably someone else, he thought absently. Like this guy had time for- or interest in- interior design.

It got a little too real for Ryan, apparently, when Brendon made an offhand comment about his living conditions back home. He didn’t sound very sympathetic, but Brendon didn’t care. How would he know what that was like? Or maybe he did. Brendon had no clue about this guy’s background. Apparently nobody did. Oh. Well. Yeah, Oh. Brendon raised an eyebrow as he looked away. Well, I used to be the same, so. Really? Brendon’s interest was piqued and he looked back around at Ryan, suddenly disliking him a little less. Don’t worry. Hopefully when it’s time to for you to go, you’ll be able to afford an upgrade, if you want. That was the dream. He imagined it, wistfully, living in a place like this. That would never happen, but he sure could upgrade from his place back home. Clicking his tongue, he nodded, as if to say ‘yeah, I hope so’, and left it at that, not wanting to discuss his home much anymore- even if that was literally going to be his job. Telling Ryan about his whole damn life. Shit, maybe he’d bitten off more than he could chew with this one.

Hey, Brendon. In a way he hadn’t heard it said before, Ryan said his name. Brendon replayed his voice in his head, and blinked slowly. Brendon, right? ”Charming,” Came his immediate response as his eyebrows lifted- okay, yeah, people called him Brendan and Brandon pretty often, but he’d told Ryan less than five minutes ago, and his still wasn’t apparently sure, said it speculatively like he’d read it backwards from a smudged nametag, or crudely written on a Starbucks cup. Not Brandon. He didn’t grace that with a reply. I don’t talk to people much, obviously. Sometimes I can be a little too- direct. I’ve been told. Trying to stop himself from jumping to agree, Brendon bit the inside of his cheek and held his tongue, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, sleeve of tattoos now visible since he’d shrugged off his jacket. I'm sorry about earlier. I hope you know you're totally welcome here, especially considering you came all this way, and everything.

This was a far cry from the ‘What the literal fuck are you doing on my back porch at eleven in the morning’, Brendon considered, noticing Ryan’s nervous tics because they mirrored his own. He seemed geniune- like he regretted being an asshole, was really just really bad at talking to anyone, never mind strangers- and Brendon found that he didn’t dislike him anymore. He even thought he could grow to like him in more ways than just thinking he was really, really attractive. Yeah, he hadn’t forgotten about that part. Exhaling, breaking the quiet between them for a moment, his mouth curved up into a half-smile, and he finally stepped forwards and offered Ryan his hand. A handshake. Probably what they should’ve done when they first actually met, rather than staring eachother down on the back porch. ”Thanks, man.”

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 subtext 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 really 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. Whaddya mean, suspected? 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. 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. 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. "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 can make a better first impression than that garbage." 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.

It’s deadass, like, the prettiest room I’ve ever seen. 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. Was the decor your choice, or do you leave it to someone else? 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 star sign, Ryan could admit to his weird fashion sense/design complexes and be safe. "Mine," he said, with a tiny shrug. "Thank you. No one's ever stayed before, so... good thing my first guest comes with a note of approval." 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. Charming. 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. Thanks, man. 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... "You play piano?" 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. "And other instruments, I take it. You should've said so. I'll show you where all of mine are sometime."

When he thought about it more, he realised he knew shit about how and where Jon and Spencer had grown up. He’d been the newcomer of the group- they were from Colorado, he knew that, and Brendon was born and bred in NYC- and though he fit into his rightful place amongst them pretty fast, none of them really talked about their past. They knew he was raised a Mormon, but not that his parents were lowkey incredibly homophobic, they knew he had adhd and anxiety disorder and had suffered from depression, but not the extent it actually affected him, because he was pretty good at looking like he swimming when he was really sinking, stuck in a hopeless rut. Brendon was nothing if not a fighter- and a selfless one, taking in Spencer, who could offer nothing in return for Brendon’s money and hospitality. Poor Spence- he’d had it rough with addiction, and they spoke about it a lot, but Brendon knew he’d never mention it if he and Jon hadn’t picked up on it anyway. Jon was probably the most functional of them, misleadingly- though he drank constantly, he had it a bit more together than the others, and always somehow seemed chill, like he had a plan. Brendon adored them both, so he distrusted Ryan for apparently abandoning who were meant to be his friends and leaving them struggling in the city.

But Brendon didn’t really know what happened. Clearly Ryan and Jon weren’t on awful terms- he called him about distributing a job ad, of course- but when Brendon called Spencer outside of the bar and mentioned Mr. Ready by name, there was an obviousness terse edge to Spencer’s voice, like it was painful just to hear his name. If Brendon knew better, if Spencer had told him, he’d be aware that Ryan ran away at the sight of his blossoming addiction, sort of leaving him in the dust to protect himself from being reminded of old traumas, therefore leaving Jon in the process. If Brendon knew, he’d confront him, of course. But Spencer knew Brendon was set on his job- he knew it was Brendon’s funny way of coping, running away for a while, and he accepted it, even if he felt kind of stabbed in the back. Ryan had run away from Spencer because he was a problem, and now Brendon had done the same, run off to Ryan. It was painful, and Spencer wanted to unload everything off his chest right then on the phone, but Brendon sounded adamant, so he accepted he’d be staying with Jon for the foreseeable future.

So, yeah, his two closest friends that he met in university had told him jack shit about their famous ‘friend’, just that they were childhood friends linked only out of Ryan’s convenience- he called Jon when he needed something done in the city, because he was more reliable than his own production team. Jon was too chill to mind, apparently. Brendon wondered if Ryan knew about his close friendship with Spencer. Funny, he thought; he was the replacement in the end- replacing Ryan, the successful, smart one, who had run off at the first sign of trouble and the first glimpse of a life better than the one he had. That’s what Brendon presumed had happened, and, almost guiltily, he saw Ryan’s side of the story with clarity; Brendon was a young man with high hopes and strong ambitions, and if he saw even a chance at a breakthrough, he’d take it without thinking about the repercussions of dropping everything else around him. But he’d accepted at this point his dream wasn’t going to be realised, and he’d be skipping from job to job for the rest of his life. He tried not to think about it much, or it overwhelmed him.

I don’t mind at all. Really? Brendon exhaled a sigh of relief that he wasn’t going to be immediately fired for not brushing up on his employer’s work, but he was also confused; surely it was a necessity to be familiar with what he’d be critiquing. For lack of a better word. I’m not a huge fan of my own work, anyway. A very brief pause was taken to process this. Brendon couldn’t imagine putting something out there that he wasn’t happy with- he was something of a perfectionist, became completely absorbed in his interests, fixated on his passions... the idea of offering something incomplete or what he deemed imperfect to the world was alien. Even if he’d never experienced it before. He would have brushed it off as Ryan being put under pressure by a pushy production company, but Ryan had basically already said that they bowed to his every whim. So it was something else. Was he just that self-critical? ”Definitely a Virgo,” He commented absently, thinking out loud. Sort of glad you haven’t read it before- even I can make a better first impression than that garbage. ”It can’t be that bad. It gave you the means to buy this fuckin’ mansion,” He shot back, somehow feeling like he had to defend this guy’s own work... from himself. ”And everyone seems to love it.”

Brendon’s curiosity about Ryan’s self-directed, heavy criticism of his work was swept under the metaphorical rug to think about later when the forefront of his brain was taken over by the introduction into this hopelessly pretty guest room. He was a very visual person, and the light lavender and the cream and the rich colour of the pine would made him feel calm- like he could breathe here, even more so than in the fresh country air outside. Mine. Ryan designed this? Brendon looked over at him, interested. Thank you. No one's ever stayed before, so... good thing my first guest comes with a note of approval. Oh, so he was gay, too. Or gay-ish. Brendon smiled, hoping there was now a mutual understanding between them, and flung his hands out gesticulatively as he turned his attention to the room again. ”Seriously, this is tight. Hey, if your writing career crashes and burns- become an interior designer.”

He was semi-comfortable now, but he’d expected for Ryan to go away and do whatever he did at eleven in the morning (smoke on his back porch, apparently), so a silence settled and he felt like actually just asking him whether he planned on leaving, or if he wanted Brendon to start right away. He hoped not- more than anything, he wanted to curl up in those sheets, forget about everything, and sleep for a day. Something told him that wasn’t on the agenda, but he could sure dream. When Ryan finished his apology of sorts (Brendon thought that was the goal of the little parting speech, anyway), Brendon extended a hand automatically, and Ryan eyed it like he’d grown an extra one and thrust it in his direction. For a mortifying moment, Brendon was sure he was going to be left hanging, but then Ryan took his hand and shook it with a surprisingly strong grip. Admittedly glad this was all over with, he went o pull his hand away; what he didn’t expect was for Ryan to take hold of his wrist and turn his hand over, and Brendon instinctively almost jerked back, yanked his hand close to his chest, a typical New Yorker in that he didn’t like being grabbed by strangers, even if Ryan wasn’t really a stranger any more. He was his boss. That almost made it worse- but he just watched, vaguely uncomfortable, but fascinated to say the least.

Oh, Brendon thought, his tattoos. They were, at most, a colourful collection of things he’d regret, not because of the content of the art on his skin, but because he spent money on getting ink and not actual necessities. Still, he liked them, and was glad they were usually universally admired. Some hibiscus flowers, a nod to his Hawaiian heritage; some piano keys, naturally indicating his love for music; a portrait of frank Sinatra, his idol; his upper arm homage to one of his favourite bands, and on his other arm, a yellow rose. He wasn’t done yet, and he had plenty of ideas for new ones, even if he told himself that was stupid, save your damn money. He knew he’d impulsively get them done anyway. You play piano? Brendon pulled his hand back as Ryan let go, and folded his arms across his chest again, nodding. And other instruments, I take it. ”I have a music degree,” He offered, but nothing more as of yet. He wasn’t about to spill his dreams to someone he barely knew. You should’ve said so. I’ll show you where all of mine are sometime. Brendon was unashamed to admit that he lit up instantly- Ryan played? Played what? All of his instruments? So, a lot, he glanced at Ryan’s hands before he folded them behind his back again, and yeah, he had guitarist’s hands. ”Sweet,” Was all he could manage, grinning with his eyes again.

What was funny about Ryan's move to seclusion was the fact that, out of his two closest friends, somehow the one he'd met latest and bonded less with was the one he stuck to. Alright, maybe not funny - but certainly odd, and he supposed it was because he knew Spencer all too well. Did it hurt less to cut him off entirely or to send each other meager texts or call every few months, trying to maintain a dead connection? Ryan wasn't sure. He wasn't up to make trial runs, either, so he went with the former, although less harshly. This included not voluntarily speaking to him first and foremost, mostly because he had no idea what he'd even say at this point, but if Spencer were to contact him he wouldn't brush him off or ignore him. They weren't on strictly no-speaking terms, and he didn't harbor any ill will towards him, nothing like that. But things still didn't look good. As for Jon, the deal was mostly the same, and it worked better because Jon was actually the kind of person to keep reaching out regardless of whether the favor was returned. If he didn't make sure Ryan was alive every once in a while, they probably wouldn't be talking.

It was hard to explain why things had gone that way. An easy explanation was just that Ryan dropped everything, ran away somewhere to better himself as soon as he got the opportunity, because he was ambitious above all else. That was much simpler than the truth, although it was about as heartless, so he sometimes let even himself believe it. In reality, Ryan had grown detached from his friends on a timeline that didn't fit that tailored theory - Spencer had picked up a steadily worsening drinking habit by the time they were nineteen, and for a while Ryan turned a blind eye to his occasional drink. Since he was a kid, he figured they were all in it together to swear off drinking and drugs, or at least barely experiment with any substances, for obvious reasons; when Spencer was the first one to break he wasn't sure how to feel. Here was someone who saw firsthand what addiction did to people, how it affected those around them, and he was in denial about his own problem from the start. Ryan was gone by the time Spence started controlling his own prescription dosages in the name of bettering himself.

It wasn't the right thing to do at all, and it explained why Spencer hadn't really called Ryan himself or sent a message that didn't have Jon as a middleman. He'd been too afraid to watch Spencer's situation get worse, didn't think he had the ability to step in and help - in his experience, he could not feasibly do that. At the time he had thought himself fortunate for having all of this money to get the hell away from everyone, and now he was drowning in it, wishing he'd helped his friend when everything was still in the fairly early stages. Ryan was just shocked Jon could still stand to contact him. He hadn't ever really explained why he disappeared, or shown signs of his plans other than deliberately avoiding Spencer at times, so maybe Jon still didn't actually know the insane extent of how selfish he'd been... but that was unlikely. Jon just had a huge heart, he knew that. Ryan could've done much worse and Jon probably would still talk to him.

Anyway. He knew he was lucky things had taken a turn for the better once he'd been gone for a while - in fact he still shakily asked Jon every time they talked how Spencer was doing, trying not to dwell too much on the subject but too afraid that another person might've been taken from him to leave it completely alone. It was all very heavy and vaguely overdramatic, and Ryan wondered how much exactly Brendon knew about it all if he was friends with Jon - Jon wasn't the kind of guy to just unleash personal stuff like that when it was other peoples' business, too, but if you got a couple of drinks in him he was a little less careful. He was maybe too concerned that Brendon had formed his own opinions based on that history, maybe he judged Ryan for the way he dealt with things. In all fairness, if the tables were turned, Ryan would judge the fuck out of Brendon, so he had all the rights to feel like that. It just didn't feel great, especially when he wasn't sure how to make everything right again.

Mostly, so far, Brendon had entertained anything he said with ease, and if he ever seemed like he didn't like Ryan, it was 'cause Ryan was talking like that again without catching himself. In the same way the thought of Brendon knowing that portion of his past made him nervous, the fair possibility that he'd read his books was equally nerve-wracking, but Brendon evidently hadn't. Thank god. Two bullets dodged, then. Definitely a Virgo. Ryan unfortunately understood what he meant despite their humours being two different worlds, and he nodded like it was a true tragedy. It can’t be that bad. It gave you the means to buy this fuckin’ mansion. Ryan looked at the ceiling resignedly, like he was only then remembering, yes, he was in this fuckin' mansion. He shrugged, didn't feel like explaining his success was owed to the ever-growing population of people going through some kind of new-age emo phase. Luck was on his side with the timing of his release. And everyone seems to love it. Ryan thought about every bad critique or less than three star rating burned into his brain, conveniently all remembered as opposed to him forgetting all the good ones. He looked at Brendon with something unreadable, not sure how to respond not negatively, and just left it at that.

There was something in Brendon's eye when Ryan explained he'd been the one to put the room together that was definitely discernible as him catching on to something. He couldn't help the tiniest smirk at that, watching Brendon gesture all around them with suddenly brighter eyes. Seriously, this is tight. Tight. Ryan made yet another mental note of the way he talked, tilting his head curiously in response to his word choice. Hey, if your writing career crashes and burns- become an interior designer. Ryan rolled his eyes, but made it clear enough that he was flattered. "Thanks. Predicting the future, there." He was kidding, really. But he was a little afraid that his next contract would be bullshit that ruins his success streak.

If he'd been paying attention to anything other than the canvas on Brendon's arm he might've noticed how much he'd inadvertently freaked him out. Alas, he didn't catch it, and therefore went on believing this was totally fine. I have a music degree. Ryan's face must have shown how he felt about that, he was sure of it; as much as he pretended none of it was that personal to him anymore, he missed music, missed making it and puzzling out chords and everything. No one but the two people he'd left behind had ever shown an equivalent passion for it, but Brendon was showing a lot of promise as of yet. One thing was concerning- if he had a music degree, why was he here, of all places? Education no longer guaranteed a job, he knew. Bullshit. Ryan figured he had to have some kind of connection to get Brendon somewhere he wanted to be; after all, he had plenty of contacts to provide him with his instruments, expand his collection. Someone had to have an opportunity for the guy. Sweet - and it looked like he was genuinely excited about the prospect of having some equipment around.

Ryan backed off a little, hesitant, because he wanted to leave Brendon alone but he'd also been given a large influx of information in a small space of time. This last part was important to him, though, and he didn't want to forget. And- he sort of thought helping Brendon might temporarily make up for what happened between him and the last people he cared about. "One last thing - don't let me forget that. If you have a music degree, you may as well be using it. We can talk about finding something for you later, all right?" He pursed his lips, tentative, but finally tapped the doorframe as a means of an actual goodbye before turning to leave.

/ or let it End tbh