A week ago, Ryan had gone against all of his 'values' and not only held a full conversation with someone, but also welcomed them into his home for what looked like a semi-permanent basis. It was a strange occasion for him, but with Brendon it all felt almost normal, comfortable. He quickly came to terms with the fact that he needed to give Brendon some space at least sixty percent of the time, which threw a hammer into his plans to [i]quickly[/i] knock out fixing his novel, but the more he procrastinated, the longer Brendon could stay. That was a pretty good deal. He didn't like company and Brendon barely counted as that; it was like he just had a companion, charismatic enough to blend easily with his own personality but unique enough to keep life interesting. Anyway, whenever he stepped aside to give Brendon his own area and personal time, it meant he could make his corrections in peace. So they'd sort of developed this symbiosis, and it worked.

Since it'd only been a week, though, Ryan had dedicated only about two days to real work, and the rest was letting Brendon get settled. Once he'd shown him his room, Brendon told him he didn't need anything, which he seriously doubted. So to counter that he started randomly leaving things around that Brendon maybe probably needed - some new clothes, some of his own old ones that weren't too Ryan-style or Ryan-sized and more neutral, a notable piece being a hockey jersey he'd long abandoned. Then he tried paying attention to what Brendon would sneak out of the pantry, not saying anything when he caught him from the corner of his eye with an armful of Monster and Flamin' Hot Cheetos and Skittles, and mysteriously a day later one of his housekeepers would have stocked the place with typical hormonal teenager food. That was, apparently, the extent of Brendon's diet, right next to fancy liquor that didn't disappear but got halved with water whenever it was sneakily sipped from.

So, nothing Brendon did was annoying or bothersome, but amusing as all hell to someone like Ryan whose life had been fundamentally boring for the past six years. He was sure it wasn't just a New Yorker thing and more a Brendon thing, a debate he found himself struggling with constantly because Brendon was just that spontaneous. Most of the time, Brendon 'settling in' was him chilling on his phone while all his belongings remained in his bag and he had no idea where anything was located in the entire house. Ryan supposed that was a process. He could always just get lost on his own time, anyway, maybe call Ryan if he needed guidance out of a particularly complicated hallway.

He was entertaining and everything, but the problem Ryan had was that he was inspiring. In all fairness, he was the only person who Ryan had been around this long in some time, and therefore his influence could be explained away as him being the only one around. As it were, pieces of Brendon kept showing up in every one of his revisions and additions to the story, and it was more than just some New York City details. It was in his protagonist, who suddenly came clearer into frame with dark hair and dark eyes, whose Queens accent became more Brooklyn in the more dialogue he added with silly modernized slang. It was entirely accidental. The only changes he'd made so far that were on purpose were shifts in imagery and in how the subway system worked, so on. Little images of Brendon, though, were all unintentional, and he had only recently begun to notice upon rereading. When the mental picture that his brain came up with had clarified, he realized that was definitely, unmistakably Brendon, or at the very least reminiscent of Brendon.

Brendon hadn't yet gotten to read all of it, though, especially not most of the changes, so he was luckily free of getting caught. For now. Brendon was still getting worked into familiarity with [i]Fever,[/i] so there was no point throwing him into the mess directly now. As it were, he was alone with his writing, spending nights by the kettle or the coffee machine less for the fuel and more for a tidbit of the nutrition he always forgot to provide himself with. Or, anyway, he thought he was alone. Ryan was headed with his mug in hand back to the pot of liquid, black gold, when he heard the faintest sound of footsteps, and he paused in the dimly lit living room adjacent to the kitchen, silencing himself to hear what was probably just Brendon approaching. Funny how they'd stumble upon one another at such a specifically 2 am-time, but he supposed if Brendon was going to eat like a teenager, he maintained the sleep schedule of one, too.

Ryan beat him to the chase, turning on the coffee maker and grabbing a soda from the fridge simultaneously. When Brendon came into view he held out the latter expectantly, wondering what he was up to this late but not quite smooth enough to ask without sounding like he was delving. [b]"Morning,"[/b] he said, amused, over the sound of coffee grounds stressing. [b]"I could also make you coffee, if you like. Or you never made the twenty-something switch from energy drinks to espresso?"[/b] He half-smiled, having grown used to their sarcastic back-and-forths actually being acceptable.