Something that made their connection tremendously easier was the fact that they were both musicians... of sorts. Brendon apparently had a music degree, but that was practically just decoration in comparison to what Ryan was picking up on of his ability. Like - his [i]life[/i] had obviously been dedicated to music. He must've been the kid in every club and orchestra and band group, must have started young to be so knowledgeable in music the way he was, an adept of sound. No degree could get you that kind of experience. Of course, Ryan hadn't heard him play an extreme amount, and in fact had rarely had the opportunity to. In conversation, though, when Brendon could talk about an album from any given genre with flair and insights Ryan himself wouldn't have thought of, it became clear he was much more talented than he was letting on. Ryan didn't push it, though. He'd be a hypocrite if he did - he was so insecure about his playing ability since he'd not performed in front of anyone in so long that he claimed to not know the piano at all, that he was basically a beginner with a guitar, that he didn't sing. Saved him from potential embarrassment.

Of course, Brendon wasn't an idiot, so he probably knew that Ryan didn't have a top-brand piano and a series of guitars and amplifiers and pedalboards and mixers, amongst a vast world of other things, for the hell of it. Even if he hadn't yet presented all of that to Brendon, he was pretty sure with all the energy he seemed to have, he'd stumbled upon the collection sometime. Anyway - music was something he'd long set aside, ever since he stopped constantly being with Jon and Spencer. That was what he played for for as long as he knew, after all; he just wanted to create something with them, and occasionally his writing turned into poetry turned into songs for himself, but. For the most part, he preferred the silence of words on paper, ten times less intrusive than expressing himself through a rough guitar line or having to sing his story. That, to him, was way more vulnerable than he'd ever like to be, but the short-lived little band he had with his childhood friends was nice to reminisce on. And, in all honesty, he was stupid good at what he did know how to play, even still. Ryan just tended to have fairly clouded judgment.

That aside, as he'd determined the only way to really learn about Brendon was to urge information slowly and over time (apparently New Yorkers were even more closed off than he thought), life was somehow easier with him around. Ryan was still often too dry and mean-spirited and sarcastic, but he remembered all the time that he had so much less reason to be around Brendon. In fact he pretty much had no reason at all, but it was something of a task to break a habit he'd built up for his entire life - approaching people as cynically as possible - and he was still sometimes too blunt. Brendon, luckily enough, was just about Aries enough to deflect any of his shortness and throw it right back at him - sometimes. Other times, Brendon just looked fairly affronted or annoyed. Either way, he always served as a good reminder to play nice, what with his tangible reactions and generally easy-to-read air. Ryan hadn't exactly become softer or open, but he at least learned to catch himself.

Brendon looked relieved when Ryan greeted him as friendly as he could muster, and he figured it was 'cause Brendon still felt guilty sneaking around. He wished desperately he could just tell Brendon it's fine, he couldn't disturb someone who never got any sleep anyway, but. That'd just draw more attention to it. Poor guy. He accepted the soda nevertheless, and Ryan felt a tiny sense of accomplishment once he cracked it open, 'cause now it was like he'd memorized a regular's order. [i]Morning, honey.[/i] Ryan's gaze narrowed and his half-smile straightened out somewhat, not sure how to feel about that at first, but of course Brendon was screwing around. Ryan let himself laugh a little, barely belatedly, noticeable anyway. Brendon folding his arms over himself had the exact opposite effect of what he'd presumably been going for, because the movement caught Ryan's attention, and he studied Brendon more closely for the first time. He honestly couldn't decide where to start: the fact that it was his old jersey, or him being half-undressed in someone else's home so soon, or how different they really were - 'cause for fuck's sake, here Ryan was with all too-big clothes, grey sweats that hung low on his hips and some faded cotton T-shirt whose neckline had been stretched out and made him look far younger.

His waifishness was totally hidden, in other words, and Brendon was wearing [i]his[/i] jersey, (barely) anything else. Ryan couldn't figure out how he felt about Brendon in his clothes; alas when he gave them to Brendon, he had no idea he'd eventually be even more fond of him than he was on the surface-level first impression. But he definitely felt his chest get tight, something indiscernable, and the sensation was a little unsettling. Ryan looked away, hiding his smirk by focusing on the coffee brewing. And this way he wasn't actually laughing [i]at[/i] him... technically. A number of comments were coming to him, like an innocent '[i]glad you like the jersey,[/i]' and then a more dry '[i]you got comfortable quick,[/i]' and of course the worst '[i]why the fuck are you walking around my house like that.[/i]' That was totally the old Ryan talking. He'd decided he was officially reformed. Anyway. He determined, ultimately, that he was not going to comment at all on Brendon's manner of dress (or undress).

Ryan was only just pouring his own coffee, deliberately avoiding looking at the bright smile adjacent to him, when Brendon finished his soda. Ryan concluded that he was maybe a little bit not human. [i]Hey, I don’t mind coffee, but nothing beats Dr. Pepper. Let’s be real.[/i] [b]"Not even Coke? Or Pepsi?"[/b] He was kidding, of course, because if Brendon was that much of a fan then he'd have very strong opinions about the separate brands that Ryan thought all tasted exactly the same. And he liked to mess with him, so that was an easy invitation to do so. Foregoing all the individually packed sweeteners and sugars and creamers that he apparently only owned for guest use - whenever they came, if ever - Ryan took his coffee black, and leaned back against the counter island to consider Brendon. He suspected that even without the help of caffeine he'd be this way, excitable and lively and pleasant, whereas anyone else would be irritated that they weren't asleep. He just seemed to be that kind of person, and maybe there was more to his endless amounts of energy, but. Baby steps.

[i]So, why are you awake?[/i] Oh, good, now Ryan didn't have to feel like the one all in Brendon's business. It just seemed like since he was the host, or whatever, his asking would sound more like an interrogation when he really wouldn't give a fuck if Brendon was, like, having a party, or something equally disruptive. He could use the variety, anyway. [i]Important author stuff?[/i] Ryan raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking up to make eye contact with a particularly gravity-defying lock of Brendon's hair. Amused, he smiled to himself before his attention returned to Brendon alone, and he shook his head slightly. [b]"You think too highly of me if you think I'm currently, or ever, doing something important. Although, watching old documentaries and chainsmoking indoors [i]is[/i] very productive."[/b] He punctuated the smartassery with a sip from his mug, briefly looking to the ceiling. [b]"And you? Finished my books yet?"[/b] He was, once again, messing with Brendon, 'cause he was about ninety percent sure Brendon had barely touched them and Ryan could not actually care less about it. It'd be funny to watch him squirm about it anyway, unless that ten percent chance won out.