Brendon still wasn’t entirely sure whether Ryan a) had absolutely no idea that he was halving all of his expensive liquor with water, or knew that he was stealing from the expensive alcohol cupboard and didn’t care- but either way, he hadn’t once been caught even glancing in its direction, and Ryan’s apparent obliviousness meant he was descending down the dangerous road of complacency. When he first decided he was going to steal from his boss and potentially jeopardise the first job he actually enjoyed in years (because it was mostly an extended vacation, but he was paid rather handsomely to do it), he had been careful, to say the least; hastily memorising the rough outline of Ryan’s routine over 24 hours, figuring out when was the time he was least likely to even go downstairs, never mind the kitchen. Now, Brendon was no secret agent, but where alcohol like that was concerned, he became something of a tactical and stealth genius, opening and closing cupboards swiftly and silently and barely making any noise as he pulled out and placed bottles, poured liquor, and left the kitchen without a trace.

As of yesterday, it had been a month since Brendon first turned up, confused as all hell, on Ryan’s back porch. Four weeks gave him plenty of time to perfect his tactic- but also plenty of time to grow too comfortable, and with no failure or mistakes to learn from, he became not only complacent, but careless. Brendon usually made sure he didn’t drink enough to make it obvious the next morning, and he never drank too much out of the same bottles (unfortunately Ryan didn’t restock, because he didn’t know it was being reduced in the first place)- basically had a foolproof way of covering his tracks entirely. One evening, though, when Ryan had said he had a migraine of some kind (Brendon didn’t really listen) and told Brendon he was going to bed early, Brendon got too excited from the prospect of extended freedom. The nights prior, Ryan had stayed up with him, and though that was nice- he was learning more and more about Ryan, things he obviously felt vulnerable sharing- it meant he had no chance to do his usual and raid the cupboards. Funny that he had finally started to properly gain Ryan’s trust and he was risking it all the time for the sake of getting tipsy for a little while.

So maybe what Ryan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him (it wasn’t like he couldn’t just easily buy another dozen or so bottles of the stuff Brendon had drained), but that particular evening of drinking, he went beyond tipsy, and it extended into the night and then the early hours of the morning. Brendon hadn’t even eaten anything, hadn’t drank any water in hours, and in not long at all he was completely wasted, leaving glasses and bottles out on the counter, dismissing his mess because Ryan wouldn’t see it, he could clean it up later when he sobered up. He left the kitchen an hour ago and had completely forgotten about it, too busy flicking through channels, fucking around with the fancy light system, asking Ryan’s Alexa (obviously he had one, though he clearly never used it- probablt didn’t know how) stupid questions, lying on his back across the cushions and crossing his ankles on the armrests of furniture that cost more than his rent back home. He’d moved from the kitchen, out to the pool, into his bedroom, around the living room, and finally he ended up in Ryan’s study.

This was one place that Ryan told him was off limits. He’d been in Ryan’s bedroom by now, but only briefly, and just to give him coffee or something. His study was usually locked, but Brendon knew where the key was, and in his intoxicated state, invading his employer’s off-limits personal space was going to be hilarious. Anyway, he got inside, and left the key in the door, immediately registering that this room was even weirder and more like Ryan than any other room in the house. It seemed very cared for, which was strange, because Ryan didn’t even use this room as often as he wrote in the living room, or the other office, or at his desk in his bedroom, or outside in the garden. Brendon wondered why he wasn’t allowed in here, but only for a moment- he was then distracted by the unbelievably comfortable-looking leather desk chair, and he wasted no time in all but staggering over and collapsing into the upholstery of the seat, swinging it around on the wheels and extended his legs out across the desk, over torn-out pages and notepads and various stationary, only just avoiding his laptop. He crossed his ankles and let his feet extend off the edge of the table, and leaned back against the chair, lifting the entire bottle he had been dragging around for about half an hour and taking a swig. Lucky that Ryan was asleep.

Maybe he jinxed himself just by thinking that- although he didn’t think it, really, he just kind of remembered that Ryan existed, and although the house was huge, they were still only a few flights of stairs and hallways apart, and Ryan actually knew where he was going. Brendon still got lost in the corridors. Anyway, he was just starting to stare at the ceiling when a figure in the doorway caught his eye. Normally, he would have maybe frozen up and started making plans on how to drown himself efficiently, but when he was this drunk, Brendon didn’t really care that Ryan was standing a few feet away, wide awake. ”Hey, this room is tight,” He slurred, grinning, ”Can’t believe I’ve been here a month and only just seen it now.”

Unused to guests, much less actual housemates (although Brendon was only temporary), Ryan wasn't sure how to handle Brendon. Actually, Brendon may even be a special case when it came to treating visitors because he was a very unique individual. Ryan had, of course, already come to understand that he had a teenager's diet, and easily catered to it - before he usually just forgot to feed himself and found whatever was easiest left in his kitchen by whichever staff took pity on him, generally some kind of canned soup or a ready meal or, because it was easier to drink the calories he needed to live rather than actually eat, he'd find some kind of shake. So basically he acted like some retired old guy. Easy life. Then Brendon came and things he never touched disappeared, so Ryan naturally got someone to restock the random arrangement of snacks Brendon seemed to survive off of: Doritos, Coke, Skittles - any sour candy, really - so on. It was kind of sweet, he wasn't hard to take care of at all considering anyone else would be taking advantage of the free amenities and potentially radical diet changes available to them.

Brendon, though, only did a few things that would be worthy of Ryan getting upset with him, and even then Ryan didn't really care. He was a little messy, too distracted whenever he was running around the place to pick up after himself, but Ryan was pretty much the same. This was what housekeepers were for, anyway. Then sometimes Ryan didn't really feel up to talking more about his personal life, but Brendon pushed regardless, and that was actually vaguely irritating - but over time he'd become even slightly grateful for the relief, realizing that getting some stuff off his back was helpful. Finally, the alcohol. Ryan wasn't a big drinker himself; in fact he only really sipped at beer or wine or heavily mixed drinks if he was actively trying to start drinking, or if it was a social thing. But he wasn't dumb. He'd spent his entire childhood sniffing out liquor, cleaning up after a gradually more careless drinker. After the first time he thought he smelled rum in his kitchen, Ryan checked his supply and found that his vodka poured way more quickly, was way less strong than he remembered it was meant to be.

It was more funny than it was irritating, although Ryan figured he'd probably be pissed if he actually did drink. Truthfully he was glad to have it gone. It was only there for guests - and Brendon was a guest, so he may as well take it. Actually, Ryan was considering how to best break it to him that he really didn't mind the stuff going, but he was sure that'd be too much like putting him on the spot. Anyway, Ryan had only caught on about a week ago, so who knew how long it'd been, but he did know that a lot had disappeared. More than anything, he was fairly impressed by Brendon's tolerance. He got up every morning looking pretty normal, never really smelled like a usual hangover, and generally was good at whatever sneaky process he had orchestrated. Or maybe he wasn't trying to be sneaky at all, just trying to be polite keeping everything at the same level? Unlikely. Regardless Ryan chose not to say a thing.

All the changes were throwing him for a loop, though, and a handful of times this month he found himself with headaches or other physical signs of his introversion taking a toll. When he complained of a migraine, Brendon didn't seem to mind him retreating - thank god. Most anyone else would probably think he was rude if they saw him escape to hide in his room early so often; Brendon understood. Anyway, he wasn't lying, and Ryan actually did catch some sleep for a few hours, such a rarity that it was kind of unfortunate that he could only manage to pass out from a debilitating headache. It was basically a full night's sleep, as a matter of fact, only he woke up more disoriented than ever in the lightless hours of morning, dark enough for stars and moon to still be out but early enough for dim rays of sunlight to rise over the treeline all around his home. Not an unusual setting for him, just not something he'd usually wake up to.

He also didn't usually wake up to the distant sound of his living room's television blaring, playing through paid programming like no one was actually watching it. His headache was decidedly gone, so Ryan had the patience to investigate. He rubbed his eyes, then rose and pulled a jacket over bare shoulders, not bothering to zip it in his stumble to the living room. Yep. As suspected, he was met with the glow of a television, nothing else. Ryan switched it off, thinking this would be kind of strange if Brendon wasn't already something of a wild card, and figured that his night/morning was going to be a game of finding where Brendon was. Probably lost. He wandered around a little more, sorting absently through his overcurled hair while he peered into rooms, not finding him in the library or any of the guest rooms or taking a three hour shower in any bathrooms. Odd.

He finally came to a hallway he nearly skipped because he was so sure Brendon wouldn't be there - the one that led to the study, where the light was on, illuminating the rest of the hall. The one room he told Brendon not to go in. This was where everything truly personal lived, where he kept all his childhood journals and a lot of his dad's belongings that he rescued from his basement in Colorado and where he organized all the more important segments of his writing, and most crucially the place where Brendon couldn't Aries everything up. He felt this vague wave of irritation/anxiety under the surface, trying not to jump to any conclusions, maintaining a calm exterior while he approached the doorway. Ryan drew his finger over the key already in the door, pursing his lips tight as he realized Brendon somehow must've known where it was for some time now, and slowly pushed the door further open to lean against the doorframe.

Considering he still looked semi-asleep and his hair curled boyishly at the ends, Ryan probably didn't look very threatening. But seeing Brendon hanging over his desk, untouched by anyone but himself before, it was very careful control that kept him from breaking his unperturbed expression. He liked Brendon, sure, in fact he was growing on him more and more by the day, but this was kind of hard to excuse. Hey, this room is tight. Ryan blinked at him slowly, fingertips tapping on the side of his thigh at a fairly rapid pace, and registered the indistinct bottle in his hand. That explained it. Clearly his judgment was impaired... but then Ryan wasn't sure a sober Brendon would even care that much. Can't believe I’ve been here a month and only just seen it now. "Considering I told you that this room was off-limits, it's not that hard to believe." His voice was rough from an actual human amount of sleep, and he'd be bothered by it if it didn't kind of add to the energy he was exuding anyway.

Ryan meandered in, stuffing his hands in his pockets and keeping his shoulders high. Brendon was in his jersey. Sweet, but. Kind of hard to keep charmed by that when his feet were also up on the desk carelessly, bottle full of alcohol dangerously close to hours of work and a computer that he wouldn't be able to recover. He crossed the room until he was opposite Brendon, looking over his work and the wood at him, unreadable. "Brendon," he said carefully, tilting his head to meet Brendon's gaze. "Get off my desk." He paused, waited, working his jaw, pulling his lip between his teeth briefly. Ryan held his hand out, gesturing vaguely towards the bottle. "And give me that. Why are you in here?"

Brendon now enjoyed Ryan’s company, something he thought would never happen when he was first greeted rather snappily on a suspected rich asshole’s back porch. They had more in common than he would have initially thought- within an hour Brendon learned they were both musicians, guitarists and pianists chiefly (though respectively, Ryan and Brendon tended to specialise in specific instruments), and suddenly he no longer felt completely lost in a house as huge and luxurious as Ryan’s, because there was opportunity to play music to an extent he hadn’t in years (plus there was a pool). Still, it took a couple of weeks to get used to the sense of soullessness in the entire house. It was well decorated- the furniture and the art was expensive, high-end, comfortable, aesthetically pleasing- but most rooms seemed unoccupied, a shell of a living space, and sort of bare and minimalist in a weird, quirky antique way, like Ryan had half-moved in and never even sat on the huge sofa or turned on the expansive widescreen TV. It was always so quiet, too- Brendon was used to other people being around, Spencer and Jon and Gabe and Vicky, the noise of the city, the business of everything. The isolation and the loneliness at first drove him crazy, because his only company was somebody who was so isolated and closed off that he might as well not even be there.

Well, if Brendon was sober enough to articulate serious thought, he’d understand why the house felt so metaphorically empty. All of Ryan’s true passion and emotion went into the places he worked the most, his literature, his own bedroom, and his largest study, the places and things he either used the most or felt the most personally connected to. But Brendon wasn’t sober- he was drunk to the point where if he stood up he’d probably fall directly into Ryan, who was standing in the doorway, leaning against it and looking completely unimpressed by the scene he found in what was supposed to be an off-limits room. Hey, if Ryan wasn’t going to open up, stuck in a permanent social rut, Brendon had to take matters into his own hands. Not that any of that was on his mind. He was just fascinated by the journals (the covers, not the contents- again, he didn’t have the patience to read, especially Ryan’s spider scrawl), tried to guess Ryan’s computer password (giving up after trying ‘ihatebrendon’ and ‘ihatemyselfandmywork’), and shifting dozens of times to maximise comfort in the leather desk chair.

Ryan looked cute. He always did, but Brendon was intoxicated and he had no problems thinking about his boss that way at that moment in time. Actually, Brendon didn’t haven’t ever have a problem with it- The difference was he had a filter when he was sober that completely disappeared when he was drunk. Brendon leaned back further in the desk chair and regarded his employer with a slight, tipsy smile, looking him obviously up and down, from the boyish way his hair started to curl to his ridiculously long legs. He bit his lip, batted his eyelashes, watched Ryan’s fingers tap at his thigh and remembering how much he loved his hands, his arms, shoulders, collarbone- huh, it really did all spill over once he let himself indulge in thoughts about his totally inappropriate crush. Brendon didn’t mind at all, and his eyes lost focus for a second, lost in thought before Ryan’s voice broke the quiet. Considering I told you that this room was off-limits, it’s not that hard to believe. Brendon grinned, shrugging a shoulder. ”Hey, you sound hot,” - He smirked, then threw up a hand - ”And anyway, I told you I smoke, and you still haven’t ever actually fuckin’ offered. You’ve made me resort to fuckin’ stealing.”

He watched from under his eyelashes as Ryan approached, sighing with disappointment inwardly when Ryan hid his hands in his pockets. He noticed how he was standing straight, shoulders back, and Brendon couldn’t get over how tall he looked when he did so. Brendon played with the hem of the jersey he was wearing to occupy his hands, always fidgeting, but instead of it being because of hyperactivity, this time he felt a nervousness building in his gut, from the change in Ryan’s usual voice and posture. Even drunk, he recognised that maybe he’d fucked up. Brendon. They locked eyes and Brendon swallowed, feeling a strange cocktail of fear and excitement. His name sounded so good coming from his mouth, why hadn’t he noticed that before? Get off my desk. Fuck. Brendon’s jaw hung open just a little, entranced and intimidated by whatever new behaviour Ryan was showing, shocked by his apparent newfound authoritative nature. Brendon wondered if the migraine caused brain damage, or he was just really that pissed at Brendon for stealing his shit and breaking into the one place he wasn’t allowed to go. Either way, he became compliant after a second of hesitation, pulling his legs back and folding them inwards towards his body before placing them unsteadily on the floor. He even pushed himself back on the chair, allowing it to roll back a few inches. He didn’t break eye contact the entire time.

”Anything else you’d like me to do?” He piped up, the corner of his mouth pulled shamelessly up in a drunken smirk. Brendon was intimidated, sure- but he had no survival instincts. “Get on my knees? In a heartbeat.” Whatever remnants of common sense he had were probably cringing fully out of existence and saying goodbye to the job he had and the money he needed so desperately. Drunk Brendon fully didn’t care. And give me that. Why are you in here? Automatically, Brendon stood up, slightly unsteady, but pressed the front of his thighs against the table so he could lean over slightly and hand Ryan the almost-empty bottle. ”I’d exhausted all other fuckin’ entertainment,” He announced, gesturing an unsteady hand around what was probably supposed to be the whole house, even if he was only in one room. ”And I was curious why you keep this shit locked all the fuckin’ time. Journals? I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to a sex tape on your computer- hey, what’s your password?” He turned his attention back to it, resting his elbow on the desk to steady himself and leaning in to use the keyboard, legs outstretched behind him, giving the illusion of balance. He looked up, though, careful, because Ryan seemed like he wasn’t done being pissed. But Brendon wanted that, even if it was balanced with a healthy dose of fear.

It was probably unfair in the first place to restrict Brendon from entering a room in the house he now lived in indefinitely; after all, what said 'you're not welcome here' more than sectioning someone off into one place when he had all of this available space? Ryan was just incredibly private and intended to keep it that way, at least partially. He was gradually getting better at opening up to Brendon, both for the sake of the novel and because they were becoming friends anyway, but there were still things he'd like to keep to himself permanently - possessions or thoughts or ideas that not even Jon or Spencer had seen, all locked away in his study. At this point he should've probably reconsidered the value he placed in all of these things. It's not like he dusted everything off or memorialized it or gave it a shrine, nothing like that. All of his father's paperwork and old correspondence between them and the rare photo sat in a cardboard box on a shelf, untouched and uncared for; all of his own journals and schoolwork that somehow held sentimental worth were shoved into drawers that he never opened. So nothing was really too sacred to keep from Brendon - Ryan was just high strung.

And he was the same when he entered the study, mysteriously unlocked and hanging open, regarding a much more nonchalant Brendon with a calculatedly blank expression. Brendon was looking at him in a very specific way he probably would've appreciated at any other time, but now it just made him feel worse, because he was pissed but Brendon looked like that and it was hard to stay pissed. So, pissed off and frustrated. Ryan tried to keep it under wraps for both of their sakes, pointedly ignoring the way Brendon immediately bit his lip and actually batted his eyelashes, like he thought he was in a cartoon. Honestly. Maybe he was way more than drunk. Hey, you sound hot. Definitely more than drunk. Though his expression remained the same, Ryan quickly blinked a few times in succession, mostly confused by his forwardness. It's not that that was unlike Brendon, just - he'd never said anything quite like that before with such ease.

And anyway, I told you I smoke, and you still haven’t ever actually fuckin’ offered. You’ve made me resort to fuckin’ stealing. "I didn't realize I was obligated to offer you any when you could get your own. Was I supposed to offer you drinks so that you didn't steal any of that, either?" Ryan made no mention of the fact that he didn't actually mind any of that, just the fact that he'd quite literally broken into the study, but. He may as well keep Brendon on edge if he was already in trouble. It appeared to be working; Ryan was familiar with how Brendon looked when he was nervous, or when anxiety was building, and he always felt bad about it usually. He never meant to intimidate him or make him feel bad or shame him, any of that, but he made so many social faux pas that it sort of happened a lot anyway. This time he could see Brendon catching on to the fact that he'd made a mistake and was glad he could at least be that perceptive in this state.

Regardless, Brendon was obedient, taking his legs off the desk and rolling away from it in his chair in due time. Ryan held his gaze steadily, half occupied trying to distinguish exactly how drunk he was at this point, whether he'd have to, like, carry him back to bed. They were quite a distance away by now. Anything else you’d like me to do? The smug look on his face said a lot in itself. Ryan was kind of afraid to hear whatever he was thinking. Get on my knees? In a heartbeat. Ryan mentally cringed alongside Brendon's common sense, thinking that whatever Fifty Shades fantasy he had going on in his head needed to be extinguished as soon as possible. How the hell was he supposed to react to that? Not humoring him seemed to be the best answer, so Ryan narrowed his eyes at Brendon for a moment before seizing the bottle of alcohol, his other hand hovering uncertainly in preparation to catch a very unsteady looking New Yorker.

I’d exhausted all other fuckin’ entertainment. What? Ryan had forgotten he'd even asked a question. Mostly he was still dwelling on the 'get on my knees?' bullshit from earlier. Brendon certainly bore a certain shock factor. Anyway - that was his fault. When you realized all the technological distractions were kind of empty, and you were someone like Brendon who had little interest in his expansive library, it got boring. He wasn't doing a great job keeping his only guest occupied. Ryan looked at the bottle in his hand for a few long moments, hesitant, before finally gingerly placing it on the desk. And I was curious why you keep this shit locked all the fuckin’ time. Journals? I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to a sex tape on your computer- hey, what’s your password? Ryan still looked slightly distracted, but he furrowed his brow at Brendon, confused - a sex tape? Had Brendon met him? Ryan had about as much scandal as a baby carrot. Even if he didn't have a sex tape to his name, there was still absolutely nothing interesting on his computer, at least nothing that might appeal to Brendon.

Nevertheless, that didn't mean he was about to welcome him with open arms to all of his information. He stared at Brendon impatiently while he gave all his attention to the screen, waiting until he finally looked up again, then planted his hands on the edge of the desk, leaning in until their eyeline was more level. "I gave you one rule, Brendon. Not to go in my study. When I welcome you to the entire house, I expect you to respect my space." He paused, studying the way Brendon was trying desperately to maintain balance and only awkwardly succeeding, then nodded at him promptly. "Sit back down. You'll fall." He straightened up again, scrubbing one hand over his face and hooking the other around his hipbone. Ryan spared a brief glance around before looking again at Brendon, tiny and wasted and in his old jersey, and he couldn't be that angry at him. After a moment he tried offering an explanation of sorts, if only to fill the time until Brendon inevitably passed out from boredom or intoxication. "You wouldn't have found anything interesting. It's all just... whatever I saved from my place back in Colorado."

He examined the bottle again listlessly, something like a scowl playing on his lips, sloshed the liquid around a little. Guess now was a better time than ever to reveal that, yes, he did know what Brendon had been up to, he wasn't that ridiculously oblivious. "I don't care what you drink, Brendon. Stop refilling shit with water, though. Just tell me what to replace, Christ." It was more funny than it was annoying at the moment, somehow, which made it hard to look very serious at all, but. Ryan solved that issue by very determinedly fixing his gaze on the leftover alcohol in his hand rather than at Brendon.

Brendon was not someone who could be considered easily entertained. He was hyperactive, full of seemingly boundless energy, could only engage in a certain activity for a limited amount of time until it became tiresome and he moved onto the next thing, unable to stretch his attention span beyond a usually brief time period (unless he was impassioned and especially focused; the only activities that usually took and held onto his attention like this were music (playing, writing, singing), and the odd session where he sat down to play certain video games and could be found still playing five hours plus later. When he was drunk, this was elevated- though he could entertain himself with more things due to a heightened sense of intrigue with his surroundings, the length of enjoyment he got out of his immediate surroundings didn’t parallel the amount. For example, Ryan was more than well off- he had plenty of technology around that he never used, and when Brendon commented that he had a console back home, Ryan went and ordered one, if only to keep Brendon off his back and entertained for even minutes longer.

Like previously stated, Brendon could play games for hours and not even think to move in order to eat. Now, though, when he was drunk beyond a sense of boundary or survival instincts, he couldn’t even play for ten minutes before giving up and flicking through TV channels instead. Instantly tired with that, he went venturing around the house- well, the ground floor, mostly because he couldn’t climb the stairs. So he swanned- more like staggered- in and out of the kitchen, largely, lounging around on the sofas, walking into and then right back out of the library, wandering through corridors he didn’t recognise- and in his travels he almost fell down a short set of stairs, and just managed to catch himself on the railing. When he leaned dangerously, he saw a door off the the right, and his interest was piqued- so he teetered down the stairs and tried the handle. Locked, of course. Unlike Ryan’s study, which Brendon had been told about (even if it was off-limits), this mystery room hadn’t even been hinted at. Brendon was fascinated, but as soon as he got back up the stairs, he had mostly forgotten about it in favour of accessing the one room he wasn’t allowed in (aside the basement, apparently).

I didn’t realise I was obligated to offer you any when you could get your own. Brendon shrugged a shoulder, half-assed. ”Hosts are supposed to be fuckin’ polite,” - He wrinkled his nose and looked on scornfully - ”Therefore offer. You’re the worst host ever.” A bold declaration, maybe; Brendon had no survival instinct left in him. Was I supposed to offer you drinks so that you didn’t steal any of that, either? Brendon only processed that once he’d removed his legs from Ryan’s desk and folded him inwards towards his own body so he could roll the desk chair backwards and put a little distance between him and Ryan, because he was a little intimidated. He clicked his tongue, tipping his head back and fixing his eyes on the ceiling as if mulling over a question he already had an answer too. He shifted in the chair, resting his ankle on his opposite knee, and resting his elbow on the armrest to prop his head up. ”That would’ve made it easier, yeah.” Brendon was grinning, somehow still charming- in a fucked-up drunk kind of way.

Brendon then stood up, right after alluding to some totally inappropriate fantasies he had playing through his head in the background all the time whenever he thought about Ryan too much and too hard anyway. Ryan didn’t seem on board, much to Brendon’s disappointment; he met his eyes as they narrowed, and released his grip on the bottle just as Ryan reached out and took hold of it. He instantly regretted- he should’ve just downed the rest, make the most of the last drops he’d probably ever get once Ryan was through with him and realised how long Brendon had been raiding his unused stash (that was, in fairness to Brendon, collecting dust. Clearly Ryan wasn’t much of a drinker). He stared at Ryan for a few more beats and then shook his head a little to bring himself out of his persistent daydreams, turning his attention back to the computer he’d unsuccessfully tried to ‘hack into’. He was staring at the keyboard, considering likely passwords, but when he looked up to ask Ryan, he was startled by Ryan’s sudden closeness, how he was leaning commandingly over the desk, staring at Brendon levelly. Brendon couldn’t look away. I gave you one rule, Brendon. A stupid rule. Not to go in my study. Why? Was Ryan afraid he’d care about all his stupid childhood journals? When I welcome you to the entire house, I expect you to respect my space.

Brendon took a few moments to register what Ryan had actually said, because he was too distracted by his face and his voice and his eyes and his curly-at-the-ends hair to actually care what he was saying. But once he realised how imposing and direct he sounded, Brendon swallowed, blinked, looked away, hid a smile that threatened to show at the worst time. ”I mean-“ - He glanced away and then back at Ryan nervously, but with the hint of a smirk- ”It’s not the entire house if you keep me locked out of two rooms.” Yeah, two. He knew about the basement. Anyway, Brendon was hardly standing up straight, and Ryan seemed to notice. Sit back down. You’ll fall. Again, instantly, without even thinking about it, he did, looking at Ryan from under his eyelashes, almost dazed. ”Check you out. Top fuckin’ energy,” Brendon grinned, amused with himself, but also fascinated by this side of Ryan he’d seen hints of but not to this extent. ”You’re hot when you’re mad.”

You wouldn’t have found anything interesting. It’s all just... whatever I saved from my place back in Colorado. If Brendon had been sober, he would have pressed that pressure point. What was his life like in Colorado? What were Jon and Spencer like? Why did he fucking leave them? Brendon’s two friends didn’t talk about it at all beyond surface level crap he’d heard a thousand times. If Brendon was sober, he’d care and persist, but he wasn’t. So he just brushed it off in his head for sober Brendon to worry about. He watched Ryan scowl at the bottle and looked on, resigned. I don't care what you drink, Brendon. Stop refilling shit with water, though. Just tell me what to replace, Christ. Eyes widening, Brendon opened his mouth as if to speak but did so before he fully processed what Ryan was implying. Oh. He knew. Brendon wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed he’d been caught or relieved that Ryan didn’t care. Maybe a bit of both. ”It’d be my pleasure.”

Ryan's house wasn't originally intended to hide as many rooms as he ended up concealing, but it did; in the first place he'd only purchased it in such an expansive size because he was young and ridiculous and he could afford it anyway. Now, he wished he lived in a smaller, even miniscule place, but there were upsides that bode well with his personality. Some spaces needed to feel distant and far away from his daily life, enough so that they felt like escapist realms where he could be creative and free from his usual restraint. His study was put away in a secluded hallway he rarely ventured into unless it was specifically for the purpose of writing something nostalgic, something that needed him to delve into some state of mind very different from the norm. He had a studio he rarely visited these days but it basically took up a whole other floor, an underground in itself, and it was locked away in what was virtually a completely separate mindspace. Ryan was a thinker, first and foremost, and his thoughts took up a strange amount of physical space in his home.

So it explained why a lot of his home was sectioned off from Brendon. Still. When Brendon was now supposed to be part of his thought process, and was far more than just a guest or regular visitor, he should probably be welcome to these spaces. Apparently Brendon had other complaints, though. Hosts are supposed to be fuckin’ polite. Therefore, offer. You’re the worst host ever. A brazen thing to say when said host was allowing Brendon to take anything he wanted at any given time, but he supposed he understood why Brendon was now off on a drunken tangent when he'd been upset about a 'secret room' in the first place. If he'd been feeling particularly edgy he'd have lit up then and there and offered Brendon a smoke on the spot, but he wasn't, and besides he preferred this room of all rooms to remain smelling clean, so. Ryan just rolled his eyes at the accusations and moved along. That would’ve made it easier, yeah. He observed the manner with which Brendon sat, all casual, and grinned at Ryan cheekily, so clearly he wasn't taking any of this very seriously. Made sense.

It was a little startling, the way Brendon sort of stared back at him once he went for a direct approach, and Ryan almost couldn't maintain his gaze - until it seemed like Brendon was giving in himself, looking away. I mean- it's not the entire house if you keep me locked out of two rooms. Ryan raised an eyebrow, registering Brendon's smirk and that 'two rooms' implication with slight worry. So he knew more than Ryan thought he did. That was a little concerning. Without commenting on that directly, Ryan urged him to sit down, and Brendon seemed to do so thoughtlessly. Ryan was a little surprised at the command he was apparently able to take. Check you out. Top fuckin’ energy. Ryan's brow furrowed while he tried to piece whatever that meant out - but then he knew what 'top' meant, and could assume what it meant alongside 'energy,' so. He winced a little in the face of Brendon's suggestive smirk.

You’re hot when you’re mad. Ryan actually couldn't take that super casually. He blinked a few times quickly again, mouth hanging open slightly for a moment. "Well, I'm not mad," he said, defenseless, and with lack of a better argument. The only thing better on his mind was, like, 'shut up,' and that didn't really work. Brendon being so forward was - well, he wasn't unused to it, but usually it didn't come out like this in a way that left him pretty much speechless. And it was making his tiny crush even harder to ignore, thanks. He crossed his arms over his chest tight, uncertain, and tried to move on fast - and registered with something like glee that he could be the one to catch Brendon off guard this time, calling him on the alcohol he'd been taking. It’d be my pleasure. Ryan looked at him for a long moment, wondering how he lived this long not murdered by Spencer while being such a little shit, then sighed inwardly, giving up.

Abruptly, Ryan turned around, taking a chair from the edge of the room and pulling it up close to the edge of the desk. He hugged the back of the chair to his chest, holding the bottle he'd taken from Brendon before his face and considering it momentarily before drinking from it. Yeah, still not a fan. He pushed it back across the desk, looking bored. With what Brendon had already clearly been comfortable enough to say to Ryan it was probably a bad idea letting him have his drink back after all, but. This was better than him stealing it again later, passing out someplace random in the house where Ryan would have to find him again. "So you know about two rooms. I take it you couldn't figure out how to get into the studio?" At this point it didn't really matter that he knew. He'd probably get a way in somehow if he didn't just endlessly pester Ryan about it. "That's a shame. You'd probably really like it." A pause. Ryan decided to mess with him a little. "And I'd probably have shown you if you didn't already disrespect all my boundaries. Sucks." He tapped on the desk, looking forlorn for Brendon's sake.

At first, Brendon had felt well and truly lost in Ryan’s home. Well, it didn’t actually feel much like a home- it was just a house, a shell of a home, half moved in to and kind of void of any coziness or comfort. Everything was expensive, obviously, why wouldn’t it be; but nothing had any sentimental value. Sure, Ryan had creative direction over certain rooms, like the guest room, his own bedroom- and then his private study, the one that was barely used, but Brendon was still banned from going on. It made some kind of sense to sober Brendon- personal space, boundaries, all that- but Brendon got bored, very easily, and after a while, this huge mansion felt small because he’d been around it dozens of times, nothing was new anymore. Most of his free time was spent in the pool- thankfully very drunk Brendon hadn’t gone for a swim, because that could end- badly. Instead, curiosity got the better of him and he gained access to Ryan’s super secret study, which turned out to be- kind of boring. But what else did he expect from some brooding author. Everything he felt went onto the page, not into his surroundings, not to other people. Brendon was a little bitter about it.

And yet, though the room was average apart from a few journals and a computer, Ryan was pissed at him for going in. All this secrecy, to protect what? The musings of thirteen-year-old Ryan Ready? Maybe sober Brendon would tease him about that, but drunk Brendon? He didn’t care at all. His attention span was even shorter when he was intoxicated, so even as Ryan was talking, he stopped listening a couple of seconds in and instead started marvelling at how pretty he was, even this late at night, half-asleep, his hair tousled and curling endearingly, his eyes pretty and honey-coloured, though clearly tired- Brendon glanced, no, stared, at his mouth, blinked slowly as he listened to his low, rough voice but not the words he was saying. I want to kiss him, He thought to himself, the wish innocent and chaste for the most part, born from a genuine affection and closeness he’d started to feel with a man whose heart he assumed was protected by a few hundred metaphorical walls. That chaste attitude, though, didn’t last long, because Ryan was annoyed with him, and Brendon thought that was hot. And he had no problem telling Ryan this.

Brendon was smirking, and he wet his lips a little, sucking in a breath as he watched Ryan gape like a goldfish for a good few seconds. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. Well, I’m not mad. Pathetic argument. Brendon thought he was cute when he was all flustered, too, and now he really just wanted to weave around the desk and kiss him against the wall and though he’d had thoughts like this before, it was now harder to curb is impulses. ”If this isn’t mad,” -He reached over and clumsily snatched back the bottle Ryan had taken from him- ”I’d love to see what happens when you are.” Fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, he carelessly sat back in the chair, grinning mischievously, tipping the bottle jerkily to the side just to try and make Ryan sweat. Defiantly, he took another swig from the bottle and swallowed, before winking at him charmingly and leaning over to very indelicately place it back on the desk. Brendon had- some kind of death wish. Watching closely as Ryan folded his arms, almost in some kind of subconscious self-defence. Brendon was having a great time. He wanted to make Ryan sweat, just like Ryan had made him sweat just moments before.

He was waiting for Ryan to say something back, but instead he was a little startled when Ryan suddenly turned around and grabbed a chair to pull up close to the desk. Brendon his blinking himself fully awake so he could watch as Ryan picked up the bottle and seemingly tried alcohol for the first time in, like, his entire life. Clearly he wasn’t a fan- Brendon giggled at how Ryan’s face changed. Apparently everything was now a hundred times funnier. Brendon picked up the bottle again when Ryan pushed it back across the desk, and saw there was only a little left- so he knocked it all back and then put it back down after regarding the bottle with some curiosity. Wondering how much that cost, and how much liquid money he’d just drank away in a single night, he swallowed, deciding that it didn’t really matter. Like Ryan said before, he could quite easily just restock and replace everything that Brendon had drained dry from his usually untouched cupboards. Brendon leaned back, not taking his eyes off Ryan, still displaying that constant drunken half-smile and not being subtle about looking him up and down every couple of minutes, as if to check if anything had changed since the last time, and it never did. He’d still do whatever Ryan asked of him in a heartbeat.

So you know about two rooms. I take it you couldn't figure out how to get into the studio? Brendon paused, looking up to meet Ryan’s eyes, putting hold on his rampant imagination and suddenly looking intensely interested. ”Studio? You have a studio?” His eyes lit up like it was christmas. ”You’re fuckin’ kidding. Why haven’t you shown me?” That’s a shame. You’d probably really like it. Well, Yeah, duh. Brendon was pouting a little, but he was also verging on smiling because now he had the motivation to break into that room even if Ryan didn’t directly let him in. And I'd probably have shown you if you didn't already disrespect all my boundaries. Sucks. Brendon’s face fell, and he immediately fast forwarded through a few stages of grief- denial, then bargaining. ”How do I make it up to you? What do I have to do?” -He glanced down at Ryan’s hands as he tapped against the desk- ”What do you want? My firstborn? A blowjob? My left arm? You have pretty hands,” He rambled, leaning excitedly on the desk, biting his lip and fully willing to sacrifice his soul just to see the kind of room he’d dreamt about having since he was just a little boy.

The longer he was in here, in more than just a vaguely uncomfortable situation, the more Ryan picked up on how revealing Brendon was behaving. He honestly couldn't tell whether this was some kind of drunken change of heart or maybe the alcohol brought out even more boldness than Brendon usually had; whatever the case, he was a little terrified by it. Whenever he spoke he knew the words were in one ear and out the other - Brendon was focused on him half-intently, more specifically, his mouth. Funny. Ryan could relate. In this situation, though, he was the lucky one who could control his gaze somewhat. Or he thought so, anyway. While completely catching Ryan off guard with his very vocal attraction, Brendon wet his lips and did that self-satisfied side smile he wore so well, and Ryan felt himself in trouble again. He forced himself to look at the wall past Brendon momentarily, trying to look less flustered.

If this isn’t mad... Ryan's fingers loosened easily from around the bottle when Brendon went for it, because at this point it didn't really matter, did it? He dropped his hands to his sides, at a loss. I’d love to see what happens when you are. Ryan tilted his head back a little, chin rising. He may be more out of his element than ever, but still, the dry humor was alive. He responded with as much. "You'd love to? Sure, feel free to piss me off," he said in an easy tone, his own smirk forming. Mostly 'cause Brendon was such a unique character. Ryan honestly couldn't understand what the appeal was in being scolded like a kid, which was what he'd come pretty close to doing here. Anyway- Brendon seemed to take the challenge with getting him mad, because with his bottle back, he began acting more reckless, carrying it unsteadily until he could take another drink. Ryan stared at him pointedly, knowing this was more likely than not just another effort to set him off, so he didn't humour it.

In fact, he couldn't be mad when Brendon winked at him like that, but thankfully he could still hide away in his defensive arms-crossed position. A subconscious effort to escape the situation, Ryan downed some of the drink after taking his own seat, scowling but still mostly resigned. Brendon finished all of it and Ryan knew that was a bad idea, letting him have even more although it wouldn't make such a huge difference, but at this point he was catching him looking him up and down, a step up from just watching his mouth carefully earlier. Ryan had no clue how to fix this issue. It was hypocritical - he himself never gave Brendon a break from being the most attractive person in the world, in his eyes - but at least he wasn't so entirely obvious about it... or he hoped. There was the sane, rational person's way out, where they just address it mutually and maybe consider romance, but that was a horrifying concept for Ryan. No way to go around that while staying anywhere near his comfort zone. Instead, he tried to pick up the slack on letting all of it pass, forcibly ignoring all of Brendon's signals.

Mentioning the studio Brendon had passed up seemed to help the situation, or at least change the topic. Studio? You have a studio? Maybe 'help' wasn't the wrong word, actually, because now Ryan was fixated on how excited he seemed, endlessly fond of how easily he became enthused by something so simple. But then it made sense - here was someone clearly meant to be a professional musician, someone great, who'd never even had the opportunity to record, and now he'd learned that there was a completed studio a short walk away. Suddenly, all the stress about Brendon getting in here melted away, and he was wearing a tiny smile watching him light up, nodding affirmatively. You’re fuckin’ kidding. Why haven’t you shown me? Good question. The thought passed through his mind a few times, but he'd always figured a studio tour would also involve an obligatory tour of Ryan's own personal recordings, and he didn't think any of his songs were any good. Yet. Maybe in, like, a million years he'd be improved enough to think it was good enough for Brendon, but now, not so much.

Rather than say that, though, he continued the 'scolding parent' spiel, mostly for his own amusement. He'd probably end up showing Brendon now, anyway, after seeing how happy he got - just with a deal on no playing his own music. How do I make it up to you? What do I have to do? Ryan already didn't like where this was going, starting to shake his head hesitantly. What do you want? My firstborn? A blowjob? My left arm? You have pretty hands. Ryan stared at him for a second again, then shoved the heel of his palm into his eye, once again bewildered. First, those were three very different things, where did he think Ryan's priorities lay; second, he'd never received such a weirdly specific compliment before. He didn't dislike it, but. Brendon was just in such an entirely separate league from his own. He was already speechless, but when his vision came back from the static, he found Brendon with his lip between his teeth and that gleam in his eye still. That, he had no idea how to respond to.

"Um," Ryan said sagely after a pause, shaking his head slightly, "I don't - I don't want anything. You don't have to... all right, I'll make you a deal. If you can walk right now, I'll show you the studio." Watching Brendon make a fool of himself was much more fun than being rendered speechless, looking like a fish in water, by him. He leaned back with his chin between his fingers, watching Brendon expectantly. Of course he wasn't going to make him walk down there without assistance - but honestly. He needed to get back up a rung after being offered a blowjob, like, fifteen times in three minutes.

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