Twenty-one was a weird age. The [i]supposed[/i] drinking age when really you've probably been drinking for years already, the age where you should maybe sort of have your shit together but it's fine if your credit is shit and you live with roommates, the age where you still have nightmares of being late for first hour before waking up in a cold sweat realizing you aren't in high school anymore. Anyway, now that was Ryan's age, and he was trying to measure his life thus far up to it. He'd drank (and smoked, for that matter, more than just cigarettes, and tripped and gone on benders), he was definitely more rich than any twenty-one year old needed to be yet still unfulfilled by the work he'd put out to earn that wealth, and high school was far behind him. In fact, Ryan felt fucking fifty. He wasn't necessarily unhappy, but there was a lot going on that he'd rather not be; he'd rather have a different life on his twenty-first. Then again, surely nearly everyone did. He wasn't special.

And his biggest issues were probably nothing to other people. He'd lost the last parent he had contact with in the summer of last year, he wasn't totally sure where he stood with his girlfriend he'd had for nearly that amount of time, and he fucking hated his band's frontman. Well. He said that, they [i]both[/i] said that, but really they both also knew that there was more subtext there than either of them wanted to address. Still - that was just another shitty thing he didn't want to still have happening by the time he was twenty-one. Maybe his gift to himself could just be kicking Brendon out of the band, whatever, but considering he still missed the kid whenever they were apart, that probably wouldn't bode so well. He'd spend probably twenty minutes rejoicing in the newfound quiet... then sulk about it until they could somehow win Brendon back over. So maybe Brendon was his biggest issue. Ironic, in that he was 5'9 on a good day and maybe 130 soaking wet. 

Anyway. Apparently celebration was in order. Ryan wasn't sure that it was all for him - he didn't enjoy any of it. Nothing from Keltie, that is, and she was the only one who'd gotten to him yet; really, a [i]photoshoot[/i]? Ryan could barely look in the mirror half the time. A series of photos of him, even if it included someone he considered objectively a hundred times more beautiful than was reasonable to date him, was definitely not something he'd ever wish for on his birthday. Ever. And then, hours later, he was brought down to some club in NYC, playing excited about it the whole way there, letting his face fall flat when no one was looking. Inside the walls were decorated with more teen-years pictures, there were people wearing shirts with equally unflattering images on them, even his cake was the same; and then Keltie was prancing around with her friends in clothes that barely qualified as that.

It wasn't just that he didn't like the party, really. He could deal with a shitty party, he had before. But the fact that Keltie threw it, and honest to god thought he'd like it - they'd been together nearly a [i]year,[/i] and he switched between thinking they were just temporary to thinking that they were meant to be together forever, but mostly he thought he was pretty good at consistently showing her that he loved her and knew her to the core. This was just another bead on a string of signals that she had no idea who he was or what he cared about - granted, both of them were tearing what had even started out as a rocky relationship apart, but lately it'd been her mistakes that were pushing him towards the edge. He didn't want to be there. He smiled for a few pictures, maybe got caught with his true emotions on his face in some of them (and prayed none of [i]those[/i] would find their way to social media), and started trying to find a way out not even two hours into his own birthday party. 

She invited Spencer, because she knew him, knew they were childhood friends. Of course. That was easy. Jon, though, somehow slipped under the radar, and Ryan didn't even have a clue where he was - he'd called and wished Ryan happy birthday earlier that day, clearly not wanting to spoil the birthday surprise that he must have assumed he wasn't invited to because Ryan didn't mention him enough or something, and now Ryan couldn't for the life of him find Jon. Brendon, though. He knew if Brendon got an invite he must have turned it right the fuck down, and he knew he was home because the asshole posted on some form of social media every twenty minutes. That became Ryan's excuse: he didn't [i]miss[/i] Brendon, he didn't [i]wish he was here,[/i] Brendon was just the only one available to run away to. And, well. Ryan would go be alone instead of any of this if he didn't... miss Brendon. Had he not indulged in twenty-first birthday festivities and had a few drinks already, he probably would have convinced himself not to go to him, too.

Five or more drinks in, though, Ryan couldn't stop thinking about how bad the future (and the present, and the past) of his relationship looked, and about all of the sporadic moments where he forgot how much he hated or [i]wanted[/i] to hate Brendon, all of the moments where he wished there weren't unwritten boundaries between them, all of the moments where one of them accidentally became vulnerable and suddenly they weren't at each other's throats with a vengeance. Namely, he couldn't stop thinking about Brendon. So much so that he found himself making some lame excuse of 'I'm going to the bar,' and instead heading to the door, straight out of the club, out of New York City, all the way to Brendon's in Seattle where they were meant to play a show later. He did have the decency to warn Brendon about it first: [i]I'm coming over, unlock your door,[/i] which was about as friendly as it could possibly get in his texts to Brendon. He made a point not to check his phone after that. If Brendon was telling him to fuck off, he didn't want to see it - hell, if Brendon was telling him he wasn't home or wasn't going to be home, he'd rather just risk it. Anywhere but that party.

A couple of hours after initially making the decision to get the hell out of there, Ryan ended up at his door, cursing himself for not bringing a coat because the hotel was [i]far[/i] and he was always cold anyway. He stood there for a handful of seconds, thinking that this is stupid, what was he thinking, Brendon's not even going to want him here and he'll probably just be an asshole right back at him anyway, and then he was knocking on the door because he didn't really care. He hadn't seen him in a couple days already, fuck it, he missed him, hated him but needed him around regardless. When the door opened he didn't even bother standing around waiting to be invited in; Ryan ducked into the narrow gap between Brendon and the doorframe, looking around the room resignedly. [b]"Hey, what's up, is this the hotel bar,"[/b] he mumbled, distracted, already rooting around in the minifridge for tiny shot-sized bottles of alcohol. He came up again with multiple necks between his fingers, looking triumphant. [b]"I'll reimburse you."[/b] He fell back onto a hotel couch, letting the bottles clatter between himself and the back cushion, long legs strewn everywhere, and started opening a tiny Grey Goose. [b]"So, what does the famed Brendon Blake get up to on a Thursday night."[/b] Clearly he wasn't intent on addressing the whole 'ditching my birthday in the middle of the night' thing.