Had Ryan actually thought this through, he'd realize that presenting himself for Brendon to make fun of after undoubtedly being given [i]so[/i] much fodder was a bad idea. To be fair he hadn't actually seen any of the pictures or other documentation of how awful his party was... other than a small glimpse of the photoshoot Keltie had taken the liberty of posting everywhere she could. That was just the start of things Brendon could laugh at, though. The teen pictures he'd semi-successfully kept from his friends' camera rolls (except for maybe Spencer, but he wasn't malicious enough to bring them up), the fact that Keltie apparently thought he'd love some sort of skimpy Rockettes visit (an easy door for another 'not-a-hetero-bone-in-his-body' comment, probably), or even the ultimate tragedy of the night: a summation of how genuinely awful his long-term relationship was, how much time and energy he'd wasted on something so clearly incompatible.

But he didn't think it through, and now he was going to him like a magnet, attracted over hundreds of miles. Last year when Ryan learned his father was terminal Brendon had become so uncharacteristically sweet, probably just unsettled by the way Ryan couldn't bite back as hard or as often, how his expression and general body language had changed, whatever. No matter the case, he'd been so nice, and Ryan had never been the target for Brendon's kindness in the same way Brendon had never been on the receiving end of his. Once he was moving past the heaviest burden of grief, he realized what had been going on - and he liked it. The tiniest sample of them actually being friends and close was something he genuinely wished he could have. But of course this was a passing dream, one that lasted for seconds whenever it came back to him. 

Now was one of the times, sort of; he felt so shitty he just wanted them to be civil to one another, or if he couldn't have that he'd rather hold the upper hand whenever they were at each other's throats (because apparently that was his limit... either he could acceptably be relatively all right with Brendon or he could be absolutely extinguishing his confidence).  A tiny part of him was aware that he wanted Brendon to be nice to him, to wish him a happy birthday, to pretend he'd have wanted to be there, to tell him he'd missed him the same way Ryan had missed him. Scarily he registered that in this state he wanted things from Brendon that were less friendship-oriented and more like something one may want from a [i]boyfriend,[/i] and he was quick to wash away that mindset. The thought alone was horrifying. Ish. Maybe a little bit tempting. Not that he'd ever admit it, or let himself think of it longer to exist as anything but an intrusive thought.

When he got to Brendon's, he answered the door shirtless and stubbly and messy-haired, and after so much tight-spaced band time together he had seen that and was fairly used to it, but still. He couldn't look at him long or he'd risk something showing through his expression, probably, something embarrassing, so he ducked through the doorway smoothly as soon as he could, shutting his eyes tight and pretending he was welcome. Brendon looked confused, not angry yet, and Ryan prayed silently [i]don't make me go don't make me go,[/i] all the while feigning total confidence in his being ghere by welcoming himself to Brendon's hotel amenities. As many of them as he could hold, actually. Judging by a quick look around the room, it seemed like Brendon had already broken into the alcohol. He definitely wasn't twenty-one. Lucky fucker gets a room paid for by the record and gets everything he'd normally have to wait a year for.

[i]You fucking better, what the fuck are you-[/i] Characteristically, Ryan cut him off before he could scold him more, already breaking into a tiny vodka. Meanwhile, Brendon was evidently calibrating to the situation still, genuinely baffled by Ryan appearing here. Maybe he hadn't gotten the text, then, or just didn't believe it. Either was plausible - he could've definitely set Ryan to 'no notifications,' and if he had them, it wasn't feasible that Ryan would ever go out of his way to see him. But here he was. [i]...What the fuck are you doing in [/i]my [i]hotel room on a Thursday night when you’re supposed to be at your birthday party? In [/i]New York? Ryan looked at him through narrowed eyes, wanting desperately to talk about how it felt to be at that place where he didn't even know anyone, how he felt now in general, but that wasn't their relationship. Instead, he set aside the now-empty vodka, moving on to a tiny rum bottle. 

Brendon looked resigned for a moment, then smug, and Ryan was torn between wanting to wipe the fucking smirk off his face and thinking he had such an endearing side-smile. Weird. [i]Did you fly across the country to see me instead of your girlfriend?[/i] Empty rum. He set it aside, moved on to a second bottle of the same. Pointedly, he looked rather pissed that he couldn't come up with another excuse than that. Whatever; he wouldn't have wanted to keep up a lie all night anyway. [i]Fuckin’ loser. Does she know you’re here?[/i] [b]"[i]Fuck[/i] you,"[/b] he burst out immediately, sitting up and pulling his legs up to sit criss-cross on the couch. [b]"Fuck you, okay? All you ever do is whine about Keltie. Maybe it's not your fucking business."[/b] Ryan's third shot unsteadily landed on the coffee table next to the slowly forming line, and he paused for a long moment, forcing himself to look away from Brendon. God, he wished they were different people.

Ryan started to talk then stopped in the same second, hesitating a little while longer. Suddenly the anger dissipated from his face, not totally but mostly, and was replaced with something closer to despondency, an actual frown threatening. [b]"A year, and she has no idea who I am,"[/b] he said quietly, melancholy. [b]"I should have broken up with her so long ago."[/b] He hugged his arms around his legs, feeling the room move around him and knowing he probably should have let his last drink be in NYC. Fuck. He glanced at Brendon, feeling a twinge of mortification that certainly paled in comparison to what he might have felt sober, then quickly looked back at the floor. Whatever Brendon was thinking, it was probably already not so good, he'd probably already lost any semblance of an upper hand. So fuck it. [b]"I feel like shit."[/b]