Three jobs in three years, hundreds, no, thousands in debt from both his student loan and the rent he couldn’t afford to pay on time- the life Brendon had was far from the one he planned when he was young, a little more fragile and a little less worldly-wise (though it be a stretch to describe him as ‘wise’ even now), but Brendon had made it for himself and he’d learned recently there was no room for regret or remorse or wondering how things would have turned out if he’d done certain things a little differently, jumped for every opportunity, connected to the right people and stayed away from the wrong ones. There was no harm in wondering, he used to think- but it just made him upset, made the tiredness in his bones resonate deeper, a deep-set exhaustion from overtime and underpay that sleep couldn’t fix. Brendon was ambitious- but when he was in a position where he was now almost certain he couldn’t get any further in, the lack of paths his career could take from there drove him crazy. He was a hairstylist, which would never, ever be his first career choice if he did it all over again, it never had been in the first place. Brendon was talented, sure, in fact he wasn’t just a hairstylist, he was a cosmetologist and a general stylist and he had an eye for aesthetic appeal that was practically unmatched. Unbelievably, that didn’t help him at all. He was stuck working in some salon where he was underpaid but couldn’t complain about because he hasn’t found another job to fall back on if he was fired. On the side, he was hired by private clients- C-listers and the odd B-lister- and though that was fun and all, Brendon wasn’t paid much, and all he got in return for his services was a bitter taste in his mouth as he styled the hair of someone who was well on their way of living Brendon’s dream.

It didn’t help to feel sorry for himself, but sometimes, it got to him. The only time he forgot how broke he was and how broke he had been and how broke he will be for the foreseeable future was payday; he lived like Gatsby for one day, never able to stem his impulses to buy and spend uncontrollably until he had next to no disposable income left. Every time the date rolled around, Brendon vowed he’d just put the cash he didn’t need to pay bills away in his account (which was currently collecting cobwebs), but that amount was getting less and less these days as chunks of his salary was taken away to repay his debts or catch up with his rent.  Brendon wasn’t exactly in a crisis; in fact, he knew for a fact if he had a little more impulse control then he’d be much more stable. But he didn’t. So he wasn’t. 

Today was payday, so when Brendon left the salon at around seven, having worked something like a ten or eleven hour shift, he went home to his tiny apartment (living in downtown LA was ridiculously expensive, but Brendon couldn’t bring himself to move anywhere else) and sat back on his uncomfortable sofa to buy shit online that he knew he didn’t need, but money, even though it was short, burned a hole in his pocket and although he didn’t strictly need a new button-down shirt, that black one would look great on him, it’d accentuate the narrowness of his waist and hug his chest and shoulders and he could leave the buttons open and [i]damn,[/i] yeah, he needed that. If there was one thing that Brendon had an appreciation for, it was fine clothes. If there was another, it was himself, and that was lucky because he spent most of his entire day in front of a mirror, and although he was meant to be focusing on the customer, often he found his eyes drifting to his own reflection or his hands running through his own hair. Conversely, Brendon knew he was attractive, and though he loved the attention and never exactly became tired of hearing it, it kind of sucked that that was the only thing people ever really noticed about him. It was flattering, really, when customers blatantly ignored his attempts at conversation in favour of staring, unsubtle, at Brendon’s reflection, but it was also really fucking rude. Whatever. He was used to it.

After he’d ordered what he wanted (some girl’s jeans, yeah, he couldn’t fit in normal ones, that black shirt, some grey sweatpants because he had decided to prioritise comfort for once, and a red sweater), Brendon paused for literally moments to decide on how he was going to spend his evening. It didn’t take him long, because typically, the answer was the same- go to a club, or a bar. Usually a bar. The only deviance was that, maybe, it’d be a gay bar. Tonight, though, he just wanted some fucking whisky and he wanted to drink it in peace, so he dropped into the most uninteresting bar he knew of that wouldn’t be full of assholes and sat down at the far end of the bar on a stool, furthest away from the door. Brendon was something of a regular and the bartender just offered him a nod of acknowledgment, opening his tab and getting him his usual without Brendon even opening his mouth. He was disappointing predictable these days, and his routine barely deviated. For someone like him, it was torture, plain and simple. 

Brendon had nobody around to tell him he was being dramatic- he didn’t need anyone to, honestly, he knew it already, he had owned being melodramatic and hard work a long time ago. Brendon closed his hand around the whisky glass and dragged it over the varnished wood, closer to himself, before he lifted it and sipped. It was unremarkable, but it was still whisky. Unremarkable was a word that could be applied to many things about Brendon’s life, but he knew for certain that he himself wasn’t unremarkable and he was meant for remarkable things. It was just a matter of getting there before the urge to, like, become a stripper or something took over.  It’d probably pay better than what he was doing now. He shifted closer to the bar on his stool and rested his elbows against the wood, watching absently as the bartender cleaned glasses at the far end, and held the whisky by the top of the glass with his fingers, flicking his wrist barely so to swirl the liquid around, watching as it settled when he stilled his movements. His mouth twitched and he sighed for no particular reason, taking a sip and realising that he was running low, but he probably really shouldn’t buy another one. 

He was about to ignore his better judgement (as he often did) and order another whisky, but someone caught his eye, somebody beside him. Brendon put his glass down carefully and then turned his head, honestly expecting anything. This was L.A., and though it was an uninteresting neighbourhood as far as LA went, he was still used to the out of ordinary and wasn’t about to be phased by this guy. Even if he was- damn, okay, that’s a man right there, he- Brendon shifted, embarrassed by his own thoughts, and he tried to not so blatantly look him up and down but he was tall and dark and slightly intimidating, wearing leather in this damn weather and standing a good few inches over Brendon, he could tell, even sitting down. Still, he didn’t get any urge towards this guy. He wasn’t in the mood for anything tonight, and dating was pretty much out of the question, he was too exhausted and too broke to make time for anyone else like that. Besides, this guy probably wasn’t even- Brendon did a double take at the way he stood, side pressed against the wood, body cocked confidently, and then his eyes drifted to his hair and just... everything, and his eyebrows lifted minutely. Yeah, okay. Brendon cleared his throat, wondering how to play this. He decided he was going to wait for this guy to speak and then make his decision.

[i]Hey, there, can I buy you a drink? I'm Ryan.[/i] Brendon blinked upon hearing his rough-smooth voice, glanced at his drink, then back at Ryan, then picked up his glass and downed the rest of it, not breaking eye contact with Ryan as he did- then he put it back down decisively and slid it away from himself, before flashing this Ryan guy a half-grin. [b]”Absolutely,”[/b] He said finally, quirking an eyebrow as his smile faded. Hey, when an opportunity presents itself... [b]”I’m Brendon. I’d usually prefer dinner, but y’know, for you I’ll make an exception.”[/b] Oh, he was flirting now. Good going, Brendon, he couldn’t really go back from that- but he was bored, and this stranger was handsome, and- the more he looked at him- Wait. [b]”I recognise you from somewhere.”[/b]