When he was younger, Brendon would, similarly to Ryan, have never anticipated what his life had come to now- but unlike for the talented and successful musician, Brendon’s life hadn’t turned out so fancy and steeped in sex, drugs and rock n’ roll, although he doubted that somebody like Ryan (even if he did look slightly intimidating, but that was mostly because Brendon was so short compared to him) partook in any of that. Actually. Well, what did he know- Brendon envied the success of celebrities and despised serving them when he knew he was meant for something greater; and though by no means was Brendon arrogant or fame-hungry (he just wanted lots of people to hear what he could do), he was confident and sure of himself. Well, he had been. It’d been literal years since he picked up or sat down to play an instrument, and though he was a talented singer, he supposed he’d be incredibly rusty. Life had just dealt Brendon a bad deck of cards and he was just endlessly unlucky- it wasn’t the worst life by any standards, especially in comparison to others, but it wasn’t the life he wanted. Wasn’t the life he was meant for. Wasn’t the life he deserved.

But there he was, anyway, and he could see no way out- for someone like him, with boundless energy and high ambitions and endless talent, being stuck in the same role with the same pay and nowhere else to go was a living nightmare. He’d move heaven and hell to get out of there- if someone would just show him how he’d get out of there, get out before he was stuck permanently and he grew old and got arthritis and couldn’t cut hair anymore or something. Brendon was spontaneous and liked to live in the moment, not plan every step of his future- and when he was in his late twenties and it looked like his entire life really was paved out in front of him perfectly, it set off his anxiety and his nervous energy and instead of being a motivator, that immobilised him. A hopelessness had started to settle on Brendon’s bones- it wasn’t catastrophic, but it was slowing him down, it was draining away at the Brendon he used to be. Overtime, inadequate pay and even loneliness (he didn’t have a roommate, or a significant other, and he couldn’t afford to look after a dog) had reduced his overall enthusiasm for life, and it sucked. Surface level, though, he knew he looked fine- he had stood in front of the mirror, he had studied his face, he hadn’t aged much in a decade save a few harder lines and the startlingly darker shadows under his eyes. He was still youthful, when he dressed as nice as he could afford he looked put together, handsome, even desirable. That was all he had going for him right now. It seemed material pleasure and the condition and desire of being beautiful had now taken over his entire life and career- he worked in a salon, after all.

He wondered if Ryan saw exactly what Brendon saw in the mirror when he looked at him. Brendon met his eyes, and imagined him thinking wow, this guy looks tired- Ryan’s eyes fell briefly to his mouth and the corner of it quirked as he shifted on the barstool and thought back to all the lovers he’d had (though the last one was a while back) who had obsessed over his full mouth and identified it as his best feature. Brendon wondered whether his hair looked good- of course it did, he was a hairstylist, if it was ever otherwise he’d quit the job himself- and then turned his attention to the stranger instead, eyes naturally going up to his hair. It was too long, yeah, it needed cutting shorter, and styling differently. Brendon then allowed himself to look the man up and down, before shifting his stool sideways so Ryan could sit beside him (his legs were long and Brendon imagined he needed extra floor space). So- he had accepted the offer of another drink. It wasn’t a rare occurrence, somebody offering, and it wasn’t often that he rejected it, either. The main appeal was a free drink, it was just a bonus if they were cute. It usually always went the same- someone approached, bought him a drink, Brendon flirted a little to keep them happy and then blew them off gently as he could at the end of the night as somebody stared after him like he was the one who got away. Lucky that Brendon wasn’t some kind of prize or conquest. That was usually why he never took such encounters further- it was kind of shallow. Though. Brendon was one to talk. He judged Ryan immediately based on his appearance, before even hearing him talk- but he was glad once he did, hearing his gentle, sexy-in-a-rough way voice and letting his eyelids droop because wow, he already knew he could listen to him talk forever.

Unfortunately, he seemed, though clearly confident and sure of himself (judging from his stance), a man of few words. [i]We could do that, too, sometime.[/i] Go for dinner? Sure. Only Brendon’s wallet was empty and just the thought of spending money on eating out made him shudder. So, he nodded, but shrugged one shoulder simultaneously- [b]”Sure, darlin’, but you’re paying.”[/b] There was a playful glint in his deep brown eyes and he struggled to contain an enchanted smile at that little head tilt Ryan just pulled, staring down in concentration into his empty whiskey glass before he pushed it a little further along the bar. As he did that, the glass was taken away almost immediately and two others were pushed towards them. Brendon lifted his head to thank the bartender silently, then arched an eyebrow at Ryan.

 [b]”Two drinks? Someone’s thirsty,”[/b] He commented, smiling and taking the one he assumed to be his, straightening just as Ryan planted his elbow on the wood and leaned slightly over the bar. Now that he looked at him, yeah, his face was familiar, Brendon’s eyebrows rose in something like recognition, but he couldn’t link the name and the face with anything famous, and it was on the tip of his tongue- clearly Ryan had been waiting for that, because he jumped on it immediately when Brendon mentioned that he knew his face. [i]I'm a musician, might be it. I lead The Young Veins.[/i] The Young Veins, yeah, that’s it, he knew them. Who didn’t know them? Brendon nodded and took a sip of his drink, not wanting to be one of those dumbasses who overreacted when they spoke to someone famous. He was still a man, still a relative stranger- or was he, if Brendon already knew who he was? His full name, in fact? It was a little surreal. He wasn’t exactly sure how to play this. [i]Heard of us?[/i] He imagined how funny it would be if he said no, and he took another sip of his drink before setting it down, shrugging off his jacket fluidly and draping it over his stool because he figured he might be here for longer than he anticipated. [b]”Yeah, I have,”[/b] He confirmed. [b]”Who hasn’t? Lucky for you, I’m not some weird fanboy. I’m not gonna jump you. Unless you want me to.”[/b] He winked, effortless, half-joking, but Brendon was naturally charismatic. It probably looked as smooth as it felt. Probably.

What was he doing? Seriously, what the hell did he think he was doing? He usually had a little more restraint than this. And the last thing he needed right now was to get involved in any way with some rockstar, probably used to getting whatever he wanted. If he played hard to get... No, seriously, stop it, he told himself. Besides, Ryan looked and seemed sweet enough. Brendon had never been a massive fan, but he’d read interview transcripts, heard and watched live interviews, and he seemed the same in both, so far. Brendon turned his body towards Ryan, crossing one leg over the other, but he was looking past him at a small group throwing suspect glances in Ryan’s direction. Brendon raised his eyebrows at them, as if to say, ‘really?’, then just shrugged a shoulder and looked let his eyes drop down to where one of Ryan’s hands was wrapped around his glass. On basically every finger was a ring- Pretty stereotypical, but Brendon was fascinated anyway. Mostly by his hands, his long fingers, and Brendon glanced briefly at his own, turning his palm over and grimacing because whatever callouses that should be prominent of a guitarist were practically non-existent. He slid his hand off the table and into his lap.