Back in suburban Colorado, where Ryan grew up, the stars were no rarity - but they were nothing like what one might find in rural areas, where no artificial light has paled out that of the real stars, no pollution clogged up the sky. He never dwelled too heavily on them, really, it was the moon and the sun Ryan was most drawn to when the sky was concerned, but he understood the common obsession. When he moved out here, finally [i]alone[/I] alone rather than very aware of the distant presence of someone else uncertain and unsettling in his home, looking up at the stars felt like his only company. Most nights it wasn't just the black with scattered, bright twinkles that most acknowledged as the extent of an evening sky. Rather, it was a luminous picture of violets and burnt reds and cobalt blues, all overlaying the void that the stars were sprinkled throughout. He could write an epic poem about the image if he ever took the time to think of things not in his contract these days, and if he ever felt charmed enough to step outside and enjoy the peace for once. By now, he'd grown used to it.

But he could say that about many things, and since Brendon arrived, his enthusiasm for life in general had returned (returned? he wasn't so sure it was ever there in the first place). That wasn't to say Brendon was this animated cartoon character dusting up rooms and Mary Poppins-ing the place up, bringing life to every corner; he was a New Yorker, far from all of that cliché bullshit. But he had a quality about him. With his wide vernacular and every word in his personal dictionary, Ryan could not put a name to it. Brendon played along with his still socially awkward quips, came up with responses to his still dry conversation, was patient with how closed off and reserved he was. He made Ryan want to put a real name on his book, made him want to put a dedication in the beginning when, before, there'd been a blank page - his younger self was a cynic in that he didn't believe anyone deserved that place when there were two perfectly fine candidates. Brendon, without meaning to, improved his life as a whole. If he was corny, he'd say he completed him, even. But Ryan didn't even allow himself to think that kind of thing. 

For all of that, Ryan didn't want him to leave. He didn't need a roommate, and he needed no more staff, but he didn't know what to call Brendon in order to make his stay appropriate. Sometimes he just resorted to accepting the fact that he was now, undeniably, a home for wayward kids - Brendon a city street rat barely escaped from Brooklyn, Ryan a Colorado runaway subsisting off of the overly generous royalties from his tragic works. He didn't know what they were. Ryan could comfortably call Brendon his best friend - though he hadn't done as much to his face, unfortunately - and there was probably something more to it that he wasn't quite ready to admit to. When Brendon was gone for a week, though, the place felt quiet, unlived in as it had been before despite Ryan inhabiting the house still. And he knew where Brendon was, too, with his old friends that he'd so impulsively abandoned, unable to deal with another budding addiction. Dealt with it once, didn't want to see it again, didn't even want to [i]help.[/i] Maybe if he was considering Brendon his best friend, now, he should warn him that he'd never made for a very good one in the past.

Weird to think of where they'd started. [i]Hi. What the literal fuck are you doing on my porch at eleven in the morning?[/i] He definitely still talked like that. Short, uncommunicative, blunt, all of that - just fonder. That stumbly, semi-forced meeting had turned quickly into something unexpected. Brendon was a musician, he learned fast, mostly from picking up on the typical signals - callouses, a learned ear, the brief admission that he had earned his degree - because of course Brendon rivalled Ryan in that he spared every detail about himself and didn't come out with information that easy. And then the dipping into Ryan's drinks - which, though it was something Ryan was fine with, certainly made for an awkward phase, becase he only addressed it when he found Brendon wasted and the guy for sure [i]came onto him,[/i] without a doubt. [i]Get on my knees? In a heartbeat,[/i] and, unforgettably, [i]you're hot when you're mad,[/i] so on. Ryan made a point to try not to get mad at him anymore after that. Which was simple, considering every annoying habit Brendon had was gravely endearing.

Anyway, he didn't seem to remember it fully, so Ryan was left alone with the scarring memory. They'd since gotten along unbelievably well, a match undoubtedly not made in heaven. Brendon had patience with him, even when he was able to embrace Ryan and tell him he missed him and receive nothing back. Audibly, anyway. Ryan had grown used to that warmfuzzy feeling it gave him, grown used to responding in his head; if Brendon had acquired any skill at all while staying here, it was mindreading. Ryan's slow life, time a jelly, was a limbo for Brendon, and sometimes he wondered if Brendon longed for something different. Maybe he wanted to go home, maybe all of the awkward stammering about staying any longer was actually him being polite about asking to leave. But if Ryan thought about it too hard, he convinced himself it was true, so he avoided thinking about it at all, just relished the time in the studio with someone else who levelled with him, who seemed to resonate with all of his musical ideas and was in tune with any chord he played. His mind drifted in there, especially listening to Brendon play or sing; it was probably his innate talent that made Ryan think, fleetingly, about things like love and commitment, so much so that he sometimes had to cut the sessions short with lame excuses. Being embarrassed by his own thoughts, in his own 98% empty home, was an odd feeling. 

Despite knowing that those unsafe thoughts entered his mind during times like those, when they were alone and basking in one another's company, Ryan still tended to indulge. He'd learned some time ago of Brendon's love for the night sky out here, and it gave him some more insight into his life that he so rarely talked about. Had he never travelled? Never been given a chance to see the world outside of roughed-up Brooklyn? He supposed Brendon wasn't much of a tough, scarred up escapee from the streets of New York City, but it still seemed like he'd just... not had a great go at life thus far. No adventure, nothing, if visiting up here was the best that he'd had. Ryan tried to write, but instead watched Brendon silently while he gazed up distractedly at the stars, always taking it all in as if it were the first time he'd seen them so clearly. Something about his inexposure to it was sweet, made Ryan want to show him everything and anything beautiful he'd never had the privilege to see before. 

Ryan was memorizing his profile, every curve and careful lilt to his silhouette, especially now that he wore such an awed expression at the sky above, when Brendon looked his way at the abandoned notebook beside him. Avoidant, Ryan glanced away, as if he'd been looking at the sky all along himself. [i]Any luck, then?[/i] Ryan hummed curiously, innocuous, like he hadn't expected Brendon to speak. He noted - with the practiced, careful observation he'd picked up such a habit of around Brendon - his instant self-consciousness and slightly smiled, wondering what exactly got to him this time. [i]With writing, I mean. I see you writing constantly but you never seem to actually get anywhere, y’know?[/i] [b]"I've always got a muse,"[/b] Ryan said, somewhat mysteriously, and for Brendon's sake he kept his voice low, too. Brendon was the muse, really. All of that writing was, to say the least, not something that could be quantified into a commercially selling book. Unless suddenly the whole world wanted to hear all about Brendon and Ryan's views on him, blanketed in the usual metaphor and poetry/prose mix, that is. [b]"Just... nothing that I can show to the publishers."[/b] He glanced back at Brendon finally, having kept his gaze straight up ahead previously.

Distantly he thought about how it was ironic, Brendon was a figure like the sun to him and in all his lyrical little notes to self, and he was so in love with these stars laid out above him. [b]"I don't think you're as much of a city person as you might've resigned yourself to be. It's sweet, how much you love a clear night sky."[/b] Only recently had Ryan grown a little more comfortable with saying things so obviously semi-affectionate like that, but still. He sort of cringed at his word choice. He chewed his lip for a moment, considering, then looked back at the sky, suddenly feeling playful. He leaned over to Brendon until their gazes were aligned towards one point, lifting an arm and pointing randomly at the stars. [b]"Look, those collected stars there - that's Cassiopeia, the constellation. Neat, right?"[/b] Keeping his face fixed forward, Ryan betrayed a tiny smirk, amused by himself.