Ryan arrived at O'Leary's just in time to watch the club owner step out to intercept some tired-looking police officer, clearly on his way to catch some speakeasy right in the act, handing him a bottle of what looked like moonshine to keep him quiet. He sort of smiled at the sight; this had been the deal since January 17th. Before, Ryan was just a piano player at the club, taking requests or learning the sheets handed to him from singers, only good about seventy percent of the time because it's not like this was the absolute classiest place in town but it was just unknown enough not to get invaded by cops before midnight. In fact, they usually had 'til dawn before the morning shift arrived, carrying out those who'd drank their body weight and could no longer walk, arresting every bootlegger in sight and cuffing the owner (who always ended up back in two days, anyway, god knows whether someone bailed him out or whether the place was just too crowded after another night of catching those against the Prohibition). Anyway. Ryan stayed outside, dragging on his cigarette long enough to watch the cop accept the drink and go sit out in his patrol car, determinedly in park and keeping other more righteous officers out of the way.

He circled the block to his van and hit the side of it, watched Spencer take his cue to move along to the back of the club and load their shipment inside. He walked through a side door, observed the last of the bar supply running out on a few final orders before Spencer carried in a new keg and set it up beneath the bar. Ryan took pride in this 'new calling' - he didn't half his whiskey like others, didn't dumb it down completely with water or whatever new chemicals criminals were coming up with. Well, saying it like that implied he didn't realize there was no distinction between himself and 'criminals,' when really he knew he was in the same group. He just figured he wasn't scamming people, so he barely counted. He made a tidy profit off of corn sugar and yeast (definitely not his idea; a piano playing background barely gave way for that kind of wisdom), and when he did use the popular glycerin ingredient he'd water it down and promote the newfangled cocktail of mixing it with pop or some other fruit juice. Spencer was the one who introduced beer to their sales, picking up malt syrup in massive quantities and making a huge amount of cash back to cover it.

What set Ryan apart was that he had it in with most doctors around the city. He had a prescription for whiskey and spirits and wine, and because he obviously couldn't use that chip very often, he had his whole team make their rounds through the hospital with their own scripts. Since it was so rare - and he really didn't need the government asking questions about where their own supply was going - he upcharged it, and the hassle was plenty worth it. It's not like he was doing anything totally different from other sellers, in the end. He just had better prices, a better attitude, and didn't come from a huge crime family that put customers in danger. And, well, he was local. Others like him were on a whole other side of the country, and unless you were a real heavy drinker, you probably wouldn't sacrifice that much time just for some watery ass gin. Probably. At this point, Ryan had learned not to judge.

Ryan stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the bar and watched as Spencer and a handful of other crewhands dragged the shipment in, just in time for the wave of people coming in - as they did nightly. Ryan, on the other hand, only stopped by twice a week to keep the place stocked up. He was a busy guy, and he was valued, evidenced in the way the owner definitely saw him put out his cigarette on the fine wood and had a problem with it, didn't say a word because it was Ryan Rowe doing it. Or maybe he just didn't wanna put a damper on his fancy themed speakeasy. Anyway. Even if Ryan wasn't really intending on sticking around long, he still had to play the game, so he pulled the mask resting atop his head back over his eyes as customers started walking through, their costumes all equally ridiculous and elegant. He was just here long enough to get the rest of his money - he only requested half on an initial payment, the rest was the night of delivery - and then maybe to see the crowd's reactions to his mixes. They weren't all perfect, it'd only been about a year since the Act took effect and he was getting it down just right, so, ever ambitious, he needed occasional criticism. Not that anyone had any complaints so long as they were getting drunk, and anyway, it's not like they'd say a word to a racketeer that held so much over their head.

"Weekes," Ryan said, cutting into the slightly louder bar, volume rising with the arrival of more people. "You owe me." It cost him roundabouts fifty cents to make one gallon of liquor. Trust that he charged five dollars per, and at fourty gallons, Dallon owed him $100 for the other half of his payment. The owner looked around for a second, like he really didn't think he was gonna have to close the deal, and then produced a handful of bills from below the counter. Ryan settled down, letting him slip them over discreetly, counting through in a second flat. Great. Guy was suspicious, kind of odd, but he never cut Ryan short. Ryan tucked it away in his clip and when he looked back up Dallon had already wandered away. He leaned over the bar again on both elbow, chancing a glance around and realizing that a man down the counter, finely dressed and golden accented, had seen the whole transaction. Not a red flag, really, Ryan wasn't concerned, but past the mask he was clearly of interest and Ryan had definitely sort of showed off his wealth in a split second there. May as well jump on an opportunity.

He paused to study him, and the getup was really a tell. It was a double entendre to say that he probably didn't take his drinks straight. "Whiskey with mint?" he asked, just loud enough to be heard, just low enough to keep his voice level, rough. "Smith." But Spencer clearly already knew his intentions, keeping an eye on him while he found a shaker and poured both of them out glasses. Ryan sort of offered him a side-smile, glad his best friend and business partner knew him all too well, and took both, sliding one over to the stranger while he shifted to a closer seat. "You look like you belong in West 58th." Much more upscale place. Only reason Ryan wasn't there because he didn't look the part. "What brings you here?"

Brendon knew the owner of the club well enough that he received a loyalty discount, but not well enough that they would ever disclose anything about business to eachother, more specifically the identity of their suppliers. Both of them employed the services of bootleggers but it was generally known but not spoken that the one thing they didn’t talk about was business ventures- it was just safer that way. Even if it wasn’t as dangerous as everyone had at first made it out to be, with most of the police force corrupt anyways and the rest left to deal with crime empires and an illegal trade of an unmanageable scale, there were still some righteous officers out there and every so often there was an incident where a speakeasy would be charged and everyone inside would be arrested that kept the rest of the underground community less complacent, on their toes, cautious. It paid off to be wary. To be honest, it was probably more of an issue for vendors like Dallon, who ran a reasonably fancy relatively secret establishment but was at full risk from being caught by someone sticking their nose where it didn’t belong, whereas Brendon, a near-household name, had the privilege and fame and the immunity that came with it. He was no national superstar but he was rising up on his way to becoming the revered prince amongst men in state-specific music scenes. This more or less granted him guaranteed protection but there were always people who hated his guts enough to want him going under.

It’s not like he ran any speakeasies like Dallon did, acting all hush-hush and his business only being advertised by word of mouth- he was, arguably, playing a much more dangerous game in that everything he did was public and infamous- namely, his parties, thrown often and each time more lavishly than the last; they were invite-only and guests were carefully selected but he was taking a gamble every time as he hid the gallons and gallons of alcohol he offered at the party in plain sight.

These events weren’t a new thing or an act of rebellion against the Act on Brendon’s part- these parties had been a regular thing even beforehand. The only thing was that, hilariously, prohibition had popularised drinking even more, taboo becoming sought after in a period of rowdiness and overindulgence and rebellion against what was considered social norms. Brendon’s parties were of even more interest since prohibition and for this reason, he actually supported the ban- controversy and rumours about his supposed ‘illegal drunken escapades’ were publicity, and any publicity was good publicity, especially when the image Brendon was going for wasn’t exactly straightedge and traditional. He was openly gay, for god’s sake- and this was another reason that many didn’t care as much about the very suspicious secrecy of his house parties, they were more obsessed with who he fucked and why. Brendon thought it was hilarious- the most old-fashioned, traditional people were the ones that thought about gay people and gay sex the most and in an increasingly accepting society it became easier to laugh at them than to be afraid. Especially when Brendon was in that strange position of immunity as a public figure.

Even still, it wasn’t like he could just drop into normal bars and flirt with whoever he saw fit, because he could still end up dead. Many wouldn’t care if he was famous or the goddamn president, it was a dangerous lifestyle Brendon was leading in many ways and most of these were by choice, but this was a way he wished he didn’t have to. He figured they’d probably peaked as far as liberalism went- there was nothing to do but to get on with it.

Luckily, he wasn’t yet instantly recognisable and what he liked about Dallon’s place was that there was a fancy- if slightly ridiculous- dress code, which highlighted the necessity of a burlesque-style mask. He wasn’t sure where Dallon got that idea because he tended to be the only one who didn’t wear one- everyone there knew who he was anyway, and he knew who everyone was because he asked every new mask to show him their identity before he ever relaxed. By that way Dallon had recognised Brendon and was incidentally a fan of his music, and they immediately got on- they were in similar business and Dallon was a decent enough man that he didn’t care about Brendon’s sexuality. It wasn’t like they’d had a direct conversation, but Brendon had often risked his neck trying it with who he presumed to be like-minded at this very establishment and Dallon had never even thrown him a second glance. He appreciated that. Brendon knew it wasn’t normal, but people really didn’t need to be assholes about it.

Brendon had come to O’Leary’s tonight for no particular reason other than maybe encounter some new people he liked enough to invite to his parties (the ones that he rarely actually attended, much to the new guest’s usual surprise. He much preferred to remain alone and simply watch what was happening like observing animals in a zoo, or something). Due to his friendliness with the owner he managed to get in early before the next increase in the surge of customers and take a seat at the bar, and for about twenty minutes he’d just been talking to Dallon- until, from the side door, he heard and then saw activity, turning his head and automatically pulling his gold-accented mask over his eyes as who he identified immediately as bootleggers move another keg in and behind the bar. From his peripheral he saw somebody sit down but wasn’t interested enough to look properly, instead looking out at the costumed people drifting in. Over the noise he heard a voice but paid little attention once he realised it was just some business transaction. He’d heard a thousand beforehand, nothing interesting.

However, thought the speakeasy scene quickly bored him and he chanced a look over at who he presumed was the leader of the operation, interested. He wondered if he knew this one- but the mask made it difficult to tell, until... Whiskey with Mint? Huh. He met his eyes and identified from this and his voice that this was who he worked with for his own supply- Ryan Rowe, he recalled. Was he propositioning him, or just being polite to a client? He didn’t see any recognition in his eyes and was admittedly slightly offended. He nodded, though, watched as Ryan’s business partner poured them drinks, and caught his glass when it was slid down the bar to him, shifting in his stool slightly when Ryan moved into the one next to him. You look like you belong in West 58th Brendon smirked, because he knew he did- he upstaged this whole place just by sitting at the bar. What brings you here?

Brendon picked up his drink and took a sip, then flicked his wrist slightly in a circle and watched the liquid move in the glass. He placed it back down and clicked his tongue. ”Illegal activities,” He said in a hushed, secretive voice, leaning in closer to Ryan as if it was classified information. ”I’m undercover, y’know.”

As a pianist, Ryan made maybe an eighth of the amount of money he made now. Of course his old lounge didn't give me a paycheck - it was purely tips people were willing to drop into a pitcher atop his instrument, and they were downtown, not a particularly nice place, so he got the short end of the stick every single night. He understood, really, poor people looking for a good night didn't anticipate having to pay for entertainment that could just come via gramophone, but it was hard then. Having to save up every cent for bills (he, Spencer, and another partner, Jon, were all crammed into a teeny shoebox apartment in those days, throwing up curtains to make walls in such a little space), Ryan had taken to ridiculous measures to survive - he'd lurk near the kitchen doors during closing hours, wait for every vaguely saveable food item being thrown out, call that groceries; he'd scam cab drivers by claiming to have to retrieve his money clip from inside for a free ride; oftentimes he'd wander off to the meager dressing room the lounge offered for artists and have a look to see whether they had new clothes with no holes in it.

Maybe a life of crime - though those were all laughable offenses, really - was what he was meant for. It felt unfamiliar to think of anything he was doing, even now, committing one of the nation's most troubling crimes for the time, as an unlawful thing. He was just serving the public. And he never acted like some shady dealer during any of it, which made the idea of any of this being illegal even more strange: what was wrong with something he could do so comfortably? Ryan had never been busted before. He came close, sometimes, like just outside when he had only arrived in time to watch a cop get bribed into silence - if Dallon hadn't been there to ration out the guy a drink, he might've questioned Ryan, might've figured something out. Not that Ryan even looked the part, for anything he did. As a pianist, he'd looked too young, and for his youth carried himself too formally, too careful and conscious. Now he retained all of those qualities, and it was less of an oddity as it was then, more of a perk. For all his boyish features, he looked easy to scam; for customers with good intentions he had an easy countenance. All this just made it simpler to weed out bad business.

He rose to this position fucking fast. Ryan's best guess that it was the broke desperation - living off a handful of nickels a week was no way to live, and he was naturally ambitious, but fuck, a rough living situation kicked him into high gear. Here he was now, sat with a casual $200 in his pocket, and that was from a small deal. Maybe dwelling on the shift in situation turned him cocky, because he had the confidence - he always had the confidence as of late, scratch that - he had the inclination to flirt, just to test the waters, see what happened. This was Dallon's place, and he knew Dallon well enough that, though he wasn't quite part of the 'community' that Ryan was himself, he'd never had a bad word to say about it. Usually, that was enough to get more people looking for acceptance flooding in, news of the place spreading by word of mouth. (Poor Dallon, come to think of it. He wasn't a gay club now, but just by not being an asshole, he sort of permitted himself to turn into one. Maybe Ryan should let him know...)

Anyway. The man Ryan was speaking to nodded, and when Ryan lifted his gaze from the glasses being poured for them, he studied him a little closer. There was something, there. Half his face concealed, Ryan's gaze naturally fell to his lips, curious, but... it probably would have anyway. For one thing, he was familiar. For another, that smirk could very easily send someone into cardiac arrest. Ryan was so sure. He pursed his lips, looked away to watch the maybe-stranger's cocktail circle his glass. Illegal activities. Ryan blinked in recognition at the sound of his voice, watching him lean closer and smiling without any conscious thought behind it, suddenly straightening up. "Yeah?" he asked interestedly, quiet, studying Brendon a little more closely and re-remembering every tiny detail he'd mentally bookmarked just some days ago. I'm undercover, y’know. "Some cover." Ryan reached out - because having limitless social boundaries thanks to sheer power had led him to forget what was and wasn't appropriate, apparently - and straightened Brendon's golden mask gently by the edge, looking impressed. "Almost didn't recognise you, Mr. Blake." His voice dropped dramatically upon announcing his name, and he tipped his head forward as if telling a secret.

Realistically he should have noticed at first sight. Ryan had been at one of Brendon's lavish parties just two days ago - his first deal with Brendon, actually. Brendon made a huge order, if he recalled correctly, and make no mistake, that would be a hard night not to remember. Nothing totally unforgettable or scandalous, like some drunk found dead by a pool, or a police raid, or anything you'd usually hear of to keep the memory of a party alive. Apparently Brendon's celebrations were just... like that. To be invited to such an exclusive occasion, Ryan felt way too fucking lucky - and then he'd misused that luck by just observing the entire night. Had a bad habit of doing that, sometimes. Brendon was quick during deals, knew what he wanted and what a reasonable price was, didn't try to negotiate just to con Ryan and get cheaper drinks. Maybe that's where Ryan was initially drawn to him from. In any case, after the shipment was delivered and Ryan was allowed to spend the night enjoying the fruits of the transaction, he mostly tried to find out more about Brendon.

Hard part of that: Brendon barely did much at his own party, seemed more interested on watching, listening. He was interesting, that's for sure. Ryan did know that he lived in the public eye. He was a singer, and maybe if he wasn't as good as he was he'd have played in Ryan's old bar. Fun thought to entertain. But he was seriously, incredibly talented... and openly gay. That had to be the only reason he wasn't world renowned; prejudice. Otherwise the only thing people would hear was the fact that he genuinely had a gift. It worked out for Ryan, though, because he could pursue all he wanted and not have to worry about anything but himself. Seriously, after a few hours occasionally catching Brendon's gleaming smile and wondering how he kept his hair in such perfect condition, he was up to some pursuit. He never got to tell him any of this, about him, about the party, nothing. Convenient they should find one another again. Ryan rested his elbow on the bar, chin propped in that hand, and regarded Brendon with interest. "Never got to catch up with you, after that soirée. It was just incredible. You were tellin' me you host every weekend? Thinking of keeping me as your supplier?"

Since the prohibition, Brendon’s parties had become increasingly in demand- and though he used to operate on an open-invite basis, where anybody who knew about the event could attend, these days he was more careful about who he let in through his grand front entrance, and consequently into his expansive garden to enjoy music and hors d'oeuvres with good company (he wouldn’t settle for anything less) in the moonlight under fancy verandas. And, of course, everything was spiced up by the lingering promise of alcohol- and not cheap shit, either, Brendon made sure of that, he spared no expense and expected only the best from whoever he worked with- drinking had been perceived as a nationwide problem before but now it was just the nation’s guilty pleasure and that made the prospect of Brendon’s parties all the more exciting. Still, it was risky business. Though he was somewhat of a star and popular in the wider-than-local music scene, definitely talented and respected for this talent, but he wasn’t some Hollywood untouchable. Even if times had changed and people had become more tolerant, he was still likely to be treated with immense bias if people ever did want to prosecute. Luckily the police force was incompetent and he didn’t waste the valuable time he had in worrying about whether his next party was going to be stormed by a police raid.

Instead, he spent his valuable time doing a multitude of other things- being as rich as he was had his perks, in that he could do absolutely nothing for an entire year and not even come close to drying out his bank account, unless he was feeling particularly indulgent. He spent entire days just sat at his grand piano, composing or just plunking on the keys for inspiration, sitting there all pristine in his silk robe, the very image of obscene luxury as he sipped on champagne from crystal glasses and was effortlessly, effortlessly beautiful. It seemed he went about life like it was just one huge show and even if he had nobody to impress or put on a show for- he put on a show. Other favoured pastimes of his were singing- though he never treated his party guests with a free show- and going out where nobody would recognise him. Funny, considering he was more than inclined to be in the centre of attention. He was born spotlight-ready. But being so subject to that scrutiny made it difficult for Brendon to make real, tangible connections- in fact, the only one he’d come close to making recently was with the bootlegger he’d recently employed, of all people. Really, Brendon, you do chose the best people to take interest in.

Funnily enough, here was this bootlegger, in this place where he wasn’t recognised. Not that it would matter much if he was- it was Dallon’s, so if there were any bigots around anywhere that expressed any of their bigotry towards Brendon, Dallon would deal with it. But the whole bar had an unintentionally fruity vibe, anyway. Dallon was entirely unaware of his accidental pansy club, Brendon was sure of it- but he wasn’t about to let him know. It allowed him to feel comfortable when Ryan bought him a drink and moved along the bar to get closer, at ease rather than like he had to watch his back before he did anything vaguely suggestive, like, make eye contact for too long, or something. He was smirking as he leaned closer, looking at Ryan wondrously, a little offended that he hadn’t been instantly recognised but- oh well. The mask did it’s job, he supposed. Yeah? Brendon nodded, and then rested his elbow on the bar to bring his finger to his lips, smirk still pulling at the corner of his mouth and only faltering when Ryan reached out to straighten his mask. Some cover. What- Oh. Shame. Brendon laughed, and drew back slightly though he didn’t particularly want to. Almost didn’t recognise you, Mr. Blake.

”That’s sir, to you, Mr. Rowe,” Brendon replied faux-haughtily, raising an eyebrow though he knew Ryan couldn’t see. ”And, frankly, I’m offended, old sport, I really am. Here I was thinking I was... well... unmistakeable.” He shook his head sadly and took a sip of his drink, looking through his eyelashes and over his glass at Ryan, who he suddenly realised he had definitely been into from the start. He would’ve done something about that, but- for one he wasn’t a big attendant of his own parties, and for another, he couldn’t just go around flirting with whoever he took a shine to, no matter how fruity they seemed to him anyway. It was different now, though. Ryan had come onto him. He swallowed and put his glass down, clearing his throat. ”I recognised you. Some faces are difficult to forget,” Grinning, almost mischevious, he winked and then found his eyes gravitating towards Ryan’s hands, as he unwrapped his fingers from around his glass and instead used them to hold his chin as he propped up his head using his elbow. Almost flustered, he reached up to run a hand over his slicked-back hair, making sure it was still pristine. He noticed Ryan was going for a less controlled look, cowlicks sticking up and strands falling over his eyes. Brendon pursed his lips.

Never got to catch up with you, after that soireé. It was just incredible. Brendon lifted his glass again graciously as if in toast and then took another sip before putting it back down. ”I try, Mr. Rowe.” You were tellin’ me you host every weekend? He nodded, adjusting his own mask again slightly and looking distantly at Dallon for a second, who was pointedly not paying any attention. ”Did you know that he,”- He then gestured towards the bar owner- ”Is invited. He just thinks he’s too good for me.” Brendon tutted but his tone was easy and carefree. Thinking of keeping me as your supplier? Brendon figured there was no point in holding back, so he sidled a little closer, tilting his head to one side. ”I’m thinkin’ of keeping you, alright,” He said smoothly. ”I like the way you operate.” He made a show of letting his eyes sweep over Ryan, drinking in this close to six foot of man that he had allowed to get away. ”We’ll have to get better acquainted sometime, though.”

Part of Brendon's allure - and he had a lot of it, make no mistake - was that he had taken up a dream of sorts that Ryan himself vied after for a long time. He wasn't going to drop everything to chase it now, not when he was making so much money and had a good reputation already with his new business and the life of a star began with nothing but pennies and struggles, but Ryan had previously entertained the idea of being a musician himself. All he had been was a pianist in a shitty bar, occasionally flexible enough to visit other places if they scraped up enough money to convince him to make the trip, but he'd looked up to people like Hank Williams or Little Richard or Texas Alexander. He'd never anticipated being, like, Brendon-level famous, but as long as people were listening to his original music, all would be well. He had a lot of that sitting around, as a matter of fact. There were journals of lyrics lying around his apartment, entire music sheets scribbled down, tucked away within the presets folder he used to have in front of him while he played.

He supposed he wasn't much of a singer, anyway. It wasn't a loss to the world that he didn't pursue these vague fantasies, and besides, he never made much of a move to do so before this, anyway. He was just waiting to be 'discovered' for his talents at the bar - a passing daydream where some professional would buy a drink, watch his playing at a distance, care more about the instrumental notes than they did about whichever singer had taken the stage that night. Then they'd approach all mysteriously, drop change into his tip jar, ask whether he had representation already and would he like any? Though ambitious, Ryan generally expected things to be handed to him on a silver platter. The only thing he'd ever truly taken initiative in doing was this, and that was because he had a good-sized, unused bathtub in his shoddy place that could carry a metric fuckton of homemade liquor. So. This was easier.

While Ryan spoke to him, Brendon touched a finger to his lips, almost like a direction, and Ryan's gaze passed over them a couple of times wistfully. No problem being a little obvious when you've got a lot of power in your hands, it seemed. He pulled away slightly, though, at Ryan's touch, and Ryan drew back himself, straightening his back and allowing his own soft smile to grace his features. That’s sir, to you, Mr. Rowe. Ryan sucked his bottom lip between his teeth as if it would help at all to suppress his widening smile. Alas, it didn't do him any favors. "Almost didn't recognise you, sir," Ryan repeated, his voice dropping an octave, winking with as much subtlety as he could muster. Well. After this conversation he'd be able to recognise him in any lineup, mask or not. His attention just kept dropping to his mouth, jawline, everything distinctive.

And, frankly, I’m offended, old sport, I really am. Here I was thinking I was... well... unmistakeable. No question about it. He was. Even Ryan was upset that it took him a minute. Hey, he hadn't been able to really look at Brendon, what with him disappearing into the depths of his enormous home all night. I recognised you. Some faces are difficult to forget. 'Tell me about it' passed through Ryan's mind. He was sure the fact that he was the only one here who looked like an overgrown preteen helped the situation, but he wasn't about to sabotage the apparent good impression he was making. "I'm flattered," he said simply, charmed. His gaze followed Brendon's glass in mini-toast, looking fonder by the second. I try, Mr. Rowe. 'That's sir to you' replays in Ryan's head, and for a moment he considers imitating Brendon, but he probably can't pull it off. Odd. Seems like the presence of someone pretty much unimagineable has struck into his confidence. "You succeed."

Did you know that he -[/i] Ryan's gaze follows his gesture. He openly stares at the inattentive Dallon, wondering if maybe he notices the look, he'll eventually spill all the details about Brendon. No luck. - is invited. He just thinks he’s too good for me. Ryan smiled brazenly. "I wouldn't worry too much about his attendance. He is known for being the 'discounted' bar in town, after all." Ryan cast another pointed look Dallon's way. Please spill, idiot. Nothing. Brendon shifted closer and Ryan, in turn, naturally matched his movements, dipping his head and regarding him more closely. I’m thinkin’ of keeping you, alright. Ryan inhaled slowly, his expression flat, eyes basically all but exposing him. Really he shouldn't be messing around with a famous musician. But also, fuck it. I like the way you operate. Brendon's attention was surrounding him, Ryan only, and he could feel small if it wasn't so complimentary. He moved slightly closer again, thinking maybe he could offer 'discounted' drinks, too, fuck. He'd change his policy for this guy any day. He looked playful for a moment, sucking in a breath before speaking nonchalantly. "Appreciate it, sir."

We’ll have to get better acquainted sometime, though. Ryan paused, thoughtful. He invaded Brendon's space a little, perching his foot over the bottom rung of Brendon's barstool, knee nearly braced against his. "I've got all night, Mr. Blake, I don't intend on spending it alone. You don't have any plans yourself, do you? You seem like a busy man." Please don't have any goddamn plans. Ryan was familiar with this building. Clean enough for some stupid escapade.

Brendon came to this bar relatively often, funnily enough, considering he could more than afford to frequent more upscale establishments. Such speakeasies were specially tailored towards those of perceived higher class and/or wealth- so, just for Brendon, except. They weren’t. Funnily enough, the richer the folk, the more intolerant they tended to be- so when Brendon has ascended to his certain level of fame (which he was kind of certain had plateaued in a musical sense, but his reputation could only spread further based on his personal and social life and... preferences), and he began trying to fit into classier speakeasies (something of an oxymoron in itself), he found that at the top people were just shittier. Wasn’t like there was a bar somewhere made specifically for rich gay men- usually because openly gay men never had the opportunity to make their fortune due to an unfair society unless they wanted some kind of career in entertainment. So, Brendon had lucked out, in a sense, and quickly learned his place- which was back in these places, smaller buildings with a closer knit pool of customers and a friendly owner he could become fond enough to call a- treasured acquaintance. Hey, Dallon knew he used the place to pick men up, sometimes, and he hadn’t yet said anything. So. Brendon felt comfortable here, safe.

Not that he wasn’t still careful, because being as he was, if he was recognised by some closed-minded individual or he misread the signs and hit on someone who didn’t swing his way, there could be- usually would be- consequences. That was a hard lesson he had learned with time. In the beginning, he had been proud and spiteful and he had felt invincible, starting fights with anyone who dared call him some hateful name or taunt him for how he was. As he grew older and was thrust into a modest spotlight, he didn’t become any less proud, he just learned when and where was a good place to show that pride. When he glanced over at the tall man sat beside him who had offered to buy him a drink, he had been cautious, because who knew if it was just some guy wanting company, and not in the way Brendon hoped- but after he caught his bootlegger in the act of fully letting his eyes drift to his mouth, Brendon relaxed his shoulders and eased himself into charming fluidity. He watched and tilted his head with interested as Ryan straightened up and he not very subtly admired his height. He was taller than Brendon, which meant he was in with a fighting chance. Lucky him.

Almost didn’t recognise you, sir. Brendon laughed, and stuck his tongue out between his teeth slightly, his eyes crinkling up fondly at the corners, visible through the slightly too-large eye holes of the mask he was still wearing. Then- that wink- Brendon had gone to speak but the words became stuck in his throat and he cleared it by coughing, flustered, holding a hand up to excuse himself and wrapping his fingers around his glass with the other, bringing it to his lips to take a hesitant sip. Pull yourself together, Brendon. You’ve seen him before. You knew already that he’s gorgeous. But- okay, now you know he plays for the same team. Interesting development in their professional relationship, but- Brendon could live with that. He studied him further, his countenance, and entertained the idea of referring to him by ‘Sir’- sure, Ryan worked for him, but. He looked like he was... Powerful. In a different way. If he handled all his transactions like he’d handled them with Dallon and then Brendon himself, well. He was now a strong admirer of the man and was intensely interested in getting to know him better, in perhaps more ways than one. I’m flattered. Brendon raised his eyebrows quickly and took another sip from his glass before setting it back down, readjusting his mask absently. ”Should be.”

You succeed. Brendon flashed him another enigmatic grin, winking to return Ryan’s from just before. ”Grand of you to say, sport,” He rested his elbows on the counter and then gestured towards Dallon, suddenly distracted once the owner of the speakeasy had drifted into his peripheral vision. I wouldn’t worry too much about his attendance. Brendon lifted the elbow closest to Ryan from the wood and turned himself bodily to face him more fully, one arm still braced casually on the surface. Even more casually he reached out with his foot, nudging Ryan’s while he made eye contact and pulling it back after a few seconds. He is known for being the ‘discounted’ bar in town, after all. Brendon laughed openly, and obviously at Dallon, and Dallon noticed and stared at him suspiciously for a second before he gave up, clearly too patient or not caring enough to bother finding out what was so funny. ”He absolutely is,” Came Brendon’s firm agreement, ”And what’s even better is that he doesn’t even know it.” A sympathetic but amused shake of the head follow and Brendon yet again lifted the half-full glass to his lips, before circling it and setting it decidedly down. After this, Brendon’s interested was swerved away from Dallon and the alcohol and he was instead intent on getting better acquainted with this handsome criminal sat beside him, and close beside him, might he add.

He tried not to let his breath hitch when Ryan moved closer, failed not quite miserably. Appreciate it, Sir. Brendon really wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to stay sensible for, as much as he managed to keep his head about him these days. He managed to compose himself fairly quickly, though, and simply nodded graciously, waving a hand as if it was nothing. It wasn’t like that was to butter him up, or anything- Brendon did like the way he managed his business affairs. He was clearly intelligent, but from what he’d gathered from the brief two instances that they’d encountered eachother, Ryan hadn’t been originally inclined towards breaking the law habitually as a career. That was true for many bootleggers, honestly, but- Brendon recognised a pianist’s hands anywhere. Interesting. Said hands distracted him as Ryan moved his foot to rest between Brendon’s on the rung of the stool, and it took him a second before he realised they had little distance to speak of between them now. Brendon swallowed.

I’ve got all night, Mr. Blake, I don’t intend on spending it alone. Brendon pressed one of his knees against the side of Ryan’s leg, regarded him intently. That was the best news he’d heard all night, and a proposition if he ever heard one. ”Wonderful,” He said huskily, his voice dropping an octave. You don’t have any plans yourself, do you? Well. Not until about five minutes ago. He shook his head maybe a little too fast. You seem like a busy man. ”I make time.” A brief pause, and then Brendon suddenly shifted in the stool and turned fully around to face the counter, picking up his glass and downing the rest of the drink before he stood. ”Apologies, old sport, I’m just going to the restroom. I won’t keep you waiting long.” He brushed against Ryan as he walked past but didn’t even look over his shoulder to check they were understood. Brendon could already tell. He pushed through the men’s room door and glanced around. Empty. It was turning out to be Brendon’s lucky day.

Ryan himself was careful about his identity, though not overtly so. He definitely should be, all things considered - he was a criminal, for Christ's sake, and oftentimes interacted with people in that same legal standing. He wasn't stereotyping, just 'guessing' that they wouldn't take well to him. It was cold, hard fact, and he knew because when they became lousy with all their own shitty, homemade liquor, that's when any typical anti-Prohibition radicalist became comfortable saying whatever the hell they wanted. Actually, for most, the bullshit started even when they were sober. Typically Ryan could nod along in hearty agreement as if he truly did believe the 'fucking fruits were ruining the bar scene.' It was a little odd, because some 30 years ago things changed and people were more open about all of this - drag balls had become more well-known, frequented by people not in the community themselves, gay literature was increasingly successful despite the public understanding what world it came from.

But those times were fading away because, somehow, bar owners of 'normal' clubs felt that the new competition would hurt them and working-class men felt like their familial hierarchies could be threatened, whatever. Ryan didn't much care. He lived life secretively anyway, his sexual preference only part of that. Hell, he barely told people his real name. There were plenty of masks he could throw on to protect not just his sexuality, but also his controversial career path, his customers, his business partners. Ryan had plenty to hide. He couldn't imagine what Brendon went through. In New York it wasn't as bad as other places - there were still drag shows that weren't quite as underground as they probably should be to stay safe, still speakeasies hosted by and for the gay and therefore 'othered' community, still dive bars that openly labeled themselves as specifically gay-friendly if not -only. It just wasn't as easy as, say, ten years ago, and both of them were far too young then to really participate or even know to be part of it. Well. Maybe not Brendon. He was as 'fruity' as they came. He'd probably known from birth - not that Ryan would make that joke to his face.

Maybe, though, he had a good enough sense of humour anyway. Ryan had taken a strong liking to him already. He was confident but proving a shy streak, what with spluttering at a simple wink, and honestly, Ryan wasn't even that slick. He watched Brendon's recovery with a fond smile, wishing they had no masks so he could admire in full the hint of little crinkles around Brendon's eyes whenever he had a full grin on - yeah, he definitely bookmarked that image the last time they saw each other, and the tiny preview through their covers didn't do it enough justice. Should be. Confidence back. Ryan wasn't sure which version he liked better. Either way...

Grand of you to say, sport. 'Sport.' Ryan was familiar with the nickname though it wasn't all that common, but it rolled off of Brendon's tongue in a particularly charming way, sweet and friendly. And, actually, not quite as belittling and 'father-to-son' like in the way it came from others. He smirked at the tiniest amount of contact from Brendon, the little nudge of his foot, and really it seemed like a nothing gesture, but after a while of living closeted he'd become adept at recognizing these minute nonverbal cues. Not like they had a lot of options. So Brendon was interested. For good measure, he made a passing comment about Dallon's bar, the audience specifically. He absolutely is. And what’s even better is that he doesn’t even know it. Ryan imitated his sympathetic look to a T. Maybe he could start up a straight-passing bar to balance things out, poor Weekes.

Even despite all their little secret signals, Ryan invading his space more than he had been was a risky move, and he was greeted with open arms - specifically, Brendon's leg coming to rest against his, like their time of interaction totalled up to more than a couple hours, tops. Fortunately, too, because Ryan tended to jump the gun. He didn't have all the time in the world. Wonderful. That voice. He knew Brendon was a singer, but really, he didn't realize a range like that could be so fatally attractive. I make time. Oh. He had a way with words, too. Interesting. Ryan let the silence linger, his gaze returning to his glass while it seemed both of them retreated to their thoughts, and suddenly Brendon was preparing to stand. Apologies, old sport, I’m just going to the restroom. Right, so Brendon caught his drift, earlier. If it was anything else, he'd naïvely believe the excuse. The way things were going, this was nothing but a proposition. I won’t keep you waiting long. Brendon brushed his arm in passing; Ryan kept his drink in hand, smiling casually. Yeah, definitely on the same page.

For a few moments, Ryan just observed the place, listened to the sound of distant conversations, glasses bumping behind the counter, barrels still being carried in. Some fucking luck he had, seriously. This was the first break he'd caught in a while. After a suitable amount of time he placed his emptied drink down, walked to the bathrooms, leaned against the door as he closed and locked it. Ample space, too; seriously, some higher power was supporting them. He grinned at Brendon unwithholdingly now, immediately coming close and backing him against the sink, hands finding either side of his face. "You don't mind...?" And he didn't wait while asking, just lifted the mask from his face gently, set it on the porcelain so he could study him more closely. He figured the hair was a touchy subject, as pristine as it looked, so he carefully drew his fingers through the strands at his temple, framing his features just to admire for a moment. "When I saw you for the first time, I didn't think I'd be lucky enough for someone this handsome to... be interested." Be gay, actually. Usually it was just the attractive guys that were, in fairness, but Ryan never got to meet them anyway.

Clearly wasting no time, Ryan pressed even closer, aligning his body with Brendon's and slipping his hands down to his waist as if it were a natural fit. "Mr. Blake, to be perfectly candid, usually I become better acquainted first." He looked at him as if he was reconsidering. Really, though, there was no question. "I can multitask. Tell me about yourself - I like the sound of your voice." And he wouldn't mind hearing more of the range, but they sort of had all the time in the world in here, plus if he kept Brendon talking while he explored, well. He'd learn. In any case, they didn't find this arrangement to talk, so Ryan searched his face briefly for any apprehension before finding his way to his jaw, planting delicate kisses while working just the top couple buttons of his shirt, making space on his neck for the same attention.

First impressions told Brendon that Ryan was a man of, well, not few words, but concise ones, not simple and in fact flowery in vocabulary but he didn’t go on, he got to the point. Brendon adored his manner and his way of speaking and when Ryan opened his mouth to talk he hushed, trying not to let his gaze drift too obviously to his mouth. He couldn’t be too easy, what was the fun in that, but then Ryan was smiling at him in a way that Brendon could have sworn was fond (their total interaction time was barely a few hours at this point, bearing in mind), and Brendon figured that it was easier said than done. And he proved himself right when he made increasingly daring moves by- uh- gay standards, his foot nudging against Ryan to try and move this along and indicate that yes, he was interested, very much so. It was often he met someone he felt this drawn to and he supposed some deity was looking out for them due to the fact that they were already acquainted and they’d met again for the second time in a bar that was tolerant with a tolerant owner. As Brendon drew his leg back, he briefly closed his eyes and thanked his lucky stars but they didn’t stay closed for long as he immediately desired to look at his new object of interest again.

He was handsome and his smile was endearingly gorgeous but his smirk was a killer, and Brendon was usually the bold one, but he couldn’t even look Ryan in the eye for very long before he became flustered and had to look elsewhere, into his glass, at Dallon, down at the bar, at his own hands, anywhere. And it was a shame that eye contact was so intense because- Brendon had gone on and would continue to go on about Ryan’s eyes, and- well. The gist of it was that Brendon was enamoured already and he fully intended on getting to know his bootlegger a lot better in a variety of ways. Even before they’d been alone or openly talked about any of this, Brendon was conjuring up fantasy situations, eyes on his hair wondering what it felt like between his fingers, eyes on his mouth wondering what he tasted like and hoping he’d get the opportunity to find out this and more very soon. Ryan was the one who made the next move and Brendon was more than happy to return it almost immediately, resting their legs together in what was probably the riskiest thing they’d done so far. Not everybody was so oblivious to more suggestive behaviour. Oh well, Brendon thought, he’d risked it all before for- less than innocuous reasons, if he could do it for less fine people, he could do it for this handsome criminal sat beside him. Not a difficult decision to make.

Then they were talking in double entendres and it wasn’t long after they’d both settled into a comfortable-yet-electric silence that Brendon decided that there really was no point in wasting any more time sat here chatting while they could be wasting time in a much more favourable way in private. He finished his drink and cleared his throat to catch Ryan’s attention (not that Ryan’s attention had left him since he spotted him on a barstool to his right, then made a breezy excuse, purposefully brushing against Ryan as he left and making a leisurely beeline towards the bathrooms. Once he was inside he let the door fall shut quietly and paced immediately to the mirror, lifting his mask momentarily into his hair and examining his reflection, smiling in satisfaction and then pulling his mask back over his eyes, flattening a hand over his hair to smooth it down until he was finally content with his appearance and he turned around and took a step forward as soon as the door opened. There was a moment where his breath hitched because god he hoped it was actually Ryan and- well, it was. ”Fancy seeing y-“Brendon was smiling but it quickly faded when Ryan locked the door and wasted no time in backing him up against the sink. He fell silent and swallowed as Ryan lifted his hands to frame his face. You don’t mind...?

”Not at all,” Brendon responded, eyes not resting as they flicked from one part of Ryan’s face to the next, drinking him in without subtlety now they no longer required discretion. He remained obediently still as Ryan lifted away the mask and set it aside and after he did, Brendon returned the favour, reaching up to remove Ryan’s and put it with his own. God. Brendon blinked and willed his stupid heart to slow down a little, they’d barely touched eachother, this was ridiculous. When I saw you for the first time, I didn't think I'd be lucky enough for someone this handsome to... be interested. Bullshit. ”I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.” A pause, he had to stop, as Ryan presses closer and fit his hands around his waist. Not fair, he was trying to speak. ”You’re just my type.” Understatement of the century, Brendon thought, amused at himself. But it was hard to remain lighthearted when Ryan was looking agbhim like that. Mr. Blake, to be perfectly candid, usually I become better acquainted first. His next words came out quickly, tumbling past his lips with barely a breath inbetween. ”YoucancallmeBrendon.” A pause, he laughed nervously. Embarassing. ”Please.”

I can multitask. Tell me about yourself- I like the sound of your voice. Yeah, not gonna happen, did Ryan not just hear him, he couldn’t even speak properly. Brendon pursed his lips and opened his mouth to speak but suddenly Ryan was pressing kisses along his jaw and he had to remain silent for a whole five seconds before he composed himself enough to start. ”So this what you’re doing, is it,” He breathed, ”Y’wanna kill me.” Yes, he was melodramatic, but he was allowed to be. Anyway, what- oh yeah, talking about himself. What the hell did Ryan want to know? “I, uh, I’m a musician, I-” Ryan was working on unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt and Brendon stopped, lifted a hand to curl into the hair at the back of Ryan’s head (it was soft, so soft), keeping him there insistently. ”I play music-” So, he’d blanked. Brendon would have laughed but he was having trouble staying upright so he reached back with his free hand and gripped onto the edge of the sink for support. ”And- I’m a fool for gorgeous men like yourself.”

Brendon, on the other hand, was so informal with his way of speaking that it was just a little bit precious to listen to. Odd, though, considering he seemed like the one who should be so well-spoken. Although... all things considered, Ryan doubted he came from 'old money;' it's not like people like them got much of an inheritance, not when they were open about themselves. That was beyond attractive to consider: Brendon being self-made. Ryan wasn't much for sentiment, listening to peoples' life stories and so forth, but really he wanted to know where Brendon came from, how he got where he was now, what he did when he wasn't just the mysterious presence both headlining and in the background of his own luxurious party. He was attractive, gorgeous, showstopping, of course and obviously, but still - his personality was enticing, too, rivalling all of the physical temptation with a fire. From the bizarrely casual way he spoke to the way he, for whatever reason, chose to blend in when he could easily be the center of a room, Brendon was intriguing.

Fancy seeing y- Yeah, yeah, it's not like they didn't have all night (and knowing how long it took for these places to clear out completely, they had even more than that), but Ryan was still quick to get to him, immediately going for his mask. Maybe that in itself was an odd move to make, considering when people were in their exact position, seeing the other person's face didn't quite matter. But Ryan had familiarized himself with Brendon's before, so he was fairly aware that it was something of a view to behold. He'd apparently rendered him silent again and was almost afraid he'd even made Brendon hesitant, apprehensive, like maybe his speed was intimidating, but clearly this was a good silence. Not at all. Ryan's smile was soft, pleased by how easily Brendon went along with him at any given point. You'd think someone used to fame and fortune would have gotten a little uppity, hard to get along with, but it seemed like Brendon's charisma won out over his class standing. Once again: intriguing.

He'd have the sense to feel a bit self-conscious by Brendon's close examination of him, this first time so near to him, but it was hard to when he had such a comforting countenance as a whole. Anything he said was returned smoothly, anything he did was welcomed naturally... and lifting his mask off, Brendon did just the same, without fail. Some curls fell back into place against his temple now that there was no cover in their way, and Ryan swore he felt the most clichéd he ever had in his life. Here he was, barely put together, the stereotypical criminal from a storybook, directly opposite the clean, pristine image of Brendon, no faults in sight. Yeah, cliché, but he just felt lucky Brendon didn't reserve any judgment over the deal. Anyway. His memory hadn't fooled him. Nothing restrictive over their faces any longer, he could freely admire, and, yeah, he remembered the soft brown eyes, the little eyebrow scar, the lilt in every feature. It should probably be embarrassing that the best word that came to mind upon seeing him openly again was 'dreamy,' but really. The accuracy.

I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. In his pause, Ryan grinned briefly, fast and amused - he didn't realise he'd be interrupting. In any case, he let his thumb stroke over the fabric of his shirt, distantly registering that, yes, this felt very right. Like two puzzle pieces fitting together. You’re just my type. Ryan raised his eyebrows somewhat, surprised. He didn't peg Brendon as someone to really look for romance - or whatever - this far below him, but sure. Not that Ryan was very self-deprecating, usually, he just wasn't famous or even unimaginably rich, no matter how successful he'd become in his business. "Convenient. I believe you've singlehandedly defined my type." He dropped his brows, smirking again, because he couldn't help it. He tilted his head at Brendon, and - YoucancallmeBrendon. Seriously. He didn't understand having this effect on someone like... not Mr. Blake, or Sir, but Brendon. He liked that. But they were in the same boat, so. He laughed with Brendon, albeit without any of the nerves, far more enthusiasm in it. Please.

"Brendon it is," Ryan conceded, his voice airy. He chewed his lip, considering. When was the last time someone called him by his first name? Well. Chosen first name. Still. "You can call me Ryan." He said it pointedly more slowly, dipping his head while he openly teased Brendon. It took Brendon a while to actually follow his directions and talk, which he supposed he should've seen coming, but. He really did want to know. So this is what you’re doing, is it - y’wanna kill me. "I prefer the term 'ravish.'" Ryan spoke against his skin, smiled, breath warm just below his ear. He considered, briefly, allowing him a break, but he probably wouldn't be able to stand one himself. I, uh, I’m a musician, I- Ryan felt Brendon's hand in his hair, his heart skip dangerously, and that was dumb because it was truly such a small gesture, but it was sweet, so fond for people who'd barely even spoken. And could barely keep up with speaking now, apparently. He hummed gently, encouraging him, showing he was listening.

I play music- Well, those are kind of the same thing, but Ryan didn't bother correcting him, just laughed softly in the curve of his shoulder. And- I’m a fool for gorgeous men like yourself. And that one barely counted. Still, he didn't call him on it. It was flattering, anyhow. Ryan didn't get 'gorgeous' much. He pulled back, one hand sliding further to brace flat aganst the small of Brendon's back, supporting him, the other curling over the hand he had white-knuckling the sink behind him. "Is that so? You've made me lose all sense, myself." He paused, spared a glance around, at where they were. "Clearly." His gaze landed back on Brendon and he rested there for a second, searching. Pretty confident that there was no going back now, Ryan closed the space between them, ducking his head a bit until he could kiss him slow. Christ, it was by some fluke that he wasn't the one completely incoherent right now, because this was far too easy to relax into, almost fully leaning into Brendon before he caught himself.

He only eased up once he had to catch his breath, and he barely did when he tried to speak again. "I can already tell you're going to be trouble for me," he breathed, laughing, because jesus he'd never be able to get him off his mind. And, really, he had other shit to do, though at this point none of that really mattered to him at all. Unavoidably, he had to plant another quick, wistful kiss on Brendon's lips, before a tangential thought led him astray again. "You are going to give me the grand tour at your next party, aren't you?" Double entendres. Their forté. A bathroom meetup every time just wasn't much of a choice locale.

Just as Brendon was a mysterious character to Ryan despite being considerably famous and well-known, Ryan was a complete mystery to Brendon. All that he knew about the man was that he was a bootlegger and he spoke with a slight new york accent that was so vague he couldn’t pinpoint where he was born any more specifically than that. Not only was he handsome, but he seemed to be at ease with his role, dealing with Dallon with practiced ease (though it was Dallon, he wouldn’t cause much trouble with anyone) that told Brendon he had probably started his trade all the way back to the beginning when prohibition first began. An opportunist, Brendon deduced him to be- and this was even more obvious when they found themselves on just their second meeting stealing away to a bathroom because they were that inclined towards one another they couldn’t stand maybe going somewhere a little more inconspicuous. Another thing about Ryan was that he definitely knew what he wanted- before Brendon could even finish his sentence, Ryan had locked the door and was already closing the distance between them so Brendon had to move back and lean against the sink. He was surprised, but- Brendon always welcomed a little forwardness.

The problem was he hadn’t anticipated this, being so affected by somebody, so he really did have to cling on to the edge of the sink to keep himself upright. Really, how did anyone not understand a man liking another man when some men looked like this? Brendon had never understood it. Convenient. I believe you’ve singlehandedly defined my type. Brendon laughed, but it was a distracted laugh as he swayed a little, immensely flattered. He wasn’t sure why. Plenty had previously tried to woo him via sickly-sweet flattery. Though he never denied the opportunity to have his ego stroked that way, sometimes it just got tiring, when the same thing kept being said- mostly about physical assets. Ryan, though, was next level. It was so cliché, but- brendon felt himself flushing. Just at that. He tried to brush it off by speaking quickly, reacting casually to the compliment so nothing seemed too heavy too fast. ”Not sure whether to be concerned,” He responded in a low voice letting his eyes settle at the curve of Ryan’s lips as he smirked. ”Are you that inexperienced that one man can set the standard for all others? We barely know eachother.” Yet he was smiling. Softly, geniunely.

There was something about Mr. Rowe. He had barely started picking at the seams of Brendon’s composure and he was already unravelling, falling apart- it would be embarassing but Brendon had alright cast his dignity aside. They were in a club bathroom, for god’s sake. How high and mighty and proud could he really pretend to be? Brendon it is. God, his name sounded so good coming from his mouth and Brendon tried not to let his mind wander to other instances where he might hear Ryan utter his name perhaps in a different manner. Stop it, Brendon, don’t get ahead of yourself. Or do. I mean, look around you. One could say you’ve already taken it too far. You can call me Ryan. Brendon nodded, eyelids half-mast as Ryan leaned in towards his neck and started paying close attention to the sensitive skin there. He would definitely call him Ryan, he’d do anything he asked of him, even after realising that Ryan was good-naturedly mocking him for his easiness. It was hard to think with dignified coherency when Ryan was killing- or rather ravishing- him, with warm kisses pressed against his neck. So he just nodded quickly and curled his fingers into the back of Ryan’s hair to try and ground himself.

I prefer the term ‘ravish’. Of course he would. ”Of course you would,” Brendon breathed, raising a playful eyebrow, but that faux-cockiness quickly faded and this was evident when he repeated the same thing twice when Ryan had asked him to talk about himself, but really, what did he expect, what was he supposed to do when a handsome near-stranger (well, not quite) had his mouth pressed almost permenantly against his skin. Give him his entire life story? Not likely. Brendon opened his eyes, eyelashes fluttering, as Ryan pulled back, and he lifted his free hand up hesitantly to press his fingers against his neck and feel the warm pressure. Something to remember him by. Good. He then searched Ryan’s eyes, his sweet honey eyes, then his gaze travelled back down to his mouth and he leaned in as Ryan slipped a hand to hold against his lower back, let his eyes shut briefly when Ryan grasped onto his tight-fisted hold on the sink behind him. Is that so? You’ve made me lose all sense, myself. A feverish nod was all he managed to fit in before Ryan invaded his space in a way which was very welcome, catching his lips in a relaxed kiss, passionate and deep but not urgent. Chasing still after Ryan pulled back, Brendon couldn’t help the whine of protest that left him when he leaned forwards and Ryan didn’t meet him immediately in a follow-up kiss.

I can already tell you’re going to be trouble for me. So maybe they’d been in eachother’s company for a collective two hours at most so far, but really, Brendon was surprised he hadn’t figured that out already. ”Look who’s talking.” Without discretion Brendon freed his hand from Ryan’s hold and unclasped it from the edge of the sink before bringing both his hands up to hold onto his hips- he then adjusted his own stance so his hips jutted out against Ryan’s and he reached up to twist his fingers in the front of his shirt, dragging him back down close to his lips. ”Okay, But- You’re real trouble, I’m guilty by association, now, y’see? I’m going down if you are.” Welcoming another briefer kiss, Brendon stretched it out by biting gently, mischievously on Ryan’s bottom lip. You are going to give me the grand tour at your next party, aren’t you? A sharp inhale immediately dashed any dreams Brendon had of appearing aloof and untouchable. ”Of course, darlin’. I’d say I’d take you in every room in my house but I hope you’d understand me saying I’d prefer it the other way around.”

All of Brendon's deductions about him were, in fact, fairly spot-on. He took chances, and he generally got what he want, among other traits classically learned among people like him - and that was the thing, he wasn't always this way. He could recall being shy, insecure but critical and with a sharp mouth, this grouchy pianist who lashed out when rubbed the wrong way but had no real social skills to think of. It was funny; maybe this 'career path' was something meant to happen for him, a saving grace of sorts. He wondered whether fame - or at least the comfortable level of fame Brendon was at - made Brendon into a different person. He doubted it, truthfully. Brendon would've still had those looks and that talent before becoming famous, so there was no reason for him not to have a totally bigger-than-life personality. Ryan could be giving him too much credit, sure, but he just didn't seem the type to ever be quiet and meek, bowing to social convention. And he might be overthinking it all, but hey, Brendon piqued his interest.

He expected Brendon to have heard it all before, nothing he could say could move him, but he looked swept up by the flattery. Ryan made a mental note to do that as much as he could without it getting too corny. Not sure whether to be concerned. Ryan tilted his head curiously, watching his gaze drop to his lips and smirking helplessly. Are you that inexperienced that one man can set the standard for all others? We barely know eachother. Oh, please. Ryan laughed softly, running a thumb over his eyebrow as if they'd been lovers for the longest time, admiring the faintest scar running through. "I wouldn't call it inexperienced when you've set a gold standard already. A diamond in the rough," he replied easily, unquestionably, barely having to think about it. Too much? Probably. Usually Ryan didn't fall so fast. Admittedly he may be a little inexperienced - he didn't have much time for this sort of thing, much less actual relationships, but still. He could tell when he'd found something special. "I feel as if we've known each other longer, to tell you the truth." Even that sounded like a line.

Of course you would. So he's already getting predictable. Ryan supposed he had a poet's nature - talked a little strangely anyway. Or, well. If you were in his business, you'd laugh at the 'fruity' way he tended to draw out his sentences. He'd admit to basically being ready to bend to every will Brendon might impose over him, but Brendon himself was a little more obvious about the same, falling apart at the faintest kisses, chasing and protesting when the real one ended. Another minute, probably, and if he'd had more of his own drink, he'd probably be doing the exact same thing. There was, admittedly, not a lot of space to pick and choose your partner when you were like them - or if you were particularly discreet, like Ryan - but they fit together so easily, one would think it was a match tailored by, like. The gods. The gay gods. Ryan could've laughed if he wasn't already otherwise preoccupied.

Look who’s talking. Ryan laughed again, halfway breathless, and let his hands settle against the porcelain even as Brendon took his away, replace them over his hips. Unexpectedly, Brendon rutted against him, and the dizzying energy between them sent Ryan's jaw slack, lips slightly parted. Yeah, definitely a match. Okay, but- You’re real trouble, I’m guilty by association, now, y’see? I’m going down if you are. Ryan grinned, couldn't imagine a time where he'd looked this serenely happy. He felt the softest bite on his lower lip in their short kiss, leaning into it, deciding that, yes, he liked that move. "I'm not goin' down, sweetheart, but I appreciate that mindset. Partners in crime, we are." His grin still wasn't going away. Of course, darlin’. Darlin'. He was precious. Immediately upon hearing it, Ryan lifted a hand to one side of his face, kissed the opposite cheek affectionately, unbelievably charmed.

I’d say I’d take you in every room in my house but I hope you’d understand me saying I’d prefer it the other way around. Ryan cleared his throat, almost caught off guard, feeling hoarse. "I assumed as much," he replied playfully, lifting his eyebrows. "And I look forward to it. We aren't exactly in the most romantic place right now." Ryan was smiling when he shifted them over to where counter space was available, lifting Brendon effortlessly up onto it, fitting himself comfortably between his legs. "But we can make it work." He made a show of undoing the first few of Brendon's shirt buttons, splaying a hand over his sternum, simply exploring before his hand travelled back up to cradle the back of his neck. He pulled him in to kiss him again, slow, pulling barely an inch away to speak once he was breathless. "Have I told you already how stunning you are? I feel like I haven't." Call him extra, whatever, it was true.

Brendon’s heart had always been set on music. He was raised in a strictly religious family, which proved more than interesting later on, and though neither of his parents were musicians, they bought him a piano for his birthday once when he was younger, all cliché, and he instantly fell in love. A few years later when he learned he had a decent singing voice- he knew it was his calling, to perform. He’d always been full of energy and hyperactive and often caused trouble and that transferred in his late teens to the small shows he booked at bars, until the prohibition, when he continued to book them only carefully under the noses of his Mormon family. Brendon had known from a young age that he wasn’t attracted to girls like it seemed he was supposed to; instead, he found himself drawn to boys his age in a way that wasn’t ‘natural’, was the only way he could put it in his younger, confused years. As he grew, though, he made peace with it, quickly, and decided that all he wanted to be was genuinely and openly himself, so. When he was discovered and signed to a label and started making traction in the music world- he made sure everyone knew that he was gay. It wasn’t his ‘thing’, but- Brendon was defiant, proud, because he felt he deserved to be. That’d earned him some shiners throughout his life.

It seemed, though, that no matter how obvious he was about it, down to his way of dressing, which screamed fruit, some fans just didn’t catch on. He still earned himself swathes of adoring female fans who granted him bouquets and fawned over him desperately. It was flattering, and he tended to play along for their sake, but really. Poor girls, so naive and ignorant to his obvious flaming nature. Baffling, really- he’d glance down at his outfit just to doublecheck that he’d made sure to look extra fruity this morning. Huh. He supposed the truth just went right over the heads of people who didn’t want to hear it. Luckily, for people of a similar orientation, Brendon’s sexuality was blatant and that was clear from how quickly Ryan picked up on it, only having barely made eye contact before shifting over and buying him a drink. Now, they were in the bathroom, searching eachother’s faces, hands curled around hips, or jaws, or into hair- things tended to just go like this with people like them. Not like they had rich pickings, or anything.

Not to say that Brendon was just ‘settling’. Ryan was gorgeous, intoxicating- Brendon could only blink, enamoured, when he drew a thumb over the scar running through his eyebrow. Interesting story for that scar, Brendon remembered- and bookmarked it as potential pillowtalk. I wouldn't call it inexperienced when you've set a gold standard already. A diamond in the rough. Brendon had to bite his lip to stop himself smiling like a fool, trying to convince himself that it was just flattery, Ryan was just saying words because they had physical chemistry and they were just talking to cut through that electric tension. But- no. Brendon liked him, liked, as he’d said before, the way that he operated. Ryan was fascinating. ”Stop it, darlin’, you’ll make me blush.” I feel as if we’ve known each other longer, to tell you the truth. A soft smile finally fought its way to the surface; he knew how Ryan felt. ”Y’just sayin’ that,” Brendon grinned, but he wasn’t grinning for long, smile dropping when he evilly pressed himself forward, a classic move of his. Hey, if it’s not broken, don’t fix it.

Moments after, they had leaned into another brief kiss, Brendon nipping at his bottom lip with a hint of playfulness, at ease despite the obvious sexual tension between them- the air was full of a strange mix of content and anticipation, and it was confusing but intoxicatingly good to navigate. I’m not goin’ down, sweetheart, but I appreciate that concept. Sweetheart. Brendon dropped his chin but before he could look down at his feet Ryan had caught the side of his face and kissed his opposing cheek in a gesture that was far too gentle for what was, on the surface, a bathroom hookup- which had, admittedly, mostly just been flustered kisses and flattery. Brendon wasn’t usually this slow, but he felt as if they had all the time in the world, no need to rush. Strange. Partners in crime, we are. ”You’re rather confident, Mr Rowe. Complacency is for fools.” He arched an eyebrow, clearly in jest,though he couldn’t quite keep it together long enough to not hint towards future encounters before this one had really even started.

I assumed as much. Charming. Brendon glances at both hands Ryan had curled around the sink at either of his sides and mentally shrugged- he couldn’t really argue with the obviousness of that. And I look forward to it. Fuck, likewise. We aren’t exactly in the most romantic place right now. ”Oh, are you a romantic, Ryan? Listen to this,” He began, tracing the curve of his bottom lip with his finger, ”Think candles and roses and silk sheets. Is that romantic enough for you?” Brendon was going to continue but Ryan had lifted him onto the counter and he felt as if all of the breath had been knocked out of him. When Ryan stepped between his legs he automatically wrapped his legs around Ryan’s waist and pulled him close, tilting his chin up to gaze up at him, lips parted. But we can make it work.” ”Uh-huh,” Brendon said intelligently, rendered unintelligible by Ryan’s deft fingers working the top buttons of his shirt and moving downwards. Ryan was exploring and Brendon was eager to encourage him but then they were kissing, and his eyes fluttered shut as he leaned voluntarily closer, chasing when he pulled away. Have I told you already how stunning you are? I feel like I haven't.

He smirked. ”Don’t just tell me I’m stunning,” He exhaled, pulling him in closer with the vicegrip of his legs. ”Make me feel it.”

F