Brendon didn't have, like, a drinking problem. But he had a problem drinking. See, if he started, he became this nonsensical, overenthused asshole, rather than just a 'sleepy drunk' or a 'giggly drunk' like other people became. And then he snowballed - he could start at eleven pm and then be done by seven in the morning, at the latest, passing out or being caught by someone on his team rather than cutting himself off. He could - Ryan knew it, he'd seen him drink casually on days where he expected to be talking to media - he just chose not to, evidently telling himself at the beginning of a night out that he was going to drink to the point of a blackout, so help him. It was more fun that way, or something. Ryan didn't see the point. He forgot everything past a point, he couldn't walk by himself around hour five, and, y'know, Ryan refused to do anything intimate with him if he was genuinely drunk. Which would be a huge no-no for Brendon, or so he thought.

It's not like it was every night, really, even if Ryan had seen it enough times to identify a pattern. Maybe five days out of the week was the maximum for Brendon, unless there was something special going on, say an awards show coming up or a holiday everyone blew out of proportion. Anyway. On an average night, he could handle himself, and could actually walk upright when he was finally going home. On a bad night, though,  Brendon needed an arm around his shoulder and he was incomprehensible and he still didn't see it as a time to stop - on some of these nights, even Ryan couldn't handle him. He had to rely on Brendon's chauffeur or call up some miscellaneous security to take his place. He left early, went home, and always reconsidered maybe thirty minutes after, turning up at Brendon's instead and waiting for him to come home. It seemed like a shitty thing to do, really, but he couldn't bear watching him become more and more messy even if it was just a fun night, so he had to resign to leaving him in equally responsible hands and catching up with him later.

Except for the night previous. Ryan knew he always regretted leaving him to some other staff member, so he stayed with Brendon even as he saw him slurring his next drink order, saw the bartender questioning him before relenting and serving him more againt their better judgment. Ryan didn't abstain from drinking in general, just paced himself, and throughout the night he held on to the same bottle of beer, some apple ale that was barely alcoholic. In contrast to that, he counted Brendon's first, second, third drink, and so forth; he lost count around seven because he couldn't decide whether shots counted as a whole. Either way. Brendon had had a lot, even for his remarkable tolerance. At some point, Brendon was talking [i]at[/i] him, rather than to him, about something Ryan had absolutely no idea what he was talking about - he was talking about, maybe, a temple in Cambodia, or a cruise they should go on, Ryan honestly couldn't discern any real words from it. Whatever he was trying to say, Ryan simply nodded along quietly, his chin in his hand, both of them seated at the very edge of the bar to keep Brendon's descent as private as possible.

Which was funny, because the only reason Brendon really went this far was because he was in groups of other celebrities or children of the wealthy, but they'd all since dispersed through the club to do god knows what. Ryan didn't know - he only paid attention to Brendon, watched him closely until he began leaning out of his seat and, yes, was pliant enough to guide out the door, into his chauffeured car, back to his apartment. He was the one half-carrying his boyfriend into an elevator, the one sitting on the floor with him when he couldn't stand on the way up to his floor, the one balancing him on one side while fumbling with the key on his other. Ryan had carried him, bridal-style, to bed, taken off as many layers as he could, ensured he stayed turned on his side with a bin by the bed, had painkillers and water ready for him. He revisited being his babysitter in a much more detailed context, and he'd decided it was worrying.

It was a couple hours after Brendon had woken up when he decided it might be okay to start having this conversation - after all, now he was sensible (as much as he could be), the hangover was subsiding, and maybe he'd be open to having it, too. Ryan had a mug of coffee between his hands, sitting at the kitchen island, watching Brendon a few feet away picking disinterestedly through the cupboards. Ryan took another sip before curling his fingers around the mug again, sleeves halfway over his hands, wondering how best to go about this. [b]"Brendon, baby,"[/b] he started, voice still a little ragged despite having woken up a good few hours ago. [b]"Last night - you probably don't remember, but... it didn't look good. When you drink like that... you have no idea how worried it makes me."[/b] He paused, looking into the tiny black sea of his coffee, avoiding eye contact. [b]"I mean. It makes me wonder, y'know, why you [i]need[/i] to go that far. It's scary."[/b]