Back in downtown New York, where Brendon lived, he never saw the stars. If he tried hard enough, he could pretend that the sea of street lamps and artificial lights was just another expense of the sky close to the ground, more celestial than industrial. But even if he managed to free himself enough to carry himself away in that daydream, sit by the window and gaze out into the dark, he could never keep it up for long. Brendon always had work to go to, and if he wasn’t working, he tended to be drinking, and if he wasn’t drinking he didn’t have the energy to do anything else and passed out early, disillusioned with the ocean of fake stars. Here, though, at Ryan’s ridiculously large house that he absolutely didn’t need (in fact he’d probably be just as at home back at Brendon’s tiny apartment, and Brendon knew that now since he’d learned much more about Ryan’s past), there was little to no light pollution and though Brendon had seen the full, clear, vast night sky the first evening he ever spent here, it stole his breath away anew every time. It wasn’t like he’d ever been much of an astronomer- the fact he knew and preached about his star sign was semi-egotistical, mostly to let everyone know he was flaming- but he was enchanted by them, and the authenticity of the night out here took away any homesickness he might have felt. Which, surprisingly, was a little more than he expected- when he left downtown New York he couldn’t be happier to see it behind him, but now he’d been here so long, he still felt out of his element, and he sorely missed his friends. Luckily, Ryan was good company (though he hadn’t been at first). One exchanged, affectionate glance at him and any longing he felt for his far from perfect home was quelled.

It wasn’t like he had much back there other than friends, and from what he heard from Jon, Spencer was doing much better, which, though Brendon was immensely relieved, ate away at his conscience and left guilt in its wake. What if Spencer had been getting worse because Brendon tried to interfere so much? Or didn’t interfere enough? Back right before Brendon left in the hope of snatching up this fairytale, fake-sounding job hours away, he and Spencer hadn’t been on the best terms due to tensions, with Spencer too sick to work and Brendon dutifully but reluctantly paying his rent when he could already barely afford his own. That kind of desperate life was long behind him, he hoped- Ryan payed him a decent amount, even more than he’d hoped for, and with the money he’d been saving up, he even hoped he’d be able to afford a new, slightly bigger and slightly less dingy apartment when he finally made the expensive taxi journey back home. Though- the idea of leaving wasn’t a fond one. At first, his goal had been to see Ryan through to the end of this book, make shit up about New York that sounded interesting so maybe he’d get a generous tip or something, then go back home, find a new, better-paying job and regain his autonomy. He hadn’t liked relying on one person to pay his bills, still didn’t. But Brendon and Ryan’s relationship now was much more fond than that of an employee and an employer.

The biggest reason Brendon hadn’t packed up and left yet was because of Ryan. Technically, he’d given Ryan all he asked for- the book was finished. At first, Brendon had suggested he stay until it was published; that milestone passed and he still didn’t feel entirely ready to leave. And so Brendon kept coming up with excuses to extend his stay, until he was worried he was finallyoverstaying his welcome and mentioned quietly one day that he should probably get going soon. Ryan, to his surprise, seemed just as reluctant to let him leave, stumbling awkwardly over his words, though Brendon got the gist of what he was saying. He wanted to start a new book series as soon as possible, he didn’t like the time between writing where he had absolutely nothing to do save chainsmoke in his bedroom, or something. Brendon had, embarrassingly, immediately agreed that he’d stay, not even needing to be won over by Ryan’s flattery, which consisted of ‘I write better with you around’ and ‘you make living in his stupid house a little more bearable’ and ‘I like myself better when you’re here’. However, Brendon was extremely homesick at that point, moreso than ever, and Ryan seemed to catch on. He offered to pay for a trip back home for, say, a week- Brendon, over the moon, had invited him along, but Ryan politely declined. He knew why. Ryan, Spencer and Jon still hadn’t resolved whatever had happened. Brendon had given up asking at that point, but he had a strong idea of what could have taken place.

It was only for a week, and all Brendon did was go back to his apartment to check it hadn’t been broken into or something, then visited Spencer and Jon and spent the whole time with them, using his saved money to take them out places, a silent apology to Spencer and a silent thanks to Jon. It was a sorry I left you, thanks for being so great kind of trip- and the whole time, he and Ryan messaged back and forth, mostly Ryan sending him ideas about his new book series and Brendon giving his severely underqualified but apparently highly valued two cents. Then, suddenly, he was back with Ryan, and he felt satisfied with where he was. Even if the future was still completely uncertain, he felt confident that with this new series (even though he was sure it wasn’t even set in New York, Brendon would be of no practical use) he would be allowed to remain without it being awkward for another hopefully long stretch of time. But then, after that- Brendon knew there was this unspoken subtext between them, and it was difficult to navigate because Ryan was still so closed off. The only time Brendon had alluded to this was when he was wasted and Ryan had been mad at him for, like, infiltrating his study. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said and he was glad for it. Brendon didn’t embarrass easily, but he couldn’t quite handle that kind of mortification.

He’d been back at Ryan’s for about a week and a half- when he first arrived back Ryan had been, typically, smoking on his back porch. Brendon had offered him a fond grin and referenced their first meeting, apologising for being on his back porch at eleven in the morning. It wasn’t quite eleven, but, still. It made Ryan laugh. They stood there somewhat unsurely for a few moments, hovering, when Brendon stopped hesitating and moved in to catch him in an embrace, inhaling against the fabric of his shirt and telling him softly that he’d missed him. Ryan said nothing, but at this point he didn’t need to. They’d walked inside and Brendon had asked him how things were going, book-wise. Ryan admitted sheepishly that things hadn’t been going at all. A week and a half later, and it seemed he still had writer’s block- Brendon tried to stay away as much as possible as to not distract him, but it was difficult because there was only so much backstroke he could do in Ryan’s pool before he exhausted that form of entertainment for the month. There were a few days where they just played around in Ryan’s studio, and Brendon had finally sang for Ryan, like he promised he would but never actually followed through with until then. Everything was kind of serene, time felt thick and slow, and Brendon swore he could stay in this peaceful limbo with Ryan forever, even if what he really wanted- whatever that may be- was just out of his reach, tortuously close but he didn’t know how to close the final gap.

Such things were evident when Brendon was sat on the steps of Ryan’s back porch in the evening, drinking in the sky, still as disarming as when he’d first seen it like this. Beside him, Ryan was sat, just out of reach. They’d been quite for a while- previously, Ryan had been writing something, but the notebook had been closed and settled on the wood between them. Brendon’s eyes fixed on it for a few moments and then he looked over at Ryan. ”Any luck, then?” He murmured, as if to not disturb the comfortable atmosphere too much. But his voice sounded too rough and loud and he cringed at himself, picking at his sleeve. ”With writing, I mean. I see you writing constantly but you never seem to actually get anywhere, y’know?”

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 alone 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 help. 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. Hi. What the literal fuck are you doing on my porch at eleven in the morning? 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 came onto him, without a doubt. Get on my knees? In a heartbeat, and, unforgettably, you're hot when you're mad, 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. Any luck, then? 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. With writing, I mean. I see you writing constantly but you never seem to actually get anywhere, y’know? "I've always got a muse," 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. "Just... nothing that I can show to the publishers." 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. "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." 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. "Look, those collected stars there - that's Cassiopeia, the constellation. Neat, right?" Keeping his face fixed forward, Ryan betrayed a tiny smirk, amused by himself.

/

BUMPING THIS FOR MYSELF

All his life Brendon had felt lonely, even surrounded by people and noise and suffocated by the towering walls of the city- he’d struggled with this feeling of psychological and emotional isolation for years, trying to support himself and his friend with no real goal other than maybe make it til his next payday and pay the bills and take breaks only to ponder about purpose and pointlessness and philosophy and train tracks and stupid little pill bottles and the long drop from his tiny balcony jutting off from his apartment and-

He never spoke about this to Ryan, as close as they were now. The dark empty pull in his chest and the voice in his head that told him he had no one and nothing to keep going for- not even living for the sake of living because although he wasn’t miserable he was just, grey. He didn’t feel like he should be grey- maybe in another lifetime he’d have been vivid and able to funnel his nervous energy into something good and he’d be successful and he’d just wake up happy and content like he thought everybody else did. Although he didn’t speak about it all, ever, he knew Ryan felt that way too- as slow as Brendon was at making it through his novels, and how wrapped up truths and honesty was wrapped up in Ryan’s elaborate metaphors, Brendon knew that he sold his heart and soul off to the general public and that a consistent theme was pain, and loneliness.

Both practically alone in different senses, they had come together and found something that was near sacred. Ryan living alone in his mansion in the countryside swallowed up by plants and flowers and tendrils that seemed to choke the life away from it; Brendon in his shitty apartment, hundreds of feet off the ground, surrounded by countless numbers of people and caged in concrete. It was almost poetic if it wasn’t so horrifically depressing, how like shells the two of them had been. Both of them wilting away in their environments even if they had previously convinced themselves it was working. It was like they’d found a new way of living. Imperfect, messy- but Brendon had never felt more content in his whole life than right that moment, sat beside Ryan, staring up at the stars he so rarely made out while standing at his old window, knuckles white around the railing, craning his neck to stare at the sky and look for stars when all he could see was thick blackness and flashing lights in the distance that could be satellites, or planes, or space stations. He could never really tell the difference. Out here, the sky was illuminated and adorned with thousands of tiny visible stars, and the moon.

It wasn’t like they’d been fixed. Ryan still shut himself away and didn’t let conversation get too deep, and Brendon still felt grey and sluggish, or sometimes the opposite, which was sometimes worse- restless, electrified with anxiety and energy he couldn’t channel into something positive and ending up in a manic spiral. Sometimes they wouldn’t speak for days but during times like these for either of them just knowing the other was accessible was a comfort. The closer in proximity they were, the more strong that feeling became- Brendon felt so comforted and safe right then that he wanted to hide himself in Ryan’s side, rest his head on his shoulder. He didn’t dare, though, instead finally pulled his attention away from the sky and to Ryan, who had apparently been trying to write, as always. Brendon thought he caught him turning his head away at the last second but dismissed it as his overactive and often embarrassingly wistful imagination.

Brendon was watching him with just as much fascination as he did the sky. Sometimes he didn’t understand this man at all and though it wasn’t like he saw him as some strange creature to study, he did desperately want to know what was on his mind. He let himself examine his profile contemplatively but not granting himself the liberty of consciously forming opinion about it, simply acknowledging the line of his jaw from the side and the plane of his cheekbone, how he could see his eyelashes and a faint reflection of light in his eyes from the moonlight, how his head was tilted back slightly parallel to sky. Just factual observations. Brendon blinked slowly, only after Ryan began to speak. I’ve always got a muse. Another observation- his voice was low and weary from underuse. Long silences between them were neither uncommon nor uncomfortable. Just... nothing I can show the publishers. Just as Ryan turned his head to meet his eyes, Brendon began to smile. “Alright, keep your secrets.” Figuring that would be the extent of their conversation, he looked back at the sky.

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. Looking back, it was clear on his face that Brendon was surprised- pleasantly, of course, but usually when Ryan was writing he rarely took breaks to talk. Considering what he’d said, he exhaled contemplatively. “I’m not really a city person by choice,” He admitted. “I know I’m here to help with understanding it, but that’s about all I can do. I get it. That doesn’t mean it isn’t exhausting and just fucking- draining.” As he spoke, he began to use his hands, gesturing for punctuation and holding his hands in the air for a few moments before dropping them back onto his lap. “Most of my love for the city comes from nostalgia and nostalgia is a liar. I always think- it wasn’t so bad. But it was. And I love it anyway.” A pause, a laugh, a glance at Ryan. “That makes no sense, probably. But- yeah, I love the stars. Maybe the novelty will fade after a while. They’re just so damn pretty.”

Before he could even finish Ryan was leaning in close and Brendon’s heart leapt into his mouth, taken off guard. For how close they were, actual physical closeness wasn’t common. It was comfortable regardless- of course. He stole a fleeting glance at Ryan then followed his outstretched arm to the corresponding cluster of stars. Look, those collected stars there - that's Cassiopeia, the constellation. Neat, right? Brendon’s eyes went comically wide along with an impressed smile that took over his face. “Really? I didn’t know you- where’s Aries? Oh my god. Do you have, like- a book or something? Pretentious- fucker.”