Ryan tried not to play up what connection he felt he and Brendon had. He tried not to romanticize things, the way he always did on paper; Brendon found his way into his writing regardless, and it was hard not to sound enamoured with him. Ryan wrote about the way he could feel his presence, how he could detect him rooms away, how he could predict what new curiosity inspired Brendon to explore the estate to fulfill it. He wrote about his accent, and how sometimes if he’d been listening to Ryan for too long, he emulated Ryan’s flatter tone instead, unconsciously, or how his voice sounded rough and unused in the mornings while he sipped at an oversweetened coffee. He wrote about how he sang, how, when he thought Ryan was far enough away, he got carried away in piano keys. He wrote about his passions, his opinions, his ideas, the way he expressed all of them.

So much for not romanticizing.

It wasn’t a ‘page after page’ deal - he didn’t fill notebooks entirely with ‘Brendon, Brendon, Brendon.’ But, if one was to look through his work and all of his unproductive musings chronologically, it was pretty obvious who had entered his life and become a central part of it. Ryan had run out of interest for anything before Brendon arrived, this odd, confused-looking kid on his porch, and now... everything had life. Brendon may have come into his life fairly hopeless and defeated by everything going on in his own, but he still held such a peculiar, lively quality; he illuminated the home Ryan had grown bored of. The garden Brendon was so fascinated by, once just another piece of the property that Ryan didn’t visit and let dwindle, was something for which he began regular upkeep again. Things started to matter, basically. He had someone to care about.

Out of fear, probably, Ryan didn’t dwell much into what that meant. Sure, he’d paint an intricate picture of who Brendon was and the changes that came about as a result of him being there - but never once did he write out, exactly, his own feelings for him. Of course, there were probably implications. Lucky for Ryan, there were no critics, no literary analysts - not even himself - to read into his personal journals. He and his evidently indefinite guest just existed beside one another, and Ryan registered that he was fond of him, so much so that he really, really didn’t want him to go, unless Brendon specifically wanted to leave. Beyond that, not much else occurred to him, because he didn’t let it. Here was someone he understood, who understood him. There was no point in change.

They’d been on the steps to the house, the ones still overgrown with ivy and fragile moss, flowers peering through on occasion. The sky was at that stage of purple-red-indigo that occurred only rarely, close to dusk, and the moon was out early despite the light, and Ryan had long since stopped gazing up at it to curl over a step and start absentmindedly freeing tiny white flowers from the greenery that crept over his home. And Brendon, well. He told Ryan he was in love with him.

Ryan didn’t even straighten up, just lifted his head to stare at Brendon, his mind, for once, completely blank. He wasn’t sure that it was even surprising - unexpected, yes, and confusing, but somehow, Ryan didn’t feel that overwhelming sense of ‘[i]how[/i]’ or ‘[i]I had no idea[/i],’ etc. Moreover, he had no idea how to take it, and the pressure made him nervous, absolutely no response prepared for him. Of course, anyone sane would just fucking say it back. But everything in Ryan’s life was practiced. He had a routine. He knew, generally, what was going to happen on any given day, and how to navigate it. This, though, was completely new, and he was dead fucking silent for the most awkward thirty seconds of his life until Brendon was suddenly scrambling to get away. Of course he was. It was truly awful to not have a sentiment like that returned but for Ryan to not say a [i]word[/i]...

Ryan let him go, mostly because he was frozen himself, and remained very still on that step for a while, his gaze dropping to the ground below. He tried to process this, wondered what he [i]could[/i] say to make that shitshow any better, if he’d be lying by saying it back. Was he in love with Brendon? Just asking it made his mind go empty again, like a mental block on his own stupid emotions. Alright, then let’s start simpler: did he love Brendon? Absolutely, without a doubt, it’d be idiotic to claim that the person he’d welcomed into his very private life for almost a year was anything but someone he cherished and loved. ‘In love’ seemed like a much more intricate idea. 

Five minutes of complete quiet and, without conscious thought, Ryan was on his way to Brendon’s room. He considered everything. How he felt when they played music together, the way his chest was tight when he watched Brendon read his words. How happy he was when he stumbled into Brendon at three in the morning, doing god knows what. How he had started laughing more than ever when they met - or how Brendon’s laughter sounded. Or, perhaps most importantly, how it felt hearing Brendon say he was in love with him. Standing outside of his room, reliving that in his head, Ryan had never felt so wonderful, so nervous, so anticipatory in his life. So... maybe.

He didn’t think before he leaned his forehead against the door and rapped his knuckles over the wood, realizing only [i]after[/i] the fact that he had no fucking clue what he was going to say. He had a few seconds to panic about that before the door opened, and there was Brendon, unable to even look at him, and. In a towel. Ryan looked him over, a little taken aback, before blinking, gaze lifting to his downturned face. [i]Yeah?[/i] The sound of his voice broke Ryan’s fucking heart, and - what he could see from the look on his face, god. His eyes looked red, and Ryan felt the unfamiliar urge to hold him close and never let go. He paused for a long moment, speechless, frozen. [b]”Are you okay?”[/b] he asked stupidly, knowing full well Brendon wasn’t. His voice became quieter, genuinely curious. [b]”Are you mad at me?”[/b] Well. Ryan would probably be mad at the guy he bore his heart to who said nothing in return, so. Reasonable curiosity.