Jail was interesting. Technically, Ryan was hardly even [i]there[/i], and he was lucky for that; he’d been in lockup before, but his partners in crime weren’t his boyfriend - they only bailed him out after they were done being amused by his misfortune. Review the process: Ryan gets booked, he’s processed and questioned, makes a phone call, sits in a jail cell ‘til bail is posted. Then, outside those jail walls, his friends are sitting at home talking shit for a whole 72 hours until they finally fork over the $10k, or whatever - the price always raises, since Ryan’s clearly a risky case to the judge. Brendon, though, sweet, loving, and filthy rich, was [i]in court[/i] as soon as that gavel landed. Crazy fucker had the cash on him already. Ryan was pretty sure he was in love with him before that, but this kind of just set things in stone. Anyway, jail was a holding cell. All he had to do was sleep there, two other guys chilling at the other end, drunk off their asses on hooch he definitely didn’t sell to them. Not directly, anyway.

Usually, Ryan just didn’t show up, and instead pissed away his friends’ money and lived with a warrant for his arrest out. Dirty cops were all over the place, stationed outside of regular dealing spots as if they were waiting to catch him or someone like him, but the fact of the matter was that all they needed was a small cut of his supply in order to stay out of his way. Most of the force was corrupt like that, made life easy; that is, until enough of a bonus was dangled for them to actually catch someone. [i]Then[/i] they jumped into action. Anyway, this time around, Ryan wasn’t going to dodge the court date. He’d show up on time like a good boy, get Brendon’s money back to him, inevitably come home ‘not guilty’ because he was his own attorney and he could sweet talk the house down when he wanted to. Evidence was hard to find, because he wasn’t messy, and witnesses came even more rarely. There was no one in town who wanted him to go down, and if they did, they were guilty of something themselves. Ryan was, ultimately, untouchable.

For now, he was a free man. And he had a boyfriend to catch up with.

After thirteen hours of cuffs, getting them off was beyond just a relief; Ryan had a second to stand and massage his wrists before everything confiscated from his pockets was returned to him. He flashed a suspicious glance at his money clip, considering... but they probably wouldn’t dare. You’d think he’d have some catchy tagline to leave everyone at the station with as he went through the double-doors a semi-free man, but he had places to be, a ridiculously beautiful man to shower with attention. And said man would be considerably offended by his currently outworn costuming if he showed up like he was now, in a regular Joe suit, nothing elegant or outstanding about it, so Ryan had very little time to get home before he was unfashionably late.

See, this stuff didn’t used to matter, but Ryan was now ‘classically’ fruity ever since being outed officially. No, it didn’t bother him. In fact, he thought it gave him an edge. He’d been daring more competitors to challenge him for months, things were getting too easy, and now they all had something to say. So, naturally, Ryan was conducting hits on assholes a lot more often these days, whether it be carried out by his own hands or by his crew. It seemed like the new trend made Brendon seem just as beyond danger as he was, invicible by relation, so the ‘out’ situation was objectively good. 

At home, Ryan cleaned himself up and pulled on a red velvet suit, still laying out over his mattress since Brendon had gifted it to him. Seemed only appropriate. For good measure, he slipped a small, semi-automatic pistol into his vest pocket, ‘cause today was evidently a casual one. No big deal. ‘Out on bail’ wasn’t the safest way to be.

He’d left Brendon with the vague promise that he might be there, just after some other business dealings. He was running out of time but he’d already sent Spencer on a goose chase to find the fucker who ratted him out; Ryan met him at his apartment with a bat in hand. [i]What are you gonna do, kill ‘im?[/i] Ryan almost laughed. [b]”I’m no murderer, and this isn’t the Mafia, Spence.”[/b] Spencer led them to his dining room, nearly twisted the door handle to reveal his hostage, but Ryan stopped him. [b]”I don’t got time for this, neither, so you’re gonna clean this mess up for me.”[/b] Spencer immediately looked affronted. [i]Are you kiddin’ me? I already got the guy...[/i] [b]”Yea, and now you’re gonna break somethin’, send him off with a warning. I’m a nice guy that way.”[/b] Ryan smiled pleasantly, tossed the bat up and caught it by the end, offering the handle to a forlorn Spencer. Spencer took it regardless, his eyes rolled to the ceiling. [i]Fuck off outta my place.[/i] [b]”When you’re done, toss ‘im. Second offense, he’s dead. See ya.”[/b] Ryan clapped him on the shoulder on his way out.

Ryan was late, but only just. He stepped from his blackout-windowed taxi and into the venue just in time to catch Brendon’s final address: [i]Anyhow, thank you for coming. I’ll be performing very soon, but for now, please enjoy the pleasure of each other’s company rather than mine.[/i] Hidden beside a side entryway, Ryan smiled and kept his hands clasped in front of him as a round of applause followed, enamoured. There was enough press here that the serving of drinks wasn’t entirely obvious, but Ryan approached a server and knew to ask discreetly for his own whiskey, two glasses. He went backstage with one in either hand, coming up behind Brendon as he stood before a dressing room mirror, arms encircling him and chin hooking over his shoulder. Ryan reached out to set the drinks down in front of them, replacing his hands over Brendon’s at his waist, swaying them slightly, watching their reflection. [b]”Miss me?”[/b] he murmured close to his ear, just catching his earlobe to punctuate. [b]”Sorry I’m late, darlin’, but now I think it’s my business to make [i]you[/i] late for your performance.”[/b]