“Where have you been?”
Brendon’s eyes were fixed on Ryan. He was sitting in a velvet armchair, one leg resting atop the other, back straight and chin tilted upwards. In one hand he held a cigarette, almost burned down to the filter, from which a thin whisper of smoke rose to the ceiling, dissipated, and in the other he held a crystal glass, almost empty of liquor. The way in which he regarded Ryan was unrelenting- his eyes weren’t narrowed with irritation, but wide and calm and intense as he looked him up and down, took a disdainful drag from his cigarette and exhaled, never once looking away.
With a decisive flourish he reached over to an adjacent small table, and silently crushed the filter of his cigarette into an ash tray. Sitting back stiffly against the red velvet again, Brendon drank the remainder of his drink and then put that down, too, with a little less grace- the table shook slightly with the force in which he brought it down onto the wood, like some of his annoyance had transferred into the motion. Brendon was not usually this stiff, or forceful, with his motions- but Ryan was testing his patience.
The Ryan in question was stood opposite him across the large bedroom, in the doorway. He looked smart- he was wearing a well-tailored suit, not one Brendon had gifted him because he remembered every single one. His hair was perfect, too, and there were no signs of him having been in some sort of desperate struggle for his life, like Brendon had been imagining over the past week.
“You scared the fucking hell out of me, you know that? I wake up, you’re gone.” Brendon uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I think, it’s fine, he’s probably working. Off doing his job. Some business deal, sellin’ hooch to whatever bastard needs it.” His voice was clear, loud, and there was a dangerous absence of any anger in his tone. “So I wait for you. Come evening, you’re not here. But I think- unexpected trouble, maybe. You’ve been away for a few days with no warning a few times, it’s normal. Part of the job, right?” He flicked his wrist out, fingers splayed, gesticulating tersely. “I went to sleep, Ryan, hoping you’d be here the next morning, maybe in bed with me, who knows.” For a brief moment he looked away, swallowed, as if recalling his worry. “I panicked, spoke to Spencer, he didn’t know. Dallon, neither. Nobody knew, darlin’, I had no fucking clue where you were, I-“ Sitting back in the seat again, he gripped onto the arms of the chair, inhaling and exhaling sharply.
“I even checked in with the goddamn cops, thinking you’d gone and got yourself arrested again like you’re so good at. They say to me, ‘no, you fucking fruit’, very charming of them, but besides the point.” He blinked, then stood up, lifting himself up from the chair and walking over to a table nearby, picking up a crystal decanter and pouring himself another glass of whiskey. He stared into it, swirled it around, bit his lip. “There’s not one fucking sign of you anywhere, no word from anyone. And then- here you are. All dashing and put together like you’ve just attended some formal dinner.” Brendon turned to him, clutching his glass hard. “You better have a good explanation, darlin’, because some of the ideas I have in my head, I-“ Brendon swallowed, his expression dropping, suddenly unsure and looking as small as he was for the first time since Ryan had entered the room.
Brendon’s eyes were fixed on Ryan. He was sitting in a velvet armchair, one leg resting atop the other, back straight and chin tilted upwards. In one hand he held a cigarette, almost burned down to the filter, from which a thin whisper of smoke rose to the ceiling, dissipated, and in the other he held a crystal glass, almost empty of liquor. The way in which he regarded Ryan was unrelenting- his eyes weren’t narrowed with irritation, but wide and calm and intense as he looked him up and down, took a disdainful drag from his cigarette and exhaled, never once looking away.
With a decisive flourish he reached over to an adjacent small table, and silently crushed the filter of his cigarette into an ash tray. Sitting back stiffly against the red velvet again, Brendon drank the remainder of his drink and then put that down, too, with a little less grace- the table shook slightly with the force in which he brought it down onto the wood, like some of his annoyance had transferred into the motion. Brendon was not usually this stiff, or forceful, with his motions- but Ryan was testing his patience.
The Ryan in question was stood opposite him across the large bedroom, in the doorway. He looked smart- he was wearing a well-tailored suit, not one Brendon had gifted him because he remembered every single one. His hair was perfect, too, and there were no signs of him having been in some sort of desperate struggle for his life, like Brendon had been imagining over the past week.
“You scared the fucking hell out of me, you know that? I wake up, you’re gone.” Brendon uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I think, it’s fine, he’s probably working. Off doing his job. Some business deal, sellin’ hooch to whatever bastard needs it.” His voice was clear, loud, and there was a dangerous absence of any anger in his tone. “So I wait for you. Come evening, you’re not here. But I think- unexpected trouble, maybe. You’ve been away for a few days with no warning a few times, it’s normal. Part of the job, right?” He flicked his wrist out, fingers splayed, gesticulating tersely. “I went to sleep, Ryan, hoping you’d be here the next morning, maybe in bed with me, who knows.” For a brief moment he looked away, swallowed, as if recalling his worry. “I panicked, spoke to Spencer, he didn’t know. Dallon, neither. Nobody knew, darlin’, I had no fucking clue where you were, I-“ Sitting back in the seat again, he gripped onto the arms of the chair, inhaling and exhaling sharply.
“I even checked in with the goddamn cops, thinking you’d gone and got yourself arrested again like you’re so good at. They say to me, ‘no, you fucking fruit’, very charming of them, but besides the point.” He blinked, then stood up, lifting himself up from the chair and walking over to a table nearby, picking up a crystal decanter and pouring himself another glass of whiskey. He stared into it, swirled it around, bit his lip. “There’s not one fucking sign of you anywhere, no word from anyone. And then- here you are. All dashing and put together like you’ve just attended some formal dinner.” Brendon turned to him, clutching his glass hard. “You better have a good explanation, darlin’, because some of the ideas I have in my head, I-“ Brendon swallowed, his expression dropping, suddenly unsure and looking as small as he was for the first time since Ryan had entered the room.