jakob

stardust in my eyes ;; b&r

Something Ryan had come to appreciate was the very slight shifts in Brendon's demeanor, generally for the better. Granted, he didn't know Brendon before he'd shown up on his back porch, but he was fairly observant anyway. What he'd noticed when Brendon first arrived - and originally assume was just the way he was naturally - was, in some moments where he must've thought no one was paying attention, there was something like dissatisfaction in his expression, or when he came close to talking about himself he seemed to shut it down. He looked happy and all a majority of the time, of course, probably because he didn't want to show any other side to Ryan, but it was more difficult to believe then; now when he saw Brendon smile he picked up on a certain genuine quality that hadn't fully been there before, and he almost never caught him looking lost in bad thoughts anymore. It was, of course, none of his business, but Ryan was glad the fresh air and new environment was helping him.

Less pleasant - Ryan noticed that he easily affected Brendon sometimes. Not necessarily in a bad way, but he knew Brendon had pretty thick skin from whatever life he'd led before, so the ease with which he got to him was slightly concerning. He was fairly obvious with his amusement even when Brendon wasn't trying to entertain, and judging by how Brendon took his reaction to the wonderful outfit he'd chosen, that got to him, too. And then his hair; Brendon must've caught on, and Ryan wished he could explain that this was an endearing quality, not something he was making fun of, but. Easier to let it drop. Anyway, it was all just strange, and maybe Ryan had misjudged him. He'd considered Brendon to be too comfortable with himself to care what anyone thought, much less Ryan who had thus far proven to not be bothered by anything he did; apparently he'd jumped to that conclusion too quickly. Or this was a special case... but only a week in, Brendon couldn't value his opinion that much. Next note to self on the list of improvements he was trying to make: be more careful not to lead Brendon to any mode of insecurity.

He wasn't the only one who got self-conscious, though, and Ryan's uncertainty about his own work seemed to bother Brendon. Shut up. Ryan raised an eyebrow at him, wondering whether he should accept Brendon's defense of his writing or remind him that he was basically his boss. He stayed quiet instead, looking on interestedly. You’re the hardest worker I’ve ever met. Ryan paused, clutching his mug and considering this. He'd received plenty of praise in his life, though from people who saw a bird's-eye view of his anonymous persona. This, however, was important to him, validated all the time he'd put into his work. He was ambitious above all else; Brendon must've had no idea how those words made him feel. It was hard to express, so he just smiled fondly, hiding behind his mug as he took another drink. Then there’s me, ranting about Dr. Pepper. "Shut up," Ryan replied without hesitation, mirroring Brendon's response to his own self-deprecation. "You're the most talented person I've ever met." Brendon hadn't even shown him the full scale of his musical prowess, and yet he was sure of it already. He tilted his head almost challengingly - guess they were equal, now.

You’re so easy to make fun of. Oh, good. Ryan had been looking for an escape from being sappy any further. He actually fully grinned at that, almost laughing, because Brendon was bold - and his claim was also very true. "And yet, you didn't actually make fun of me. Thank you for having mercy." He deliberately avoided looking when Brendon started to toy with his hair in what seemed a vain attempt to sort it out, but he could tell anyway that the stubborn cowlick from lying down all day had chosen its spot and intended on staying. Whatever, he rocked it. By the way, I’ve been here a week and you haven’t once offered me a single smoke. Bad hospitality. Ryan had gone this long without knowing he smoked. And, yeah, he would've learned if he offered in the first place, but that mistake was now etched into history. He figured, after hearing what seemed like only a fraction of how well Brendon could sing, that he took measures to save his voice and all. "Maybe I shouldn't." He shrugged, looking thoughtful while he was most definitely trying to get Brendon to show him more of his musical ability. "I mean, you're a musician. I shouldn't corrupt your voice before I get to hear it properly. Whenever that is." Hint hint. Not so subtle.

He was on a roll calling out Brendon, here, and maybe he'd feel bad about it if he didn't know how to calm down Brendon's anxiety that he could potentially disappoint with his answers. Ryan saw it physically, wide eyes and tense body language until he eventually let his shoulders relax. He was about to say something like 'don't worry about it,' whatever, but Brendon answered. Uh, like, three-fifths through the first one. I’m not very good at concentrating for a long time, alright? Ryan smiled again for half a second before he realized maybe Brendon wasn't totally at terms with said concentration issues, didn't want it to be turned into a joke. And if that meant something more than just 'trouble concentrating,' well. Ryan supposed it'd make sense, based on his behavior. His features softened considerably to a secure smile and a focused gaze, and his voice changed quickly, lowering to a more reassuring level. "Hey, don't stress about it. I'm not worried at all," he said carefully, trying not to say too much, dwell too long on it. He eased up, letting his expression return almost to normalcy and allowing more inflection in his voice while he tried to divert. "You know, most people take a long time to finish it. It's not really... 'read in one sitting' material. Heavy subjects, and all." He shrugged, nonchalant.

sheepish wolves ;; b&r

What was funny about Ryan's move to seclusion was the fact that, out of his two closest friends, somehow the one he'd met latest and bonded less with was the one he stuck to. Alright, maybe not funny - but certainly odd, and he supposed it was because he knew Spencer all too well. Did it hurt less to cut him off entirely or to send each other meager texts or call every few months, trying to maintain a dead connection? Ryan wasn't sure. He wasn't up to make trial runs, either, so he went with the former, although less harshly. This included not voluntarily speaking to him first and foremost, mostly because he had no idea what he'd even say at this point, but if Spencer were to contact him he wouldn't brush him off or ignore him. They weren't on strictly no-speaking terms, and he didn't harbor any ill will towards him, nothing like that. But things still didn't look good. As for Jon, the deal was mostly the same, and it worked better because Jon was actually the kind of person to keep reaching out regardless of whether the favor was returned. If he didn't make sure Ryan was alive every once in a while, they probably wouldn't be talking.

It was hard to explain why things had gone that way. An easy explanation was just that Ryan dropped everything, ran away somewhere to better himself as soon as he got the opportunity, because he was ambitious above all else. That was much simpler than the truth, although it was about as heartless, so he sometimes let even himself believe it. In reality, Ryan had grown detached from his friends on a timeline that didn't fit that tailored theory - Spencer had picked up a steadily worsening drinking habit by the time they were nineteen, and for a while Ryan turned a blind eye to his occasional drink. Since he was a kid, he figured they were all in it together to swear off drinking and drugs, or at least barely experiment with any substances, for obvious reasons; when Spencer was the first one to break he wasn't sure how to feel. Here was someone who saw firsthand what addiction did to people, how it affected those around them, and he was in denial about his own problem from the start. Ryan was gone by the time Spence started controlling his own prescription dosages in the name of bettering himself.

It wasn't the right thing to do at all, and it explained why Spencer hadn't really called Ryan himself or sent a message that didn't have Jon as a middleman. He'd been too afraid to watch Spencer's situation get worse, didn't think he had the ability to step in and help - in his experience, he could not feasibly do that. At the time he had thought himself fortunate for having all of this money to get the hell away from everyone, and now he was drowning in it, wishing he'd helped his friend when everything was still in the fairly early stages. Ryan was just shocked Jon could still stand to contact him. He hadn't ever really explained why he disappeared, or shown signs of his plans other than deliberately avoiding Spencer at times, so maybe Jon still didn't actually know the insane extent of how selfish he'd been... but that was unlikely. Jon just had a huge heart, he knew that. Ryan could've done much worse and Jon probably would still talk to him.

Anyway. He knew he was lucky things had taken a turn for the better once he'd been gone for a while - in fact he still shakily asked Jon every time they talked how Spencer was doing, trying not to dwell too much on the subject but too afraid that another person might've been taken from him to leave it completely alone. It was all very heavy and vaguely overdramatic, and Ryan wondered how much exactly Brendon knew about it all if he was friends with Jon - Jon wasn't the kind of guy to just unleash personal stuff like that when it was other peoples' business, too, but if you got a couple of drinks in him he was a little less careful. He was maybe too concerned that Brendon had formed his own opinions based on that history, maybe he judged Ryan for the way he dealt with things. In all fairness, if the tables were turned, Ryan would judge the fuck out of Brendon, so he had all the rights to feel like that. It just didn't feel great, especially when he wasn't sure how to make everything right again.

Mostly, so far, Brendon had entertained anything he said with ease, and if he ever seemed like he didn't like Ryan, it was 'cause Ryan was talking like that again without catching himself. In the same way the thought of Brendon knowing that portion of his past made him nervous, the fair possibility that he'd read his books was equally nerve-wracking, but Brendon evidently hadn't. Thank god. Two bullets dodged, then. Definitely a Virgo. Ryan unfortunately understood what he meant despite their humours being two different worlds, and he nodded like it was a true tragedy. It can’t be that bad. It gave you the means to buy this fuckin’ mansion. Ryan looked at the ceiling resignedly, like he was only then remembering, yes, he was in this fuckin' mansion. He shrugged, didn't feel like explaining his success was owed to the ever-growing population of people going through some kind of new-age emo phase. Luck was on his side with the timing of his release. And everyone seems to love it. Ryan thought about every bad critique or less than three star rating burned into his brain, conveniently all remembered as opposed to him forgetting all the good ones. He looked at Brendon with something unreadable, not sure how to respond not negatively, and just left it at that.

There was something in Brendon's eye when Ryan explained he'd been the one to put the room together that was definitely discernible as him catching on to something. He couldn't help the tiniest smirk at that, watching Brendon gesture all around them with suddenly brighter eyes. Seriously, this is tight. Tight. Ryan made yet another mental note of the way he talked, tilting his head curiously in response to his word choice. Hey, if your writing career crashes and burns- become an interior designer. Ryan rolled his eyes, but made it clear enough that he was flattered. "Thanks. Predicting the future, there." He was kidding, really. But he was a little afraid that his next contract would be bullshit that ruins his success streak.

If he'd been paying attention to anything other than the canvas on Brendon's arm he might've noticed how much he'd inadvertently freaked him out. Alas, he didn't catch it, and therefore went on believing this was totally fine. I have a music degree. Ryan's face must have shown how he felt about that, he was sure of it; as much as he pretended none of it was that personal to him anymore, he missed music, missed making it and puzzling out chords and everything. No one but the two people he'd left behind had ever shown an equivalent passion for it, but Brendon was showing a lot of promise as of yet. One thing was concerning- if he had a music degree, why was he here, of all places? Education no longer guaranteed a job, he knew. Bullshit. Ryan figured he had to have some kind of connection to get Brendon somewhere he wanted to be; after all, he had plenty of contacts to provide him with his instruments, expand his collection. Someone had to have an opportunity for the guy. Sweet - and it looked like he was genuinely excited about the prospect of having some equipment around.

Ryan backed off a little, hesitant, because he wanted to leave Brendon alone but he'd also been given a large influx of information in a small space of time. This last part was important to him, though, and he didn't want to forget. And- he sort of thought helping Brendon might temporarily make up for what happened between him and the last people he cared about. "One last thing - don't let me forget that. If you have a music degree, you may as well be using it. We can talk about finding something for you later, all right?" He pursed his lips, tentative, but finally tapped the doorframe as a means of an actual goodbye before turning to leave.

stardust in my eyes ;; b&r

Something that made their connection tremendously easier was the fact that they were both musicians... of sorts. Brendon apparently had a music degree, but that was practically just decoration in comparison to what Ryan was picking up on of his ability. Like - his life had obviously been dedicated to music. He must've been the kid in every club and orchestra and band group, must have started young to be so knowledgeable in music the way he was, an adept of sound. No degree could get you that kind of experience. Of course, Ryan hadn't heard him play an extreme amount, and in fact had rarely had the opportunity to. In conversation, though, when Brendon could talk about an album from any given genre with flair and insights Ryan himself wouldn't have thought of, it became clear he was much more talented than he was letting on. Ryan didn't push it, though. He'd be a hypocrite if he did - he was so insecure about his playing ability since he'd not performed in front of anyone in so long that he claimed to not know the piano at all, that he was basically a beginner with a guitar, that he didn't sing. Saved him from potential embarrassment.

Of course, Brendon wasn't an idiot, so he probably knew that Ryan didn't have a top-brand piano and a series of guitars and amplifiers and pedalboards and mixers, amongst a vast world of other things, for the hell of it. Even if he hadn't yet presented all of that to Brendon, he was pretty sure with all the energy he seemed to have, he'd stumbled upon the collection sometime. Anyway - music was something he'd long set aside, ever since he stopped constantly being with Jon and Spencer. That was what he played for for as long as he knew, after all; he just wanted to create something with them, and occasionally his writing turned into poetry turned into songs for himself, but. For the most part, he preferred the silence of words on paper, ten times less intrusive than expressing himself through a rough guitar line or having to sing his story. That, to him, was way more vulnerable than he'd ever like to be, but the short-lived little band he had with his childhood friends was nice to reminisce on. And, in all honesty, he was stupid good at what he did know how to play, even still. Ryan just tended to have fairly clouded judgment.

That aside, as he'd determined the only way to really learn about Brendon was to urge information slowly and over time (apparently New Yorkers were even more closed off than he thought), life was somehow easier with him around. Ryan was still often too dry and mean-spirited and sarcastic, but he remembered all the time that he had so much less reason to be around Brendon. In fact he pretty much had no reason at all, but it was something of a task to break a habit he'd built up for his entire life - approaching people as cynically as possible - and he was still sometimes too blunt. Brendon, luckily enough, was just about Aries enough to deflect any of his shortness and throw it right back at him - sometimes. Other times, Brendon just looked fairly affronted or annoyed. Either way, he always served as a good reminder to play nice, what with his tangible reactions and generally easy-to-read air. Ryan hadn't exactly become softer or open, but he at least learned to catch himself.

Brendon looked relieved when Ryan greeted him as friendly as he could muster, and he figured it was 'cause Brendon still felt guilty sneaking around. He wished desperately he could just tell Brendon it's fine, he couldn't disturb someone who never got any sleep anyway, but. That'd just draw more attention to it. Poor guy. He accepted the soda nevertheless, and Ryan felt a tiny sense of accomplishment once he cracked it open, 'cause now it was like he'd memorized a regular's order. Morning, honey. Ryan's gaze narrowed and his half-smile straightened out somewhat, not sure how to feel about that at first, but of course Brendon was screwing around. Ryan let himself laugh a little, barely belatedly, noticeable anyway. Brendon folding his arms over himself had the exact opposite effect of what he'd presumably been going for, because the movement caught Ryan's attention, and he studied Brendon more closely for the first time. He honestly couldn't decide where to start: the fact that it was his old jersey, or him being half-undressed in someone else's home so soon, or how different they really were - 'cause for fuck's sake, here Ryan was with all too-big clothes, grey sweats that hung low on his hips and some faded cotton T-shirt whose neckline had been stretched out and made him look far younger.

His waifishness was totally hidden, in other words, and Brendon was wearing his jersey, (barely) anything else. Ryan couldn't figure out how he felt about Brendon in his clothes; alas when he gave them to Brendon, he had no idea he'd eventually be even more fond of him than he was on the surface-level first impression. But he definitely felt his chest get tight, something indiscernable, and the sensation was a little unsettling. Ryan looked away, hiding his smirk by focusing on the coffee brewing. And this way he wasn't actually laughing at him... technically. A number of comments were coming to him, like an innocent 'glad you like the jersey,' and then a more dry 'you got comfortable quick,' and of course the worst 'why the fuck are you walking around my house like that.' That was totally the old Ryan talking. He'd decided he was officially reformed. Anyway. He determined, ultimately, that he was not going to comment at all on Brendon's manner of dress (or undress).

Ryan was only just pouring his own coffee, deliberately avoiding looking at the bright smile adjacent to him, when Brendon finished his soda. Ryan concluded that he was maybe a little bit not human. Hey, I don’t mind coffee, but nothing beats Dr. Pepper. Let’s be real. "Not even Coke? Or Pepsi?" He was kidding, of course, because if Brendon was that much of a fan then he'd have very strong opinions about the separate brands that Ryan thought all tasted exactly the same. And he liked to mess with him, so that was an easy invitation to do so. Foregoing all the individually packed sweeteners and sugars and creamers that he apparently only owned for guest use - whenever they came, if ever - Ryan took his coffee black, and leaned back against the counter island to consider Brendon. He suspected that even without the help of caffeine he'd be this way, excitable and lively and pleasant, whereas anyone else would be irritated that they weren't asleep. He just seemed to be that kind of person, and maybe there was more to his endless amounts of energy, but. Baby steps.

So, why are you awake? Oh, good, now Ryan didn't have to feel like the one all in Brendon's business. It just seemed like since he was the host, or whatever, his asking would sound more like an interrogation when he really wouldn't give a fuck if Brendon was, like, having a party, or something equally disruptive. He could use the variety, anyway. Important author stuff? Ryan raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking up to make eye contact with a particularly gravity-defying lock of Brendon's hair. Amused, he smiled to himself before his attention returned to Brendon alone, and he shook his head slightly. "You think too highly of me if you think I'm currently, or ever, doing something important. Although, watching old documentaries and chainsmoking indoors is very productive." He punctuated the smartassery with a sip from his mug, briefly looking to the ceiling. "And you? Finished my books yet?" He was, once again, messing with Brendon, 'cause he was about ninety percent sure Brendon had barely touched them and Ryan could not actually care less about it. It'd be funny to watch him squirm about it anyway, unless that ten percent chance won out.

stardust in my eyes ;; b&r

A week ago, Ryan had gone against all of his 'values' and not only held a full conversation with someone, but also welcomed them into his home for what looked like a semi-permanent basis. It was a strange occasion for him, but with Brendon it all felt almost normal, comfortable. He quickly came to terms with the fact that he needed to give Brendon some space at least sixty percent of the time, which threw a hammer into his plans to quickly knock out fixing his novel, but the more he procrastinated, the longer Brendon could stay. That was a pretty good deal. He didn't like company and Brendon barely counted as that; it was like he just had a companion, charismatic enough to blend easily with his own personality but unique enough to keep life interesting. Anyway, whenever he stepped aside to give Brendon his own area and personal time, it meant he could make his corrections in peace. So they'd sort of developed this symbiosis, and it worked.

Since it'd only been a week, though, Ryan had dedicated only about two days to real work, and the rest was letting Brendon get settled. Once he'd shown him his room, Brendon told him he didn't need anything, which he seriously doubted. So to counter that he started randomly leaving things around that Brendon maybe probably needed - some new clothes, some of his own old ones that weren't too Ryan-style or Ryan-sized and more neutral, a notable piece being a hockey jersey he'd long abandoned. Then he tried paying attention to what Brendon would sneak out of the pantry, not saying anything when he caught him from the corner of his eye with an armful of Monster and Flamin' Hot Cheetos and Skittles, and mysteriously a day later one of his housekeepers would have stocked the place with typical hormonal teenager food. That was, apparently, the extent of Brendon's diet, right next to fancy liquor that didn't disappear but got halved with water whenever it was sneakily sipped from.

So, nothing Brendon did was annoying or bothersome, but amusing as all hell to someone like Ryan whose life had been fundamentally boring for the past six years. He was sure it wasn't just a New Yorker thing and more a Brendon thing, a debate he found himself struggling with constantly because Brendon was just that spontaneous. Most of the time, Brendon 'settling in' was him chilling on his phone while all his belongings remained in his bag and he had no idea where anything was located in the entire house. Ryan supposed that was a process. He could always just get lost on his own time, anyway, maybe call Ryan if he needed guidance out of a particularly complicated hallway.

He was entertaining and everything, but the problem Ryan had was that he was inspiring. In all fairness, he was the only person who Ryan had been around this long in some time, and therefore his influence could be explained away as him being the only one around. As it were, pieces of Brendon kept showing up in every one of his revisions and additions to the story, and it was more than just some New York City details. It was in his protagonist, who suddenly came clearer into frame with dark hair and dark eyes, whose Queens accent became more Brooklyn in the more dialogue he added with silly modernized slang. It was entirely accidental. The only changes he'd made so far that were on purpose were shifts in imagery and in how the subway system worked, so on. Little images of Brendon, though, were all unintentional, and he had only recently begun to notice upon rereading. When the mental picture that his brain came up with had clarified, he realized that was definitely, unmistakably Brendon, or at the very least reminiscent of Brendon.

Brendon hadn't yet gotten to read all of it, though, especially not most of the changes, so he was luckily free of getting caught. For now. Brendon was still getting worked into familiarity with Fever, so there was no point throwing him into the mess directly now. As it were, he was alone with his writing, spending nights by the kettle or the coffee machine less for the fuel and more for a tidbit of the nutrition he always forgot to provide himself with. Or, anyway, he thought he was alone. Ryan was headed with his mug in hand back to the pot of liquid, black gold, when he heard the faintest sound of footsteps, and he paused in the dimly lit living room adjacent to the kitchen, silencing himself to hear what was probably just Brendon approaching. Funny how they'd stumble upon one another at such a specifically 2 am-time, but he supposed if Brendon was going to eat like a teenager, he maintained the sleep schedule of one, too.

Ryan beat him to the chase, turning on the coffee maker and grabbing a soda from the fridge simultaneously. When Brendon came into view he held out the latter expectantly, wondering what he was up to this late but not quite smooth enough to ask without sounding like he was delving. "Morning," he said, amused, over the sound of coffee grounds stressing. "I could also make you coffee, if you like. Or you never made the twenty-something switch from energy drinks to espresso?" He half-smiled, having grown used to their sarcastic back-and-forths actually being acceptable.

sheepish wolves ;; b&r

Part of him didn't even trust Brendon very much, even if he was starting to pick out key traits here and there that were charming and likeable. It wasn't even a little bit Brendon's fault, though. Actually, Ryan was more worried that he'd learned things from Jon (and, again, if they'd even met, maybe Spencer) that he wasn't comfortable sharing with just anyone. Jon and Spencer had that childhood friendship privilege, where even if he hadn't volunteered information to them, they likely learned of it through observation alone; he hadn't explicitly told them his mom mysteriously disappeared up to her parents' place and never came back when he was little, but when they visited his house with no maternal influence or lived-in appearance, it became pretty obvious. Similarly, he never said a word about his dad, but the smell that followed him to school or his constantly neglected appearance or the secretive way he held himself around anyone, among other things, were pretty telltale.

What was comforting was that he had only been looking for an NYC spokesperson for a short time, and, and considering there would be no other precedent for talking about Ryan before that, Jon and Spencer would have had very little time to talk all about his mysterious youth. Granted, it was unlikely they'd even bother to do that, regardless of whether they felt malicious enough towards him to betray all of those best-friendship-trio secrets. Still. He had good reason to be paranoid - the whole literary world knew at least the subtext of everything he'd ever worked very hard to keep tightly under wraps, and he'd sacrificed it all for a tiny bit of money when he was still virtually a kid. He didn't really regret it, just wished the circumstances were different. And now he was vaguely on edge, thinking maybe this guy secretly knew everything about him when all he ever wanted was for everyone in the world to know nothing.

But it didn't look like Brendon was giving him the pity glances or judgmental looks that came so typically from people who would probably be clued in, so he was good. Maybe. It definitely didn't seem like he was on the best of terms with him, but there were other reasons for that, one of which being every single word that came out of his mouth thus far in addressing Brendon. He wasn't even sure he'd be doing better if he had time to prepare for a visitor. In fact, he didn't even know he was going to be offending Brendon until Brendon looked offended. Whaddya mean, suspected? Ryan looked panicked for half a second, wondering if there was a cool and casual way to communicate 'oh, you just don't seem like you read much,' which basically sounded like he was calling him stupid, but Brendon relaxed. As if on cue, Ryan did, too, body language reflecting his easily. Okay, yeah. Sorry, don’t get a lot’a time to be reading. I’ll once-over the synopsis on Wikipedia, though. Don’t stress. Oh, so he thought Ryan really cared about whether he read the series or not. Made sense.

Ryan put up a hand, waving it dismissively. "I don't mind at all. I'm not a huge fan of my own work, anyway. Sort of glad you haven't read it before - even I can make a better first impression than that garbage." He smiled right back, slightly cynical, and realized belatedly Brendon had seemingly been kidding about the Wikipedia thing, but that totally worked in his favor. He much preferred some kid's interpretation of his plotless, orderless misadventures than he did his own writing, so if Brendon was going to read anything, it should be that. Or maybe he could glaze over some of the major newspapers' reviews, since they apparently couldn't get enough of Ryan's pretentious word vomit. Anyway, Ryan was just glad he didn't have to explain away the whole 'you don't seem like a reader' thing, 'cause then he'd be out of his only candidate, and probably the only person who would have been as cool with him.

It’s deadass, like, the prettiest room I’ve ever seen. Ryan's smile faltered minutely, because he thought he was a walking dictionary and yet 'deadass' was not in his vocabulary. He tilted his head a little, using context clues to assume it was, like, 'honestly,' but didn't interrupt. Was the decor your choice, or do you leave it to someone else? Ryan wondered how to come clean about it being his choice without explaining that he was a cheapskate who wasn't going to hire some interior designer who probably would want to give him, like, wicker fucking chairs or pure white furniture, no inbetween. He pursed his lips. If Brendon was willing to come out through talking about his star sign, Ryan could admit to his weird fashion sense/design complexes and be safe. "Mine," he said, with a tiny shrug. "Thank you. No one's ever stayed before, so... good thing my first guest comes with a note of approval." He smiled weakly, feeling lame as hell because this was less of what a 24 year old might talk about and more like a 50 year old homemaker. Screw it, he was excited about Brendon actually liking something here.

Sharing a tiny tidbit of his own life with Brendon proved to not be the end of the world, because he looked almost happy to hear it - even though it was just an anecdote about how tiny his home used to be. Plenty more where that came from. Anyway. He was sure he had Brendon's name right, if you could count 45% sure as that. Charming. Fuck. He nearly jumped to his own defense again, something like 'I haven't had to remember a name in years!' but that was sad as hell. He bit it down, looking sheepish when Brendon didn't even bother answering to his confirming question. So, yeah, not Brandon. He was stepping away towards the end of his awkward apology, knowing his presence was probably not wanted for quite as long as it'd been, but suddenly Brendon was moving closer, reassuring him with the tiniest gesture of kindness.

Ryan looked down at his outstretched hand speculatively, blinking at the ink that danced up from his forearm and disappeared under the sleeve of his shirt. For someone as observant as him - hell, he was a writer - it'd taken a damning amount of time for him to notice the array of colors painting his skin. Thanks, man. Ryan was still busy admiring, barely listening. He'd always wanted tattoos himself. Probably some Tom Waits quote he'd liked forever. Right now he'd never impulsively wanted to get it done so badly. Ryan took his hand after the pause, shook it lightly, then turned Brendon's hand over, holding it in both his own hands so he could keep his arm steady while he looked at the piano keys that splayed out where veins should be. He owned a Steinway he very rarely used. God, if he could get Brendon to play sometime... "You play piano?" He still had Brendon's hand in his and realized it was probably time to let go, but not before registering the faint callouses, telltale. He dropped his hands and again wrung them behind his back, eyebrows raised. "And other instruments, I take it. You should've said so. I'll show you where all of mine are sometime."

sheepish wolves ;; b&r

Ryan wished he could've gotten some sort of résumé or value sheet or a goddamn handwritten note from Jon about the guy, not because he needed to know about his skills or experience for professional reasons but just because he was so intriguing that taking his sweet time trying to naturally learn more about him was almost frustrating. And Brendon wasn't the oversharing type, it seemed like, which would be wonderful if Ryan didn't want to hear about everything he had to say. He wanted to know what part of Brooklyn, what was it like, who the hell taught him that sharing his star sign was at all a quality he thought was imperative for his employer to know, how did he know Jon, why was he so ready to disband all of his old life for this uncertain shaky one, what was that old job he'd got the ax from. So much. And Ryan knew he could be a bothersome shit when he - not wanted to, but accidentally was, so, he tried to keep that under control.

In fact he was already a little bit afraid Brendon didn't like him. There were no distinct signs, really, just tiny things here and there that said Ryan wasn't his absolute favorite: sometimes he'd cast him a relatively unfriendly or offput glance, or he didn't say something in the sweetest tone ever. It was the combo of Ryan not being used to someone being casual and normal instead of crawling at his feet, and Brendon being unintentionally mysterious, that made him paranoid. For the umpteenth time, he so rarely talked to people, but it was even rarer that he actually gave a shit what they thought. He probably wouldn't, not so much, if he wasn't already feeling bad that someone had to be staying in his place for a while, practically on some kind of forced not-so-vacation. It was a nice enough environment, but no one would want to be stranded with an offbeat reclusive author with no telltale background to speak of. Basically, he had a lot to make up for, and he wasn't sure how to go about it with Brendon.

Money was a start, and Brendon already seemed shocked at how he so easily handed it out. By no means was Ryan filthy rich, he couldn't walk into a room of proclaimed business magnates and philanthropists and the like and stand up to them easily, but to 'normal people' all kinds of rich were the same. And he supposed, since he wasn't born into the life, he sort of thought the same thing - which was why he placed the same or similar value into his accumulated wealth. He hadn't been stupid in the start. The success of his book felt like something completely unreal that he'd wake up from and find himself penniless again, halfway bankrupt by university, so he'd started tucking away at least 90 percent of every check he received and saving it all without touching it. It was like that for three years, and sometimes he saved even more than that just 'cause; all throughout he worried that his sudden good fortune would disappear at any second. Needless to say, he lived in an apartment probably even worse than Brendon's while all of his money sat locked away in a bank account, and all he spent his money on was rent and school. No debts, but no luxuries, either.

Then, when he did earn his degree, Ryan was quick to buy a house and escape literally everything, continue his bizarre spending habits way out where no one could see. It's why décor existed everywhere but the spaces he most frequently occupied. He wanted so desperately to be ready for anyone else's necessities, but for his own he didn't bother much. He made donations when he could, when he cared, but ironically for old friends he hardly chipped in. Vaguely he wondered whether Jon had mentioned anything about that... and if Jon had made any mention of Spencer, who was ten times more likely to be annoyed by Ryan's hoarding, to Brendon. After all, the three of them had sort of been a package deal until he basically ran away to live in isolation. A fucked up story, but hey, that's what he made a living through. Fucked up stories.

Surrounded by said wealth, Brendon looked entirely lost, out of his element. Ryan felt for him, smiling small when he looked at him so helplessly, but he couldn't do much other than valet his coat for him. Honestly, he was barely used to it all himself - after all he ignored basically every room except for the living room, which had become a writing space and a sleeping space and an eating space on the infrequent days he chose to do that, all in one. Someone who knew how to respond to a disproportionate influx of cash like his would be utilizing the mansion in its entirety, most likely. Brendon looked like just about everything Ryan had to offer him was confusing, though, including the compliments. Maybe Ryan hadn't been genuine enough; it looked almost like he didn't want to hear the facts that were him being just. Gorgeous. Suddenly wondering whether he'd crossed a line, like maybe that wasn't what you said to someone so new in your life, he quickly looked away, tense. At what point had straightforwardness gone out of fashion? He had to remember that, break the habit.

Interesting choice of password for a literary genius. Ryan cast him a serious look, blinking slowly. Genius? Critics said that because they pretended his metaphorical ability was something worthy of applause. Teenagers said that because sometimes he made the cut for a social media quality quote, uncredited and purely there for the depressive appeal. He rarely believed any compliment anyone paid him, and he hardly believed this one. "I suspected you hadn't read my writing before, but now if you're calling me a genius then you really must not have," he half-joked, and he was so unfamiliar with the concept of kidding around that it came off a little too darkly until he smiled, sort of sideways. I’m not surprised. No offence. Oh, good, so maybe he wasn't prone to giving Ryan way too much credit. Or Ryan just actually acted like a hundred year old raisin like he felt. Damn. He shrugged unwittingly in reply, not offended at all.

He was starting to pick up on it not being exactly appropriate to stare, but Ryan allowed himself some leeway while Brendon slowly circled around to admire hisroom, silently praying that he didn't just like it - loved it. Again, if he was going to have to stay here, Ryan wanted him as happy as possible, and this was starting to apply more and more resoundingly to Brendon specifically the more he became endeared to him. Brendon's gaze roamed freely around his new space, awestruck, but Ryan's was fixed on him, a tiny smile threatening his lips when he felt kind of accomplished. Wow. "You like it?" he asked carefully, sounding uncharacteristically worried, and closed the space between them to stand beside Brendon, see it all more from his perspective. This is tight as fuck. Ryan gave him yet another slightly bewildered look, only to find that he had the sweetest smile of all time, and his peculiar slang was instantly forgiven. He looked confused for a fraction of a second more before he naturally broke down into mirroring Brendon's sunnier-than-possible grin, barely measuring up to the amplitude of his, but still.

It took a moment for him to grow nervous about it, shoving his hands in his pockets again and forcing himself to look at the floor, biting his cheek to cut off his smile. Tight as fuck. Sure. He had a feeling he'd be picking this stuff up in no time. I mean, this one room is bigger than my apartment. Ryan looked up again, his expression once again closer to flat, but empathetic nonetheless. "Oh. Well," he said simply, hesitant, and decided maybe it was time to throw Brendon sort of a bone. He may as well know a little about Ryan if he was going to be, like, stuck in his house. "Well, I used to be the same, so. Don't worry. Hopefully when it's time for you to go, you'll be able to afford an upgrade, if you want." Maybe he could hook Brendon up with some entitlement to the royalties. It's not like he needed all of it, anyway. He felt weird talking about himself, though, and shifted on his feet sort of awkwardly, like a kid being forced to talk to the cashier rather than his mom taking over.

Thus far he thought he'd maybe sort of made up for the relatively rude introduction his general accidental bluntness. It's not like he could by any means control it now, but he could at least retroactively recognize his mistakes, and he felt bad enough that he thought to comment on it before, like. He didn't know. Leaving Brendon alone to get settled? Maybe that was the right thing to do. Anyway, first things first. "Hey, Brendon. Brendon, right? Not Brandon," he said, totally nailing this whole 'play nice' thing by fucking his name up potentially. "I don't talk to people much, obviously. Sometimes I can be a little too- direct. I've been told." Translation: he didn't see it, eighty percent of the time. But if people thought he was an asshole they were probably right. "I'm sorry about earlier. I hope you know you're totally welcome here, especially considering you came all this way, and everything." That was about as nice as it got, but he still said it in the most monotone voice ever and with strictly dubious eye contact. He had his hands wrung nervously behind his back and was already stepping away, preparing to escape and leave Brendon to his own devices, but he still needed to tie up all the loose ends on pleasantries.

brilliant and bored || b&r

Hey, is there a problem? Yes, Ryan answered in his head. Yeah - the issue was that he'd been the one who invested so much time in this relationship that he'd, truthfully, unfairly entertained in his head, leaving Brendon out of his idealistic fantasies yet still expecting some semblance of reciprocation, and now as much as he pretended he didn't, he still thought about it constantly, still wondered how perfect they would be if he'd somehow been the one to break Brendon's emotional barrier. The issue was that all the work he thought he'd put into wearing Brendon down, slowly introducing him to the idea of exclusivity, trying to help him know how it felt to really fall in love with someone - all of that was basically for naught, because someone else who'd been there for none percent of that labor stepped in and took the credit for all of it. Issue was: Shane himself.

But because that was all really dramatic and was more tailored to the personal commercialized narrative Ryan had orchestrated in his head, he just shrugged offhandedly. "Nope." There. Problem solved.

Even so, Ryan was surprisingly withheld when Shane strolled in, all biting comments but no thrown hands. Admittedly he never really did that, but still. He was pretty proud whenever he could still stick by his Virgo values. I was being productive. Ryan grimaced at the sight of Shane gesturing towards Brendon not-so-innocuously, wondering if he really went to extreme lengths to make an ass of himself all the time or if it was just in front of Ryan. Either way, Brendon defended his honor by nudging Shane away, and Ryan didn't quite smile or anything, but his grimace at least faded by a degree. It was the small stuff like this that showed him they were still friends, that Brendon could read him like a book and treat him just as easily, all kept him from straight-up quitting.

Evidently, Shane had no idea that they were anything but friends all along, and Ryan was new to this information. He watched Brendon's very clear disdainful reaction, cringing slightly but hiding as best he could from Shane that a mistake had been made at all. Probably seen more than he wanted to. Ryan half-smiled, trying to suppress it so that Shane didn't finally snap and murder him right in front of his own boyfriend, alas. He spoke quickly enough to cut off that conversation entirely, and they were moving on from his mistake. Thank god. Once again, Brendon jumped to his defense (although he wasn't quite a victim as much as he was being a hell of an instigator), and Ryan looked on with a soft gaze, touched despite how pissed he was at Shane in the back of his mind. And he maybe felt sort of bad Brendon had to do this at all, but. No turning back now.

Babe, he’s my assistant, not yours. Listen, you’re not even dry, could you just, like- get dressed? And maybe come back later? Ryan smirked at the look on Shane's face, but mostly he was weirdly endeared to the way he was 'my assistant,' and that was about the lowest the bar had ever been. Unfortunately his high-and-mighty moment was short-lived, because a breath later, Brendon was trying to console his boyfriend, whispering into his ear and giving him a kiss. Ryan ducked his head again, and didn't even know what all his paperwork was for anymore. None of it made any sense. Nothing on the pages, nothing around him, none of it. It was a quick mood drop, so fast he thought maybe he finally understood Brendon's rollercoaster emotions, but then maybe not so much. That was probably overstepping.

Shane finally stood and took his leave, probably all thanks to Brendon rather than Ryan scaring him off. I am so sorry. Ryan shrugged one shoulder halfheartedly. So was he, that Brendon was stuck with such a... whatever. Listen, I promised him you’d leave before, like, five. I know you have a lot to do, but... Cool, that gave him a few hours, and a few hours was better than the zero time they'd had together. "I could just -" Ryan stopped abruptly. Evidently he was still in his petty mode. He shifted gears, disbanded the passive aggressive sentence 'I could just go home' altogether. He didn't want to go home, he wanted to be with Brendon, and if his excuse was going to be that he had work to do, then that was fine. "Sorry, sorry, okay," he said more gently, relaxing his shoulders and finally looking directly up at Brendon. "That's fine, I mean. 'til five is better than nothing at all... and I've missed you, you know? I meant what I said; you're my best friend." He smiled, slightly relieved, and folded his arms over the coffee table, leaning over them. "Are you and him all right? Or is he just like that when I'm around?" Probably the latter. But he still wanted to hear Brendon's real thoughts, if he was willing to share.

sheepish wolves ;; b&r

Ryan actually had to convince himself that Brendon wasn't making fun of him in order to maintain a composed expression - relatively composed - although he knew for sure that the act of dedicated listening and comprehensive nodding was just that, an act. Ran thought he was a fairly assertive person, but here Brendon was, totally cool with doing whatever in front of a stranger. Again, probably a New York thing. I’m honoured you’re even letting me breathe it. Ryan continued his choice made thus far to just keep staring at him, more fascinated than anything else with how comfortable he got so quickly. He didn't argue with Ryan's logic, though, so that was all right, Ryan could deal with some irritation, no problem. It didn't even cross his mind to offer a smoke over, nor had any other usual courtesy occurred to him to present Brendon with; maybe this was a hire not just for facts and information but also to recalibrate to the outside world.

He might have considered Brendon lucky for being the most impressive candidate thus far if he wasn't the only candidate. Ryan was in charge of looking for someone all by his lonesome, probably more because his company knew how huge of a control freak he was and didn't want to get in his way than anything else. That said, he did a piss poor job of making a list of prospects, hadn't even started looking for any profiles online or anything. There were plenty of professional consultants he probably could've called, line operators who were familiar with New York City for their career or tourism coordinators who knew every nook and cranny of the place. But Ryan had fucked up priorities, so his mind was usually on fixing the wording of every tiny meaningless sentence in his novel rather than on finding the person who would become an indispensable instrument in making the thing realistic at all. After all, he took life iteratively, didn't multitask to ensure his concentration was narrowed down into as tiny a focus as possible. That way, less mistakes were made.

And maybe Brendon wasn't perfect, because he didn't seem like the same kind of person, but Ryan heard somewhere that two very different people meant that there were two very different perspectives, and after being the only person with a real lead say on his last two books he knew he had to incorporate some variety. So. Enter Brendon. Brendon, of course, didn't know that from the second he walked into Ryan's view that he had a job already, and Brendon didn't know that it wasn't just because he fit the most basic requirements, but also that he had this insanely unusual attitude Ryan wasn't used to. So unused to, in fact, that he didn't want Brendon to know that his absurd brazenness was getting him places, 'cause then he'd probably just kick it up a notch and Ryan really wasn't up to getting his patience tested. For now, though, he was interested in him, wanted to know why someone so young and with so muc potential had landed on such a weird short term opportunity, unless it was just for the cash. But he had barely given Jon any information about pay, so, maybe it wasn't even that, and he was just on his last leg employment wise.

As awful as he was at interacting with other real live breathing humans by now, Ryan knew he shouldn't just come out with 'you're fascinatingly weird,' so he stayed relatively quiet throughout the rest of their conversation, trying to eke more information about Brendon out of him while he stayed as surface-level about himself as possible. Less confident, more like running out of options. So he was right. Ryan looked at him speculatively, something unreadable in his gaze, and he knew Brendon couldn't have gotten that out as easily as he tried to. He nodded very gently, understanding quickly. Got axed, like, fuckin’- yesterday. Before he turned away, Ryan registered the look on his face, and he wasn't too socially inept to pick up on facial cues. He felt for the guy. He couldn't sympathize, necessarily, because it's not like he'd had to hold a job in his adult life to stay sheltered and fed, but he understood feeling like he was losing control. "I see," he said carefully just before starting the search for his wallet, sounding softer than he had throughout their entire bizarre interaction.

It's not like it was a guilt trip by any means, because Ryan already knew he wasn't going to even try to look for anyone else, although he knew for damn certain there were people better suited for the position. Brendon had been the one with initiative (or the only one to know, unless Jon had really gone more out of his way, or even Spencer). The same went for the money he handed over next; it just felt fair. Brendon had gone so far out of his way for such a huge favor, staying over here and putting his own life on pause for the sake of a series he appeared to know nothing about. Unless, of course, Ryan was being presumptuous, and Brendon read more than he looked like he did. Which was a grand total of zero books a year. Uh- thanks. Ryan looked at him slightly oddly, wondering why he was being thanked for what he thought was basically a debt being paid, but shrugged anyway and slung his hands into his too-low pockets.

He watched Brendon go to painstaking measures not to fuck anything up while he settled in, putting his bag down on the couch he treated like fine china but that Ryan could give less of a shit about, then held his jacket rather than set it in the same place or hang it up, whatever. Ryan wore an amused look, reservedly eyeing the coat hanging off his arm, and wondered how exactly to tell him he could do whatever the hell he wanted and Ryan wouldn't care. Actually, he needed a reason to keep his housekeeper coming, because all they ever needed to do was, like, move a book to a shelf or throw away a couple of crumpled up papers he missed himself. At least now he knew that Brendon wasn't as much of a fireball as he expected - he was actually too well-mannered for his own good from the looks of it, so much so Ryan was afraid he wouldn't be able to get comfortable in what would virtually be his own home for an indefinite amount of time. Or maybe he was wrong, and this was just Brendon in the first thirty minutes. Hopefully that was the case.

He needed to stop making assumptions about the guy, either way. That he knew you in Colorado, you were an author and you needed a source- a NYC native. Ryan wasn't sure how he felt about that much information being passed on, as little as it was. He'd become accustomed to complete anonymity. He pursed his lips but didn't comment on the facts, just slowly tried to extract Brendon's jacket from his arm and hang it on a hook behind them directly beside one of his own. And here I am, nothing but a kinda pretty face from Brooklyn. Although- he wasn’t mad specific. Mad specific. Ryan was endeared to his slang, and maybe made a mental note of it - if Brendon's speech patterns were this distinctively Brooklyn then he was definitely going to need to pick up on them and incorporate them into the story. Not just for the realism, but it really was heartwarming. He forgot the appropriate boundaries of socialization before replying. "Kinda pretty?" was all he said, raising an eyebrow at Brendon over his shoulder but not offering much else. That alone, though, was fairly telling itself.

Um, Ryan? So, man, do you have WiFi up here? Or are you a strong believer that the internet distracts us from one of life’s greatest pleasures- reading. Ryan glanced back at him again, once again wearing an odd, curious look. Brendon really was eccentric. He was about the first person Ryan had met in a very long time who didn't drop to the floor to kiss his feet just for being young and wealthy - and, that being said, the first person who called him 'man' like that, like he may as well have said 'yo' too. He wasn't sure whether he liked or disliked that fact just yet. How do you even survive? Ryan stopped in front of a door abruptly, without warning, and smiled at him, offbeat. "Yeah, man, I've got WiFi," he replied just as casually, and leaned in close to Brendon to check out the settings app sitting open. There were a few different routers throughout the place simply because of the size, and he picked out the strongest, pointing at Brendon's screen as if this kind of distance between two strangers was acceptable. "That one. The password's just, uh, 'password.' To be honest, I'm not sure how I survive, 'cause technology is beyond me." And he was only a year older than Brendon. He shook his head tragically.

Ryan opened the door he'd stopped in front of, strolling into a guest room fully furnished; a queen-sized bed with sateen and Egyptian cotton, faintly silvery-white, and the rest of the room reflected the same color scheme with an accent of light-light-lavender. All the wood in the room was pine, all the furniture characteristically vintage looking (likely because it was actually antique, and not just on purpose), two sidetables and a dresser and a filled out bookshelf and a desk with a laptop/office set, the works. Out of nervous habit he flicked the lights in the connected bathroom on and off, worried a little that the place had gone untouched so long that it was hardly livable, but the space was pristine. Guess that housekeeper found work after all. "Also, I think the Internet made people read a lot more, actually," he commented absently, as if Brendon truly cared. "Writing is more readily available, most everything is public domain... it's kind of incredible."

Ryan looked like he was still dwelling on that for a few moments more, then suddenly gestured around the room as if they'd only just arrived rather than having stepped inside a minute and a half ago. "I hope this is okay. The guest rooms all sort of look the same, so... if you need anything, just say so, no problem." As if he'd told Brendon he'd be staying here already, beyond a couple of implicating words. Honestly. It'd been a long time since he'd spoken this long with a person around to hear it. "What's your place like back in the city? I could try to get the same stuff here."

sheepish wolves ;; b&r

The worst part of needing help with his writing was the part where he was very likely to be interrogated about the other books already written. Fever delved into topics he wasn't ready to talk about with anyone, especially not someone he'd probably dismiss after five days' worth of talk, maximum; Camisado lined most of the same subjects. If he was pushed to actually explain, he'd have to talk about his eighteen year old self's grievous memoir of a childhood with one distant, ill parent, of academic success but failure in most every other aspect of life, the typical teen angst bullshit that sent audiences wild. More than that, in the second novel, it would involve other people's stories, too, twisted into his own to create a new and unique narrative. And that was, like, basically betraying all the poor people on Forensic Files whose lives he half-plagiarized. Sad, really. Regardless, Ryan was pretty sure he already had a knack for avoiding even general questions about anything, anyway, so he was probably safe.

The man - which felt like the wrong word, considering said 'man' barely looked like he just walked off stage with his high school diploma, but then the same could be said for Ryan - who welcomed himself onto Ryan's back porch didn't look like the nosey type, thankfully. So, since he was evidently so interested in this job, Ryan could just ensure he met all of the qualifications: no being a curious little snoop, be from NYC. Done. And the longer the guy stood there looking like he had no idea where he was or who exactly he was looking at, the more Ryan came to think maybe he didn't even know much about what he was getting into. This was probably the best deal he could get, actually. Someone who was in it for the money and not to see their favorite author was peak ideal. He'd ask no questions, accept the producers' cash without argument since he needed it so badly anyway, and he might even leave Ryan the hell alone during the day. It'd he like no one was staying here, as usual. The dream.

But the guy, a Brendon, apparently, had an attitude right back at him. In Ryan's defense, he'd forgotten what normal politeness looked like, and couldn't recognise when he was being rude, just other people. Okay- not much of a defense, just an explanation. Why are you smoking on your back porch at eleven in the morning? Ruining the air, man. Not amused, Ryan continued staring at him, less confused now and more with repugnance, but that was mostly because 'with repugnance' was his natural expression. He inhaled the ruined air audibly, raising his eyebrow at Brendon. "It's my air, on my back porch. Look, nature and I have a deal. I let it eat my house if I get to fuck up the air quality." He gestured out to the sides of the house where weeds and miscellaneous plant life was climbing the old wood, where flowers grew up from the cracks beneath each plank in his porch. He didn't mind it, really, but he needed some quip for Brendon's weirdly accusatory response. Was it accusatory? Ryan wasn't sure. He really needed to get out more, 'cause this was proving to be a pretty awkward confrontation.

Sorry to disappoint. Ryan supposed the twinge in his gut was something like remorse, but then he came to the conclusion that Brendon was joking. Even so, he'd never speak like this to an employer. Guy had some nerve. Ryan tried to mirror his smile despite being unused to those facial muscles, but didn't have any response to grace that with, simply accepting his apology. Oh, yeah? From what I hear, you’re on a deadline. Didn’t you need someone by today? No, fucker, not really. Ryan crossed his arms over his chest while he felt Brendon's eyes wander. He had plenty of time! Maybe. Unless the contract changed. Shit. "Not necessarily. But the sooner, the better, I suppose. With my job, deadlines are pretty flexible." Jon was correct in his analysis of the situation: his production company was one hundred percent up his ass. After all, if he had been older than eighteen when they found him, they'd have felt it necessary to pay him double what he got and take less from the deal themselves. Ryan didn't mind either way, but he could pretend to give a fuck if it meant they'd meet all his demands, which included setting back due dates, time after time.

Ryan was learning he either didn't like the kid or he didn't like native New Yorkers in general. But he was fairly tame compared to the, like, five other people Ryan had interacted with in the past two months, so Ryan let it be. You certainly look busy. Sharp, wasn't he? Ryan's gaze narrowed - maybe he'd asked for that kind of response when he started speaking so shortly with him. He didn't care enough to alter his own behavior, honestly. "I am," he said, voice flat, and it sounded more like a 'fuck you.' He wasn't even mad, it wasn't in his nature to be - he was just that uncomfortable in social situations. Now that they were on the same page, having made equivalent social faux pas, and Brendon looked sheepish about his door mistakes, it seemed like the right time to invite him inside. Unsurprisingly he looked uncertain about accepting the invitation; Brendon clearly hadn't seen an accumulation of wealth like this all in one place. So he really hadn't left the city much before, then. Even when Ryan was a poor teenager he had seen other people's huge properties, was used to rich kid mansions, but Brendon looked like this world was entirely too new.

Ryan trailed in behind him, watching him with withheld fascination as he looked around the place. Distantly, he wondered what he thought of it all. From pure habit Ryan still kept the place looking mostly unlived in, despite the fact that he hadn't needed to make a quick escape from any place or impress a resigned father for six years. He figured that was impressive to most people, keeping a place looking completely clean and new (apart from literature lying about freely and all the greenery outside), but Brendon looked torn between that and something else that wasn't impressed at all. I’m Brendon Blake. Alliterative. Me, too, was Ryan's first thought, but he'd feel way too pretentious repeating a name Brendon probably already knew to him. His hand twitched at his side, wondering if shaking was still a thing that people did, but Brendon didn't go for it first, so he stayed put.

Twenty-three, born in New York City, if you couldn’t tell. Ryan half-smiled, genuine for the first time, and nodded comprehensively. He had yet to hear the typical NYC accent buzz words, but even still, Brendon sounded like such a stereotype it wasn't even funny. All right, kinda funny. In fact, he probably came from down south, not from Staten Island 'cause he wasn't quite annoying enough and he was still shocked by a big house, but from Brooklyn, more neutral but still with an amusing as hell twist to his voice. Uh, I’m an Aries. Oh, cool. So he was gay. Or gay-ish. Ryan nodded again and looked pretty obviously like he was suppressing a real smile. Either way, he wasn't sure how he felt about welcoming an Aries into his home. It'd go from quasi-unlived in to needing a fire extinguisher on every corner within a week, and Ryan knew Brendon was going to need to stay on for a while for his sake and his editing teams'. ...And I used, like, five hundred dollars to get here. Not to make you feel bad or anything. Brooklyn kid spending five hundred big ones? Ryan tilted his chin up, impressed at the sacrifice he made for a job that wasn't even promised to him.

"Oh, trust me, I feel awful." He smirked, finally walking further past Brendon and starting to dig around the place, through desk drawers and between couch cushions with no explanation for his erratic behavior. "You must be pretty confident, if you spent that much without even calling before coming here." Or it was a genius scheme into receiving compensation for a job he didn't deserve. Either way, Ryan found his wallet lost behind a pillow and popped back up, pushing a hand through his hair while he peeked into the bill fold. Good thing he was a bank-hating cynic who carried cash at all times - and didn't spend it, either way. It looked like he had even more than the cab price on hand. Ryan pulled bills out at random while he approached Brendon, tossing the wallet over his shoulder back at the couch once he was close enough to hand over his money. This was sort of not a normal human thing to do, but what the hell did he know. "For your trouble. And, in the future, don't waste your money on cabs, I have a car you can use. A few, actually."

So apparently despite their weird as fuck introduction, Ryan figured he didn't need to interview any more people, or even conduct a legitimate interview with Brendon. Luckily for Brooklyn boy, Ryan had absolutely no clue how any of this worked himself, and did everything in his life on a whim anyway. Additionally in his mind it wasn't necessary to formally tell him he was on for the job - he'd just make implications one after the other 'til Brendon got the idea, apparently. "So, how much did Jon tell you?" He made a mental note to get back in touch with Jon, a note he'd inevitably forget all about. "I'll probably need you around for a few weeks. Don't know if you knew that part. If you need anything, like, clothes or whatever, just say so." One thing he was bad at was being specific, and another was keeping people in the loop. So Brendon probably barely knew about the job description and didn't know that Ryan's seemingly aimless walking off in one direction was him showing him around the place, despite knowing full well he'd just get lost either way.

sheepish wolves ;; b&r

'Resourceful' was, for most people, maybe just a term that looked good on a résumé, not really accurate because they never had to utilize said resourcefulness. For Ryan, though, it stood true, and was in fact the reason for his more than modest success. Really, he was sneaky. The only way to write a compelling enough story when you were young with little life experience was to draw from your own absurd tragedy, build it up or wrench excruciating detail from the slightest misfortune. Then, once all that was accomplished, slap it under a 'young adult' section of your local bookstore - teens who pretend to like reading will be raving within weeks. Ryan was eighteen when he decided his university courses were moving too slowly and followed this procedure, digging through all of his old, disjointed writing and making it into a cohesive piece; once he'd slung together a slightly morose but 'coming of age'-esque novel, publishing companies stumbled over one another to respond to his inquiries.

He was stupid enough - or just insecure enough - to call it luck when he was really just a talented writer. Ryan had wanted Fever to be a one-time occurrence, then he could move on to bigger and better things; his publishing company had different ideas, knowing he'd already drawn an audience within the first six months of sales and he had to please some sort of cult following from now on. So now it was a series. Ryan's first book had been a rearranging of his own experiences, a rephrasing of all the stories he had stuck in his head. Everything was basically a 'SWIM' version of his life, all the names changed or not even mentioned, morphed into metaphors and poetic syntax that turned real stories into only vague gestures at things that had happened to him. At the time of writing, it'd been... cathartic. The few times he was called on to answer to interviews (which, by the way, he was careful enough to stray from the spotlight and avoid fame of any kind altogether), generally over e-mail or phone, he got questions about the specifics, and that made him regret coming clean at all. People always wanted to relate.

Well, they couldn't, and he wasn't going to allow it. So Ryan made sure the next one was even more vague, and it wasn't just about him so he wasn't trapped in the knowledge that the general reading public was eating up his stories and turning them into their own. This was why he stayed under a pen name. Continuing a series contractually would be his way out of letting his own experiences becoming public domain - although to be fair that'd been his young, dumb choice in the first place. Sure, now he had all the financial security of maybe, like, fifteen other writers in history, but still. If his name got out, he'd feel like he sacrificed all of his personal life left, and it wasn't even like he'd made anything clear. Someone truly dedicated to literary analysis may have figured out the things he was alluding to, or decoded the fact that he wasn't making a story for all the other teens and twenty-somethings reading, he was making something for himself, a glorified diary. And they could maybe piece out the fact that he was distancing himself further and further from that narrative to avoid his own past the more he added to the series, but that would probably take a while. Hopefully he'd be, like, dead, or on a remote island by that time. Would be nice.

For now, though. Ryan was safe in the solitude of a gigantic fucking piece of property in upstate New York. Not the city, because that was too much, and even the city was out of his price range if he wanted something other than maybe a penthouse. In rural New York, yeah, he made it quite well. He was surrounded by trees and mountains and nature and the occasional editor or Fedex guy stopped by, but otherwise no one visited, no one came or went, and he preferred it that way. Supposedly he wrote better when he was alone, but that was a hypothetical considering he hadn't practiced any other way. Even when he was younger he was tucked away in his room, far lonelier then because it looked unlived in, immaculately clean with no posters or décor so he could make a quick escape when he did eventually get out of the house. And he did. So fuck that place. Ryan was probably definitely never going back to Colorado. Without leaving the country entirely, he'd gotten as far as he could while remaining within a reasonable distance to all of his assets, everything involved with the production company.

One thing about the series was, the further Ryan got from his original unclear wordplay and nameless, faceless descriptions, the closer he got to a real story with a real plotline and distinct characters. This meant he needed to actually know about places, needed to actual build a universe, and knowing about the places he wanted to write was an unrealistic goal to give himself, considering he never actually went anywhere. If he was to attempt to write a realistic cast of characters he would for certain fail. His best was a protagonist, and that protagonist would likely just end up being himself, for lack of another person to base it off of. And if he needed a setting, well, it'd be a huge fucking mansion in the middle of nowhere, because what other place did he know besides a lonely, desolate room in Colorado? Nowhere. Thankfully, his production company was understanding rather than mocking of his inexperience - after all, they'd be hypocritical to do that now after being so impressed by his youth and naïvety the first time he signed a book deal. Their compromise was to pay someone with real life experience to coach him through whatever details he needed.

It was his third book in Fever (and as far as people knew- just not in general). Everything was practically written, but needed a once-over by someone who knew their shit. And Ryan had no clue where to find someone. He had a couple of friends in the city, which is where he'd very pretentiously chosen for the story to take place in, but Jon and Spencer hadn't grown up there. Ryan needed that kind of detail. Someone who could list off a whole neighborhood in detail, talk about bodegas and what they stocked or didn't stock, someone with the ridiculous accent and everything that he totally wouldn't make fun of if they came up here. He needed someone who could relate to the character or make the character relatable, who would actually improve the story with their additions instead of just fulfill the basic requirement of realism. It was a tough pick. Ideally he could just walk onto any subway and yell for people whose certificate read 'New York City, New York,' but that would most certainly leave him wanting better. So he needed someone he could trust. Even if neither of his friends could help, he dropped a hint and hoped they'd take the bait to find him someone, save him the trouble.

But Jon and Spencer were little shits who took 2 to 35 business days to complete any task, so in the meantime, Ryan decided to stew over what'd already been written, criticize his writing until it reached perfection. Then he'd get to do it again later once there was inevitably someone standing over his shoulder, breathing down his neck annoyingly while telling him all about how the Big goddamn Apple doesn't work like that, or whatever. He didn't mind as much as he made it out to see that way, honestly, he liked the proofreading part of it all, but he was ready to get over with the obligatory contract, publish number three of four finally. The handwritten copy was on his porch with him while he lit up his already-fifth cigarette of the morning, a habit he'd picked up as soon as he could afford it just because he could afford it, and he paged through it restlessly, tapping the ashes away far more often than was absolutely necessary. This was typical, honestly. Ryan stood up after ten minutes of trying to reword a sentence - "'with disdain' or 'disdainfully'?" - and stared out at the garden, watching it eat more and more of his home.

He heard footsteps and didn't turn very quickly for someone who lived by himself and existed by himself 99% of the time. Apparently nothing surprised him much anymore. Even so, he still looked incredibly confused upon taking in the sight of some dude meandering onto his porch looking about ready for a road trip, bag slung over his shoulder and all. Um. Hi. Okay. Ryan had the decency to feel a little self-conscious in his 'I'm alone in my house so I wear whatever the fuck I want' lounge clothes, blinking at this guy who seemed still dressed for a real job, dark hair and dark eyes a contrast against evenly pale skin. He didn't see other people often enough to really care about how attractive they were, but shit. He could still notice. Nevertheless, if his intruder was pretty, he was still an intruder, and Ryan tapped nervously at his cigarette again with his index finger, ashing unnecessarily for the umpteenth time.

"Hi. What the literal fuck are you doing on my porch at eleven in the morning?" was his unconventional for most, but very conventional for socially inept and dry Ryan's response. He didn't really have experience talking to people - he had, obviously, just not much recently, and in fact not much since the first edition of Fever came out and hit instant commercial success. He was pretty lucky that way. Anyway, his reclusiveness really made him not give a singular shit about how offensive or abrupt he might come off to some people, particularly not to someone who'd turned up uninvited. The guy seemed to catch on to how weird it was. Right, right. I’m Brendon, uh- a friend of Jon’s? 'kay. Ryan wasn't sure why that was relev... oh. When he told Jon about the job, he didn't consider the fact that Jon wasn't going to be, like, delivering him people's CV's or signing on interviews for them. That was on Ryan. Maybe this was part of that. Shit.

Uh... for the job? Ryan nodded but still didn't really like the fact that he was here at all. Maybe if he stayed quiet the guy could redeem himself and, like, say something interesting to get insta-hired. What the hell was his name again? Brendon? Maybe Jon had mentioned something about him. Considering how infrequently he and Jon spoke, Ryan should be more attentive and memorize the things they talked about, but. He couldn't remember any mention of the guy for his life, and now he wasn't sure he'd even captured his name right. "The job," Ryan repeated inconclusively, then drew from his cigarette, still staring at Brendon. "Right. The city thing. Sorry. Wasn't expecting anyone. Do people from New York usually bypass doors? And- knocking on them?" He turned and stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray before turning and opening the door inside, all in one swift motion. "Feel free to use this one. I don't think Jon told me about you, so why don't you do the honors?"