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jakob
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Actually, you do. Ryan dragged his hand over his face. This was who he chose to run to in the midst of a barely quarter-life crisis? But you know what, I’ll let you off. I’m gonna assume it was because you were drunk and therefore not at top performance. If you catch my meaning. Ryan rolled his eyes and faced him, smirking, reserved in comparison to Brendon's real, failed to suppress laughter. "Well, I'm sober now, so I guess we'll have to try again." He raised his eyebrows challengingly, reaching out to playfully bat some of Brendon's hair out of place. He defended himself regardless, and it seemed to work - he laughed outright, softly, at Brendon's immediate cringe. I can’t argue with that. Oh, fuck, I’ll have to walk like a dumbass for days. Ryan cracked up more, an image already in his head. Will people be able to tell? I can never- tell if they can. "I'm sure you'll be okay. On the bright side, when I'm sober, I remember the whole 'aftercare' part. I'm nice." He tilted his head at Brendon, grinning.
For a moment Brendon met his gaze more seriously than Ryan anticipated, and he returned it a little dazedly until Brendon was laughing, fingers finding their way fondly into his hair. Ryan relaxed, oddly comfortable just maintaining the eye contact, searching the coffee-colored depths he'd never thought were all that special until now. There was a particular way his eyes crinkled up with his smile that he had noted before, but in this moment it was sweet, endearing. I should hope not. And he really wasn't lying when he said it - he would be thinking about Brendon constantly. He'd done it a lot before - occupying spaces of time where nothing else was on his mind by coming up with new ways to mess with him, or picking on comments he made offhandedly, finding the strangest ways to start a fight just because it made him feel less small, whatever. Now he didn't have the slightest inclination to do that... but he supposed they both flipped a switch pretty fast anyway. One wrong comment here and he'd be storming out or Brendon would despite this being his room in the first place.
And maybe there was another way to flip that switch - being too direct when they were in a very vulnerable position. Brendon laughed incredulously at his vague question and Ryan tensed up, preparing to ignore how comfortable he was and storm out or something, snap back at him if he got any shit for being too sensitive. It was brief, though, because Brendon was moving over him, catching his lip easily, and Ryan relaxed a little, still on edge just in case. I dunno, how much time we got before took service gets here? Ryan rolled his eyes - good question, they needed something to distract them from being more and more stupid anyway - but clarified his meaning rather than backing down. Which would probably have been the wise thing to do. This conversation could have waited until they weren't peacefully together, wrapped around each other as if they'd been like this forever rather than enemies turned, at least for a night, to lovers.
Brendon shifted off and Ryan watched him, feeling far too exposed, pursing his lips when Brendon prodded him in the side. Yeah, me neither, but- I don’t know, I’m not sure, I’ve not had much time to think. Glad they were on the same page. Brendon's gaze swept over him and he had the sense to be self-conscious until they were making eye contact, and Ryan willed him to magically have the words to make all of this okay, reassure him that maybe this could stay as perfect as it seemed on the surface. I thought this... Ryan followed the sweep of his hand, uncertain. ...would be all that we wanted. Oh. He would've cringed if he wasn't so aware of Brendon's attention on him. As it were Ryan stayed still, blinking at him for a moment before turning his gaze to the ceiling. All that we wanted? Was Brendon saying 'we' for Ryan's sake or for his own? He could risk saying that there could be more, risk his own fragile pride, or just let it be, live a lie for a while until he inevitably could settle for less more easily.
He'd been silent for too long, Ryan knew, so he steeled himself to say something - anything - when a few knocks sounded at the door, and Ryan kind of thanked fucking God. He sat up fast, retrieving a complimentary robe from the back of the bathroom door and pulling it on loosely before opening the room's door, greeted by the cart of their ridiculous order. A paranoid inclination from the back of his mind urged him to glance around the hall, as if someone would be waiting to catch him in the act, but the only person to be seen was an attendant delivering more orders to other rooms a few doors down. Before he could think too hard about why he was so worried, Ryan pulled the cart in and shut the door, presenting their bountious amount of carbs to Brendon in the grandest fashion possible as if he hadn't just dodged the most uncomfortable conversation of all time. "Check it. I call blueberry." Ryan moved the tray onto the mattress, very considerate of Brendon's condition, and leaned over him to retrieve his coffee from the nightstand.
He took a long drink from the paper cup, shutting his eyes, until 'all that we wanted' was no longer in his head. "And I think I've found our new tour costumes, whenever we rebrand. This is absolutely a look." Ryan lifted his arms, gesturing to the robe tied loosely around his waist, hanging half-open over his chest since he'd thrown it on so carelessly. He climbed onto the bed, crossing his legs and securing his cup in his lap before going for a blueberry pancake, tearing off a bite in his hands.
For a moment Brendon met his gaze more seriously than Ryan anticipated, and he returned it a little dazedly until Brendon was laughing, fingers finding their way fondly into his hair. Ryan relaxed, oddly comfortable just maintaining the eye contact, searching the coffee-colored depths he'd never thought were all that special until now. There was a particular way his eyes crinkled up with his smile that he had noted before, but in this moment it was sweet, endearing. I should hope not. And he really wasn't lying when he said it - he would be thinking about Brendon constantly. He'd done it a lot before - occupying spaces of time where nothing else was on his mind by coming up with new ways to mess with him, or picking on comments he made offhandedly, finding the strangest ways to start a fight just because it made him feel less small, whatever. Now he didn't have the slightest inclination to do that... but he supposed they both flipped a switch pretty fast anyway. One wrong comment here and he'd be storming out or Brendon would despite this being his room in the first place.
And maybe there was another way to flip that switch - being too direct when they were in a very vulnerable position. Brendon laughed incredulously at his vague question and Ryan tensed up, preparing to ignore how comfortable he was and storm out or something, snap back at him if he got any shit for being too sensitive. It was brief, though, because Brendon was moving over him, catching his lip easily, and Ryan relaxed a little, still on edge just in case. I dunno, how much time we got before took service gets here? Ryan rolled his eyes - good question, they needed something to distract them from being more and more stupid anyway - but clarified his meaning rather than backing down. Which would probably have been the wise thing to do. This conversation could have waited until they weren't peacefully together, wrapped around each other as if they'd been like this forever rather than enemies turned, at least for a night, to lovers.
Brendon shifted off and Ryan watched him, feeling far too exposed, pursing his lips when Brendon prodded him in the side. Yeah, me neither, but- I don’t know, I’m not sure, I’ve not had much time to think. Glad they were on the same page. Brendon's gaze swept over him and he had the sense to be self-conscious until they were making eye contact, and Ryan willed him to magically have the words to make all of this okay, reassure him that maybe this could stay as perfect as it seemed on the surface. I thought this... Ryan followed the sweep of his hand, uncertain. ...would be all that we wanted. Oh. He would've cringed if he wasn't so aware of Brendon's attention on him. As it were Ryan stayed still, blinking at him for a moment before turning his gaze to the ceiling. All that we wanted? Was Brendon saying 'we' for Ryan's sake or for his own? He could risk saying that there could be more, risk his own fragile pride, or just let it be, live a lie for a while until he inevitably could settle for less more easily.
He'd been silent for too long, Ryan knew, so he steeled himself to say something - anything - when a few knocks sounded at the door, and Ryan kind of thanked fucking God. He sat up fast, retrieving a complimentary robe from the back of the bathroom door and pulling it on loosely before opening the room's door, greeted by the cart of their ridiculous order. A paranoid inclination from the back of his mind urged him to glance around the hall, as if someone would be waiting to catch him in the act, but the only person to be seen was an attendant delivering more orders to other rooms a few doors down. Before he could think too hard about why he was so worried, Ryan pulled the cart in and shut the door, presenting their bountious amount of carbs to Brendon in the grandest fashion possible as if he hadn't just dodged the most uncomfortable conversation of all time. "Check it. I call blueberry." Ryan moved the tray onto the mattress, very considerate of Brendon's condition, and leaned over him to retrieve his coffee from the nightstand.
He took a long drink from the paper cup, shutting his eyes, until 'all that we wanted' was no longer in his head. "And I think I've found our new tour costumes, whenever we rebrand. This is absolutely a look." Ryan lifted his arms, gesturing to the robe tied loosely around his waist, hanging half-open over his chest since he'd thrown it on so carelessly. He climbed onto the bed, crossing his legs and securing his cup in his lap before going for a blueberry pancake, tearing off a bite in his hands.
It was typical of Brendon to be like this. Easygoing, carefree almost, a light in the dark... but that had been his behavior during normal rough times. Ryan would have never expected this of him during a literal life-or-death situation. This was their dynamic - Ryan maintained the level head (or at least looked like it to everyone who wasn't them), while Brendon could behave as erratically as he wanted, succumb to whatever dramatics overtook him. It was unfamiliar territory here, where Ryan was on the verge of a breakdown, learning the very possible limit to his soulmate's life, how little time he had left, and then Brendon was coping with little visible struggle. Ryan truthfully had no clue what was running through his head, whether he was sad for himself or maybe sad for all he was leaving behind, but in any case it'd be impossible to tell. He seemed insistent on ignoring the reality of the situation, lifting the weight of the world without breaking a sweat.
Ryan admired his courage, really. But knowing the facts behind it all, their real circumstances, made him less appreciative of the light tone Brendon was bringing to the table. I think it’s pretty funny. Ryan couldn't muster a smile like Brendon's, not even a fake one, so he simply watched the fluorescent light above, catching the faintest flicker and blinking slowly in response. Brendon's sudden shift to hold his hand was welcome, fingers easily lacing together, but there was an urgency there, and Ryan swore that for the first time in a while he could read his thoughts. He squeezed his cold fingers tight, wistfully remembering a time where Ryan was the one who needed to steal warmth from his body, and tried to communicate nonverbally - I'll be here, I'll always be here, I'm not going anywhere. He wasn't. At this point, with the new knowledge the doctors had so kindly given them, he probably wasn't even going to leave this spot at all. It didn't matter if everything was true, and he didn't want to see the end; it was more important to him that Brendon didn't go alone.
As much as he tried to play it off, Ryan was crying, maybe not the dramatic full-body sob people played out in films, more quiet and draining, trying desperately not to look at Brendon - it'd make it worse, for one thing, and he just. Didn't need to put that extra burden on him. He felt Brendon's hand tighten on his, but it was so gentle, his strength dwindled down to nothing and Ryan knew that was as much of an effort he could give. It was just another straw on this growing shitshow, so he shut his eyes tight, pursed his lips and pretended the broken exhale that escaped him wasn't painfully obvious. It occurred to him that he needed to stop this, Brendon was the one suffering, Brendon was the one who needed his comfort and love and his reassurance that everything was going to be okay. But he also knew that if he told Brendon some bullshit like they'd all be fine, he'd see right through it. They had slim chances, even if Ryan was holding onto them, keeping the flames of optimism alive desperately. So he skipped all of the 'we'll be alright' bullshit, because they wouldn't be.
That depends. What are you dying of? Ryan wasn't laughing, or even vaguely smiling, just staring blankly ahead. He felt the point of Brendon's impossibly bony elbow in his side, squeezing his hand tighter and willing tears to stop. Since when was it even possible that Ryan could be the healthiest, most lively of the two of them? I think I’d, like, be really bummed, because I wouldn’t get dick anymore. Ryan exhaled heavily, turning until he could press his wet face into Brendon's shoulder. He sort of hated him a little bit. The dying love of his fucking life was getting on his nerves. Only Brendon, really. In fact, that’s what’s so lame about this whole thing. I’m too sick for sex. It wasn't even funny, but Ryan was grinning through tears because he was so stupid, and he propped himself up a little until he could hover slightly over him, eyes scanning his warped features, every detail changed by this disease still so beautiful to him. Idiot was on his potential deathbed thinking about all the dick he was missing out on.
After a few moments Brendon's laughing subsided, turned into a tiny smile, and he seemed so okay and normal - though Ryan knew that was far from the truth - that he almost felt like things would, in fact, turn out fine. His fingers were no longer as cold between Ryan's, almost warmed to his temperature. For a second he could pretend this wasn't the end of the entire goddamn world. You know, I don’t know. It’d be difficult, but. I know I’d- I know you’ll get through it, you know? You better. Ryan studied him in silence, his jaw clenching with the effort it took not to completely lose his composure again and start crying. Instead his brow furrowed considerably, breathing hitched. It was like he'd been on the cusp of a panic attack ever since he'd walked through the door - not a fantastic feeling at all. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, genuinely. "I'm supposed to be... I don't know how to help you, baby, I don't know how to comfort you, I wish I could. You're not meant to be the one trying to stop me losing my shit." Which he already had. His face still stubbornly hadn't dried. "I'm going to be here. I'm not leaving. I mean it." He'd said it already, but it felt like he couldn't get the words out often enough.
Ryan admired his courage, really. But knowing the facts behind it all, their real circumstances, made him less appreciative of the light tone Brendon was bringing to the table. I think it’s pretty funny. Ryan couldn't muster a smile like Brendon's, not even a fake one, so he simply watched the fluorescent light above, catching the faintest flicker and blinking slowly in response. Brendon's sudden shift to hold his hand was welcome, fingers easily lacing together, but there was an urgency there, and Ryan swore that for the first time in a while he could read his thoughts. He squeezed his cold fingers tight, wistfully remembering a time where Ryan was the one who needed to steal warmth from his body, and tried to communicate nonverbally - I'll be here, I'll always be here, I'm not going anywhere. He wasn't. At this point, with the new knowledge the doctors had so kindly given them, he probably wasn't even going to leave this spot at all. It didn't matter if everything was true, and he didn't want to see the end; it was more important to him that Brendon didn't go alone.
As much as he tried to play it off, Ryan was crying, maybe not the dramatic full-body sob people played out in films, more quiet and draining, trying desperately not to look at Brendon - it'd make it worse, for one thing, and he just. Didn't need to put that extra burden on him. He felt Brendon's hand tighten on his, but it was so gentle, his strength dwindled down to nothing and Ryan knew that was as much of an effort he could give. It was just another straw on this growing shitshow, so he shut his eyes tight, pursed his lips and pretended the broken exhale that escaped him wasn't painfully obvious. It occurred to him that he needed to stop this, Brendon was the one suffering, Brendon was the one who needed his comfort and love and his reassurance that everything was going to be okay. But he also knew that if he told Brendon some bullshit like they'd all be fine, he'd see right through it. They had slim chances, even if Ryan was holding onto them, keeping the flames of optimism alive desperately. So he skipped all of the 'we'll be alright' bullshit, because they wouldn't be.
That depends. What are you dying of? Ryan wasn't laughing, or even vaguely smiling, just staring blankly ahead. He felt the point of Brendon's impossibly bony elbow in his side, squeezing his hand tighter and willing tears to stop. Since when was it even possible that Ryan could be the healthiest, most lively of the two of them? I think I’d, like, be really bummed, because I wouldn’t get dick anymore. Ryan exhaled heavily, turning until he could press his wet face into Brendon's shoulder. He sort of hated him a little bit. The dying love of his fucking life was getting on his nerves. Only Brendon, really. In fact, that’s what’s so lame about this whole thing. I’m too sick for sex. It wasn't even funny, but Ryan was grinning through tears because he was so stupid, and he propped himself up a little until he could hover slightly over him, eyes scanning his warped features, every detail changed by this disease still so beautiful to him. Idiot was on his potential deathbed thinking about all the dick he was missing out on.
After a few moments Brendon's laughing subsided, turned into a tiny smile, and he seemed so okay and normal - though Ryan knew that was far from the truth - that he almost felt like things would, in fact, turn out fine. His fingers were no longer as cold between Ryan's, almost warmed to his temperature. For a second he could pretend this wasn't the end of the entire goddamn world. You know, I don’t know. It’d be difficult, but. I know I’d- I know you’ll get through it, you know? You better. Ryan studied him in silence, his jaw clenching with the effort it took not to completely lose his composure again and start crying. Instead his brow furrowed considerably, breathing hitched. It was like he'd been on the cusp of a panic attack ever since he'd walked through the door - not a fantastic feeling at all. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, genuinely. "I'm supposed to be... I don't know how to help you, baby, I don't know how to comfort you, I wish I could. You're not meant to be the one trying to stop me losing my shit." Which he already had. His face still stubbornly hadn't dried. "I'm going to be here. I'm not leaving. I mean it." He'd said it already, but it felt like he couldn't get the words out often enough.
Some people, you could tell they were nervous. Not about anything in particular, just still unable to talk to a cashier without sounding uncertain, lacking any conviction. Ryan didn't really pay attention to these kinds of behavioral patterns before it became his job to interact with clients; now, he did it just to pick up on when to be extra nice to reassure people, make them a little less scared of the worst happening to their pet during some insubstantial shot appointment. His new customer, Brendon, was one very specific type of awkward, he could tell almost instantly. He stopped still in the middle of the room just to look around (and, yeah, Ryan remembered something like that in class), and while taking in his surroundings ever-wondering, Brendon moved forward. Ryan wore a tiny smile, leaning against the counter in patient wait for him to get there once his homework was cast to the side and replaced by a roster. At least, as odd as he was, Brendon was one of those people that came in a little earlier. Made things go more smoothly around here.
After running into someone else - and Ryan pointedly did not laugh, even acted like he hadn't seen - Brendon made his way over, very clearly avoiding eye contact. Ryan watched the pen spin between his free hand's fingers for a moment, wondered distantly what exactly he could play with these obviously practiced hands, then looked back up, where he might if they were both equally comfortable socializing. Alas, Ryan was stuck looking at his hairline rather than being able to meet his eyeline. Hey, this is Bogart, he’s here for... Yeah, Ryan knew, and was quick to reassure him that he was on time. Immediately after, he was met by a very... Ryan wasn't sure. Weird look? Sure. He supposed Brendon must have recognized him from class, and whoa, shocker, people from school exist elsewhere in the real world; he supposed he was just glad that now he didn't have to pretend he didn't know him, just in case it was weird that he did remember Brendon. That was something pretty complex to be worried about, come to think of it. Maybe Ryan was a little awkward, too.
His smile was a little offset, endearing, once he'd recovered, and Ryan returned it softly, not just the customer service beam he'd perfected. Ryan had passed judgment before from not knowing him at all, assuming Brendon didn't know him, either, but he seemed sweet. Nah, I- I’d rather be here, honestly. With Bogart. Ryan gave him an odd look, looking down at Bogart with him. It's like Bogart just inherited his entire personality. Funny. He’s a little difficult. I might need to calm him down, or, hold him, or something. "Oh, sure. A lot of people do that." Ryan started guiding them back, talking absently now that he was running through the motions. "But don't be too worried. I'm good with them, y'know? Dog whisperer, for sure." Ryan glanced back, grinning, to back up his joke. Not totally a joke. Ryan was sure he had superpowers - when he could get his own dog, he swore they'd be the happiest pet on the planet.
First of all, I’d never call my dog ‘Fido’... Though I do think Bogart deserves only the best. Ryan laughed softly, hearing Brendon's voice trail and feeling the need to reassure him that, yes, Ryan appreciated the good humor, usually people only nervously rambled off their pet care routine, didn't actually talk to him. He was setting up the bath, placing various soap bottles alongside it, when he felt Brendon's gaze and looked up to catch it. Hey, maybe this whole 'make him more comfortable' endeavor was working. ... You’re- in my class, right? Ryan, is it? Ryan was a little surprised he knew his name. He didn't even have a nametag (which he was a little offended by, by the way, this place was great except for that). "Yeah, strings," he said after a moment of calibration, placing a hand over his chest virtuously upon announcing what section of band he was usually herded into.
Ryan smiled to himself, going back to diving into cabinets and pulling out clean grooming supplies. "And you're Brendon." He paused, hanging a towel over the edge of the tub and then placing his hands over the rim, lifting himself a little in thought. Was it weird to say... nah, whatever. "You're a good singer, you know. Great, actually. I've heard you during breaks." He circled around and scratched behind Bogart's ear fondly, smiling at him, trying to get him to warm up to him. "Bogart agrees, he just told me." Ryan switched to the natural puppy-talk voice, the kind that, despite being so beyond obnoxious, tended to make every dog wag their tail excitedly. "Bogart! You want a treat?" He dug into a bag on the sidetable and pulled out a bone-shaped biscuit, offering it to Bogart, then turned to the faucet and turned on the tap for warm water. While he waited he stood back again, leaning against the counter and redirecting his attention to Brendon interestedly. "You're not one of those people in band just for the credits, right? You don't seem like it. Why'd you sign up?"
After running into someone else - and Ryan pointedly did not laugh, even acted like he hadn't seen - Brendon made his way over, very clearly avoiding eye contact. Ryan watched the pen spin between his free hand's fingers for a moment, wondered distantly what exactly he could play with these obviously practiced hands, then looked back up, where he might if they were both equally comfortable socializing. Alas, Ryan was stuck looking at his hairline rather than being able to meet his eyeline. Hey, this is Bogart, he’s here for... Yeah, Ryan knew, and was quick to reassure him that he was on time. Immediately after, he was met by a very... Ryan wasn't sure. Weird look? Sure. He supposed Brendon must have recognized him from class, and whoa, shocker, people from school exist elsewhere in the real world; he supposed he was just glad that now he didn't have to pretend he didn't know him, just in case it was weird that he did remember Brendon. That was something pretty complex to be worried about, come to think of it. Maybe Ryan was a little awkward, too.
His smile was a little offset, endearing, once he'd recovered, and Ryan returned it softly, not just the customer service beam he'd perfected. Ryan had passed judgment before from not knowing him at all, assuming Brendon didn't know him, either, but he seemed sweet. Nah, I- I’d rather be here, honestly. With Bogart. Ryan gave him an odd look, looking down at Bogart with him. It's like Bogart just inherited his entire personality. Funny. He’s a little difficult. I might need to calm him down, or, hold him, or something. "Oh, sure. A lot of people do that." Ryan started guiding them back, talking absently now that he was running through the motions. "But don't be too worried. I'm good with them, y'know? Dog whisperer, for sure." Ryan glanced back, grinning, to back up his joke. Not totally a joke. Ryan was sure he had superpowers - when he could get his own dog, he swore they'd be the happiest pet on the planet.
First of all, I’d never call my dog ‘Fido’... Though I do think Bogart deserves only the best. Ryan laughed softly, hearing Brendon's voice trail and feeling the need to reassure him that, yes, Ryan appreciated the good humor, usually people only nervously rambled off their pet care routine, didn't actually talk to him. He was setting up the bath, placing various soap bottles alongside it, when he felt Brendon's gaze and looked up to catch it. Hey, maybe this whole 'make him more comfortable' endeavor was working. ... You’re- in my class, right? Ryan, is it? Ryan was a little surprised he knew his name. He didn't even have a nametag (which he was a little offended by, by the way, this place was great except for that). "Yeah, strings," he said after a moment of calibration, placing a hand over his chest virtuously upon announcing what section of band he was usually herded into.
Ryan smiled to himself, going back to diving into cabinets and pulling out clean grooming supplies. "And you're Brendon." He paused, hanging a towel over the edge of the tub and then placing his hands over the rim, lifting himself a little in thought. Was it weird to say... nah, whatever. "You're a good singer, you know. Great, actually. I've heard you during breaks." He circled around and scratched behind Bogart's ear fondly, smiling at him, trying to get him to warm up to him. "Bogart agrees, he just told me." Ryan switched to the natural puppy-talk voice, the kind that, despite being so beyond obnoxious, tended to make every dog wag their tail excitedly. "Bogart! You want a treat?" He dug into a bag on the sidetable and pulled out a bone-shaped biscuit, offering it to Bogart, then turned to the faucet and turned on the tap for warm water. While he waited he stood back again, leaning against the counter and redirecting his attention to Brendon interestedly. "You're not one of those people in band just for the credits, right? You don't seem like it. Why'd you sign up?"
Yeah, I get enough of that from your entourage. Ryan's initial thought was what entourage, and then he remembered, yeah, he totally had an entourage. A band that grinned teasingly from the sidelines at the way he treated Brendon, a label that scolded him for hiring someone on without consulting them first (and then being totally unprofessional with the hire), a whole fanclub that totally didn't know how to react to Brendon. Ryan considered putting out a PSA - hey, everyone, we like Brendon, please don't scare off my probable soulmate. He could dream. Said dream became less distant, more lifelike and touchable, every time Brendon looked up from the shopping haul, something fond in his expression. Weird that millions of people dreamt of Ryan when he only had one person in his sights. I know exactly what you’d do. You’d set out to flirt with some other poor, blindsided gay man, at a shitty bar downtown, but end up hiring him, much to his disappointment. Disappointment? An argument was on the tip of Ryan's tongue, that he hadn't been looking for anything at first but Brendon was just that tantalizing, but that last note had him frozen up. He supposed he didn't have total doubts that they were on the same page, but they were still there, and that cleared things up a little.
Of course, he wouldn’t be as good as me. Ryan snapped back into focus with him, grinning knowingly. I saved your career, Ry. Never forget it. "No, you're right. I look at old photos of me and wonder how an album ever sold. God bless." Ryan was laughing behind his words, though, clearly actually grateful for the assisted evolution. You’ve surpassed me already. Ryan shrugged like it was nothing, blinking all bashful, and decided to stop parroting there because Brendon seemed otherwise occupied anyway. Maybe he was a little too forward with that 'impossible' comment, because Brendon immediately looked down, flushed despite his efforts to hide it. Ryan smiled to himself, a little proud of that although a line had been overstepped, and waited it out. First of all, is that really all that gets brought up in your interviews these days? Second, man, I need someone to send me those fuckin’ photos so I can make fun of you. "Wow," Ryan cut in briefly, shaking his head. Love ya. Please don’t take my Gucci away. "Yeah, they're running out of content and relying completely on Instagram fan account photos. Sad. But you better watch it. I have purchase receipts for all of that."
Thanks for the heads up. Most people just got ahead of the crowd and privated their social media when they seemed to be getting too cozy with Ryan, in the past. Brendon was not one of those people. Ryan felt a little bad about it all, but his tendency to comment on every photo or Tweet or post otherwise with some string of loving emojis and fond messages seemed to lead a loyal crowd of similarly affectionate responses - he led by example. So. Not all bad. That’s better, thanks. Faux pas appropriately fixed, Ryan moved on. I’m your stylist, not your therapist. Don’t hold y’goddamn breath. "Those titles don't go hand in hand? Damn it. Why are you even here?" Ryan was grinning - hadn't they sort of covered that? Oh, fuck off. Ryan laughed, decided to drop the whole 'sugar uncle' debacle before Brendon was the one in need of therapy.
Sure, baby, just say the word. Ryan clammed up. He was comfortable with banter up to a point. What was the word? It'd been a few months of straight professionalism-ish, maybe now was when he could actualize the subtext. S’only fuckin’ fair. Without thinking Ryan went to feel the jacket, and after a moment Brendon's hand brought his up to the inside of his collar. It wasn't like he was shocked by the contact, in fact he was comfortable enough with Brendon where it felt normal, but. There was something else he couldn't quite pinpoint. Ryan complied hesitantly, tracing the collar for a moment, knuckles brushing skin and his hoodie, before Brendon was stepping away and Ryan exhaled gently. He watched Brendon in the mirror for a while, his smile dumbly gone, too distracted to revive it. And then, at a loss for anything else to say, his stupid mouth betrayed him. He deliberately looked away while Brendon turned, slow.
What? Ryan had to suck in a breath of courage before continuing, oddly reassured by Brendon's amusement/incredulousness. Surprise, surprise, Ryan was ridiculous. Really, was anything new to him at this point? Oh yeah? Is that a testament to me? "Yeah! You're something special, really." Only marginally less embarrassed now, Ryan was laughing, shoving his hands in his pockets reservedly. You do, do you? I didn’t- I didn’t realise you paid so much attention, I gotta say. Ryan watched him bite his lip, his hand run through his hair, and truthfully it should have the opposite effect, but his confidence was heightened somewhat. "Well, only to you. Why else do you think I always walk a little behind you? Honestly, Brendon, I'm obvious." Ryan watched him lift a pair of jeans and almost, almost spluttered, beyond amused. So, uh, these are gonna- accentuate? "I guess we'll see. You know, in all my wildest fantasies, I never imagined I'd be putting you in more clothes."
Of course, he wouldn’t be as good as me. Ryan snapped back into focus with him, grinning knowingly. I saved your career, Ry. Never forget it. "No, you're right. I look at old photos of me and wonder how an album ever sold. God bless." Ryan was laughing behind his words, though, clearly actually grateful for the assisted evolution. You’ve surpassed me already. Ryan shrugged like it was nothing, blinking all bashful, and decided to stop parroting there because Brendon seemed otherwise occupied anyway. Maybe he was a little too forward with that 'impossible' comment, because Brendon immediately looked down, flushed despite his efforts to hide it. Ryan smiled to himself, a little proud of that although a line had been overstepped, and waited it out. First of all, is that really all that gets brought up in your interviews these days? Second, man, I need someone to send me those fuckin’ photos so I can make fun of you. "Wow," Ryan cut in briefly, shaking his head. Love ya. Please don’t take my Gucci away. "Yeah, they're running out of content and relying completely on Instagram fan account photos. Sad. But you better watch it. I have purchase receipts for all of that."
Thanks for the heads up. Most people just got ahead of the crowd and privated their social media when they seemed to be getting too cozy with Ryan, in the past. Brendon was not one of those people. Ryan felt a little bad about it all, but his tendency to comment on every photo or Tweet or post otherwise with some string of loving emojis and fond messages seemed to lead a loyal crowd of similarly affectionate responses - he led by example. So. Not all bad. That’s better, thanks. Faux pas appropriately fixed, Ryan moved on. I’m your stylist, not your therapist. Don’t hold y’goddamn breath. "Those titles don't go hand in hand? Damn it. Why are you even here?" Ryan was grinning - hadn't they sort of covered that? Oh, fuck off. Ryan laughed, decided to drop the whole 'sugar uncle' debacle before Brendon was the one in need of therapy.
Sure, baby, just say the word. Ryan clammed up. He was comfortable with banter up to a point. What was the word? It'd been a few months of straight professionalism-ish, maybe now was when he could actualize the subtext. S’only fuckin’ fair. Without thinking Ryan went to feel the jacket, and after a moment Brendon's hand brought his up to the inside of his collar. It wasn't like he was shocked by the contact, in fact he was comfortable enough with Brendon where it felt normal, but. There was something else he couldn't quite pinpoint. Ryan complied hesitantly, tracing the collar for a moment, knuckles brushing skin and his hoodie, before Brendon was stepping away and Ryan exhaled gently. He watched Brendon in the mirror for a while, his smile dumbly gone, too distracted to revive it. And then, at a loss for anything else to say, his stupid mouth betrayed him. He deliberately looked away while Brendon turned, slow.
What? Ryan had to suck in a breath of courage before continuing, oddly reassured by Brendon's amusement/incredulousness. Surprise, surprise, Ryan was ridiculous. Really, was anything new to him at this point? Oh yeah? Is that a testament to me? "Yeah! You're something special, really." Only marginally less embarrassed now, Ryan was laughing, shoving his hands in his pockets reservedly. You do, do you? I didn’t- I didn’t realise you paid so much attention, I gotta say. Ryan watched him bite his lip, his hand run through his hair, and truthfully it should have the opposite effect, but his confidence was heightened somewhat. "Well, only to you. Why else do you think I always walk a little behind you? Honestly, Brendon, I'm obvious." Ryan watched him lift a pair of jeans and almost, almost spluttered, beyond amused. So, uh, these are gonna- accentuate? "I guess we'll see. You know, in all my wildest fantasies, I never imagined I'd be putting you in more clothes."
Brendon being front row at that show, Brendon's voice so powerful he elicited a crowd response stronger than there'd ever been for myself, Brendon's willingness to drop everything and run off with this maybe-successful-maybe-not band and be our frontman - it was all such a bizarre series of events to bring us to this point. When I first actually held a conversation with Brendon I'd already been harboring this surface-level infatuation for a while, and it's not like our first exchange was anything world-changing or electrifying enough to make me think that Brendon would be my soulmate, but. There was a spark. Nothing I'd expect to grow into the full-fledged flames our relationship now was, so to speak; I'd had girlfriends, a multitude for all different lengths of time, and sure some of them I had considered special at the time.
That was before. At the cabin when we first told each other the truth (not just 'I love you,' it's important to add, but 'I am in love with you'), that was it for me. I knew I was in this for life, if Brendon would have me, and given our experiences and our connection and every late night drawn out conversation, I was pretty sure the dedication was mutual. Maybe it's the fact that I'm young, dumb, don't see any issues with the future because of naïvety, but I have never considered myself to be naïve. In fact, just the opposite, and so much so that not even love could blind me - this was just sheer fact, that I was supposed to be with Brendon, and Brendon was supposed to be with me. I suppose if I said any of this to someone else I would sound a little crazy, maybe, but I have little intention to talk to anyone but Brendon these days, anyway.
From that point forward (and maybe a little before that), Brendon was imbued into everything I did. Music became lighter, graceful, the instrumental depiction of the exact energy I saw radiate off of Brendon. Lyrics became less dreary and no longer told stories of woe and heartbreak, instead more sentimental and fond, because I had nothing else to say anymore but good things, no compulsion to spread anything but love. My attitude, life in general, took a complete one-eighty. Even when Brendon was nowhere to be seen, lights were brighter, colors more vibrant, tastes more powerful. I didn't want to waste away in my room writing things unseen and unsang anymore. I wanted my lover at my side, wanted to see the imagery I was penning down, wanted to show him and hear his voice when there was eventually a final draft (though Brendon sometimes insisted taking on the first try, and suddenly my rough draft lyrics sounded much better to me).
This all tended to stay in my head, though. Even if we knew about one another, Jon and Spencer deserved some space from all of the Valentine's day-style charades, so I saved it, tucked every thought away to be converted into song, probably. (And then, when my drummer and bassist looked up from the writing presented to them in confusion and asked why the entire record was turning into love songs, I'd just sort of smile and shrug and catch Brendon's eye). Brendon and I had some complex scheduling tactics, where we'd meet outside in that same spot, recover from time apart even if we'd been just a room away. Even closed doors didn't guarantee much privacy when 1. the other two here happened to already be annoyed by our ludicrous codependency and 2. hung around playing video games all day, where the fact that Brendon and I barely spared seconds apart when we were able was blatantly obvious, right within seeing range.
But, we got our way sometimes. I've been outside for a good ten minutes already, picking up on a thought I'd abandoned. So feather fingers, if I am truly made of one million glowing constellations... I'd heard the door close moments ago and leaves crackling underfoot, but only now when Brendon's beside me, dropping to the ground and seemingly coming closer to steal warmth, do I look up from my writing. He's shivering - he's always forgoing comfort for style, or convenience, whatever. My mouth's automatically curled into a smile just because he's so predictable, and it does that anyway when he's around, but that doesn't help my efforts to sound serious. He really does need to care more about getting pneumonia.
"You should’ve brought your jacket," I say, closing my notebook and setting it aside, abandoning the line entirely. There are still ideas playing in my head for how exactly to word the following line... I think I owe it to you to try to be every hallucination... I let it go.
”I did," he responds, plaintive, and I try to look serious again to no avail, because my hoodie's sleeve is hanging off of his hand, apparently his proof that he'd brought something to keep him warm.
”That’s mine,” I point out, rewarded with his easy, always stunning grin. All right, then, forgiven. Naturally, my hands find their way to the back of his neck, to his waist, his fingers in my hair and at my side. It's automatic, always automatic, simple, and without any real thoughts behind it, we meet in a kiss, time running even slower here than it did in the cabin.
I've never liked to hash things out. When I'm in a mental rut and it feels like the world is crashing down on me, I take every subsidiary emotion, every suppressed expression, and turn it into metaphor, warp it until it is unrecognizable. If I do otherwise, then I'm vulnerable, and the last time I made myself vulnerable, I ended up with an entire record and some spare notebooks detailing my exact feelings about a guy who left. Some songs disguised it through different pronouns and unrelated anecdotes, but I still can't listen to our bestseller, personally. With notebooks, I can shove them into dressers, into old storage bins, even spill coffee on them, then all the evidence is gone. But I've gotten better at hiding things again, like I did before, and it feels a little safer.
Unfortunately for me, he still crossed my mind, and even when I was focused entirely on another subject, he found his way into my words, made himself the subject matter. These were, in fact, love songs, the ones on mine and Jon's record. But there's a reason they sounded hurt, wistful, off-track with the beachy and pleasant instrumental. I let Jon take the wheel a lot now, because he could be trusted not to write from heartbreak or painful nostalgia. In the end, though, we still made something that could practically provide Brendon with royalties to live off of, considering how much secondhand involvement he had with the process. I was proud of everyone's work, just pissed off at myself, pissed off at the fact that I couldn't listen to my own creation unless I wanted to feel the heartache all over again.
When he ended it I was good at hiding it then, too. I didn't want to steer him into something he truly didn't want, so I didn't beg for another chance, didn't try to convince him of how he actually felt. But I also didn't fully believe him. Commitment was scary, yes, but when I put things into perspective... it wasn't just committing, it was Brendon. I'd known practically from the start that I wanted him with me forever. We were soulmates, for fuck's sake, I woke up every morning thinking of him, went to sleep at night thinking of him, based every decision around how it may affect him. He was my life. And I knew for a fact - or I thought that I knew - that I was his. At this point, though, after so long with no real reconnection, I've lost my conviction. He meant it. We weren't going to get married, or be with each other forever, or even say 'I love you' again - it was over, I just need to accept the end.
Once it dawned on me that this was really happening, I put up the walls. I kept all the Brendon memorabilia because I didn't want to let go just yet - and therefore interviews with pictures of him still remained on my shelves, magazines where we made front page and he stood starkly out from the rest of us still hung on the walls, even this stupid old package of Starburst sat half-untouched in one of my cabinets. With time, the visceral emotion that crossed me on every occasion where I was reminded of him faded away, into something calmer, still hurt but more of an ache than a sting. And I heard demos for their new songs. They were using my name and I'd accepted that (okay, it wasn't mine, but it felt like it). But my lyrics were taken, disassembled, set to a new tune and warped and almost-mocked (but I think that may be a stretch in itself to say). Everything fucking sucked all over again. As a person, not great. As a writer, I was inspired. So. After months of nothing, I started writing again.
Sometimes I hoped he heard it. Jon's and my album, I hoped he heard some of those songs, sure, but the demo on SoundCloud, that was important to me. That was deep, and personal, and way too much to show the world but I wasn't going to just sent him the audio, 'here's everything I never said.' It wasn't a hope like some who'd been through breakups might hope - I didn't want to hurt him. Not at all. I just wished he understood how much it affected me, wished he could read everything running through my head when he was telling me it was over, all because I couldn't say it out loud. Here was the aftermath, for all to see. I am a poorly built structure, watch me crumble. I wandered through the sunshine, remembering when you were mine... I don't think I could be much clearer.
I'm at home when I get the message.
Hey.
Somehow I already know he has heard it. Part of me is glad - part of me wishes I'd immediately deleted it and let bygones be bygones. I missed him so much, but putting things back together, even just to be friends again, sounded even more painful than dwelling on memories tended to be. Before even considering how to respond, I contemplate whether I should at all. He's still 'B.' I wish I'd changed it before - it'd be so much easier to ignore 'Brendon Blake' than my 'B'; there was some tiny level of disconnect. I look around, at this creaky hardwood studio apartment far below my means but that I couldn't let go of quite yet, at all the thrift store furniture and the instruments strewn carelessly about and the half-read or half-written in books on every available surface. There's not much of a life to ruin if I let him back in, if he wants back in. And, more than anything, I want so badly to just hear his voice again, in conversation and not a televised, far-away interview.
I heard your new song. It’s great. Your voice sounds so different. Great? I illustrated the shattered pieces of my life, dressed every shard into a word, and it's great? I know he's being polite. I know I should appreciate the distance he's giving me, know he's maintaining boundaries. But I know him. I have known him and loved him for years. I don't want pleasantries. I don't even know what I want, but anything where we're not acting like strangers is ideal. I'm still frozen, feeling stupid and caught, sitting in a too-big armchair in a hoodie he would have swiped from me on sight and staring at my phone like it holds the meaning of life. He shouldn't have this effect on me. I can't imagine seeing him in person. It dawns on me that I'm a little afraid of him, even, of the hold he has on me still.
Hit pretty hard, I gotta admit. Oh, there, so we aren't ignoring what it's about. Great. I smirk at the screen for half a second, cynical, then set it down on the sidetable, curling into myself and placing my fingers over my temples. I will the world to fuck off and stop turning, just breathing for a few moments, absolutely no coherent thoughts running through my mind. It doesn't, though, and I drop my hands to stare at the phone from a distance, torn between wanting to cry or replying back angrily or calling Spencer to tell him to pass on some kind of message to go away. Except I don't really want to do any of that, because I do miss him so unspeakably much, and three tiny messages are all it takes for me to fall way back in progress, back to wishing he loved me enough to stay despite the fear. So I respond, hesitant, my face half pressed into cushions like it would shield me from anything.
Thanks! Maybe one day I'll have your vocal skills. I'm always overly friendly in these texts. Not sure why. Gotta be some kind of defense mechanism. I send that and deliberate what else to say, exactly, other than 'thanks for inspiring it,' and I guess I sort of want to hear that he'd seeked out the song for himself, was looking for me like I always look for him.
How'd you find it? SoundCloud isn't quite like the radio.
That was before. At the cabin when we first told each other the truth (not just 'I love you,' it's important to add, but 'I am in love with you'), that was it for me. I knew I was in this for life, if Brendon would have me, and given our experiences and our connection and every late night drawn out conversation, I was pretty sure the dedication was mutual. Maybe it's the fact that I'm young, dumb, don't see any issues with the future because of naïvety, but I have never considered myself to be naïve. In fact, just the opposite, and so much so that not even love could blind me - this was just sheer fact, that I was supposed to be with Brendon, and Brendon was supposed to be with me. I suppose if I said any of this to someone else I would sound a little crazy, maybe, but I have little intention to talk to anyone but Brendon these days, anyway.
From that point forward (and maybe a little before that), Brendon was imbued into everything I did. Music became lighter, graceful, the instrumental depiction of the exact energy I saw radiate off of Brendon. Lyrics became less dreary and no longer told stories of woe and heartbreak, instead more sentimental and fond, because I had nothing else to say anymore but good things, no compulsion to spread anything but love. My attitude, life in general, took a complete one-eighty. Even when Brendon was nowhere to be seen, lights were brighter, colors more vibrant, tastes more powerful. I didn't want to waste away in my room writing things unseen and unsang anymore. I wanted my lover at my side, wanted to see the imagery I was penning down, wanted to show him and hear his voice when there was eventually a final draft (though Brendon sometimes insisted taking on the first try, and suddenly my rough draft lyrics sounded much better to me).
This all tended to stay in my head, though. Even if we knew about one another, Jon and Spencer deserved some space from all of the Valentine's day-style charades, so I saved it, tucked every thought away to be converted into song, probably. (And then, when my drummer and bassist looked up from the writing presented to them in confusion and asked why the entire record was turning into love songs, I'd just sort of smile and shrug and catch Brendon's eye). Brendon and I had some complex scheduling tactics, where we'd meet outside in that same spot, recover from time apart even if we'd been just a room away. Even closed doors didn't guarantee much privacy when 1. the other two here happened to already be annoyed by our ludicrous codependency and 2. hung around playing video games all day, where the fact that Brendon and I barely spared seconds apart when we were able was blatantly obvious, right within seeing range.
But, we got our way sometimes. I've been outside for a good ten minutes already, picking up on a thought I'd abandoned. So feather fingers, if I am truly made of one million glowing constellations... I'd heard the door close moments ago and leaves crackling underfoot, but only now when Brendon's beside me, dropping to the ground and seemingly coming closer to steal warmth, do I look up from my writing. He's shivering - he's always forgoing comfort for style, or convenience, whatever. My mouth's automatically curled into a smile just because he's so predictable, and it does that anyway when he's around, but that doesn't help my efforts to sound serious. He really does need to care more about getting pneumonia.
"You should’ve brought your jacket," I say, closing my notebook and setting it aside, abandoning the line entirely. There are still ideas playing in my head for how exactly to word the following line... I think I owe it to you to try to be every hallucination... I let it go.
”I did," he responds, plaintive, and I try to look serious again to no avail, because my hoodie's sleeve is hanging off of his hand, apparently his proof that he'd brought something to keep him warm.
”That’s mine,” I point out, rewarded with his easy, always stunning grin. All right, then, forgiven. Naturally, my hands find their way to the back of his neck, to his waist, his fingers in my hair and at my side. It's automatic, always automatic, simple, and without any real thoughts behind it, we meet in a kiss, time running even slower here than it did in the cabin.
I've never liked to hash things out. When I'm in a mental rut and it feels like the world is crashing down on me, I take every subsidiary emotion, every suppressed expression, and turn it into metaphor, warp it until it is unrecognizable. If I do otherwise, then I'm vulnerable, and the last time I made myself vulnerable, I ended up with an entire record and some spare notebooks detailing my exact feelings about a guy who left. Some songs disguised it through different pronouns and unrelated anecdotes, but I still can't listen to our bestseller, personally. With notebooks, I can shove them into dressers, into old storage bins, even spill coffee on them, then all the evidence is gone. But I've gotten better at hiding things again, like I did before, and it feels a little safer.
Unfortunately for me, he still crossed my mind, and even when I was focused entirely on another subject, he found his way into my words, made himself the subject matter. These were, in fact, love songs, the ones on mine and Jon's record. But there's a reason they sounded hurt, wistful, off-track with the beachy and pleasant instrumental. I let Jon take the wheel a lot now, because he could be trusted not to write from heartbreak or painful nostalgia. In the end, though, we still made something that could practically provide Brendon with royalties to live off of, considering how much secondhand involvement he had with the process. I was proud of everyone's work, just pissed off at myself, pissed off at the fact that I couldn't listen to my own creation unless I wanted to feel the heartache all over again.
When he ended it I was good at hiding it then, too. I didn't want to steer him into something he truly didn't want, so I didn't beg for another chance, didn't try to convince him of how he actually felt. But I also didn't fully believe him. Commitment was scary, yes, but when I put things into perspective... it wasn't just committing, it was Brendon. I'd known practically from the start that I wanted him with me forever. We were soulmates, for fuck's sake, I woke up every morning thinking of him, went to sleep at night thinking of him, based every decision around how it may affect him. He was my life. And I knew for a fact - or I thought that I knew - that I was his. At this point, though, after so long with no real reconnection, I've lost my conviction. He meant it. We weren't going to get married, or be with each other forever, or even say 'I love you' again - it was over, I just need to accept the end.
Once it dawned on me that this was really happening, I put up the walls. I kept all the Brendon memorabilia because I didn't want to let go just yet - and therefore interviews with pictures of him still remained on my shelves, magazines where we made front page and he stood starkly out from the rest of us still hung on the walls, even this stupid old package of Starburst sat half-untouched in one of my cabinets. With time, the visceral emotion that crossed me on every occasion where I was reminded of him faded away, into something calmer, still hurt but more of an ache than a sting. And I heard demos for their new songs. They were using my name and I'd accepted that (okay, it wasn't mine, but it felt like it). But my lyrics were taken, disassembled, set to a new tune and warped and almost-mocked (but I think that may be a stretch in itself to say). Everything fucking sucked all over again. As a person, not great. As a writer, I was inspired. So. After months of nothing, I started writing again.
Sometimes I hoped he heard it. Jon's and my album, I hoped he heard some of those songs, sure, but the demo on SoundCloud, that was important to me. That was deep, and personal, and way too much to show the world but I wasn't going to just sent him the audio, 'here's everything I never said.' It wasn't a hope like some who'd been through breakups might hope - I didn't want to hurt him. Not at all. I just wished he understood how much it affected me, wished he could read everything running through my head when he was telling me it was over, all because I couldn't say it out loud. Here was the aftermath, for all to see. I am a poorly built structure, watch me crumble. I wandered through the sunshine, remembering when you were mine... I don't think I could be much clearer.
I'm at home when I get the message.
Hey.
Somehow I already know he has heard it. Part of me is glad - part of me wishes I'd immediately deleted it and let bygones be bygones. I missed him so much, but putting things back together, even just to be friends again, sounded even more painful than dwelling on memories tended to be. Before even considering how to respond, I contemplate whether I should at all. He's still 'B.' I wish I'd changed it before - it'd be so much easier to ignore 'Brendon Blake' than my 'B'; there was some tiny level of disconnect. I look around, at this creaky hardwood studio apartment far below my means but that I couldn't let go of quite yet, at all the thrift store furniture and the instruments strewn carelessly about and the half-read or half-written in books on every available surface. There's not much of a life to ruin if I let him back in, if he wants back in. And, more than anything, I want so badly to just hear his voice again, in conversation and not a televised, far-away interview.
I heard your new song. It’s great. Your voice sounds so different. Great? I illustrated the shattered pieces of my life, dressed every shard into a word, and it's great? I know he's being polite. I know I should appreciate the distance he's giving me, know he's maintaining boundaries. But I know him. I have known him and loved him for years. I don't want pleasantries. I don't even know what I want, but anything where we're not acting like strangers is ideal. I'm still frozen, feeling stupid and caught, sitting in a too-big armchair in a hoodie he would have swiped from me on sight and staring at my phone like it holds the meaning of life. He shouldn't have this effect on me. I can't imagine seeing him in person. It dawns on me that I'm a little afraid of him, even, of the hold he has on me still.
Hit pretty hard, I gotta admit. Oh, there, so we aren't ignoring what it's about. Great. I smirk at the screen for half a second, cynical, then set it down on the sidetable, curling into myself and placing my fingers over my temples. I will the world to fuck off and stop turning, just breathing for a few moments, absolutely no coherent thoughts running through my mind. It doesn't, though, and I drop my hands to stare at the phone from a distance, torn between wanting to cry or replying back angrily or calling Spencer to tell him to pass on some kind of message to go away. Except I don't really want to do any of that, because I do miss him so unspeakably much, and three tiny messages are all it takes for me to fall way back in progress, back to wishing he loved me enough to stay despite the fear. So I respond, hesitant, my face half pressed into cushions like it would shield me from anything.
Thanks! Maybe one day I'll have your vocal skills. I'm always overly friendly in these texts. Not sure why. Gotta be some kind of defense mechanism. I send that and deliberate what else to say, exactly, other than 'thanks for inspiring it,' and I guess I sort of want to hear that he'd seeked out the song for himself, was looking for me like I always look for him.
How'd you find it? SoundCloud isn't quite like the radio.
He didn't usually lie or come up with stories in interviews. Even when asked about touchy subjects, which, generally, he had no godforsaken clue where the press got this information about him, unless some estranged family member was selling details about the Rowe family or whatever - he was still honest, just filtered. 'Tell us about your father, Ryan,' well, he was in sales, he was a big fan of the first record, he's my namesake, so on. Surface level shit that they weren't really curious about, but no one had the guts to outright say 'tell us about how your dad recently died, or the fact that he drank himself to an untimely death'! Yeah, Ryan knew to play his cards right. With questions about his love life, though, it wasn't just about him, wasn't all his information to share. Like involving Brendon - he couldn't reveal even the vaguest interest in him, on purpose or otherwise, until he was sure Brendon was fine with potentially getting a lot of social media backlash (maybe some positive feedback; sometimes he got lucky, and Brendon was likeable enough anyway). He did wish he could, like, shout it from the rooftops, though, or something equally as corny.
Brendon deserved full credit for the increase in popularity, not just in Ryan but with the band entirely. A few different aspects of their group were now under even more scrutiny - good scrutiny, actually. His other band members, when before their names were often forgotten or ignored or they were cropped out of photos entirely (despite Ryan not being much of a 'steal the spotlight' type, somehow it happened anyway), Brendon had made changes that gave them their own individual followings or at least expanded on a pre existing one. He fixed every ridiculous haircut, went through each wardrobe and ignored all protests of "but i think that looks good," and all of his improvements had a domino effect on other aspects of the group as people. Everyone carried themselves a little differently, more confidently. Ryan was definitely caught folding his shoulders forward less often, standing straighter and taller and prouder. Ryan had even seen a whole goddamn article about his new hair. Part of him was a little worried of the world's priorities; the other was glad for Brendon, who was thrown credit from the guys whenever the opportunity to do so presented itself.
You’re very welcome. Ryan resisted the urge to laugh through his not-quite-mouthful, because as good at his job as Brendon was, he was also very ridiculous. That better not be sarcasm. I spent your hard-earned money on that chicken, Rowe. Don’t complain. Ryan's response was immediate, taken aback. "My- damn it, I knew I left one of my cards here." Odd primary concern to have when your stylist knew how to use it with no consulting you beforehand, but. It was Brendon, he could buy, like, a new house with Ryan's money and he'd probably forgive him. It's not like Ryan's net worth was indicative of his bank account, but being broke was not something he was really worried about, despite it being a definite possibility if he kept up this whole... buying Brendon everything schtick. He sighed, pretending to come to terms with his sad, lonely chicken wing. "Not sarcasm, not complaining. I'm truly grateful. I don't know what I'd do without you, etc." Ryan was grinning, now, practically beaming at Brendon, the box forgotten in his lap.
The picture in Brendon's head wasn't too off the mark, when it came to Ryan shopping. He'd tried before, honestly, to shop for himself, but it always ended up just being him wandering around uselessly, wondering how embarrassing it would be to text Brendon selfies of him in dressing room mirrors, asking if this look decent, does that look all right. It wasn't generally in high end stores unless there was some award show coming up where everyone was going to find the price of what you were wearing, ask the name brand, judge the outfit put together, so on; generally Brendon picked those without help, but sometimes Ryan liked to look around for himself, get some inspiration. And he definitely did get recognized. It made for a lot of awkwardly struggling out of jackets he'd been trying on so he could take a selfie with someone where a price tag wasn't sticking out of his collar. And then he felt awkward buying something from a person who might try to interrogate him at the counter - not that he was avoidant of fans, or anything, it's just that they probably weren't a fan so much as someone excited at the premise of meeting a celebrity and therefore gave no fucks about being respectful - so he left empty-handed. Probably for the best, given his fashion sense.
For Brendon, he was far more enthusiastic and therefore more open to running around the shop and making nice with employees, if only to win over their gladly given help. Maybe saying 'yeah, I need help finding a gift for someone I know,' and then buying things that were definitely too flashy or extravagant for just a casual friend was a bad idea, but he'd not seen any "BREAKING: RYAN ROWE'S SHOPPING SPREE FOR MYSTERY BOYFRIEND" headlines, so that was promising. Anyway. He'd tried five different employees and none of them were quite close to Brendon size-wise, or at least. If they were, they didn't have every very unique flourish in his silhouette that would definitely make a difference in sizing. Brendon called it an 'apple bottom' he'd inherited from his mother, or something to that tune. Ryan called it art. But, very difficult art to find the right jeans for, or the other half to a suit. In any case, a strong 40% of his time today was spent navigating that issue in particular.
Ryan offhandedly made a comment involving Gucci, knowing absolutely jack shit about what he was saying. Wow, look at you, fashion expert. Impressed the master. Ryan mentally pumped his fist. I’ve taught you well. "You have! I also know that 'FW' means fashion week, and who J. Alexander is. Feels pretty good to be a parrot." He folded his hands and looked extremely pleased with himself for a moment. What happened to trying to seem straight? Ryan's eyebrows raised and he leaned back, shoulders raising in a lazy shrug. "I met you and decided that was impossible. Today some interviewers showed me, like 'receipts' of how I look at you in photos, and it's bad, Brendon. Prepare for some unsavory Instagram comments." Unless people one hundred percent fall in love with Brendon, which was pretty likely. Look at him! That's if they find his page, anyway... not too far into the realm of the unrealistic, all things considered. If Ryan's cult following could find his mom's literal private address before even he knew it, they could find anything.
I didn’t make you ten times hotter for you to start calling yourself ‘not cool’. "Hotter?" Ryan cut in hastily, straightening up on cue, but not quite enough to interrupt. That’s not just self depreciating- that’s me depreciating. Ryan paused to consider this, then promptly revised his original statement. "Okay. I'm totally cool enough on the outside to be a sugar daddy, thanks to my very talented stylist, Brendon Bellamy. So, where's my personality makeover? I need some neuroses concealed." But. Ryan was unforgivable. He grinned, suppressing another laugh, when Brendon crossed his arms over his chest, looking like he'd taken a genuine hit. God, never say that again. "Say what again? Sugar un..." I feel violated. Sugar uncle. Gross. He finally cracked up, looking innocent in seconds flat. "Either way, I eventually deserve some sugar in return, that's how it works." He was kidding. Totally.
When he lifted the jacket for Brendon's viewing and saw the approval, more than that, even, cross his features, Ryan swore his heart soared. He could make Brendon that happy, he could do that. It was oddly rewarding to see. Ryan watched a little dazedly as Brendon took the jacket from his hands and explored the fabric, dropped his gaze to his mouth when he- yeah, you get it. Jesus. Ryan, I love it. Fuck. Ryan smiled somewhat distractedly, suddenly liking the jacket ten times more when it was on Brendon. Over his own hoodie. He had a very out-of-the-blue urge to kiss Brendon, and he probably would've even followed through if common sense didn't cut into his thoughts unannounced, yelling about professionalism and established relationships. Stupid logical part of his brain. "I like it more on you. I knew it'd look good." You're the fuckin’ best. Ryan laughed easily, coming more out of the loop he'd been thrown in and returning to comfort. He leaned in to feel the shearling again, placing a hand on Brendon's shoulder, and it was definitely not an excuse just to touch him. He swore he had a real comment to make about it, but after a moment of silence and no words magically coming from his mouth, Ryan spat out the first dumbass thought that popped into his head. "Did you know your ass is impossible to shop for? I made these employees who looked the same size as you try on jeans to figure it out, but no one came quite close. Trust me! I'd know."
Brendon deserved full credit for the increase in popularity, not just in Ryan but with the band entirely. A few different aspects of their group were now under even more scrutiny - good scrutiny, actually. His other band members, when before their names were often forgotten or ignored or they were cropped out of photos entirely (despite Ryan not being much of a 'steal the spotlight' type, somehow it happened anyway), Brendon had made changes that gave them their own individual followings or at least expanded on a pre existing one. He fixed every ridiculous haircut, went through each wardrobe and ignored all protests of "but i think that looks good," and all of his improvements had a domino effect on other aspects of the group as people. Everyone carried themselves a little differently, more confidently. Ryan was definitely caught folding his shoulders forward less often, standing straighter and taller and prouder. Ryan had even seen a whole goddamn article about his new hair. Part of him was a little worried of the world's priorities; the other was glad for Brendon, who was thrown credit from the guys whenever the opportunity to do so presented itself.
You’re very welcome. Ryan resisted the urge to laugh through his not-quite-mouthful, because as good at his job as Brendon was, he was also very ridiculous. That better not be sarcasm. I spent your hard-earned money on that chicken, Rowe. Don’t complain. Ryan's response was immediate, taken aback. "My- damn it, I knew I left one of my cards here." Odd primary concern to have when your stylist knew how to use it with no consulting you beforehand, but. It was Brendon, he could buy, like, a new house with Ryan's money and he'd probably forgive him. It's not like Ryan's net worth was indicative of his bank account, but being broke was not something he was really worried about, despite it being a definite possibility if he kept up this whole... buying Brendon everything schtick. He sighed, pretending to come to terms with his sad, lonely chicken wing. "Not sarcasm, not complaining. I'm truly grateful. I don't know what I'd do without you, etc." Ryan was grinning, now, practically beaming at Brendon, the box forgotten in his lap.
The picture in Brendon's head wasn't too off the mark, when it came to Ryan shopping. He'd tried before, honestly, to shop for himself, but it always ended up just being him wandering around uselessly, wondering how embarrassing it would be to text Brendon selfies of him in dressing room mirrors, asking if this look decent, does that look all right. It wasn't generally in high end stores unless there was some award show coming up where everyone was going to find the price of what you were wearing, ask the name brand, judge the outfit put together, so on; generally Brendon picked those without help, but sometimes Ryan liked to look around for himself, get some inspiration. And he definitely did get recognized. It made for a lot of awkwardly struggling out of jackets he'd been trying on so he could take a selfie with someone where a price tag wasn't sticking out of his collar. And then he felt awkward buying something from a person who might try to interrogate him at the counter - not that he was avoidant of fans, or anything, it's just that they probably weren't a fan so much as someone excited at the premise of meeting a celebrity and therefore gave no fucks about being respectful - so he left empty-handed. Probably for the best, given his fashion sense.
For Brendon, he was far more enthusiastic and therefore more open to running around the shop and making nice with employees, if only to win over their gladly given help. Maybe saying 'yeah, I need help finding a gift for someone I know,' and then buying things that were definitely too flashy or extravagant for just a casual friend was a bad idea, but he'd not seen any "BREAKING: RYAN ROWE'S SHOPPING SPREE FOR MYSTERY BOYFRIEND" headlines, so that was promising. Anyway. He'd tried five different employees and none of them were quite close to Brendon size-wise, or at least. If they were, they didn't have every very unique flourish in his silhouette that would definitely make a difference in sizing. Brendon called it an 'apple bottom' he'd inherited from his mother, or something to that tune. Ryan called it art. But, very difficult art to find the right jeans for, or the other half to a suit. In any case, a strong 40% of his time today was spent navigating that issue in particular.
Ryan offhandedly made a comment involving Gucci, knowing absolutely jack shit about what he was saying. Wow, look at you, fashion expert. Impressed the master. Ryan mentally pumped his fist. I’ve taught you well. "You have! I also know that 'FW' means fashion week, and who J. Alexander is. Feels pretty good to be a parrot." He folded his hands and looked extremely pleased with himself for a moment. What happened to trying to seem straight? Ryan's eyebrows raised and he leaned back, shoulders raising in a lazy shrug. "I met you and decided that was impossible. Today some interviewers showed me, like 'receipts' of how I look at you in photos, and it's bad, Brendon. Prepare for some unsavory Instagram comments." Unless people one hundred percent fall in love with Brendon, which was pretty likely. Look at him! That's if they find his page, anyway... not too far into the realm of the unrealistic, all things considered. If Ryan's cult following could find his mom's literal private address before even he knew it, they could find anything.
I didn’t make you ten times hotter for you to start calling yourself ‘not cool’. "Hotter?" Ryan cut in hastily, straightening up on cue, but not quite enough to interrupt. That’s not just self depreciating- that’s me depreciating. Ryan paused to consider this, then promptly revised his original statement. "Okay. I'm totally cool enough on the outside to be a sugar daddy, thanks to my very talented stylist, Brendon Bellamy. So, where's my personality makeover? I need some neuroses concealed." But. Ryan was unforgivable. He grinned, suppressing another laugh, when Brendon crossed his arms over his chest, looking like he'd taken a genuine hit. God, never say that again. "Say what again? Sugar un..." I feel violated. Sugar uncle. Gross. He finally cracked up, looking innocent in seconds flat. "Either way, I eventually deserve some sugar in return, that's how it works." He was kidding. Totally.
When he lifted the jacket for Brendon's viewing and saw the approval, more than that, even, cross his features, Ryan swore his heart soared. He could make Brendon that happy, he could do that. It was oddly rewarding to see. Ryan watched a little dazedly as Brendon took the jacket from his hands and explored the fabric, dropped his gaze to his mouth when he- yeah, you get it. Jesus. Ryan, I love it. Fuck. Ryan smiled somewhat distractedly, suddenly liking the jacket ten times more when it was on Brendon. Over his own hoodie. He had a very out-of-the-blue urge to kiss Brendon, and he probably would've even followed through if common sense didn't cut into his thoughts unannounced, yelling about professionalism and established relationships. Stupid logical part of his brain. "I like it more on you. I knew it'd look good." You're the fuckin’ best. Ryan laughed easily, coming more out of the loop he'd been thrown in and returning to comfort. He leaned in to feel the shearling again, placing a hand on Brendon's shoulder, and it was definitely not an excuse just to touch him. He swore he had a real comment to make about it, but after a moment of silence and no words magically coming from his mouth, Ryan spat out the first dumbass thought that popped into his head. "Did you know your ass is impossible to shop for? I made these employees who looked the same size as you try on jeans to figure it out, but no one came quite close. Trust me! I'd know."
Ryan didn't know what he was expecting when he applied at the local shelter. He wasn't qualified for much so maybe just walking the dogs, cleaning the lobby, what have you - and it started out as that, yeah, but things were getting a little too real. The other day, when they were short-staffed, he came to help give vaccinations. Okay - just holding each dog that came through still and helping them calm down, but even then, it felt like a lot. Ryan figured if he didn't have a degree then he basically contributed about the same as a bulldozer passing through the veterinary offices. Alas, his supervisors trusted him way too much, and as such his responsibilities had increased drastically and all he thought about all day was what he'd be doing when he got to work. It was troubling when he was a senior in high scool and should probably be focusing on, say, getting every grade up to par with his English marks, but whatever. As busy as he became (and overwhelmed by the fact that he was actually doing important things, not just the whole food service worker/cashier deal half of his classmates got), Ryan loved animals, so. It was a pretty sweet gig.
And, four to nine, that gave him time away from home. He was sick of the extremes. Complete, deafening silence, or indiscernible crashing and distant swears at... the world, dad's boss, the couch for being in his way. There was always something. And no longer did he have to rely on maybe being able to sneak some cash from his dad's wallet for groceries, or new clothes, or gas. Ryan didn't make a lot, but he made enough to rescue his dwindling pride. Who knew - eventually he might be able to afford a place of his own... but maybe that was ambitious thinking after only a handful of months. He liked the job for now, knew it wasn't his career (Ryan had that all mapped out - he'd be making music and no one could convince him otherwise) but if he was going to have it for a while, maybe that initial like would go away. People got stuck in deadend jobs for years, started being assholes because they were sick of it but needed the guaranteed pay. So help him if he ended up like that.
Anyway. He'd been tasked with grooming. It was hard to do something wrong there - and if there were qualifications he was supposed to meet, apparently he came closest out of everyone else around. Pretty simple, really. He knew how to shave, and evidently that translated into how to trim a dog's coat. Or do the 'trim everything but the head, tail, and paws' look some people asked for, leaving the poor animal to look like a goofy lion. And to think these were once predators. Anyway, after a couple of weeks he was getting the hang of it, coats looking shiny and blown out upon leaving, absolutely no weird dog smell to hear of. It was a weird accomplishment to brag about - which Ryan didn't, and he showered constantly lest he come to school evidencing the smell of a dog shelter, god forbid his group of friends call him out in the middle of a cafeteria for his silly part-time - but, seriously. This was all making him very excited for the day he could actually get his own job.
The downside: he had to actually take the appointments at the front desk. Ryan was anything but happy to talk to clients, even if he'd mastered the 'customer service smile' and learned the classic politeness script. Hi, how are you, who's this with you, how can I help you... if all else fails, ask them about their dog, everyone loves to brag about how well-trained they are or show off their goofy name, whatever. Ryan was running through all of this when the next client came through the door - actually, he sort of recognised this kid, he was a year younger but in the same band course anyway. Some kind of advanced student in that respect. No offense, seeing how he behaved when there wasn't an instrument occupying his hands, he doubted he'd be advanced elsewhere. Anyway. Ryan kept his head down most of the time, not out of shyness or an unwillingness to participate, but at this point in senioritis he didn't wanna fucking talk to anyone, so he didn't know his name right out. Brandon? Sounded about right, but not totally. Brandon-whatever was holding his Jack Russell terrier like a baby, close to his chest, and Ryan became a little worried that maybe he was hurt, couldn't walk or something. But the dog was wiggling around happily, clearly uninjured and just graced with an owner who spoiled him.
Ryan pushed all of his homework assignments aside and glanced over the line of appointments, finding a 'Brendon/Bogart grooming@11:30.' Brendon. That's what it was. "Hi," Ryan said as Brendon got to the counter, Bogart still squirming enthusiastically in his arms, trying desperately to give him kisses. Ryan stared for a second, because usually dogs got this sense of dread about shelters, but apparently Brendon had avoided whatever trauma instilled that in them with his dog. Worked out well for Ryan. "Right on time. If you have somewhere else to be, we can just take him to the back, and call you when he's ready." Ryan was moving out from behind the counter, gesturing Brendon along while he went down the hallway to their room with standing baths, shower heads galore. He tapped at one of the baths, retaining the friendly customer service smile. "We start by cleaning with an all-natural tearless shampoo, then a cream rinse conditioner. After that we clean ears, nails, maybe brush out the coats. Sound alright? You're not one of those people that's, like, 'Fido needs a special oatmeal bath, only the best for my dog,' right?"
For a moment it was bizarre to be almost-bantering with a classmate he'd probably said three words to before. Actually, images of Brendon getting snapped at for being fidgety or awkwardly, unsubtly chatty popped into mind and he hoped he wasn't just stirring the pot, but then again this was all only when he wasn't otherwise being stimulated by the coursework. The guy seemed to genuinely pour his soul out into band. Still, not sure about other classes, but he was talented - and that was pretty much the extent of Ryan's knowledge on him. Years of keeping to himself really hadn't helped this first official conversation, if you counted it as one.
And, four to nine, that gave him time away from home. He was sick of the extremes. Complete, deafening silence, or indiscernible crashing and distant swears at... the world, dad's boss, the couch for being in his way. There was always something. And no longer did he have to rely on maybe being able to sneak some cash from his dad's wallet for groceries, or new clothes, or gas. Ryan didn't make a lot, but he made enough to rescue his dwindling pride. Who knew - eventually he might be able to afford a place of his own... but maybe that was ambitious thinking after only a handful of months. He liked the job for now, knew it wasn't his career (Ryan had that all mapped out - he'd be making music and no one could convince him otherwise) but if he was going to have it for a while, maybe that initial like would go away. People got stuck in deadend jobs for years, started being assholes because they were sick of it but needed the guaranteed pay. So help him if he ended up like that.
Anyway. He'd been tasked with grooming. It was hard to do something wrong there - and if there were qualifications he was supposed to meet, apparently he came closest out of everyone else around. Pretty simple, really. He knew how to shave, and evidently that translated into how to trim a dog's coat. Or do the 'trim everything but the head, tail, and paws' look some people asked for, leaving the poor animal to look like a goofy lion. And to think these were once predators. Anyway, after a couple of weeks he was getting the hang of it, coats looking shiny and blown out upon leaving, absolutely no weird dog smell to hear of. It was a weird accomplishment to brag about - which Ryan didn't, and he showered constantly lest he come to school evidencing the smell of a dog shelter, god forbid his group of friends call him out in the middle of a cafeteria for his silly part-time - but, seriously. This was all making him very excited for the day he could actually get his own job.
The downside: he had to actually take the appointments at the front desk. Ryan was anything but happy to talk to clients, even if he'd mastered the 'customer service smile' and learned the classic politeness script. Hi, how are you, who's this with you, how can I help you... if all else fails, ask them about their dog, everyone loves to brag about how well-trained they are or show off their goofy name, whatever. Ryan was running through all of this when the next client came through the door - actually, he sort of recognised this kid, he was a year younger but in the same band course anyway. Some kind of advanced student in that respect. No offense, seeing how he behaved when there wasn't an instrument occupying his hands, he doubted he'd be advanced elsewhere. Anyway. Ryan kept his head down most of the time, not out of shyness or an unwillingness to participate, but at this point in senioritis he didn't wanna fucking talk to anyone, so he didn't know his name right out. Brandon? Sounded about right, but not totally. Brandon-whatever was holding his Jack Russell terrier like a baby, close to his chest, and Ryan became a little worried that maybe he was hurt, couldn't walk or something. But the dog was wiggling around happily, clearly uninjured and just graced with an owner who spoiled him.
Ryan pushed all of his homework assignments aside and glanced over the line of appointments, finding a 'Brendon/Bogart grooming@11:30.' Brendon. That's what it was. "Hi," Ryan said as Brendon got to the counter, Bogart still squirming enthusiastically in his arms, trying desperately to give him kisses. Ryan stared for a second, because usually dogs got this sense of dread about shelters, but apparently Brendon had avoided whatever trauma instilled that in them with his dog. Worked out well for Ryan. "Right on time. If you have somewhere else to be, we can just take him to the back, and call you when he's ready." Ryan was moving out from behind the counter, gesturing Brendon along while he went down the hallway to their room with standing baths, shower heads galore. He tapped at one of the baths, retaining the friendly customer service smile. "We start by cleaning with an all-natural tearless shampoo, then a cream rinse conditioner. After that we clean ears, nails, maybe brush out the coats. Sound alright? You're not one of those people that's, like, 'Fido needs a special oatmeal bath, only the best for my dog,' right?"
For a moment it was bizarre to be almost-bantering with a classmate he'd probably said three words to before. Actually, images of Brendon getting snapped at for being fidgety or awkwardly, unsubtly chatty popped into mind and he hoped he wasn't just stirring the pot, but then again this was all only when he wasn't otherwise being stimulated by the coursework. The guy seemed to genuinely pour his soul out into band. Still, not sure about other classes, but he was talented - and that was pretty much the extent of Ryan's knowledge on him. Years of keeping to himself really hadn't helped this first official conversation, if you counted it as one.
Interviews were, in fact, not Ryan's forté. They always went the same - how are you, what inspired the album, how is the tour going, our fans are asking if you're going to this godforsaken country next - except some threw some invasive questions in for good measure, and usually those were predictable too, but recently he'd had a new 'scandal' to talk about. Who's the strange mystery man you've been dragging around everywhere? Who's standing with you at all of the post-show signings? Is it true you've been paying him this ludicrous amount or that ludicrous amount? Ryan was all right with talking about Brendon, but he sort of didn't know whether Brendon was okay with being talked about, so he dodged those questions pretty well. Typical 'just a friend' or, even more vaguely, 'just another hire for tour.' Those pictures they pulled up as reference, though... if he didn't look overtly gay before, the way he looked at Brendon had to be some kind of tell. Yikes. He wondered how to break the news to his 'just a friend.'
Mostly he wondered what Brendon was doing back at the hotel with no responsibilities. Probably figuring out that kettle he supposedly didn't know how to use (sure, Brendon, just easily bored and scared of the premise that he would be bored for hours). For a while there he got to text back and forth with him, his phone placed only a little unsubtly on the armrest of his chair lighting up every time the inteviewer got a question out. He was going to give short, flavorless answers anyway, he didn't see the deal with making it entertaining for himself. Eventually, unfortunately, Brendon stopped responding, and Ryan had to sigh, put the phone away, and actually say more than 'yes,' 'no,' or 'I don't know,' or the more tasteful 'I'm not sure.' Hey, Ryan, what's the whole reinvention about? You look different lately... Nothing but a very attentive new makeup artist. Who may have yelled at him as he walked out the door for only wearing a hoodie and not following the exact steps to making up his improved hairstyle (Ryan had eventually compromised for the apparently mandatory leather jacket and stood in the mirror for another twenty minutes to correct his hair - even on his off days, Brendon was right).
After a moment of the place looking empty, Brendon reentered the living room from his bedroom, and Ryan's eyes lit up at the sight of his hoodie, just a little too long on him and hanging over his hands. Brendon, the princess, in casualwear was sweet enough to him, but in Ryan's? Yeah, he was going to have trouble keeping the nature of their professional relationship in order. Uh, thanks? Ryan leaned forward, nodding enthusiastically, to retrieve the mysterious takeout box from the coffee table. One, singular chicken wing. Brendon was so damn thoughtful. He sat back and curled into himself again while he started picking at it, grinning in amusement. "Thank you for saving some. Very generous." He supposed he'd see from the trash later exactly how much that order originally constituted - and, from the rest of the hotel room, what the hell Brendon had been up to during his time alone. Seeing the evidence of his bizarre antics was sometimes funnier than everything that happened itself.
Somebody’s been on a splurge. "A little," Ryan said through a bite of chicken, but he was more focused on his hands than at the splurge anymore. It seemed to take Brendon a minute to catch on that the shopping trip wasn't for Ryan himself - obviously, as Ryan bought new clothes maybe once a year, and they definitely wouldn't be from these brands all laid out - and after the pause, Ryan glanced at him, curious. What did he expect? Surely Ryan's propensity for giving Brendon literally anything and everything had shown its face already. Are you serious? "Dead." Ryan sat up again, leaning forward and setting his elbows on his knees while he watched Brendon dig through the bags, a grin rising to his face in wait for approval. There’s Gucci here, Ryan. Ryan laughed lightly, shrugging. "Is that still cool? I thought Gucci lost traction, but apparently it's back."
Jesus, okay. The way Brendon looked at him. Definitely worth his while - and the money. Ryan's grin dimmed into a dizzy smile, softening. Am I your sugar baby now? God, I almost don’t wanna look at anything, it’s above my pay grade. "Debatable. I'm not cool enough to be a sugar daddy. Maybe a sugar uncle." He seemed to actually mull it over for a second before waving at the bags again, dismissive. "There's a, like, jean jacket in there that's really cool. But... if the gay rumors weren't already really bad, they'll be worse now since I got caught buying it." He stood up to root through the Gucci bag, pulling out the embroidered denim jacket, testing the shearling again gingerly. "Here. See? Floral. Only you can get away with that."
Mostly he wondered what Brendon was doing back at the hotel with no responsibilities. Probably figuring out that kettle he supposedly didn't know how to use (sure, Brendon, just easily bored and scared of the premise that he would be bored for hours). For a while there he got to text back and forth with him, his phone placed only a little unsubtly on the armrest of his chair lighting up every time the inteviewer got a question out. He was going to give short, flavorless answers anyway, he didn't see the deal with making it entertaining for himself. Eventually, unfortunately, Brendon stopped responding, and Ryan had to sigh, put the phone away, and actually say more than 'yes,' 'no,' or 'I don't know,' or the more tasteful 'I'm not sure.' Hey, Ryan, what's the whole reinvention about? You look different lately... Nothing but a very attentive new makeup artist. Who may have yelled at him as he walked out the door for only wearing a hoodie and not following the exact steps to making up his improved hairstyle (Ryan had eventually compromised for the apparently mandatory leather jacket and stood in the mirror for another twenty minutes to correct his hair - even on his off days, Brendon was right).
After a moment of the place looking empty, Brendon reentered the living room from his bedroom, and Ryan's eyes lit up at the sight of his hoodie, just a little too long on him and hanging over his hands. Brendon, the princess, in casualwear was sweet enough to him, but in Ryan's? Yeah, he was going to have trouble keeping the nature of their professional relationship in order. Uh, thanks? Ryan leaned forward, nodding enthusiastically, to retrieve the mysterious takeout box from the coffee table. One, singular chicken wing. Brendon was so damn thoughtful. He sat back and curled into himself again while he started picking at it, grinning in amusement. "Thank you for saving some. Very generous." He supposed he'd see from the trash later exactly how much that order originally constituted - and, from the rest of the hotel room, what the hell Brendon had been up to during his time alone. Seeing the evidence of his bizarre antics was sometimes funnier than everything that happened itself.
Somebody’s been on a splurge. "A little," Ryan said through a bite of chicken, but he was more focused on his hands than at the splurge anymore. It seemed to take Brendon a minute to catch on that the shopping trip wasn't for Ryan himself - obviously, as Ryan bought new clothes maybe once a year, and they definitely wouldn't be from these brands all laid out - and after the pause, Ryan glanced at him, curious. What did he expect? Surely Ryan's propensity for giving Brendon literally anything and everything had shown its face already. Are you serious? "Dead." Ryan sat up again, leaning forward and setting his elbows on his knees while he watched Brendon dig through the bags, a grin rising to his face in wait for approval. There’s Gucci here, Ryan. Ryan laughed lightly, shrugging. "Is that still cool? I thought Gucci lost traction, but apparently it's back."
Jesus, okay. The way Brendon looked at him. Definitely worth his while - and the money. Ryan's grin dimmed into a dizzy smile, softening. Am I your sugar baby now? God, I almost don’t wanna look at anything, it’s above my pay grade. "Debatable. I'm not cool enough to be a sugar daddy. Maybe a sugar uncle." He seemed to actually mull it over for a second before waving at the bags again, dismissive. "There's a, like, jean jacket in there that's really cool. But... if the gay rumors weren't already really bad, they'll be worse now since I got caught buying it." He stood up to root through the Gucci bag, pulling out the embroidered denim jacket, testing the shearling again gingerly. "Here. See? Floral. Only you can get away with that."
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