jakob

more than just a dream

Ari had no idea what he was doing here. At some huge banquet hall, even larger than his already ridiculously sized home, wearing the most expensive Giorgio Armani suit he’d ever owned. There was no real reason for him to be there. His dad was celebrating the tenth anniversary of his favorite child, which was, in fact, not any sibling of Ari’s but actually the website-turned-‘social media platform’ his father had started working on way early in college. Really, he didn’t do it alone, but the other guy got no credit. Ever. Initially it was the two of them, George Livingston and John Rothschild, complete nerds in high school, heads of every programming and computer science related extracurricular, graduating on to MIT and planning on maybe becoming freelance programmers - at best. That in itself was the hardest part for Ari to believe. At the time, they didn’t think they were much; now he was pretty sure both of them were huge assholes even if he had barely even seen John in person.

Anyway - they built a portfolio in Ari’s grandmother’s basement/storm shelter, naturally a cringey picture to think of, all 80’s with shag carpeting and wooden panels and rows and rows of industrial sized cans in a pantry, except with a twist; George’s massive, geeky collection of hardware. And, well. Software, too, if you counted the tons of useless programs he never released to the world. Initially the platform was supposed to be a private website for himself, John, and their peers from extracurriculars - and then he realized nothing like theirs existed. No one had such a mature, idealized messaging system, no place to update others, no place with a single purpose of interaction. Or, at least, nothing was as well-functioning, if you could call it that. Given the fact that there were at least one hundred revisions, perhaps it wasn’t exactly a perfect software, but John and George were well-versed in program, knew what they were doing.

The website was made public in the early 2000’s, but only really got traction in the lates, which is exactly the time that shit started hitting the fan. John insisted that they change the platform entirely: it should be image-based for clarity, it should be a cohesive photostream for users to share their life and interact with others, it would be better if we did X or Y. George was still stuck to the same path of sticking primarily to text, to bigger profiles and more ways to interact with other users, to almost the same layout as the one they’d initially begun with that went post-by-post. John was the creator, the innovator, and George was adamant that they’d stay successful on the road they were already on; and, taking a risk, John left his partner so soon after they could officially call themselves a company. He started his own platform, developed it into a phone application much more functional than George’s, and was suddenly picking up as much traction in a year as it took their initial program to get in a decade of work.

The more updates George made, though, and the less John could keep up with him, their competition grew fiercer and bitterness between them worsened. George’s net worth was in the billions while John’s was just on the cusp of that title; he had less investors, a smaller user base, more bugs on all version of his platform than George. Naturally, they weren’t friends anymore. Which, again, in an opinion nobody asked for, Ari thought was bullshit. They could’ve compromised and made double whatever his dad’s business was making, whatever the hell it was, as he didn’t keep up with any of this capitalistic shitshow. Anyway. In what could either be a cold gesture, or a sign of goodwill after such a long rivalry between his father and his ex-best friend and business partner, John was invited to the celebration. Of a company he dropped out of that became more successful than his. Honestly, Ari didn’t have the guts to ask what in the hell his dad was thinking.

Miraculously, he came, and clearly Ari’s dad had been waiting the entire night for this to happen. When he saw heads turn to watch them meet each other by the door, Ari decided it was time he ducked outside and missed whatever drama was about to ensue. He had Scott by his side, one of dad’s investor’s sons, already, and he saw a familiar face at the door that he considered maybe rescuing on account of the fact that he was pretty. River. He’d seen him in tabloids, naturally a rich kid followed around for no reason other than their parents, just like Ari. He didn’t know a lot about him - after all, if his father new he was learning about his rival’s kid (or, worse, thought he was kind of cute), he would not be too pleased. Either way. Ari was kind of pissed at his dad for being embarrassing right now, so he decided to extend an olive branch, at least between the children born during this ridiculous catfight.

He wasn’t friendly by choice, so River could invite himself, but as Ari and Scott passed through the gathered people and beyond the scope of John and George, he nodded at River in acknowledgment, keeping his eyes on him while he pushed through the double doors with his back (out of his periphery, he was fairly sure Scott was looking at him too, then, oddly enough, critically at Ari). Almost immediately, he was on the curb, looking at the massive roundabout driveway with valets milling about and wondering if they’d loan him a car. ”Ari. River Rothschild? Really?” Ari snapped out of it, looked at Scott, who was folding down onto the curb beside him, straightening his tie and looking judgmental as ever. ”What? Oh, you think... Scott, listen, I didn’t give him the ‘fuck me’ eyes, I gave him the ‘isn’t this some shit’ eyes. It’s different. You wouldn’t know.” He grinned, making fun, and Scott looked unimpressed. ”You’re very expressive.” Ari sighed, long-suffering. ”And I’m expressing that I want you to fuck off.”

i don’t want to hear you’ve got a boyfriend

The good news was, Ryan was a very good-natured drunk. He was affectionate, sometimes too much so, and everything was suddenly one hundred times funnier with just a single shot. That is, until he fell asleep. Ryan was the type to find some public place to curl up in and pass out whenever the opportunity presented itself - surprising, actually, that he didn’t end up doing that before Zack got a hold of him. The bar had begun looking increasingly comfy. And everyone he knew was across the country, obviously not touring, or on stage/backstage, where he was strictly prohibited from entering as The Distracting Boyfriend. The Nuisance Who Can Somehow Take Brendon Away From His Beloved Work (Accidentally). Really, it was nice to know he had enough allure to actually be kicked out of there simply to avoid taking Brendon off track - even if it was just a ‘harmless five minutes.’

How could he help it? It’s not like Ryan was going to not tag along once in a while. It’s not like he was going to not stride backstage to his dressing room with a purpose whenever he got the chance and was unattended by controlling staff. And it’s not like he was going to ignore the perfect opportunities to have a makeout session and/or beyond when they could quite clearly hear the countdown of ‘ten minutes... five minutes... has anyone seen Brendon?… where’s our fucking frontman,’ so forth. Okay - maybe his timing was bad, but Brendon was busy, and he was so, so endlessly pretty. When Ryan had time with him on tour he used it wisely. They act like they’d never see each other again, or it seems that way from a third person’s perspective; why not just wait until Brendon’s home? Why not just see him after the show? Well. To that, Ryan guessed it was a ‘good luck’ type thing. Apparently his own luck had run out tonight.

Anyway. Yes, he was lonely, so getting drunk - and definitely not in a sad way, because as much as it sucks, he was revelling in the fact that he had a ripple effect - was his solution. By the end of the night Zack was the one texting him, because, Ryan knew, there were countless obstacles between Brendon and his dressing room, plus all of his belongings. His phone may have been perpetually buzzing in said empty room with heart emojis and variations of misspelled ‘I love you’s between the hours of ten p.m. to eleven p.m., but that was none of Ryan’s business, and frankly he had no memory of any involvement. When Zack did reach him he’d forgotten that it was possible to maybe say ‘can I talk to my boyfriend,’ or even registered that he was within a one mile radius of Brendon at most. Something in his brain had completely dropped the knowledge that he’d closed the touring gap between them at least for a little while, stuck believing that he was still way out of reach.

Dumbass, came a voice from the other end, and, for a moment, Ryan was offended, before the low tone came to him as Brendon’s. ”Aw,” he hummed into the receiver, clearly still not connecting the dots, but before he could comment on his boyfriend’s whereabouts Zack was questioning his own. He figured it out and in no time Zack was there, beyond tall and somehow strong enough to half-or-maybe-fully carry him to the car. Immediately he let his cheek slump against the window. Dude, this is why y’should’ve let him stay. At the bar? Yes. Let’s turn around. But, the lights along the street were moving in a blur, and suddenly Ryan really didn’t want a drink. Evidently since the phone call his alcohol had settled in more (and he’d finished whatever was left, it seems), and now nothing made sense at all and he was... floaty, for lack of a better word. A great night if he’d ever seen one.

Ryan was almost peaceful, focusing on not being sick and maybe falling asleep, when he felt someone poking his side. Hotel. Hi, by the way. ”Loud,” Ryan commented, sounding fairly affronted by this obvious stranger’s volume. Good to see you too, handsome. Ryan opened his eyes and bobbed his head to the side to look at Loud, but he couldn’t focus, everything sliding to the right in his vision even though he was sure his head was still. He felt something taper over him and a click and then - a hand against his chest. Ryan put his own over it, intending to grab it, pull it away. As it were, he simply rested there for a second, on pause. He was ready to pass the fuck out. Not on my watch. ”Whoa, hey.” Ryan sprung to action, pushing the hand back to its owner while he firmly pressed against the car door to avoid an incoming kiss. ”I have a boyfriend.”

Less affectionately than Brendon had, Ryan pressed his hand against his chest to push him away, probably way gentler than he’d intended to be but his strength reserves were past empty, apparently. He heard what sounded like maybe a laugh from Zack upfront, but brushed it aside. This was serious. ”He’s famous, so you better... be careful. I’m spoken for.” He was already closing his eyes, resting against the window again.

i don’t want to hear you’ve got a boyfriend

Brendon toured so much now that Ryan couldn’t come with him everywhere all the time, which was unfortunate for them, but it only meant Brendon was wildly successful as he should be, so Ryan wasn’t too hurt by it. Well - yes, it fucking sucked all the time and he always wished Brendon were around, but the fact that he was doing what he loved and so many people loved him right back, yeah, that was cool. But Ryan was nothing if not ambitious, so when he got the opportunity (and the ‘yeah fine whatever’ from Brendon’s security), he always flew out to meet Brendon on tour. These times were few and far between, and every time, he conveniently forgot to warn Brendon about it. The face he made when he saw Ryan standing sidestage, endlessly proud of him, so unexpected, that never got old.

Something different always happened, because Brendon liked to surprise him right back, and one night in particular Brendon pulled him on stage with pride flags thrown over his shoulders or just barely hooked on one or caped over his back - he got an insane amount, too many to fit on him. He sang the crowd-coined anthem’s chorus to Ryan, a colorful arm around his shoulders like a protective wing, and Ryan couldn’t do anything but stand there and be in love like an idiot, probably with hearts floating over his head or some stupid thing like that - it felt like it anyway. It was a dream. Here he was, in front of thousands, all singing word-for-word along with Brendon, the man he loved, who worked so hard for this, who was so fucking magical and inviting him in on that magic. Ryan was unbelievably lucky.

Except they were sort of in trouble for all that. The day after, Zack approached him and let him know that, yeah, he was being more distracting than usual, and yeah, he had to get out tonight. Maybe a kiss good luck and all, but nothing more. So Ryan, naturally, snuck into Brendon’s dressing room, tried to break those rules by initiating anything more, got caught, and was promptly kicked out. Well. He could watch via some random fans’ Instagrams, then, fine. He managed to fit in a strong four kisses and a rushed ‘okayhaveagoodnightIloveyou’ before Zack was actually physically removing him from the premises... and Brendon had only been gone for a week or so beforehand. This was going to be a long first leg.

Ryan’s choice of what to waste his time with was, uncharacteristically, to go out and drink. He wasn’t opposed to it, he just didn’t do it often, especially not without Brendon. Regardless, he headed out after moping around for a minute about being kicked out, taking a cab off to “whichever bar’s nearest” and landing at a fairly midscale one a few blocks away. You’d think he’d be bored. Ryan, however, the lightest of weights, had two shots and was suddenly very entertained by the game on the TV, turned fully in his seat while he kept the shots coming and nursed a few beers between them. An hour into this, he was a far cry from the picture of stressed blue-collar workers sitting at the bar and in booths throughout - he was actually completely relaxed against the wall to his right, eyes on the television across the room, and looked entirely content with the situation he’d found himself in.

Three notifications sounded at once from his phone and he took a whole two minutes to dig his phone from his pocket and drop it onto the bar, lean over it, and squint to read the messages. From Zack: Okay, show’s ending. Fifteen minutes ago, just delivered. Where are you? Ten minutes ago... and then a missed call. Ryan stared for a second then tried to press on the missed call and unlock his phone, to no avail. When it proved too difficult a feat, he huffed helplessly, sitting back against the wall again and waiting for the next call that arrived three minutes later. ”Hm,” he mumbled in his effort to say hello, and Zack immediately replied. ”Are you drunk?” Ryan paused, actually thought about it. ”Not the drunkest I’ve ever been.” There was a long pause while Zack processed this absolutely useless information. ”...okay. Where are you?” Ryan sucked in a heavy, labored breath, and then leaned over the bar, stretching his arm over to get the bartender’s attention. ”Hey, where am I?”

A moment after speaking to the very unimpressed bartender and passing on this newfound information, Zack hung up without another word, and Ryan received a text from him ten minutes later stating simply ‘come outside.’ So, he did. Zack was ready to catch him right out the door and lead him to a very familiar looking black car, guiding him into the backseat and shutting the door for him before heading back to the passenger’s seat. Ryan had his eyes closed pretty much the entire time. As soon as the door shut he started leaning into it, not bothering with his seatbelt, pressing his face against the cold window. ”Where are we going? I’m going to sleep,” he murmured, quickly losing interest in the answer to his question and snuggling up against the door.

pour out some liquor

Was Ryan maybe too work-oriented and ambitious for his own good? Before Brendon, the answer would be no (he just liked the financial security even if nothing else about his job was secure). Now, he was becoming more and more aware of when he turned down an invitation to stay a little longer, or when he had to ditch an event early to go take care of his own business, or when he couldn't meet Brendon at all because of an already existing appointment. He left room for his new lover, of course, because he wasn't heartless and he'd rather have time for both extremes of intimacy, thanks; even still, he prioritized. And sometimes it was very, very hard. Brendon knew his stupid angles. He would always be more important than an extra buck or some dummy who needed to entertain at a speakeasy - but let Ryan slip once for this ridiculously pretty man once, and he'd be doing it every time. So, yes, he needed to prioritize.

And a good lover don’t leave me hanging. Ryan grinned with him, aligning his hand with the side of Brendon's face when he leaned in to kiss him - and yes, it was incredibly convincing, but Ryan also had an incredible amount of willpower. He let his eyes slip open barely, only pulling away an inch to speak by his lips. "You sayin' I'm not a good lover?" His voice was barely a murmur, but then he laughed softly, pressing close again to kiss him more. Well - he could predict the answer to this one, because he was only a 'bad lover' if he did leave Brendon hanging, but still. It was a trap. As was kissing him this much. Ryan kept his hand curled around the base of his head but tipped his head back, after a moment, suddenly very conscious of the weakness he had for Brendon.

Thankfully Brendon was helping, leaning back and away, allowing some unfortunate space between them. I’m a grown man, Rowe. I don’t need protecting. Y’dont know what kind of shit I’d had to get myself out of back when I was just making a name for myself. Curse of bein’ out. Ryan blinked, watching him carefully and comprehensively - he hadn't meant to truly irritate him, really, but... it dawned on him, then, that the comeback was probably just a ploy for Brendon to earn more points. But it could also not be, so. Ryan gave him the benefit of the doubt. He definitely was not out - although he didn't deny it whenever Brendon's relationship with him was in question - and even if he was now, he didn't practically grow up that way like Brendon had. He chewed his lip uncertainly for a moment before nodding, searching Brendon's features. "Hey, you're right - you're right, I'm sorry. But I still wouldn't put you through it. I sort of like you, y'know." He grinned a little sideways, trying to wash the irritation off his face.

Ryan deduced from his quick movements that he'd been attempting to kiss him when he was dropped back on the couch, which was, admittedly, precious. Ryan smirked, stepping back as Brendon sunk into the cushions. Fucker. Yeah, yeah, he'd heard it all before. Brendon got up to follow him and Ryan regulated his pace, strolling on into the bedroom carelessly. Listen, baby, listen. He listened, vaguely, rifling through his closet and pulling a crowbar from a coat buried in the back. He tested it against his hand, knowing exactly what Brendon's tone of voice meant and knowing he'd be here at least another ten minutes because of it. So. Ryan looked back at him, the way he was angled against the doorframe, annoyingly pretty as always. He dropped the hand holding cold metal at his side, listening with as resigned an expression as possible. You’re always early, right? Just to make sure. Way early. "Yes, sir," Ryan said impatiently, tilting his head at Brendon. So- you don’t have to set off, yet, yeah? Just- twenty minutes. Fifteen, maybe. Specifics are down to you. Ryan broke out into a smile again, amused, because his boyfriend was ridiculous.

He stretched practically like a cat against the doorframe and Ryan looked even more amused, knew all of his tricks already (though they didn't lose their potency anyway). Y'know, ‘cause you love me. Ryan approached, using his free hand to trail down Brendon's chest again, feel the muscles he'd drawn tight. "I do love you. And I prefer to take my time." He paused, then smiled sweetly and gently tapped the curved edge of the crowbar to Brendon's chest as he stepped away. "Rain check." He passed him, went on to the main room again, and slowed in his tracks when he heard the distant sound of rushed, jumbled footsteps from the building's stairwell. That was a sound he knew all too well - and he had maybe ten or less seconds. In half of a second, sparing his time, he tried to plan this out but there was really no good way to go about an 'escape' even if they already obviously knew his name and address already; go out the window, and there would be cars lining the street, or at least cops planted along the pavement. Find another apartment to squat in, the door would burst open a minute later. Wait it out and hide somewhere inside, he'd undoubtedly be found. There was no way to access the rooftop unless he had some serious gymnast skills, either. So.

Ryan turned calmly, closing the space between himself and Brendon just a breath after he'd walked away, tossed his weapon aside and wrapped his arms around him. "About that rain check, actually -" he rushed, breaking off to press a drawn-out kiss to his lips, "- it might be longer than we'd like." Two or three seconds spent, maybe, and he was hurrying to make the best use of his time left, not bothering to explain; there was no space between them whatsoever, Ryan forgetting the importance of breaking apart to breathe, one hand splayed against Brendon's lower back and the other curled comfortable in his hair. Yeah, if he was going to get arrested in another couple beats, he was going to fit in as much as he'd just been turning down as he could.

i could be better but baby

Brendon didn't have, like, a drinking problem. But he had a problem drinking. See, if he started, he became this nonsensical, overenthused asshole, rather than just a 'sleepy drunk' or a 'giggly drunk' like other people became. And then he snowballed - he could start at eleven pm and then be done by seven in the morning, at the latest, passing out or being caught by someone on his team rather than cutting himself off. He could - Ryan knew it, he'd seen him drink casually on days where he expected to be talking to media - he just chose not to, evidently telling himself at the beginning of a night out that he was going to drink to the point of a blackout, so help him. It was more fun that way, or something. Ryan didn't see the point. He forgot everything past a point, he couldn't walk by himself around hour five, and, y'know, Ryan refused to do anything intimate with him if he was genuinely drunk. Which would be a huge no-no for Brendon, or so he thought.

It's not like it was every night, really, even if Ryan had seen it enough times to identify a pattern. Maybe five days out of the week was the maximum for Brendon, unless there was something special going on, say an awards show coming up or a holiday everyone blew out of proportion. Anyway. On an average night, he could handle himself, and could actually walk upright when he was finally going home. On a bad night, though, Brendon needed an arm around his shoulder and he was incomprehensible and he still didn't see it as a time to stop - on some of these nights, even Ryan couldn't handle him. He had to rely on Brendon's chauffeur or call up some miscellaneous security to take his place. He left early, went home, and always reconsidered maybe thirty minutes after, turning up at Brendon's instead and waiting for him to come home. It seemed like a shitty thing to do, really, but he couldn't bear watching him become more and more messy even if it was just a fun night, so he had to resign to leaving him in equally responsible hands and catching up with him later.

Except for the night previous. Ryan knew he always regretted leaving him to some other staff member, so he stayed with Brendon even as he saw him slurring his next drink order, saw the bartender questioning him before relenting and serving him more againt their better judgment. Ryan didn't abstain from drinking in general, just paced himself, and throughout the night he held on to the same bottle of beer, some apple ale that was barely alcoholic. In contrast to that, he counted Brendon's first, second, third drink, and so forth; he lost count around seven because he couldn't decide whether shots counted as a whole. Either way. Brendon had had a lot, even for his remarkable tolerance. At some point, Brendon was talking at him, rather than to him, about something Ryan had absolutely no idea what he was talking about - he was talking about, maybe, a temple in Cambodia, or a cruise they should go on, Ryan honestly couldn't discern any real words from it. Whatever he was trying to say, Ryan simply nodded along quietly, his chin in his hand, both of them seated at the very edge of the bar to keep Brendon's descent as private as possible.

Which was funny, because the only reason Brendon really went this far was because he was in groups of other celebrities or children of the wealthy, but they'd all since dispersed through the club to do god knows what. Ryan didn't know - he only paid attention to Brendon, watched him closely until he began leaning out of his seat and, yes, was pliant enough to guide out the door, into his chauffeured car, back to his apartment. He was the one half-carrying his boyfriend into an elevator, the one sitting on the floor with him when he couldn't stand on the way up to his floor, the one balancing him on one side while fumbling with the key on his other. Ryan had carried him, bridal-style, to bed, taken off as many layers as he could, ensured he stayed turned on his side with a bin by the bed, had painkillers and water ready for him. He revisited being his babysitter in a much more detailed context, and he'd decided it was worrying.

It was a couple hours after Brendon had woken up when he decided it might be okay to start having this conversation - after all, now he was sensible (as much as he could be), the hangover was subsiding, and maybe he'd be open to having it, too. Ryan had a mug of coffee between his hands, sitting at the kitchen island, watching Brendon a few feet away picking disinterestedly through the cupboards. Ryan took another sip before curling his fingers around the mug again, sleeves halfway over his hands, wondering how best to go about this. "Brendon, baby," he started, voice still a little ragged despite having woken up a good few hours ago. "Last night - you probably don't remember, but... it didn't look good. When you drink like that... you have no idea how worried it makes me." He paused, looking into the tiny black sea of his coffee, avoiding eye contact. "I mean. It makes me wonder, y'know, why you need to go that far. It's scary."

your way

Didn’t say a word, Ry. Well, he didn't have to go and do that. Ryan was blushing already. 'Ry,' the tone of his voice - it seemed everything Brendon did was a ploy to make him feel even more stupidly affectionate. That and the whole dramatic show of Brendon dropping to his knees before him. Ryan knew he was obvious, knew no matter what measures he took to hide himself in any way it was really just Brendon who he couldn't keep anything from, and that was, unfortunately, the worst case scenario. He'd have taken literally anyone else to see through all of his acts, it'd be less embarrassing; alas, he was stuck with Brendon being able to call him on every lie, able to catch him when he was hiding an emotion, able to keep him from hiding things in the first place, as was the case now. He couldn't even pretend there wasn't a magnetism that made Ryan practically vibrate with responsiveness. Even when Brendon shifted up into his lap, all he could do was naturally catch him, hold him in place, hands gentle on his back.

Except Ryan was a huge, massive, ginormous idiot, and he had to ruin everything with his equally gigantic sentimental mouth. Brendon just stared back, and Ryan couldn't read anything from his dark, dark eyes, couldn't discern something to ease his nerves. He honestly had no idea what kind of terms they were on. Probably good, but then, probably not 'emotionally connected' good in the way Ryan had made himself to be. Well. He let himself get this way. There was nothing conscious about it. For a few moments they were both quiet. I like you, too. Ryan's chest had been tight with anxiety already and he felt it worsen, charmed, excitability piqued, when the potential for Brendon to feel the same had maxed out - but he was probably just... maybe this was to avoid an uncomfortable conversation. He still couldn't read anything in Brendon's face, he had no idea. So. He panicked. Very typical for him.

Ryan backtracked, fearful even as Brendon saying he liked him back echoed in his ears - and how middle school was that, two idiots admitting they liked each other when real adults in their right mind just found an appropriate word for their relationship until the actual 'L' word was safe to use. No, Brendon and Ryan liked each other. He shrunk under Brendon's gaze, but then he was pushing him back against the cushion, meeting him in a kiss beyond just 'too much' right now for Ryan. Open-mouthed, impassioned, Ryan responded only dizzily, a hand rising up tentatively as if he meant to curl it into Brendon's hair but every nerve was too shot to focus on doing much of any moving. As it were, his eyelids fell slowly, muscles slackening until he was relaxed against the seatback, and the hand unsure of where to go finally fell slowly against Brendon's shoulder, boneless. 'I like you, too.' Maybe he did. Maybe he did and there was nothing to be afraid of - or he did and there was everything to be afraid of. Either way, this was a scenario that he did, and Ryan was exhilerated by the thought.

Brendon pulled back and his mouth looked red, distracting; like clockwork, Ryan touched his lower lip with his thumb, index curled under his chin. He was so... yeah, yeah, you get the picture. You don’t need to apologise. Ryan probably could've cried, if that were his thing. In this case he just felt choked up, like there was a bauble in his throat, eyes wide and unfocused. Me not talking to you because I thought that was the best way to communicate with you what I wanted- Stupid. I know that now. Alright, well, this wasn't an elaborate way to punish him for that, and - Ryan wouldn't tell him in a million years, but it was starting to be kind of funny, what his logic had been. In response to the knowledge in Brendon's expression, Ryan just nodded slightly, forgiving. He said as much and detracted from his original confession again, in case... in case Brendon needed a way out of this conversation, or something. In case he felt obligated to say all of this.

[i]Yeah, that isn’t gonna be possible.[i] Fuck. But, I tell you what, babe. You take me through there- you do to me as you please, and then- we can talk about it. Oh, Christ. It's like he had a vendetta. Properly. I promise. Well, now Brendon had his mind all over the place - some in the gutter, some hopelessly, helplessly getting carried away in sentiments and grandeur and 'holy shit he feels the same.' Also, 'holy shit he's being mature.' Somehow, even being the exact opposite of himself, Brendon was stupidly attractive. Ryan was still for a few beats before finally he looped his arms carefully around Brendon, turned them both until their sides were facing the seatback and Brendon was nestled, tiny, in the corner of the chair, Ryan's hand cushioning his head, the rest of him so close they were no longer Brendon and Ryan but BrendonandRyan, BrendonandRyan who like each other and were going to talk about it properly and didn't scare the other one off. Ryan kissed him the same way Brendon had moments ago, only slower, longingly, like this was the first time ever.

Following that, once he was out of breath, Ryan kept him in a warm embrace, mouth attached the to the junction of his neck and shoulder, barely able to move like he'd want to to follow Brendon's clear instructions of 'you do to me as you please.' Rather, he was still speechless. "You're serious," he murmured, evidently still finding the idea of reciprocation far out. Ryan paused, then pulled back, examining Brendon's face before deciding, yeah, he was going to test his own ability to be fully genuine and honest. He combed his fingers through Brendon's hair a few more times before cradling one side of his head, tilting his own. "I like you so much. I do. You're serious?" His voice was a whisper, like the subject was sensitive. Suppose it was.

pour out some liquor

Here’s what I think.

Ryan had a tendency to look bored in these situations where he was actually wired, and now was no different - he half-mumbled a curious sound in response, looking interested but still utterly slack against his faded couch. His gaze didn't rest comfortably on any one place, instead lazily drifting around Brendon's features, then the curve of his shoulder, then the press of his hand against Brendon's waist, repeat. He shut his eyes for a moment when Brendon came close to his ear, feeling the gentlest nip, re-opening them when Brendon returned to smile and kiss him sweetly again. Ryan tilted his head back, feeling like the luckiest bastard alive, and secured both hands around Brendon's waist rather than one before shifting them into a comfortable position, clearly invested in letting this moment drag out.

I think that you should stay here tonight. He smiled slightly, turning immediately when Brendon kissed his cheek, almost in time to catch his lips with his own - but only almost. He chased, grinning in amusement, because this happened every single time Ryan had somewhere to go. This time it was... marginally more important that he actually did escape Brendon's unrelenting charisma. He and Spencer and their team had a customer who snubbed them out of payments, provided counterfeits when Ryan collected a deposit, was generally bad for business. And Ryan didn't really let that kind of thing go, not when he was losing profit from a buyer who needed about as much product as Brendon did: a lot. So, naturally, they were going to do something about it, because sonsabitches really think they could get away with printed bills, like Ryan wouldn't eventually see the discrepancy. Assholes.

Ryan watched him as he pulled a hand through his hair, came close just to inhale. Ryan had never had someone be this genuinely interested in him, and to leave him now to break some kneecaps really seemed like a bad idea. Ryan pursed his lips, hair sticking up at various angles above him. "I can't, darlin', you know it. A good boss doesn't call in." Or something like that. Hey, his best-known trait was never being a no-call no-show, always working and possibly overworking. Spence has it covered, y’know? He did not. Spencer could be mean, but he couldn't be truly vindictive, just kind of an asshole. Ryan was the one that carried out the hits whenever they had a deal gone awry, or any sort of shitty situation. Because he figured Brendon knew as much, Ryan raised an eyebrow at him, easily turning with the guidance of his hand and searching his eyes.

Brendon was the first to smile a little, and Ryan broke character just to match him, leaning up at the same time Brendon came down to kiss him right. Brendon's smile became too wide for it to properly continue and Ryan continued kissing him regardless, pressing smaller ones to the edges of Brendon's mouth, to his lower lip. Y’don’t even need to be there, babe. "Please. I always do." He was barely loud enough to actually interrupt, though. They won’t forget you in a hurry, I know these guys caused you trouble n’everything, but like you said, once you said it to them straight- they know you mean business. Ryan watched him silently, not willing to argue, but it's not like he was going to cut Brendon off in the middle of this tangent. He didn't like being the one at fault for him being pouty. Brendon sat back and Ryan trailed his hand down his sternum, over his stomach, as his arm extended to follow him.

You don’t need to be there. I can think of other things to do. Less productive, but maybe... Maybe more pleasurable. Ryan smirked, pulling his lip between his teeth after a moment of hesitation. He was cursed. He had a boyfriend too convincing. "I do need to be there. I'd invite you, love, but you're little and these bastards really are trouble." He smiled, lifting his hand and holding Brendon's chin delicately for a moment between his thumb and index finger as he called him 'little.' It was true, yeah, but maybe he shouldn't say so lest Brendon's puppydog complex came out. Y'know the one. Where they're tiny but act big and mighty. Ryan didn't think it through, though, because he was whiskey-warm, vaguely fuzzy and smiling fondly on a small scale. His tolerance was enough that he could split the bottle with Brendon as far as they had and not be stumbling and stupid, but really - if it didn't get you drunk, then it was a bad product, and Ryan only sold what he was proud of. Here they were.

Ryan kept his eyes on Brendon's in the moment that passed, waiting to be taken seriously, until Brendon's gaze dropped down to view his hands, the countless rings littering his fingers. Conscious of where his attention had gone, Ryan studied him briefly before finding a ring Brendon had given him, not even having to search, and spun it slowly, like it was his natural solution to anxious times. For sure, when Brendon wasn't around it was stress relief to toy with the rings he'd given him and remember that he'd be home to him soon. Brendon's eyes returned to him a couple beats later, and almost predictably, he moved right into Ryan's lap, forcing him slightly back against the armrest. Ryan cleared his throat imperceptibly and shifted his hips somewhat, adjusting them both once again. Besides, you look so comfortable. His serious expression broke, and Ryan laughed, looking enamoured. "Oh, please."

How will you ever even manage to get up? I say stay with me. Ryan studied him, amused, and placed his hand along the side of Brendon's face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone, for all of a few seconds. "I reckon you're right, it'll be difficult." He looked a touch disappointed for a moment, acting, before he slipped both arms around Brendon's waist, held him close, and stood up holding him in the same ridiculous position he'd assumed moments ago. Ryan tucked a hand beneath his thigh to keep him upright while he pulled his head back, enough to grin at him. "But I'll manage." He leaned forward and dropped Brendon back onto the couch, combing a hand through his hair endearingly before he stepped away. "As cute as you are, dearest, I gotta jet. Think I should take a crowbar? A bat? Not sure." Ryan passed by the window as he walked away towards his open bedroom, glancing out momentarily at Model Ts humming down the street, other cars veering out of their way. Bizarre.

all my life been hustling and tonight is my appraisal

Sometimes an artist's room directly captured how their mind worked, what circled their head all the time. Ryan's studio had not one but two drafting boards, side by side, organized by deadlines and potential success and by season - he tended to start work substantially early on, both for good measure and simply because work had become more 'life' for him. He had two monitors, one usually full of references or suggestions from partners or commissions, the other full of graphics and computer-generated versions of his hand-drawn pieces (and, of course, in the background, the boring part of his job remained open in spare windows: e-mails between peers, portfolios he still had to sort through). Flashdrives littered his desk, with tiny little labels for the season and year. His file organizer - because some people in his field still didn't succumb to technology - had actually become so tightly compiled that it often became difficult to pull out what he needed, or the alphabet became disorganized, somehow. It was all a mess, but it made complete sense, completely reflective of his mentality.

He was a fashion designer, and surprisingly, it was mostly a desk job. When he wasn't drafting patterns or making mood boards for a new line or a new season, he was responding to e-mails, bouncing ideas off of his partners, submitting files for review, interrogating clients so that he actually came up with the right product with no need for revision. He'd been doing it for a fairly monotonous six years, ever since he finished his BFA in Fashion Design, and had moved on a steady path from intern, to consultant, to commercial designer, to high fashion. It was a rough industry, and he worked in one of the fastest growing influencer in it: streetwear. That seemed counterproductive, given his personality was the exact opposite of 'street,' but he'd lasted six years. Most designers fall out after two seasons. Ryan attributed his success to luck - being lucky enough to have so much creative income. He could draw it from anywhere; music, traditional art, nature, people. Anything. He may not be a huge, world-renowned name, but he'd seen his high concept work developed into some shit they sell in department stores for eleven bucks, so. That was pretty successful, in fashion, getting copied.

He'd worked for two labels. First one went under, because competition was heavy, second he left to become self-employed, and now he had more partners than he could list off by memory, clientele, employees, returning models and new ones every season. Again, not a household name, but up-and-coming. And he wasn't running out of ideas quite yet. He'd admit, though, that creating art for money had changed his personal relation to his own art, even art in general. He'd become more critical, could relate anything back to a 'source' when it wasn't as original as possible. The mindset helped, but he was becoming cynical, less open-minded and more suspicious of plagiarism or people who didn't care and went into fashion for the glamour of it all or because they'd had an Instagram account for thirty seconds. Both were very common scenarios.

Anyway. He'd just gotten home from a round of tradeshows and already, it was fashion week. This was a rough time, because if he didn't find his vision exactly or even mis-picked it, then there was no going back: he'd just have to incorporate it all and hope for the best on the days-of. He rarely had a problem with his own work, because he always gave himself enough time, first overworking then submitting it to others with fresh eyes and giving pause and reviewing for himself and... it was a process. Models, however, were difficult. Some of them applied every season, personally sending his employees portfolios that were sorted through, references checked, and passed up to Ryan himself. Others could be found through agencies, online sites, even social media (mostly because he was, again, not an incredibly high bar, and he didn't turn his nose up at amateurs).

The problem was, thirty percent of them came to 'audition,' per se, and couldn't express the vision he'd shown all of his applying models on a moodboard, even if they looked the part on the surface. Even more couldn't walk for a runway, although that wasn't an immediate throwaway because he did have magazine and photography clientele anyway. Or, when he scheduled personal interviews following casting to get to know his people better, he ended up not being comfortable with them. Sometimes Ryan's choices were too obscure for the rough industry he'd chosen. It was even rougher for models, who needed to be a specific size, look a certain way, identify within certain subsets of race, features, perfection, but when Ryan went against any of that during casting, he was made out to be controversial, somehow, or was regarded as a less serious designer. And, really, he didn't give a single shit about it. He casted whoever he wanted to and let his runway look as wild as humanly possible, if that's what the vision of the season called for.

Summer was coming up. At its absolute most general, Ryan's concept was simply 'gold,' and he'd left room for improvements in the case that inspiration somehow hit him before the season arrived - usually, it did, though in small amounts. He was in a showroom by a busy intersection in New York, half-listening to his assistant rattle off summaries of portfolios, half-listening to the sound of cars outside, taxis honking, people hailing. Models in all black or muted colors were filing in, all utterly pretty, and he'd probably be nervous around this amount of otherworldly attractive people if he hadn't done it a million times already. They started while people were still arriving, alphabetical, and thank God this wasn't a runway casting, because the awkward as hell 'walk test' part was his least favorite part of auditions - but he did have to explain, over and over again, what the vision was, do color tests, learn a little bit of their personality without taking too much time, for the sake of everyone there. He could always expand later.

He was early on in the alphabet, and already he was sure the first day of casting might not be a very successful one - a couple, maybe, were promising, but. Ryan held out hope. After a long, lanky dude who'd definitely not passed for the summer season rolled out of the showroom, Ryan looked back down at the portfolio passed in front of him, opening the file and scanning it with an already bored gaze. His cheek was in his palm, elbow on the table, and when he opened a file marked 'BLAKE, BRENDON,' he shifted his fingers to cover his mouth slightly, interest piqued. Maybe the guy's portfolio was playing tricks, a good camera, or something, but seriously. This was ridiculous. And Ryan saw a lot of pretty faces. He disregarded the basic information in his folder for the time being, looking up as his assistant called out his name: "Brendon Blake," and moved his hand to cradle his jaw more than his cheek, looking less bored. Ryan pointedly ignored the fact that he did look exactly like he did in photos, probably better, to remain unbiased, and cleared his throat quietly. "Hi, Brendon," he said, voice softer, and folded his arms over one another on the table. "Is this your first casting, or do you have experience?" Of course, Ryan's usual array of questions was generally sitting right in front of him, answered, but he learned a little about the model from asking aloud.

i can’t give you my soul ‘cause we’re never alone

Ryan was dreaming of life.

Not his own, not necessarily; it was a montage of possibility, of realities he wasn't used to, things he might see himself if he gave life a chance. This was bright neon lights contrasted against a dark midnight, and carmine lights over ecstatic faces at a concert, and peaceful treks through fields with tartan sheets in hand, and wisp clouds floating over a lagoon while visitors drifted through the water... it was beautiful, and somehow this was clearer than his waking existence, more vivid than anything he'd ever seen in person. Oddly, he was content in his sleep, and before Ryan had never assumed moods could be adopted during REM hours. This, though, was him, third person omniscient, watching everything that could be his own memories, watching what could be his future. If he tried. It was a far cry from the drab grey skies he was used to, the odd hours of jobs he was sick of, sitting in a shitty car waiting for it to warm up while his hands shivered against the wheel. This was wonderful, electrifying, stunning.

All of it, unfamiliar.

It lacked any real story, and it was nothing truly powerful when he gave it thought: how useful or pertinent could a bunch of random movie clips be, making five second stops in his mind before moving on to the next? He realized, though, that there were forces working together to save him, had been some for a while. And this was a message of inspiration - don't give up on what could be.

Life tended to be this way with Brendon around. When he was close enough, Ryan's dreams were clearer than real time, made him feel even more than he could manage to experience while conscious. Actually, Brendon made his emotions far more powerful. All he had to do was be nearby, and Ryan could relax. In the same way that Ryan could affect him, this blank slate unused to both hardship and extreme happiness, Brendon could turn it right back, simply laughing at a joke and suddenly Ryan felt all the peace in the world (or, unfortunately, the tiniest amount of sadness sent Ryan into a pit of despair, but they were learning to navigate this trouble - or just put distance between one another). The air buzzed, electrified, when he was around. Brendon could simply brush his shoulder before he left the house and Ryan caught a stroke of luck where he'd find a twenty on the ground or all the traffic lights were green on his way.

For a while, Ryan just thought that he was being dramatic. That this was his first real crush, and maybe everyone got that way when they really liked someone. Turns out, Brendon was an angel.

Ryan supposed he understood it - but only hardly. What made him important? What made him important to higher powers, that he knew basically nothing about, only truly thought about his belief in them during family holidays - so forth? But, he was a biased opinion. Of course if it were Ryan's choice he'd have let him take the leap seven months ago, when it was bound to happen anyway. A hopeless cause. Hell - he was hardly worth the fight. Brendon had been here a long time, presumably, for a guardian meant to fix the problem. This was a lifelong battle, and evidently, Ryan couldn't just get through the rest alone; every time he solved an issue, got past a financial burden or came closer to attending school, something like that, he found some other reason within him to spiral again. (After he'd learned of the true nature of how their relationship originated, the fact that he couldn't get better became almost funny - it was like he was making reasons for Brendon to stay).

Regardless, now he had someone unconditionally on his side. Seven months may not be a long time, especially not a long enough time to feel this way. Strong enough that Brendon actually became overwhelmed with it, which was, by the way, precious, in Ryan's opinion, even when Brendon physically had to remove himself from the room and go on buzzing happily somewhere else out of embarrassment and Ryan stared on with fond amusement. At this point, Brendon wasn't expected to be over the whole 'newly in love,' or even 'newly in like' checkpoint, because everything was new to him. Ryan, on the other hand, was stretching it out as a normal person, ridiculously affectionate when he wasn't too sullen to move.

There were days like that, absolutely, even after all of this hard work. Sometimes, he had to be alone, wishing Brendon away so he didn't have to firsthand experience whatever Ryan was feeling. Other times, he spent hours staring at the wall, covered in blankets, but with Brendon fitting comfortably along his body, aligned like puzzle pieces. He wasn't great company on these kinds of days, and somehow, Brendon was still able to stand him. He supposed that was the point - but someone conditioned to a mortal lifestyle should probably have developed a level of impatience by now, too, and Brendon very much had not.

Brendon also hadn't quite come to terms with what they were. Ryan wasn't sure whether he'd initiated the romance just by being immediately taken with him - he did have an influence, after all - but he felt badly about it, had no idea how to comfort Brendon and tell him there was nothing wrong going on. Easier said than believed, especially when, he was certain, everything in Brendon's previous existence (existences?) told him otherwise. It didn't have to be their love in particular that was wrong, but also the fact that this must be way out of Brendon's job description, that this must be some kind of rulebreak. Ryan didn't know, but whichever way, he never pressed about it. He might have influence, but he couldn't change Brendon's mind on something he definitely had more authority and wisdom over.

Lovers, lovers, lovers, Ryan had never anticipated the word becoming relevant to him, especially not when he had never envisioned a future for himself anyway, or anyone to be in it, for that matter. But here was Brendon, completely responsible for the beautiful dream in his head, for one of the most comfortable nights' sleep he'd ever had, for his best relationship. Not that there was a lot of competition. Ryan was happier than he could remember being for a very long time, though, possibly ever. His life was less 'in pieces,' more one whole with maybe some broken off edges, a whole lot of crumbs he needed to dust away, but still more together than he'd ever expect. All 'cause he had this lover sent specifically to save his life. If nothing else, Brendon was fantastic at his job.

He felt a tremble all around him in his sleep and was halfway awoken, mind slightly conscious, the rest of him too lazy-relaxed to do much of anything to join it. The apparent shiver of his bed slowed down gradually, and with it he drifted away again into unconsciousness, too sleepy to care about or think of the source of whatever that was. Only a couple of minutes later, still not quite asleep enough to ignore waking sensations, Ryan felt something lift him slightly and then an impossible softness, something secure around him, something beyond comfortable, safe. He knew it was Brendon's hand that rose to gently rest on his cheek, his other on his waist, and finally Ryan's eyes opened, innocently curious, to observe whatever he'd missed.

Light, soft white, nothing but light, and then Brendon, his gentle features and his scent and his velvety skin, all of his senses' attention seized and captured. Ryan could hardly see the light streaming in through the window, surrounded by feathers and plush and all things ethereal. For a moment he'd forgotten that this was the life he lived now, where it was almost unbelievable, almost impossible, and all he could do was blink wonderingly at what he'd woken up to before landing on Brendon again and everything making sense. Like his mind was falling into calibration, Ryan let his hands settle, too, around Brendon, the one furthest from the mattress hooking around his shoulder, the other pressing against his chest automatically. Brendon's eyes had slipped shut, though clearly not long enough for him to have fallen back asleep, and after a few beats of admiring the way he was being cradled, Ryan watched just his face, examined every detail all over again.

He looked almost troubled, like the only reason he'd be going to sleep was to escape it. Ryan supposed they were close enough right now for him to worry about his morals all over again. Ignoring those reservations, Ryan leaned close, slow to maintain the gentle hand on his cheek, and pressed a delicate kiss against his forehead, simply a preface before he did the same against Brendon's lips. He paused, careful, wondering whether he could say anything comforting - but this was all they needed. He closed his eyes again.

it's a lovely chemistry

Brendon's interview was the first time someone really cared enough to do a background check and look into who he was, what he'd accomplished. When he won an award in the past and someone wanted to do a tiny, paragraph-long feature about it, the only thing they wanted to know was what exactly he did to win it (and he never knew how to respond, by the way - just 'be a good player?' - what did they ever expect). He was generally not known enough for people to be interested in his personal life, and therefore he wasn't marketable; that wasn't an insult, either. That's just how it was for athletes. If you weren't recognized by a massive organization or in a well-respected league, you weren't really anyone at all, nor were you bringing in a very impressive paycheck.

Anyway, Brendon cared. He wanted to know how Ryan got his start, let Ryan offer brief, uncertain commentary on the dumb community center team he was on when he was a kid, asked about his strategy - and actually appeared to have observed some parts of it through his research. Research. It was bizarre to think someone put the time into that, especially when there was barely anything about him out there. Ryan was a normal person, after all; there was, naturally, close to no information about him, leave for some minor profiles done after he'd won an award or when he was a teenager and scored a spot in the local paper. When Brendon brought up something himself without Ryan making any mention of it, he felt that buzz of celebrity, like his fifteen minutes of fame was starting, except this time it'd last way longer than fifteen minutes. Hopefully. It was flattering, basically, and especially so when the painstaking effort was coming from someone like Brendon. Who, y'know. Was beyond pretty, and whose personality somehow shone through questions that would otherwise have been dull and pointless.

That was, unfortunately, bad news for Ryan's nerves - which was far from normal for him. Generally nothing could shake him. Even against the most daunting of opposing teams, he could be seen with a surgeon's composure, completely steady, no mistakes. Given compliments, his response was 'I know.' Shit-talking from the offensive players, easy to throw right back - and in fact he was, oftentimes, the one who might start a scuffle in the middle of the rink. (Only about half the time did a referee call him out on it, but Ryan may or may not have aimed a puck at a player rather than a goal net.) So he wasn't timid, or anxious, or by any means shy, except for around a particularly charming interviewer. It could be the fact that this was his first legitimate, professional foray into journalism, but his most accurate suspicion was that Brendon was exactly his type. Worringly so.

When he saw Brendon walk through the restaurant doors, it was almost funny to him how mismatched they were, Brendon in his plain tee and statement red pants, Ryan going with his version of 'all out.' Almost brought the guy down to earth - but not quite. Even so, red wine had taken its toll already, and their hug was almost prolonged, every single thought focused primarily on controlling the impulse to move a hand upward to Brendon's hair, or something. Like a lover. They'd literally known each other for a total of maybe two, three hours, and here he was, truly curious as to how soft Brendon's hair might feel. Anyway. He stayed normal, almost, holding out as long as Brendon would let him, arms secured over his back, and he was so little. Ryan spent his days around people his size or much larger, and Brendon was about half any of that, not just height-wise. Seriously mismatched.

What are you talking about? You look great. Real classy. Ryan grinned, and he didn't do that a lot, at least not super genuinely and bashfully. It was almost alien. You’d almost not expect you to be a hockey player, but- the scar. Suddenly conscious of it, Ryan skimmed his teeth over the bust, too used to seeing some kind of visible wound on himself that he'd forgotten it wasn't normal. Hey, he played aggressively. "It's an accessory." Almost his typical personality again... but not completely. He followed Brendon's gaze to his drink, putting the pieces together. "I didn't know whether you drank. Split a bottle?" He smirked, almost knowingly, because as if it would be an equal split. Ryan went overboard most every time he got the chance to drink without worrying about the next game, and whatever they split would probably end up being his three-quarters.

Thank you. You too. Cool, cool, gentleman gestures impressed him, the bar was low. Ryan tipped up a question about the interview, at a loss for conversation topics as if he hadn't been thinking about this since he'd asked Brendon out, but he was also genuinely curious. Thankfully, Brendon looked encouraging. Just a little, but you sounded great. Everyone loves you, now, y’know? You could do no wrong. Ryan paused. 'Everyone.' Did he mean the crew, or something along those lines, or was there an 'everyone' to speak of now? Sure, people had been interested in him before, but not enough to like him for who he was rather than what he did. This was new. Nerves fading, Ryan's natural confidence was almost back, and he leaned in his chair casually. "Well. I knew that part, I'm always right." He was kidding, raising his eyebrows to dismiss any sign that it might've been real arrogance. And, I’m great. How are you doing, Ryan?

You could almost tell his profession, the way he addressed him by name, and for a moment, Ryan smiled fondly at it. He pulled his lip between his teeth again, thoughtfully, the cut metallic, a beat passing before he answered. "A little shell-shocked. First in the draft... I'm good, I didn't know I was that... y'know. It's crazy - but I'm great, too, obviously." He smiled, shaking his head slightly and finishing his glass. "You were my first interview. First one well thought out, and everything. Do you always do that much studying, or is it just this particular story? I wasn't expecting that." Really. Brendon was more prepared for that than Ryan was for anything, ever. The server slipped by, topping him off with a small beckoning gesture, adding to Brendon's glass with another, and Ryan nodded in thanks before he went off again.