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

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

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

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

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

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

When Brendon first arrived at Ryan’s gorgeous house in the countryside, he had no idea what the fuck he was doing there, and felt largely like a fish, gasping, stranded out of the water. He was out of his element and surrounded by furniture and clothes that cost more than his rent, or even his entire goddamn apartment. He was staying in a room bigger than his home back in the city. He was sleeping on Egyptian cotton (Brendon didn’t know what the difference was apart from that it was more expensive and was admittedly for comfortable), and stealing from the cupboards very expensive liquor. Ryan hasn’t noticed yet- or else, he didn’t care, and hadn’t said anything. It might be absurdly expensive to someone like Ryan, used to mooching off Jon for cheap beer, but to Ryan he supposed it wasn’t even that big a deal, he could just buy more to shove in his cupboards and never drink. Wait, no. This guy had a wine rack. A wine rack. Brendon was more than impressed- it was his second favourite feature of the house, his favourite being the pool, where he spent most of his free time, and a lot of the time he was supposed to be doing actual work.

What made the unfamiliar surroundings worse was that he and Ryan didn’t really see eye to eye, and were awkward around eachother at first- even when Ryan recognised him as a musician, and told Brendon he played as well, Brendon was weirded out by how he had grabbed onto his arm, and sort of defensive of his own severely limited access to instruments nowadays; his music degree had been a godsend, but only because it made everything at the time a little more bearable. Now, it did nothing for him, except impress this rich guy who literally had a Steinway in one of the many rooms, and a dozen different guitars that Brendon fawned over for a whole day and yearned to take home with him. Still, they bonded over this mutual love of music, even if both of them rarely got to express that nowadays- it seemed that Ryan’s wealth gave Brendon the means to do what he loved, and Brendon’s passion and talent reignited the enthusiasm of a man who had all of his time taken up by writing another novel in a series he despised. Brendon never would have expected it, but in about a week, they were much more comfortable around eachother, able to back-and-forth jokes and teasing with ease, spending most of their time dicking around rather than doing actual work, excusing it as ‘letting Brendon settle in’. Which he did, quickly, once he could navigate the way to the kitchen and back.

It made being a little peckish a lot easier, even at 2am- a time when he thought even Ryan was in bed, and their rooms were on completely different floors, so it wasn’t like Brendon’s rooting about would wake him up. Unfortunately for Brendon, he hadn’t yet learned that writers stayed up until the early hours of the morning most nights, fuelled mostly on coffee and an ever-dwindling willpower to stay awake. Either away, when he walked into the kitchen and found that the light was already on, Brendon froze, caught in the act, only to find that Ryan had extended over to him a soda. Dr. Pepper. Ryan had picked his favourite out of the endless options available, and Brendon wondered distantly whether that was an accident or from memory. Deciding he was dwelling too much, he smiled in relief that Ryan wasn’t, like, disturbed by Brendon wandering the halls at night, and took the soda from his hand, cracking it open and taking a swig. Damn it, He thought suddenly, staring belatedly at his soda can. This would mean he couldn’t replace some of the expensive shit with water.

Morning. Ryan’s voice was welcome on an evening where he’d mostly been listening to bullshit music, and now the constant hum of the coffee machine. It was rough from tiredness, but soft and almost warm. Brendon wondered for a speculative moment if he had any singing ability, like himself- an ability he had hinted at but not yet given Ryan the privilege of witnessing for himself. ”Morning, honey,” He joked, glancing over at the coffee machine, distracted because it was loud as fuck. Suddenly, he remembered what he was wearing- literally just his underwear, and then Ryan’s hockey jersey- a sort-of hand-me-down that Ryan offered to him to wear, and what he wore in the mornings and evenings most days. Ryan didn’t see how much he wore it- Hey, it was comfortable- so he was kind of sheepish, folding his arms across his chest. He was so distracted by the jersey that he forgot he was also in his underwear. This would be a learning curve- don’t wear just underwear, ever, Ryan is a vampire and will most likely be lurking somewhere.

I could also make you coffee, if you like. Or you never made the twenty-something switch from energy drinks to espresso? Brendon was still grinning, eyes crinkling at the corners as per usual, and he shrugged a shoulder helplessly, finishing the can in just one more swig before moving to put it in the trash, turning around and leaning against the kitchen counter. ”Hey, I don’t mind coffee, but nothing beats Dr. Pepper. Let’s be real.” His eyebrows were raised, gleeful despite the time, and the calm weariness that was settling in his bones, willing him to go to sleep. It’d go away when the caffeine and sugar kicked in, he was sure. Now, usually, Brendon didn’t have a self conscious moment in his life, but he realised he’d been lying on his back against the cushions for the past three hours, so his hair was probably everywhere, and here was Ryan. Maybe Brendon just had a thing for guys who looked like they hadn’t slept in years- Ryan probably hadn’t. And he definitely had a thing for Ryan, he’d accepted that now. He’d even spoken to Spencer about it, who sort of groaned and then hung up, but Brendon was never one to deny himself any free thought. He wore the jersey because it smelled like Ryan, nothing less.

”So, why are you awake?” He asked finally, folding his arms across his chest against the jersey that was too big for him. It smelled faintly of vanilla, fresh cotton, and pine, and Brendon’s eyelashes were skimming his cheeks as he looked up through them at Ryan, because he imagined how much stronger that would be if he was closer, maybe, perhaps closer than an employee and an employer should be. It wasn’t a big deal, though- Brendon had, somewhat unromantically, accepted the fact that- quote- ‘I’d let Ryan dick me down, I guess’. Spencer didn’t appreciate that information. Jon just sort of judged him in silence. ”Important author stuff?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brendon often wondered why Ryan, who he found to be surprisingly apt (in fact, incredibly talented) in playing various instruments, dropped what he saw through brief expressions and longing looks and heard through wistful sighs to be his true passion for writing some novels he didn’t even like. Ryan was much more talented than Brendon with a guitar (he should’ve guessed from the beginning with the telltale callouses of his hands- hands he incidentally couldn’t stop staring at once he started), but not as well versed with the piano, which was Brendon’s area of expertise. That, and vocals- Brendon was a singer above all else, despite being impressively multitalented. He’d asked Ryan out of sheer curiosity and almost hope whether he was much of a singer, and though he always looked awkward and mumbled some kind of bullshit excuse and changed the subject, Brendon just knew from his voice that he had some ability, and he was desperate to hear it. Unfortunately, it took Ryan long enough to even play something on guitar for him, and that was his most confident area. Seemed it wasn’t ever going to happen- but Brendon was everything but a quitter.

He imagined that Ryan was more active with playing and writing music when he was younger, and he often wondered about his lyricism; seeing as he was such a skilled writer anyway, coupled with music, Brendon imagined he had a least some experience there. But it was all speculation. Ryan was closed off as all hell, especially about his past- so Brendon hadn’t even attempted talking about Spencer and Jon directly yet, just hinted at them and dropped their names in conversation every now and then, leaving a very worried look on Ryan’s face as he tried to seem unreadable. When Brendon mentioned Spencer, especially, Ryan started to fidget, attempted to be expressionless and failed miserably every time because his eyes gave it away and so did his gradually fading smile. He always opened his mouth, furrowed his brow, as if confused and about to ask a question- but he always faltered, laughed awkwardly, changed the subject, of excused himself and left. Clearly being in this huge house all alone hadn’t helped him in the ways of being any more talkative about anything, never mind more personal information about his past. Even surface level things, like his parent’s first names or the existence of any extended family. He was a closed book.

Though, Brendon was the same. The reason he never spoke about himself was a) some of it was too painful to discuss, brought back overwhelmingly unpleasant memories, and b) he just assumed people didn’t really care, because back in the city, nobody did. After all, he’d been kicked out of his last position because he was a weak link, a loose end, a disadvantage. Brendon had sort of settled into that role by now and went with it, even if every time he did the same thing, ended with the same bad rep- kick off, storm out, go and get drunk with Jon, who could always be relied on to be there just to be a semi-sympathetic ear. Spencer wasn’t exactly the kind of guy Brendon could do that with- he’d be mad if he knew Brendon was hiding shit from him, not telling him when he was upset or stressed, but Brendon just told himself that Spencer had way too much to be dealing with right now to waste time worrying about Brendon, who was admittedly a fighter, had survived this long and supposed he could keep surviving as long as his heart kept beating. The Aries flame was always alight, even when everything seemed dark and hopeless.

It didn’t feel like that now. How could it? Brendon was by no means ‘fixed’, but his days felt a little brighter, he felt more fulfilled than he had in- probably years. He was surrounded by nature, something he had never previously grown to appreciate, having lived for his entire life in a grey, industrial environment, he was sleeping a bed with Egyptian cofton sheets in a gorgeous room bigger than his apartment, he was living in a house he still hadn’t fully explored, he had access to a pool and a Steinway piano and all th guitars the could ever play. The company wasn’t bad, either- Ryan was, surprisingly, a great host, apparently instructing his housekeeper to stock the fridge and cupboards with whatever food and soda he saw Brendon consuming most frequently. Plus, he was either too obvious to notice that all of his alcohol was being halved with water, or he didn’t care, turned a blind eye, and either way that was great. Brendon couldn’t ask for any more- he was living out the lifestyle he’d always dreamed off, minus the reading pretentious books and reciting his entire childhood to someone he met last week.

Okay, yeah, he was wearing Ryan’s jersey and little else, very funny, was Ryan smirking? He flushed, rose dusting his cheekbones, a hand reaching up to scratch his neck sheepishly as he glanced at the floor, the countertops, anywhere but Ryan. He thought for a terrifying moment Ryan was going to comment about the interesting choice of dress, but he didn’t, saved Brendon from drowning himself in the pool by changing the subject back to soda. Not that the jersey had been a topic of conversation. It had just been a false alarm. Not even coke? Pepsi? Brendon shook his head ardently, ready to give a ten minute speech about sodas, but instead watching as Ryan took his coffee and leaned back against the counter island with his mug. Realising then that it was 2am, neither of them should really be awake, he took the plunge first and asked Ryan outright what the hell he was doing. Brendon had the body clock of a teenager, but Ryan? Brendon guessed vampire. Close to mentioning that, he was cut short when he saw Ryan grinning at his hair- the hair he knew was probably sticking up everywhere, unfortunate evidence that Brendon was not 100% princely and angelic all the time. A wave of self-consciousness hit him and he looked away. Brendon never got self-conscious.

You think too highly of me if you think I’m currently, or ever, doing something important. Still recovering from his knock in confidence, Brendon folded his arms across his chest and leaned back to try and consider him fully. ”Shut up,” He said finally, glancing over towards where Ryan kept all the expensive shit longingly. ”You’re the hardest worker I’ve ever met.” He had an admirable work ethic, but Brendon saw that he tended to push himself too hard, and that’s why writing wasn’t really enjoyable for Ryan any more. Had it ever been? There was that, working too hard, not giving himself a break- and then there was something else underlying that he couldn’t quite figure out. ”Then there’s me, ranting about Dr. Pepper.” Although, watching old documentaries and chainsmoking indoors is very productive. Brendon stared as Ryan took a sip of his black coffee, and wondered how he drank it; Brendon loved coffee, but had to take it with a lot of sugar. He liked everything sweet. Anyway. ”You’re so easy to make fun of,” Was a musing that left his lips, but no actually mocking left after it- he just let a grin play at the corner of his mouth.

”By the way,” Brendon began, combing a hand through his hair, now hyperaware it was untidy; ”I’ve been here a week and you haven’t once offered me a single smoke. Bad hospitality.” Honestly, Brendon had been trying to quit back in the city, almost as a show of support to Spencer. He felt guilty about it, but Ryan’s frequent habit had reignited the desire to do so again. Spencer didn’t have to know, he thought mournfully, dispelling the guilt from his mind. And you? Finished my books yet? Shit. Brendon’s eyes widened and he bit his lip, clearly thinking fast for an excuse, but in the end he let his shoulders sag and shrugged only barely. ”Uh, like, three-fifths through the first one. I’m not very good at concentrating for a long time, alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

Brendon didn’t usually get so comfortable with people quickly, but when he did, he acted as if he’d known the person for his entire life. Unfortunately for him, that comfort wasn’t always mutual, and he often came on too strong; for example, with Ryan. He wasn’t completely there yet with his boss/housemate, so he took risks in his behaviour, tested the waters, the limits of what he could and couldn’t appropriately say and/or do- and initially, when he just told Ryan to ‘shut up’ (even if it was just preceding a compliment), for a moment he thought he was going to be reprimanded, and was already thinking about the quickest route outside so he could drown himself in the pool he’d already spent so much time in. That eyebrow raise- Brendon froze up for such a brief moment that it was hardly noticeable, almost sure he’d overstepped whatever boundary they had. Thankfully, though, Ryan stayed quiet and looked interested, so he continued, albeit with more caution and carefully chosen language. For a moment, his compliment bore no reaction, and admittedly, it was pretty lame as far as flattery went.

A few heartbeats later, though, Brendon could see that smile that Ryan attempted to hide behind his mug, and returned a slightly sleepy grin of his own that turned quickly into a barely suppressed yawn. Turns out all the soda wasn’t doing too good a job at energising him after all. Brendon was close to excusing himself and going back to his room, still hyperaware of his half-dressed state, but was interrupted before he could even speak up. Shut up. Oh. Brendon couldn’t decide how to react- was he being serious? If he was, Brendon had mastered the kicked puppy look, and also the art of quickly retreating to save himself embarrassment. If it was a joke, he would laugh, but the only thing he gave Ryan right now was a cautious, apprehensive half-smile as he again scratched at the back of his neck where his hairline faded into his skin. You’re the most talented person I’ve ever met. Brendon blinked. Oh. At first, he was floored by the compliment, but then he was doubtful. Ryan had seen him play maybe a couple of times on piano and guitar each, and he hadn’t even heard him sing (as far as he knew. Usually, when people heard Brendon sing the first time, they had something to say about it, so he’d be a little offended if Ryan found it unremarkable enough not to even comment).

”Thank you,” Brendon said, looking down at the kitchen tile as if it was very interesting because he was flushing again and this was stupid, he knew he was talented, it wasn’t news to him, compliments didn’t usuallt make him this bashful- this sheepish, almost embarrassed reaction was otherworldly to him. Something felt a little different. Maybe it was the honour of receiving such high praise from somebody so- to put it plainly- rich and intelligent and talented himself. It was nice, but Brendon wasn’t usually this sentimental and he was close to bowing out and finally backing up into his room; luckily the subject was changed and the blood left his face so his complexion was normal and didn’t completely betray his feelings. And yet, you didn’t actually make fun of me. Brendon rested both of his palms against the counter on either side of his hips, crossing his ankles where his feet were planted on the floor, and tilted his head, his hair springing off gently to the side in the process, the stubborn cowlick falling over his eyes. He couldn’t be bothered fixing it any more. ”I want a job, don’t I?”

An effortless grin, natural charm, and Brendon was apparently back, a far cry from being bashful in such a short time. Thank you for having mercy. ”I’d say it’s more- self-preservation.” A pause, a smirk. ”If I had a little more job security, you’d be in pieces by now.” Brendon’s thoughts then turned back time to when they first met, and Brendon enviously stared at his cigarette and all the ashtrays everywhere the entire time. He knew Ryan smoked in the late mornings, evenings, and apparently indoors until the sun rose. He could obviously afford the habit. Brendon couldn’t, really. But that never stopped him in the past- Spencer did. Kind of. Maybe I shouldn’t. Dickhead. Brendon tilted his head, pretended to look interested in what he had to say. I mean, you’re a musician. I shouldn’t corrupt your voice before I get to hear it properly. ”And yet there you are, a musician,” Brendon replied archly, ”Corrupting your own.” So he was half joking, at a stretch, but he was also hinting at hearing Ryan’s singing. He was sure it was good, but he couldn’t pair any farbricated voice with Ryan’s face or his normal speech, and he was extremely interested to hear it. Not that Ryan, expert recluse, would ever real something so personal. Maybe He was salty- but he hid it well.

Whenever that is. Subtle, Brendon thought, clicking his tongue- but he couldn’t help but smile, shrugging one shoulder to keep some mystery at least. ”What, you want me to serenade you right now? What would I even sing?” Like that was even a question- Sinatra, obviously. Who else? It wasn’t like he had that portrait permanently inked on his arm for nothing. Brendon was lost in thought about which song would best showcase his voice when Ryan caught him in the dark about the books he was supposed to be reading while he was lying on an insanely comfortable bed trying not to spill soda on the sheets and the cream carpet. That would mostly likely not go down well; maybe just like the information that Brendon hadn’t even finished the first novel yet. He tried not to stutter- Brendon was the master of faking it til he made it. Hey, don’t stress about it. I’m not worried at all. Too late for that, anxiety was building up in his throat and his chest and his stomach, and he’d fucked this up already, why is it so difficult for you to just sit down and concentrate for more than five seconds on something that isn’t a video game, Brendon...

You know, most people take a long time to finish it. It's not really... 'read in one sitting' material. Heavy subjects, and all. Brendon nodded stiffly, inhaled and exhaled, hoping that his brief freakout hadn’t been noticed. At least other people took a while to read it, and it wasn’t just- Brendon shook his head slightly, closed his eyes, then nodded to show he understand. Shit, Brendon, you’re so fucking dumb, stop overreacting, you’re fine. ”Oh,” He said suddenly, looking up, ”Yeah, it’s uh, heavy- I was wondering where you get the inspiration to write that kind of shit comes from. Is it not draining?” Maybe he was over the line, but some of the stuff Ryan wrote about seemed to dark and realistic for the author to have just pulled it out of nothing. He could be completely wrong, but if he wanted to understand the books, he’d have to know.

The sleepy smile Brendon gave him felt like something new to him; for a few brief moments, he looked so soft that Ryan almost felt like he was admiring him from afar, not actually actively talking to him. He'd admit it was something of an overreaction if only this wasn't a particularly special case, in that Brendon really did just have that sort of effect naturally. Ryan felt like he'd known him forever, a certain heartache, when he caught him in thought with his bottom lip between his teeth, or watched him run his hands through his hair ten times in one minute to fix it without seemingly realizing it, or when his accent proved to be particularly strong when he was worked up about something. It'd been a while since he had been around someone with Brendon's allure, and it existed in his personality, too, not just physical. That said, he probably blew whatever normal response people usually had to an attractive person way out of proportion. To him, the famous 'butterflies' were something that threw him completely off whatever train of thought he'd been on, and, depending on the day, made him either want to stay around Brendon as much as he could or excuse himself to avoid the almost nervous feeling.

All very new, or at least things he'd become unaccustomed to. Of course he got nervous around anyone he thought was cute, handsome, pretty, whatever, of course he'd had to deal with the high school awkwardness of fidgeting around your crush. Which usually lasted around a week or a month. So maybe he'd get used to Brendon eventually. Anyway, as many times as he'd gone through it, he hated how much liking someone even a little would nag at him. Brendon was different, though - it made sense that he was often on Ryan's mind, considering he was employed to help him and he was staying in his house and the list of excuses went on. Luckily, then, Ryan tormented himself a lot less for not being able to concentrate, and anyway if he was working without focusing Brendon would find a way into the book without him even trying. Seamlessly, subtly detailed in, but definitely there. So maybe he helped as inspiration, too.

All this from a smile. Ryan questioned himself for a second there, 'cause when did that happen, when had his mind decided he'd be that easily charmed, but. Too late now, apparently. He shook it off, metaphorically speaking, when Brendon yawned, more evidence that he definitely needed to go to sleep and Ryan needed to leave him be. He had all the time in the world to sleep, eventually, but Ryan was beyond entertained at the moment, thanks, please stay. Thank you. Ryan watched him duck his head and made another mental note, this time to compliment him more. He, decidedly, liked the way it seemed to actually make Brendon feel better, how he reacted so genuinely. It felt like he needed to ease off at this point, though, 'cause it was like any time he took notice of something about Brendon, Brendon became self-conscious, regardless. It was sweet - but he wasn't a fan of keeping Brendon on edge like that.

Ryan observed as he assumed a more casual position, and frankly it was beginning to feel like they were chatting. Not just talking. Very funny to him. Not so funny: how his mind drifted, wondering how exactly Brendon still looked the way he did when he hadn't slept in hours, hair a half-tamed mess that somehow worked on him. Ryan tried not to be too obvious about those opinions, though, 'cause Brendon was just barely coming off the edge. I want a job, don’t I? Ryan considered this, started to speak, paused, then started again. "At this point, you'd have to try very hard to lose it," he mused earnestly, and there was probably something in those words, but mostly he just hoped Brendon took it as approval. Ryan may have made him as comfortable as he could with the house itself, but he couldn't say the same for how Brendon was with him; he wasn't so sure he'd established himself as approachable, anything like that, even though he longed to.

I’d say it’s more- self-preservation. If I had a little more job security, you’d be in pieces by now. Ryan knew he was kidding around for the most part, but there was truth in what he was saying, and he wondered how exactly to tell Brendon that he was safely on board, not just trailing behind in some shitty inflatable lifeboat. Well. He could say that, but Brendon probably wouldn't take him for his word no matter how he said it. What was more important: actions. Somehow he'd have to work to make Brendon feel a little more welcome, which was difficult to do when at first he acted kind of like his house was being invaded, short and irritable, half the time. But then he got used to it, for the most part, which was good news for both of them.

And yet there you are, a musician. Corrupting your own. Brendon may be cute, but Ryan didn't take well to any kind of criticism even if it was in jest. He looked vaguely annoyed, because who cared, it certainly wasn't hurting him now and the future didn't exist to him yet, and also - "You say that as if I actually sing. There's nothing to corrupt." And it wasn't a lie coming from him, because it was his genuine opinion that he didn't really sing often enough or on-key enough to count, not even as backup. Actually- especially as backup. Harmonizing looked like hell. What, you want me to serenade you right now? Yes. Easy. What would I even sing? Ryan had noticed long ago the portrait of who obviously Brendon idolized - in fact he'd pretty much gotten an insider look at it on his first day meeting Brendon, turning their handshake into an examination - but he doubted Brendon could pull it off in the dead of night, obviously tired as hell, with zero preparation. Then again, Ryan was learning that Brendon was pretty effortlessly good at everything (that Ryan had seen, anyway), so maybe none of that mattered. "You're pretty confident for a guy that looks like he's about to fall asleep standing up. Sure, serenade me with your favorite song. Rain check if you actually do pass out."

It was on him for bringing up the subject of the actual work they were meant to be doing when Brendon clearly still hadn't come to terms with the fact that Ryan was easy enough that he'd accept, like, three pages as a reasonable answer. Brendon had only just gotten here, anyway, and he was planning on explaining away what would inevitably be slow progress with them building rapport and understanding one another. They'd accepted it as a rational excuse already, no big deal. But Brendon didn't seem like he was as careless about the matter as Ryan; in fact he was visibly anxious about the matter despite how controlled he kept it. As long as he could fix the issue, Ryan pretended to be oblivious to it to spare Brendon the grief, and it seemed his diversion worked. He wondered what exactly this all stemmed from. Scared of deadlines? Fear of disapproval? Ashamed, whatever, that he hadn't made a more substantial amount of progress? Ryan wasn't sure. He could be perceptive, but Brendon, in turn, could act whatever role he needed to.

Oh. Yeah, it’s uh, heavy- I was wondering where the inspiration to write that kind of shit comes from. Is it not draining? The suddenness of that, and the way Brendon played everything off, was beyond impressive. Ryan dwelled on that before the question itself, and then realized this was probably going to be difficult to answer with conviction. His eyes drifted to the floor, hesitating, and then returned to Brendon, still unsure of an approach. "It is," he said honestly, cutting to the chase. "But then you let yourself recover, give yourself breaks, before you're drained all over again." He smiled cynically at the process - it wasn't exactly efficient, but he hadn't practiced anything else, and it was still effective, so whatever. And he thought maybe that this way of thinking could apply to Brendon, outside of writing, so he said it carefully, trying to make him understand."It's worth it. When everything coalesces into one piece... and you see it all bared out in front of you. I can't express it. Suddenly you're not just jumbled thoughts and disjointed experiences; you're whole." And it's all tangible, written for you to read, and probably be the only one to make an accurate analysis of every cut corner and every vague wave to something deeper. But Ryan hadn't talked this much for, like, ever, so he cut himself off.

He got antsy pretty quickly, straightening and turning without asking Brendon to follow, just expecting. He kept his gaze ahead, focusing on maintaining his white-knuckled grip on the coffee mug he'd been nursing. Brendon deserved more than that, and Ryan wasn't that scared of making the slightest allusion in front of him. After a pause he contributed more to his answer, arriving in the living room. "I wrote a lot when I was growing up," he said, no inflection to his tone. As a matter of fact, he used 75% of that material, at least. The firsthand accounts, all at progressing ages, gave the feeling that you were getting older with it, even without any clarification of his age. And he was a fairly dramatic kid, which helped. Ryan finally stopped nervously standing, skirting the room, and dropped onto one end of the sofa. "I'd read my own old writing - sounds weird, I know. But I think you can be your own inspiration. You must write lyrics, right? So you get it." He probably could've responded in hundreds of different ways, but this was most relevant to the book in question - something sappy like 'you can get inspiration from anything' followed by a long winded speech was reserved for another time.

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