Brendon was so... out of touch with reality. Which was strange, because. Out of the two of them, Brendon had probably suffered the most difficult life so far- struggling to pay rent in the middle of New York, supporting both himself and his recovering alcoholic best friend, nursing the beginnings of an alcohol problem and being consecutively fired from all his jobs within a short amount of time. Ryan, however, though he knew all about being a broke student, had been richer than Brendon could ever have dreamed for a good few years now, and was living out in the countryside in his overgrown mansion, alone. At least, until Brendon arrived. Thinking about this, Brendon darkly thought that it should be Ryan who was so lost in ridiculous fantasy.

But no. It was Brendon who, when things had been going so well, they were best friends, he was earning more than enough money to support himself, and he’d been living in a freaking mansion for the past year, had told his literal employer that he was in love with him. Which, in theory, was already bad- but when Ryan hadn’t even replied, fuck. Brendon felt his heart stop when Ryan just stared at him, eyes wide, steely-faced , unsure, awkward. God, and he had every right to be uncomfortable- brendon was disillusioned. He hadn’t been in a proper relationship in years and now the first man he took a shine to he claimed to be in love with. He was that deprived of attention and affection that he latched on to this poor man and ruined more than almost a year of friendship by telling him that he loved him.

Brendon truly hated himself for it- and for the first time in a long time since meeting Ryan Rowe, he felt incredibly, torturously lonely. He’d blown yet another opportunity due to his volatile and unstable emotional and mental state, and it’s not even like it was just his own life he had fucked up- Spencer was relying on this income, and now, when he was undoubtedly fired or ‘let go’ or told awkwardly that his services were no longer needed (which, technically, they hadn’t been for a while, because Ryan was onto a new series already), he had screwed Spence over, too. Although, Brendon was going to be selfish anyway- he had decided, about 30 seconds after telling Ryan he loved him, that since it went unacknowledged, he was going to leave on his own accord because it’s not like he could pretend that didn’t happen.

After he had made a hasty, choked excuse to leave Ryan where he stood, dumbfounded, he had escaped to his bedroom, climbing onto his bed and drawing himself in close to the headboard, resting his head back against it with a long, drawn-out sigh. A few minutes of shaky breathing and intense self hatred gave way into lack of surety- was he even really in love, like he claimed? Was it just years of romantic deprivation that lead him to think having a close friend meant falling in love? In thinking this, he was more trying to convince himself that his brain was just playing tricks, he didn’t know what love was, he didn’t recognise that it was just admiration and friendship. But. Brendon came to conclusion that he really was in love when he decided he was going to leave and at that moment is heart felt hollow and it ached dully. Having an unrequited love hurt more than Brendon conjuring up feelings that weren’t real.

He was still on his bed, his face damp and warm. After a few moments he stood and headed towards the en-suite bathroom, hand scrabbling clumsily for the light switch as he stood in front of the mirror and stared at his reflection, eyes bloodshot, mouth dry and cracked. No wonder Ryan didn’t feel the same way, fuck. He was a constant mess. Brendon curled his fingers punishingly in his own hair and grimaced- it was greasy, he’d been hiding it under a hat for too long and now it felt like a fat fryer. Lovely. Sniffing, he pulled his shirt over his head and stripped down the rest of his clothes, before getting into the shower and standing under the hot water, trying to wash away the tension in his muscles.

Twenty minutes later and he was out. He wrapped a towel around his waist and pushed his wet hair back out of his eyes before walking back out into his bedroom. Brendon was about to drop the towel but then there was a knock at his door and he swallowed the lump in his throat as it tightened and closed up. Was it Ryan, telling him to leave? Or would he have to tell Ryan he was going to leave? He didn’t know what would hurt more. After a second wondering whether he should get dressed first, he decided he didn’t have the energy and just walked over to his bedroom door, knuckles going white on the handle as he took a deep breath. Then he opened the door, and tried to meet Ryan’s eyes, but. His gaze ended up fixed on the floor. ”Yeah?” He said, intending his voice to be clear and strong, but it came out more of a submissive whisper.

Ryan tried not to play up what connection he felt he and Brendon had. He tried not to romanticize things, the way he always did on paper; Brendon found his way into his writing regardless, and it was hard not to sound enamoured with him. Ryan wrote about the way he could feel his presence, how he could detect him rooms away, how he could predict what new curiosity inspired Brendon to explore the estate to fulfill it. He wrote about his accent, and how sometimes if he’d been listening to Ryan for too long, he emulated Ryan’s flatter tone instead, unconsciously, or how his voice sounded rough and unused in the mornings while he sipped at an oversweetened coffee. He wrote about how he sang, how, when he thought Ryan was far enough away, he got carried away in piano keys. He wrote about his passions, his opinions, his ideas, the way he expressed all of them.

So much for not romanticizing.

It wasn’t a ‘page after page’ deal - he didn’t fill notebooks entirely with ‘Brendon, Brendon, Brendon.’ But, if one was to look through his work and all of his unproductive musings chronologically, it was pretty obvious who had entered his life and become a central part of it. Ryan had run out of interest for anything before Brendon arrived, this odd, confused-looking kid on his porch, and now... everything had life. Brendon may have come into his life fairly hopeless and defeated by everything going on in his own, but he still held such a peculiar, lively quality; he illuminated the home Ryan had grown bored of. The garden Brendon was so fascinated by, once just another piece of the property that Ryan didn’t visit and let dwindle, was something for which he began regular upkeep again. Things started to matter, basically. He had someone to care about.

Out of fear, probably, Ryan didn’t dwell much into what that meant. Sure, he’d paint an intricate picture of who Brendon was and the changes that came about as a result of him being there - but never once did he write out, exactly, his own feelings for him. Of course, there were probably implications. Lucky for Ryan, there were no critics, no literary analysts - not even himself - to read into his personal journals. He and his evidently indefinite guest just existed beside one another, and Ryan registered that he was fond of him, so much so that he really, really didn’t want him to go, unless Brendon specifically wanted to leave. Beyond that, not much else occurred to him, because he didn’t let it. Here was someone he understood, who understood him. There was no point in change.

They’d been on the steps to the house, the ones still overgrown with ivy and fragile moss, flowers peering through on occasion. The sky was at that stage of purple-red-indigo that occurred only rarely, close to dusk, and the moon was out early despite the light, and Ryan had long since stopped gazing up at it to curl over a step and start absentmindedly freeing tiny white flowers from the greenery that crept over his home. And Brendon, well. He told Ryan he was in love with him.

Ryan didn’t even straighten up, just lifted his head to stare at Brendon, his mind, for once, completely blank. He wasn’t sure that it was even surprising - unexpected, yes, and confusing, but somehow, Ryan didn’t feel that overwhelming sense of ‘how’ or ‘I had no idea,’ etc. Moreover, he had no idea how to take it, and the pressure made him nervous, absolutely no response prepared for him. Of course, anyone sane would just fucking say it back. But everything in Ryan’s life was practiced. He had a routine. He knew, generally, what was going to happen on any given day, and how to navigate it. This, though, was completely new, and he was dead fucking silent for the most awkward thirty seconds of his life until Brendon was suddenly scrambling to get away. Of course he was. It was truly awful to not have a sentiment like that returned but for Ryan to not say a word...

Ryan let him go, mostly because he was frozen himself, and remained very still on that step for a while, his gaze dropping to the ground below. He tried to process this, wondered what he could say to make that shitshow any better, if he’d be lying by saying it back. Was he in love with Brendon? Just asking it made his mind go empty again, like a mental block on his own stupid emotions. Alright, then let’s start simpler: did he love Brendon? Absolutely, without a doubt, it’d be idiotic to claim that the person he’d welcomed into his very private life for almost a year was anything but someone he cherished and loved. ‘In love’ seemed like a much more intricate idea.

Five minutes of complete quiet and, without conscious thought, Ryan was on his way to Brendon’s room. He considered everything. How he felt when they played music together, the way his chest was tight when he watched Brendon read his words. How happy he was when he stumbled into Brendon at three in the morning, doing god knows what. How he had started laughing more than ever when they met - or how Brendon’s laughter sounded. Or, perhaps most importantly, how it felt hearing Brendon say he was in love with him. Standing outside of his room, reliving that in his head, Ryan had never felt so wonderful, so nervous, so anticipatory in his life. So... maybe.

He didn’t think before he leaned his forehead against the door and rapped his knuckles over the wood, realizing only after the fact that he had no fucking clue what he was going to say. He had a few seconds to panic about that before the door opened, and there was Brendon, unable to even look at him, and. In a towel. Ryan looked him over, a little taken aback, before blinking, gaze lifting to his downturned face. Yeah? The sound of his voice broke Ryan’s fucking heart, and - what he could see from the look on his face, god. His eyes looked red, and Ryan felt the unfamiliar urge to hold him close and never let go. He paused for a long moment, speechless, frozen. ”Are you okay?” he asked stupidly, knowing full well Brendon wasn’t. His voice became quieter, genuinely curious. ”Are you mad at me?” Well. Ryan would probably be mad at the guy he bore his heart to who said nothing in return, so. Reasonable curiosity.

Brendon had put a lot of thought into how he felt about Ryan and what their relationship was. They never really talked about it, which, for two people otherwise so close, was a real issue, because. Shit like this could happen- brendon would realise he had fallen in love and because he had never experienced that emotion before, he came to the conclusion that it simply had to be returned because the feeling was just that intense and euphoric. Well, those might not be the right words- they came closer to describing physically intimacy, something Brendon hadn’t experienced in a long time, actually- the emotion was more mellow, felt warm and sickly sweet and assured and safe and delightful. It had felt that way, at least, until he had ruined the tranquility of the evening by telling Ryan that he was in love with him. The two of them had been looking at the gorgeous night sky and just enjoying each other’s company on the back porch facing the garden, as they often did on mild nights like this, and Brendon, usually enthralled with the colours and the romance of an evening sky, had been more focused on Ryan who was sat beside him, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

He had said it, it had tumbled out of his mouth without a thought. It was one thing being in love- it was another thing to tell the person, and Brendon’s heart had immediately stopped, but he felt hopeful. Vulnerable and earnest, he had stared at Ryan from under his eyelashes nervously, until that anxiety sharpened into shock and regret and humiliation when he realised Ryan was not going to say it back. Once Brendon came to terms with that he shot up from where he sat, scrambling to escape without a word and leaving Ryan in the garden while he blindly made his way to his room, tunnel vision kicking into gear until he had his fingers around the door handle and then he was inside his room, safe, protected, the door a barrier between himself and the mistake he just made.

But then he was alone with his thoughts, and he couldn’t bear it so he made the decision to shower, partially so he couldn’t tell if he was crying or not because that would be pathetic, juvenile, crying over rejection like some teenager. So he had that shower, had leaned against the tile wall and closed his eyes tight, let the water run down his face. It wasn’t a long one because Brendon felt the urge to just crawl into bed and never leave. It had been ten minutes, if that, and he was out, a towel around his waist, and he was ready to get into bed but- a knock at the door. And it could only be one person, obviously. Someone he really didn’t want to see. God knows what Ryan wanted- it wasn’t to say ‘I love you’, clearly, as much as Brendon fantasised in that moment about Ryan taking him in his arms, kissing him, telling him he felt the same way. Maybe it was to apologise... but for what? For not loving him back? He couldn’t help it. Maybe it was just to ask if he was okay.

Brendon let all these thoughts rush through his head in the moments it took for him to decide to let Ryan in. He could’ve come in anyway, there wasn’t a lock or anything, but Ryan wasn’t the kind of guy to invade someone’s space no matter the situation. Inhaling and exhaling and feeling the nervous tremor in each breath, Brendon opened his bedroom door, his eyes dropping to his feet immediately because he could not look Ryan in the eyes. Are you okay? The stupidity of that question made anger surge through him, and it was as if he was going through several stages of grief in thirty seconds- denial that Ryan didn’t feel the same way, then a rush of anger, blaming Ryan for leading him on and allowing Brendon to fall in love when he had done nothing of the sort. He hadn’t quite stooped to bargaining yet. ”No,” Brendon said in a quiet voice, so unlike him.

But Ryan probably knew that, he was asking because he didn’t know what else to say. Not like he could lie and say that he loved him when he didn’t- but part of Brendon wished that he would so he could just pretend, entertain the idea that they were both in love with eachother. Reality was bitter and sharp, though, when he finally looked up to meet Ryan’s eyes. Are you angry at me? ”No,” He said again, though a part of him unfairly was. ”No. I’m angry at myself. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry for ruining things.” A pause. ”I think I’m going to leave.”

Feelings were a phenomenon Ryan wrote about, not experienced. That may sound impossible to anyone else, but it is, for all intents and purposes, true; he read so many things before he could ever possibly live out normal events in his ‘real’ life that nothing was new. Hell, he saw words on paper first, ended up pronouncing them way wrong when the time came to speak out loud. Anyway, the gist was as follows: someone would piss him off, or depress him, or make him unbelievably happy, and it became something to narrate in his head, a complete third-person observation of his own life. Instead of being in the moment, everything was depicted in an intricate painting of words, sometimes transferred to paper if he had the opportunity, otherwise written in disappearing ink in his mind. Nothing was personal, or moving, or even captured his attention beyond the time it took him to comprehend it enough to verbalize. Everything was material, nothing more.

With Brendon, his likeness appeared so often in Ryan’s personal entries, in his professional and published writings, that it seemed there was hardly anything left of him to stay in Ryan’s head, just as with everything else. Just the opposite was true - he was so endlessly fascinating that he found his way back to the forefront regularly. He didn’t necessarily have to be around, Ryan didn’t even have to see him. Music would be playing, and he’d hear a tune he knew Brendon might like, and that thought would lead into wondering what he might be playing if he was in charge of the station, and that would lead into wondering what music he’d made in the past, so forth. He’d take steps two at a time in his house for the first time ever and realize some hours later that he’d been imitating Brendon. He’d start waking up late into the night if he wasn’t up already just for the chance to see Brendon at the same odd hour, even if he didn’t consciously make that choice.

No one, not even his old best friends, had managed to capture Ryan’s attention like that. And if he put forth the effort to understand the emotional underlay for all of these thoughts, passing or otherwise, he’d realize that Brendon had instilled actual feeling, too, for once. But Brendon and Ryan were very different people. Whereas Brendon had taken the time to come to terms with how he felt about his new housemate and what their friendship had blossomed into, Ryan understood, simply, that he enjoyed Brendon’s presence. If he were any sensible person, he’d know that that wasn’t quite an answer for what they were, and it was a pale explanation for everything he’d ever written or thought of Brendon. So maybe the idea of change was a little scary for him, and he knew if he really addressed The Brendon Problem, change would definitely come.

Now, though. Change was already in the works. Brendon wasn’t the type to act like nothing had happened... and even if he was, Ryan wasn’t so sure he’d be able to go about doing the same, even if he was definitely the type. Because it was Brendon. Thus far, he threw Ryan for a loop in pretty much every aspect of life.

So he had no choice but to actually not be avoidant, for once.

He was surprised Brendon even opened the door, but. The way he couldn’t even look up. Ryan knew he cared about him, but the amount of secondhand hurt the sight of Brendon brought him was unexpected; he’d do anything to make him feel better, he couldn’t bear to see it. The image of Ryan lifting Brendon’s chin until their gazes met, holding him close, hand cradling his head - it all passed behind his eyes in a split second, and Ryan was a little unnerved by his own hasty thought process. No was Brendon’s tiny response, and, well - at least he was honest. Ryan sat with the fact that his current state was his fault alone for a moment, feeling absolutely dreadful, and living out the emotion in first person. It was a bizarre feeling. He was here, not the narrator. It was the two of them, not two characters.

Brendon looked up to meet his gaze, and though that’d been what he wanted, Ryan almost backed out and looked away himself. He braved it, listened to him instead, expression almost pained. No. Ryan doubted it. No. I’m angry at myself. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry for ruining things. He could literally feel his heart drop. Ryan was already shaking his head in protest, at a loss for words, not knowing how to express himself or if wanting to embrace him so badly was too little too late or - if he’d missed his opportunity to do anything already. I think I’m going to leave. Ryan spoke up immediately, in a tone that surprised even himself, it was that unfamiliar. ”No, please–“ He stopped, pursing his lips, beyond anxious. ”Please don’t leave.” Not just for the first time since he’d known Brendon, but for the first time ever, he felt stupidly, incredibly vulnerable, and he was hardly sure his voice was his own. It was all so alien to him.

The way it felt picturing life without Brendon suddenly... maybe he was in love with him. He was silent for a few moments, letting that realization dawn and settle in, and. ‘Maybe’ was becoming much more ‘definitely’ by the second. But, at the moments where it mattered most, Ryan was not a wordsmith. ”You didn’t ruin anything. You... you make my life better every day. I need you around.” He wanted to say it, really. He did. But it was becoming apparent that confessing was scary as hell, even though Brendon had already done it, and obviously Brendon was the bravest motherfucker alive, and. Now that he realized where he was... knowing that Brendon felt the same was a million times more wonderful. Ryan wasn’t used to this compulsion, but he wanted so desperately to grab him, kiss him breathless. ”I’m glad you told me. Please- you’re not going to leave, are you?”

When they first met- Brendon didn’t really have anything to lose. Becoming this pretentious author guy’s ‘fact check’ or whatever was a job he’d put the remainder of his money into, he was that desperate. A friend who knew Ryan had told him about it and he spent all of his money on the trip out of New York City to the fucking middle of nowhere mansion that this guy had, and by the end of the journey he was exhausted, broke, irritated, needing a cigarette- and there was this guy, this stupid fucking guy, ridiculously tall and lanky, dressed in all black like some kind of social reject, messy hair, smoking on his porch at like 11 o’clock in the morning. He looked pretentious and tired and when they spoke, he came across as arrogant, irritable, and Brendon wasn’t much better. They butted heads a little but Brendon decided for the both of them that he got the job. Ryan didn’t seem to mind that much, and they quickly warmed up a little bit more. He got his own room. This one. Lavender and cream, neutral and fresh, larger than his entire apartment back in the city.

It was funny. Brendon thought back to his old place, the one Spencer had long vacated since getting clean and getting a job, at first supported by Brendon’s very generous paycheck from this job that was barely a job, and it was all fuzzy, like a dream, indistinguishable, barely reality. He’d been living with Ryan for coming up on a whole year, and this now felt like home. His host- or rather, his housemate, had long since finished the book he’d been working on that was set in his home City. It was being published very soon. He’d moved onto another- too soon, Brendon thought, but. It seemed he had inspiration; and thought Brendon didn’t credit himself much, he liked to think a conversation they had about Ryan’s writing kind of helped.

I feel like writing about this heavy shit ain’t helping you anymore, you know? He’d said quietly, reading through a particularly dark passage that Ryan had very tentatively given him to read. It’s just what’s expected off you. You’re just reliving things through showing other people your pain and not actually- tackling it. He’d paused as Ryan looked at him, expression carefully blank. Just write what makes you happy. God fuckin’ knows you don’t need any more money.

The pages he was presented with nowadays were happier. Rich and vibrant, flush with different colours and textures hidden within ink and paper, natural greens and warm oranges and earthy reds, filled with life, as it seemed that the flowers that wrapped around Ryan’s house greedily finally found a way into his head. It was so fascinating to watch him lift out of dwelling on darkness because that was what sold well, write about things he’d never touched on before, like love and romance.

And that brought Brendon back out of his own thoughts. His impact was tangible but he hadn’t gotten even close to how far into Ryan’s heart he really wanted to reach, and understand him. Everything new he learned, he adored. What started as some stupid crush, helplessly attracted to this tall, dark and handsome stereotype and his 100 or whatever fuckin’ cigarettes a day bad habit, has blossomed into a genuine affection, love for his closest friend, and then finally Brendon realised he was in love with Ryan after he accepted him into a hug after a trip back to NYC and standing so close to him, breathing in against his chest, made his heart swell up and his chest tighten. The strength of the feeling led him to believe there was no way it couldn’t be returned with equal intensity. He did try to convince himself otherwise, he did, and the evidence wasn’t hard to find- Ryan not returning sentiments like ‘I miss you’. His blunt attitude and way of talking that hadn’t really softened that much. His completely stony expression whenever Brendon even jokingly flirted with him. But the wishful part of his head brushed it all aside- said that he knew Ryan missed him; that was just his personality; he was sheepish, that was just how he was. Brendon was in denial and that’s what lead him to this impulsive confession as they sat side by side, ruining everything with just a few simple, stupid words.

Because words were just words, at the end of the day. As much as Ryan made entire worlds come alive with just words, simply saying something didn’t make it so or guarantee any reciprocation. Brendon sat on his bed, damp, a towel around his waist, and shivered, feeling the overwhelming sense of mortification of being rejected. And Ryan was at the door. He counted to ten in his head, wiped his face with his hands and stood up, heading over to the door and opening it, holding his breath. Ryan asked him if he was mad at him, and really, he wasn’t. It wasn’t Ryan’s fault. He just felt like his heart had been ripped open, so- he told Ryan he’d be leaving, because he wasn’t sure if he could cope with this.

No, please- Startled by his urgency, Brendon looked up to meet his eyes. Please don’t leave. Unable to believe what he was hearing, Brendon blinked, confused. Ryan was asking him to stay, and he sounded so vulnerable, his voice so raw and careful. Brendon’s eyes widened, having never seen him like that before, so tentative and nervous. You didn’t ruin anything. Except maybe an entire friendship. Brendon stepped backwards, his heart sinking. You... you make my life better every day. Looking at his feet, he smiled cynically, because the bar wasn’t too high. Ryan was just lonely, that’s all. It wasn’t about Brendon himself. He just feared being by himself after so long, that’s what it was, he convinced himself. It was safer to believe that. I need you around. “Why?” He asked suddenly. “Are you sure? Or do you just need- someone. Because I only need you.”

I’m glad you told me. Please- you’re not going to leave, are you? He sounded desperate, but Brendon was in full defence mode, shielding himself from further pain. “I wish I didn’t. I wish I just- lived not knowing rather than finding out you don’t feel the same. I can’t stay, it’s too- it’s too much.” He turned away, unable to look at him, making sure his towel was still secure briefly before reaching up to run his hands restlessly through his hair, swallowing the lump in his throat. He turned around again, then sat on his bed. “I’m leaving. As soon as- as soon as I’m ready.”

In the beginning, Ryan wasn’t looking for anyone. He wasn’t searching to be rescued - he didn’t need a friend. In fact, it may even be possible that he didn’t have a register for loneliness, like when he was born his brain just... didn’t pick up on that cue. And that isn’t a sad fact, necessarily; he’d grown proud of his independence. Chalk it up to a self-sustained childhood, if you want to. Or dumb it down to years spent alone in a practical paradise, where he managed to evade the only visits he ever happened to get (from a housekeeper, or seven). If he’d made friends before this (he did, let’s not talk about it), his mind occasionally wandered, remembered their faces in subsidiary details of course only an author or a keen-eyed artist would pick up on. Laugh lines, a lack thereof, course fingertips from various instruments, tired eyes, what exactly needed to be said to make their brow furrow with emotion. The feelings associated with these memories were not what he would call loneliness or yearning, so no, he decided; he didn’t need anyone. If his past didn’t matter to him, then the future may as well be empty, too.

And then, like a flood to a circuitboard, Brendon came to scramble his calculated way of living up.

The first time Ryan caught him wandering about in the middle of the night and only had brief conversation, he eventually had to return to his own quarters, and there was this not-quite-right sense about doing that. Sometimes he prolonged conversation whenever he actually had Brendon doing his job giving him information - once he’d gotten a full picture, he pretended to need more pieces for an already complete puzzle, because he knew when he walked away he’d have that feeling hanging over his head. Other times he wouldn’t even have to have just seen Brendon to feel it. He’d be in the middle of something, even. Fingers adrift over a half-faded keyboard, a worn-out backspace, and he’d think about the other presence that he was neglecting to be around. This was it: loneliness. Ryan thought it wasn’t an option for him.

It’s a unique kind of loneliness, though. He wonders if it’s worse. It’s not just out of nowhere, wishing anybody could be here. It’s knowing that you could have just one person around, and they’re not. In any case, as is so predictable of Ryan, he doesn’t spend any time interpreting it. The pangs are only now and again, and besides, Brendon is dependable. He always comes back. Their relationship is a bond, now, very different from how snappy they were at first (even if Ryan still has his moments - Brendon seems to be forgiving).

(And understanding.)

You’re just reliving things through showing other people your pain and not actually- tackling it.

(And he genuinely - cannot stress this enough - gives an entire fuck.)

Just write what makes you happy.

Ryan wasn’t as graceful, and has never been, so of course he did not respond at that time - physically or verbal. His response was action-oriented. His next writing seemed to communicate, okay, Brendon, almost, with heedless gaiety, no more inhibitions, this is what makes me happy. It was easy to be jovial when you had a subject. There was an inexhaustible amount of features in whatever he wrote that, again, were things that only authors or keen-eyed artists would pick up on. He was not as telltale, and he was always trying to fit a given context, but something specific breathed life into his writing. This is you.

He observed every reaction to what he gave Brendon closely, and to each he received something positive, but he always wondered. Do you realize? I couldn’t do this without you.

Sometimes there were more direct lines of communication. Brendon simply taking a brief trip back to NYC felt like when he was a kid, waiting for school to begin so that he could get out of his house, for a hellish summer to end. And what a long, hardly productive ‘summer’ that was; Brendon was sort of his muse. He’d never been reliant on just one ever before, but when Brendon left his home, it became pretty clear that he’d found a major one. (And this is where he started to tend more to his guitar. It requires much less focus than writing.) When Brendon came back, Ryan scooped him up, no invitation, nothing - something so rare for him. Better than that, he wasn’t denied. Ryan counted the seconds, took his first full breath in a while, cradled the curve at the back of his neck, and then it was over, and Brendon was telling Ryan he missed him. Ryan exhaled, finding relief and calm, and decided he’d follow his usual pattern of showing Brendon as best as he could how he felt. I missed you, too.

But it can’t repeat forever. If he keeps making Brendon hop over obstacles, doing guesswork, he won’t know how needed he is. As ‘ungraceful’ as Ryan feels he is.

Brendon stepped backwards and Ryan moved boldly in congruence with him, watching his face fall, wishing he could repeat everything he’d ever hidden in analogy and metaphor out loud, only bared free this time for Brendon to hear in plain terms. Here is how I feel - I’m sorry I’ve been afraid. Why? Ryan tilted his head up at the suddenness, uncertain how to receive him. Are you sure? Or do you just need- someone. Because I only need you. Ryan searched his face, shaking his head. ”Brendon–“ he started, stopping when he registered Brendon’s body language, his defenses going up. Ryan’s lack of initiative began this - it couldn’t continue it.

I wish I didn’t. I wish I just- lived not knowing rather than finding out you don’t feel the same. I can’t stay, it’s too- it’s too much. Ryan listened with hands almost outstretched, wanting to keep him in place, not knowing if the gesture was welcome. The urge to outright contradict him arose, but the scene played out in his head, a writer’s theatre, and it seemed argumentative. He wanted to treat him as gently as Brendon had treated him all along. Ryan watched him turn away, his shoulders sloping down, face settling into calmness when he sat down. I’m leaving. As soon as- as soon as I’m ready. Ryan swallowed, eyebrows knotted together in concern for a moment before he stepped through the doorway fully, coming to a safe distance at the end of the bed.

”Once, you told me to write about what makes me happy. Ever since, I’ve only been writing about you.” You cannot just show people these things - least of all Brendon. Ryan has seen his language of love, and he has to speak the same language to be understood. He’s more afraid of losing Brendon than he is of being vulnerable. ”I miss you when you’re a floor away,” he said, and he started to smile, realizing how silly it sounded. ”Sometimes I’ll change a story just because I think you’d like a different ending.” His grin became more reserved as he reflected, expression more thoughtful, at peace. ”I counted down the days until you came back from the city. I’d forgotten what it’s like without you around. Not great, by the way.” Ryan smiled lopsidedly, only a little cynical.

His smiled quitened into a more neutral expression, deciding he was determined. He dropped down onto the end of the bed until he could sit criss-crossed, facing Brendon. ”I’m in love with you.” A tack-on of ‘and I suck at talking about it’ lingered on his tongue, but maybe it was a little too soon to make jokes at his own expense.

Sometimes it was frustratingly hard to tell whether or not Ryan cared about Brendon as much as Brendon cared about Ryan. You see, he knew how different they were, and that this would affect how they’d communicate, but Brendon was so much more emotionally available that he often doubted. He knew he was cared about, and loved. But not to what extent and his own unstable self esteem and need to be told things often overcame the trust and closeness they had built up- because that’s what it came down to, seeing as Ryan was still closed off despite progress, faith that sentiments were returned and affection felt. This wasn’t all to say that Brendon didn’t believe him on the rare occasion that he did say what he thought, how he felt. He just struggled with holding onto it in the stretches of time where Ryan would barely even look his way.

That was just Ryan, though, expecting him to be some kind of mindreader, and despite himself Brendon loved him for it, loved him completely, a realisation he only came to relatively recently- and was already regretting saying out loud. This was the issue. Trusting him too much had meant Brendon had wished it all away, exaggerated it all in his head, had too much faith that the love would be returned how he wanted it to. The silence it had brought between them was painful, not the usual comfortable silence they sat in together. So he had left, and out of self-defence, decided to leave- he wasn’t strong enough to stick around if he didn’t feel wanted, as much as he didn’t know if he could even function without his best friend around. Brendon had closed off. Why should he believe anything Ryan said, he thought to himself, the sting of rejection still fresh- he was just lonely. He didn’t want Brendon, he’d just grown used to the company.

Brendon had stepped away after voicing this concern- Ryan just said his name in protest, and Brendon felt himself melt a little because that tiny gesture could do that, even to a heart he’d just stubbornly shut off, defending himself from any further humiliation- because he did feel humiliated, devastated, like he’d overstated his importance, overstayed welcome, and here was Ryan, not letting him just- mourn any chance of requited love in peace. Putting distance between them seemed like the best option and he moved over to sit down on the edge of his bed, hunched over like he was protecting his vital organs from further injury. Inhale, exhale- this was too much. Tunnel vision had applied itself and he just wanted to leave. Once, you told me to write about what makes me happy. Ever since, I’ve only been writing about you.

Brendon lifted his head, feeling his foolish heart beat unevenly in his chest and blinking, unsure. This was, in fact, news to him. Even living with a writer as talented as Ryan, he was not academically or literarily inclined; the nuances and deep analysis of things that Ryan showed to him were lost on him and his thoughts were always just an earnest ‘wow, this is so pretty, I love it so much, this is your best work yet’. No matter what it was. So the reveal that Ryan had been writing about him... Even thinking about the romantic aspects of his work, Brendon couldn’t see himself in that light. The pieces didn’t align and he didn’t believe him- as much as he wanted to. He opened his mouth to speak but Ryan beat him to it and Brendon looked briefly at his feet, still finding it difficult to look at him.

I miss you when you’re a floor away. That, he understood. That kind of thing was what Brendon could understand. Softening a little, but not letting his guard down, he looked up, and Ryan was smiling in a way that made it difficult not to smile back. “That’s ridiculous,” He said softly, his voice cracking a little. “You always say I’m loud and can hear me from- wherever you are.” Trailing off a little, Brendon pulled a hand through his hair, swallowing. Sometimes I’ll change a story just because I think you’ll like a different ending. I counted down the days until you came back from the city. I’d forgotten what it’s like without you around. Not great, by the way.

Considering this, Brendon thought about how it would be if he did leave, left Ryan alone in his empty mansion, moved back to NYC and move into a slightly bigger apartment using the money from his more-than-reasonable paycheck, maybe get a new job, talk to Ryan every once in a while to check how he’s doing. It sounded absolutely awful and being told that he was missed made his heart leap- as much as he appreciated Ryan was not bursting with affection, this is all he wanted to hear. “That’s all you ever have to say to me, you know,” Brendon said gently. watching him as he sat down on his bed, feeling warm. “That you miss me. That you want me around. But that’s- what I feel, Ry, it’s more than that, I- I can’t stay here if you don’t...” A surge of hope from Ryan’s words quickly faded away and he shifted where he sat, searching his face for some kind of solution.

I’m in love with you.

Initially, Brendon didn’t react, just stared, as if he was waiting for Ryan to laugh, take it back, shake his head in amusement, but it didn’t happen. And Ryan wasn’t a liar, wouldn’t fake something so profound, he was too pretentious to do that, Brendon thought, vaguely amused by it even though his mind was racing, elated, petrified by this reveal even though he’d said it himself not ten minutes ago. His lips were parted as he searched for words, but all he could do was stare blankly at him, arms folded across his chest protectively, waiting for his cue.

“I- why couldn’t you- why couldn’t you have just said,” He murmured quietly, not breaking eye contact. “Not hearing that back, it. It really hurt. You- are you serious? You’re not just...” This was certainly not the confession he’d imagined- he’d read too many of Ryan’s recent writing, and- oh. Well, that certainly made much more sense. Brendon grinned, still nervous, but unable to keep up any suspicion with conviction. “You asshole,” He breathed. “God, I’m going to kill you.”

When Ryan spoke, he received an automatic reaction, but it wasn't a hopeful one. It wasn't an automatically believing one. He didn't blame Brendon. Ryan tended to be blunt (and therefore truthful), but that didn't mean he was emotionally open, it didn't mean he was trustworthy when it came to feelings like this. They were both pretty cognizant of that. His mind, not prone to nostalgia but welcoming it in that moment, blinked back to that moment on his porch when a curious stranger circled his home, clearly having just been looking for any inhabitors at all. He remembers Brendon saying something innocent, like, 'um, hi,' and his response was something a little more eloquent, along the lines of - that's right. Hi. What the literal fuck are you doing on my porch at eleven in the morning? He remembers that Jon had made this little delivery to him. He remembers that he should definitely say thank you for that, considering this moment, right here. (And, he remembers that Brendon often gave back as good as he got. Things like, 'don't you have a deadline?' and telling Ryan he'd just skim over the summary of his book on Wikipedia, and generally being a pain in the ass, but also just goofy enough to keep around.)

He was rewarded with a gentle smile from Brendon, finally, followed by an even gentler that’s ridiculous, and Ryan tilted his head honestly at him, charmed. You always say I’m loud and can hear me from- wherever you are. A weak argument. Ryan kept on recounting his reasons, and in the back of his mind, memories kept coming back to him - even more rationale to go by, it seemed. He remembers a week after Brendon arrived, when he came down at two in the morning for coffee (yeah, yeah, dumb, whatever), and Brendon was in his jersey, in a state of undress otherwise. He told Ryan he was the hardest worker he'd ever met - which, y'know, was either a load of bullshit, or Brendon hadn't quite the repertoire of people necessary for comparison. He asked about whether the writing was draining, not the immediate approach most people took - 'what are you writing about?' 'What trauma are you writing from?' You know, all the invasive shit. Brendon didn't even vaguely think the way that most people did. He was considerate without putting energy towards it.

That’s all you ever have to say to me, you know. Ryan took a seat, watched him, considered this. That you miss me. That you want me around. Okay. All right. It's all true. Ryan wasn't just feeding him the information he wanted - it was all things that he thought, everything that passed through his mind but was funneled into something else, something more acceptable and less vulnerable. Evidently, vulnerable was okay. Look: he'd just done it, and the world hadn't imploded. Brendon wasn't shocked at him, wasn't acting like he was a different person. But that’s- what I feel, Ry, it’s more than that, I- I can’t stay here if you don’t... Brendon looked like he was at a loss, but Ryan's mind had never been clearer. He was only quiet for a moment, because this wasn't exactly something he'd practiced and it was very much unfamiliar territory, and fuck, what if there was a certain way to say it, but. He was in love with him. That's all he could do.

Brendon looked suspended for a moment, and Ryan took this pause to examine him, his posture, arms folded and all. Again, couldn't blame him for that. It wasn't really defensiveness - it was self-preservation, and somehow there was a distinction there, but he could tell Brendon wasn't in any profound state of disbelief. Yeah, Ryan had made it clear from the get-go that he wasn't someone who talked out of his ass. The beat that passed didn't serve to heighten his anxiety, oddly, because Brendon's feelings were already confirmed regardless of what happened - it was more peaceful, reflective, and he was almost ready to laugh at their circumstances, Brendon only halfway wrapped in his towel, still speckled with droplets of water. And then it set in that Ryan was really and truly impatient, because love was also a physical feeling, and he'd been drawn to Brendon for the longest time, and he wanted to hold him close and be forgiven for his stupid, stunted brain right away.

I- why couldn’t you- why couldn’t you have just said - "I know," Ryan said quickly, shifting, shaking his head to show just how ridiculous it was to him, too. Not hearing that back, it. It really hurt. You- are you serious? You’re not just... Ryan waited with baited breath until Brendon had finished (or not-quite-finished) his thought until he nodded rapidly, comprehensively. "I'm sorry. I'm dumb. I don't know." He grinned at the same time as Brendon, breath rushing out almost as a relieved laugh, completely aware of the nonsense coming out of his mouth and having no idea how to right it. You asshole. Ryan laughed entirely then, shifting closer, fondly. God, I’m going to kill you. "Then do it!" Ryan taunted, shifting onto his knees, fussing the sheets, until he leveled slightly above Brendon, beaming at him.

Almost dotingly, his hand passed through Brendon's hair, resting at the back of his head, attempting to tilt him back gently. Not much experience here, he realized belatedly, and his gaze flickered between Brendon's, to his lips, then back, the confidence still there but some unwelcome wariness arriving. "Before you kill me - can I kiss you first?"

Of course Brendon was suspicious- he’d given Ryan his heart, and Ryan had just. Sat there. Stared at him, in complete silence. Brendon remembered at first thinking- it’s okay, it’s a big deal to say you’re in love with someone, they need time to process it. The seconds passed, though, the time stretched out and became painful, and Brendon felt his vulnerable heart start to sink, sore with the burn of rejection that started to settle into his bones. As the quiet stretched on, he had come to the realisation that Ryan wasn’t trying to think of a response at all. He’d confessed and it hadn’t been worth it. The ten minutes he had between then and Ryan knocking on his door had been ridiculously and humiliatingly painful- he stood in the shower, frantically pushing his hands through his hair and scrubbing himself, trying to distract himself from his feelings with the urgency of it all, but only succeeding in disguising his own crying, even when he fiercely blinked it all away. Feeling numb and hurt and confused and stupid, he had sat on his bed, deciding he was leaving.

Even with Ryan apparently now returning the feeling, he was still set on leaving- mostly because he didn’t believe him. This was just self preservation from the both of them- Brendon leaving because he couldn’t stand knowing he wasn’t loved as he loved him; Ryan blurting out words he didn’t mean that held a dangerously heavy implication to save himself from being on his own again. It was terrifying and confusing, and Brendon felt like he had whiplash, being rejected and accepted within twenty minutes... That said. The nature of Ryan’s confession, though suspicious and rushed, was sweet, took his breath away. Ryan wasn’t a liar. The elated grin on his face was genuine and contagious and Brendon felt a rush of adrenaline at the prospect of such intense feelings being returned. Once he started believing him, it became obvious- what else could they be but in love, with the ridiculous closeness they shared?

Still, through this happiness, he was confused, needed answers. It was still almost surreal despite how much it also just made complete sense. I know. Ryan was shaking his head, with an urgency Brendon had never seen from him before. His insistence made it feel real. I’m sorry. I’m dumb. I don’t know. Nodding along, fascinated by this change to his countenance, Brendon was smiling faintly, before it turned into a grin, so endlessly amused and enamoured by Ryan’s endearing breathlessness. He felt important. When he laughed, Brendon laughed with, only lighter, he didn’t want to overpower this side from him that he had never, ever seen. Then do it! As Ryan got up onto his knees, now looking down on him, Brendon met his eyes, amazed, smiling dreamily like this man had really hung the stars in the sky.

And then, a hand was passing through his hair, and Brendon let his lids fall, as he gazed up at him, eyelashes skimming his cheeks, completely content and yet on edge because this was so bizarre, so out of character, it still didn’t feel real. “Who are you?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. “Quick, say something normal, like- be an asshole, so I know it’s really you and I’m not fuckin’- dreaming.” But Ryan was tilting his head up, all gentle. Brendon could cry. He followed his eyes down and bit his lip apprehensively. Was he really going to? Ryan, the literal hermit? Before you kill me- can I kiss you first? Though this all felt constructed and dreamlike, the hand in Brendon’s hair grounded him to reality. This was happening- Ryan loved him back and love turned him into this excitable puppy, bursting with energy, and Brendon had never loved anything more, the two of them there, usually both closed off and cynical. A kiss would seal it all, spell an irreversible change. But Brendon wasn’t scared. Enough time had been spent thinking about this very moment.

Leaning back, supporting himself with one hand against the mattress, and bringing the other up to grab onto the front Ryan’s shirt, Brendon pulled Ryan in to kiss him, with confidence- once he was in close, he moved his hand to firmly hold onto Ryan’s jaw, keeping him in place as he struggled not to smile against his mouth, trying to savour this moment that he wanted to be perfect. Unfortunately, an afterthought ruined it for him. He pulled away suddenly, lips parted. “I- Ryan, fuck.” His voice was low, but he was smiling. “I need to get dressed, oh my god. Look at me.” A quick glance down would confirm that Brendon was indeed still only in a towel that was wrapped around his waist- an accident waiting to happen. He gazed at Ryan, adoring, but pressed a hand against his chest to try and encourage him to move.

The struggle between 'what do I really feel' and 'what are the exact right final draft-worthy words to say here' was what took place in Ryan's mind in those suffocating thirty seconds following Brendon's confession, then the five minutes alone on the steps, and then, well. It continued even when he came to Brendon's door. For the first time, words left his mouth that weren't quite so thought out; that weren't something he scribbled out in the notebook of his mind, then had to approve in a different sector, then finally spoke aloud. Granted, at first, it was pretty stupid. 'Are you okay?' Come on. Hell no. No one would be. He supposed the thought of Brendon leaving, the idea coming to full fruition from Brendon himself, out loud, then and there - that was enough to kick him into gear. Fuck a 'proofread' version of his feelings. He figured they were uncomplicated enough. Brendon was a grand example to follow. His emotions weren't so... reined in. It was a beautiful thing to witness.

Ryan was quick to the punch, fairly concise, and he supposed by Brendon's reaction, it was hardly convincing for a split-second - even out of character. Yeah, he could see that. This was all a far cry from the chainsmoking evil porch man Brendon had first met. The asshole who waltzed into his study and demanded that Brendon get out... although, he was received pretty well then. Regardless, it was all very different in this moment, simply because he felt a different kind of mental clarity. This, he supposed, was what living in a moment rather than concocting your own stories all the time was like. His life was usually so predictable, measurable, quantified by pages, by word counts, by chapters. It's, shockingly, exhilarating to admit that you are and have been very much in love with the person you spend sometimes 100% of your day with (and then, as they often did, opt to work late into the night on any given chapter that didn't have a deadline and could wait until the next day... though, of course, half of this overtime was dedicated to random, derivative conversations, hanging out of seats upside down when they were bored, so forth).

Alongside Ryan's urgency, Brendon appeared to begin to agree with him, nodding with brighter eyes, his grin almost matching. Ryan didn't take it lightly - he was endlessly lucky that Brendon just naturally understood him at this point, seemed to catch on that the nervous pause he took wasn't anything real to go off of. He wasn't demanding explanation, wasn't pushing him away; he knew Ryan well enough. Ryan admired him up close when he was hovering over him, realizing in the moment that he hadn't quite done this yet, that he needed the moment to stretch a little longer. Yes, he was observant, he was only human, and Brendon was stupidly pretty. But this close up - it wasn't really welcome before. Or, well. They hadn't caught up with one another until now. He ran his fingers through his hair another time, mirroring the way Brendon always cleared it from his eyes, as if it'd be any more revealing. Who are you? Ryan squinted, raised his eyebrows right back at Brendon. He had a smart-ass answer-that's-really-a-question loaded up, like, 'boyfriend?' but wasn't quite as brazen as usual.

Quick, say something normal, like- be an asshole, so I know it’s really you and I’m not fuckin’- dreaming. Ryan laughed, a little more settled, muted. He hummed thoughtfully for a moment. "You were right. You are, in fact, loud as hell from floors away. Doesn't mean I don't miss you." He grinned again, like he was on the verge of laughing again, but they were tilted towards each other, the angle a little too perfect to ignore. Brendon answered with action, not words, taking the liberty of leaning them backward, tugging Ryan with him. His surety was infectious; Ryan fell easily into rhythm with him, resting against his hand, even losing tension in his arms and relaxing into him, and - he chased Brendon's lips for an embarrassing split second when he pulled away, blinking like he'd just been woken up. I- Ryan, fuck. Oh, god, he must've done something weird. Ryan lifted himself slightly, prepared for the worst. I need to get dressed, oh my god. Look at me. Ryan followed his gaze, then paused, squinting at Brendon when his hand raised to his chest. Well, unfortunate, but understandable. "How modest of you." He almost let up, then caught himself, placing a hand over Brendon's and leaning down again to kiss him once more, just brief, before rolling aside.

A little more in character now. He folded an arm behind his head and looked reflective. "I mean, you're usually, like." Ryan propped himself up, keeping from cracking up. "Remember when you got into my study and you were acting in very un-Christian ways? You're a changed man." This was a little more familiar - teasing was in their nature. He rested on his arm again, watching Brendon with an amused grin back on his face.

As much as Brendon knew Ryan, as close as they were, he had never seen and definitely not expected such an enthused response to his messy confession of love. Best case scenario, in all the silly, air-headed daydreams he liked to entertain while they sat watching a movie, or drinking coffee together on the porch in the early morning chill, he’d tell Ryan he loved him and Ryan would be quiet, just as he had been in the real event. Instead of remaining so, though, he’d turn to Brendon; take hold of his hands, all sweet and understated, and maybe smile a little, and say it back. A muted response with the strong feeling there, detectable, but not on his sleeve. That was more in character for the Ryan he knew- but now that he had such a spring to his every movement, a bright intonation to his usually raw-sounding voice, a persistent grin instead of some faint smirk, Brendon realised that there was more to learn about him, and more to love. It was exhilarating, infectious, his nervousness and suspicion dissipating as Ryan ran his fingers through his hair.

When he expressed his confusion at this new side to this usually bitter bastard’s personality, Ryan raised his eyebrows but said nothing. But then he laughed- with the gentleness he was used to. Brendon smiled up at him, an almost dreamy look in his eyes, as Ryan seemed to put thought into finding some kind of mean comment to say. Flattering, really, the length of the pause it took. You were right. You are, in fact, loud as hell from floors away. Brendon’s grin widened, the corners of his mouth starting to twitch from the strain it took to smile this widely for this long- he just couldn’t help it. “I usually am.” Doesn’t mean I don’t miss you. It faded a little, then, as he considered that. For Ryan, that was a big thing to say, even if he’d said it before. With him it tended to be brief openings of time where he was vulnerable before he shut it away again. Brendon reached up and traced a finger along Ryan’s jaw, his eyebrows turned upwards like this was all so endearing and intimate. “I like this.”

He was going to elaborate why, but he gave up and instead submitted to the compulsion to kiss him; the angle was too perfect, Ryan almost leaning over him, Brendon propping himself up, head tilted backwards. He pulled him back and settled into it too quickly, it felt too natural, like it was just common sense, like they were meant to be like this. Brendon was getting lost in romantic fantasies, made even better by the fact that they were one by one coming true. Feeling Ryan’s muscles relax, he smiled, distant and yet so, so wired at the same time, until a thought struck him that he was indeed still in a towel and unless they wanted to move extremely fast he should probably get dressed. Besides, Ryan was a Virgo, he’d probably make it awkward somehow. So he broke away, pushed against Ryan’s chest and explained himself quickly so that Ryan would know he hadn’t just. Bailed. How modest of you. Humming a little, amused, Brendon sat up straight when he rolled aside and combed his hand through his hair compulsively, biting his lip to stop himself smiling too wide. “You know me, a saint.”

When he stood up, he instantly regretted it, disrupting their rhythm like this. Regardless, he readjusted the towel so it was secure around his waist and heading towards his wardrobe, opening it and browsing through. I mean, you’re usually, like. Brendon raised his eyebrows, continued sorting through his clothes.“A fuckin’ whore?” Remember when you got into my study and you were acting in very un-Christian ways? You’re a changed man. He really wasn’t. But Ryan was spiritually a virgin, he didn’t want to scare him away. He turned around, a little embarrassed, because he’d scrubbed that whole event from his mind. Oh well- might as well own it. “Unfortunately I didn’t drink enough to forget that. Aren’t you glad you rejected me, though? Would’ve ruined our friendship. God, I wanted to fuck you so bad.” He said that last part under his breath after he turned back around, grinning in disbelief at himself. “I’m leaving room for jesus, Ry.”

Their conversation seemed to have taken a more experimental turn, because this was new to them. Brendon still felt like he was on cloud nine, just dialled it down all the way to keep himself under control. He’d picked out Ryan’s old jersey, mostly out of affection and partly for the joke, and a pair of excessively and unintentionally ripped jeans, and turned to Ryan, pausing awkwardly. “Should I go- to the bathroom?”