Nowhere Man

Ryan Ross looks pretty well put together when you first see him. There's a scarf around his head, partially hidden by wisps of wavy dark locks, and he's outfitted in a brown vest over an off-white button-up shirt that's rolled up to the elbows. With his casual slacks and brown leather shoes, he looks like a regular guy with an agenda. He looks like he has plans.

Having a chart in his hand tells Brendon otherwise.

Ryan Ross is sitting there (Brendon doesn't feel as though they're on first name basis yet), right leg crossed over his left with a serene look on his features. He looks as if he's simply meeting with a friend for lunch.

"So, Mr. Ross-" Brendon begins.

"It's Ryan," he answers shortly.

"Ryan," Brendon corrects himself, "So how-"

"Where's my normal shrink?" Ryan asks, cutting Brendon off completely.

"Um, Vicky? She's out of town and asked me to fill in. I've been interning here for a couple of months, so. I'm Brendon," he explains. In fact, he was taking all of her clients for the next two weeks. She hadn't said anything specific about any of them. He was guessing that there was nothing too bad that he had to watch out for.

"I see. You're younger than me, aren't you? Probably just turned twenty-two," Ryan realizes.

"Actually, last week... How did you know that?" Brendon questions. He thinks that it's really kind of creepy that he knows. You can't just look at someone and determine that.

"I saw the 'Happy Birthday' banner over the front desk last week. Lucky guess," Ryan replies, resting back in his chair more.

Brendon leans over to the side table, where a tape recorder rests. He clicks in on and says, "Oh. So, why are you here, Ryan?"

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "You didn't read my chart?" He answers the question with a question.

Brendon looks down at the Manila folder in his hands, running his fingers over the smooth corners. "No. I'd rather hear the reason from you than from a piece of paper," he admits.

Ryan seems to consider this, purses his pink lips, and wipes his hands on his pants. Brendon can't help but notice Ryan's long, bony fingers and the way the curl: not all at once, but one by one. They're a musician's hands, whether Ryan is musical or not. "I had a breakdown a couple of months ago. My friend decided I needed therapy. Here I am," Ryan states as if it's the most common thing in the world.

"Care to elaborate on that?" Brendon asks, his tone anything but condescending.

Ryan looks completely comfortable and barely flinches. "One day after work, I went in my medicine cabinet and took everything I had. My roommate, the one who convinced me to come here, found me passed out on the couch. Hospital pumped my stomach. End of story," Ryan explains.

Brendon scrawls down a few notes. He's been here for a few months and has is graduating from college soon, so he knows that Ryan's situation is anything but unusual. Hopefully, Vicky will offer him an actual job soon, but who knows? "Why did you try to take your own life?"

Ryan chuckles, mouth open and teeth showing. "It's irrelevant."

Brendon frowns. Of course it's relevant. The reason you tried to commit suicide is probably one of the most important things to know. It needs to be given so the problem can be solved. "What do you mean?" he tries.

Ryan leans forward and looks Brendon straight in the eyes. "It doesn't matter what reason I give. It doesn't matter if I think if it's the most intricate explanation in the world. You're still going to tell me I'm wrong. You're going to tell me that suicide is never the answer. I'd rather not waste my breath," he shrugs.

Blinking, Brendon doesn't know what to say next. His mind scrambles, trying to find something to say to that. After a few painfully obvious seconds of being lost, he murmurs, "You don't look like a guy who tried to kill himself."

Ryan scratches at his jaw, blunt nails leaving faint red lines on the otherwise pale surface. "Ya, well. I hear that a lot these days."

"Then why are you here? I'm sure there's things you'd rather be doing," Brendon presses.

"It shuts Spencer up, so I come. He thinks I'm getting 'better'. Or something."

"Are you?"

Ryan uncrosses his legs and sits up straight now. "No. I'm not better; I'm not worse. I'm just. Stationary."

"Stationary," Brendon repeats, tasting the word on his tongue. The taste is bitter and confusing, and he doesn't like it.

Ryan nods. "Stationary."

Deciding he should change the subject, Brendon relents. "All right. Well, let's talk about you. Any family? Friends? Pets?"

"Family? Um, no. I have my roommate, Spencer. We've best friends since I was six. We used to live in Vegas..." Ryan trails off and looks away, as if remembering something. He snaps it back and finishes. "And I have Hobo. She's my dog."

"And Spencer is the one who found you after your accident, correct?"

"Yes," Ryan answers shortly.

Brendon guesses that he just hit a nerve. "Are you angry with him for saving your life?"

There's a silence, and Ryan sits there for a moment with a blank look on his face. "I'm not sure," he eventually says. "I'm not mad, I'm just." As Ryan struggles for words, his calm facade slowly melts away. "I wish he hadn't been the one to find me. He deserves more than that."

Brendon studies Ryan's now downcast honey eyes. "You feel guilty for putting him through this," he states.

"Yes."

Brendon doesn't want to torture him. He barely even knows this guy, and, even though it's his job to prod him, he feels guilty. "So, your dog. Hobo, huh? That's a name I've never heard before."

* * * *

The next session comes before Brendon knows it, and he can't think of a better way to spend an hour on a Tuesday afternoon. The rest of the clients he's had since Ryan have all been complete horrors, crying and having breakdowns right in front of him. He's praying that today Ryan will be as composed as he was last time.

He is. He's barely phased by anything that Brendon says, and even when he's questioned about his deceased alcoholic father, his face is unreadable.

And, just like that, the session has ended. The time had flown by before Brendon even knew it, and now Ryan's putting on his scarf in preparation to leave. Brendon is unable to stop himself from blurting, "Do you want to get some coffee?"

Ryan smirks, raises an eyebrow and asks, "You read my chart yet?"

Brendon shakes his head. He hasn't. He kind of wanted too, but was afraid of what he might find.

"Let's go then."

* * * *

Brendon knows exactly what he's doing when he invites Ryan over to his apartment. He texts his roommate, Jon, to tell him that he shouldn't come home tonight if he knows what's good for him. Jon texts back that he's putting up ads for a new best friend. Brendon replies with a ":(" and that ends that.

He's constantly aware of Ryan's presence behind him as he opens up the door to the apartment. They both step inside and Brendon announces, "Welcome to my lovely home."

Chuckling, Ryan looks at the piano in the corner. "You play?" he questions.

Brendon nods. "Ya. I made my parents buy it for me a couple of years ago. They were like, "What do you want: a bed for your new apartment or a piano? I said piano, obviously," he rambles.

"That's stupid. You'd rather get an instrument than something to sleep on?" Ryan asks skeptically.

"Yep. Music is important to me. Besides, they got me a bed anyways," Brendon shrugs.

"Hm, that's too bad," Ryan murmurs, mostly to himself while placing his forefinger on his lower lip.

"What? Me getting a bed?" Brendon says.

"No. You being a musician," Ryan replies, raising an eyebrow.

Brendon frowns. "Why is that bad?"

"I don't date musicians."

Brendon tries to look at his face and see if he's kidding, but he really can't tell. Looking Ryan over for a moment, he stammers, "Well, I don't date... uh..." He tries to figure out what Ryan is. Crazy dude? Suicidal maniac? "Hippies."

Ryan laughs. "Hippies?! Of all the things you could come up with, you chose hippies," he drolls.

"Ya, well. You kind of are. If the scarf fits..." Brendon trails off, grinning.

"Strangle you with it," Ryan mutters, and Brendon's still smiling. Ryan doesn't like that, so he presses their lips together in a smooth kiss.

All Brendon really remembers next is hot tongues, smooth hips, and fumbling fingers. As he's getting fucked into his mattress, he can't really say he minds.

* * * *

Brendon wakes up the next morning achy and alone. He can't judge what time it is from the sunlight, but he guesses he should be up already. He curses Ryan for making him forget to set his alarm. He can't really complain though, because, last night? Yeah, that was nothing short of amazing.

The clock blinks 9:34. He was supposed to be in class thirty-four minutes ago. Sighing, he decides it's pointless to even go. He opts for a shower instead and patters over to the bathroom.

He waits for the water to run hot and he strips his boxers off. Upon doing so, he sees writing on his hip. In perfectly poised black script, it reads 266-4159, accompanied by a smiley face.

He thanks the good Lord that he can read upside down and scrawls the number on a piece of paper before he accidentally washes it away.

* * * *

When he had called Ryan, he asked him to come over to his house. Brendon said yes, of course, (because, duh, really? It's Ryan) and was currently standing on his doorstep.

He couldn't understand his attraction to Ryan already, and he figured it'd be better that way. Not understanding was not knowing. Sometimes, it was best to be ignorant.

By the time he gets up the nerve to knock on the door, Ryan opens it with a confused look on his face. "How long have you been standing there for?" he asks.

"Um. I'm not sure," Brendon admits.

Ryan shrugs it off and lets him in. "Do you mind taking off your shoes?" he asks.

"No, sure," Brendon replies, slipping out of his converse and resting them near the door.

He catches Ryan staring intently at his feet.

Blushing, Brendon questions, "What?" he thinks he really shouldn't be be so embarrassed in front of someone who's already seen his dick.

"You're wearing two different colored socks," Ryan mumbles.

Brendon follows his gaze, seeing that they are indeed two completely different socks. One's black and runs up to the ankle, and the other is white and ends an inch above his heel. "Wow, that's embarrassing," he comments off-handedly and quickly pulls off the socks and stuffs them in his shoes.

Ryan brushes it off and simply pulls Brendon to him by his hips and connects their lips.

Brendon just wraps his arms around his neck and closes his eyes.

* * * *

Brendon wakes up for the second morning in a row alone. He can still smell the sweat in the room, along with Ryan's lingering cologne. It's comforting: as if Ryan's still there with him.

Sitting up in bed, he pulls on a random shirt and pair of boxers (he's knows neither are his: the shirt's too flimsy and he wears briefs). After peeing, he patters out of the room, his ass screaming with every step and jumps when he hears light tapping on the wooden floor. He turns to his right to see a little beagle making its way toward him, a slight wag in its tail.

It's Ryan's dog, Hobo, he realizes. He kneels down and puts his hand out to her. She sniffs it tentatively and gives his thumb a few licks before deciding that their friends. She lightly jumps up and rests her front paws on his knee and looks up at him with a forlorn expression.

Brendon doesn't know what to do. He's never had a dog, because when he was younger, they had too many kids in the house to have anything more than a goldfish. He didn't have one now because he didn't think Jon's cats would like that very much.

So, he picks her up. She's small, obviously, and cradles in his arms perfectly. Belly up, she fidgets until she finds the perfect position against his chest.

He feels sentimental, like she's his baby or something. Technically, she's not his at all; she's Ryan's, and he can't even claim that since they're dating that she's his dog too. They're not dating. He doesn't know what they are. All he knows is that they've had sex twice, and he was the bitch in both situations. Casual sex doesn't necessarily mean they're official. It means quite the opposite, actually.

He sits down on Ryan's couch with the little dog still in his arms and studies the room. It appears to be flawless. Books are neatly on the shelves (alphabetized, if he's not mistaken) and so are DVD's. He leans closer to examine them carefully. Definitely alphabetized. There's some pictures on the walls and every one and placed strategically in perfect space from each other. He stands up and goes over to one. Ryan's sitting there, trying to hide his face behind a hand (his smile's still evident) and the boy next to him is pushing him over. He has blue eyes and a wide smile. He assumes this is Spencer, his best friend. They look comfortable together, as two people should after knowing each other for years.

Biting a swollen lip, he decides he needs coffee. He feels really out of place in this apartment, almost as if its a museum and he's not allowed to touch anything. Everything looks so poised and perfect. The complete opposite of himself. He decides he should probably leave since Ryan's not here anyway.

There's a piece of paper on the marble island that reads in perfect penmanship:

B-

Hey. Went to go get breakfast and coffee. Stick around if you want.

RR.

Brendon heart swells, because, okay, if 'B' isn't a nickname, he doesn't know what is. And Ryan obviously wants him to stick around. That's probably the most amazing thing he's ever read in his life.

A small snore is emitted from Hobo, and Brendon smiles. Maybe they're getting somewhere.

* * * *

Later, Brendon is at work for the first time since he and Ryan started this "thing". Whatever it is. Not that he's complaining, because he's definitely not. Plus, Vicky's back now, and he's just a regular intern again. Which means he has to confirm appointments and sharpen pencils, listening to William's stories about his dead-beat boyfriend and seeing Patrick sit there with a bored look on his face. It's all pretty simple, and it should be, considering he's not getting paid.

He thinks about when Ryan had come back to see him cradling his dog and the look on his face. It had been shocked, yet kind of relieved. "She never lets anyone but me hold her like that," he had explained with a smile. After that, they had sat down and ate bagels and drank a lot of coffee before Ryan announced that he had to go to work. Brendon replied that he had to go home to get a shower.

So they did.

"Hey, Brendon," Vicky says, coming into the office he shares with the other interns. Her black hair waves behind her ears as she walks, and she's gotten a tan. She looks a lot brighter than the last time he saw her.

"Hey! How was your vacation?" he questions, smiling. She'll never know that going on vacation probably did him the biggest favor of his life.

"Really great, thanks. How did you like my job?" she asks, her tone somewhat joking, yet she seems to be serious.

Brendon has this really huge urge to gush everything about Ryan, but he holds his tongue and states, "Loved it."

"I'm glad. I read the notes you wrote, but haven't listened to all of the tapes yet. I'll get to 'em tonight. I hope no one had a breakdown or anything," she mutters, thinking to herself.

"Everyone was okay. No huge incidents," he reports.

"Thank God," she replied. "Well, I've got to be getting to work. I'll see you later." With that, she hurries off with her heels tapping against the wooden surface.

"You too," Brendon calls after her.

After she leaves, William immediately leans over Brendon's desk and demands, "Spill."

"Spill what, my coffee?" Brendon retorts, scoffing.

"You got laid last night. Don't even try to deny it, I can see it in your eyes," Bill states, boring into his soul with his chocolate stare.

"I did. And that's all you need to know," Brendon answers shortly, looking through the papers on his desk and and trying to get them ready for filing.

Bill's mouth drops, making a perfect O with his pink lips. "You fucked a patient, didn't you?!" he accuses.

"No!" Brendon lies, blushing. "I didn't, I swear."

"You did! And you liked it! Oh my God, you can get in so much shit for this, B. Do you know what kind of basket cases Vicky sees? They're all basically batshit crazy, in case you haven't noticed," William rambles, waving his arms around wildly.

"You won't tell her, will you?" Brendon mumbles quietly.

"Who, Vicky? No. I'm not a snitch. But I will tell you this: you being with this guy can result in one of two things. Choice A is that he changes whatever the fuck is wrong with him and you solve all of his problems and you live happily ever after. Then there's B. You being with him makes things worse and complicated, and he drags you down with him. After that your entire outlook on your profession will change, as well as your ethics on love," William explains.

Blinking up at him, Brendon realizes that he's completely right. Things either get better or worse from here. There's no in between. "Yeah, I know," he mutters lowly before straightening out some more papers and wishing William Beckett didn't know everything.