Diamonds & Gold [ryden, G, standalone]
Title: Diamonds & Gold
Author:
silver_etoile
Rating: G
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Disclaimer: This is untrue. Songs belong to Tom Waits.
Summary: When Brendon had used to joke that after graduation he’d be the one living down on the Strip in a cardboard box, he hadn’t expected it to actually happen... It wasn’t exactly a box, but considering the size of his matchbox apartment, he thought he’d almost be better off in a box - one of those refrigerator boxes, you know, with lots of wide open space. He honestly didn’t think he could fit that big of a box in his actual apartment.
A/N: Written for spazzyskittles who requested ryden post-graduation AU. Sorry it took so long, I've just not been in a very ryden-y mood lately.
*
When Brendon had used to joke that after graduation he’d be the one living down on the Strip in a cardboard box, he hadn’t expected it to actually happen. Granted, he wasn’t living on the Strip, but scraping a living playing his guitar on the corner in front of the Bellagio wasn’t too far away. It wasn’t exactly a box, either, but considering the size of his matchbox apartment, he thought he’d almost be better off in a box - one of those refrigerator boxes, you know, with lots of wide open space. He honestly didn’t think he could fit that big of a box in his actual apartment.
He refused to go back to the Smoothie Hut, though. He had a college degree for God’s sake. He’d worked for four years, gone into thousands of dollars of debt, all for a little piece of paper that so far had only provided a useless decoration on his otherwise blank walls.
His parents weren’t going to help him, either. He’d pretty much sealed that deal the day he’d declared Music Studies as his major instead of Business or whatever else they’d wanted him to study.
He’d graduated two months ago without a penny to his name, barely managing to find an apartment thanks to a friend from school who was leaving it for the summer. He didn’t have much longer before he’d have to find somewhere else to live.
Most of Brendon’s days were spent perched outside the Bellagio, sometimes moving down to one of the other hotels whenever security decided he needed to skedaddle. He had his guitar and his case, and he usually sat down and spent the whole day picking out songs, taking requests from whoever tended to be walking by at the time.
His favorite was the guy who always asked for Jimmy Buffett and left him a five dollar bill fluttering into his case.
Sometimes he got lucky, just like the thousands of tourists who came, and a few would drop a few chips in his case after a particularly good night.
It was one of these nights, when the sun had fallen over the Strip but the temperatures were still well into the nineties and the darkness did little to help the sweat beading on Brendon’s brow even as he just perched in front of the Eiffel Tower restaurant on one of the steps. The crowd was getting thicker with the nightfall, and Brendon scraped together the few dollars he’d managed to collect that day, stuffing it in his pocket and glancing around.
The crowd bowled on ahead, heedless of the men and women clicking cards at them, advertising hookers on call. Brendon ignored them, eyes glazing over the cards as he watched the people. Some looked around wonderingly, others pushed on, a clear goal in mind. Everyone looked hot, which wasn’t surprising since it was summer in the desert.
Perching his guitar back up, Brendon strummed his fingers over the chords experimentally. The sound was nearly lost in the sounds of people walking up and down, maneuvering through the blocked sidewalks.
Ignoring the people, Brendon sat back, eyes on the strings as he plucked out a melody and hummed along. No one was listening anyway, and it had been a long, hot day. He was ready to go home even if the night had just begun. Tomorrow he’d wait until nightfall to come out.
The song wasn’t one he often played, just a mix of chords and melodies that he plucked out, leaning forward over the instrument. Beyond, the people bustled by, paying him no attention.
He didn’t notice when someone detached from the crowd and approached him silently. He didn’t notice until a fluttering dollar dropped into his case. Raising his eyes, he looked up to the man standing there.
He looked slightly out of place amidst the tourist crowd; he wasn’t wearing shorts and brightly-colored tee shirt but dark, skinny jeans and a strange brown vest over a white shirt. Brendon wondered if he’d stumbled out of a western movie. Maybe he worked for one of the hotels, although Brendon didn’t know which one had a western theme.
“Any requests?” he asked with a smile up at the man. He liked the look of him, even as the guy hesitated, gazing down at him.
“Know any Tom Waits?” the guy asked finally, shoving his hands into the pockets of his tight jeans.
Brendon smiled again, bobbing his head. “Think I might know a few.”
Turning back to his guitar, his fingers found the chords of a long-forgotten song, something he’d heard a long time ago.
“We sail tonight for Singapore,” he sang quietly, eyes flicking to the guy as he stood by. “We’re all mad as hatters here. I’ve fallen for tawny moor. Took off to the land of Nod.”
As he sang, he watched the guy, who was watching him with an impassive face. He only stood and listened as Brendon continued.
Brendon wondered who this guy was. He definitely didn’t look like one of the many tourists shuffling past. He didn’t look much older than Brendon, and he only stood as Brendon sang. He didn’t show any emotion, rocking a little in his strange-looking shoes. Brendon raised a curious eyebrow at them as he sang.
The guy didn’t react to Brendon’s eyes on him, but Brendon pulled them away as the song ended.
No one else was watching, still intent on getting to whatever their destination for the evening was. Behind him, people were talking and laughing in the restaurant, but Brendon didn’t pay them any attention, still watching the guy wearing jeans in the middle of August.
“You’re good,” the guy said finally, and Brendon smiled at the compliment.
“Thank you.”
“Why are you out here?”
Brendon wrinkled his eyebrows. “Because playing where there’s a crowd usually gets better results, plus I’m pretty sure they’d kick me out if I tried to go inside.”
The guy didn’t respond immediately. He glanced up at the restaurant for a second, watching the patrons inside. Brendon imagined he could hear the clink of forks and plates.
It was hot outside, and he wiped his forehead, thinking he should really head inside before he got heatstroke. The guy just stood there, though, tearing his eyes from the restaurant and landing on Brendon again.
“You hungry?”
Blinking, Brendon was a little surprised. Not many people just invited him out to dinner seconds after giving him money. Most of the people in Las Vegas were wary of the street performers, usually suspecting that they were out to rob them. It was a fair assumption, Brendon allowed, considering the number of thieves and tourists.
“H-hungry?” he repeated, then, blankly, staring up.
The guy nodded. “Yeah. You look hot.”
Brendon was hot, but he didn’t say anything, looking up at the guy. The guy was just waiting patiently as though he did this all the time.
“I’m not homeless, you know,” Brendon said before he could stop himself. He felt the need to explain somehow, that he wasn’t one of those vagrant homeless people who begged for money - the majority of those people did pretty well, actually, if Brendon said so himself.
The guy only blinked, tilting his head to the side and brushing his brown hair from his eyes.
“But are you hungry?” the guy repeated, and Brendon wasn’t sure what to do. Something about this man, though, this person that was probably only a few years older than him at the most, didn’t scare him. Something was oddly comforting. Brendon couldn’t describe it, but he felt as if he could trust that he wasn’t one of those guys he saw on CSI, those serial killers who picked their targets off the Strip and left their bodies in one of the alleys.
“Sure,” Brendon replied finally, pulling his guitar strap over his head and putting it away, latching the case and pushing himself up. He was a few inches shorter than this guy as he stepped down the stairs to join him.
The guy nodded at him, turning and leading the opposite way down the strip. Brendon joined him, strolling along leisurely despite the heat and the fact that he didn’t know anything about this guy.
“I’m Brendon, by the way,” he said, hopping over a crack in the ground. The guy glanced over, a tiny flicker of a smile on his face.
“Ryan.”
Brendon absorbed the name silently, skipping more cracks and struggling against the flow of people in the opposite direction.
Ryan didn’t speak either even as he turned away from the Strip and headed eastward. Brendon walked at his side, his guitar case swinging in his hand as he glanced around. It was a relatively big street and he didn’t see any alleys, which gave him heart.
“You always do this?” he asked finally as they emerged on another larger street.
“Do what?” Ryan asked in a sort of monotonous tone that Brendon was beginning to associate with him.
“Invite random street musicians to dinner,” Brendon replied, following Ryan as he turned left and started down the sidewalk.
Ryan shrugged, glancing at Brendon. “Maybe you’re just special.”
Brendon paused, arching an eyebrow at Ryan’s back. “Maybe you’re a serial killer.”
“You watch too much CSI,” was Ryan’s only response as they reached a restaurant and Ryan opened the door for him.
“Well, how do I know you’re not?” Brendon asked, walking in backwards to keep an eye on Ryan, but he was smiling when he said it, and Ryan didn’t justify his question with much more than a short eye-roll.
Satisfied, Brendon turned around and headed the rest of the way in.
The restaurant was small but had a friendly air, and Brendon glanced around as the hostess led them to a booth near the back.
Ryan slid in one side and Brendon took the other, smiling dazzlingly at the girl as she left their menus and went back to the hostess station.
“So seriously,” Brendon said when Ryan had settled himself, already unrolling his napkin and arranging it meticulously on his lap. “Why me?”
“What do you mean?” Ryan asked blithely, rearranging his fork.
Brendon bit his lip and leaned forward. “There are plenty of people out there playing guitar for pittance.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow at Brendon. “Pittance?”
Pausing, Brendon tilted his head. “What?”
“Big word for a street performer,” Ryan muttered, now arranging his knife parallel to his fork.
“Don’t misunderestimate me,” Brendon said with a wink as Ryan arched his brow at the word. “I’m plenty educated.”
“Really?” Ryan didn’t sound as though he believed him, and merely sat back now that there was nothing left to organize. Brendon wondered how long before he went for the salt and pepper shakers that sat next to the wall.
“Yes,” Brendon replied simply, taking a sip of his water and watching as Ryan reached for the salt and pepper shakers - he so called it. As he watched, he noticed the dark flash of tattoos around Ryan’s wrist, but he couldn’t read them.
“Then why are you playing a crappy guitar hoping for lucky tourists to drop chips into the case?”
Brendon shrugged. “It was either that or a Chippendale but according to the manager, I don’t have the right ‘body type.’” He air-quoted it and rolled his eyes, but grinned at Ryan anyway. “Besides, I like playing. Yeah, it sucks sometimes when it gets really hot, but usually it’s not too bad. Sometimes, people actually listen.”
“Are you worth listening to?” Ryan asked, and Brendon raised his eyebrows.
“You did. What does that say about you?” he asked playfully, a grin curling the edge of his lips.
“I’m gullible.”
Brendon grinned. “Nu uh. Well, you could be, or you might have been drawn in by my incredible good looks and quiet charm.”
Ryan didn’t reply, but Brendon thought he saw a hint of a smile.
He pushed at his own knife and fork wrapped in the cloth napkin. It wasn’t as awkward as he’d thought, although he still didn’t know why he was here with Ryan when he should have been home in his sticky apartment eating the last of the pizza he’d splurged on the day before.
He wasn’t really complaining, but it was a curious situation he found himself in.
“Are you going to tell me why you asked me to dinner?” Brendon asked finally when no one spoke over the clinking of silverware and quiet conversation of the other patrons.
Ryan shrugged after a minute, placing his hands in his lap, given there was nothing else to arrange.
“A dollar didn’t seem enough.”
Smiling curiously, Brendon nudged Ryan under the table with his foot. Ryan didn’t jump but his eyes rose to Brendon’s slowly.
“Enough for what? It was just a song.”
Ryan sighed, shifting, and Brendon was slightly confused.
“You’re really good,” Ryan said finally, repeating his words from earlier. “Better than playing on the street.”
Brendon laughed. “Well, I wish you’d tell the economy that, because it seems to think that music majors deserve to live in cardboard boxes and play on street corners until they’re either too old to anymore or they just give up.”
“Which will you be?” Ryan asked, his tone as monotonous as ever, but a glimmer of interest shown in his hazel eyes as he watched Brendon.
Brendon paused, then smiled slowly. “I’ll be the eighty-year old geezer sitting outside the Mirage with a harmonica - I’ll have learned the harmonica by then, see - and playing the blues while young kids blaze on past never giving me a second glance. But I’ll always be there. I’ll be like that person you never notice sitting outside the gas station until one day they’re gone. That’ll be me.”
“You seem pretty confident,” Ryan commented, and Brendon merely shrugged.
“Either that or I’ll somehow get a huge break, become famous, waste all my money on drugs, but even then, I’ll still end up in front of that hotel.” He grinned at Ryan, taking his water.
Ryan didn’t speak for a minute. He was staring at his wrists in his lap. He didn’t look up until the server came out with the salads and set them down.
Brendon felt the awkwardness of the moment and picked up his fork, digging it into the salad.
“Do you play anything else?” Ryan asked finally, picking up his perfectly perpendicular fork. “Besides the guitar and not the harmonica?”
Brendon swallowed his mouthful of lettuce. “Some piano, the trumpet, and I used to know the clarinet, but it’s been a really long time.”
Ryan nodded silently, eating his food slowly and looking thoughtful.
“Do you write your own music?”
Pausing, Brendon glanced up, watching Ryan poke at his salad. “Some. It’s not that great. I wouldn’t play it on the streets if that’s what you mean.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “’Cause people don’t want to listen to songs they’ve never heard. They want good old classics like Elvis and the Beatles and things they’ll recognize. They give you more money that way. They especially like if you know their request.”
Ryan didn’t reply, and Brendon finished his salad, smiling at the server as she took his plate away. Turning to Ryan, he tilted his head to the side.
“You ask a lot of questions,” he said finally, and Ryan glanced up. “So do you work for a casino or something?”
“Not really,” Ryan replied, scratching his nose, and Brendon tried to make out the words adorning his wrists but couldn’t in the quick movement.
“Well, what do you do then?” Brendon asked curiously, glancing down as a plate of food was set in front of him.
“I, uh,” Ryan said, and his hand disappeared behind the counter again. He came back out with a business card which he slid across the table. Brendon caught a flash of thin as a across one of the wrists as Ryan pulled his hand back. “I work for a record company.”
Brendon stared, completely surprised, and his eyes finally lowered to the card sitting between them. It was a simple, white card with black, block lettering; a name and a phone number.
“Ryan Ross,” Brendon read. “Sunset Records.” He paused, staring at the words. This couldn’t be real. “Wait,” he said after a minute while Ryan just waited, not eating. “You really work for a label? Then why are you talking to me?”
Ryan took a second before letting out a singular laugh. “Brendon, come on.”
Brendon thought for a second, trying to figure it out but it didn’t make sense. He was just a struggling guitarist. He figured he would struggle along for a while in Las Vegas before giving up and moving to Los Angeles to sleep on his friend, Shane’s, couch and start all over again. Ryan wasn’t supposed to be sitting across from him in some restaurant telling him he worked for a label.
“Well, what do you want?” Brendon felt nervous all of a sudden, not knowing what he’d gotten himself into.
Ryan paused, inclining over the table. “I want you to come down to my office and play for my boss.”
Brendon stared. “You what?”
Sitting back, Ryan ran his tongue over his lower lip almost as if he was nervous. “I don’t usually pull people off the street. Most of the time I have to listen to thousands of tapes that I throw away after the first five seconds, but I saw you today and you, well, you were great.” He actually smiled, and Brendon felt something strange flutter in his chest, at the compliment or at the smile, he wasn’t really sure.
“But I’m not special,” Brendon said at length. “Not really.”
Ryan lifted his eyes to his. “You could be.”
Brendon wasn’t sure what to do. This morning when he’d rolled off his lone mattress in his living room/bedroom, he hadn’t expected this. This was the stuff of movies and fairy tales. The handsome man offering money and security. Now if only love was involved.
“You really want me to?” he asked incredulously.
Ryan nodded, clasping his hands together on top of the table, long fingers entwined, and Brendon’s eyes darted to the words inked on his skin: thin as a dime.
“I really do,” Ryan replied quietly. He had a small smile on his face as Brendon glanced at him, hardly believing what he was hearing. Maybe college hadn’t been a waste after all. It had brought him to this point in his life, to sitting on street corners with his only guitar. Brought him to meet Ryan this fateful afternoon. “And maybe we could have dinner again.” Ryan looked apprehensive as he asked, watching Brendon closely.
Brendon bit his lip as he smiled. “What some men will do here for diamonds,” he murmured, and Ryan looked up. “What some men will do here for gold. They're wounded but they just keep on climbin', and they sleep by the side of the road.”
“That’s a yes, then?” Ryan asked, and Brendon heard a slight upswing of hopefulness in his tone.
Brendon paused, glancing down at his guitar case propped against the booth, then smiled.
“It’s a yes, to both.”
Ryan nodded and hid his smile by looking down at his food. Brendon watched him a minute before letting the overwhelmingly happy buzz feel his body and grinning at his plate.
Go out to the meadow,
The hills are a-green.
Sing me a rainbow,
Steal me a dream.
*
FIN.
Author:
silver_etoile
Rating: G
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Disclaimer: This is untrue. Songs belong to Tom Waits.
Summary: When Brendon had used to joke that after graduation he’d be the one living down on the Strip in a cardboard box, he hadn’t expected it to actually happen... It wasn’t exactly a box, but considering the size of his matchbox apartment, he thought he’d almost be better off in a box - one of those refrigerator boxes, you know, with lots of wide open space. He honestly didn’t think he could fit that big of a box in his actual apartment.
A/N: Written for spazzyskittles who requested ryden post-graduation AU. Sorry it took so long, I've just not been in a very ryden-y mood lately.
*
When Brendon had used to joke that after graduation he’d be the one living down on the Strip in a cardboard box, he hadn’t expected it to actually happen. Granted, he wasn’t living on the Strip, but scraping a living playing his guitar on the corner in front of the Bellagio wasn’t too far away. It wasn’t exactly a box, either, but considering the size of his matchbox apartment, he thought he’d almost be better off in a box - one of those refrigerator boxes, you know, with lots of wide open space. He honestly didn’t think he could fit that big of a box in his actual apartment.
He refused to go back to the Smoothie Hut, though. He had a college degree for God’s sake. He’d worked for four years, gone into thousands of dollars of debt, all for a little piece of paper that so far had only provided a useless decoration on his otherwise blank walls.
His parents weren’t going to help him, either. He’d pretty much sealed that deal the day he’d declared Music Studies as his major instead of Business or whatever else they’d wanted him to study.
He’d graduated two months ago without a penny to his name, barely managing to find an apartment thanks to a friend from school who was leaving it for the summer. He didn’t have much longer before he’d have to find somewhere else to live.
Most of Brendon’s days were spent perched outside the Bellagio, sometimes moving down to one of the other hotels whenever security decided he needed to skedaddle. He had his guitar and his case, and he usually sat down and spent the whole day picking out songs, taking requests from whoever tended to be walking by at the time.
His favorite was the guy who always asked for Jimmy Buffett and left him a five dollar bill fluttering into his case.
Sometimes he got lucky, just like the thousands of tourists who came, and a few would drop a few chips in his case after a particularly good night.
It was one of these nights, when the sun had fallen over the Strip but the temperatures were still well into the nineties and the darkness did little to help the sweat beading on Brendon’s brow even as he just perched in front of the Eiffel Tower restaurant on one of the steps. The crowd was getting thicker with the nightfall, and Brendon scraped together the few dollars he’d managed to collect that day, stuffing it in his pocket and glancing around.
The crowd bowled on ahead, heedless of the men and women clicking cards at them, advertising hookers on call. Brendon ignored them, eyes glazing over the cards as he watched the people. Some looked around wonderingly, others pushed on, a clear goal in mind. Everyone looked hot, which wasn’t surprising since it was summer in the desert.
Perching his guitar back up, Brendon strummed his fingers over the chords experimentally. The sound was nearly lost in the sounds of people walking up and down, maneuvering through the blocked sidewalks.
Ignoring the people, Brendon sat back, eyes on the strings as he plucked out a melody and hummed along. No one was listening anyway, and it had been a long, hot day. He was ready to go home even if the night had just begun. Tomorrow he’d wait until nightfall to come out.
The song wasn’t one he often played, just a mix of chords and melodies that he plucked out, leaning forward over the instrument. Beyond, the people bustled by, paying him no attention.
He didn’t notice when someone detached from the crowd and approached him silently. He didn’t notice until a fluttering dollar dropped into his case. Raising his eyes, he looked up to the man standing there.
He looked slightly out of place amidst the tourist crowd; he wasn’t wearing shorts and brightly-colored tee shirt but dark, skinny jeans and a strange brown vest over a white shirt. Brendon wondered if he’d stumbled out of a western movie. Maybe he worked for one of the hotels, although Brendon didn’t know which one had a western theme.
“Any requests?” he asked with a smile up at the man. He liked the look of him, even as the guy hesitated, gazing down at him.
“Know any Tom Waits?” the guy asked finally, shoving his hands into the pockets of his tight jeans.
Brendon smiled again, bobbing his head. “Think I might know a few.”
Turning back to his guitar, his fingers found the chords of a long-forgotten song, something he’d heard a long time ago.
“We sail tonight for Singapore,” he sang quietly, eyes flicking to the guy as he stood by. “We’re all mad as hatters here. I’ve fallen for tawny moor. Took off to the land of Nod.”
As he sang, he watched the guy, who was watching him with an impassive face. He only stood and listened as Brendon continued.
Brendon wondered who this guy was. He definitely didn’t look like one of the many tourists shuffling past. He didn’t look much older than Brendon, and he only stood as Brendon sang. He didn’t show any emotion, rocking a little in his strange-looking shoes. Brendon raised a curious eyebrow at them as he sang.
The guy didn’t react to Brendon’s eyes on him, but Brendon pulled them away as the song ended.
No one else was watching, still intent on getting to whatever their destination for the evening was. Behind him, people were talking and laughing in the restaurant, but Brendon didn’t pay them any attention, still watching the guy wearing jeans in the middle of August.
“You’re good,” the guy said finally, and Brendon smiled at the compliment.
“Thank you.”
“Why are you out here?”
Brendon wrinkled his eyebrows. “Because playing where there’s a crowd usually gets better results, plus I’m pretty sure they’d kick me out if I tried to go inside.”
The guy didn’t respond immediately. He glanced up at the restaurant for a second, watching the patrons inside. Brendon imagined he could hear the clink of forks and plates.
It was hot outside, and he wiped his forehead, thinking he should really head inside before he got heatstroke. The guy just stood there, though, tearing his eyes from the restaurant and landing on Brendon again.
“You hungry?”
Blinking, Brendon was a little surprised. Not many people just invited him out to dinner seconds after giving him money. Most of the people in Las Vegas were wary of the street performers, usually suspecting that they were out to rob them. It was a fair assumption, Brendon allowed, considering the number of thieves and tourists.
“H-hungry?” he repeated, then, blankly, staring up.
The guy nodded. “Yeah. You look hot.”
Brendon was hot, but he didn’t say anything, looking up at the guy. The guy was just waiting patiently as though he did this all the time.
“I’m not homeless, you know,” Brendon said before he could stop himself. He felt the need to explain somehow, that he wasn’t one of those vagrant homeless people who begged for money - the majority of those people did pretty well, actually, if Brendon said so himself.
The guy only blinked, tilting his head to the side and brushing his brown hair from his eyes.
“But are you hungry?” the guy repeated, and Brendon wasn’t sure what to do. Something about this man, though, this person that was probably only a few years older than him at the most, didn’t scare him. Something was oddly comforting. Brendon couldn’t describe it, but he felt as if he could trust that he wasn’t one of those guys he saw on CSI, those serial killers who picked their targets off the Strip and left their bodies in one of the alleys.
“Sure,” Brendon replied finally, pulling his guitar strap over his head and putting it away, latching the case and pushing himself up. He was a few inches shorter than this guy as he stepped down the stairs to join him.
The guy nodded at him, turning and leading the opposite way down the strip. Brendon joined him, strolling along leisurely despite the heat and the fact that he didn’t know anything about this guy.
“I’m Brendon, by the way,” he said, hopping over a crack in the ground. The guy glanced over, a tiny flicker of a smile on his face.
“Ryan.”
Brendon absorbed the name silently, skipping more cracks and struggling against the flow of people in the opposite direction.
Ryan didn’t speak either even as he turned away from the Strip and headed eastward. Brendon walked at his side, his guitar case swinging in his hand as he glanced around. It was a relatively big street and he didn’t see any alleys, which gave him heart.
“You always do this?” he asked finally as they emerged on another larger street.
“Do what?” Ryan asked in a sort of monotonous tone that Brendon was beginning to associate with him.
“Invite random street musicians to dinner,” Brendon replied, following Ryan as he turned left and started down the sidewalk.
Ryan shrugged, glancing at Brendon. “Maybe you’re just special.”
Brendon paused, arching an eyebrow at Ryan’s back. “Maybe you’re a serial killer.”
“You watch too much CSI,” was Ryan’s only response as they reached a restaurant and Ryan opened the door for him.
“Well, how do I know you’re not?” Brendon asked, walking in backwards to keep an eye on Ryan, but he was smiling when he said it, and Ryan didn’t justify his question with much more than a short eye-roll.
Satisfied, Brendon turned around and headed the rest of the way in.
The restaurant was small but had a friendly air, and Brendon glanced around as the hostess led them to a booth near the back.
Ryan slid in one side and Brendon took the other, smiling dazzlingly at the girl as she left their menus and went back to the hostess station.
“So seriously,” Brendon said when Ryan had settled himself, already unrolling his napkin and arranging it meticulously on his lap. “Why me?”
“What do you mean?” Ryan asked blithely, rearranging his fork.
Brendon bit his lip and leaned forward. “There are plenty of people out there playing guitar for pittance.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow at Brendon. “Pittance?”
Pausing, Brendon tilted his head. “What?”
“Big word for a street performer,” Ryan muttered, now arranging his knife parallel to his fork.
“Don’t misunderestimate me,” Brendon said with a wink as Ryan arched his brow at the word. “I’m plenty educated.”
“Really?” Ryan didn’t sound as though he believed him, and merely sat back now that there was nothing left to organize. Brendon wondered how long before he went for the salt and pepper shakers that sat next to the wall.
“Yes,” Brendon replied simply, taking a sip of his water and watching as Ryan reached for the salt and pepper shakers - he so called it. As he watched, he noticed the dark flash of tattoos around Ryan’s wrist, but he couldn’t read them.
“Then why are you playing a crappy guitar hoping for lucky tourists to drop chips into the case?”
Brendon shrugged. “It was either that or a Chippendale but according to the manager, I don’t have the right ‘body type.’” He air-quoted it and rolled his eyes, but grinned at Ryan anyway. “Besides, I like playing. Yeah, it sucks sometimes when it gets really hot, but usually it’s not too bad. Sometimes, people actually listen.”
“Are you worth listening to?” Ryan asked, and Brendon raised his eyebrows.
“You did. What does that say about you?” he asked playfully, a grin curling the edge of his lips.
“I’m gullible.”
Brendon grinned. “Nu uh. Well, you could be, or you might have been drawn in by my incredible good looks and quiet charm.”
Ryan didn’t reply, but Brendon thought he saw a hint of a smile.
He pushed at his own knife and fork wrapped in the cloth napkin. It wasn’t as awkward as he’d thought, although he still didn’t know why he was here with Ryan when he should have been home in his sticky apartment eating the last of the pizza he’d splurged on the day before.
He wasn’t really complaining, but it was a curious situation he found himself in.
“Are you going to tell me why you asked me to dinner?” Brendon asked finally when no one spoke over the clinking of silverware and quiet conversation of the other patrons.
Ryan shrugged after a minute, placing his hands in his lap, given there was nothing else to arrange.
“A dollar didn’t seem enough.”
Smiling curiously, Brendon nudged Ryan under the table with his foot. Ryan didn’t jump but his eyes rose to Brendon’s slowly.
“Enough for what? It was just a song.”
Ryan sighed, shifting, and Brendon was slightly confused.
“You’re really good,” Ryan said finally, repeating his words from earlier. “Better than playing on the street.”
Brendon laughed. “Well, I wish you’d tell the economy that, because it seems to think that music majors deserve to live in cardboard boxes and play on street corners until they’re either too old to anymore or they just give up.”
“Which will you be?” Ryan asked, his tone as monotonous as ever, but a glimmer of interest shown in his hazel eyes as he watched Brendon.
Brendon paused, then smiled slowly. “I’ll be the eighty-year old geezer sitting outside the Mirage with a harmonica - I’ll have learned the harmonica by then, see - and playing the blues while young kids blaze on past never giving me a second glance. But I’ll always be there. I’ll be like that person you never notice sitting outside the gas station until one day they’re gone. That’ll be me.”
“You seem pretty confident,” Ryan commented, and Brendon merely shrugged.
“Either that or I’ll somehow get a huge break, become famous, waste all my money on drugs, but even then, I’ll still end up in front of that hotel.” He grinned at Ryan, taking his water.
Ryan didn’t speak for a minute. He was staring at his wrists in his lap. He didn’t look up until the server came out with the salads and set them down.
Brendon felt the awkwardness of the moment and picked up his fork, digging it into the salad.
“Do you play anything else?” Ryan asked finally, picking up his perfectly perpendicular fork. “Besides the guitar and not the harmonica?”
Brendon swallowed his mouthful of lettuce. “Some piano, the trumpet, and I used to know the clarinet, but it’s been a really long time.”
Ryan nodded silently, eating his food slowly and looking thoughtful.
“Do you write your own music?”
Pausing, Brendon glanced up, watching Ryan poke at his salad. “Some. It’s not that great. I wouldn’t play it on the streets if that’s what you mean.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “’Cause people don’t want to listen to songs they’ve never heard. They want good old classics like Elvis and the Beatles and things they’ll recognize. They give you more money that way. They especially like if you know their request.”
Ryan didn’t reply, and Brendon finished his salad, smiling at the server as she took his plate away. Turning to Ryan, he tilted his head to the side.
“You ask a lot of questions,” he said finally, and Ryan glanced up. “So do you work for a casino or something?”
“Not really,” Ryan replied, scratching his nose, and Brendon tried to make out the words adorning his wrists but couldn’t in the quick movement.
“Well, what do you do then?” Brendon asked curiously, glancing down as a plate of food was set in front of him.
“I, uh,” Ryan said, and his hand disappeared behind the counter again. He came back out with a business card which he slid across the table. Brendon caught a flash of thin as a across one of the wrists as Ryan pulled his hand back. “I work for a record company.”
Brendon stared, completely surprised, and his eyes finally lowered to the card sitting between them. It was a simple, white card with black, block lettering; a name and a phone number.
“Ryan Ross,” Brendon read. “Sunset Records.” He paused, staring at the words. This couldn’t be real. “Wait,” he said after a minute while Ryan just waited, not eating. “You really work for a label? Then why are you talking to me?”
Ryan took a second before letting out a singular laugh. “Brendon, come on.”
Brendon thought for a second, trying to figure it out but it didn’t make sense. He was just a struggling guitarist. He figured he would struggle along for a while in Las Vegas before giving up and moving to Los Angeles to sleep on his friend, Shane’s, couch and start all over again. Ryan wasn’t supposed to be sitting across from him in some restaurant telling him he worked for a label.
“Well, what do you want?” Brendon felt nervous all of a sudden, not knowing what he’d gotten himself into.
Ryan paused, inclining over the table. “I want you to come down to my office and play for my boss.”
Brendon stared. “You what?”
Sitting back, Ryan ran his tongue over his lower lip almost as if he was nervous. “I don’t usually pull people off the street. Most of the time I have to listen to thousands of tapes that I throw away after the first five seconds, but I saw you today and you, well, you were great.” He actually smiled, and Brendon felt something strange flutter in his chest, at the compliment or at the smile, he wasn’t really sure.
“But I’m not special,” Brendon said at length. “Not really.”
Ryan lifted his eyes to his. “You could be.”
Brendon wasn’t sure what to do. This morning when he’d rolled off his lone mattress in his living room/bedroom, he hadn’t expected this. This was the stuff of movies and fairy tales. The handsome man offering money and security. Now if only love was involved.
“You really want me to?” he asked incredulously.
Ryan nodded, clasping his hands together on top of the table, long fingers entwined, and Brendon’s eyes darted to the words inked on his skin: thin as a dime.
“I really do,” Ryan replied quietly. He had a small smile on his face as Brendon glanced at him, hardly believing what he was hearing. Maybe college hadn’t been a waste after all. It had brought him to this point in his life, to sitting on street corners with his only guitar. Brought him to meet Ryan this fateful afternoon. “And maybe we could have dinner again.” Ryan looked apprehensive as he asked, watching Brendon closely.
Brendon bit his lip as he smiled. “What some men will do here for diamonds,” he murmured, and Ryan looked up. “What some men will do here for gold. They're wounded but they just keep on climbin', and they sleep by the side of the road.”
“That’s a yes, then?” Ryan asked, and Brendon heard a slight upswing of hopefulness in his tone.
Brendon paused, glancing down at his guitar case propped against the booth, then smiled.
“It’s a yes, to both.”
Ryan nodded and hid his smile by looking down at his food. Brendon watched him a minute before letting the overwhelmingly happy buzz feel his body and grinning at his plate.
Go out to the meadow,
The hills are a-green.
Sing me a rainbow,
Steal me a dream.
*
FIN.