Back to the Beginning
Who wants a little peek into the life of our favorite musician to brighten their Monday? Look no further! I hope y’all enjoy, and as always, thank you for reading!
Image prompt 6: Ryan Brenner x reader (requested by @thisisparadisemylove)
Rating: PG due to absolute and adorable fluff.
Word count: 1946
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This is related to (later down the line) A Familiar Face, which can be found in my masterlist.
The air in the city was dense and heavy. Before you could take anything in, to appreciate your time there, you had to train your lungs to breathe in the atmosphere; it was imperative to get acclimated to the moisture that hung invisibly around you. It was so thick, the humidity was almost strangling.
But when you hit that point where you could breathe again, to inhale that air with ease, the sensations surrounding you were breathtaking.
The uneven, crumbling brick paving the sidewalks were littered with people: tourists with strands of colorful beads hanging from their necks, carrying styrofoam cups; older couples holding hands while taking leisurely strolls; giggling teenagers ducking into shops with signs in the windows boasting shrunken heads and Voodoo dolls. The air carried with it succulent smells from various restaurants, and dance troupes occupied the middle of narrow streets to entertain. People spray-painted in metallic tones from head to toe stood frozen like statues, so still it was as if they weren’t breathing. Depending which street you were on, the energy around you would flip between an electric buzz or a warm leisure-- the kind that was the reason behind the city being coined The Big Easy.
But one constant in New Orleans, whether in the French Quarter, down Magazine Street, or lost just beyond the corner of Decatur and St. Peters’ expanse of the French Market—crowded with vendors selling silver jewelry or art, fresh vegetables and homemade soaps offered in booths at the farmers’ market further down the street, or finding hidden treasures buried deep at the flea market adjacent to the famous Cafe du Monde— was the music.
Street performers playing various flavors of music occupied almost every street corner in the New Orleans area. But Royal Street— Ryan had told you it was pronounced roy-AL, like a duo of two male names sewn together— that was where the real music was, the music with heart and soul and life, no matter the sweltering heat and thick, suffocating humidity. Thirteen blocks through the French Quarter and several leading down toward Frenchman Street was the city’s epicenter of live music. It was where Ryan wanted to take you.
“There’re all types of musicians down here, Y/N,” Ryan said, excitement apparent. Soft-spoken by default unless he was singing, full-bodied and soul on fire, Ryan’s smooth, soft drawl was a pleasure to hear, even if you had to strain to hear sometimes. But the enthusiasm of what he was set to explore with you— to share with you— added volume to his voice, thickened his drawl just a touch, and shifted his intonation to the point that his words sounded more like song than speak. “Jazz is the front-runner but you name it, and you’re goin’ to hear it. I reckon there ain’t a place like it anywhere else in the world.”
Ryan tore his eyes from a two-story brick building, balconies adored by wrought-iron and punctuated with lush hanging plants. You’d read that most of the businesses in this part of the city hailed in structures that were built centuries ago. You smiled as your attention turned to Ryan’s face, lit up with a wide, Cheshire-like grin. His happiness was your happiness, and when he gifted you with that big, toothy, genuine smile,, you felt like a Mega Millions winner. You knew you’d hit the jackpot with this man.
He’d ditched his pack in the bed and breakfast you’d booked days before, despite his protests.
”This was my idea, Y/N. “
“But I wanted to come.”
Slowly nodding his head in agreement, Ryan gently pointed out, “I asked you to join me—“
“And I accepted.”
He eyed you with his eyebrows quirked, and you continued. “You let me come with you, and you let me live life your way for a few days. It’s been exhilarating and uncertain and I feel more alive than I have in a long time.” Your eyes were full of sincerity, and Ryan took a few steps toward you, only stopping as stood right in front of you. He reached to tuck your hair behind your ear. “So let me find us a warm bed to sleep in and cold air conditioning to lay under.”
Finally, he conceded. “If that’s what you want, Y/N, you know you got it. But I gotta tell you, it’s not a usual part of my way of livin’.”
You bit your bottom lip thoughtfully and narrowed your eyes playfully. “Maybe it’s your way of livin’ with me.”
He’d left his pack, but still carried his guitar case. His tattooed fingers were laced with yours as the two of you walked; you had a destination: the flea market just a few blocks away. But first, Ryan wanted to take a slight detour.
“I really want to experience the music. Appreciate it. Take our time, if that’s alright.”
You’d nodded immediately, agreeing with him. You wanted the same thing, wanted to be there with Ryan and join him in his elation and opinions and feel a bit of that love he felt for music.
“And I know you want to go to the flea market—“
“I need to go to the flea market.” You interjected, and he laughed. You shrugged. and he shook his head
“You’re somethin’ else.” The slight smell of coffee wafted through the air, and as the smell became stronger, it took on an almost sweet scent. Applause broke out from somewhere ahead of you, momentarily drowning out an increasingly loud dissonance of chatter.
“You know, I think you’ve told me that before. Once or twice.” Before Ryan could answer, you found yourselves standing just outside the open-air, renowned Cafe du Monde. The scent, the chatter, and the perfect, faraway backdrop of a nearby trumpeter’s solo version of When the Saints Go Marching In was classic New Orleans. You felt a sense of nostalgia wash over you, and you knew at that exact moment that this city, so full of culture and history, art and Cajun food, voodoo and ghost tours, jazz and zydeco and blues and swing and swamp pop— this city meant something to you, and it was your first time visiting.
Ryan gently led you to an occupied table, smack in the middle of the cafe. He pulled out your chair for you with a boyish smile before sitting in the chair across the small table, guitar case close by his side. He leaned forward on his elbows so you could hear over the noise.
“The menu’s not your traditional menu,” Ryan warned you. His eyes danced from across the table, and he added, “Not that New Orleans skimps on tradition, but they do it their own way. ‘S their style.”
You found yourself leaning in as well, caught you in the cadence of Ryan’s voice as well as his words. Ryan wasn’t a huge talker, he didn’t need to be, but when he got on a roll about music or traveling or something that he was passionate about, he spoke up more than usual and you loved those moments. This was one of them.
“ ‘Bout a half-dozen choices to choose from. It’s slim pickin’s, but you can’t go wrong with what they’re offerin’.”” Ryan had been to New Orleans many times; there was just no other place like it. He held up his left hand, calloused fingertips and vertical lines inked between mid and lower knuckles of each finger. “You’ve got coffee—cafe au lait. Fresh-squeezed orange juice, milk…”
You had started to shake your head as Ryan went on. He stopped before he rattled off a variety of sodas and coffee over ice; he knew what you were saying without words, and had known as much before he spoke. The two of you shared a smile, intimate with understanding. Opening your mouth to share a sentiment, you were stalled as a waitress appeared tableside, vibrant purple hair pulled back and piled atop her head. She was around your age and looked frazzled. You smiled at her. Many days at the diner had you in the same state at some point.
“A cafe au lait and order of beignets, please,” Ryan said politely, inclining his chin to order while looking at the server, not just rattling off what he wanted. He was always attentive, and actually talking to someone rather than at them was something you valued at work. Ryan just did so naturally without a second thought. “Same for my girl here.” He looked at you adoringly with an expression asking for confirmation.
“You got it,” you said, meeting Ryan’s eyes for a beat of time, then looking to the waitress and nodding appreciatively. “Thank you.”
In his typical fashion, Ryan followed immediately, offering the woman a small smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”
When she turned to walk away and Ryan’s attention was yours again, he immediately noticed the way the corners of your lips turned upward. He looked at you as you appreciated his features from across the table.
“I’ll wait,” he teased gently. Leaning back in his chair, his long legs stretched out as much as possible beneath the table without invading your space, you nudged his knee with your own.
“Wait for what?” It was a rhetorical question; it was all in your expression, the way you sometimes got as quiet as Ryan himself and just looked at him like he hung the moon. Ryan had called you his girl, and you supposed it was true, but to hear him say it was another thing entirely. He had you reeling. It took you a moment to get back on track. “I was just thinking about your thank you ma’am. How it sounded familiar, and how someone else is bringing us coffee instead of me bringing it to you… which, in hindsight, is why we’re here. Together. It’s all come full circle in a sense.”
It seemed like a lifetime ago. As you and Ryan enjoyed your beignets, you relished in little memories, and that was what made your relationship so special. Ryan had taught you just how important simplicity was. He laughed as you balked, tasting your cafe au lait without adding sugar first, forgetting there was chicory in the drink. You stood from your chair to brush powdered sugar from a beignet out of the scruff on his chin. He taught you the difference between zydeco and swamp pop, and insisted on paying for your coffee and beignets.
“There you go again, Ryan Brenner. Fighting me over sweets and tips, bringing it right back to the beginning. You’d finally made it to the flea market, but before you could walk in, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You let out a sigh.
“I like the present much better, Y/N,” he said, speaking into your ear. Your shoulder shrugged involuntary, his whiskers and breath tickling your ear. “The beginning was real nice, but this,” he paused, pressing his lips to your temple, “What we have now, it’s been on my mind since that first cup of coffee.” You looked up at him with a look of awe; it was a confession he’d never made before, and it felt like the perfect moment for him to do so, there in this huge flea market in New Orleans. You had words on the tip of your tongue, but they were stuck there.
When you didn’t reply, Ryan just smiled down at you. It was one of those small, simple, yet significant moments. You’d had so many with him. He let his arm fall from your waist to link his fingers with yours again, leading your further inside. “You make a damn good cup of coffee, Y/N.”
