1. trep·i·da·tious (adjective) apprehensive or nervous; filled with trepidation.

Ryan wasn't nervous about his move to Los Angeles. The year of saving, the months of planning, the two hour flight and the three days of doing nothing but unpacking, none of it had made him nervous.

However, walking down Valencia Avenue, eyeing all of the tattoo parlors and gripping his bag strap tight against his chest, he felt nothing but trepidation. Ryan had wanted to be a tattoo artist since he was a child. Watching through every season of Best Ink, LA Ink, Miami Ink, and Ink Master had prepared him for what tattoo artists looked for. They paid attention to style, they paid attention to detail, they paid attention to unnerving precision, and - most importantly - they paid attention to confidence.

Ryan may be lacking a bit in the confidence area, but, as far as everything else, he thinks he's pretty good. He'd spent almost a year practicing his tattooing on various gourds and rotting fruits and vegetables and he feels like he's ready to take on an apprenticeship and learn from the best artists in Los Angeles. He takes a deep breath and looks over the notes in his phone again, starting at the top of his list of 'best rated' parlors and started walking down the avenue.

His first stop was a shop called Hustlers, and when he walked inside, he started taking in the art on the walls. A lot of the art was photorealistic, depicting real life scenery and images, almost like photographs but not as clear. After looking through the art he went to the front desk and cleared his throat. "Hi," he said softly yet confidently. "Is the shop owner here?"

A woman with brown-to-blonde ombré hair looked him up and down and blinked a couple of times before answering. "She's sitting right in front of you," she said, her voice bored and mostly uninterested. "Can I help you?"

Ryan cleared his throat again, letting out a small breath. "I see that most of the art surrounding the walls depicts photorealism. Is that the most common style that is done here?"

The woman tightened her lips slightly, nodding towards him. "My artists are versatile, but their preferred styles are photorealism, yes. Why do you ask?"

Here goes nothing, Ryan thinks to himself. "I'm looking for an apprenticeship," he spoke firmly. "I've just moved here, to Los Angeles, and I'm looking for a tattoo parlor to showcase at and hopefully plant a foundation at, as well."

The woman hesitated for a moment, like she wanted to say no right then and there, but she sighed gently. "I'm not gonna to lie to you, kid," she said softly, "we don't get much business around here. A lot of my artists only show up when I call them, and the only demographic we get are mostly men and some women in their thirties, and that's maybe only two to three times a week. From the looks of it, this shop won't be open much longer. Maybe a month, at most."

Ryan felt a pang of hurt for this strange woman. He couldn't imagine having to say goodbye to a place that was the home of something he held so dearly. He looked at the woman and nodded gently. "Do you know of some other parlors that would be open to taking apprentices?"

The woman thought over Ryan's question for a moment. "There's a lot of shops in downtown LA, kid," she said, walking from behind the counter. "Crossroads is a good start, maybe even Wolfhound. You have a lot of options, that's for sure."

Ryan nodded and hitched his bag strap higher on his shoulder. "Thank you, ma'am," he said softly. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time. I hope things get better for you, here."

Just as he turned to leave, he was stopped by her calling out to him. "A little piece of advice," she started, "steer clear of Empty Gold. They're basically a family over there, and they don't take too kindly to strangers trying to join it. No one - other than the artists - have met the owner, but I heard he's pretty ruthless. By all means, go over there to get your tattoos - the team is incredible - but stick to your own."

Ryan hesitated, letting the words of caution ferment before nodding and exiting the parlor. Ryan had never even heard of Empty Gold, which, if the artists were as good as the woman said they were, he should have. He sighed gently, opening his notes in his phone and marking an 'X' out beside Hustlers.

One down, hundreds to go.

~ ~ ~

Two hours later, Ryan still had no luck. He'd thought he'd almost made a breakthrough at Wolfhound, but they changed his mind once they saw his portfolio. They said that Ryan never having tattooed an actual person was the deciding factor. They needed someone with experience, not a 'fruit artist.'

Fuck them. Ryan doesn't want to apprentice under someone with snakeskin flip-flops, anyway.

Ryan was now seated in a small coffee shop across the street from a tattoo parlor with simple, white, avenir text scrawled across the blacked-out window.

Empty Gold.

He spent the next twenty or so minutes wracking his brain, trying to think of whether or not he had heard of this shop before, but he can't seem to recollect it at all. It looked relatively small, not like a place that would generate that much business like the woman at Hustlers and nearly every owner at every parlor he visited had insinuated.

He tapped the side of his coffee cup to the rhythm of the music in his ears as he bit his lip in thought. He remembered what the woman at Hustlers had said, but he couldn't help but be intrigued by this harmless looking parlor. After a few more minutes of staring at the building through the window, he cursed to himself and chugged the rest of his coffee before standing from his lonely booth and leaving the coffee shop.

He paused for one last moment of fleeting hesitation before crossing the quiet street and to the parlor door. He took a deep breath before grabbing the entrance handle and pulling open the door to step inside. Upon entering the parlor, he was met with the most intimidating looking group of people he'd ever seen in his life.

There were seven people sitting in various chairs in various positions close to a grey wall covered in black and white multi-style tattoos, ranging from neo traditional to minimalism. Sitting in the floor was a girl with white blonde hair, wearing a pair of black skinny jeans with rips all the way from her ankles to her hips and a white crop top shirt. She had sharp cheek bones and wide eyes with blue eye shadow surrounding one eye and red eye shadow surrounding the other.

Next to her, seated with his legs straddling the back of a chair, was a boy with brown hair hidden under a backwards snapback, wearing a cut-off black shirt and what looked like black tights with upside down, white crosses on them. Next to him, seated normally in a chair, was a boy in an almost contrasting outfit - a white cut-off shirt with plain, black skinny jeans.

He didn't have time to observe the rest of the group when one of the members, a girl with long, flowing brown hair and bright blue eyes wearing an all black attire walked over to him. "Can we help you?"

Ryan forgot how to breath for a second before he cleared his throat. "I-I'm looking for the owner," he said, a bit unsure.

The girl started laughing, uninterested, as the rest of the group tried but failed to stifle their laughter as well. "Good luck with that one," she said, her tone condescending and empty. "What is that you want?"

Ryan stood his ground. "I just moved to LA," he repeated, like he'd been saying all day. "I'm looking for a parlor to take me on as an apprentice."

The girl stood in front of him looked absolutely incredulous before she burst out laughing, the sound soon followed by a few members of the group behind her. "First of all," she started, a taunting smirk on her face, "we don't take apprentices. Second of all, you wouldn't last one day here, not with how you hold yourself. You don't belong here." Her smirk grew as she stepped closer to him. "Hell, I don't even think you belong in LA."

Ryan stood there, shocked, as she turned to walk away back to her group. "Do yourself a favor," she called over her shoulders before she sat down and faced him, "go home. You're not gonna make it here."

Ryan felt the urge to cry. He felt the urge to do exactly as the woman said to do. However, he was not about to cry in front of her. Or any of them. He sent a small nod their way before turning on his heel and exiting the small parlor. Not even two steps outside of the door, but thankfully covered by the blacked-out windows, he runs straight into another body. Upon impact, the stranger dropped a binder full of papers along with a shoulder bag and a pair of sunglasses.

Ryan immediately bent down to retrieve the loose papers and the various items dropped in front of him. "I am so sorry," he started to ramble. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, this was all my fault, I'll spend however long you want me to to reorganize all of these papers how you want them--"

That's when he was cut off by a soft laugh, which was also probably the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. "Calm down there, kid," the voice said gently. "Don't give yourself a heart attack, now."

Ryan looked up to see the stranger dropped to his knees as well, helping Ryan to pick up his own things that Ryan had made him drop. Once everything was collected, the two stood to their feet and Ryan handed the stranger his things. It was then that they made eye contact, and, for the second time in the last five minutes, he forgot to tell himself to breathe.

Soft brown eyes were looking back at him and a warm smile etched the stranger's face. "Did you enjoy your visit to Empty Gold?"

Ryan hesitated for a moment before sighing gently. "If I'm being honest, not exactly."

The stranger's smile left his face then, and he tilted his face to the side. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said gently. "What happened to be the problem?"

Ryan hitched his bag strap up slightly and let out a soft sigh. "I'm no expert at customer service," he started, "but I think these people took a course on how to be the shittiest at it."

The stranger bit his lip to suppress a laugh as he hitched his own bag strap up. "I'm sure the owner probably apologized for their behavior, did he not?"

Ryan shook his head gently. "I don't think he was there," he said softly, defeated. "I heard he's pretty elusive and no one has actually met him, other than the artists. But," he said, jerking his thumb toward the parlor entrance, "if the artists are anything to go by, I can't expect him to be any better."

The stranger then smiled a wide, Cheshire esque smile and stuck out his hand. "Brendon Urie," he said. "Nice to meet you."

Confused, Ryan took his hand and shook it. "Ryan Ross."

The stranger - now known as Brendon - moved past Ryan, reaching for the entrance and pulling it open before turning back to him and smiling gently. "Welcome to my shop."

Oh, shit.