You Got a Face With a View, bandombigbang, Jon/Brendon PG-13 1/5
Title:You Got a Face With a View
Author: cloudlessclimes
Rated: PG-13
Pairing:Jon Walker/Brendon Urie
Word Count:40 000
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one.
Summary:20th Century Baltimore Magazine photographer Jon Walker buys an antique desk and finds Civil War-era sheet music inside, written by free spirit and social outcast Brendon Urie, who died over a hundred years ago.
Fancifully, he writes and mails a reply...only to have it reach its destination in the past. The mysterious desk, purchased from Asher Antiques seems to make letters travel through time.
Notes: Loosely based on the 1998 Hallmark Hall of Fame TV movieThe Love Letter which I saw once, back in the day when it first aired.
Title comes from a line in the Talking Heads Song This Must Be the Place (naive melody)
Stephen Collins Foster is an actual American songwriter
The events of the US Civil War mentioned are all real and a good introduction can be found in Battlecry of Freedom
All songs and their lyrics are copyright Panic at the Disco
Thanks to the awesome queen_geek, spleenjournal, ohnoscarlett prettykitty_aya and wordsalonefor beta-ing, listening to me kvetch, holding my hand, and providing paper bags to breathe into, both virtual and actual.
1 2 3 4 5
Fan Art (possible spoilers) by i_heart_cliches
Mix by saramir
Mix by kate_the_great7
Home - is where I want to be
But I guess I'm already there
I come home - she lifted up her wings
Guess that this must be the place
I can't tell one from another
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time Before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I'll be . . . where I'll be
"We're just two guys at the antique market," Ryan smirks beneath the brim of his fedora and links his arm through Jon's, "we totally blend in." They wind their way though the crowd, darting glances into booths packed full of furniture as they navigate the narrow aisles of the old bank building.
Pulling at the bill of his Cub's hat, Jon's good-natured grin widens and he tips his head back, laughing. "Why are we even here, anyway? Couldn't we just do this on the internet, like eBay or something?"
Ryan scoffs and squeezes Jon's arm, "Dude, the beauty of shopping is...shopping! Picking shit up, trying stuff on," he shakes the bag full of vintage shirts dangling from his fingertips. "Wait, wait, what are you..." The shopping bag swings in a wide arc when Jon jerks suddenly into a stall, giving Ryan no choice but to follow.
"Lookit!" Jon exclaims, hand coming out to stroke along the ornately carved ridge of a small desk.
"Oh no. Oh nonono, Jon Walker. We're here to find Spencer's birthday present." Ryan shakes his head and pulls on the elbow of Jon's faded navy blue hoodie. "Spencer's birthday present, specifically requested by him through Crystal and Jackie. And that birthday present is Fiesta Wear, pretty, decorative, vintage, Fiesta Wear dishes for the restaurant." Ryan waves the email he'd printed out, complete with helpful photographs.
Jon is completely ignoring Ryan; opening and closing the small cubbyhole drawers and running his fingertips across the finish. "But it's so pretty."
"Jon," Ryan scowls and yanks his hand back from Jon's arm. "Dude, no. Spencer doesn't need some kind of freaky old fashioned accounting desk. He dumped your ass 'cause you bought him QuickBooks for Christmas!"
It's Jon's turn to scowl at that, "He did not dump me, we decided to be friends, Ryan Ross, you know that. And I wouldn't get this for Spencer's birthday--QuickBooks is a really fuckin' practical gift, by the way-- and seeing your best friend try to balance the books with the calculator on his Macbook was painful--I'd get it for me." He plunks himself down on the little stool that's set in front of the desk.
Ryan makes a frustrated sound and a flapping gesture, "Yeah, just like the piano, and the grandfather clock, and the wake table..." He trails off and rolls his eyes.
"Shut up, every guy needs a hobby." Jon shifts to return the smile of the woman who's come across the stall and is watching them with amusement.
"Isn't it lovely?" she asks.
"It's no purple or red Fiesta Wear platters or pitchers," Ryan deadpans from where he's leaning against a china cabinet, his long fingers folding the papers he's holding into origami cranes.
Standing, Jon smirks and wipes his hands down his faded jeans. "Yeah, it's really nice. Different, you know?"
The woman nods enthusiastically, "Yes, you don't see many pieces of this period with their paint still so fully intact. Mostly people just buy them and strip them, then cover them in varnish." She scrunches up her face in distaste.
Jon stuffs his hands in the front pocket of his jeans and rocks up onto his toes, wriggling them against the rubber of his flip-flops. "She's a beauty. Is this walnut?" He taps on the solid desktop.
Nodding enthusiastically, the girl says, "Yes! Spanish walnut, actually, and the inlay is rosewood. Pretty rare for Post-Colonial pieces. And the stool's cushion is original too, hand embroidered." She bends to swipe her hand over the faded flowers and birds stitched into the fabric of the desk's chair.
Smiling in the face of the seller's enthusiasm, Jon unleashes his secret weapon -- the guileless Jon Walker grin. "So, how much?
The girl laughs, and pats Jon's shoulder, "Actually, I don't know! My Dad usually handles all the wheeling and dealing. I just blather about mid-Nineteenth Century carpentry methods and provenance." She turns to trot back across the stall to a desk piled high with ledgers and papers. "Here," she says, coming back to Jon and Ryan, "My Dad's just stepped out for lunch, but here's my card if you can't wait around." She slips the business card into Jon's hand smiling.
"Hey, thanks, Victoria." Jon reads her name off the card Peter Asher Antiques, Victoria Asher Provenance and Procurement.
Laughing again, Victoria extends her hand, "You're welcome...?"
"Jon. Jon Walker." Jon's grin is easy as he slips the card into his pocket and shakes her hand. "Well, I gotta go before my friend here busts a blood vessel in his brain or something. But I'll definitely be back to talk to your dad." Jon salutes with two fingers raised to the bill of his ball cap and then takes Ryan's bags, smiling sheepishly.
Victoria waves and laughs, as Ryan rolls his eyes and groans, "Finally!" as they head back out into the market. "So, you do know you probably can't afford that, right? It's not like Helena's piano or that Grandfather clock Tom and Nick found dumpster diving."
Shrugging affably Jon says, "You never know, and it doesn't hurt to ask."
"You are the most contrary gay dude I know! Jon Walker; lover of baseball, Metallica and antique furniture. Which one of these things is not like the other? Which one of these things just doesn't belong?"
"I have layers!" Jon explains, shuffling to keep up with Ryan's long strides.
Ryan laughs and herds Jon through the crowded hall, "So do onions!" Ryan gives Jon a small, quick hug, "C'mon, Fiesta Wear awaits!"
Half an hour later, platters and pitchers and a few colorful plates carefully packed into boxes that Jon is carrying back to his little Honda, Ryan declares Operation: Spencer's Birthday Gift a success. "You're still thinking about that desk, aren't you?" he hip bumps the car door closed and leans against it.
"Yeah, I mean, I could just find out how much it is, right? My haggling powers are awesome!"
Ryan snorts, amused. "Yeah. Awesome!" He tugs on the paisley scarf around his neck. "That's why you ended up giving that kid in Ocho Rios twice what she was asking for those bracelets."
"You expected me to haggle with a tiny, hungry little girl? She deserved every penny I paid her!" Jon's brown eyes are wide. "You're a mean one, Mr Ross." He takes the Asher Antiques business card out of his pocket and turns it over between his fingers.
Sighing, Ryan says, "Hey man, what you chose to do with your money is your business. But I don't actually give a flying fuck about desks or anything else that is in that dust pit," he hooks his thumb back towards the bank building. "And we took for fucking ever, so now I'm gonna go home and mock my husband's efforts to cook me dinner."
Jon laughs at that and smacks a kiss to Ryan's cheek. "Okay, fine. Kiss Gerard for me!"
"I will! With tongue!" Ryan waggles his eyebrows and sticks his tongue out at Jon as he turns towards his Volvo.
Mock horrified Jon clamps his hands over his ears, "Dude! Dude, that's my boss you're talking about!"
"Yeah well, at home I'm the boss, if you know what I mean. And I think you do!" Ryan's laughing so hard his shoulders are shaking as he folds himself into the driver's seat of his car.
"Ew, get the fuck out, Ross."
Ryan laughs and flips Jon off, "See you later, loser. Remember, dinner at the restaurant is at 8 on Saturday, if you can tear yourself away from your new boyfriend, Desky!"
Laughing, Jon gives Ryan the finger in return, and then lopes across the parking lot and back into the antiques mall. It's late in the afternoon and the crowd has thinned, so Jon has little trouble finding the Asher Antiques booth. A small, birdlike man is sitting at the desk this time. "Mr. Asher?" Jon asks tentatively.
"Yes, hello!" The man stands and pushes the thick black plastic frames of his glasses up his nose, grinning as he comes to stand beside Jon.
Jon smiles politely in return and his glance shifts to the desk. "Hey, um, I was here earlier and I spoke to your daughter, Victoria, about that desk?" he points across the booth.
"Oh, yes! She said someone had come by asking about it. Pretty little thing, isn't it?" Mr. Asher gives the solid wood an affectionate pat.
Smile flickering on Jon's face he says a soft, "Yeah, it's beautiful.” He nervously scratches at his forehead and says, "So, I was wondering..."
"Ah!" The antiques dealer smiles and holds up his hand, gently cutting Jon off. He takes a small lined pad from the pocket of his dress shirt, and a stubby bit of pencil from behind his ear. He licks the tip of the pencil and then scribbles onto the pad. "Interested, are you?" He smiles and hands the pad to Jon.
Jon looks down at the messy scrawl of the digits--actually quite reasonable--and his eyes go wide and round, and he smiles before he has a chance to stop himself. If Gerard and Tom were here right now they'd be laughing their asses off and comparing the many many ways Jon sucks at poker. "Um, actually," Jon smiles slow and reaches for the stub of pencil, "This is more like what I was thinking. To be honest it's all I can afford." He quickly scribbles on the paper and hands it back to Asher.
He nods and says, "I believe that is a perfectly acceptable offer!" Jon's smile widens and he reaches for his wallet. Mr. Asher claps Jon companionably on the shoulder, steering him to the desk at the back of the stall.
"So, where did it come from? The desk, I mean?" Jon straddles a ladder back chair and tosses his wallet onto the paper-riddled desk.
"Well," Asher pauses as he reaches into a file folder, pulling out a bill of sale, "Usually Victoria and I get our stock from estate sales, bequeathals, things like that." He prints the detailed description off of a computer file and feeds the bill through the printer. "But for this piece, we were driving through the countryside in Virginia, and just so happened upon the start of an auction, in a barn, if you can believe it." He shuffles the papers towards Jon for his approval. "How will you be paying?"
"Uh, credit card okay?" Jon's eyes flit over the page, and from what he can read it seems to be an accurate description of the desk and the price he has agreed to pay for it.
Nodding and still smiling, Mr. Asher takes the offered Visa card and runs it through a machine. "Poor Victoria nearly drove herself mad trying to figure out where that little desk came from. Obviously it's Post Colonial, but it doesn't appear to have a makers mark anywhere on it. She's narrowed it down to a couple of possible local carpenters from the period. Or perhaps it was made by an admirer, in a similar style.” The little man stops to shrug and push his glasses up, “But, we bought it from a barn, and they had no idea where it had come from. So, you can see why it is the price it is." He smiles and hands the card back to Jon. "It's unfortunate that the history of such a unique and impressive piece is lost." He says, shaking his head. "This is all the information we have, sadly," he fans out files in a stack and plucks out a cheery red folder, slipping the bill of sale inside and handing the whole thing to Jon. "So, would you like assistance getting the desk to your car?"
Standing and scratching his nose, Jon says, "Um, actually I don't think it'll fit." He slaps the folder against his thigh and bites his lip.
"We offer delivery for a small fee..."
Jon takes out his cell phone, thumbing through contacts, "Uh, no thanks, I think I got this covered." Grunting when he finds the number he wants, Jon hits call.
"I told Ross I am not going fancy dish shopping with you dipshits." Tom's voice is amused in Jon's ear.
Jon laughs and leans against the heavy wooden table, "Nah man, I need a favor. Can you bring the truck to Broadway and meet me?"
There's the sound of chewing and swallowing and Tom says, "I guess so. How many fucking dishes did you buy for Smith anyway?"
"I bought a desk!" Jon answers enthusiastically. "And dishes for Spence, but they're in the car. The desk is for me!"
Tom stifles something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh masquerading as a cough, "Uh, sure dude. Gimme like twenty minutes."
"I'll meet you outside, by the main entrance." Jon flicks his phone closed and says, "My ride's on the way." Mr. Asher nods and smiles and Jon smiles at Victoria as she enters the booth, coffee in hand.
Tipping the cup towards Jon in a "cheers!" sort of motion Victoria says, "So, you bought it. I'm so glad. Did my Dad explain its history? Or I guess its lack of history?"
Jon wistfully eyes the paper coffee cup Victoria is waving about and says, "Yeah, yeah he did." He raises the file folder and his eyebrow.
"It might make insurance a little tricky, but I can recommend someone who'll give you a fair quote." Victoria reaches across in front of her father and flips through a file-o-fax for a cream colored card. She motions for Jon to hand her the folder and staples the appraiser's card to the sales slips.
Jon tugs his Cubs hat down across his forehead and frowns a little. He had no idea things would be so complicated. He'd never given a thought to insurance or appraisals and doesn't actually care that no one could prove where the desk came from or who made it. He just likes it and thinks it will look nice under the window in his living room. "Uh, thanks," Jon takes the folder back and gives a curt nod and smile. "Um, I guess I'll just go grab a coffee 'til my ride gets here."
"Sure, and we'll just finish getting your purchase travel worthy!" Victoria sets her coffee down and heads over to the desk, which her father has already started securing in various kinds of packing materials.
Tom's big black pick-up pulls up to the curb where Jon is leaning, legs crossed at the ankles, against an empty cement planter. "Hey!" Tom hops from the cab.
"Hey!" Jon lifts his hand in a lazy wave and then picks up the paper cup sitting on the edge of the planter. "Here, caffeine bribery."
Taking the cup and raising it to his mouth for a long swallow Tom says, "Thanks, and you're lucky you called when you did, I was just heading down to Danielle's.” He bumps Jon's shoulder when they start walking back into the antiques mall. "So, a desk?" Jon just shrugs and gives Tom a slow smile.
They get to the Ashers, and Jon's desk has been carefully wrapped and covered. Jon laughs under his breath when he hears Tom say, "Hello there!" to Victoria in a voice Jon has known since high school that Tom reserves for only the prettiest of girls. His smile widens as he looks at Victoria through the sweep of blond hair over his eyes. "Jon's moving crew is here!"
Victoria laughs and says, "Great! It's all ready for you, Jon." She smirks as she squeezes past Tom to talk directly to Jon, and Jon can't help but chuckle and secretly think denied!. "Do you need any help getting it out to the truck?"
"Nah we're good!" Tom answers, almost before Victoria finishes speaking. "C'mon Jonny, I can't do all the work around here." Tom picks up one end of the desk and motions with his chin for Jon to take the other.
"Thanks for all your help!" Jon calls over his shoulder, shuffling in his flip-flops to keep up with Tom as they navigate through the mall.
Once they've tied the desk securely into the bed of the truck with rope and bungee chords, Tom hops into the driver's seat while Jon walks around to the passenger side, and they set off towards Jon's place. "So," Tom arches an eyebrow over his aviators, "A desk huh? I thought you were saving for a trip to Hawaii?" He lights a cigarette and blows a long plume of smoke out the open window. Despite the orange and gold dappling the leaves clinging stubbornly to the trees, it's still a sunny, warm day.
Petulantly, Jon snags the lit cigarette from between Tom's lips and brings it to his own."Yeah well, I dunno, I just sort of saw it and wanted it." Jesus. Is it really that weird? It's just a fucking piece of furniture.
Tom turns off of Charles and pulls the truck up to the curb in front of Jon's row house. They struggle up the steps and Jon opens the door, shoving an excited puppy out of the way with his foot. "Hey Marls, gimme a minute, boy." He says softly, managing to ruffle the black dog's fur with one hand. "You can just leave it here," Jon says when they make it to the living room, Tom, as usual, tripping on both cats.
With a grunt of irritated finality, Tom sets down his end and straightens. Irritated, he rubs a hand over the small of his back, "Jesus, what the fuck is that thing made out of? Why the fuck is it so heavy?"
"Walnut," Jon answers, laughing as both Clover and Dylan climb onto the cotton muslin covering the desk, pawing and sniffing. Jon takes off his baseball hat, tossing it carelessly onto the battered sofa, and runs his hands through his messy hair, continuing on through the house. In the kitchen, he opens the fridge and takes out two beers. "Here, man. Thanks." He clinks the neck of his bottle with Tom's and flops down onto the couch.
Tom smirks at him from his perch on the sofa's arm, absently stroking Marley's fluffy ears. "So," he starts, "Yanno, most of the time when a guy gets dumped he drinks too much, or smokes too much dope, or maybe finds some dive where he hooks up for a one night stand or two. Only you would develop some kind of antiques...thing." Tom's eyes flit from the desk, to the piano shoved against one wall, to the Grandfather clock between the front window and the door. "That's kinda..."
"Gay?" Jon tries to keep his voice even and focuses on peeling the label off his bottle, setting the shredded paper onto the steamer trunk currently passing as a coffee table, a furrow between his brows.
Tom sighs in exasperation and stops petting the black dog cozied up to his shin to affectionately punch Jon in the arm. "No, dumbass. Jesus, you think after all this time I care about that shit? I was gonna say it's a very Jon Walker thing to do. Actually, getting another animal would be the Jon Walkerest thing to do, but this is a pretty fuckin' close second." Tom lets out a little chuckle, expecting Jon to do the same.
Still frowning Jon says, "And how many fucking times do I have to tell people that Spencer didn't dump me? Nobody dumped anyone. It was mutual. It really, really was. I know that's usually some bullshit thing people say when they get thrown out on their ass, but in this case it's the truth. We wanted different things, we didn't have time for each other. Sure, it's a cliché, but it's true!" Irritated, Jon takes a long drink of his beer.
"Okay, okay, I believe you!" Tom sets his beer bottle down on the trunk and holds his hands up in a gesture of placating defeat. "It's just, man, you moved down here from Chicago for him, you know? That's some serious shit. And you've been all laid back JWalk yeah, we're cool, we're fine, we're friends, but it's gotta hurt too."
Sighing and nudging into Tom when he slides off the sofa's arm to land against him, Jon says, "And I didn't move to Baltimore for Spencer. I moved here because I got a kick ass job offer. Art school grads cannot look a job horse in the mouth, you know that, man."
"Whatever you say," Tom's tone is mild. They both laugh when Marley manages to wriggle himself between them in the tight confines of the couch. "But I think it's sort of interesting that Ryan--Spencer's best friend--got you the job at the magazine."
Jon hooks a finger under Marley's yellow leather collar and says, "Look, it takes connections but I go me the job, in the end. And I'm glad I did. I'm glad I moved down here. No more Chicago winters."
"Amen!" Tom raises his beer bottle and smiles wide. "Look bro, I gotta go. I promised Danielle I'd be right over to her place after I helped you with your little homo furniture transport mission of mercy." He sets the bottle down on the floor and then stands, stretching.
Jon nods and doesn't move from his place on the sofa. "So whipped," he chuckles.
"Riiight. And who got dragged all over Broadway to find fucking ugly as shit dishes for his ex-boyfriend?" Tom laughs and leans down to give Marley one more pat, the dog's tail thumping against the back of the sofa. "Bye Bye Marls. Don't let the kids use Daddy's new investment as a scratching post."
Chucking a sofa cushion at Tom and missing by a wide margin, Jon laughs at his friend's look of mock outrage and says, "Get the fuck outta my house, asshole!" Grinning shit-eating wide, Tom flips Jon off and beats a hasty retreat, front door banging behind him as he trots down the steps.
"Right, dudes and dudette, should we check this thing out?" Jon runs his hand along Dylan's back, and the cat purrs and arches up into his touch. Clover curls herself around Jon's feet, and Marley sits in the doorway, whining a little with his head cocked. "Da, da da da da, something something Norwegian Wood," Jon hums under his breath as he uses his Leatherman to cut gently through the tape securing the protective cloth in place. The cotton falls away with a simple tug and the cats bolt, startled by the sudden movement. Marley yips from the doorway, and Jon looks up from where he's gathering the cover into a messy ball. "Shit! No, buddy...nonono," Jon runs over and hooks two fingers through Marley's collar. Giving up on waiting, the dog is raising his leg against the door frame.
"Sorry, Marls." Jon ushers the dog to the door, snatching up his leash. They hustle down the front steps, and the look of blissful relief on Marley's face is comical as he raises his leg beside a dead rosebush. "Guess we missed our noon appointment, huh?" Jon digs around in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, clutching at the soft pack and tapping one out with his free hand. Marley sniffs inquisitively along the walkway stones, and Jon inhales his first drag. Jon hums happily under his breath, laughing when Marley startles a grackle and cowers back against Jon. When they reach the sidewalk Jon stops short, staring at his empty parking space. "What the fuck?" Then he remembers; he'd been so distracted by the purchase of the desk he'd totally forgotten his car in the parking lot at the antiques mall. "Well, shit," he mutters, pulling out his phone and hitting Ryan's number.
Focusing his attention on Marley sniffing at a stop sign post, Jon waits for Ryan's hysterical laughter to stop, and sighing into his phone, says, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm a lametard space cadet. But, like, I need my car. If, you know, my boss wants me to show for work tomorrow." He grinds out the butt of his cigarette on the sidewalk and scowls at his iPhone.
"You were so excited about a piece of fucking furniture you forgot your car! That will never not be funny, Walker," Ryan's laughter dies down to a low chuckle, "I guess I'll come get you, maybe we can get subs or something on the way." In the background, Jon can hear Gerard raise his voice. "Yes dear, your Chicken Surprise is fucking awesome, I just meant that Jon should get subs in case he's so twitterpated by his sexy new furniture he forgets to eat."
Jon laughs and says, "So he's really making dinner? Should I have the fire department on stand by?"
"Oh God, I can't watch. I'll come get you. Be there in a few." Ryan whispers into the phone, a cacophony of clanging and banging in the background.
"You rock, thanks, man." Jon wriggles his bare toes at Clover who bats at them so intently that she falls over and Jon laughs again.
Ryan sighs, "The things I do for my friends. And Spencer's fucking dishes better still be in the trunk of your car or I'm making you go to fucking Mexico or where ever the hell Fiesta Wear comes from, to find them."
***
Dylan and Clover like to sleep curled up in a fluffy tabby cat ball on the padded, embroidered seat that came with Jon's new desk. It's right under the window and in the afternoon the sun shines in just the right spot to make it perfect for cat naps. Jon drops another stack of files and story ideas and contact sheets on the little desk's painted writing surface, causing the cats to gaze at him with narrowed, sleepy eyes before they yawn and resume their napping. "Least someone's using it," Jon laughs and flops down onto the sofa, flicking on the TV.
It's Friday night and Jon has been so busy all week that tonight all he wants to do is put on a DVD and grab a beer and just chill out. Or, you know, avoid the fact that every single one of his friends is part of a couple who do the Friday night date thing. Well, except Spencer, and he's only not part of couple because they decided months and months ago that they would be "better off as friends". Jon had accused Spencer of loving his restaurant more than him. And Spencer hadn't denied it. He'd just said that he was sick of only being seen through the lens of Jon's camera.
And that was that.
But, because they're both good guys and actually like each other, they are doing their best to try and be friends. Jon just hopes that some day soon the trying can stop and the friendship can stick. And sometimes when it's quiet and he's alone, and maybe a little lonely, Jon can admit to himself and the cats that he's not sure he can ever want anyone the way he once wanted Spencer.
Sighing, Jon sprawls on the couch and stares blankly at ESPN. Marley pads over to him and Jon doesn't have the heart to tell the dog to get off the sofa, he just shifts his legs and makes room, and Marley curls up, head resting on Jon's thigh, big brown eyes begging for an ear scratching. "Nother rockin' Friday night in our house, huh buddy?" Jon's fingers card through the soft tufts of hair that spring up around Marley's ears. He sighs again and quietly lectures the dog on the superiority of the Cubs over the Orioles.
***
Home is lit up and shining in the early evening. Jon had managed to putter around at his house long enough to avoid being the first person to arrive. He's got to give it to Alex and Spencer, their concept and location are pretty much genius, and from what he'd heard from Gerard, the food and the restaurant had been getting mostly rave reviews. Located in a renovated Victorian that overlooks the inner harbor, Home specializes in home cooking; meat loaf and mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, rice pudding, pound cake, and of course the ubiquitous soft shell crab. In the summer sturdy, comfortable wicker furniture takes up most of the wide wrap-around porch and the atmosphere and the food make it popular with locals and tourists alike.
Jon climbs the broad wooden steps and stares up at the strings of fairy lights sparkling in the big bay windows, the corners of his lips tilting into a soft smile. He can see Alex Suarez, Spencer's business partner and the guy responsible for the menu, waving his arms wildly and the team of waiters, most of them named Alex too, scurrying around--white aprons tied securely around their waists and black bow ties crisply knotted at their necks--doing as they're told.
The French doors are thrown wide to welcome the party guests and the gentle late summer breeze and Jon walks in, smile fixed firmly, and almost painfully, onto his face. "Hey!" Ryan comes over and takes the large box from Jon's arms, placing it with the rest of the gifts on a sideboard. The inside of the restaurant is decorated to resemble, as Spencer puts it "My Grandma's kitchen," simple, white washed oak and maple country furniture scattered around the room. The wide plank floor is polished and strewn with rag rugs, and the walls are covered in cheerful floral wallpaper. It's warm and inviting, a place you can take a date or your parents when they visit you at college. It's genius. Spencer has big plans for "Phase Two"--a deck that would allow them to seat people in the tree-lined backyard in warmer weather, increasing the number of people they can hold, and increasing revenue, of course.
Jon isn't really sure why Spencer wanted his birthday party at his own restaurant, the place where he works and spends 99% of his waking hours, but it's his birthday, so, whatever. "Hi," Jon waves once the box is out of his hands. Gerard smiles and comes to stand beside Jon, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "So, the gang's all here, huh? Where's the birthday boy?"
Wrapping a protective arm around Gerard's waist, Ryan follows Jon's glance around the room, taking in the knotted groups of Spencer's friends sitting at tables drinking from pinwheel punch glasses, and standing in familiar groups around the large room. "Dunno, he should be on his way soon, though. You know how he is for timing and schedules and all that shit. He better get here soon, Suarez is scaring the bejesus out of the wait staff." Ryan's smile widens as he rests his chin against Gerard's shoulder.
Looking at them individually, there's absolutely nothing about Gerard and Ryan that would immediately scream meant for each other, and certainly not married. Gerard has been known under great duress to put on a shirt and tie, much rather preferring jeans and a t-shirt, even around the magazine office, where he's the managing editor of the Arts section. Ryan always looks like he's raided his grandfather's closet, and Jon can't honestly remember the last time he saw him in jeans. But, personal aesthetics aside, whatever Ryan and Gerard have going on clearly works. They'd gone up to Montreal in June and gotten married; a fact Ryan never tires of sharing with anyone as he casually but calculatedly flashes the simple platinum band around his ring finger.
"Cool," Jon nods and accepts the glass of punch one of the Alex waiters--Alex Marshall, Jon thinks--brings him. "Hey, you need any help?" Jon shouts over the kid's head to Suarez.
Snorting Alex says, "Not in the kitchen, not from you, dude. There are no Fritos and Velveeta anywhere in this building."
"Fuck you, my game day nachos are legend man." But Jon laughs good naturedly and follows Ryan and Gerard to a table where Spencer's school friends, Pete and Patrick, and Gerard's brother Mikey, are sitting discussing the abysmal year the Orioles are having. The tiny chimes over the screen door sound gently and Jon's eyes dart up, startled to see a stranger. A tall blond man is standing in the door, rubbing his flannel covered elbow and if Jon's reading his lips correctly, cursing under his breath, "Hey, so who's that..."
"Right Jon? I mean that umpire was clearly smoking the special crack," Pete interrupts, and Ryan subtly shifts so he's blocking Jon's view of the doorway. Right, so his friends are completely lacking in any kind of stealth.
But, Pete's talking about baseball, and this is one of Jon's few opportunities to actually bring up the Cubs in the course of a conversation without everyone rolling their eyes, so he frowns a little, then shrugs and tries to convince Patrick that it's all MLB officials who are actually on drugs, not the players. Jon is passionately defending his stance when hands clamp down on his shoulders and he jumps in his seat. "What the fuck is this shit?" Tom's voice is playfully churlish as he tugs Jon's punch glass from his hands and replaces it with a can of PBR, "Here Jonny, pretend you're a real boy tonight, would ya?"
Jon laughs and makes room for Tom to wedge a chair around the table and then plunk himself into it, long legs sprawling into the path of the constant stream of waiters. "Just in time for the food, as usual," Jon smirks and inclines his chin towards where a line of chafing dishes is being set on a table by the kitchen entrance.
"What happened to Smith's hatred of the buffet?" Tom takes a mouthful of beer, swishing it in his cheeks before swallowing loudly.
"There is no sneeze guard big enough in the world!" Pete, Ryan, and Jon cry loudly in unison, ending in helpless laughter.
Suarez stops dead and turns on his heel, "If Spencer Smith the fucking Fifth thinks I am cooking all this food, and then doing table service for all this food, when you losers are perfectly cable of serving yourselves, he has another fucking thing coming." He wipes his arm across his forehead and frowns.
Gabe, the music writer for Baltimore Magazine, takes the stack of plates Suarez has crooked against his hip and says, "C'mon, Papi! We're only messing with you. Smith's party is gonna be fuckin' epic! And it would be less epic if your pretty hands were gettin' all dish-panned instead of feeding us your fine fine fare, and spinning the sweet sweet tunes." Suarez's cheeks burn and he shakes his head in fond amusement. Most of the magazine staff long ago created a betting pool with a complex point scoring scheme around the time and effort Gabe spends hitting on a resolutely heterosexual Alex Suarez. Never one to give up, Gabe continues laying on the charm and doling out the compliments, following Alex into the kitchen.
"Clear the way, bitches!" Frank marches into the restaurant, clutching Mama, his overfed and overloved dog to his chest and leading a small army of people carrying large, flat boxes. "Cake! Coming through!" Frank laughs and playfully shoves Mikey out of the way.
Emptying his beer in one long swallow, Jon sets the can down on the table, gives Mama a welcoming pat, and says, "Holy shit, Frankie, is that...?"
Frank makes a face, sucking his lip ring between his teeth and shakes his head, unruly mop of dark hair flying in every direction, "Nah, Spencer's twenty-fifth isn't important enough for ol'Duff. But it's a pretty fuckin' rad cake, anyway." He nods to where the group of guys is busily assembling the pieces from the various boxes, and a crowd gathers around to watch.
It's the restaurant--right down to the wrap around porch and ancient dogwood tree out front. "Holy shit, that's fuckin' sweet! Spence is gonna flip." Everyone who loves Spencer loves to tease him about his addiction to Ace of Cakes on the Food Network and his not-so-secret dream to have them make a cake for him. "But man, if Spence and Alex keep going, next year for sure those fuckers will begging to let them make him one."
"Seriously, the only negative thing I've read in a review of this place is that it's always packed and getting a reservation is almost impossible!" Frank laughs and brings a cigarette to his lips.
"Get that mutt outta my restaurant!" Alex appears out of nowhere and Frank yelps, ducking behind Jon. "And no fuckin' smoking in here, either!" Alex glares at Frank, arms crossed in front of him.
Chagrined, Frank puts the cigarette back in the pack and says, "But Suarez, Mama's not a mutt...she's family! Don't listen to Cranky Suarez, you're a motherfuckin' princess," he tells the dog soothingly as he cups his hands over her ears. He adjusts her tiny plastic tiara and then turns back to Alex, "And she has separation anxiety..." He squints at Suarez and uses the hand not holding the dog to scratch at the brightly colored tattoos splashed across his forearm.
Swiping at his nose in fond exasperation, Alex says, "Dude, you can put her in the yard and you can smoke out there, too. No separation, no anxiety, no major by-laws broken, no reason for Spencer to kill me, no reason for me to kill you." He arches an eyebrow and gestures to the back of the restaurant. "She can have free reign." There's a crash and a collective gasp and Alex leaves off lecturing Frank to make sure the cake people don't put Spencer's awesome surprise through the window.
Jon laughs and waves a little as Frank, Mama held under his arm like a wriggling football, beats a hasty retreat to the back door. When he turns around, the big blond guy he'd noticed come in earlier is standing a few feet away, and since he's the only one in the room Jon doesn't at least recognize, he decides to go over and say hello. He's just about to open his mouth when Ryan and Gerard step between them, "Here," Ryan presses another beer into Jon's hand. "Jackie just pulled up, so Spence is here," he motions to the front door and Gerard every so subtly, which is to say not at all, angles the three of them in that direction. Jon just makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat and frowns.
His frown disappears when Jackie, Crystal and Spencer walk through the door, trailed by their parents. Spencer's smile is so wide it threatens to split his face apart, and Jon feels something painful break off and trail heatedly beneath his ribcage. "Hey!" Spencer beams. Everyone starts singing Happy Birthday and he laughs and hugs everyone he can.
"I'm glad you're here," he whispers roughly into Jon's ear, hugging him tightly. Jon swallows and nods, and does his best not to bury his face in Spencer's neck and inhale deeply. Jesus, it's been nine months since they called it quits, and just being this near Spencer; feeling the soft brush of his beard is still enough to make Jon come undone. He backs out of the embrace, and takes a fortifying swallow of his beer.
"Dude, come see this fuckin' thing Frankie had made. It's epic!" Tom slaps Spencer on the back and directs him towards the cake.
Spencer laughs and lets himself be led through the crowd, "Man, I know, right? I saw it through the window! Amazing." He then starts enthusiastically babbling about fondant icing and pound cake ratios and bitter sweet chocolate ganache, and Jon shrugs and goes to grab another beer. Gerard is sitting at their table, nursing a Diet Coke and he smiles awkwardly at Jon.
"Hey," Jon turns a chair around, flopping into it and leaning his arms on its high back, tipping his beer can at Gerard in salute. "So boss, you not up for attacking the buffet with the rest of the wolf pack, or is that what the little man's for?" They both watch the parade of people back and forth from the tables to the line up of chafing and serving dishes, all manned by Home wait staff and being carefully watched by Alex Suarez.
Gerard barks out a surprised laugh and says, softly, "Yeah, Ry's gonna fix me a plate, or something. I'll just pick off his. He piles enough on for ten people anyway." He sniffs and scratches at his nose. “You ready for the big pitch on Monday?”
“Yeah, I mean, I guess so.”
Clapping Jon on the shoulder, Gerard says, “Dude, I think this could be huge for you. And not just because, you know, the Spencer-Ryan-Jon Bermuda triangle of involvement thing. Your photo essays are phenomenal and getting the entire editorial committee on board to back someone from the entertainment department is a huge deal.” Gerard salutes him with his glass of soda and then turns to take the plate Ryan's offering, piled high with every kind of food Alex had prepared.
Jon can't help the slow smile he hides with his beer can, “Yeah, it's pretty awesome.”
“You nervous to pitch it to the bigwigs?” Ryan drapes himself over Gerard and turns his attention to Jon.
Jon swallows and clears his throat, ”Well, uh, I wasn't, until you said that!” he rolls is eyes and stands. “Guess I better get myself some grub while there's still some to get.” He runs his cupped hand over his jaw, tugging on his short beard, and turns to head towards the tables full of food. And, hey, if Spencer is standing there talking to the big blond guy, then maybe Jon will just have to stop and perfect his small talk, right?
“Uh, why don't you and...um...Tom,” Ryan stands up, nervously fingering at his skinny maroon tie, his eyes scanning the groups of people in their immediate area, “Go get some more drinks and I'll go grab you some food. Gotta get some for me too, looks like Gerard was hungrier than I thought.” He smirks and shoves Jon towards a confused Tom, who had looked up when he'd heard his name.
Now Jon really fuckin' wants to know who the blond guy is, and why Gerard and Ryan seem so hell bent on keeping him from finding out. “So, you know that guy?” Jon raises his eyebrow in a question and tilts his chin towards where the blond guy and Spencer are chatting and smiling like old friends, or maybe more like new something else.
“No. Spence does though,” Tom snorts out a laugh and, flipping his hair out of his face with a stuttered toss of his head, hands Jon a tumbler filled with dark liquid. “Lets move on from the pussy drinks and get down to business.” He hops up a little, hips resting on the bar's edge, and reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Jon scowls and downs his drink in one swallow. “Thanks, fucker.” He grabs a shish-ka-bob off Tom's plate and sets his glass down onto the bar with a bang. “Refill.”
“You got it,” Tom laughs and shoves a mushroom cap into Jon's mouth, splashing a generous amount of liquor into both of their glasses. Jon can't help but laugh when his friend leans over the bar once more and, grabbing the soda gun, squirts Coke into his mouth. “Huh? Huh?” Tom shrugs and motions for Jon to open his mouth.
What the fuck ever, Jon thinks. Everyone's fuckin' ignoring him, Spencer's fucking ignoring him. The only people who aren't fucking ignoring him are Gerard and Ryan and even then it's only to prevent Jon from talking to the big blond dude. God forbid. Jon's not jealous, really he's not. It' s months too late for jealousy to matter, or for him to have the right to be jealous of what Spencer does and who he does it with. Jon glances over to where everyone has gathered around Spencer, who is making a heartfelt thank you speech. Jon opens his mouth wide.
From there it's a short trip to using bamboo meat skewers as dueling swords, and juggling mini cheese puffs, and Tom pulls off quite possibly the best fake arterial bleed Jon's ever seen using Suarez's homemade pico de gallo. It's like some weird kind of drinking game. Every time Jon thinks about going over and talking to the blond guy, he takes a shot. Every time Ryan or Gerard come over to where Jon is precariously perched on a bar stool, babbling inanities at him to stop him from stumbling to his feet and going over to Spencer and the blond guy, Jon takes a shot. So does Tom. In no time, there's not a lot of liquid left in the bottle of Jack Daniel's Tom had grabbed earlier.
The wait staff and Alex are quickly and efficiently clearing away the mostly empty food containers, and Pete makes a big deal of setting up speakers and his other DJing equipment beneath a big wall mounted cabinet. He hooks up his iPod and music blares across the groups of chatting party goers. “I fuckin' love this song!” Jon pumps his fist in the air, and his drink sloshes dangerously in is glass. “Dude! Remember the bonfire after grad?!” He whacks Tom hard in the shoulder.
Tom grins, “Shit yeah I remember! You were fuckin' awesome!” Tom, who'd earlier switched from hard liquor back to beer, raises his bottle of Corona in salute.
“Fuck yeah!” Jon bangs his glass onto the bar top and uses both hands to boost himself up beside it. Tom hands Jon his glass, and then laughs so hard he curls into a ball and leans forward on his stool when Jon launches into an enthusiastically tipsy sing-along, “That's great it starts with an earthquake! Birds, snakes an air-ooooo-playyyyyyyyne!” Arms windmilling wildly, Jon opens his eyes in time to realize he is a)falling off the bar b)about to land on Gerard and c)Spencer is standing about a foot away, arms crossed over his chest, mouth a thin line and eyes narrowed. “Uh, oops!” He says meekly before collapsing into Gerard's defensively raised arms.
Laughing his little rusty-hinge laugh, Gerard sets Jon shakily on his feet and only smiles and says, “Birthday party, cheesecake, jellybean boom?” much to Tom's donkey braying amusement.
Spencer glares, eyes icy blue and annoyed, before raising is eyebrow, “So Conrad, you wanna help pour your friend here into Gee's car?” he jerks his chin towards the restaurant's front door.
“Sure, sure!” Tom takes one of Jon's elbows and Gerard takes the other, and they set out through the crowd of bewildered and vicariously embarrassed party goers. Jon is still singing away under his breath and laughing and waving at his friends. Gerard briefly stops to buss a kiss to Ryan's cheek.
“I'll just get these two home and settled and then I'll come right back, okay?”
Frowning, Ryan sighs, long-suffering, and nods. He wraps his arm around Spencer's waist and directs him back to where Alex has joined Pete in their impromptu DJ booth. “C'mon birthday boy, we gotta get your good times rolling, right?”
Tom and Jon ooze into the Mini's tiny back seat, Tom attempting to give Gerard directions to Danielle's house, which is closer than his own apartment. After circling the same block a ridiculous number of times, Gerard calls Ryan who hands the phone to Spencer, who gives Gerard the correct directions. He also gives Gerard Danielle's phone number to warn her of their impending arrival. Gerard pulls up to the curb and Danielle is there to greet them. “C'mon tiger,” she smiles at Gerard, mouths thank you and, tucking a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear, grabs Tom by his belt and hauls him up the walkway to her bungalow.
“Mmm sorry,” Jon mumbles, head lolling against the window.
Smiling at him in the rear view widow, Gerard says, “Don't worry about it, buddy.”
Next
Author: cloudlessclimes
Rated: PG-13
Pairing:Jon Walker/Brendon Urie
Word Count:40 000
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one.
Summary:20th Century Baltimore Magazine photographer Jon Walker buys an antique desk and finds Civil War-era sheet music inside, written by free spirit and social outcast Brendon Urie, who died over a hundred years ago.
Fancifully, he writes and mails a reply...only to have it reach its destination in the past. The mysterious desk, purchased from Asher Antiques seems to make letters travel through time.
Notes: Loosely based on the 1998 Hallmark Hall of Fame TV movieThe Love Letter which I saw once, back in the day when it first aired.
Title comes from a line in the Talking Heads Song This Must Be the Place (naive melody)
Stephen Collins Foster is an actual American songwriter
The events of the US Civil War mentioned are all real and a good introduction can be found in Battlecry of Freedom
All songs and their lyrics are copyright Panic at the Disco
Thanks to the awesome queen_geek, spleenjournal, ohnoscarlett prettykitty_aya and wordsalonefor beta-ing, listening to me kvetch, holding my hand, and providing paper bags to breathe into, both virtual and actual.
1 2 3 4 5
Fan Art (possible spoilers) by i_heart_cliches
Mix by saramir
Mix by kate_the_great7
Home - is where I want to be
But I guess I'm already there
I come home - she lifted up her wings
Guess that this must be the place
I can't tell one from another
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time Before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I'll be . . . where I'll be
"We're just two guys at the antique market," Ryan smirks beneath the brim of his fedora and links his arm through Jon's, "we totally blend in." They wind their way though the crowd, darting glances into booths packed full of furniture as they navigate the narrow aisles of the old bank building.
Pulling at the bill of his Cub's hat, Jon's good-natured grin widens and he tips his head back, laughing. "Why are we even here, anyway? Couldn't we just do this on the internet, like eBay or something?"
Ryan scoffs and squeezes Jon's arm, "Dude, the beauty of shopping is...shopping! Picking shit up, trying stuff on," he shakes the bag full of vintage shirts dangling from his fingertips. "Wait, wait, what are you..." The shopping bag swings in a wide arc when Jon jerks suddenly into a stall, giving Ryan no choice but to follow.
"Lookit!" Jon exclaims, hand coming out to stroke along the ornately carved ridge of a small desk.
"Oh no. Oh nonono, Jon Walker. We're here to find Spencer's birthday present." Ryan shakes his head and pulls on the elbow of Jon's faded navy blue hoodie. "Spencer's birthday present, specifically requested by him through Crystal and Jackie. And that birthday present is Fiesta Wear, pretty, decorative, vintage, Fiesta Wear dishes for the restaurant." Ryan waves the email he'd printed out, complete with helpful photographs.
Jon is completely ignoring Ryan; opening and closing the small cubbyhole drawers and running his fingertips across the finish. "But it's so pretty."
"Jon," Ryan scowls and yanks his hand back from Jon's arm. "Dude, no. Spencer doesn't need some kind of freaky old fashioned accounting desk. He dumped your ass 'cause you bought him QuickBooks for Christmas!"
It's Jon's turn to scowl at that, "He did not dump me, we decided to be friends, Ryan Ross, you know that. And I wouldn't get this for Spencer's birthday--QuickBooks is a really fuckin' practical gift, by the way-- and seeing your best friend try to balance the books with the calculator on his Macbook was painful--I'd get it for me." He plunks himself down on the little stool that's set in front of the desk.
Ryan makes a frustrated sound and a flapping gesture, "Yeah, just like the piano, and the grandfather clock, and the wake table..." He trails off and rolls his eyes.
"Shut up, every guy needs a hobby." Jon shifts to return the smile of the woman who's come across the stall and is watching them with amusement.
"Isn't it lovely?" she asks.
"It's no purple or red Fiesta Wear platters or pitchers," Ryan deadpans from where he's leaning against a china cabinet, his long fingers folding the papers he's holding into origami cranes.
Standing, Jon smirks and wipes his hands down his faded jeans. "Yeah, it's really nice. Different, you know?"
The woman nods enthusiastically, "Yes, you don't see many pieces of this period with their paint still so fully intact. Mostly people just buy them and strip them, then cover them in varnish." She scrunches up her face in distaste.
Jon stuffs his hands in the front pocket of his jeans and rocks up onto his toes, wriggling them against the rubber of his flip-flops. "She's a beauty. Is this walnut?" He taps on the solid desktop.
Nodding enthusiastically, the girl says, "Yes! Spanish walnut, actually, and the inlay is rosewood. Pretty rare for Post-Colonial pieces. And the stool's cushion is original too, hand embroidered." She bends to swipe her hand over the faded flowers and birds stitched into the fabric of the desk's chair.
Smiling in the face of the seller's enthusiasm, Jon unleashes his secret weapon -- the guileless Jon Walker grin. "So, how much?
The girl laughs, and pats Jon's shoulder, "Actually, I don't know! My Dad usually handles all the wheeling and dealing. I just blather about mid-Nineteenth Century carpentry methods and provenance." She turns to trot back across the stall to a desk piled high with ledgers and papers. "Here," she says, coming back to Jon and Ryan, "My Dad's just stepped out for lunch, but here's my card if you can't wait around." She slips the business card into Jon's hand smiling.
"Hey, thanks, Victoria." Jon reads her name off the card Peter Asher Antiques, Victoria Asher Provenance and Procurement.
Laughing again, Victoria extends her hand, "You're welcome...?"
"Jon. Jon Walker." Jon's grin is easy as he slips the card into his pocket and shakes her hand. "Well, I gotta go before my friend here busts a blood vessel in his brain or something. But I'll definitely be back to talk to your dad." Jon salutes with two fingers raised to the bill of his ball cap and then takes Ryan's bags, smiling sheepishly.
Victoria waves and laughs, as Ryan rolls his eyes and groans, "Finally!" as they head back out into the market. "So, you do know you probably can't afford that, right? It's not like Helena's piano or that Grandfather clock Tom and Nick found dumpster diving."
Shrugging affably Jon says, "You never know, and it doesn't hurt to ask."
"You are the most contrary gay dude I know! Jon Walker; lover of baseball, Metallica and antique furniture. Which one of these things is not like the other? Which one of these things just doesn't belong?"
"I have layers!" Jon explains, shuffling to keep up with Ryan's long strides.
Ryan laughs and herds Jon through the crowded hall, "So do onions!" Ryan gives Jon a small, quick hug, "C'mon, Fiesta Wear awaits!"
Half an hour later, platters and pitchers and a few colorful plates carefully packed into boxes that Jon is carrying back to his little Honda, Ryan declares Operation: Spencer's Birthday Gift a success. "You're still thinking about that desk, aren't you?" he hip bumps the car door closed and leans against it.
"Yeah, I mean, I could just find out how much it is, right? My haggling powers are awesome!"
Ryan snorts, amused. "Yeah. Awesome!" He tugs on the paisley scarf around his neck. "That's why you ended up giving that kid in Ocho Rios twice what she was asking for those bracelets."
"You expected me to haggle with a tiny, hungry little girl? She deserved every penny I paid her!" Jon's brown eyes are wide. "You're a mean one, Mr Ross." He takes the Asher Antiques business card out of his pocket and turns it over between his fingers.
Sighing, Ryan says, "Hey man, what you chose to do with your money is your business. But I don't actually give a flying fuck about desks or anything else that is in that dust pit," he hooks his thumb back towards the bank building. "And we took for fucking ever, so now I'm gonna go home and mock my husband's efforts to cook me dinner."
Jon laughs at that and smacks a kiss to Ryan's cheek. "Okay, fine. Kiss Gerard for me!"
"I will! With tongue!" Ryan waggles his eyebrows and sticks his tongue out at Jon as he turns towards his Volvo.
Mock horrified Jon clamps his hands over his ears, "Dude! Dude, that's my boss you're talking about!"
"Yeah well, at home I'm the boss, if you know what I mean. And I think you do!" Ryan's laughing so hard his shoulders are shaking as he folds himself into the driver's seat of his car.
"Ew, get the fuck out, Ross."
Ryan laughs and flips Jon off, "See you later, loser. Remember, dinner at the restaurant is at 8 on Saturday, if you can tear yourself away from your new boyfriend, Desky!"
Laughing, Jon gives Ryan the finger in return, and then lopes across the parking lot and back into the antiques mall. It's late in the afternoon and the crowd has thinned, so Jon has little trouble finding the Asher Antiques booth. A small, birdlike man is sitting at the desk this time. "Mr. Asher?" Jon asks tentatively.
"Yes, hello!" The man stands and pushes the thick black plastic frames of his glasses up his nose, grinning as he comes to stand beside Jon.
Jon smiles politely in return and his glance shifts to the desk. "Hey, um, I was here earlier and I spoke to your daughter, Victoria, about that desk?" he points across the booth.
"Oh, yes! She said someone had come by asking about it. Pretty little thing, isn't it?" Mr. Asher gives the solid wood an affectionate pat.
Smile flickering on Jon's face he says a soft, "Yeah, it's beautiful.” He nervously scratches at his forehead and says, "So, I was wondering..."
"Ah!" The antiques dealer smiles and holds up his hand, gently cutting Jon off. He takes a small lined pad from the pocket of his dress shirt, and a stubby bit of pencil from behind his ear. He licks the tip of the pencil and then scribbles onto the pad. "Interested, are you?" He smiles and hands the pad to Jon.
Jon looks down at the messy scrawl of the digits--actually quite reasonable--and his eyes go wide and round, and he smiles before he has a chance to stop himself. If Gerard and Tom were here right now they'd be laughing their asses off and comparing the many many ways Jon sucks at poker. "Um, actually," Jon smiles slow and reaches for the stub of pencil, "This is more like what I was thinking. To be honest it's all I can afford." He quickly scribbles on the paper and hands it back to Asher.
He nods and says, "I believe that is a perfectly acceptable offer!" Jon's smile widens and he reaches for his wallet. Mr. Asher claps Jon companionably on the shoulder, steering him to the desk at the back of the stall.
"So, where did it come from? The desk, I mean?" Jon straddles a ladder back chair and tosses his wallet onto the paper-riddled desk.
"Well," Asher pauses as he reaches into a file folder, pulling out a bill of sale, "Usually Victoria and I get our stock from estate sales, bequeathals, things like that." He prints the detailed description off of a computer file and feeds the bill through the printer. "But for this piece, we were driving through the countryside in Virginia, and just so happened upon the start of an auction, in a barn, if you can believe it." He shuffles the papers towards Jon for his approval. "How will you be paying?"
"Uh, credit card okay?" Jon's eyes flit over the page, and from what he can read it seems to be an accurate description of the desk and the price he has agreed to pay for it.
Nodding and still smiling, Mr. Asher takes the offered Visa card and runs it through a machine. "Poor Victoria nearly drove herself mad trying to figure out where that little desk came from. Obviously it's Post Colonial, but it doesn't appear to have a makers mark anywhere on it. She's narrowed it down to a couple of possible local carpenters from the period. Or perhaps it was made by an admirer, in a similar style.” The little man stops to shrug and push his glasses up, “But, we bought it from a barn, and they had no idea where it had come from. So, you can see why it is the price it is." He smiles and hands the card back to Jon. "It's unfortunate that the history of such a unique and impressive piece is lost." He says, shaking his head. "This is all the information we have, sadly," he fans out files in a stack and plucks out a cheery red folder, slipping the bill of sale inside and handing the whole thing to Jon. "So, would you like assistance getting the desk to your car?"
Standing and scratching his nose, Jon says, "Um, actually I don't think it'll fit." He slaps the folder against his thigh and bites his lip.
"We offer delivery for a small fee..."
Jon takes out his cell phone, thumbing through contacts, "Uh, no thanks, I think I got this covered." Grunting when he finds the number he wants, Jon hits call.
"I told Ross I am not going fancy dish shopping with you dipshits." Tom's voice is amused in Jon's ear.
Jon laughs and leans against the heavy wooden table, "Nah man, I need a favor. Can you bring the truck to Broadway and meet me?"
There's the sound of chewing and swallowing and Tom says, "I guess so. How many fucking dishes did you buy for Smith anyway?"
"I bought a desk!" Jon answers enthusiastically. "And dishes for Spence, but they're in the car. The desk is for me!"
Tom stifles something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh masquerading as a cough, "Uh, sure dude. Gimme like twenty minutes."
"I'll meet you outside, by the main entrance." Jon flicks his phone closed and says, "My ride's on the way." Mr. Asher nods and smiles and Jon smiles at Victoria as she enters the booth, coffee in hand.
Tipping the cup towards Jon in a "cheers!" sort of motion Victoria says, "So, you bought it. I'm so glad. Did my Dad explain its history? Or I guess its lack of history?"
Jon wistfully eyes the paper coffee cup Victoria is waving about and says, "Yeah, yeah he did." He raises the file folder and his eyebrow.
"It might make insurance a little tricky, but I can recommend someone who'll give you a fair quote." Victoria reaches across in front of her father and flips through a file-o-fax for a cream colored card. She motions for Jon to hand her the folder and staples the appraiser's card to the sales slips.
Jon tugs his Cubs hat down across his forehead and frowns a little. He had no idea things would be so complicated. He'd never given a thought to insurance or appraisals and doesn't actually care that no one could prove where the desk came from or who made it. He just likes it and thinks it will look nice under the window in his living room. "Uh, thanks," Jon takes the folder back and gives a curt nod and smile. "Um, I guess I'll just go grab a coffee 'til my ride gets here."
"Sure, and we'll just finish getting your purchase travel worthy!" Victoria sets her coffee down and heads over to the desk, which her father has already started securing in various kinds of packing materials.
Tom's big black pick-up pulls up to the curb where Jon is leaning, legs crossed at the ankles, against an empty cement planter. "Hey!" Tom hops from the cab.
"Hey!" Jon lifts his hand in a lazy wave and then picks up the paper cup sitting on the edge of the planter. "Here, caffeine bribery."
Taking the cup and raising it to his mouth for a long swallow Tom says, "Thanks, and you're lucky you called when you did, I was just heading down to Danielle's.” He bumps Jon's shoulder when they start walking back into the antiques mall. "So, a desk?" Jon just shrugs and gives Tom a slow smile.
They get to the Ashers, and Jon's desk has been carefully wrapped and covered. Jon laughs under his breath when he hears Tom say, "Hello there!" to Victoria in a voice Jon has known since high school that Tom reserves for only the prettiest of girls. His smile widens as he looks at Victoria through the sweep of blond hair over his eyes. "Jon's moving crew is here!"
Victoria laughs and says, "Great! It's all ready for you, Jon." She smirks as she squeezes past Tom to talk directly to Jon, and Jon can't help but chuckle and secretly think denied!. "Do you need any help getting it out to the truck?"
"Nah we're good!" Tom answers, almost before Victoria finishes speaking. "C'mon Jonny, I can't do all the work around here." Tom picks up one end of the desk and motions with his chin for Jon to take the other.
"Thanks for all your help!" Jon calls over his shoulder, shuffling in his flip-flops to keep up with Tom as they navigate through the mall.
Once they've tied the desk securely into the bed of the truck with rope and bungee chords, Tom hops into the driver's seat while Jon walks around to the passenger side, and they set off towards Jon's place. "So," Tom arches an eyebrow over his aviators, "A desk huh? I thought you were saving for a trip to Hawaii?" He lights a cigarette and blows a long plume of smoke out the open window. Despite the orange and gold dappling the leaves clinging stubbornly to the trees, it's still a sunny, warm day.
Petulantly, Jon snags the lit cigarette from between Tom's lips and brings it to his own."Yeah well, I dunno, I just sort of saw it and wanted it." Jesus. Is it really that weird? It's just a fucking piece of furniture.
Tom turns off of Charles and pulls the truck up to the curb in front of Jon's row house. They struggle up the steps and Jon opens the door, shoving an excited puppy out of the way with his foot. "Hey Marls, gimme a minute, boy." He says softly, managing to ruffle the black dog's fur with one hand. "You can just leave it here," Jon says when they make it to the living room, Tom, as usual, tripping on both cats.
With a grunt of irritated finality, Tom sets down his end and straightens. Irritated, he rubs a hand over the small of his back, "Jesus, what the fuck is that thing made out of? Why the fuck is it so heavy?"
"Walnut," Jon answers, laughing as both Clover and Dylan climb onto the cotton muslin covering the desk, pawing and sniffing. Jon takes off his baseball hat, tossing it carelessly onto the battered sofa, and runs his hands through his messy hair, continuing on through the house. In the kitchen, he opens the fridge and takes out two beers. "Here, man. Thanks." He clinks the neck of his bottle with Tom's and flops down onto the couch.
Tom smirks at him from his perch on the sofa's arm, absently stroking Marley's fluffy ears. "So," he starts, "Yanno, most of the time when a guy gets dumped he drinks too much, or smokes too much dope, or maybe finds some dive where he hooks up for a one night stand or two. Only you would develop some kind of antiques...thing." Tom's eyes flit from the desk, to the piano shoved against one wall, to the Grandfather clock between the front window and the door. "That's kinda..."
"Gay?" Jon tries to keep his voice even and focuses on peeling the label off his bottle, setting the shredded paper onto the steamer trunk currently passing as a coffee table, a furrow between his brows.
Tom sighs in exasperation and stops petting the black dog cozied up to his shin to affectionately punch Jon in the arm. "No, dumbass. Jesus, you think after all this time I care about that shit? I was gonna say it's a very Jon Walker thing to do. Actually, getting another animal would be the Jon Walkerest thing to do, but this is a pretty fuckin' close second." Tom lets out a little chuckle, expecting Jon to do the same.
Still frowning Jon says, "And how many fucking times do I have to tell people that Spencer didn't dump me? Nobody dumped anyone. It was mutual. It really, really was. I know that's usually some bullshit thing people say when they get thrown out on their ass, but in this case it's the truth. We wanted different things, we didn't have time for each other. Sure, it's a cliché, but it's true!" Irritated, Jon takes a long drink of his beer.
"Okay, okay, I believe you!" Tom sets his beer bottle down on the trunk and holds his hands up in a gesture of placating defeat. "It's just, man, you moved down here from Chicago for him, you know? That's some serious shit. And you've been all laid back JWalk yeah, we're cool, we're fine, we're friends, but it's gotta hurt too."
Sighing and nudging into Tom when he slides off the sofa's arm to land against him, Jon says, "And I didn't move to Baltimore for Spencer. I moved here because I got a kick ass job offer. Art school grads cannot look a job horse in the mouth, you know that, man."
"Whatever you say," Tom's tone is mild. They both laugh when Marley manages to wriggle himself between them in the tight confines of the couch. "But I think it's sort of interesting that Ryan--Spencer's best friend--got you the job at the magazine."
Jon hooks a finger under Marley's yellow leather collar and says, "Look, it takes connections but I go me the job, in the end. And I'm glad I did. I'm glad I moved down here. No more Chicago winters."
"Amen!" Tom raises his beer bottle and smiles wide. "Look bro, I gotta go. I promised Danielle I'd be right over to her place after I helped you with your little homo furniture transport mission of mercy." He sets the bottle down on the floor and then stands, stretching.
Jon nods and doesn't move from his place on the sofa. "So whipped," he chuckles.
"Riiight. And who got dragged all over Broadway to find fucking ugly as shit dishes for his ex-boyfriend?" Tom laughs and leans down to give Marley one more pat, the dog's tail thumping against the back of the sofa. "Bye Bye Marls. Don't let the kids use Daddy's new investment as a scratching post."
Chucking a sofa cushion at Tom and missing by a wide margin, Jon laughs at his friend's look of mock outrage and says, "Get the fuck outta my house, asshole!" Grinning shit-eating wide, Tom flips Jon off and beats a hasty retreat, front door banging behind him as he trots down the steps.
"Right, dudes and dudette, should we check this thing out?" Jon runs his hand along Dylan's back, and the cat purrs and arches up into his touch. Clover curls herself around Jon's feet, and Marley sits in the doorway, whining a little with his head cocked. "Da, da da da da, something something Norwegian Wood," Jon hums under his breath as he uses his Leatherman to cut gently through the tape securing the protective cloth in place. The cotton falls away with a simple tug and the cats bolt, startled by the sudden movement. Marley yips from the doorway, and Jon looks up from where he's gathering the cover into a messy ball. "Shit! No, buddy...nonono," Jon runs over and hooks two fingers through Marley's collar. Giving up on waiting, the dog is raising his leg against the door frame.
"Sorry, Marls." Jon ushers the dog to the door, snatching up his leash. They hustle down the front steps, and the look of blissful relief on Marley's face is comical as he raises his leg beside a dead rosebush. "Guess we missed our noon appointment, huh?" Jon digs around in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, clutching at the soft pack and tapping one out with his free hand. Marley sniffs inquisitively along the walkway stones, and Jon inhales his first drag. Jon hums happily under his breath, laughing when Marley startles a grackle and cowers back against Jon. When they reach the sidewalk Jon stops short, staring at his empty parking space. "What the fuck?" Then he remembers; he'd been so distracted by the purchase of the desk he'd totally forgotten his car in the parking lot at the antiques mall. "Well, shit," he mutters, pulling out his phone and hitting Ryan's number.
Focusing his attention on Marley sniffing at a stop sign post, Jon waits for Ryan's hysterical laughter to stop, and sighing into his phone, says, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm a lametard space cadet. But, like, I need my car. If, you know, my boss wants me to show for work tomorrow." He grinds out the butt of his cigarette on the sidewalk and scowls at his iPhone.
"You were so excited about a piece of fucking furniture you forgot your car! That will never not be funny, Walker," Ryan's laughter dies down to a low chuckle, "I guess I'll come get you, maybe we can get subs or something on the way." In the background, Jon can hear Gerard raise his voice. "Yes dear, your Chicken Surprise is fucking awesome, I just meant that Jon should get subs in case he's so twitterpated by his sexy new furniture he forgets to eat."
Jon laughs and says, "So he's really making dinner? Should I have the fire department on stand by?"
"Oh God, I can't watch. I'll come get you. Be there in a few." Ryan whispers into the phone, a cacophony of clanging and banging in the background.
"You rock, thanks, man." Jon wriggles his bare toes at Clover who bats at them so intently that she falls over and Jon laughs again.
Ryan sighs, "The things I do for my friends. And Spencer's fucking dishes better still be in the trunk of your car or I'm making you go to fucking Mexico or where ever the hell Fiesta Wear comes from, to find them."
***
Dylan and Clover like to sleep curled up in a fluffy tabby cat ball on the padded, embroidered seat that came with Jon's new desk. It's right under the window and in the afternoon the sun shines in just the right spot to make it perfect for cat naps. Jon drops another stack of files and story ideas and contact sheets on the little desk's painted writing surface, causing the cats to gaze at him with narrowed, sleepy eyes before they yawn and resume their napping. "Least someone's using it," Jon laughs and flops down onto the sofa, flicking on the TV.
It's Friday night and Jon has been so busy all week that tonight all he wants to do is put on a DVD and grab a beer and just chill out. Or, you know, avoid the fact that every single one of his friends is part of a couple who do the Friday night date thing. Well, except Spencer, and he's only not part of couple because they decided months and months ago that they would be "better off as friends". Jon had accused Spencer of loving his restaurant more than him. And Spencer hadn't denied it. He'd just said that he was sick of only being seen through the lens of Jon's camera.
And that was that.
But, because they're both good guys and actually like each other, they are doing their best to try and be friends. Jon just hopes that some day soon the trying can stop and the friendship can stick. And sometimes when it's quiet and he's alone, and maybe a little lonely, Jon can admit to himself and the cats that he's not sure he can ever want anyone the way he once wanted Spencer.
Sighing, Jon sprawls on the couch and stares blankly at ESPN. Marley pads over to him and Jon doesn't have the heart to tell the dog to get off the sofa, he just shifts his legs and makes room, and Marley curls up, head resting on Jon's thigh, big brown eyes begging for an ear scratching. "Nother rockin' Friday night in our house, huh buddy?" Jon's fingers card through the soft tufts of hair that spring up around Marley's ears. He sighs again and quietly lectures the dog on the superiority of the Cubs over the Orioles.
***
Home is lit up and shining in the early evening. Jon had managed to putter around at his house long enough to avoid being the first person to arrive. He's got to give it to Alex and Spencer, their concept and location are pretty much genius, and from what he'd heard from Gerard, the food and the restaurant had been getting mostly rave reviews. Located in a renovated Victorian that overlooks the inner harbor, Home specializes in home cooking; meat loaf and mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, rice pudding, pound cake, and of course the ubiquitous soft shell crab. In the summer sturdy, comfortable wicker furniture takes up most of the wide wrap-around porch and the atmosphere and the food make it popular with locals and tourists alike.
Jon climbs the broad wooden steps and stares up at the strings of fairy lights sparkling in the big bay windows, the corners of his lips tilting into a soft smile. He can see Alex Suarez, Spencer's business partner and the guy responsible for the menu, waving his arms wildly and the team of waiters, most of them named Alex too, scurrying around--white aprons tied securely around their waists and black bow ties crisply knotted at their necks--doing as they're told.
The French doors are thrown wide to welcome the party guests and the gentle late summer breeze and Jon walks in, smile fixed firmly, and almost painfully, onto his face. "Hey!" Ryan comes over and takes the large box from Jon's arms, placing it with the rest of the gifts on a sideboard. The inside of the restaurant is decorated to resemble, as Spencer puts it "My Grandma's kitchen," simple, white washed oak and maple country furniture scattered around the room. The wide plank floor is polished and strewn with rag rugs, and the walls are covered in cheerful floral wallpaper. It's warm and inviting, a place you can take a date or your parents when they visit you at college. It's genius. Spencer has big plans for "Phase Two"--a deck that would allow them to seat people in the tree-lined backyard in warmer weather, increasing the number of people they can hold, and increasing revenue, of course.
Jon isn't really sure why Spencer wanted his birthday party at his own restaurant, the place where he works and spends 99% of his waking hours, but it's his birthday, so, whatever. "Hi," Jon waves once the box is out of his hands. Gerard smiles and comes to stand beside Jon, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "So, the gang's all here, huh? Where's the birthday boy?"
Wrapping a protective arm around Gerard's waist, Ryan follows Jon's glance around the room, taking in the knotted groups of Spencer's friends sitting at tables drinking from pinwheel punch glasses, and standing in familiar groups around the large room. "Dunno, he should be on his way soon, though. You know how he is for timing and schedules and all that shit. He better get here soon, Suarez is scaring the bejesus out of the wait staff." Ryan's smile widens as he rests his chin against Gerard's shoulder.
Looking at them individually, there's absolutely nothing about Gerard and Ryan that would immediately scream meant for each other, and certainly not married. Gerard has been known under great duress to put on a shirt and tie, much rather preferring jeans and a t-shirt, even around the magazine office, where he's the managing editor of the Arts section. Ryan always looks like he's raided his grandfather's closet, and Jon can't honestly remember the last time he saw him in jeans. But, personal aesthetics aside, whatever Ryan and Gerard have going on clearly works. They'd gone up to Montreal in June and gotten married; a fact Ryan never tires of sharing with anyone as he casually but calculatedly flashes the simple platinum band around his ring finger.
"Cool," Jon nods and accepts the glass of punch one of the Alex waiters--Alex Marshall, Jon thinks--brings him. "Hey, you need any help?" Jon shouts over the kid's head to Suarez.
Snorting Alex says, "Not in the kitchen, not from you, dude. There are no Fritos and Velveeta anywhere in this building."
"Fuck you, my game day nachos are legend man." But Jon laughs good naturedly and follows Ryan and Gerard to a table where Spencer's school friends, Pete and Patrick, and Gerard's brother Mikey, are sitting discussing the abysmal year the Orioles are having. The tiny chimes over the screen door sound gently and Jon's eyes dart up, startled to see a stranger. A tall blond man is standing in the door, rubbing his flannel covered elbow and if Jon's reading his lips correctly, cursing under his breath, "Hey, so who's that..."
"Right Jon? I mean that umpire was clearly smoking the special crack," Pete interrupts, and Ryan subtly shifts so he's blocking Jon's view of the doorway. Right, so his friends are completely lacking in any kind of stealth.
But, Pete's talking about baseball, and this is one of Jon's few opportunities to actually bring up the Cubs in the course of a conversation without everyone rolling their eyes, so he frowns a little, then shrugs and tries to convince Patrick that it's all MLB officials who are actually on drugs, not the players. Jon is passionately defending his stance when hands clamp down on his shoulders and he jumps in his seat. "What the fuck is this shit?" Tom's voice is playfully churlish as he tugs Jon's punch glass from his hands and replaces it with a can of PBR, "Here Jonny, pretend you're a real boy tonight, would ya?"
Jon laughs and makes room for Tom to wedge a chair around the table and then plunk himself into it, long legs sprawling into the path of the constant stream of waiters. "Just in time for the food, as usual," Jon smirks and inclines his chin towards where a line of chafing dishes is being set on a table by the kitchen entrance.
"What happened to Smith's hatred of the buffet?" Tom takes a mouthful of beer, swishing it in his cheeks before swallowing loudly.
"There is no sneeze guard big enough in the world!" Pete, Ryan, and Jon cry loudly in unison, ending in helpless laughter.
Suarez stops dead and turns on his heel, "If Spencer Smith the fucking Fifth thinks I am cooking all this food, and then doing table service for all this food, when you losers are perfectly cable of serving yourselves, he has another fucking thing coming." He wipes his arm across his forehead and frowns.
Gabe, the music writer for Baltimore Magazine, takes the stack of plates Suarez has crooked against his hip and says, "C'mon, Papi! We're only messing with you. Smith's party is gonna be fuckin' epic! And it would be less epic if your pretty hands were gettin' all dish-panned instead of feeding us your fine fine fare, and spinning the sweet sweet tunes." Suarez's cheeks burn and he shakes his head in fond amusement. Most of the magazine staff long ago created a betting pool with a complex point scoring scheme around the time and effort Gabe spends hitting on a resolutely heterosexual Alex Suarez. Never one to give up, Gabe continues laying on the charm and doling out the compliments, following Alex into the kitchen.
"Clear the way, bitches!" Frank marches into the restaurant, clutching Mama, his overfed and overloved dog to his chest and leading a small army of people carrying large, flat boxes. "Cake! Coming through!" Frank laughs and playfully shoves Mikey out of the way.
Emptying his beer in one long swallow, Jon sets the can down on the table, gives Mama a welcoming pat, and says, "Holy shit, Frankie, is that...?"
Frank makes a face, sucking his lip ring between his teeth and shakes his head, unruly mop of dark hair flying in every direction, "Nah, Spencer's twenty-fifth isn't important enough for ol'Duff. But it's a pretty fuckin' rad cake, anyway." He nods to where the group of guys is busily assembling the pieces from the various boxes, and a crowd gathers around to watch.
It's the restaurant--right down to the wrap around porch and ancient dogwood tree out front. "Holy shit, that's fuckin' sweet! Spence is gonna flip." Everyone who loves Spencer loves to tease him about his addiction to Ace of Cakes on the Food Network and his not-so-secret dream to have them make a cake for him. "But man, if Spence and Alex keep going, next year for sure those fuckers will begging to let them make him one."
"Seriously, the only negative thing I've read in a review of this place is that it's always packed and getting a reservation is almost impossible!" Frank laughs and brings a cigarette to his lips.
"Get that mutt outta my restaurant!" Alex appears out of nowhere and Frank yelps, ducking behind Jon. "And no fuckin' smoking in here, either!" Alex glares at Frank, arms crossed in front of him.
Chagrined, Frank puts the cigarette back in the pack and says, "But Suarez, Mama's not a mutt...she's family! Don't listen to Cranky Suarez, you're a motherfuckin' princess," he tells the dog soothingly as he cups his hands over her ears. He adjusts her tiny plastic tiara and then turns back to Alex, "And she has separation anxiety..." He squints at Suarez and uses the hand not holding the dog to scratch at the brightly colored tattoos splashed across his forearm.
Swiping at his nose in fond exasperation, Alex says, "Dude, you can put her in the yard and you can smoke out there, too. No separation, no anxiety, no major by-laws broken, no reason for Spencer to kill me, no reason for me to kill you." He arches an eyebrow and gestures to the back of the restaurant. "She can have free reign." There's a crash and a collective gasp and Alex leaves off lecturing Frank to make sure the cake people don't put Spencer's awesome surprise through the window.
Jon laughs and waves a little as Frank, Mama held under his arm like a wriggling football, beats a hasty retreat to the back door. When he turns around, the big blond guy he'd noticed come in earlier is standing a few feet away, and since he's the only one in the room Jon doesn't at least recognize, he decides to go over and say hello. He's just about to open his mouth when Ryan and Gerard step between them, "Here," Ryan presses another beer into Jon's hand. "Jackie just pulled up, so Spence is here," he motions to the front door and Gerard every so subtly, which is to say not at all, angles the three of them in that direction. Jon just makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat and frowns.
His frown disappears when Jackie, Crystal and Spencer walk through the door, trailed by their parents. Spencer's smile is so wide it threatens to split his face apart, and Jon feels something painful break off and trail heatedly beneath his ribcage. "Hey!" Spencer beams. Everyone starts singing Happy Birthday and he laughs and hugs everyone he can.
"I'm glad you're here," he whispers roughly into Jon's ear, hugging him tightly. Jon swallows and nods, and does his best not to bury his face in Spencer's neck and inhale deeply. Jesus, it's been nine months since they called it quits, and just being this near Spencer; feeling the soft brush of his beard is still enough to make Jon come undone. He backs out of the embrace, and takes a fortifying swallow of his beer.
"Dude, come see this fuckin' thing Frankie had made. It's epic!" Tom slaps Spencer on the back and directs him towards the cake.
Spencer laughs and lets himself be led through the crowd, "Man, I know, right? I saw it through the window! Amazing." He then starts enthusiastically babbling about fondant icing and pound cake ratios and bitter sweet chocolate ganache, and Jon shrugs and goes to grab another beer. Gerard is sitting at their table, nursing a Diet Coke and he smiles awkwardly at Jon.
"Hey," Jon turns a chair around, flopping into it and leaning his arms on its high back, tipping his beer can at Gerard in salute. "So boss, you not up for attacking the buffet with the rest of the wolf pack, or is that what the little man's for?" They both watch the parade of people back and forth from the tables to the line up of chafing and serving dishes, all manned by Home wait staff and being carefully watched by Alex Suarez.
Gerard barks out a surprised laugh and says, softly, "Yeah, Ry's gonna fix me a plate, or something. I'll just pick off his. He piles enough on for ten people anyway." He sniffs and scratches at his nose. “You ready for the big pitch on Monday?”
“Yeah, I mean, I guess so.”
Clapping Jon on the shoulder, Gerard says, “Dude, I think this could be huge for you. And not just because, you know, the Spencer-Ryan-Jon Bermuda triangle of involvement thing. Your photo essays are phenomenal and getting the entire editorial committee on board to back someone from the entertainment department is a huge deal.” Gerard salutes him with his glass of soda and then turns to take the plate Ryan's offering, piled high with every kind of food Alex had prepared.
Jon can't help the slow smile he hides with his beer can, “Yeah, it's pretty awesome.”
“You nervous to pitch it to the bigwigs?” Ryan drapes himself over Gerard and turns his attention to Jon.
Jon swallows and clears his throat, ”Well, uh, I wasn't, until you said that!” he rolls is eyes and stands. “Guess I better get myself some grub while there's still some to get.” He runs his cupped hand over his jaw, tugging on his short beard, and turns to head towards the tables full of food. And, hey, if Spencer is standing there talking to the big blond guy, then maybe Jon will just have to stop and perfect his small talk, right?
“Uh, why don't you and...um...Tom,” Ryan stands up, nervously fingering at his skinny maroon tie, his eyes scanning the groups of people in their immediate area, “Go get some more drinks and I'll go grab you some food. Gotta get some for me too, looks like Gerard was hungrier than I thought.” He smirks and shoves Jon towards a confused Tom, who had looked up when he'd heard his name.
Now Jon really fuckin' wants to know who the blond guy is, and why Gerard and Ryan seem so hell bent on keeping him from finding out. “So, you know that guy?” Jon raises his eyebrow in a question and tilts his chin towards where the blond guy and Spencer are chatting and smiling like old friends, or maybe more like new something else.
“No. Spence does though,” Tom snorts out a laugh and, flipping his hair out of his face with a stuttered toss of his head, hands Jon a tumbler filled with dark liquid. “Lets move on from the pussy drinks and get down to business.” He hops up a little, hips resting on the bar's edge, and reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Jon scowls and downs his drink in one swallow. “Thanks, fucker.” He grabs a shish-ka-bob off Tom's plate and sets his glass down onto the bar with a bang. “Refill.”
“You got it,” Tom laughs and shoves a mushroom cap into Jon's mouth, splashing a generous amount of liquor into both of their glasses. Jon can't help but laugh when his friend leans over the bar once more and, grabbing the soda gun, squirts Coke into his mouth. “Huh? Huh?” Tom shrugs and motions for Jon to open his mouth.
What the fuck ever, Jon thinks. Everyone's fuckin' ignoring him, Spencer's fucking ignoring him. The only people who aren't fucking ignoring him are Gerard and Ryan and even then it's only to prevent Jon from talking to the big blond dude. God forbid. Jon's not jealous, really he's not. It' s months too late for jealousy to matter, or for him to have the right to be jealous of what Spencer does and who he does it with. Jon glances over to where everyone has gathered around Spencer, who is making a heartfelt thank you speech. Jon opens his mouth wide.
From there it's a short trip to using bamboo meat skewers as dueling swords, and juggling mini cheese puffs, and Tom pulls off quite possibly the best fake arterial bleed Jon's ever seen using Suarez's homemade pico de gallo. It's like some weird kind of drinking game. Every time Jon thinks about going over and talking to the blond guy, he takes a shot. Every time Ryan or Gerard come over to where Jon is precariously perched on a bar stool, babbling inanities at him to stop him from stumbling to his feet and going over to Spencer and the blond guy, Jon takes a shot. So does Tom. In no time, there's not a lot of liquid left in the bottle of Jack Daniel's Tom had grabbed earlier.
The wait staff and Alex are quickly and efficiently clearing away the mostly empty food containers, and Pete makes a big deal of setting up speakers and his other DJing equipment beneath a big wall mounted cabinet. He hooks up his iPod and music blares across the groups of chatting party goers. “I fuckin' love this song!” Jon pumps his fist in the air, and his drink sloshes dangerously in is glass. “Dude! Remember the bonfire after grad?!” He whacks Tom hard in the shoulder.
Tom grins, “Shit yeah I remember! You were fuckin' awesome!” Tom, who'd earlier switched from hard liquor back to beer, raises his bottle of Corona in salute.
“Fuck yeah!” Jon bangs his glass onto the bar top and uses both hands to boost himself up beside it. Tom hands Jon his glass, and then laughs so hard he curls into a ball and leans forward on his stool when Jon launches into an enthusiastically tipsy sing-along, “That's great it starts with an earthquake! Birds, snakes an air-ooooo-playyyyyyyyne!” Arms windmilling wildly, Jon opens his eyes in time to realize he is a)falling off the bar b)about to land on Gerard and c)Spencer is standing about a foot away, arms crossed over his chest, mouth a thin line and eyes narrowed. “Uh, oops!” He says meekly before collapsing into Gerard's defensively raised arms.
Laughing his little rusty-hinge laugh, Gerard sets Jon shakily on his feet and only smiles and says, “Birthday party, cheesecake, jellybean boom?” much to Tom's donkey braying amusement.
Spencer glares, eyes icy blue and annoyed, before raising is eyebrow, “So Conrad, you wanna help pour your friend here into Gee's car?” he jerks his chin towards the restaurant's front door.
“Sure, sure!” Tom takes one of Jon's elbows and Gerard takes the other, and they set out through the crowd of bewildered and vicariously embarrassed party goers. Jon is still singing away under his breath and laughing and waving at his friends. Gerard briefly stops to buss a kiss to Ryan's cheek.
“I'll just get these two home and settled and then I'll come right back, okay?”
Frowning, Ryan sighs, long-suffering, and nods. He wraps his arm around Spencer's waist and directs him back to where Alex has joined Pete in their impromptu DJ booth. “C'mon birthday boy, we gotta get your good times rolling, right?”
Tom and Jon ooze into the Mini's tiny back seat, Tom attempting to give Gerard directions to Danielle's house, which is closer than his own apartment. After circling the same block a ridiculous number of times, Gerard calls Ryan who hands the phone to Spencer, who gives Gerard the correct directions. He also gives Gerard Danielle's phone number to warn her of their impending arrival. Gerard pulls up to the curb and Danielle is there to greet them. “C'mon tiger,” she smiles at Gerard, mouths thank you and, tucking a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear, grabs Tom by his belt and hauls him up the walkway to her bungalow.
“Mmm sorry,” Jon mumbles, head lolling against the window.
Smiling at him in the rear view widow, Gerard says, “Don't worry about it, buddy.”
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