You Got a Face With a View, bandombigbang, Jon/Brendon PG-13 3/5
Previous
The strains of violins and cello waft across the air. Brendon huddles inside his suit jacket, sniffling as he looks up at the night sky. The buds on the trees surrounding him are almost bursting with green and it reminds him, no matter the frost in the air, that Spring is finally on its way.
“Oh there you are!” Greta exclaims as she bustles up beside Brendon, the sky blue silk of her dress swishing as she walks. “Come on, Brendon! It's not like you to miss a party! Especially your own!” She giggles and tugs playfully on his stiffly starched cuff.
Looking regretfully up at Greta through the fall of his hair, Brendon sighs again, then smiles devilishly, tugging Greta down beside him onto the cold stone bench. “I know. I'm sorry I disappeared on you.” He sighs again and ducks his head, staring at the flagstones.
“Brendon, this really is for the best,” Greta frowns then, her nose wrinkling. Her pale blonde ringlets bob as she shakes her head in sympathy.
Lifting an arm to wrap around Greta's shoulder, and giving her a small hug, Brendon bites his lip and says, "Yes, I know. And I am truly grateful to you and your parents, for this opportunity, it's just..." Brendon shakes his head, dark hair whipping around his face, "Never mind, past is past, yes? And, you look so pretty, we can't keep you out here in your brand new dress away from an adoring public, now can we?" Brendon smiles, genuinely this time, and stands, taking Greta's hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow as she gets to her feet.
They walk through the garden doors and immediately are greeted with For He's a Jolly Good Fellow. Greta smiles prettily up at Brendon and he raises his hands, grinning. The music stops and Brendon says, "Thank you everyone for coming to help me celebrate my twenty-first birthday. I am so blessed to have so many wonderful people in my life." Brendon stops, swallowing and biting the inside of his lip to avoid saying that they are all excellent sycophants, here to be seen more than anything else. "This day has been perfect. Captain and Mrs Salpeter have done an outstanding job putting this whole thing together," Brendon nods in acknowledgment towards Greta's parents, sitting primly in starched formal clothing at a small round table, and the entire room erupts in glove-muffled hand claps. "And now, Captain Salpeter has an announcement."
Brendon steps back in place with Greta as her father rises from his seat. "Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, God has graced us with our lovely daughter, Greta, who has endured growing up an only child." Greta beams as a smattering of applause waves across the room. "But as a businessman I must think of the future," the Captain, who is in fact not a captain of anything except his own self-inflated importance, twirls the heavily waxed curl of his dark blond mustache between his thumb and forefinger, "and so, my beautiful wife and I are so very pleased to announce my daughter's engagement to none other than the birthday boy, himself!" Brendon smiles and bows and Greta blushes as the crowd cheers and claps.
As the noise of the crowd dies down and Brendon shakes Captain Salpeter's hand and hugs Mrs. Salpeter, the musicians in the corner raise their instruments and begin to play the opening strains of a quadrille. Greta claps her hands in delight and then links her elbow with Brendon's. Brendon laughs and looks over his shoulder, "You too!" he exclaims, giving a small squeeze to Greta's waist before he trots back, linking arms with his future in-laws and encouraging them and the other party guests on to the dance floor.
***
Brendon carefully drapes his jacket over the back of a chair and is just removing his waistcoat when the bedroom door gives an alarming squeak. "Shh..." Greta holds a warning finger up to her lips, her skin made golden by the light of the hurricane lamp dangling from her hand. She's changed into her nightgown and it floats around her, white as a ghost in the gloom.
"Greta! You can't be here! What if your parents..." Brendon's eyebrows shoot up to his forehead as his eyes dart past Greta and into the hallway. With a little more force than usual, he tugs at the cotton and lace of her sleeve, pulling her into the room, and closing the door behind her.
Making a dismissive gesture, Greta crosses the room and settles her lamp on the bedside table, bouncing down onto Brendon's bed. "Oh pooh, don't you worry about them! Mother and Father have been asleep for hours! I think we exhausted them with all the dancing." She smiles and pats the quilt with her palm, "Come and sit down, Brendon, you look like you've got the vapors!" She laughs at his indignant squawk and snuggles into his side when he sits down in a huff beside her.
Sighing and scratching his nose before holding his arms out, allowing Greta to remove his links--a gift from his mother and monogrammed with an elaborate BU-from his heavily starched cuffs, Brendon says, "So, what is it you'd like, Greta?" His voice is a low, exhausted hum.
"Oh please don't frown so, my pretty boy!" Greta pulls Brendon into an embrace, using the slim fingers of one hand to soothe at the lines in Brendon's forehead. "I know most of Father's acquaintances are taxing, but we did get to dance and eat Mother's cake!" She giggles and looks seriously into Brendon's eyes, "Surely the idea of marrying me is not so bad?"
Wriggling free from Greta's hug, Brendon clasps her hands between his own, "No, Greta, your family has been so kind to me, and you are my dearest friend!" he exclaims, "I apologize, I guess I'm just tired."
"Don't apologize. I'm so very sorry that your family couldn't be here tonight, Bren. In the morning we must write them a letter! Do you think the post will reach them in the jungle?" Greta squeezes Brendon's hands and tilts her chin to look up at him, smiling. "Here!" She reaches out to Brendon's nightstand and snatches up a brush. "Unpin my hair? Please?" Without waiting for Brendon's reply, Greta snuggles back against him, tilting her chin to her chest.
Brendon chuckles softly and then sets to the task of removing the startling array of pins and baubles from Greta's elaborately coiled and braided hair. "Your Father has taken a very great chance, putting his faith in me," he says quietly, carding his fingers through the long fall of Greta's newly freed hair.
"Brendon, don't you know? You are successful at everything you do! Of course my Father has faith you will do well to learn his business. I know keeping accounts isn't your dream. I'm not sure it's anyone's dream," she pauses and meets Brendon's eyes in the mirror above his dressing table, "but you will be good at it, I just know you will."
Carefully stroking the wide brush through Greta's hair, Brendon says, "I won't let them down. They took me in when I had nowhere to go."
Greta is quiet for a moment and then bites her lip before speaking, "Brendon, I...I heard the kitchen girls talking..."
"Gossiping is more like it," Brendon snickers, smoothing his palm over Greta's skull, tucking fly away strands of pale gold hair back into place. "Which poor soul where they roasting on their barbed tongues this time?"
Folding her hands in her lap and studying them intently, Greta's cheeks pink and she says in a low voice, "You."
"Me!" Brendon laughs so hard he has to stop brushing Greta's hair, for fear of tangling it into knots. "Whatever could I have done, head buried in those dusty old ledgers of your father's, to earn their attentions?"
"They said that...that the reason you came to stay with us--the reason you didn't go with your family to Africa--is because, well, because you were caught picking flowers! And they thought it was hilarious! And so I asked why on earth you would be put in such a position for doing something so harmless, and they laughed and laughed."
Hands shaking, the tortoise shell hairbrush clatters to the board floor and Brendon clears his throat, "Oh, um..."
"So then they laughed some more and explained it to me. Oh Brendon!" Greta turns, and kneeling in front of Brendon, flings her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. "I don't care! I don't care about who you...pick flowers with. You are my friend and it breaks my heart to know that you're so sad."
"Sad? Greta, I'm not sad," Brendon lays his hands on Greta's cheeks and wipes her tears away with his thumb, "I shamed my family, and myself. I should have known better, and I was...indelicate about a great many things. Things that make reasonable men like my father and yours very angry. I cannot undo what has past, so I must endure it." He sighs then and presses a kiss to Greta's forehead.
Sniffling and wiping her eyes on the lace trim of her cuffs, Greta stutters out a sigh and says, "But, you had to leave...him. And that's not fair. And you are sad, Brendon. You are! I have known you far too long not to notice when you laugh too loud and smile so very wide but it never reaches your eyes. If I knew how, I would make it better for you. It's all so silly!" Shaking her head vehemently Greta says, "Love is love and I don't see why people have to be so cruel about it!" She bites her lip, pouting and then rests her head on Brendon's shoulder once more. "I'm so sorry, Brendon."
Awkwardly patting her shoulder, Brendon says, "You have nothing to be sorry for, lamb."
"They said he...that you were caught... that you were with...a negro," Greta's eyes shine with tears, alarm, and curiosity as she lowers her voice to a melodramatic whisper.
It takes everything Brendon has not to toss Greta to the floor and bolt from the room. Months of pent of hurt and anger buzz beneath the surface of his skin when he curtly replies, "Travis was a free man, Greta. I loved him and he's gone, and I am not talking about this any more. We must not talk about this any more."
"You deserve better, Brendon. I am so sorry the world is so cruel." Greta settles beside him once more, sniffling and fussing with the voluminous cotton of her night clothes.
Squaring his shoulders defiantly Brendon carefully says, "There's nothing more to be done. I must simply get by." He picks up the brush and resumes dragging it through Greta's long hair. "Not everyone is cruel, Greta. Your family has been far more charitable than my situation would permit, and for that I will always be glad."
"When I was eleven my mother caught me kissing someone. A girl someone." Greta's voice is thick with sleep and Brendon's laugh is light and sympathetic when he sets down the brush and helps Greta to her feet. "I really liked kissing her, Brendon."
Stooping to pick up the lamp, while keeping a steadying hand at Greta's elbow, Brendon snorts and says, "Well, perhaps then we misfits were meant for each other after all," and guides her through the hall and back to her own bed.
***
Greta gasps and giggles as strong familiar hands cover her eyes. "Brendon! You frightened me!" She drops her sewing to her lap and attempts to pry Brendon's fingers away.
"I have a surprise for you!" Brendon's voice is cheeky and breathless with excitement. He replaces his hands with a loosely tied pocket kerchief. Greta giggles and gets awkwardly to her feet, willingly being led through the house.
Greta comes to a dead stop in the middle of the parlor, hand raise to cover her mouth when Brendon removes her blindfold. "Oh my goodness!" she exclaims, dancing up onto the toes of her kid leather slippers. Early afternoon sun shines brightly through the terrace doors, coming to rest on the gleaming surface of a grand piano, taking up considerable space at one side of the room. "For me?" Greta manages to squeak out, looking from Brendon to the piano. "However can you afford it?"
Smiling blindingly wide in the face of Greta's joy, Brendon says, "Yes! For you. Mr Chickering himself had it shipped out, especially for our engagement! Do you like it?" Brendon purposely doesn't answer her question about the cost of the piano. He's quite sure he'll be paying in installments for the rest of his natural life, and possibly into the next as well.
"Do I like it? Do I like it? Oh Brendon, I love it!" She hooks her arms around Brendon's neck and he swings her around, the pair of them laughing brightly. "So, you'll teach me to play? Please?" She takes his hand and heads enthusiastically towards the piano bench.
Careful of the wide spread of Greta's cheerful blue calico and hoop, Brendon takes a seat beside her and, raising an eyebrow asks, "Now?"
"Yes! Now! I was so envious of the wonderful piano every time I visited your family in Utah," Greta sees how Brendon's face falls, every so slightly, but instead of commenting, takes his hands and places them on the keys, "Show me!"
***
The sun is just dipping low into the the harbor when Brendon takes his hands from the piano keys, stretching and raising his arms over his head. "There you are, Miss Greta, your first lesson. And may I say, you are a natural! You'll be playing Chopin in no time!"
Swiping her hands across her reddened cheeks and blowing errant curls from her face, Greta kisses Brendon's cheek and claps her small hands, "Thank you! Maybe I can give lessons to the children, eventually."
"That sounds like a wonderful plan."
"Oh!" Greta stops suddenly, clutching Brendon' hand. "I've entirely forgotten! I have a surprise for you!" She leaps to her feet and strides to the parlor door, "Come on, come on!" she motions for Brendon to follow her. Banging the cover over the keys, Brendon shakes his head and then gets to his feet.
They stop at the door to Brendon's room and he raises an eyebrow when Greta puts her hand to the door knob and twists. "See? It's my engagement gift for you!" She sweeps into the room, Brendon trailing just slightly behind her. "Not nearly as exciting as a brand new piano, but Mother and I did enjoy having such a pretty thing to paint."
Shocked, Brendon's mouth opens and closes and he walks over to the window. Beneath it is a writing desk, small cubbyholes carved out of dark wood and the ornate edges painted a cheerful yellow. "It's beautiful. Thank you." Resting one hand on the desktop, Brendon hugs Greta to him with the other.
"You're welcome! You deserve a place where you can work on your music!" Brendon's face flushes deep red at Greta's exclamation. "I know Father has been discouraging you from doing so on company time, but here, in your own room, on your own time, you can pen your little ditties whenever you want!"
Brendon swallows thickly and bites his lip. Running a hand over the stool, he notices the carefully embroidered posies and says, "Greta! Did you do this?" When she grins and nods he hugs her again. "Thank you!" is all he can think to say.
"Oh, Brendon. I know how important music is to you, it's not just a silly flight of fancy. It's part of who you are. Like breathing. You wouldn't be you if you weren't humming or singing some little song or other." She squeezes Brendon's hand and motions to the stool. "Here, you sit and try your gift out and I'll go back to mine!" Greta beams at him when he kisses her forehead.
Smiling to himself, Brendon flicks out the tails of his coat and plunks himself down onto the stool. Noting the tiny brass key sticking out from the middle lock, Brendon twists and pulls the drawer open.
***
Jon is going to be late for his own party, and it's pissing him off. He doesn't want to think about what hoops Gerard had to jump through to get the publisher's box at Camden. And he doesn't want to let anyone down by leaving them all hanging, waiting for him. The animals chase after him, and it would be funny if he was watching it. But he's been from room to room to room and can't find his car keys anywhere. He's checked the washer and the dryer, and the pockets of every pair of pants and shirt and hoodie he owns. Standing in the living room doorway, Jon scratches at his beard. Through the front window he sees his car, blessedly parked in its usual spot, so his keys have to be here somewhere! Eyes flitting around the room he suddenly remembers the antique desk and its false bottom.
Pulling out the drawer, Jon peers cautiously inside. He pokes through rubber bands, paper clips, and stray receipts, with no luck. There's a gap between the edge of the drawer and the false bottom, and aware that time is ticking, he taps it and the secret compartment is revealed. Jon frowns into the small space. There are no keys there, but there is an envelope. It's not the rejection letter from Benteen, Jon is sure that's still sitting over on top of the piano from the last time he played B. Urie's song. Gingerly taking the browned edge of the paper between his fingers, Jon holds it up to his face and his eyes go wide. In faded, cramped script, Jon's name and address is scrawled across the front of the envelope.
Heart pounding and mouth dry, Jon slides his thumb under the waxy seal and is just about to open the letter--the letter addressed to him--when his phone rings, "Hey Ry, what's up?"
"Happy birthday, man. Me and Gerard are in your 'hood, want a lift to the game? That way you and Tom can celebrate in style." The droll humor in Ryan's tone is lost on all but those who know him very well.
Scratching across his forehead, Jon says, "Thanks. Dude, that would rock!" and grabs his Cubs cap from the sofa, tossing the letter down in its place.
"Cool, see you in ten."
"I'll meet you out front, just slow down and I'll hop in!" Jon laughs.
Laughing too, Ryan says, "We're taking the Mini so You-Know-Who is driving, and he drives like my ninety year old grandma. You shouldn't have any problem going all Dukes of Hazzard. See ya in a few." In a muffled hail of Gerard's indignant squawking, Ryan disconnects the call.
Jon heads for the entryway and, doing his best Mr. Rogers, trades his cardigan for a hoodie and takes off his slippers, bending over to pick up his flip flops. And there, like they'd been perched and waiting all this time, sit Jon's keys. The cheap metallic Columbia College crest key chain glints in the sun and Jon scoops them up, dumping them into his pocket, "Damn cats," he mumbles, jamming his feet into the sandals and then heading out to the front stoop to wait for Ryan and Gerard.
***
After the game, wherein Jon maintains his Cubs were robbed, he manages to stumble into the house after Gerard and Ryan drop him off. He makes it to the sofa and flops down. The cats watch him warily from their perch on the padded back of the couch and Marley trots over, resting his chin on Jon's chest and making hopeful sounds. "Uh, buddy. You think you could use the doggie door? Not so sure I'm up for walkies at the moment," Jon thumps a heavy hand to the dog's head but otherwise remains still. Marley huffs out an indignant breath and then heads towards the back door.
"C'mere pretty kitty," Jon lethargically pats the sofa cushion, encouraging Clover up beside him. Fingers tangled in her fur, he gives in to the heavy pull of his eyelids, and sleeps.
Some hours later, Jon wakes and given the way the darkness spins around him, he's pretty sure he's still drunk. He groans when the weird way he fell asleep makes itself known by the painful kink in his back. And, apparently he slept with his mouth open and drooled a little, because when he raises his hand to swipe at his face, there is most definitely something stuck to his cheek. "Eww," Jon tugs carefully at the offending object and then sees Dylan staring down at him disapprovingly from the sofa's arm. "Dude, please, I've seen you after a date with catnip." Jon pets at the tabby cat and then looks at the paper he's peeled from his face. Oh. The letter. The letter from the desk with his name on it. He hadn't imagined it.
Sitting up, Jon yawns jaw-crackingly wide and rubs at his eye with curled fingers. He flicks on a lamp and, licking his lips against the sting of dryness, he drags his thumb beneath the blob of red sealing wax and carefully unfolds the letter.
13th of April 1861
Kind Sir,
I do no know who you think you are or why you feel it is amusing to broadcast my failure by playing such an unkind trick on me. I know with absolute certainty that you can have seen neither my rejection letter nor my composition, as I have received both back from the calculatedly indifferent offices of Mr. Benteen and his Company. Both have been quickly secreted away from my own sight as well as any others who may in future have the misfortune of laying eyes upon my mediocre talents. I do not need you and whatever trickery and fortune allows for you to have your letters printed on such an extravagant press and stock to mock me, reminding me of my lack of talent.
Truly,
Brendon B. Urie
Sober, Jon would have probably refused to believe what he's seeing. He would have just written the whole thing off as a dumb joke by one of his lame friends. He'd have called Conrad out on his douchey behavior, they'd laugh and move on. But he's still more than a little drunk and all of the birthday beer is still zinging through his blood. "I'm not a liar!" he says to the page. He's suddenly consumed with the need to prove to Brendon B. Urie that he's real.
Jon chews thoughtfully at his lip and huffs indignantly at the letter in his hands. Standing up, Jon toes Marley out of his way. He's got it. He's got the most brilliant idea in the history of brilliant ideas. There's no way B. Urie can think he's a liar or playing tricks on him or anything like that. He stalks to the dining room and picks up his laptop. Opening up Garageband, he sets the computer on the floor beside the piano and fishes around in the piles of magazines and store fliers and scoops up the sheet music from the desk. Once more settling it on the bench beside him, Jon makes an elaborate show of cracking his knuckles and shifting his position on the hard piano bench, then hits record and starts playing the song.
Listening back to the recording for the third time, a smug look on his face, Jon heads to the kitchen for a glass of water and to search for the junk drawer for his long abandoned iPod shuffle. He finds it half shoved into an accordion folder his sister-in-law had given him to organize coupons, and snaps it up. He gulps down the entire contents of his water glass and then heads back to the living room. Plugging the shuffle into his computer, Jon transfers the file he'd created then opens up a word doc, typing a short note;
September 17 2008
Dear Brendon,
So I know this is weird and sort of unbelievable but look at the dates on at the tops of the letters I've written to you. I swear to you it's 2008 and I really did find the letter with your sheet music in my desk.
To prove it to you, I've recorded the song on my computer and am sending you an MP3 player so you can hear for yourself. Sorry my voice isn't so great. I actually hope that whatever magic makes these letters travel through time will also work for electronics and keep the shuffle charged. I am very sorry to have made you angry. That's not what I meant at all. The letter from that music publisher just seemed kind of mean to me, is all. I know I'm not Mr. Benteen or anything, but I think your song is really good and I hope you kept (keep?) writing and trying to get published.
Regards,
Jonathan J. Walker.
Jon reads over what he's typed and giving a nod to the blue glow of the screen, makes a satisfied noise at the back of his throat, closing the Macbook. Convinced that he's shown B. Urie he's for real, Jon heads for bed.
Not hung over, just a little behind schedule because he forgot to set his alarm, Jon chugs great gulps of coffee from his travel mug as he dashes around the house, trying to get to the office on time. He scoops everything up off his desk and shoves it haphazardly into his messenger bag, and using one sandaled foot to keep Marley from bolting through the front door with him, Jon manages to get to his car and on his way only fifteen minutes later than on any other day.
No one at the magazine is a morning person. Gerard usually arrives sometime around noon, unless they're working on a deadline, and Ryan rides in with him. Because they're the entertainment section and cover a lot of movie premieres and concerts, no one actually expects most of the staff to be there during the day. But, Jon likes it. He gets to talk with the office guys and admin staff, and it's actually quiet but there are people around and it makes his life feel a more like a normal guy. Although he is glad that there's no dress code and he can wear jeans and a t-shirt. Jon's dad had worn a suit every day, and Jon had always known that was just not for him.
"Hey, you want me to mail this stuff?" Ashlee, the features intern, takes the few envelopes Jon had tossed out of his bag onto his desk and waves them at him.
Working his way through coffee number three, Jon swallows and nods, "Yeah Ash, that would be great." She smiles and shrugs, tossing the mail into her cart. "Oh, hey, when you get a second would you mind doing something for me?"
Perking up, Ashlee leans against the corner of Jon's desk and says, "Sure! As long as it's not alphabetizing the stationary cabinet. I swear Ryan refuses to believe I actually do have a real journalism degree from a real four year school." She rolls her eyes and tucks her long auburn hair self-consciously behind her ear.
Jon makes a sympathetic face and scrawls across a cat shaped post-it-note, "Nah, it's actually research related. I know that's your thing. Could you see what you can dig up on this guy?"
"Yeah! Sure! Maybe one day Gerard will tell the features guys how awesome I am at this investigative reporting thing and they'll give me a full time gig, you know?" Ashlee takes the paper from Jon, "That all you got, a name and a year?"
"Sorry," Jon shrugs and then adds, "Oh, does saying he lived in Baltimore help?"
Ashlee makes a face and tries her best to pretend she's not laughing at Jon, "Oh yeah, that helps tons, boss."
"Shh!" Jon raises his eyebrow and puts a finger to his lips, "Don't let Ryan hear you call me that."
Rolling her eyes, Ashlee shrugs, and taking a pen out of the Chicago Bulls beer mug on Jon's desk. She writes Baltimore on the small list Jon's given her."Yeah, 'cause he's totally the boss of me. It's not the crack of noon, so he's not even in yet. Although I totally wouldn't put it past him to have like secret listening devices all up in my shit, or whatever." She slaps the post-it on top of the stack of papers in her mail cart. "Well, gotta go! The glamor of the mail room calls. I'll see what I can do for your little project."
Giving her the patented Jon Walker smile, Jon nods and says, "Thanks," turning back to the files on his desk.
***
"Get your own intern!" Startled, Jon looks up from the Canon website he's been browsing, and finds Ryan, staring at him, arms crossed and a frown on his face.
"Huh?"
"I said, get your own intern. Stop making Ashlee do the crap you're too lazy to do." Ryan fiddles with the leather buttons on his mustard yellow cardigan and leans against Jon's cubicle wall.
Scratching at his stubbled cheek, and leaning back in his chair, Jon says, "Dude! Dude you did not just say that to me, in those words. I'm sorry, was asking Ash to do some research for me interfering with her picking up your dry cleaning?" Jon cushions the accusation in his words with a chuckle.
"She spent all day yesterday looking up some guy, just because you asked her to," Ryan huffs.
"Aww, poor baby. Did you have to get your own coffee?" Jon likes winding Ryan up. It's remarkably easy. He props his feet, crossed at the ankle, up on his desk, and links his hands behind his head, smirking.
Ryan chucks a pad of paper at Jon and huff, "Shouldn't you be working on the photo essay or, like, getting ready to go to the Ram's Head with Gabe?"
"My photos are waiting for your essay, friend. And, nah, that's not til 9:30!" Jon smirks, even though he's got his camera and lenses and back up SD cards all packed in his bag, ready to go. "You and Gee wanna meet me and Gabanti there? The band's supposed to be hot."
Frustrated by Jon's ability to just let things roll off his shoulders, Ryan waves his arms and says, "Sure, sure, whatever. Gotta eat first. Wanna swing by the restaurant and pick up Spence, or we doing pub food?"
"Uh, pub food," Jon plays with the strings of his hoodie, "And Spence has a date with Bob tonight." Jon can see the exact moment Ryan gets embarrassed, and he feels awkward. He hates it. "So yeah, we're meeting at the pub. I'll stop co-opting your intern, but you should know she's probably gonna want to come tonight. Pete'll be there..." Ryan and Jon roll their eyes in unison and laugh.
Ryan taps his knuckles on the corner of Jon's desk, "Right, see ya later, buddy."
Jon waves and then looks down at the sheets of paper Ryan had chucked at him. Ashlee had done some simple internet searches and turned up three different Brendon Uries: a guy from Las Vegas who sings in a band, a guy who is currently a student at Johns Hopkins, and Brendon B. Urie, born 1840, engaged to Miss Greta Salpeter of Baltimore. Jon's eyes scan down the page to where Ashlee had scrawled in sharpie; Sorry this was the best I could do before Mr. Seersucker 2008 got on my case. Maybe try the Historical Society?-Ash
Sighing, Jon sets the notes down on his blotter and opens his photo editing softwear, getting back to work.
***
Well, that had been a waste of time. Jon rarely gets angry, but he's overtired and the band had definitely not lived up to any of the hype he'd heard. They were more about looks than music, and their crowd had been full of posers there to be seen rather than for anything music related. The best part of the night had been watching Ashlee and Pete alternate who was trailing after who. It was like some sort of bizarre mating ritual where both parties were unaware that the other actually was in to being courted. Jon sighs and pets Marley's head, letting him off the leash and into the living room.
Jon really wants the last four hours of his life back.
Just about to head up the stairs, he stops and on a whim heads to the living room instead. He stands in front of the desk and laughingly wriggles his fingers in a hypnotic gesture. "Shazam!" he whispers and pulls on the drawer's handle.
Eyes wide with shock, Jon falls back onto his ass. The drawer falls with him, clattering to the floor. "Holy shit," Jon whispers, managing to untangle himself from Marley, who had run to Jon, licking his face in concern. There's another letter. Another letter with Jon's address on the front. Heart pounding, Jon opens the letter and begins to read, sitting where he fell.
April 17 1861
Dear Jon,
Oh, but this is too fantastic to be believed! However, here I sit, with your letter and it's strange typeface clutched in my hands. Tangible proof, so it must be real. At first I thought my good friend Mr. William Beckett had played a nasty trick on me. I soon realized he has neither the wit nor the bankroll beyond the allowance provided him by his father to permit such an elaborate and intricate ruse.
I am pleased to report that your tiny music box did survive it's voyage through the years and arrived intact. Thank you so very very much for providing instructions on its use and operation as I could never have worked that out for myself. Such a small thing, yet it produces such wonderful sounds! I must confess, I listened until the poor thing was exhausted and would give up not so much as one more note.
I made sure, despite my rabid excitement and curiosity, to only listen to your player when my fiancee, Miss Greta Salpeter, and her parents were safely abed. I am quite sure such a marvel would have given Greta a terrible fright and convinced her parents that, far more than a frivolous pastime, my little ditties had somehow summoned a great and horrible daemon from beyond.
Not that your interpretation of my little song is to be equated with the howlings of Hell, of course. Quite the contrary--you do yourself a disservice with your modesty. I dare say your playing and singing were among the most gay it has been my pleasure to hear.
You are from the future! How marvelous and queer. I have so many questions-about the instrument you call a computer-is it anything like the fancy Victrolas all girls are cooing at these days? And electricity! I have of course heard of Mr. Morse's experiments with the telegraph but suspect that even he could never imagine what fantastic uses are to come.
Your writing me from future Baltimore gives me hope in these uncertain times. I feel as though we are all holding our breaths, poised on the edge of turmoil. The news grows evermore grim as the Southern States continue to make good on the promises they made to our new president, Mr. Lincoln. I do not know what events of my time your history books will choose to commemorate, but I am quite sure the secession of so many states from the Union will only lead to hard times for us all-especially here in Maryland, where we straddle both worlds and silently pray for the best.
My goodness I do go on so! I merely meant to express my amazement at our supernatural correspondence and to let you know how very heartened I am to be the recipient of such priceless objects and attention.
With thanks and amazement,
Brendon
"I can't believe it. I just can't fucking believe it," Jon mutters to himself. He keeps turning the paper over in his hands, staring at the address, his address, scrawled across the front, plain as day. He gets to his feet and scoops Dylan up into his arms, nuzzling at his fur despite the cat's low, throaty protests. "Do you see what I'm seeing?" Jon holds the letter up to Dylan's face. Still shaking his head and muttering his disbelief, Jon heads for bed. Once tucked under the covers Jon loses track of the number of times he re-reads Brendon's letter.
***
Jon can't take his mind off the amazing letter that is sitting in his messenger bag. He manages to fake his way through a meeting and spend a few hours in the developing room, just to have something else to focus on. But he's sitting on his desk munching on a tuna sandwich and he's the only magazine staffer in--everyone else has gone off on assignment or isn't in yet. The admin staff stay in their neatly organized cubical forest, so Jon gives in and opens up a word document.
September 21 2008
Hi Brendon;
I hope it won't bother you if I keep writing? I'm just as amazed as you are by this whole thing. It totally never occurred to me that the computer would freak you out. I actually had to look up when electricity was invented and made a pretty common thing to have in your house. That's how much we take it for granted these days. So much has happened between your time and mine-technology, science, politics, entertainment-I don't know where to start. I've always been better with pictures than words so:
This is my computer.
It's a device-an electronic device. If everything in one computer was printed out on paper, the pile would be as tall as a sky scraper. Wait, you probably don't know what that is. So, maybe just think of it as a mountain of information. People use them for writing, for art, for communicating, all kinds of things. I really wish I knew more about the science of it so I could explain it better. But, it's sort of a mystery to me too. I just know that it keeps all my music and photos safe and is allowing me to write these letters to you. :)
This is my car.
I'm not sure when the automobile was invented. But it's a really amazing thing. I think you have steam trains, right? Well, this is even faster and easier, because everyone has one of their own. It runs on something called gasoline and some kinds of cars can go as fast as one hundred miles per hour. Like I said, most people have a car, and some families have two or three.
This is an airplane.
No, it's not mine. :) But, people can travel almost anywhere in the world, really fast, by flying there. My friends and I went to South Africa (I'm not sure, was/is that even a country in your time?) in less than 24hrs. Everyone complains about flying, but most everyone does it, at least once in their life.
I hate to tell you this-but there's going to be a long, drawn out and bloody war in your time. It starts right about the time you're writing me from and is pretty much Northern States vs. Southern States. I hope you and your family stay safe. If what I remember from my high school history classes plays out, I can tell you that eventually the states are reunited and slavery is abolished. Actually, this guy is Barack Obama.
He's probably going to be the next president of the United States. And I'm not just saying that because he's from my hometown of Chicago. :)
I don't know if you want to push our luck or tempt fate or whatever this is, but if you can try and send the MP3 player back to me, I can recharge it and maybe put on some of my favorite songs for you.
Speaking of tempting fate or changing history, not that I think I'm that important, but if you could make sure no one finds out about this stuff, that's probably for the best.
take care,
jjw.
***
April 21 1861
Dearest Jon,
I keep opening your letters and peering cautiously inside, too afraid something so wonderful cannot possibly be real! It is all so fantastic! If I were a smarter man, I would quiz you on the mechanics of the beyond belief inventions you have described. But, as I am spectacularly simple brained I shall just admire the beauty of the images you have provided. They are so colorful and exotic it is like something straight out of the pages of fairy stories.
I can not help to think that if these United States survive their current time of trial, as you have assured me they will, that they must also prosper beyond my wildest imaginings if the wealth you describe is so commonplace.
I beg you to excuse my gormlessness, but what is the meaning of :) ? You use it frequently and I have never seen it before. I gather it is an important communication? I have imagined it to be the written language of some far off and exotic culture you have visited in one of your airplanes.
I must at this point admit to some jealousy regarding the ease with which you are able to see the world. Several of my acquaintances have traveled to Europe via steamliner and my good friend and fiancee Miss Greta Salpeter, chaperoned by her parents, has traveled to New York City and Chicago. The Captain is a mercantalist and travels often across the country in search of new goods.
Myself, I came to Baltimore from Salt Lake City via stagecoach and that is, alas, the sum and total of my considerably unremarkable travel. My family is currently en route to King Leopold's Congo Territory to preach the gospel to the heathens. While I envy them the opportunity for adventure, I must admit I will not miss my Father's filibustering lectures on living a righteous life.
I have been so delighted and distracted by the arrival of your letter today I have fallen quite behind in my daily work. Although yours is a distraction for which I am most glad.
While I shall be forever grateful to the Salpeters for taking me in and providing the possibility of a vocation for the youngest son in a missionary's family, I can say without hesitation I have no head for sums and tallies and am quite sure that whatever work I may do in a day the Captain's poor clerk must surely spend two days correcting!
My parents have stated again and again that there is no employment for dreamers, but I find my head filled always with music--even more so now that my daydreams are full of the flights of fancy your correspondence has provided. I maintain hope that one day my dreams will in fact bear fruit and my little ditties will grace a wider audience than Miss Salpeter, the barn cats, and you, dear Jon.
Speaking of the barn cats-a pretty calico has had a litter of kittens. I worry after their welfare as Spring is quite late arriving this year and it is still cold and damp overnights. While I am unable to provide fantastic images of the meager inventions of my time, I did sketch this as the kittens played in the straw yesterday.
I remain,
Bden
p.s. I would dearly love to hear the popular music of your time, but alas, your music box stubbornly remains a pretty bauble in the drawer of my writing desk, refusing to wend its way across the mystical barrier to you.
***
Jon taps distractedly at the desktop, waiting for the call to connect, "Hey, Max?"
"Dude, yeah. You wanna talk to Tom? I'm not sure if he and Danielle are still here." Danielle's younger brother, Max says when he answers.
"No, actually, is your mom home? I need to talk to her." Jon's tapping turns into one handed, nervous drumming.
There's a pause before Max says, "Uh, sure man. Hang on," and without taking his mouth away from the receiver Jon hears Max yell, "Mom!! The phone's for you!"
"Hello?"
"Um, hi Mrs Steger? I'm Tom's friend, Jon?" Jon has no idea why he's so nervous, but butterflies are doing their thing in his stomach.
Jon can almost here Danielle's mother's smile when she replies, "Of course, dear. Happy belated birthday. What can I do for you?"
"Thanks. Um, you work for the Historical Society, right?"
"Well, I volunteer, but yes, once a week I'm at their offices. Is there something you need?" she asks, sounding infinitely patient and motherly.
Sighing and scratching his head, Jon answers, "Well, I'm working on this...thing, and I'm trying to find some info on a person from about 1860, so I thought I'd come by, if that's okay."
"Of course it's okay!" Mrs. Steger sounds delighted, "Is this for an article? We're big fans of Baltimore Magazine in this house! I'm actually doing a shift tomorrow afternoon, you're welcome to drop by."
Smirking and a little embarrassed, Jon says, "Something like that. Tomorrow would be great. I should be able to get there around two, is that okay?" Mrs. Steger confirms the time and gives Jon directions. They exchange pleasantries and Jon manages to hang up without sounding like a jerk. In what's become a daily ritual, he types Brendon Urie into Google and is unsurprised that the search results are exactly the same as every day before.
***
Jon rubs at his eyes and yawns. The room is dry and the records are old, and he's been here for over an hour and hasn't learned anymore about Brendon Urie than Ashlee had dug up, or what Brendon had told him himself. A volunteer approaches Jon, smiling, "I can show you how to use the microfiche reader now if you like. We're hoping to have all the documents eventually scanned to DVDs but we just don't have the budget for it." The older man smiles kindly, his corduroy pants making a zipping noise as he walks. After a brief lesson, Jon is left with the reader and a scant 3 rolls of microfiche. It doesn't take long for him to realize that he should have taken some Dramamine as the pages of old newspapers whiz by. So far he's learned more about the Salpeters than he wanted to and very little about Brendon.
Annoyed, Jon gives up and is gathering his things to head out when a woman in her fifties approaches him. "Sorry to bother you, but I was just looking at the requests for information you made today." She smiles and adjusts the glasses she keeps on a beaded chain around her neck.
"Oh, yes?"
"I'm so sorry we don't have any more information for you. But I see you've been looking through the Baltimore City archive," she pauses and her eyes flit down a list on the piece of paper she's holding.
Jamming his hands in his jeans pockets and looking at the woman in confusion, Jon answers, "Well, yeah. That's the information I had, that Brendon...Brendon Urie, he lived in Baltimore."
"Yes, that's true, but the Salpeters were an important family in Maryland, and there may be some information for you in the Maryland state archives, which are held upstairs." Still smiling kindly she holds out the page to Jon, "I've compiled a list of some other places that may be able to provide you with what you're looking for."
Jon's not even sure what he's looking for, but he gratefully accepts the list, and says "Thanks," before folding it up, Jon's heart sinks a little when he sees the number of entries on the page. He doesn't even know what he's doing, or what he wants to find out. The whole thing is just crazy. He nods at the woman and then heads to the parking lot.
"Excuse me! Sir?" Jon stops and turns back towards the building, where a young woman is running towards him, long dark hair streaming out behind her.
"Yes?"
The woman gulps and catches her breath, "I'm sorry to bother you," she rests a hand on Jon's forearm as she speaks, "but I couldn't help but overhear--are you looking for information about Brendon Urie?"
Startled, Jon raises his eyebrow and says, "Yeah, actually I am."
A pretty smile tilts her lips when she says, "I'm Kara Urie, Brendon Urie was my great-great uncle. My family is trying to find out as much information about him as we can. We've managed to get historic designation for the Salpeter's summer house. My mother is working on getting it up and running for visitors. I can give you the address if you like?"
"That would be great!" Jon's reply is genuine and enthusiastic.
"Here," Kara takes a crumpled BCHS brochure out of her back pocket and writes out an address and phone number out on a blank space. "My husband is working on a website, but it's not up yet. But, here's my email address if you have any questions," she continues writing and then hands the whole thing to Jon.
"Thank you so much!" Jon reaches out and shakes Kara's hand, "I'm Jon Walker, by the way. And you've been really helpful."
"That's great, you're welcome, Jon. I hope you find what you're looking for!" Kara smiles enthusiastically and then turns to head back into the library.
Slipping the brochure into the file folder he's carrying under his arm, Jon softly mutters, "Me too," before continuing on to his car.
***
Jon ignores the five messages on his phone from friends accusing him, with varying degrees of sincerity, of blowing them off. He's begged off claiming work commitments to Tom and Spencer, but that won't really fly with Ryan and Gerard. So instead of inventing excuses, he's just ignored their calls. He's been thinking about Brendon; what he wants to say in his next letter. He finds himself, at random times in the day, taking out his iPhone and making lists in the notes. He wants to tell Brendon about pizza and music and the subway and what Chicago is like in the summer when you're wandering around Navy Pier with your friends--how beautiful the skyline is from the Ferris Wheel. He wants to do a compare and contrast sort of thing with Brendon's Baltimore and his Baltimore. He has so many ideas and doesn't know where to start. So, instead he pulls out Brendon's letter and decides to just answer some of the questions Brendon's asked and go from there.
September 24 2008
Hi Bden,
Okay, so if you don't mind me writing to you I'm gonna keep doing it. :) <---This is a way we do "smiles" now. Most people communicate with their computers these days. I guess sometimes it's pretty hard to make sure people know what your trying to say. I never noticed I use them so much!
Your kitten drawing is awesome! I love cats. I have 2, named Dylan and Clover. They are the best. Since you liked the photos in my last letter so much, I hope you enjoy these.
1.Dylan
2.Clover and me :)
3.Bonus! My dog Marley. He's the best dog ever, mostly because he thinks he's a cat.
So, you want to know all about me, huh? I'm actually kind of boring. Like I think I said before, I'm from the best city in the world-Chicago-but I moved to Baltimore 2 years ago after I graduated from Columbia, to be with my boyfriend. His name is Spencer and he opened a restaurant here with some of his friends. I guess I should call Spencer my 'ex' now-we broke up a few months back but we're really trying to stay friends. He's a great guy.
You know what? I just realized that there are NO recent pictures of me that don't have Spencer in them. But anyway, as if you couldn't tell in the Clover pic, this is me:
I majored in photography and got a job working for Baltimore Magazine doing what I love and working with the greatest friends a guy could ever have. I'm a very lucky guy and my friends are like my family.
It must suck that your family is so far away. :( <---frowny face, by the way. the opposite of :) It must be really hard on you. My parents and grandparents and my 2 older brothers (I'm the youngest too!) are all still back in Chicago. It's only a short trip away but I miss them like crazy all the time.
Don't give up on music! So what if you have to work in accounting to pay the bills? Keep writing music. Dreams are very important and sometimes come true when you least expect it.
Please tell me how you are doing. It's pretty weird to know there's this huge war that changes the whole country and it's just starting to happen to you now. Things work out though, and like I said slavery is abolished, so maybe you can just focus on knowing that. I can't imagine having to live every day knowing something as gross as slavery exists. It's just so wrong. People are people, you know?
I'm so frustrated that I have all this great music and no way to get it to you. I love music and love talking about it. It would be so cool to hear what you think about the Beatles or the Rolling Stones or Depeche Mode.
I hope you are well,
xo
Jon
***
He can't explain exactly why, but Jon doesn't feel it would be right to mention meeting Kara Urie to Brendon, or that he's been trying to do research on Brendon. It seems really unfair, when Brendon has no such option when it comes to learning about Jon. The thought that Brendon might be spending just as much time as he has trying to figure out how this whole thing works, and what to say to Jon, or maybe even just thinking about him makes Jon smile.
Thinking about Kara reminds Jon of the information she'd given him and Jon shuffles through the thin stack of papers from his trip to the historical board until he finds the brochure, he tears off the info he needs in a neat square and then tosses the rest into the recycling bin. Setting it out so he remembers to take it with him to the office in the morning, Jon calls it an early night for once and heads to bed.
***
Jon's work day turns out to be unexpectedly hectic and he's scrambling mid-afternoon to head out to the Salpeter's summer house. GPS tells him it's down in Anne Arundel County, near Mayo. Traffic is, as usual, a nightmare and it takes just over an hour to reach the house. Jon walks up the long flagstone path and is almost to the wide, whitewashed steps leading up to the front entry when a woman comes out of the house and turns a key in the lock. "Excuse me," Jon clears his throat and looks hopefully at the woman.
"Oh, hello there!" The woman smiles down at Jon, hand raised to protect her eyes from the late afternoon sun.
Smile broad, Jon says, "Hi! I just drove down from Baltimore and I was wondering if I could maybe have a look around?"
Studying him for a moment the woman frowns and says, "I'm sorry, but we're not open for visitors today. I was just leaving..."
"Please!" Jon interrupts, sounding a little more desperate than he'd like, "I've come all this way. It would just be a quick look." His eyes widen even further, and he's aware that he's giving the woman his best Puss 'n' Boots as Spencer used to call it--his soft brown eyes are wide and pleading, just like the storybook cat in Shrek. After all, what good is being a youngest child if you don't find a way to use what you've got to get what you want?
"Well...alright. But just a quick look!" The woman huffs out a breath and encourages Jon up the steps. She turns the key in the lock and the big door swings inward.
Jon looks around at the dark heavy wood and the overabundance of lace, chintz and watermarked silk. "Is it okay if I..." he hefts his camera from around his neck and waves it a little at the woman.
She frowns and says, "No flash. And may I ask, what exactly are you doing here?" She crosses her arms and stands just inside the door, clearly impatient for Jon to do what he needs so she can leave.
"Um, I work for Baltimore magazine," he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, handing her a card, "we're always looking for new story ideas, and my editor is really in to local history these days." Jon's a little frightened at how easily the lies slip from his mouth.
The woman's expression and demeanor change as soon as Jon's card is placed in her hands, "Oh, how interesting!"
Jon smiles at her and holds the camera up, snapping a picture. She laughs and waves her hand at him and Jon continues through the house. He stops in his tracks by the stair case. On the first landing, in the center of a collection of family photographs and paintings is a large canvas of a dark haired man and a blonde woman. "Brendon," Jon says low under his breath as his feet head automatically for the stairs. He has no doubt that the man, austere in a dark suit and high collar, is Brendon. Resisting the urge to reach out and touch the oiled surface of the portrait, Jon raises the camera to his eye and snaps frame after frame.
The woman clears her throat loudly, a clear indicator that Jon has worn out his welcome. He lets the camera thump back down against his chest and turns to head back down the stairs. Three steps down he stops suddenly as the strangest sensation passes through him. He can't really explain it but it's warm, like no warmth he's ever felt before, and it wraps around him and he feels peace and safety. "Brendon?" he whispers. The feeling remains with Jon until he comes to stand by the front door and then it disappears, and Jon can't help but feel a profound sense of loss.
After a minute of Jon silently staring up the staircase the woman again clears her throat. When Jon looks over at her she's staring at him pointedly. "Uh, thanks," he manages to mutter as a blush spreads across his cheeks and neck.
"You're very welcome," the woman smiles tightly and ushers Jon out with her as she locks up. "Good luck with your article, I'd love to see how it turns out." She stands with her arms crossed watching as Jon waves his thanks and heads to his car, starting on the long drive back to Baltimore.
***
Armed with a roll of stamps and Brendon's P.O. box address, Jon takes advantage of the post office being across the road from his office to send Brendon things. He's seen enough sci-fi to avoid sending life and history altering things like newspaper and magazine articles, and really in this situation sci-fi is pretty much the only rulebook Jon has to play by. So he mails photographs he takes on his walks with Marley; other dogs and flowers and once even a wayward gaggle of geese. He found a book full of Beatles sheet music and sent off a few songs from that, wondering what Brendon would think of the Lennon-McCartney writing style. Checking the drawer has become just as much a part of Jon's routine as walking Marley and programming the coffee maker every night before he goes to bed. Sometimes Brendon sends brief thank you notes, or little pencil sketches of life on the Salpter's estate, and sometimes he sends long effusive dissections of every popular song tab Jon has passed along.
These exchanges happen almost daily, but Jon is still shocked, every single time he opens the writing desk, to see an envelope with his name and address written on the front in Brendon's familiar handwriting.
***
April 21 1861
Jon,
Well look! There you are. It will be nice to be able to picture you exactly as you are when my mind wanders to your letters, now I can conjure you with clarity. Your cats (and cat-dog) are adorable. One can tell so much about the quality of a man by the affection he affords God's more humble creatures. They are lovely and I thank you for sharing with me. I still cannot fathom how very commonplace a thing this marvelous electric camera will become. We had a smelly hound dog my father kept in a pen outside when I was a child. He was quite old and cantankerous and did not really enjoy the company of a small excitable boy. I coddle the barn cats here at the Salpeter's home more than I should but they are so small and fuzzy and all so adorable! Mrs Salpeter is in constant fear that I shall develop pinworms, track in fleas or worst of all, become rabid! Poor woman worries about so very many things.
I find myself looking forward to your letters and in quiet times I cannot help but wonder what new and wonderful things they will contain. I never quite reach the amazing realities of the wonders you choose to show me.
:) A smile! How charming and clever! In time you may regret you told me about this. :) :) :) :) You were so gracious to clarify this usage, but I am afraid I must admit my confusion at your use of some other terms. In your letter your called this Spencer your 'boyfriend'. Do you mean to say he is your very best friend? Surely you cannot mean to imply two men courting? Just the thought of such an indelicate arrangement is shocking, truly! Your times are fascinating.
Myself, I have settled into a good, if unremarkable life. I have solidified my place in the Salpeter's household by publicly announcing our engagement at my twenty-first birthday party, which Miss Greta's parents so graciously arranged for me. It is tragic that such a joyous occasion be overshadowed by the recent and ongoing events at Fort Sumter. The war you have warned of so frequently seems to have finally arrived on our doorsteps. So many brave young men have been dispatched to the fort and have perished in the terrible violence there, which shows signs of continuing infinitely. The rebels seem hellbent on having their way.
Miss Salpeter is beside herself with fear that I shall be conscripted. I would dearly love to provide her the reassurances contained in your letters, but know in all good logic that to do so would have terrible consequences for all involved. Instead I have comforted her with declaring myself unfit for soldiering and glad her family respects the pacifist beliefs instilled in me since childhood. Perhaps I should be most grateful for Captain Salpeter's social status and financial holdings; which, should the worst happen and I be forced to join up, will provide the wherewithal to purchase a commission sending me no further afield than the army's accounts office in Baltimore proper, and have me wielding little more than a pen and ledger. :)
All good things,
Bden
***
Strong hands are holding him down. He groans in pleasure at the sensation of smooth, warm skin sliding against his. He angles his hips, desperate for more contact. He's rock hard and leaking, and the feel of fleeting teasing licks is not nearly enough. He groans again and this time feels the burn and stretch of being filled and it's too much and not enough and so good. He cries out, and looks up into laughing dark eyes.
Jon wakes up gasping, his boxer shorts sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He groans and digs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. His heart is still pounding painfully in his chest and he's still fuzzy from his orgasm. Orgasm. Jesus. Jon hasn't had a wet dream since he was fourteen. Sitting up, he mincingly pulls at the waistband of his underwear. Head clearing a little, Jon realizes what woke him up; Marley is barking--high pitched and scared--from the other side of the door. "Hey, hey buddy," Jon's voice is low and thick with sleep as he pets at the dog's fur, trying to calm him down. Marley bursts into the room, still barking and yipping at the air, running in circles around Jon. Hooking a finger under Marley's collar, Jon gives a little jerk and says, "Buddy, calm down! It's okay!" and runs his palm over the dog's big head. Panting, Marley flops down beside Jon's bed with a final whine. Scratching his head in confusion, Jon pulls his shorts off, wadding them into a ball and throwing them towards the laundry basket.
He should take a shower, but Jon settles for wiping off the mess stuck to his skin with a wash cloth. He splashes cold water on his face and drinks a glass of water, grabs a pair of boxers he's pretty sure are mostly clean, then heads back to bed, patting the mattress beside him and Marley takes the hint, curling up at his side, resting his head protectively on Jon's chest.
When Jon wakes again it's to the sound of pounding on his front door. Shoving Marley out of the way, he heads down the stairs and yanks open the front door. “C'mon asshole, stop fucking a ghost so we can go retain our title, okay?' Tom shoves Jon backwards into the house.
There's a sinking feeling in his chest when Jon says, “What?”
“Dude, Danielle told me you went by the Historical Board with her mom. Figure you're working on some big story. And I know how you get inside your own head and forget to sleep and eat and all that shit.”
“Oh,” Jon stands there stupidly, running his hand over the top of his hair, trying to smooth away most of his bed head.
Tom stoops to pick up Clover, “Yeah, oh.” He runs his hand along the cat's spine and smiles when she purrs. “Dude, today we have the stupid fucking bowling thing for your office. We have to go kick Ryan and Gerard's ass, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Fuck, Jonny would you stop saying oh and go put some pants on so we can do this thing?” Tom barges through to the kitchen, getting coffee ready and waving Jon off upstairs to get dressed.
***
Next
The strains of violins and cello waft across the air. Brendon huddles inside his suit jacket, sniffling as he looks up at the night sky. The buds on the trees surrounding him are almost bursting with green and it reminds him, no matter the frost in the air, that Spring is finally on its way.
“Oh there you are!” Greta exclaims as she bustles up beside Brendon, the sky blue silk of her dress swishing as she walks. “Come on, Brendon! It's not like you to miss a party! Especially your own!” She giggles and tugs playfully on his stiffly starched cuff.
Looking regretfully up at Greta through the fall of his hair, Brendon sighs again, then smiles devilishly, tugging Greta down beside him onto the cold stone bench. “I know. I'm sorry I disappeared on you.” He sighs again and ducks his head, staring at the flagstones.
“Brendon, this really is for the best,” Greta frowns then, her nose wrinkling. Her pale blonde ringlets bob as she shakes her head in sympathy.
Lifting an arm to wrap around Greta's shoulder, and giving her a small hug, Brendon bites his lip and says, "Yes, I know. And I am truly grateful to you and your parents, for this opportunity, it's just..." Brendon shakes his head, dark hair whipping around his face, "Never mind, past is past, yes? And, you look so pretty, we can't keep you out here in your brand new dress away from an adoring public, now can we?" Brendon smiles, genuinely this time, and stands, taking Greta's hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow as she gets to her feet.
They walk through the garden doors and immediately are greeted with For He's a Jolly Good Fellow. Greta smiles prettily up at Brendon and he raises his hands, grinning. The music stops and Brendon says, "Thank you everyone for coming to help me celebrate my twenty-first birthday. I am so blessed to have so many wonderful people in my life." Brendon stops, swallowing and biting the inside of his lip to avoid saying that they are all excellent sycophants, here to be seen more than anything else. "This day has been perfect. Captain and Mrs Salpeter have done an outstanding job putting this whole thing together," Brendon nods in acknowledgment towards Greta's parents, sitting primly in starched formal clothing at a small round table, and the entire room erupts in glove-muffled hand claps. "And now, Captain Salpeter has an announcement."
Brendon steps back in place with Greta as her father rises from his seat. "Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, God has graced us with our lovely daughter, Greta, who has endured growing up an only child." Greta beams as a smattering of applause waves across the room. "But as a businessman I must think of the future," the Captain, who is in fact not a captain of anything except his own self-inflated importance, twirls the heavily waxed curl of his dark blond mustache between his thumb and forefinger, "and so, my beautiful wife and I are so very pleased to announce my daughter's engagement to none other than the birthday boy, himself!" Brendon smiles and bows and Greta blushes as the crowd cheers and claps.
As the noise of the crowd dies down and Brendon shakes Captain Salpeter's hand and hugs Mrs. Salpeter, the musicians in the corner raise their instruments and begin to play the opening strains of a quadrille. Greta claps her hands in delight and then links her elbow with Brendon's. Brendon laughs and looks over his shoulder, "You too!" he exclaims, giving a small squeeze to Greta's waist before he trots back, linking arms with his future in-laws and encouraging them and the other party guests on to the dance floor.
***
Brendon carefully drapes his jacket over the back of a chair and is just removing his waistcoat when the bedroom door gives an alarming squeak. "Shh..." Greta holds a warning finger up to her lips, her skin made golden by the light of the hurricane lamp dangling from her hand. She's changed into her nightgown and it floats around her, white as a ghost in the gloom.
"Greta! You can't be here! What if your parents..." Brendon's eyebrows shoot up to his forehead as his eyes dart past Greta and into the hallway. With a little more force than usual, he tugs at the cotton and lace of her sleeve, pulling her into the room, and closing the door behind her.
Making a dismissive gesture, Greta crosses the room and settles her lamp on the bedside table, bouncing down onto Brendon's bed. "Oh pooh, don't you worry about them! Mother and Father have been asleep for hours! I think we exhausted them with all the dancing." She smiles and pats the quilt with her palm, "Come and sit down, Brendon, you look like you've got the vapors!" She laughs at his indignant squawk and snuggles into his side when he sits down in a huff beside her.
Sighing and scratching his nose before holding his arms out, allowing Greta to remove his links--a gift from his mother and monogrammed with an elaborate BU-from his heavily starched cuffs, Brendon says, "So, what is it you'd like, Greta?" His voice is a low, exhausted hum.
"Oh please don't frown so, my pretty boy!" Greta pulls Brendon into an embrace, using the slim fingers of one hand to soothe at the lines in Brendon's forehead. "I know most of Father's acquaintances are taxing, but we did get to dance and eat Mother's cake!" She giggles and looks seriously into Brendon's eyes, "Surely the idea of marrying me is not so bad?"
Wriggling free from Greta's hug, Brendon clasps her hands between his own, "No, Greta, your family has been so kind to me, and you are my dearest friend!" he exclaims, "I apologize, I guess I'm just tired."
"Don't apologize. I'm so very sorry that your family couldn't be here tonight, Bren. In the morning we must write them a letter! Do you think the post will reach them in the jungle?" Greta squeezes Brendon's hands and tilts her chin to look up at him, smiling. "Here!" She reaches out to Brendon's nightstand and snatches up a brush. "Unpin my hair? Please?" Without waiting for Brendon's reply, Greta snuggles back against him, tilting her chin to her chest.
Brendon chuckles softly and then sets to the task of removing the startling array of pins and baubles from Greta's elaborately coiled and braided hair. "Your Father has taken a very great chance, putting his faith in me," he says quietly, carding his fingers through the long fall of Greta's newly freed hair.
"Brendon, don't you know? You are successful at everything you do! Of course my Father has faith you will do well to learn his business. I know keeping accounts isn't your dream. I'm not sure it's anyone's dream," she pauses and meets Brendon's eyes in the mirror above his dressing table, "but you will be good at it, I just know you will."
Carefully stroking the wide brush through Greta's hair, Brendon says, "I won't let them down. They took me in when I had nowhere to go."
Greta is quiet for a moment and then bites her lip before speaking, "Brendon, I...I heard the kitchen girls talking..."
"Gossiping is more like it," Brendon snickers, smoothing his palm over Greta's skull, tucking fly away strands of pale gold hair back into place. "Which poor soul where they roasting on their barbed tongues this time?"
Folding her hands in her lap and studying them intently, Greta's cheeks pink and she says in a low voice, "You."
"Me!" Brendon laughs so hard he has to stop brushing Greta's hair, for fear of tangling it into knots. "Whatever could I have done, head buried in those dusty old ledgers of your father's, to earn their attentions?"
"They said that...that the reason you came to stay with us--the reason you didn't go with your family to Africa--is because, well, because you were caught picking flowers! And they thought it was hilarious! And so I asked why on earth you would be put in such a position for doing something so harmless, and they laughed and laughed."
Hands shaking, the tortoise shell hairbrush clatters to the board floor and Brendon clears his throat, "Oh, um..."
"So then they laughed some more and explained it to me. Oh Brendon!" Greta turns, and kneeling in front of Brendon, flings her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. "I don't care! I don't care about who you...pick flowers with. You are my friend and it breaks my heart to know that you're so sad."
"Sad? Greta, I'm not sad," Brendon lays his hands on Greta's cheeks and wipes her tears away with his thumb, "I shamed my family, and myself. I should have known better, and I was...indelicate about a great many things. Things that make reasonable men like my father and yours very angry. I cannot undo what has past, so I must endure it." He sighs then and presses a kiss to Greta's forehead.
Sniffling and wiping her eyes on the lace trim of her cuffs, Greta stutters out a sigh and says, "But, you had to leave...him. And that's not fair. And you are sad, Brendon. You are! I have known you far too long not to notice when you laugh too loud and smile so very wide but it never reaches your eyes. If I knew how, I would make it better for you. It's all so silly!" Shaking her head vehemently Greta says, "Love is love and I don't see why people have to be so cruel about it!" She bites her lip, pouting and then rests her head on Brendon's shoulder once more. "I'm so sorry, Brendon."
Awkwardly patting her shoulder, Brendon says, "You have nothing to be sorry for, lamb."
"They said he...that you were caught... that you were with...a negro," Greta's eyes shine with tears, alarm, and curiosity as she lowers her voice to a melodramatic whisper.
It takes everything Brendon has not to toss Greta to the floor and bolt from the room. Months of pent of hurt and anger buzz beneath the surface of his skin when he curtly replies, "Travis was a free man, Greta. I loved him and he's gone, and I am not talking about this any more. We must not talk about this any more."
"You deserve better, Brendon. I am so sorry the world is so cruel." Greta settles beside him once more, sniffling and fussing with the voluminous cotton of her night clothes.
Squaring his shoulders defiantly Brendon carefully says, "There's nothing more to be done. I must simply get by." He picks up the brush and resumes dragging it through Greta's long hair. "Not everyone is cruel, Greta. Your family has been far more charitable than my situation would permit, and for that I will always be glad."
"When I was eleven my mother caught me kissing someone. A girl someone." Greta's voice is thick with sleep and Brendon's laugh is light and sympathetic when he sets down the brush and helps Greta to her feet. "I really liked kissing her, Brendon."
Stooping to pick up the lamp, while keeping a steadying hand at Greta's elbow, Brendon snorts and says, "Well, perhaps then we misfits were meant for each other after all," and guides her through the hall and back to her own bed.
***
Greta gasps and giggles as strong familiar hands cover her eyes. "Brendon! You frightened me!" She drops her sewing to her lap and attempts to pry Brendon's fingers away.
"I have a surprise for you!" Brendon's voice is cheeky and breathless with excitement. He replaces his hands with a loosely tied pocket kerchief. Greta giggles and gets awkwardly to her feet, willingly being led through the house.
Greta comes to a dead stop in the middle of the parlor, hand raise to cover her mouth when Brendon removes her blindfold. "Oh my goodness!" she exclaims, dancing up onto the toes of her kid leather slippers. Early afternoon sun shines brightly through the terrace doors, coming to rest on the gleaming surface of a grand piano, taking up considerable space at one side of the room. "For me?" Greta manages to squeak out, looking from Brendon to the piano. "However can you afford it?"
Smiling blindingly wide in the face of Greta's joy, Brendon says, "Yes! For you. Mr Chickering himself had it shipped out, especially for our engagement! Do you like it?" Brendon purposely doesn't answer her question about the cost of the piano. He's quite sure he'll be paying in installments for the rest of his natural life, and possibly into the next as well.
"Do I like it? Do I like it? Oh Brendon, I love it!" She hooks her arms around Brendon's neck and he swings her around, the pair of them laughing brightly. "So, you'll teach me to play? Please?" She takes his hand and heads enthusiastically towards the piano bench.
Careful of the wide spread of Greta's cheerful blue calico and hoop, Brendon takes a seat beside her and, raising an eyebrow asks, "Now?"
"Yes! Now! I was so envious of the wonderful piano every time I visited your family in Utah," Greta sees how Brendon's face falls, every so slightly, but instead of commenting, takes his hands and places them on the keys, "Show me!"
***
The sun is just dipping low into the the harbor when Brendon takes his hands from the piano keys, stretching and raising his arms over his head. "There you are, Miss Greta, your first lesson. And may I say, you are a natural! You'll be playing Chopin in no time!"
Swiping her hands across her reddened cheeks and blowing errant curls from her face, Greta kisses Brendon's cheek and claps her small hands, "Thank you! Maybe I can give lessons to the children, eventually."
"That sounds like a wonderful plan."
"Oh!" Greta stops suddenly, clutching Brendon' hand. "I've entirely forgotten! I have a surprise for you!" She leaps to her feet and strides to the parlor door, "Come on, come on!" she motions for Brendon to follow her. Banging the cover over the keys, Brendon shakes his head and then gets to his feet.
They stop at the door to Brendon's room and he raises an eyebrow when Greta puts her hand to the door knob and twists. "See? It's my engagement gift for you!" She sweeps into the room, Brendon trailing just slightly behind her. "Not nearly as exciting as a brand new piano, but Mother and I did enjoy having such a pretty thing to paint."
Shocked, Brendon's mouth opens and closes and he walks over to the window. Beneath it is a writing desk, small cubbyholes carved out of dark wood and the ornate edges painted a cheerful yellow. "It's beautiful. Thank you." Resting one hand on the desktop, Brendon hugs Greta to him with the other.
"You're welcome! You deserve a place where you can work on your music!" Brendon's face flushes deep red at Greta's exclamation. "I know Father has been discouraging you from doing so on company time, but here, in your own room, on your own time, you can pen your little ditties whenever you want!"
Brendon swallows thickly and bites his lip. Running a hand over the stool, he notices the carefully embroidered posies and says, "Greta! Did you do this?" When she grins and nods he hugs her again. "Thank you!" is all he can think to say.
"Oh, Brendon. I know how important music is to you, it's not just a silly flight of fancy. It's part of who you are. Like breathing. You wouldn't be you if you weren't humming or singing some little song or other." She squeezes Brendon's hand and motions to the stool. "Here, you sit and try your gift out and I'll go back to mine!" Greta beams at him when he kisses her forehead.
Smiling to himself, Brendon flicks out the tails of his coat and plunks himself down onto the stool. Noting the tiny brass key sticking out from the middle lock, Brendon twists and pulls the drawer open.
***
Jon is going to be late for his own party, and it's pissing him off. He doesn't want to think about what hoops Gerard had to jump through to get the publisher's box at Camden. And he doesn't want to let anyone down by leaving them all hanging, waiting for him. The animals chase after him, and it would be funny if he was watching it. But he's been from room to room to room and can't find his car keys anywhere. He's checked the washer and the dryer, and the pockets of every pair of pants and shirt and hoodie he owns. Standing in the living room doorway, Jon scratches at his beard. Through the front window he sees his car, blessedly parked in its usual spot, so his keys have to be here somewhere! Eyes flitting around the room he suddenly remembers the antique desk and its false bottom.
Pulling out the drawer, Jon peers cautiously inside. He pokes through rubber bands, paper clips, and stray receipts, with no luck. There's a gap between the edge of the drawer and the false bottom, and aware that time is ticking, he taps it and the secret compartment is revealed. Jon frowns into the small space. There are no keys there, but there is an envelope. It's not the rejection letter from Benteen, Jon is sure that's still sitting over on top of the piano from the last time he played B. Urie's song. Gingerly taking the browned edge of the paper between his fingers, Jon holds it up to his face and his eyes go wide. In faded, cramped script, Jon's name and address is scrawled across the front of the envelope.
Heart pounding and mouth dry, Jon slides his thumb under the waxy seal and is just about to open the letter--the letter addressed to him--when his phone rings, "Hey Ry, what's up?"
"Happy birthday, man. Me and Gerard are in your 'hood, want a lift to the game? That way you and Tom can celebrate in style." The droll humor in Ryan's tone is lost on all but those who know him very well.
Scratching across his forehead, Jon says, "Thanks. Dude, that would rock!" and grabs his Cubs cap from the sofa, tossing the letter down in its place.
"Cool, see you in ten."
"I'll meet you out front, just slow down and I'll hop in!" Jon laughs.
Laughing too, Ryan says, "We're taking the Mini so You-Know-Who is driving, and he drives like my ninety year old grandma. You shouldn't have any problem going all Dukes of Hazzard. See ya in a few." In a muffled hail of Gerard's indignant squawking, Ryan disconnects the call.
Jon heads for the entryway and, doing his best Mr. Rogers, trades his cardigan for a hoodie and takes off his slippers, bending over to pick up his flip flops. And there, like they'd been perched and waiting all this time, sit Jon's keys. The cheap metallic Columbia College crest key chain glints in the sun and Jon scoops them up, dumping them into his pocket, "Damn cats," he mumbles, jamming his feet into the sandals and then heading out to the front stoop to wait for Ryan and Gerard.
***
After the game, wherein Jon maintains his Cubs were robbed, he manages to stumble into the house after Gerard and Ryan drop him off. He makes it to the sofa and flops down. The cats watch him warily from their perch on the padded back of the couch and Marley trots over, resting his chin on Jon's chest and making hopeful sounds. "Uh, buddy. You think you could use the doggie door? Not so sure I'm up for walkies at the moment," Jon thumps a heavy hand to the dog's head but otherwise remains still. Marley huffs out an indignant breath and then heads towards the back door.
"C'mere pretty kitty," Jon lethargically pats the sofa cushion, encouraging Clover up beside him. Fingers tangled in her fur, he gives in to the heavy pull of his eyelids, and sleeps.
Some hours later, Jon wakes and given the way the darkness spins around him, he's pretty sure he's still drunk. He groans when the weird way he fell asleep makes itself known by the painful kink in his back. And, apparently he slept with his mouth open and drooled a little, because when he raises his hand to swipe at his face, there is most definitely something stuck to his cheek. "Eww," Jon tugs carefully at the offending object and then sees Dylan staring down at him disapprovingly from the sofa's arm. "Dude, please, I've seen you after a date with catnip." Jon pets at the tabby cat and then looks at the paper he's peeled from his face. Oh. The letter. The letter from the desk with his name on it. He hadn't imagined it.
Sitting up, Jon yawns jaw-crackingly wide and rubs at his eye with curled fingers. He flicks on a lamp and, licking his lips against the sting of dryness, he drags his thumb beneath the blob of red sealing wax and carefully unfolds the letter.
13th of April 1861
Kind Sir,
I do no know who you think you are or why you feel it is amusing to broadcast my failure by playing such an unkind trick on me. I know with absolute certainty that you can have seen neither my rejection letter nor my composition, as I have received both back from the calculatedly indifferent offices of Mr. Benteen and his Company. Both have been quickly secreted away from my own sight as well as any others who may in future have the misfortune of laying eyes upon my mediocre talents. I do not need you and whatever trickery and fortune allows for you to have your letters printed on such an extravagant press and stock to mock me, reminding me of my lack of talent.
Truly,
Brendon B. Urie
Sober, Jon would have probably refused to believe what he's seeing. He would have just written the whole thing off as a dumb joke by one of his lame friends. He'd have called Conrad out on his douchey behavior, they'd laugh and move on. But he's still more than a little drunk and all of the birthday beer is still zinging through his blood. "I'm not a liar!" he says to the page. He's suddenly consumed with the need to prove to Brendon B. Urie that he's real.
Jon chews thoughtfully at his lip and huffs indignantly at the letter in his hands. Standing up, Jon toes Marley out of his way. He's got it. He's got the most brilliant idea in the history of brilliant ideas. There's no way B. Urie can think he's a liar or playing tricks on him or anything like that. He stalks to the dining room and picks up his laptop. Opening up Garageband, he sets the computer on the floor beside the piano and fishes around in the piles of magazines and store fliers and scoops up the sheet music from the desk. Once more settling it on the bench beside him, Jon makes an elaborate show of cracking his knuckles and shifting his position on the hard piano bench, then hits record and starts playing the song.
Listening back to the recording for the third time, a smug look on his face, Jon heads to the kitchen for a glass of water and to search for the junk drawer for his long abandoned iPod shuffle. He finds it half shoved into an accordion folder his sister-in-law had given him to organize coupons, and snaps it up. He gulps down the entire contents of his water glass and then heads back to the living room. Plugging the shuffle into his computer, Jon transfers the file he'd created then opens up a word doc, typing a short note;
September 17 2008
Dear Brendon,
So I know this is weird and sort of unbelievable but look at the dates on at the tops of the letters I've written to you. I swear to you it's 2008 and I really did find the letter with your sheet music in my desk.
To prove it to you, I've recorded the song on my computer and am sending you an MP3 player so you can hear for yourself. Sorry my voice isn't so great. I actually hope that whatever magic makes these letters travel through time will also work for electronics and keep the shuffle charged. I am very sorry to have made you angry. That's not what I meant at all. The letter from that music publisher just seemed kind of mean to me, is all. I know I'm not Mr. Benteen or anything, but I think your song is really good and I hope you kept (keep?) writing and trying to get published.
Regards,
Jonathan J. Walker.
Jon reads over what he's typed and giving a nod to the blue glow of the screen, makes a satisfied noise at the back of his throat, closing the Macbook. Convinced that he's shown B. Urie he's for real, Jon heads for bed.
Not hung over, just a little behind schedule because he forgot to set his alarm, Jon chugs great gulps of coffee from his travel mug as he dashes around the house, trying to get to the office on time. He scoops everything up off his desk and shoves it haphazardly into his messenger bag, and using one sandaled foot to keep Marley from bolting through the front door with him, Jon manages to get to his car and on his way only fifteen minutes later than on any other day.
No one at the magazine is a morning person. Gerard usually arrives sometime around noon, unless they're working on a deadline, and Ryan rides in with him. Because they're the entertainment section and cover a lot of movie premieres and concerts, no one actually expects most of the staff to be there during the day. But, Jon likes it. He gets to talk with the office guys and admin staff, and it's actually quiet but there are people around and it makes his life feel a more like a normal guy. Although he is glad that there's no dress code and he can wear jeans and a t-shirt. Jon's dad had worn a suit every day, and Jon had always known that was just not for him.
"Hey, you want me to mail this stuff?" Ashlee, the features intern, takes the few envelopes Jon had tossed out of his bag onto his desk and waves them at him.
Working his way through coffee number three, Jon swallows and nods, "Yeah Ash, that would be great." She smiles and shrugs, tossing the mail into her cart. "Oh, hey, when you get a second would you mind doing something for me?"
Perking up, Ashlee leans against the corner of Jon's desk and says, "Sure! As long as it's not alphabetizing the stationary cabinet. I swear Ryan refuses to believe I actually do have a real journalism degree from a real four year school." She rolls her eyes and tucks her long auburn hair self-consciously behind her ear.
Jon makes a sympathetic face and scrawls across a cat shaped post-it-note, "Nah, it's actually research related. I know that's your thing. Could you see what you can dig up on this guy?"
"Yeah! Sure! Maybe one day Gerard will tell the features guys how awesome I am at this investigative reporting thing and they'll give me a full time gig, you know?" Ashlee takes the paper from Jon, "That all you got, a name and a year?"
"Sorry," Jon shrugs and then adds, "Oh, does saying he lived in Baltimore help?"
Ashlee makes a face and tries her best to pretend she's not laughing at Jon, "Oh yeah, that helps tons, boss."
"Shh!" Jon raises his eyebrow and puts a finger to his lips, "Don't let Ryan hear you call me that."
Rolling her eyes, Ashlee shrugs, and taking a pen out of the Chicago Bulls beer mug on Jon's desk. She writes Baltimore on the small list Jon's given her."Yeah, 'cause he's totally the boss of me. It's not the crack of noon, so he's not even in yet. Although I totally wouldn't put it past him to have like secret listening devices all up in my shit, or whatever." She slaps the post-it on top of the stack of papers in her mail cart. "Well, gotta go! The glamor of the mail room calls. I'll see what I can do for your little project."
Giving her the patented Jon Walker smile, Jon nods and says, "Thanks," turning back to the files on his desk.
***
"Get your own intern!" Startled, Jon looks up from the Canon website he's been browsing, and finds Ryan, staring at him, arms crossed and a frown on his face.
"Huh?"
"I said, get your own intern. Stop making Ashlee do the crap you're too lazy to do." Ryan fiddles with the leather buttons on his mustard yellow cardigan and leans against Jon's cubicle wall.
Scratching at his stubbled cheek, and leaning back in his chair, Jon says, "Dude! Dude you did not just say that to me, in those words. I'm sorry, was asking Ash to do some research for me interfering with her picking up your dry cleaning?" Jon cushions the accusation in his words with a chuckle.
"She spent all day yesterday looking up some guy, just because you asked her to," Ryan huffs.
"Aww, poor baby. Did you have to get your own coffee?" Jon likes winding Ryan up. It's remarkably easy. He props his feet, crossed at the ankle, up on his desk, and links his hands behind his head, smirking.
Ryan chucks a pad of paper at Jon and huff, "Shouldn't you be working on the photo essay or, like, getting ready to go to the Ram's Head with Gabe?"
"My photos are waiting for your essay, friend. And, nah, that's not til 9:30!" Jon smirks, even though he's got his camera and lenses and back up SD cards all packed in his bag, ready to go. "You and Gee wanna meet me and Gabanti there? The band's supposed to be hot."
Frustrated by Jon's ability to just let things roll off his shoulders, Ryan waves his arms and says, "Sure, sure, whatever. Gotta eat first. Wanna swing by the restaurant and pick up Spence, or we doing pub food?"
"Uh, pub food," Jon plays with the strings of his hoodie, "And Spence has a date with Bob tonight." Jon can see the exact moment Ryan gets embarrassed, and he feels awkward. He hates it. "So yeah, we're meeting at the pub. I'll stop co-opting your intern, but you should know she's probably gonna want to come tonight. Pete'll be there..." Ryan and Jon roll their eyes in unison and laugh.
Ryan taps his knuckles on the corner of Jon's desk, "Right, see ya later, buddy."
Jon waves and then looks down at the sheets of paper Ryan had chucked at him. Ashlee had done some simple internet searches and turned up three different Brendon Uries: a guy from Las Vegas who sings in a band, a guy who is currently a student at Johns Hopkins, and Brendon B. Urie, born 1840, engaged to Miss Greta Salpeter of Baltimore. Jon's eyes scan down the page to where Ashlee had scrawled in sharpie; Sorry this was the best I could do before Mr. Seersucker 2008 got on my case. Maybe try the Historical Society?-Ash
Sighing, Jon sets the notes down on his blotter and opens his photo editing softwear, getting back to work.
***
Well, that had been a waste of time. Jon rarely gets angry, but he's overtired and the band had definitely not lived up to any of the hype he'd heard. They were more about looks than music, and their crowd had been full of posers there to be seen rather than for anything music related. The best part of the night had been watching Ashlee and Pete alternate who was trailing after who. It was like some sort of bizarre mating ritual where both parties were unaware that the other actually was in to being courted. Jon sighs and pets Marley's head, letting him off the leash and into the living room.
Jon really wants the last four hours of his life back.
Just about to head up the stairs, he stops and on a whim heads to the living room instead. He stands in front of the desk and laughingly wriggles his fingers in a hypnotic gesture. "Shazam!" he whispers and pulls on the drawer's handle.
Eyes wide with shock, Jon falls back onto his ass. The drawer falls with him, clattering to the floor. "Holy shit," Jon whispers, managing to untangle himself from Marley, who had run to Jon, licking his face in concern. There's another letter. Another letter with Jon's address on the front. Heart pounding, Jon opens the letter and begins to read, sitting where he fell.
April 17 1861
Dear Jon,
Oh, but this is too fantastic to be believed! However, here I sit, with your letter and it's strange typeface clutched in my hands. Tangible proof, so it must be real. At first I thought my good friend Mr. William Beckett had played a nasty trick on me. I soon realized he has neither the wit nor the bankroll beyond the allowance provided him by his father to permit such an elaborate and intricate ruse.
I am pleased to report that your tiny music box did survive it's voyage through the years and arrived intact. Thank you so very very much for providing instructions on its use and operation as I could never have worked that out for myself. Such a small thing, yet it produces such wonderful sounds! I must confess, I listened until the poor thing was exhausted and would give up not so much as one more note.
I made sure, despite my rabid excitement and curiosity, to only listen to your player when my fiancee, Miss Greta Salpeter, and her parents were safely abed. I am quite sure such a marvel would have given Greta a terrible fright and convinced her parents that, far more than a frivolous pastime, my little ditties had somehow summoned a great and horrible daemon from beyond.
Not that your interpretation of my little song is to be equated with the howlings of Hell, of course. Quite the contrary--you do yourself a disservice with your modesty. I dare say your playing and singing were among the most gay it has been my pleasure to hear.
You are from the future! How marvelous and queer. I have so many questions-about the instrument you call a computer-is it anything like the fancy Victrolas all girls are cooing at these days? And electricity! I have of course heard of Mr. Morse's experiments with the telegraph but suspect that even he could never imagine what fantastic uses are to come.
Your writing me from future Baltimore gives me hope in these uncertain times. I feel as though we are all holding our breaths, poised on the edge of turmoil. The news grows evermore grim as the Southern States continue to make good on the promises they made to our new president, Mr. Lincoln. I do not know what events of my time your history books will choose to commemorate, but I am quite sure the secession of so many states from the Union will only lead to hard times for us all-especially here in Maryland, where we straddle both worlds and silently pray for the best.
My goodness I do go on so! I merely meant to express my amazement at our supernatural correspondence and to let you know how very heartened I am to be the recipient of such priceless objects and attention.
With thanks and amazement,
Brendon
"I can't believe it. I just can't fucking believe it," Jon mutters to himself. He keeps turning the paper over in his hands, staring at the address, his address, scrawled across the front, plain as day. He gets to his feet and scoops Dylan up into his arms, nuzzling at his fur despite the cat's low, throaty protests. "Do you see what I'm seeing?" Jon holds the letter up to Dylan's face. Still shaking his head and muttering his disbelief, Jon heads for bed. Once tucked under the covers Jon loses track of the number of times he re-reads Brendon's letter.
***
Jon can't take his mind off the amazing letter that is sitting in his messenger bag. He manages to fake his way through a meeting and spend a few hours in the developing room, just to have something else to focus on. But he's sitting on his desk munching on a tuna sandwich and he's the only magazine staffer in--everyone else has gone off on assignment or isn't in yet. The admin staff stay in their neatly organized cubical forest, so Jon gives in and opens up a word document.
September 21 2008
Hi Brendon;
I hope it won't bother you if I keep writing? I'm just as amazed as you are by this whole thing. It totally never occurred to me that the computer would freak you out. I actually had to look up when electricity was invented and made a pretty common thing to have in your house. That's how much we take it for granted these days. So much has happened between your time and mine-technology, science, politics, entertainment-I don't know where to start. I've always been better with pictures than words so:
This is my computer.
It's a device-an electronic device. If everything in one computer was printed out on paper, the pile would be as tall as a sky scraper. Wait, you probably don't know what that is. So, maybe just think of it as a mountain of information. People use them for writing, for art, for communicating, all kinds of things. I really wish I knew more about the science of it so I could explain it better. But, it's sort of a mystery to me too. I just know that it keeps all my music and photos safe and is allowing me to write these letters to you. :)
This is my car.
I'm not sure when the automobile was invented. But it's a really amazing thing. I think you have steam trains, right? Well, this is even faster and easier, because everyone has one of their own. It runs on something called gasoline and some kinds of cars can go as fast as one hundred miles per hour. Like I said, most people have a car, and some families have two or three.
This is an airplane.
No, it's not mine. :) But, people can travel almost anywhere in the world, really fast, by flying there. My friends and I went to South Africa (I'm not sure, was/is that even a country in your time?) in less than 24hrs. Everyone complains about flying, but most everyone does it, at least once in their life.
I hate to tell you this-but there's going to be a long, drawn out and bloody war in your time. It starts right about the time you're writing me from and is pretty much Northern States vs. Southern States. I hope you and your family stay safe. If what I remember from my high school history classes plays out, I can tell you that eventually the states are reunited and slavery is abolished. Actually, this guy is Barack Obama.
He's probably going to be the next president of the United States. And I'm not just saying that because he's from my hometown of Chicago. :)
I don't know if you want to push our luck or tempt fate or whatever this is, but if you can try and send the MP3 player back to me, I can recharge it and maybe put on some of my favorite songs for you.
Speaking of tempting fate or changing history, not that I think I'm that important, but if you could make sure no one finds out about this stuff, that's probably for the best.
take care,
jjw.
***
April 21 1861
Dearest Jon,
I keep opening your letters and peering cautiously inside, too afraid something so wonderful cannot possibly be real! It is all so fantastic! If I were a smarter man, I would quiz you on the mechanics of the beyond belief inventions you have described. But, as I am spectacularly simple brained I shall just admire the beauty of the images you have provided. They are so colorful and exotic it is like something straight out of the pages of fairy stories.
I can not help to think that if these United States survive their current time of trial, as you have assured me they will, that they must also prosper beyond my wildest imaginings if the wealth you describe is so commonplace.
I beg you to excuse my gormlessness, but what is the meaning of :) ? You use it frequently and I have never seen it before. I gather it is an important communication? I have imagined it to be the written language of some far off and exotic culture you have visited in one of your airplanes.
I must at this point admit to some jealousy regarding the ease with which you are able to see the world. Several of my acquaintances have traveled to Europe via steamliner and my good friend and fiancee Miss Greta Salpeter, chaperoned by her parents, has traveled to New York City and Chicago. The Captain is a mercantalist and travels often across the country in search of new goods.
Myself, I came to Baltimore from Salt Lake City via stagecoach and that is, alas, the sum and total of my considerably unremarkable travel. My family is currently en route to King Leopold's Congo Territory to preach the gospel to the heathens. While I envy them the opportunity for adventure, I must admit I will not miss my Father's filibustering lectures on living a righteous life.
I have been so delighted and distracted by the arrival of your letter today I have fallen quite behind in my daily work. Although yours is a distraction for which I am most glad.
While I shall be forever grateful to the Salpeters for taking me in and providing the possibility of a vocation for the youngest son in a missionary's family, I can say without hesitation I have no head for sums and tallies and am quite sure that whatever work I may do in a day the Captain's poor clerk must surely spend two days correcting!
My parents have stated again and again that there is no employment for dreamers, but I find my head filled always with music--even more so now that my daydreams are full of the flights of fancy your correspondence has provided. I maintain hope that one day my dreams will in fact bear fruit and my little ditties will grace a wider audience than Miss Salpeter, the barn cats, and you, dear Jon.
Speaking of the barn cats-a pretty calico has had a litter of kittens. I worry after their welfare as Spring is quite late arriving this year and it is still cold and damp overnights. While I am unable to provide fantastic images of the meager inventions of my time, I did sketch this as the kittens played in the straw yesterday.
I remain,
Bden
p.s. I would dearly love to hear the popular music of your time, but alas, your music box stubbornly remains a pretty bauble in the drawer of my writing desk, refusing to wend its way across the mystical barrier to you.
***
Jon taps distractedly at the desktop, waiting for the call to connect, "Hey, Max?"
"Dude, yeah. You wanna talk to Tom? I'm not sure if he and Danielle are still here." Danielle's younger brother, Max says when he answers.
"No, actually, is your mom home? I need to talk to her." Jon's tapping turns into one handed, nervous drumming.
There's a pause before Max says, "Uh, sure man. Hang on," and without taking his mouth away from the receiver Jon hears Max yell, "Mom!! The phone's for you!"
"Hello?"
"Um, hi Mrs Steger? I'm Tom's friend, Jon?" Jon has no idea why he's so nervous, but butterflies are doing their thing in his stomach.
Jon can almost here Danielle's mother's smile when she replies, "Of course, dear. Happy belated birthday. What can I do for you?"
"Thanks. Um, you work for the Historical Society, right?"
"Well, I volunteer, but yes, once a week I'm at their offices. Is there something you need?" she asks, sounding infinitely patient and motherly.
Sighing and scratching his head, Jon answers, "Well, I'm working on this...thing, and I'm trying to find some info on a person from about 1860, so I thought I'd come by, if that's okay."
"Of course it's okay!" Mrs. Steger sounds delighted, "Is this for an article? We're big fans of Baltimore Magazine in this house! I'm actually doing a shift tomorrow afternoon, you're welcome to drop by."
Smirking and a little embarrassed, Jon says, "Something like that. Tomorrow would be great. I should be able to get there around two, is that okay?" Mrs. Steger confirms the time and gives Jon directions. They exchange pleasantries and Jon manages to hang up without sounding like a jerk. In what's become a daily ritual, he types Brendon Urie into Google and is unsurprised that the search results are exactly the same as every day before.
***
Jon rubs at his eyes and yawns. The room is dry and the records are old, and he's been here for over an hour and hasn't learned anymore about Brendon Urie than Ashlee had dug up, or what Brendon had told him himself. A volunteer approaches Jon, smiling, "I can show you how to use the microfiche reader now if you like. We're hoping to have all the documents eventually scanned to DVDs but we just don't have the budget for it." The older man smiles kindly, his corduroy pants making a zipping noise as he walks. After a brief lesson, Jon is left with the reader and a scant 3 rolls of microfiche. It doesn't take long for him to realize that he should have taken some Dramamine as the pages of old newspapers whiz by. So far he's learned more about the Salpeters than he wanted to and very little about Brendon.
Annoyed, Jon gives up and is gathering his things to head out when a woman in her fifties approaches him. "Sorry to bother you, but I was just looking at the requests for information you made today." She smiles and adjusts the glasses she keeps on a beaded chain around her neck.
"Oh, yes?"
"I'm so sorry we don't have any more information for you. But I see you've been looking through the Baltimore City archive," she pauses and her eyes flit down a list on the piece of paper she's holding.
Jamming his hands in his jeans pockets and looking at the woman in confusion, Jon answers, "Well, yeah. That's the information I had, that Brendon...Brendon Urie, he lived in Baltimore."
"Yes, that's true, but the Salpeters were an important family in Maryland, and there may be some information for you in the Maryland state archives, which are held upstairs." Still smiling kindly she holds out the page to Jon, "I've compiled a list of some other places that may be able to provide you with what you're looking for."
Jon's not even sure what he's looking for, but he gratefully accepts the list, and says "Thanks," before folding it up, Jon's heart sinks a little when he sees the number of entries on the page. He doesn't even know what he's doing, or what he wants to find out. The whole thing is just crazy. He nods at the woman and then heads to the parking lot.
"Excuse me! Sir?" Jon stops and turns back towards the building, where a young woman is running towards him, long dark hair streaming out behind her.
"Yes?"
The woman gulps and catches her breath, "I'm sorry to bother you," she rests a hand on Jon's forearm as she speaks, "but I couldn't help but overhear--are you looking for information about Brendon Urie?"
Startled, Jon raises his eyebrow and says, "Yeah, actually I am."
A pretty smile tilts her lips when she says, "I'm Kara Urie, Brendon Urie was my great-great uncle. My family is trying to find out as much information about him as we can. We've managed to get historic designation for the Salpeter's summer house. My mother is working on getting it up and running for visitors. I can give you the address if you like?"
"That would be great!" Jon's reply is genuine and enthusiastic.
"Here," Kara takes a crumpled BCHS brochure out of her back pocket and writes out an address and phone number out on a blank space. "My husband is working on a website, but it's not up yet. But, here's my email address if you have any questions," she continues writing and then hands the whole thing to Jon.
"Thank you so much!" Jon reaches out and shakes Kara's hand, "I'm Jon Walker, by the way. And you've been really helpful."
"That's great, you're welcome, Jon. I hope you find what you're looking for!" Kara smiles enthusiastically and then turns to head back into the library.
Slipping the brochure into the file folder he's carrying under his arm, Jon softly mutters, "Me too," before continuing on to his car.
***
Jon ignores the five messages on his phone from friends accusing him, with varying degrees of sincerity, of blowing them off. He's begged off claiming work commitments to Tom and Spencer, but that won't really fly with Ryan and Gerard. So instead of inventing excuses, he's just ignored their calls. He's been thinking about Brendon; what he wants to say in his next letter. He finds himself, at random times in the day, taking out his iPhone and making lists in the notes. He wants to tell Brendon about pizza and music and the subway and what Chicago is like in the summer when you're wandering around Navy Pier with your friends--how beautiful the skyline is from the Ferris Wheel. He wants to do a compare and contrast sort of thing with Brendon's Baltimore and his Baltimore. He has so many ideas and doesn't know where to start. So, instead he pulls out Brendon's letter and decides to just answer some of the questions Brendon's asked and go from there.
September 24 2008
Hi Bden,
Okay, so if you don't mind me writing to you I'm gonna keep doing it. :) <---This is a way we do "smiles" now. Most people communicate with their computers these days. I guess sometimes it's pretty hard to make sure people know what your trying to say. I never noticed I use them so much!
Your kitten drawing is awesome! I love cats. I have 2, named Dylan and Clover. They are the best. Since you liked the photos in my last letter so much, I hope you enjoy these.
1.Dylan
2.Clover and me :)
3.Bonus! My dog Marley. He's the best dog ever, mostly because he thinks he's a cat.
So, you want to know all about me, huh? I'm actually kind of boring. Like I think I said before, I'm from the best city in the world-Chicago-but I moved to Baltimore 2 years ago after I graduated from Columbia, to be with my boyfriend. His name is Spencer and he opened a restaurant here with some of his friends. I guess I should call Spencer my 'ex' now-we broke up a few months back but we're really trying to stay friends. He's a great guy.
You know what? I just realized that there are NO recent pictures of me that don't have Spencer in them. But anyway, as if you couldn't tell in the Clover pic, this is me:
I majored in photography and got a job working for Baltimore Magazine doing what I love and working with the greatest friends a guy could ever have. I'm a very lucky guy and my friends are like my family.
It must suck that your family is so far away. :( <---frowny face, by the way. the opposite of :) It must be really hard on you. My parents and grandparents and my 2 older brothers (I'm the youngest too!) are all still back in Chicago. It's only a short trip away but I miss them like crazy all the time.
Don't give up on music! So what if you have to work in accounting to pay the bills? Keep writing music. Dreams are very important and sometimes come true when you least expect it.
Please tell me how you are doing. It's pretty weird to know there's this huge war that changes the whole country and it's just starting to happen to you now. Things work out though, and like I said slavery is abolished, so maybe you can just focus on knowing that. I can't imagine having to live every day knowing something as gross as slavery exists. It's just so wrong. People are people, you know?
I'm so frustrated that I have all this great music and no way to get it to you. I love music and love talking about it. It would be so cool to hear what you think about the Beatles or the Rolling Stones or Depeche Mode.
I hope you are well,
xo
Jon
***
He can't explain exactly why, but Jon doesn't feel it would be right to mention meeting Kara Urie to Brendon, or that he's been trying to do research on Brendon. It seems really unfair, when Brendon has no such option when it comes to learning about Jon. The thought that Brendon might be spending just as much time as he has trying to figure out how this whole thing works, and what to say to Jon, or maybe even just thinking about him makes Jon smile.
Thinking about Kara reminds Jon of the information she'd given him and Jon shuffles through the thin stack of papers from his trip to the historical board until he finds the brochure, he tears off the info he needs in a neat square and then tosses the rest into the recycling bin. Setting it out so he remembers to take it with him to the office in the morning, Jon calls it an early night for once and heads to bed.
***
Jon's work day turns out to be unexpectedly hectic and he's scrambling mid-afternoon to head out to the Salpeter's summer house. GPS tells him it's down in Anne Arundel County, near Mayo. Traffic is, as usual, a nightmare and it takes just over an hour to reach the house. Jon walks up the long flagstone path and is almost to the wide, whitewashed steps leading up to the front entry when a woman comes out of the house and turns a key in the lock. "Excuse me," Jon clears his throat and looks hopefully at the woman.
"Oh, hello there!" The woman smiles down at Jon, hand raised to protect her eyes from the late afternoon sun.
Smile broad, Jon says, "Hi! I just drove down from Baltimore and I was wondering if I could maybe have a look around?"
Studying him for a moment the woman frowns and says, "I'm sorry, but we're not open for visitors today. I was just leaving..."
"Please!" Jon interrupts, sounding a little more desperate than he'd like, "I've come all this way. It would just be a quick look." His eyes widen even further, and he's aware that he's giving the woman his best Puss 'n' Boots as Spencer used to call it--his soft brown eyes are wide and pleading, just like the storybook cat in Shrek. After all, what good is being a youngest child if you don't find a way to use what you've got to get what you want?
"Well...alright. But just a quick look!" The woman huffs out a breath and encourages Jon up the steps. She turns the key in the lock and the big door swings inward.
Jon looks around at the dark heavy wood and the overabundance of lace, chintz and watermarked silk. "Is it okay if I..." he hefts his camera from around his neck and waves it a little at the woman.
She frowns and says, "No flash. And may I ask, what exactly are you doing here?" She crosses her arms and stands just inside the door, clearly impatient for Jon to do what he needs so she can leave.
"Um, I work for Baltimore magazine," he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, handing her a card, "we're always looking for new story ideas, and my editor is really in to local history these days." Jon's a little frightened at how easily the lies slip from his mouth.
The woman's expression and demeanor change as soon as Jon's card is placed in her hands, "Oh, how interesting!"
Jon smiles at her and holds the camera up, snapping a picture. She laughs and waves her hand at him and Jon continues through the house. He stops in his tracks by the stair case. On the first landing, in the center of a collection of family photographs and paintings is a large canvas of a dark haired man and a blonde woman. "Brendon," Jon says low under his breath as his feet head automatically for the stairs. He has no doubt that the man, austere in a dark suit and high collar, is Brendon. Resisting the urge to reach out and touch the oiled surface of the portrait, Jon raises the camera to his eye and snaps frame after frame.
The woman clears her throat loudly, a clear indicator that Jon has worn out his welcome. He lets the camera thump back down against his chest and turns to head back down the stairs. Three steps down he stops suddenly as the strangest sensation passes through him. He can't really explain it but it's warm, like no warmth he's ever felt before, and it wraps around him and he feels peace and safety. "Brendon?" he whispers. The feeling remains with Jon until he comes to stand by the front door and then it disappears, and Jon can't help but feel a profound sense of loss.
After a minute of Jon silently staring up the staircase the woman again clears her throat. When Jon looks over at her she's staring at him pointedly. "Uh, thanks," he manages to mutter as a blush spreads across his cheeks and neck.
"You're very welcome," the woman smiles tightly and ushers Jon out with her as she locks up. "Good luck with your article, I'd love to see how it turns out." She stands with her arms crossed watching as Jon waves his thanks and heads to his car, starting on the long drive back to Baltimore.
***
Armed with a roll of stamps and Brendon's P.O. box address, Jon takes advantage of the post office being across the road from his office to send Brendon things. He's seen enough sci-fi to avoid sending life and history altering things like newspaper and magazine articles, and really in this situation sci-fi is pretty much the only rulebook Jon has to play by. So he mails photographs he takes on his walks with Marley; other dogs and flowers and once even a wayward gaggle of geese. He found a book full of Beatles sheet music and sent off a few songs from that, wondering what Brendon would think of the Lennon-McCartney writing style. Checking the drawer has become just as much a part of Jon's routine as walking Marley and programming the coffee maker every night before he goes to bed. Sometimes Brendon sends brief thank you notes, or little pencil sketches of life on the Salpter's estate, and sometimes he sends long effusive dissections of every popular song tab Jon has passed along.
These exchanges happen almost daily, but Jon is still shocked, every single time he opens the writing desk, to see an envelope with his name and address written on the front in Brendon's familiar handwriting.
***
April 21 1861
Jon,
Well look! There you are. It will be nice to be able to picture you exactly as you are when my mind wanders to your letters, now I can conjure you with clarity. Your cats (and cat-dog) are adorable. One can tell so much about the quality of a man by the affection he affords God's more humble creatures. They are lovely and I thank you for sharing with me. I still cannot fathom how very commonplace a thing this marvelous electric camera will become. We had a smelly hound dog my father kept in a pen outside when I was a child. He was quite old and cantankerous and did not really enjoy the company of a small excitable boy. I coddle the barn cats here at the Salpeter's home more than I should but they are so small and fuzzy and all so adorable! Mrs Salpeter is in constant fear that I shall develop pinworms, track in fleas or worst of all, become rabid! Poor woman worries about so very many things.
I find myself looking forward to your letters and in quiet times I cannot help but wonder what new and wonderful things they will contain. I never quite reach the amazing realities of the wonders you choose to show me.
:) A smile! How charming and clever! In time you may regret you told me about this. :) :) :) :) You were so gracious to clarify this usage, but I am afraid I must admit my confusion at your use of some other terms. In your letter your called this Spencer your 'boyfriend'. Do you mean to say he is your very best friend? Surely you cannot mean to imply two men courting? Just the thought of such an indelicate arrangement is shocking, truly! Your times are fascinating.
Myself, I have settled into a good, if unremarkable life. I have solidified my place in the Salpeter's household by publicly announcing our engagement at my twenty-first birthday party, which Miss Greta's parents so graciously arranged for me. It is tragic that such a joyous occasion be overshadowed by the recent and ongoing events at Fort Sumter. The war you have warned of so frequently seems to have finally arrived on our doorsteps. So many brave young men have been dispatched to the fort and have perished in the terrible violence there, which shows signs of continuing infinitely. The rebels seem hellbent on having their way.
Miss Salpeter is beside herself with fear that I shall be conscripted. I would dearly love to provide her the reassurances contained in your letters, but know in all good logic that to do so would have terrible consequences for all involved. Instead I have comforted her with declaring myself unfit for soldiering and glad her family respects the pacifist beliefs instilled in me since childhood. Perhaps I should be most grateful for Captain Salpeter's social status and financial holdings; which, should the worst happen and I be forced to join up, will provide the wherewithal to purchase a commission sending me no further afield than the army's accounts office in Baltimore proper, and have me wielding little more than a pen and ledger. :)
All good things,
Bden
***
Strong hands are holding him down. He groans in pleasure at the sensation of smooth, warm skin sliding against his. He angles his hips, desperate for more contact. He's rock hard and leaking, and the feel of fleeting teasing licks is not nearly enough. He groans again and this time feels the burn and stretch of being filled and it's too much and not enough and so good. He cries out, and looks up into laughing dark eyes.
Jon wakes up gasping, his boxer shorts sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He groans and digs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. His heart is still pounding painfully in his chest and he's still fuzzy from his orgasm. Orgasm. Jesus. Jon hasn't had a wet dream since he was fourteen. Sitting up, he mincingly pulls at the waistband of his underwear. Head clearing a little, Jon realizes what woke him up; Marley is barking--high pitched and scared--from the other side of the door. "Hey, hey buddy," Jon's voice is low and thick with sleep as he pets at the dog's fur, trying to calm him down. Marley bursts into the room, still barking and yipping at the air, running in circles around Jon. Hooking a finger under Marley's collar, Jon gives a little jerk and says, "Buddy, calm down! It's okay!" and runs his palm over the dog's big head. Panting, Marley flops down beside Jon's bed with a final whine. Scratching his head in confusion, Jon pulls his shorts off, wadding them into a ball and throwing them towards the laundry basket.
He should take a shower, but Jon settles for wiping off the mess stuck to his skin with a wash cloth. He splashes cold water on his face and drinks a glass of water, grabs a pair of boxers he's pretty sure are mostly clean, then heads back to bed, patting the mattress beside him and Marley takes the hint, curling up at his side, resting his head protectively on Jon's chest.
When Jon wakes again it's to the sound of pounding on his front door. Shoving Marley out of the way, he heads down the stairs and yanks open the front door. “C'mon asshole, stop fucking a ghost so we can go retain our title, okay?' Tom shoves Jon backwards into the house.
There's a sinking feeling in his chest when Jon says, “What?”
“Dude, Danielle told me you went by the Historical Board with her mom. Figure you're working on some big story. And I know how you get inside your own head and forget to sleep and eat and all that shit.”
“Oh,” Jon stands there stupidly, running his hand over the top of his hair, trying to smooth away most of his bed head.
Tom stoops to pick up Clover, “Yeah, oh.” He runs his hand along the cat's spine and smiles when she purrs. “Dude, today we have the stupid fucking bowling thing for your office. We have to go kick Ryan and Gerard's ass, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Fuck, Jonny would you stop saying oh and go put some pants on so we can do this thing?” Tom barges through to the kitchen, getting coffee ready and waving Jon off upstairs to get dressed.
***
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