A Little Piece with You (1/4)
A Little Piece with You
Authors: foxxcub and lifeslushlips
Pairing(s): Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon, Pete/Patrick
Word Count: 29,169
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Author Notes: This entire thing goes back to a simple comment I made about how "Holy Spaces" made me want a fic in black and white set in the 1920s. Very special thanks to andwristsintact, clumsygyrl, shleemeri, harriet_vane, and eleanor_lavish for all the betaing, hand-holding, and general cheerleading. Also, many snuggles to everyone who supported us in our little AU endeavor that completely ate our brains and made us desperately want Panic covers of Cole Porter songs.
Summary: The boys form a jazz band at a Chicago speakeasy in the late 1920s. (Mostly, a fic inspired by "I Have Friends in Holy Spaces".)
===
Chicago, 1928
Ryan sneaks quietly out of the apartment. Spencer is still on the swing shift at the hotel, and today is his only day off for another week. He wonders if Spencer planned it that way or if it just happened. In any case, it means Ryan's going to get to surprise him for his birthday after all.
The sun is barely up, but there are other people on the street, men heading to the stockyards on the South Side or maybe the rail yards. Most of them move slowly, as if dragging their steps will delay the whistle for the start of the day. Ryan knows how lucky he and Spencer were in finding jobs that didn't force them into fourteen hours on the floor, the coppery taste of blood always in the back of their mouths; he'd had enough of that at home. A phrase pops into Ryan's head, something about the steel cages of skeletons protecting a fragile heart, and he's so distracted trying to remember it, he almost walks right past the bakery.
He pulls up short and goes inside. The smell of warm bread reminds him of afternoons sitting in Spencer's kitchen, watching his mother knead dough as she hummed softly under her breath. It's a one of his happiest memories.
There's a bell with a little sign that says PLEASE RING BELL FOR SERVICE. Ryan taps it twice, but no one seems to hear it. Music is coming from somewhere, so he steps behind the counter and peeks in the back.
"Hello?"
A dark-haired boy is bent over one of the tables. He has a pastry tube in his hand, intently frosting whatever is in front of him as he sings along to a record player sitting precariously on a stack of crates.
"That's why birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it. Let's do it, let's fall in love." He trails off into a hum.
Ryan snaps out of his haze and clears his throat. The boy whips around, startled.
"Oh, sorry. Did you ring the bell? I must've not heard it." There's a streak of flour across one cheek, but his smile is bright. He wipes his hands on his apron and looks expectantly at Ryan. "So, did you need something?"
"Yes, sorry. I was looking for hot cross buns? There weren't any in the case…" Ryan gestures to the front and when he looks back, the boy is smiling wider. For some reason, Ryan smiles back automatically.
"You, my friend, are in luck. I have just finished icing what might be the best hot cross buns east of the Mississippi. Or west. Whichever." With a flourish, he pulls forward the pan. "But they aren't quite cool yet, so you'll have to wait a few minutes before I can pack them up."
He picks up the tray and ushers Ryan toward the front of the store. One-handed, he slides the tray onto a table and snatches up a box from near the register.
Ryan goes around to the front of the counter and watches him for a moment before blurting out, "Do you always sing Cole Porter to your baked goods?" He resists the urge to clap his hand over his mouth - those kinds of comments are usually reserved for Spencer.
But the boy just laughs. "No, sometimes I sing Gershwin. And Wagner, but only when I'm forced to make German Chocolate Cake," he answers as he packs a layer of wax paper into the bottom of the box. "So, hot cross buns, hmm? Don't get many folks under fifty asking for those."
Ryan flushes a little. "They're for my best friend. It's his birthday today and back home, his mother always made them for him for breakfast. We're pretty broke, so I wanted to get him something special." Ryan's a little surprised at himself, revealing this much information to a total stranger, but something about this guy puts him at ease.
"Where's home? If you don't mind me asking?"
"Nevada. Las Vegas," he replies, looking down and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
The white bakery box slides into his view. "Imagine that. From the same hometown and we meet each other here. What are the odds?"
"Pretty slim, I'll admit," Ryan says as he pulls money out of his pocket. "How much do I owe you?"
The guy waves him off. "It's on me. Birthdays should always be celebrated with something sweet. With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come," he says with a wink.
"But I can't let you pay for these. It's too much, you don't even know me," Ryan protests as the box is shoved into his hands.
"I guess that means you and your friend will have come out with me sometime. Or better yet, invite me to dinner. Surely one of you must be able to cook something passable. I'll bring bread." He flashes Ryan a broad grin.
Ryan is completely flabbergasted. Still, he finds himself writing their address on an old order form. The boy reads it and then tucks it in his pocket.
"Ryan Ross. Nice to meet you. I'm Brendon Urie." He puts out his hand and Ryan shakes it. "How's tomorrow night?"
"That'll be fine." He doesn't realize he's still holding Brendon's hand until a little old woman opens the door behind him. Brendon squeezes once more before letting go and turning his smile on the woman.
"Good morning, Mrs. Reilly."
"Good morning, young man." Brendon is putting muffins in a box, but calls out as Ryan is leaving.
"See you tomorrow, Ryan. At seven."
Ryan nods and ducks out the door.
===
"I can't believe you invited some random person to have dinner here," Spencer tells Ryan from the kitchen as he stirs vegetable soup in a big brass pot. They'd borrowed the pot from the woman next door when they realized they didn't actually have anything to cook in except the pan Ryan used to poach eggs, and a percolator. The soup is a recipe Spencer's mother had taught them a couple of years ago.
"It never hurts to know how to make a few things," she'd said as they chopped carrots and onions. "Your future wives will thank me." That had been a good day. He wonders if Spencer's been thinking about it too.
"To be honest, he sort of invited himself," Ryan says. "But after seeing how much he packed in that box, we owe him at least this." When he'd gotten home, he'd found not only the hot cross buns he'd asked for, but a couple of layers of rainbow cookies and two fat blueberry muffins. It was like hitting the jackpot, but he knew Spencer was wary; he didn't like feeling like he owed anyone anything. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen - he's completely awful, you hate him and we send him packing?" He shrugs. "At least we'll have one other person in this entire city to talk to besides each other."
Spencer eyes him suspiciously from the stove. "Who are you and what have you done with the real Ryan Ross?"
Ryan's slicing a hunk of cheese as thinly as possible, to make it seem like there's more than there is. He doesn't look up. "It's just that we agreed that we were going to make a clean start here, right? Be different people than we were at home." He grabs a small plate and arranges the slices like he remembers Spencer's mother doing. "He quoted Shakespeare to me at seven in the morning, Spence. I had to at least give him a chance."
"Fine. But if you start talking about Freud and he looks at you like you're speaking Latin, don't say I didn't tell you so," Spencer replies, shaking more pepper into the pot.
Before Ryan can say anything back, there's a knock at the door. When he opens it, Brendon's standing there looking a little like a drowned cat. He drops a soggy newspaper in the hall before he comes inside.
"Sorry. It started to pour and I didn't have an umbrella," he says, peeling off his coat. "But I kept the bread dry."
Ryan hangs Brendon's coat over one of the kitchen chairs to dry out. "You made a noble sacrifice."
Brendon grins. "I did, Ryan Ross. I hope you can appreciate it." He sniffs the air and suddenly his eyes light up. "God, what are you making? It smells delicious." He makes a beeline for the kitchen and heads straight to the stove, where he promptly plucks the spoon from Spencer's hand and sticks it in his mouth. He makes a ridiculous mmmmm sound and smacks his lips. "I might have just died and gone to heaven."
Ryan stays in the doorway, watching Spencer's face go from dubious to offended with just a shade of being pleased at the compliment. "Spencer, meet Brendon."
Brendon gives back the spoon and holds out his hand. "Happy belated Birthday."
Spencer arches an eyebrow, but shakes Brendon's hand anyway. "Thanks."
"How were the buns? Almost as good as dear old mom's?" Brendon asks, stealing a piece of cheese from Ryan's nicely arranged plate. Spencer pointedly goes back to stirring, and Ryan grabs Brendon's arm.
"Let's get out of Spencer's way. He's, um, very protective of his kitchen." Ryan looks back over his shoulder, but Spencer is still looking down, the spoon moving in perfect clockwise strokes.
"Who's reading Dostoevsky?" Brendon asks, picking up the used copy of The Brothers Karamazov from their battered coffee table.
"I am, actually," Ryan says, leaning against the back of the couch where Brendon has sprawled. "Have you read it?"
Brendon fans the pages back and forth. "I have, but I think Freud's paper on Dostoevsky himself is more interesting. I'll let you read if I can find it."
Ryan hears a laugh from the kitchen.
===
Later, they sit around the table drinking coffee and eating the rest of Brendon's cookies. Brendon offers them both a sip of whiskey from his flask, but Ryan declines, saying, "I don't really drink, thanks."
But Spencer takes a tiny drop without blinking, and Brendon pours some in his own cup before sticking the flask back in his pocket.
"Where did you get the whiskey, anyway?" Spencer asks after his first sip. He dumps another spoonful of sugar in his coffee.
"A friend of mine. Well, my best friend, really - Jon. He works at a place on the South Side." Brendon's voice drops a little, and Ryan has to lean in to hear him. "A speakeasy. He tends bar."
Ryan's fingers tighten on his cup reflexively. Under the table, he feels Spencer kick his ankle gently. He lets his grip relax and hopes that Brendon didn't notice anything.
"But he really wants to be a jazz musician. He plays the bass and he's pretty good, too," Brendon explains, polishing off another cookie. "You both should come down with me one night when he's playing. He fills in with the house band sometimes. He's a good guy, you'd like him."
Ryan smiles at Brendon's eager look. "That sounds like a plan. What do you think, Spencer?"
Spencer nods slowly. "Yeah, sure. I go back to swing next week, so I'll be off around one in the morning. But isn't that too late?"
"My dear Spencer," Brendon says, laughing. "That's exactly when the real party starts."
===
It's funny, how wanting to be in a band doesn't always mean wanting to play in front of an audience. Or maybe it's just the years spent playing to patrons in a smoky, dimly-lit club who care more about the alcohol being served than the faces behind the music. Either way, Jon realizes he's nervous to be playing in front of Brendon's new friends, the ones he hasn't been able to stop babbling about for the past two weeks: Ryan and Spencer, in Chicago by way of Las Vegas. Jon's a little baffled at how strongly Brendon's latched onto them, even if they are from the same hometown. He's clingy, yes, but never to specific people for very long (Jon always considers himself the exception, however).
He plays the set and never quite looks out over the tables and the bar, but he can still hear Brendon's, "Woo, Walker!" from across the room. He wonders if Brendon's friends know anything about music, if they have any idea what this club means to Brendon, and himself.
Finally, Jon finishes up, setting his bass carefully in the corner, against the far wall of the stage. He'll pack it up later, when his shift is through. He unbuttons his shirtsleeves and rolls them up to his elbows as he makes his way back to the bar, and eventually he spots Brendon at a small table nearby.
"Hey!" Jon calls, and Brendon waves him over, beaming from beneath the brim of his ridiculous fedora, the one Tom brought back for him from Paris. It's too big for his head and tends to slip down over his eyes, but Brendon loves it, especially when he's drunk and can tip it back, like some kind of movie star. Jon's watched more than a few girls giggle as they toyed with the feather stuck in the band.
Which makes it all the more baffling when Brendon throws his arms around the skinnier of the two guys sitting with him and says, "This, Jon Walker, is my Ryan Ross."
Jon's not quite sure, but he's fairly certain Ryan is blushing. He waves tentatively at Jon.
The other guy, slightly scruffier than Ryan and looking more amused at the situation, drawls, "And I'm apparently chopped liver."
Brendon makes a pitifully sad face at him and promptly reaches across the table to muss his hair. "You're the prettiest chopped liver there ever was, Spencer Smith."
Spencer rolls his eyes as he holds his hand out to Jon. "Yeah, so, hi. You were really good out there, by the way." Then - then he smiles at Jon, and it's the oddest thing; Jon blinks for a second and his chest contracts, as if he's suddenly had the air forced out of him.
"Um. Thanks." He shakes Spencer's hand jerkily, feeling stupid for some reason.
"But your drummer's not very creative with his fills. You might want to mention that." Spencer takes a sip of his drink and waves his hand toward the stage.
"Wait." Brendon points an accusing finger at Spencer. "You play?"
There's a strange moment where Spencer bites his lip and looks across at Ryan, and the two of them seem to have some sort of silent conversation. He finally replies, carefully, "Yeah, I played back home. It wasn't anything serious, though, just...something to do." But the way he fidgets with the edge of his glass and the way Ryan's carefully not looking at him makes Jon think it was much more than that.
He's barely known these two for ten minutes, and already he's wondering who the hell they are, and how on earth they came to find Brendon.
Jon clears his throat. "Well, it's not my band, I'm just filling in since the usual bass player's out with pneumonia. But I'll mention to Steve that you think he needs some work." He grins at Spencer, who laughs.
"Are you still closing up tonight?" Brendon asks, slinging one arm back around Ryan's neck as he rests his head on his shoulder. It's nothing Jon hasn't seen him do with people before, but it's pretty obvious that Ryan's not quite sure how to deal with the attention. Normally the people Brendon showers with affection give back just as intensely, if not more so.
"Yup." He pauses, and adds, just to see Brendon's reaction, "I think Suarez is closing up with me if you want to stick around."
"We're not." Ryan finally speaks for the first time, and he sits up and neatly shrugs off Brendon's arm. "I mean, Spence and I have to work in the morning. We shouldn't even be out right now." He smiles sheepishly at Jon. "Nothing personal, mind you."
Jon holds up his hand. "No, hey, understood. Everyone's gotta make a living. Right, Bren?
Brendon sighs. "Too, too true. The world is a brutal place." For someone who has to be at work before sunrise every morning, Brendon stays out later than anyone Jon knows. Except right now he looks conflicted, and Jon can't decide if it's the Suarez comment, or the fact that Ryan wants to leave. But like a switch is flipped, he suddenly beams at Ryan. "But you and Spencer will come back tomorrow night, right? They might even let me play."
Ryan ducks his head and scrunches his mouth to one side, and Jon can't help but notice the way Spencer watches him with a protective gleam in his eyes. "Maybe." Ryan smiles slowly. "You get to play, too?"
"I steal their piano out from under their noses before they can stop me, and then I don't quit until the booing starts."
Jon snorts. The nights when Brendon "steals" the piano usually end with the house band begging him to get off the stage because the crowd loves him too much. "Yeah, I have my own personal hook just for such occasions."
Brendon grabs onto one of Jon suspenders and clings to him, feigning a look of heartbreak. "You wound me, Jon Walker."
"I try." He looks up and sees Gabe raise an eyebrow at him from behind the bar, and then jerk his chin at the group of flappers gathered in front of him, waiting for their drinks.
He pats Brendon's cheek and says, "I'm on the clock, Bren. I'll talk to you guys later." Jon gives Ryan and Spencer a small salute. "Nice to meet you both, and since you're leaving, the rest of the night's drinks are on me."
It's a lame joke, but he's more than a little pleased to make Spencer laugh one more time before he heads back to the bar.
===
Two days after their night at the club, Brendon shows up at the bookstore while Ryan is working.
"Ross. Expanding any minds today?" He hops up on the front counter like he owns the place.
Ryan pushes him none-too-gently off with a smirk. "Not at all. It's abysmally slow."
"Good. Then you won't have any trouble cutting out early and going to a lecture with me. There's this thing on Eliot at the University that I want to go to, and prying Jon out of bed before five is impossible."
"Okay, sure," Ryan says and is halfway around the corner before he realizes, slow or not, if he leaves now he'll lose two hours pay. And even with what's left of their nest egg, he and Spencer can't afford that. "Actually, maybe I'll just stick around here. Sometimes it picks up around five, and I don't want to leave Mr. Parker alone in the shop."
Brendon looks at him thoughtfully, like he's trying to figure something out. Once he seems to be satisfied, he nods and calls out over Ryan's shoulder, "Hello, Mr. Parker? Are you in there?"
Ryan winces. "What the hell are you doing? I can't lose my job," he hisses.
"Trust me," Brendon says with a wink.
Ryan's boss comes out of the office. "Why, hello, Brendon. Haven't seen you in awhile! Did you get through the Proust, or did you give up and read those pulp novels instead?"
"Both, actually. But to be honest, I think something is lost in the translation of the Proust. Too bad I don't read French," Brendon answers with his most charming smile.
"Have you met my new assistant, Ryan?" Mr. Parker asks, clapping Ryan on the shoulder. Ryan manages not to flinch, but his discomfort doesn't seem to escape Brendon's notice.
"I have indeed. Actually, I was just asking Ryan here if he'd like to go to hear Roberts speak on Eliot." Brendon's laying it on pretty thick, even for him. But Mr. Parker just laughs.
"Your obsession with Eliot, I'll never understand." He turns to Ryan and says, "Did you know that Brendon spent an entire month sitting in the back of the store trying to memorize The Waste Land?"
Brendon actually looks a little embarrassed, and Ryan files that information away to bring up the next time they're with Spencer and Jon. Some good-natured teasing never hurts. "I didn't, but I can understand it. Some pieces just take hold of you, making you want to take them everywhere." He thinks about the dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby in his jacket pocket, and when he meets Brendon's eyes, they share a smile.
"So, do you think you can spare him for the rest of day?" Brendon asks. Ryan doesn't have the chance to protest before Mr. Parker starts to shoo them out the door.
"Of course. You gentlemen go and learn something. Ryan, you can come in early the next few days and we'll call it even."
"Will do, sir, thank you," Ryan says as Brendon pulls him out the door.
===
After the lecture, they go for coffee, which turns into dinner, and that turns into going down to the club to see Jon.
The Charleston is crowded and loud, and everyone seems to know Brendon. They make it to the end of the bar where Brendon cons two girls off of their stools by inviting them to dance.
"Guard these with your life, Ross," he says as the girls drag him off. "And tell Jon I want the usual!"
On the floor, Brendon dances without restraint, twirling and dipping both his partners without missing a beat. He's magnetic, drawing people to him as he trades one of the girls for a tall, dark-haired man. It's still a little shocking to see two men dancing together openly, but no one seems to be bothered by it.
Ryan doesn't realize how long he's been staring until Jon clears his throat.
"He's something, isn't he?"
Ryan can feel himself blush. "That he is."
Jon pushes a glass toward him. "Just tonic. Brendon says you don't really drink."
"I know that seems strange, but," Ryan starts, but Jon waves him off.
"You don't need to explain anything to me," Jon says, setting another drink in front of him. "This is Brendon's, but he only gets one on the house tonight. He's got to earn his keep." Someone down the bar signals him. "I'll be back."
Ryan sips his drink and watches Brendon work the room as he leaves the dance floor. He jokes and laughs with everyone, laying a hand on a shoulder, leaning in close before bursting into laughter. It's strange; if he'd met him at any other moment, Ryan would've hated him. Brendon is silly and boisterous and talks too much, but he doesn't treat Ryan with the same kind of carefulness Spencer does.
Brendon catches Ryan's eye from where he's perched on the lap of a beautiful blonde and winks. Something hot surges in Ryan's chest, and he has to look away. Before he can recover, Brendon bounds back over to him, slinging one arm over Ryan's shoulder and grabbing his drink with the other.
"Ryan Ross, you should meet the girls. They were asking all about you." He waves and the table of girls wave back. "That's Keltie, Greta, and Cassie. They do a vaudeville act down on Theater Row. I filled in on piano for them a few times so Greta can dance, too." Brendon's a little breathless and flushed from dancing, and Ryan is hit with the urge to touch him - maybe run his thumb over the apple of Brendon's cheek and feel the heat of his skin.
Instead, Ryan bites his lip and says, "Maybe later, okay?" He shifts back just a little, and Brendon takes the hint, hopping up onto his own stool.
Tipping back his glass, Brendon drains the rest of his drink and bangs the glass down on the bar.
"Jon Walker," he yells, "What does a man have to do get some service in this place?"
"You get plenty of service in this bar, Urie," someone calls out from the other end of the bar.
Brendon whips one right back. "I resent that remark, Ryland Blackinton. You have besmirched my flawless character in front of young Ryan here."
Ryan shakes his head, not wanting to get pulled into the middle.
"He's got to be warned, Brendon," Ryland says, but with a smile. "Be careful, Ryan - soon enough he'll have you out until all hours, drinking and causing mayhem. He's a menace."
"But he's our menace and we love him," Jon cuts in as he pours Brendon another drink. When he tries to grab it, Jon holds it just out of reach.
Brendon attempts a pout. "It's not nice to tease, Jon."
"Didn't Ryan tell you? You want to drink, you have to play for it." Jon smiles conspiratorially at Ryan. The house band is just announcing a break, and Ryan can see the hungry gleam in Brendon's eye.
"Fine, fine. Twist my arm, why don't you?" He leans into Ryan and asks softly in his ear, "Any requests?"
Ryan struggles to ignore the flush in his cheeks, even as his nose just barely brushes Brendon's when he turns to answer. "You know Rhapsody in Blue?"
"Of course." Warm breath washes over Ryan's lips as Brendon's answers. "I should've known." He presses his forehead to Ryan's briefly before he's off to the stage.
Ryan knows Jon is watching him, but he doesn't look at him. He keeps his eyes on the stage, on Brendon throwing himself into the music like no one is watching. Ryan wishes he could find the words to describe it - the line of his back as he plays, the stretch of his fingers on the keys. It's breathtaking.
"He wears his heart on his sleeve," he hears Jon say, a careful warning in his tone. "And he doesn't always think before he does things."
"That's actually why I like him," Ryan answers, never looking away from the stage. "He lives for the moment."
"You can say that again." Jon lays his hand lightly on Ryan's forearm. "Just…be careful." There's genuine concern in Jon's voice, and when Ryan turns to him, Jon squeezes his arm a little.
"I'll do my best," Ryan says.
Jon smiles. "That's all I ask." He goes to serve someone else, and Ryan looks back at Brendon, letting the music distract him from the buzz in his head.
===
It's four o'clock in the morning, and Jon's tired and wired and just this side of slipping over the edge into exhaustion. He hasn't eaten or slept since yesterday morning and it's starting to catch up with him, but he still finds himself walking in the opposite direction of his apartment as he leaves The Charleston, toward the Hotel Delaware at the corner of 5th and Walnut.
When he gets to the main doors, he pauses, suddenly paranoid that this is the wrong hotel and that Ryan told him wrong directions. But then he peeks in through the glass and sees Spencer standing behind the check-in desk, flicking the hair out of his eyes absently as he makes notes in a wide ledger.
It's definitely the right hotel, and now Jon's gone from paranoid to nervous. He doesn't have any business showing up here at four in the morning; he'd asked Ryan out of curiosity about where Spencer worked, and when Ryan had told him, he'd added, "Spence takes the job pretty seriously, so don't expect him to leave early to go catch a show or anything." Which is sad, since Jon really wants to talk him into getting breakfast.
He nods to the doorman, who holds the door open for him. Jon ducks his head and blushes faintly as he tugs at the brim of his hat in appreciation - he's never been used to people waiting on him, not when he spends a good portion of his life doing the exact opposite. He walks into the lobby and stands a few feet away from the check-in desk. Spencer's still engrossed in whatever he's diligently writing, and Jon shifts slowly from foot to foot, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden for coming down here.
"Sir, can I help you?" The doorman's voice startles Jon. He jerks around and smiles sheepishly at the man, waving his hand vaguely toward Spencer as he rubs at his neck.
"No, thanks, I was just - "
"Jon?" Spencer looks up from the ledger and gives him a funny look. "What are you doing here?" The corner of his mouth crooks up into a confused little smile.
Jon blushes harder. "I, um, just got off work and thought I'd drop by."
"It's almost four-thirty in the morning." But his smile is getting wider, if not any less confused, like he's never had anyone come to see him at work.
"Yeah, and I'm starving. But Ryan said you don't shake off work for things like coffee and breakfast, so I guess I'm just here to, uh..." Jon fidgets with his hat brim again. "Say hello?"
Spencer closes the leather-bound book slowly. "I've got two more hours on my shift, and by then I have to get home and make sure Ryan actually gets up and eats breakfast himself, or he'll just go the whole day not realizing he hasn't put food in his body." He sighs ruefully. "I'm a part-time mother, did Ryan mention that?"
Jon grins and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "He skipped that part."
"But if you wanted to...I mean, as long as you're not dead asleep, we could get breakfast later? After Ryan goes to work?" He looks down and laughs, hands splayed over the ledger. The suit he's wearing is pristine, if a little on the shabby side, with sharp lines and a carefully knotted red necktie. Jon has a feeling it's Spencer's only work suit, since he knows how little money he and Ryan have between them, but it's still perfect, and he wears it flawlessly. In his mis-matched trousers and jacket and beaten-up fedora, Jon can't help but feel like he's lacking some of that shine.
"I can stay up; it's not a problem, trust me. There's this diner a couple of blocks from here, The Teaspoon. Ever heard of it?"
Spencer shakes his head, looking slightly embarrassed. "I - we haven't exactly been able to get out and around the city. I've never actually been out to breakfast before, to be perfectly honest." He chews his bottom lip, wincing.
"I hadn't really, either, until a couple of the guys from the band told me about it. Don't worry, it's nothing too expensive, and they let me run a tab, anyway." Jon smirks. "Not that, um, I plan on paying it off right away, but they don't know that."
And there it is, the smile Jon had mostly talked himself into thinking he didn't want to see.
"So I'm just running you deeper into debt?" Spencer asks.
"I do it for all my friends. The debt is equally shared." Which isn't entirely true; he's bought Brendon a meal or two, and that's about it. "So what do you say to eggs and the most perfect blueberry pancakes in the world on the house?"
Spencer sighs a little wistfully. "I haven't had perfect pancakes since we left Vegas." His expression goes slightly melancholy for a moment, but then he grins and says, "Okay, I'll see you around eight at your place?"
Jon gives him a thumbs up. "Maybe I'll talk you into the french toast, too."
"Don't push your luck," Spencer laughs, opening the ledger again and going back to his notations as Jon tips his hat at the doorman once more on his way out.
Three and a half hours later, they're sitting in the diner surrounded by plates of pancakes, french toast, eggs, and the best sausage Jon's ever had.
"And I thought my mom forced a lot of food on me," Spencer says around a mouthful of eggs. He's still in his work clothes, but he left the jacket and tie back at the apartment. Now his shirt collar is open and his sleeves are rolled up, hat cocked to one side on his head. He doesn't look pristine anymore; he looks...well, perfectly rumpled.
Jon looks back down at his own plate and smirks. "Bet you're glad Bren introduced us, huh?"
"Hey, I'm just glad for a new face to talk to. I love Ryan, but there's only so much talk of Freud and Russian literature I can take." Spencer shakes his head and grins into his coffee mug. "What's the story about you and Brendon, anyway? Every time I ask Brendon, he says something about magically conjuring you out of thin air."
Jon polishes off the last of his (utterly amazing) sausage and waves to the waitress, Frieda, for more coffee, giving her his most charming smile. “I was barbacking at The Charleston - I knew the owner, Bob Bryar, through a friend of a friend, and he’d gotten me the job a couple of years earlier - and I’d seen Brendon around, but hadn’t really talked to him. Then one night while the house band’s on a break, I see him get up on the stage and go nuts on the piano. It was crazy. I’ve played with my share of piano players, but I’d never heard someone play like Brendon.”
Spencer holds his mug out for Frieda to top off. "And so you two became friends for life?"
"You could say that. He saw me watching him, and afterward he came up to the bar and asked me if I played, too. I told him I played bass, and then...we just started talking about music.”
Frieda fills both their mugs, then tilts her hip at Jon and drawls, "You got the prettiest friends, Jonny. How 'bout you bring that Tommy Conrad back around sometime?"
Jon laughs and rolls his eyes. "He's too good for this place, haven't you heard? He's all about the French now."
"We serve french toast, don't we?" She winks at Jon, then does the same to Spencer, who smiles shyly and blushes.
"So you really do spoil your friends here," Spencer says after Frieda leaves.
It takes a moment for Jon to stop staring at the pink in Spencer's cheeks, the way it spreads over the bridge of his nose. "Oh, uh, no, not really. Just Tom and Brendon. But they're both flirts - hence their popularity." He distracts himself with adding cream to his coffee. "I've known Tom forever, and this was the first place I actually found before he did. He's all over the place, and I swear to god he knows everyone."
Spencer narrows his eyes at Jon thoughtfully, and it's a little unnerving. "You've lived in Chicago all your life?" he finally asks.
"Born and raised. Only, I really want to go to New York City someday and get into the jazz scene out there. It's hard enough getting into the scene here when your family keeps harping on you to get a real profession." He shrugs, embarrassed for dumping his family woes out into the open. "But I like playing here just fine, when I can."
"Like I said, you're really good. I mean..." The pink flares again over Spencer's nose. "I'm not an expert or anything, but you're better than any of the guys I played with back home."
"You're just saying that because I'm buying you breakfast."
He toasts Jon with his mug. "Okay, you caught me."
"Bastard." Jon grins as he steals a piece of bacon off Spencer's plate. "So, Vegas, huh? What brought you two out to the Windy City?"
Spencer goes very quiet, poking absently at bits of pancake. "Um. Ryan just...needed a change of scenery, so I came with him." He doesn't elaborate, and Jon feels like he's somehow intruded on something he shouldn't have.
"Well, it's a shame you've been in the city this long and haven't been able to see the town," Jon says quickly, hoping he didn't ruin the mood. "What do you say to a Jon Walker tour of Chicago?"
He looks up and smiles tentatively. "I haven't slept since yesterday morning."
"That's what coffee's for." Jon nudges Spencer's mug closer. "Do you work tonight?"
"No, I'm off. Ryan wanted to come by the club, but..."
Jon waves his hand. "There's nothing exciting going on tonight, you can sleep all you want. C'mon, I'll even show you where Al Capone's castle is."
"Brendon takes Ryan to book lectures and you take me to Al Capone's castle?" Spencer raises an eyebrow, but Jon can see the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"What can I say, I'm extra classy."
Spencer caves, and Jon spends the rest of the day showing off his hometown. He takes Spencer to the places he haunted as a kid, as well as the major sites, and by late afternoon they're both tired and running on reserve energy. But Spencer's eyes are wide and happy, and Jon doesn't regret giving up sleep at all.
When they finally make it back to Spencer's apartment, Ryan and Brendon are in Ryan's bedroom, arguing over a pile of books on the bed.
“Just because it’s set in Spain doesn’t make it a better novel,” Jon hears Ryan say in the other room, more conviction in his voice than he’s used to hearing.
“I’m not saying it’s better, I’m saying it’s more romantic,” Brendon replies, and the earnestness in his voice makes Jon grin.
“There isn’t anyone more romantic than Jay Gatsby.”
“Bulls! The running of the bulls, Ryan. Spain is ten times more romantic than some guy in Long Island.”
“Please tell me you’re drunk.”
“I’m not!”
Jon drops into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, yawning big and wide as Ryan comes into the kitchen mumbling, “You’re insane.”
Brendon comes up behind him and cups the side of Ryan’s face, kissing his temple. “The bulls, Ryan. You love them.”
Ryan rolls his eyes, and Spencer, mirroring Jon's yawn as he sits across from him, says, "Book snob." Jon has a feeling he says it just to make Ryan glare.
“Did Hemingway wrong you in another life?” Jon chips in, and he and Spencer share a smirk.
“Fuck you both, and where the hell have you been all day?”
Spencer yawns again into his folded arms on the table. "Jon showed me Chicago," he mumbles sleepily, and Jon feels a flush spread out over the back of his neck.
Brendon makes a distressed sound. "I've never gotten a tour of the city," he pouts, the words slightly muffled into Jon's hair as he nuzzles him. "I feel cheated."
"I'll remember that next time you make me buy you breakfast." Jon glances over and sees Spencer already drifting off, eyes closed.
Eventually Ryan forces Spencer to go sleep in his own bed, and he tells Jon to crash on their couch.
"I have to go home to change for work - " Jon starts to protest, but Ryan waves him off.
"We're not too poor to have alarm clocks. Don't worry." He gives Jon a lopsided grin and points to the couch. "Sleep."
Jon's too exhausted to argue. He collapses against the cushions and murmurs, just before passing out, "'m glad Chicago has you guys. Brendon has excellent taste."
"Like that was ever in question," he thinks he hears Brendon say smugly from the kitchen.
===
A week later, when the four of them are sitting around Ryan and Spencer's tiny, scuffed kitchen table, playing cards and listening to Brendon's records, Brendon suggests the possibility of them playing a gig.
"Together?" Ryan sputters, nearly choking on a mouthful of Coca-Cola.
Brendon laughs. "Yeah, that's the idea behind a band, Ross."
To be honest, Jon's been waiting for Brendon to bring up the idea of forming a band since the night Spencer mentioned he played drums. He lays his cards on the table and looks sidelong at Spencer.
"You've never even heard us play," Ryan's saying, gesturing around with cards still clutched in his hand. "I mean, I only mentioned that one time that I played a little guitar, that doesn't mean I want to - to get up on stage."
"That's what you mean, right?" Spencer sounds careful, like he's not ready to judge the situation until he's completely sure where Brendon's coming from. Jon's not sure if he wants him to side with Brendon or not. "You're talking about playing at the club. With Jon."
He doesn't look over when he says Jon's name, and that somehow makes Jon blush.
Brendon huffs. "I mean, why not? They're looking for more acts to go on now that Bob wants to keep the place open an hour later." Never mind that Jon thinks Bob’s pushing his luck already with staying open until three; the later they serve, the easier it is for the cops to show up and bust them. But if anything, the extra hour puts more money in Jon’s pocket, so he figures it’s worth the risk in the end.
The room is silent for several long moments, save the quiet whir of the ceiling fan above. Jon finally gets up and goes over to the counter to roll another cigarette. Brendon makes a grabby hand motion at him, so he rolls one for him as well.
He’s almost finished when Spencer says, slowly, “If we’re going to do this, we’ll need somewhere to practice.” He looks over his shoulder at Jon, who motions to the tobacco, offering to make Spencer one. Spencer shakes his head.
“My apartment is in the basement,” Jon says as he lights his cigarette, eventually handing Brendon his own and the lighter. “Pretty sure I could talk old lady Jensen into letting us practice there during daylight hours.” He blows a puff of smoke out the corner of his mouth and grins. “She loves me, it shouldn’t be too hard.”
Brendon snaps his fingers at Jon. “You? Are brilliant.” His knee bounces against the edge of the table, and as he takes a long drag, he bats his eyes at Ryan. “C’mon, Ross. You already told me how much you and Spence miss playing. This’ll be good for you.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow at Ryan, who frowns at Brendon and turns a little pink.
“It’s not that we don’t - I mean...“ Ryan sighs. “We’ve got jobs.”
"With days off,” Spencer says, looking down at the cards in his hands and arranging them neatly.
“We don’t even know if Jon’s landlord will let us - ”
“I can ask tomorrow.” Jon feels his heart beat faster. “Like I said, she really likes me.”
Brendon snuggles into Ryan’s side and lays his head on his shoulder. “Please? For me? Make an honest musician out of me, Ryan.”
Jon thinks Ryan’s making a valiant effort to resist, but he knows Brendon’s puppy eyes. They’re lethal. Ryan doesn't stand a chance.
“But...I don’t even have my guitar anymore.”
Jon takes one last drag and stubs the last of the ash out in the ceramic bowl on the table. “Not a problem,” he says, and gives Brendon a thumbs up. “I know exactly where to get you one.”
“And you can magically conjure a drum kit, too?” Spencer asks with just a hint of a smirk.
He shrugs. “Maybe. Does this mean you two are in?”
Spencer holds his gaze for a second, eyes narrowed. “Are you?”
“I don’t have anything better to do during the day except sleep.”
In response, Spencer smiles, and Jon takes that as a full-fledged yes as well.
Ryan sighs again. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this.” He looks slightly terrified, but that doesn’t stop Brendon from throwing his arms around him.
“A band, Ross. It’ll be glorious, just you wait.”
Ryan glances at the cigarette still clutched between Brendon’s fingers. He looks at Jon.
“Mind making me one?” he asks.
Jon rolls him two.
part two
Authors: foxxcub and lifeslushlips
Pairing(s): Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon, Pete/Patrick
Word Count: 29,169
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Author Notes: This entire thing goes back to a simple comment I made about how "Holy Spaces" made me want a fic in black and white set in the 1920s. Very special thanks to andwristsintact, clumsygyrl, shleemeri, harriet_vane, and eleanor_lavish for all the betaing, hand-holding, and general cheerleading. Also, many snuggles to everyone who supported us in our little AU endeavor that completely ate our brains and made us desperately want Panic covers of Cole Porter songs.
Summary: The boys form a jazz band at a Chicago speakeasy in the late 1920s. (Mostly, a fic inspired by "I Have Friends in Holy Spaces".)
===
Chicago, 1928
Ryan sneaks quietly out of the apartment. Spencer is still on the swing shift at the hotel, and today is his only day off for another week. He wonders if Spencer planned it that way or if it just happened. In any case, it means Ryan's going to get to surprise him for his birthday after all.
The sun is barely up, but there are other people on the street, men heading to the stockyards on the South Side or maybe the rail yards. Most of them move slowly, as if dragging their steps will delay the whistle for the start of the day. Ryan knows how lucky he and Spencer were in finding jobs that didn't force them into fourteen hours on the floor, the coppery taste of blood always in the back of their mouths; he'd had enough of that at home. A phrase pops into Ryan's head, something about the steel cages of skeletons protecting a fragile heart, and he's so distracted trying to remember it, he almost walks right past the bakery.
He pulls up short and goes inside. The smell of warm bread reminds him of afternoons sitting in Spencer's kitchen, watching his mother knead dough as she hummed softly under her breath. It's a one of his happiest memories.
There's a bell with a little sign that says PLEASE RING BELL FOR SERVICE. Ryan taps it twice, but no one seems to hear it. Music is coming from somewhere, so he steps behind the counter and peeks in the back.
"Hello?"
A dark-haired boy is bent over one of the tables. He has a pastry tube in his hand, intently frosting whatever is in front of him as he sings along to a record player sitting precariously on a stack of crates.
"That's why birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it. Let's do it, let's fall in love." He trails off into a hum.
Ryan snaps out of his haze and clears his throat. The boy whips around, startled.
"Oh, sorry. Did you ring the bell? I must've not heard it." There's a streak of flour across one cheek, but his smile is bright. He wipes his hands on his apron and looks expectantly at Ryan. "So, did you need something?"
"Yes, sorry. I was looking for hot cross buns? There weren't any in the case…" Ryan gestures to the front and when he looks back, the boy is smiling wider. For some reason, Ryan smiles back automatically.
"You, my friend, are in luck. I have just finished icing what might be the best hot cross buns east of the Mississippi. Or west. Whichever." With a flourish, he pulls forward the pan. "But they aren't quite cool yet, so you'll have to wait a few minutes before I can pack them up."
He picks up the tray and ushers Ryan toward the front of the store. One-handed, he slides the tray onto a table and snatches up a box from near the register.
Ryan goes around to the front of the counter and watches him for a moment before blurting out, "Do you always sing Cole Porter to your baked goods?" He resists the urge to clap his hand over his mouth - those kinds of comments are usually reserved for Spencer.
But the boy just laughs. "No, sometimes I sing Gershwin. And Wagner, but only when I'm forced to make German Chocolate Cake," he answers as he packs a layer of wax paper into the bottom of the box. "So, hot cross buns, hmm? Don't get many folks under fifty asking for those."
Ryan flushes a little. "They're for my best friend. It's his birthday today and back home, his mother always made them for him for breakfast. We're pretty broke, so I wanted to get him something special." Ryan's a little surprised at himself, revealing this much information to a total stranger, but something about this guy puts him at ease.
"Where's home? If you don't mind me asking?"
"Nevada. Las Vegas," he replies, looking down and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
The white bakery box slides into his view. "Imagine that. From the same hometown and we meet each other here. What are the odds?"
"Pretty slim, I'll admit," Ryan says as he pulls money out of his pocket. "How much do I owe you?"
The guy waves him off. "It's on me. Birthdays should always be celebrated with something sweet. With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come," he says with a wink.
"But I can't let you pay for these. It's too much, you don't even know me," Ryan protests as the box is shoved into his hands.
"I guess that means you and your friend will have come out with me sometime. Or better yet, invite me to dinner. Surely one of you must be able to cook something passable. I'll bring bread." He flashes Ryan a broad grin.
Ryan is completely flabbergasted. Still, he finds himself writing their address on an old order form. The boy reads it and then tucks it in his pocket.
"Ryan Ross. Nice to meet you. I'm Brendon Urie." He puts out his hand and Ryan shakes it. "How's tomorrow night?"
"That'll be fine." He doesn't realize he's still holding Brendon's hand until a little old woman opens the door behind him. Brendon squeezes once more before letting go and turning his smile on the woman.
"Good morning, Mrs. Reilly."
"Good morning, young man." Brendon is putting muffins in a box, but calls out as Ryan is leaving.
"See you tomorrow, Ryan. At seven."
Ryan nods and ducks out the door.
===
"I can't believe you invited some random person to have dinner here," Spencer tells Ryan from the kitchen as he stirs vegetable soup in a big brass pot. They'd borrowed the pot from the woman next door when they realized they didn't actually have anything to cook in except the pan Ryan used to poach eggs, and a percolator. The soup is a recipe Spencer's mother had taught them a couple of years ago.
"It never hurts to know how to make a few things," she'd said as they chopped carrots and onions. "Your future wives will thank me." That had been a good day. He wonders if Spencer's been thinking about it too.
"To be honest, he sort of invited himself," Ryan says. "But after seeing how much he packed in that box, we owe him at least this." When he'd gotten home, he'd found not only the hot cross buns he'd asked for, but a couple of layers of rainbow cookies and two fat blueberry muffins. It was like hitting the jackpot, but he knew Spencer was wary; he didn't like feeling like he owed anyone anything. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen - he's completely awful, you hate him and we send him packing?" He shrugs. "At least we'll have one other person in this entire city to talk to besides each other."
Spencer eyes him suspiciously from the stove. "Who are you and what have you done with the real Ryan Ross?"
Ryan's slicing a hunk of cheese as thinly as possible, to make it seem like there's more than there is. He doesn't look up. "It's just that we agreed that we were going to make a clean start here, right? Be different people than we were at home." He grabs a small plate and arranges the slices like he remembers Spencer's mother doing. "He quoted Shakespeare to me at seven in the morning, Spence. I had to at least give him a chance."
"Fine. But if you start talking about Freud and he looks at you like you're speaking Latin, don't say I didn't tell you so," Spencer replies, shaking more pepper into the pot.
Before Ryan can say anything back, there's a knock at the door. When he opens it, Brendon's standing there looking a little like a drowned cat. He drops a soggy newspaper in the hall before he comes inside.
"Sorry. It started to pour and I didn't have an umbrella," he says, peeling off his coat. "But I kept the bread dry."
Ryan hangs Brendon's coat over one of the kitchen chairs to dry out. "You made a noble sacrifice."
Brendon grins. "I did, Ryan Ross. I hope you can appreciate it." He sniffs the air and suddenly his eyes light up. "God, what are you making? It smells delicious." He makes a beeline for the kitchen and heads straight to the stove, where he promptly plucks the spoon from Spencer's hand and sticks it in his mouth. He makes a ridiculous mmmmm sound and smacks his lips. "I might have just died and gone to heaven."
Ryan stays in the doorway, watching Spencer's face go from dubious to offended with just a shade of being pleased at the compliment. "Spencer, meet Brendon."
Brendon gives back the spoon and holds out his hand. "Happy belated Birthday."
Spencer arches an eyebrow, but shakes Brendon's hand anyway. "Thanks."
"How were the buns? Almost as good as dear old mom's?" Brendon asks, stealing a piece of cheese from Ryan's nicely arranged plate. Spencer pointedly goes back to stirring, and Ryan grabs Brendon's arm.
"Let's get out of Spencer's way. He's, um, very protective of his kitchen." Ryan looks back over his shoulder, but Spencer is still looking down, the spoon moving in perfect clockwise strokes.
"Who's reading Dostoevsky?" Brendon asks, picking up the used copy of The Brothers Karamazov from their battered coffee table.
"I am, actually," Ryan says, leaning against the back of the couch where Brendon has sprawled. "Have you read it?"
Brendon fans the pages back and forth. "I have, but I think Freud's paper on Dostoevsky himself is more interesting. I'll let you read if I can find it."
Ryan hears a laugh from the kitchen.
===
Later, they sit around the table drinking coffee and eating the rest of Brendon's cookies. Brendon offers them both a sip of whiskey from his flask, but Ryan declines, saying, "I don't really drink, thanks."
But Spencer takes a tiny drop without blinking, and Brendon pours some in his own cup before sticking the flask back in his pocket.
"Where did you get the whiskey, anyway?" Spencer asks after his first sip. He dumps another spoonful of sugar in his coffee.
"A friend of mine. Well, my best friend, really - Jon. He works at a place on the South Side." Brendon's voice drops a little, and Ryan has to lean in to hear him. "A speakeasy. He tends bar."
Ryan's fingers tighten on his cup reflexively. Under the table, he feels Spencer kick his ankle gently. He lets his grip relax and hopes that Brendon didn't notice anything.
"But he really wants to be a jazz musician. He plays the bass and he's pretty good, too," Brendon explains, polishing off another cookie. "You both should come down with me one night when he's playing. He fills in with the house band sometimes. He's a good guy, you'd like him."
Ryan smiles at Brendon's eager look. "That sounds like a plan. What do you think, Spencer?"
Spencer nods slowly. "Yeah, sure. I go back to swing next week, so I'll be off around one in the morning. But isn't that too late?"
"My dear Spencer," Brendon says, laughing. "That's exactly when the real party starts."
===
It's funny, how wanting to be in a band doesn't always mean wanting to play in front of an audience. Or maybe it's just the years spent playing to patrons in a smoky, dimly-lit club who care more about the alcohol being served than the faces behind the music. Either way, Jon realizes he's nervous to be playing in front of Brendon's new friends, the ones he hasn't been able to stop babbling about for the past two weeks: Ryan and Spencer, in Chicago by way of Las Vegas. Jon's a little baffled at how strongly Brendon's latched onto them, even if they are from the same hometown. He's clingy, yes, but never to specific people for very long (Jon always considers himself the exception, however).
He plays the set and never quite looks out over the tables and the bar, but he can still hear Brendon's, "Woo, Walker!" from across the room. He wonders if Brendon's friends know anything about music, if they have any idea what this club means to Brendon, and himself.
Finally, Jon finishes up, setting his bass carefully in the corner, against the far wall of the stage. He'll pack it up later, when his shift is through. He unbuttons his shirtsleeves and rolls them up to his elbows as he makes his way back to the bar, and eventually he spots Brendon at a small table nearby.
"Hey!" Jon calls, and Brendon waves him over, beaming from beneath the brim of his ridiculous fedora, the one Tom brought back for him from Paris. It's too big for his head and tends to slip down over his eyes, but Brendon loves it, especially when he's drunk and can tip it back, like some kind of movie star. Jon's watched more than a few girls giggle as they toyed with the feather stuck in the band.
Which makes it all the more baffling when Brendon throws his arms around the skinnier of the two guys sitting with him and says, "This, Jon Walker, is my Ryan Ross."
Jon's not quite sure, but he's fairly certain Ryan is blushing. He waves tentatively at Jon.
The other guy, slightly scruffier than Ryan and looking more amused at the situation, drawls, "And I'm apparently chopped liver."
Brendon makes a pitifully sad face at him and promptly reaches across the table to muss his hair. "You're the prettiest chopped liver there ever was, Spencer Smith."
Spencer rolls his eyes as he holds his hand out to Jon. "Yeah, so, hi. You were really good out there, by the way." Then - then he smiles at Jon, and it's the oddest thing; Jon blinks for a second and his chest contracts, as if he's suddenly had the air forced out of him.
"Um. Thanks." He shakes Spencer's hand jerkily, feeling stupid for some reason.
"But your drummer's not very creative with his fills. You might want to mention that." Spencer takes a sip of his drink and waves his hand toward the stage.
"Wait." Brendon points an accusing finger at Spencer. "You play?"
There's a strange moment where Spencer bites his lip and looks across at Ryan, and the two of them seem to have some sort of silent conversation. He finally replies, carefully, "Yeah, I played back home. It wasn't anything serious, though, just...something to do." But the way he fidgets with the edge of his glass and the way Ryan's carefully not looking at him makes Jon think it was much more than that.
He's barely known these two for ten minutes, and already he's wondering who the hell they are, and how on earth they came to find Brendon.
Jon clears his throat. "Well, it's not my band, I'm just filling in since the usual bass player's out with pneumonia. But I'll mention to Steve that you think he needs some work." He grins at Spencer, who laughs.
"Are you still closing up tonight?" Brendon asks, slinging one arm back around Ryan's neck as he rests his head on his shoulder. It's nothing Jon hasn't seen him do with people before, but it's pretty obvious that Ryan's not quite sure how to deal with the attention. Normally the people Brendon showers with affection give back just as intensely, if not more so.
"Yup." He pauses, and adds, just to see Brendon's reaction, "I think Suarez is closing up with me if you want to stick around."
"We're not." Ryan finally speaks for the first time, and he sits up and neatly shrugs off Brendon's arm. "I mean, Spence and I have to work in the morning. We shouldn't even be out right now." He smiles sheepishly at Jon. "Nothing personal, mind you."
Jon holds up his hand. "No, hey, understood. Everyone's gotta make a living. Right, Bren?
Brendon sighs. "Too, too true. The world is a brutal place." For someone who has to be at work before sunrise every morning, Brendon stays out later than anyone Jon knows. Except right now he looks conflicted, and Jon can't decide if it's the Suarez comment, or the fact that Ryan wants to leave. But like a switch is flipped, he suddenly beams at Ryan. "But you and Spencer will come back tomorrow night, right? They might even let me play."
Ryan ducks his head and scrunches his mouth to one side, and Jon can't help but notice the way Spencer watches him with a protective gleam in his eyes. "Maybe." Ryan smiles slowly. "You get to play, too?"
"I steal their piano out from under their noses before they can stop me, and then I don't quit until the booing starts."
Jon snorts. The nights when Brendon "steals" the piano usually end with the house band begging him to get off the stage because the crowd loves him too much. "Yeah, I have my own personal hook just for such occasions."
Brendon grabs onto one of Jon suspenders and clings to him, feigning a look of heartbreak. "You wound me, Jon Walker."
"I try." He looks up and sees Gabe raise an eyebrow at him from behind the bar, and then jerk his chin at the group of flappers gathered in front of him, waiting for their drinks.
He pats Brendon's cheek and says, "I'm on the clock, Bren. I'll talk to you guys later." Jon gives Ryan and Spencer a small salute. "Nice to meet you both, and since you're leaving, the rest of the night's drinks are on me."
It's a lame joke, but he's more than a little pleased to make Spencer laugh one more time before he heads back to the bar.
===
Two days after their night at the club, Brendon shows up at the bookstore while Ryan is working.
"Ross. Expanding any minds today?" He hops up on the front counter like he owns the place.
Ryan pushes him none-too-gently off with a smirk. "Not at all. It's abysmally slow."
"Good. Then you won't have any trouble cutting out early and going to a lecture with me. There's this thing on Eliot at the University that I want to go to, and prying Jon out of bed before five is impossible."
"Okay, sure," Ryan says and is halfway around the corner before he realizes, slow or not, if he leaves now he'll lose two hours pay. And even with what's left of their nest egg, he and Spencer can't afford that. "Actually, maybe I'll just stick around here. Sometimes it picks up around five, and I don't want to leave Mr. Parker alone in the shop."
Brendon looks at him thoughtfully, like he's trying to figure something out. Once he seems to be satisfied, he nods and calls out over Ryan's shoulder, "Hello, Mr. Parker? Are you in there?"
Ryan winces. "What the hell are you doing? I can't lose my job," he hisses.
"Trust me," Brendon says with a wink.
Ryan's boss comes out of the office. "Why, hello, Brendon. Haven't seen you in awhile! Did you get through the Proust, or did you give up and read those pulp novels instead?"
"Both, actually. But to be honest, I think something is lost in the translation of the Proust. Too bad I don't read French," Brendon answers with his most charming smile.
"Have you met my new assistant, Ryan?" Mr. Parker asks, clapping Ryan on the shoulder. Ryan manages not to flinch, but his discomfort doesn't seem to escape Brendon's notice.
"I have indeed. Actually, I was just asking Ryan here if he'd like to go to hear Roberts speak on Eliot." Brendon's laying it on pretty thick, even for him. But Mr. Parker just laughs.
"Your obsession with Eliot, I'll never understand." He turns to Ryan and says, "Did you know that Brendon spent an entire month sitting in the back of the store trying to memorize The Waste Land?"
Brendon actually looks a little embarrassed, and Ryan files that information away to bring up the next time they're with Spencer and Jon. Some good-natured teasing never hurts. "I didn't, but I can understand it. Some pieces just take hold of you, making you want to take them everywhere." He thinks about the dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby in his jacket pocket, and when he meets Brendon's eyes, they share a smile.
"So, do you think you can spare him for the rest of day?" Brendon asks. Ryan doesn't have the chance to protest before Mr. Parker starts to shoo them out the door.
"Of course. You gentlemen go and learn something. Ryan, you can come in early the next few days and we'll call it even."
"Will do, sir, thank you," Ryan says as Brendon pulls him out the door.
===
After the lecture, they go for coffee, which turns into dinner, and that turns into going down to the club to see Jon.
The Charleston is crowded and loud, and everyone seems to know Brendon. They make it to the end of the bar where Brendon cons two girls off of their stools by inviting them to dance.
"Guard these with your life, Ross," he says as the girls drag him off. "And tell Jon I want the usual!"
On the floor, Brendon dances without restraint, twirling and dipping both his partners without missing a beat. He's magnetic, drawing people to him as he trades one of the girls for a tall, dark-haired man. It's still a little shocking to see two men dancing together openly, but no one seems to be bothered by it.
Ryan doesn't realize how long he's been staring until Jon clears his throat.
"He's something, isn't he?"
Ryan can feel himself blush. "That he is."
Jon pushes a glass toward him. "Just tonic. Brendon says you don't really drink."
"I know that seems strange, but," Ryan starts, but Jon waves him off.
"You don't need to explain anything to me," Jon says, setting another drink in front of him. "This is Brendon's, but he only gets one on the house tonight. He's got to earn his keep." Someone down the bar signals him. "I'll be back."
Ryan sips his drink and watches Brendon work the room as he leaves the dance floor. He jokes and laughs with everyone, laying a hand on a shoulder, leaning in close before bursting into laughter. It's strange; if he'd met him at any other moment, Ryan would've hated him. Brendon is silly and boisterous and talks too much, but he doesn't treat Ryan with the same kind of carefulness Spencer does.
Brendon catches Ryan's eye from where he's perched on the lap of a beautiful blonde and winks. Something hot surges in Ryan's chest, and he has to look away. Before he can recover, Brendon bounds back over to him, slinging one arm over Ryan's shoulder and grabbing his drink with the other.
"Ryan Ross, you should meet the girls. They were asking all about you." He waves and the table of girls wave back. "That's Keltie, Greta, and Cassie. They do a vaudeville act down on Theater Row. I filled in on piano for them a few times so Greta can dance, too." Brendon's a little breathless and flushed from dancing, and Ryan is hit with the urge to touch him - maybe run his thumb over the apple of Brendon's cheek and feel the heat of his skin.
Instead, Ryan bites his lip and says, "Maybe later, okay?" He shifts back just a little, and Brendon takes the hint, hopping up onto his own stool.
Tipping back his glass, Brendon drains the rest of his drink and bangs the glass down on the bar.
"Jon Walker," he yells, "What does a man have to do get some service in this place?"
"You get plenty of service in this bar, Urie," someone calls out from the other end of the bar.
Brendon whips one right back. "I resent that remark, Ryland Blackinton. You have besmirched my flawless character in front of young Ryan here."
Ryan shakes his head, not wanting to get pulled into the middle.
"He's got to be warned, Brendon," Ryland says, but with a smile. "Be careful, Ryan - soon enough he'll have you out until all hours, drinking and causing mayhem. He's a menace."
"But he's our menace and we love him," Jon cuts in as he pours Brendon another drink. When he tries to grab it, Jon holds it just out of reach.
Brendon attempts a pout. "It's not nice to tease, Jon."
"Didn't Ryan tell you? You want to drink, you have to play for it." Jon smiles conspiratorially at Ryan. The house band is just announcing a break, and Ryan can see the hungry gleam in Brendon's eye.
"Fine, fine. Twist my arm, why don't you?" He leans into Ryan and asks softly in his ear, "Any requests?"
Ryan struggles to ignore the flush in his cheeks, even as his nose just barely brushes Brendon's when he turns to answer. "You know Rhapsody in Blue?"
"Of course." Warm breath washes over Ryan's lips as Brendon's answers. "I should've known." He presses his forehead to Ryan's briefly before he's off to the stage.
Ryan knows Jon is watching him, but he doesn't look at him. He keeps his eyes on the stage, on Brendon throwing himself into the music like no one is watching. Ryan wishes he could find the words to describe it - the line of his back as he plays, the stretch of his fingers on the keys. It's breathtaking.
"He wears his heart on his sleeve," he hears Jon say, a careful warning in his tone. "And he doesn't always think before he does things."
"That's actually why I like him," Ryan answers, never looking away from the stage. "He lives for the moment."
"You can say that again." Jon lays his hand lightly on Ryan's forearm. "Just…be careful." There's genuine concern in Jon's voice, and when Ryan turns to him, Jon squeezes his arm a little.
"I'll do my best," Ryan says.
Jon smiles. "That's all I ask." He goes to serve someone else, and Ryan looks back at Brendon, letting the music distract him from the buzz in his head.
===
It's four o'clock in the morning, and Jon's tired and wired and just this side of slipping over the edge into exhaustion. He hasn't eaten or slept since yesterday morning and it's starting to catch up with him, but he still finds himself walking in the opposite direction of his apartment as he leaves The Charleston, toward the Hotel Delaware at the corner of 5th and Walnut.
When he gets to the main doors, he pauses, suddenly paranoid that this is the wrong hotel and that Ryan told him wrong directions. But then he peeks in through the glass and sees Spencer standing behind the check-in desk, flicking the hair out of his eyes absently as he makes notes in a wide ledger.
It's definitely the right hotel, and now Jon's gone from paranoid to nervous. He doesn't have any business showing up here at four in the morning; he'd asked Ryan out of curiosity about where Spencer worked, and when Ryan had told him, he'd added, "Spence takes the job pretty seriously, so don't expect him to leave early to go catch a show or anything." Which is sad, since Jon really wants to talk him into getting breakfast.
He nods to the doorman, who holds the door open for him. Jon ducks his head and blushes faintly as he tugs at the brim of his hat in appreciation - he's never been used to people waiting on him, not when he spends a good portion of his life doing the exact opposite. He walks into the lobby and stands a few feet away from the check-in desk. Spencer's still engrossed in whatever he's diligently writing, and Jon shifts slowly from foot to foot, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden for coming down here.
"Sir, can I help you?" The doorman's voice startles Jon. He jerks around and smiles sheepishly at the man, waving his hand vaguely toward Spencer as he rubs at his neck.
"No, thanks, I was just - "
"Jon?" Spencer looks up from the ledger and gives him a funny look. "What are you doing here?" The corner of his mouth crooks up into a confused little smile.
Jon blushes harder. "I, um, just got off work and thought I'd drop by."
"It's almost four-thirty in the morning." But his smile is getting wider, if not any less confused, like he's never had anyone come to see him at work.
"Yeah, and I'm starving. But Ryan said you don't shake off work for things like coffee and breakfast, so I guess I'm just here to, uh..." Jon fidgets with his hat brim again. "Say hello?"
Spencer closes the leather-bound book slowly. "I've got two more hours on my shift, and by then I have to get home and make sure Ryan actually gets up and eats breakfast himself, or he'll just go the whole day not realizing he hasn't put food in his body." He sighs ruefully. "I'm a part-time mother, did Ryan mention that?"
Jon grins and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "He skipped that part."
"But if you wanted to...I mean, as long as you're not dead asleep, we could get breakfast later? After Ryan goes to work?" He looks down and laughs, hands splayed over the ledger. The suit he's wearing is pristine, if a little on the shabby side, with sharp lines and a carefully knotted red necktie. Jon has a feeling it's Spencer's only work suit, since he knows how little money he and Ryan have between them, but it's still perfect, and he wears it flawlessly. In his mis-matched trousers and jacket and beaten-up fedora, Jon can't help but feel like he's lacking some of that shine.
"I can stay up; it's not a problem, trust me. There's this diner a couple of blocks from here, The Teaspoon. Ever heard of it?"
Spencer shakes his head, looking slightly embarrassed. "I - we haven't exactly been able to get out and around the city. I've never actually been out to breakfast before, to be perfectly honest." He chews his bottom lip, wincing.
"I hadn't really, either, until a couple of the guys from the band told me about it. Don't worry, it's nothing too expensive, and they let me run a tab, anyway." Jon smirks. "Not that, um, I plan on paying it off right away, but they don't know that."
And there it is, the smile Jon had mostly talked himself into thinking he didn't want to see.
"So I'm just running you deeper into debt?" Spencer asks.
"I do it for all my friends. The debt is equally shared." Which isn't entirely true; he's bought Brendon a meal or two, and that's about it. "So what do you say to eggs and the most perfect blueberry pancakes in the world on the house?"
Spencer sighs a little wistfully. "I haven't had perfect pancakes since we left Vegas." His expression goes slightly melancholy for a moment, but then he grins and says, "Okay, I'll see you around eight at your place?"
Jon gives him a thumbs up. "Maybe I'll talk you into the french toast, too."
"Don't push your luck," Spencer laughs, opening the ledger again and going back to his notations as Jon tips his hat at the doorman once more on his way out.
Three and a half hours later, they're sitting in the diner surrounded by plates of pancakes, french toast, eggs, and the best sausage Jon's ever had.
"And I thought my mom forced a lot of food on me," Spencer says around a mouthful of eggs. He's still in his work clothes, but he left the jacket and tie back at the apartment. Now his shirt collar is open and his sleeves are rolled up, hat cocked to one side on his head. He doesn't look pristine anymore; he looks...well, perfectly rumpled.
Jon looks back down at his own plate and smirks. "Bet you're glad Bren introduced us, huh?"
"Hey, I'm just glad for a new face to talk to. I love Ryan, but there's only so much talk of Freud and Russian literature I can take." Spencer shakes his head and grins into his coffee mug. "What's the story about you and Brendon, anyway? Every time I ask Brendon, he says something about magically conjuring you out of thin air."
Jon polishes off the last of his (utterly amazing) sausage and waves to the waitress, Frieda, for more coffee, giving her his most charming smile. “I was barbacking at The Charleston - I knew the owner, Bob Bryar, through a friend of a friend, and he’d gotten me the job a couple of years earlier - and I’d seen Brendon around, but hadn’t really talked to him. Then one night while the house band’s on a break, I see him get up on the stage and go nuts on the piano. It was crazy. I’ve played with my share of piano players, but I’d never heard someone play like Brendon.”
Spencer holds his mug out for Frieda to top off. "And so you two became friends for life?"
"You could say that. He saw me watching him, and afterward he came up to the bar and asked me if I played, too. I told him I played bass, and then...we just started talking about music.”
Frieda fills both their mugs, then tilts her hip at Jon and drawls, "You got the prettiest friends, Jonny. How 'bout you bring that Tommy Conrad back around sometime?"
Jon laughs and rolls his eyes. "He's too good for this place, haven't you heard? He's all about the French now."
"We serve french toast, don't we?" She winks at Jon, then does the same to Spencer, who smiles shyly and blushes.
"So you really do spoil your friends here," Spencer says after Frieda leaves.
It takes a moment for Jon to stop staring at the pink in Spencer's cheeks, the way it spreads over the bridge of his nose. "Oh, uh, no, not really. Just Tom and Brendon. But they're both flirts - hence their popularity." He distracts himself with adding cream to his coffee. "I've known Tom forever, and this was the first place I actually found before he did. He's all over the place, and I swear to god he knows everyone."
Spencer narrows his eyes at Jon thoughtfully, and it's a little unnerving. "You've lived in Chicago all your life?" he finally asks.
"Born and raised. Only, I really want to go to New York City someday and get into the jazz scene out there. It's hard enough getting into the scene here when your family keeps harping on you to get a real profession." He shrugs, embarrassed for dumping his family woes out into the open. "But I like playing here just fine, when I can."
"Like I said, you're really good. I mean..." The pink flares again over Spencer's nose. "I'm not an expert or anything, but you're better than any of the guys I played with back home."
"You're just saying that because I'm buying you breakfast."
He toasts Jon with his mug. "Okay, you caught me."
"Bastard." Jon grins as he steals a piece of bacon off Spencer's plate. "So, Vegas, huh? What brought you two out to the Windy City?"
Spencer goes very quiet, poking absently at bits of pancake. "Um. Ryan just...needed a change of scenery, so I came with him." He doesn't elaborate, and Jon feels like he's somehow intruded on something he shouldn't have.
"Well, it's a shame you've been in the city this long and haven't been able to see the town," Jon says quickly, hoping he didn't ruin the mood. "What do you say to a Jon Walker tour of Chicago?"
He looks up and smiles tentatively. "I haven't slept since yesterday morning."
"That's what coffee's for." Jon nudges Spencer's mug closer. "Do you work tonight?"
"No, I'm off. Ryan wanted to come by the club, but..."
Jon waves his hand. "There's nothing exciting going on tonight, you can sleep all you want. C'mon, I'll even show you where Al Capone's castle is."
"Brendon takes Ryan to book lectures and you take me to Al Capone's castle?" Spencer raises an eyebrow, but Jon can see the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"What can I say, I'm extra classy."
Spencer caves, and Jon spends the rest of the day showing off his hometown. He takes Spencer to the places he haunted as a kid, as well as the major sites, and by late afternoon they're both tired and running on reserve energy. But Spencer's eyes are wide and happy, and Jon doesn't regret giving up sleep at all.
When they finally make it back to Spencer's apartment, Ryan and Brendon are in Ryan's bedroom, arguing over a pile of books on the bed.
“Just because it’s set in Spain doesn’t make it a better novel,” Jon hears Ryan say in the other room, more conviction in his voice than he’s used to hearing.
“I’m not saying it’s better, I’m saying it’s more romantic,” Brendon replies, and the earnestness in his voice makes Jon grin.
“There isn’t anyone more romantic than Jay Gatsby.”
“Bulls! The running of the bulls, Ryan. Spain is ten times more romantic than some guy in Long Island.”
“Please tell me you’re drunk.”
“I’m not!”
Jon drops into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, yawning big and wide as Ryan comes into the kitchen mumbling, “You’re insane.”
Brendon comes up behind him and cups the side of Ryan’s face, kissing his temple. “The bulls, Ryan. You love them.”
Ryan rolls his eyes, and Spencer, mirroring Jon's yawn as he sits across from him, says, "Book snob." Jon has a feeling he says it just to make Ryan glare.
“Did Hemingway wrong you in another life?” Jon chips in, and he and Spencer share a smirk.
“Fuck you both, and where the hell have you been all day?”
Spencer yawns again into his folded arms on the table. "Jon showed me Chicago," he mumbles sleepily, and Jon feels a flush spread out over the back of his neck.
Brendon makes a distressed sound. "I've never gotten a tour of the city," he pouts, the words slightly muffled into Jon's hair as he nuzzles him. "I feel cheated."
"I'll remember that next time you make me buy you breakfast." Jon glances over and sees Spencer already drifting off, eyes closed.
Eventually Ryan forces Spencer to go sleep in his own bed, and he tells Jon to crash on their couch.
"I have to go home to change for work - " Jon starts to protest, but Ryan waves him off.
"We're not too poor to have alarm clocks. Don't worry." He gives Jon a lopsided grin and points to the couch. "Sleep."
Jon's too exhausted to argue. He collapses against the cushions and murmurs, just before passing out, "'m glad Chicago has you guys. Brendon has excellent taste."
"Like that was ever in question," he thinks he hears Brendon say smugly from the kitchen.
===
A week later, when the four of them are sitting around Ryan and Spencer's tiny, scuffed kitchen table, playing cards and listening to Brendon's records, Brendon suggests the possibility of them playing a gig.
"Together?" Ryan sputters, nearly choking on a mouthful of Coca-Cola.
Brendon laughs. "Yeah, that's the idea behind a band, Ross."
To be honest, Jon's been waiting for Brendon to bring up the idea of forming a band since the night Spencer mentioned he played drums. He lays his cards on the table and looks sidelong at Spencer.
"You've never even heard us play," Ryan's saying, gesturing around with cards still clutched in his hand. "I mean, I only mentioned that one time that I played a little guitar, that doesn't mean I want to - to get up on stage."
"That's what you mean, right?" Spencer sounds careful, like he's not ready to judge the situation until he's completely sure where Brendon's coming from. Jon's not sure if he wants him to side with Brendon or not. "You're talking about playing at the club. With Jon."
He doesn't look over when he says Jon's name, and that somehow makes Jon blush.
Brendon huffs. "I mean, why not? They're looking for more acts to go on now that Bob wants to keep the place open an hour later." Never mind that Jon thinks Bob’s pushing his luck already with staying open until three; the later they serve, the easier it is for the cops to show up and bust them. But if anything, the extra hour puts more money in Jon’s pocket, so he figures it’s worth the risk in the end.
The room is silent for several long moments, save the quiet whir of the ceiling fan above. Jon finally gets up and goes over to the counter to roll another cigarette. Brendon makes a grabby hand motion at him, so he rolls one for him as well.
He’s almost finished when Spencer says, slowly, “If we’re going to do this, we’ll need somewhere to practice.” He looks over his shoulder at Jon, who motions to the tobacco, offering to make Spencer one. Spencer shakes his head.
“My apartment is in the basement,” Jon says as he lights his cigarette, eventually handing Brendon his own and the lighter. “Pretty sure I could talk old lady Jensen into letting us practice there during daylight hours.” He blows a puff of smoke out the corner of his mouth and grins. “She loves me, it shouldn’t be too hard.”
Brendon snaps his fingers at Jon. “You? Are brilliant.” His knee bounces against the edge of the table, and as he takes a long drag, he bats his eyes at Ryan. “C’mon, Ross. You already told me how much you and Spence miss playing. This’ll be good for you.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow at Ryan, who frowns at Brendon and turns a little pink.
“It’s not that we don’t - I mean...“ Ryan sighs. “We’ve got jobs.”
"With days off,” Spencer says, looking down at the cards in his hands and arranging them neatly.
“We don’t even know if Jon’s landlord will let us - ”
“I can ask tomorrow.” Jon feels his heart beat faster. “Like I said, she really likes me.”
Brendon snuggles into Ryan’s side and lays his head on his shoulder. “Please? For me? Make an honest musician out of me, Ryan.”
Jon thinks Ryan’s making a valiant effort to resist, but he knows Brendon’s puppy eyes. They’re lethal. Ryan doesn't stand a chance.
“But...I don’t even have my guitar anymore.”
Jon takes one last drag and stubs the last of the ash out in the ceramic bowl on the table. “Not a problem,” he says, and gives Brendon a thumbs up. “I know exactly where to get you one.”
“And you can magically conjure a drum kit, too?” Spencer asks with just a hint of a smirk.
He shrugs. “Maybe. Does this mean you two are in?”
Spencer holds his gaze for a second, eyes narrowed. “Are you?”
“I don’t have anything better to do during the day except sleep.”
In response, Spencer smiles, and Jon takes that as a full-fledged yes as well.
Ryan sighs again. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this.” He looks slightly terrified, but that doesn’t stop Brendon from throwing his arms around him.
“A band, Ross. It’ll be glorious, just you wait.”
Ryan glances at the cigarette still clutched between Brendon’s fingers. He looks at Jon.
“Mind making me one?” he asks.
Jon rolls him two.
part two