Bandom Fic: Access All Areas (or: How Spencer Smith Got His Groove Back) - Part 1/3
The Vintage Clothes Shop AU of Dooooooooooom is finally here!!! *sobs in relief*
For pushkin666 - Happy Belated Valentine!
***
Title: Access All Areas (or: How Spencer Smith Got His Groove Back) - Part 1/3
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Bandom, Panic At The Disco (the 4-pack version)/multiband
Pairing/Category: Ryan/Spencer, multiple background pairings (full list at the end of the fic), AU like whoa
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 14,500 (ahahahaha, oh jesus)
Disclaimer: Not true, only playing.
Summary: Ryan and Spencer own a vintage clothing shop. Spencer gets himself some goddamn attitude. Clichéd shenanigans ensue.
Author notes (tl;dr): This is a Sweet Charity assignment for pushkin666 and was originally finished and given to her within an acceptable margin of the deadline. However, for reasons related to RL commitments and my brain being difficult, it took me over six months to sit my ass down and do the required post-beta edits and additions. Have I mentioned how much I fail? Many, many thanks to my two amazing beta-readers bloodbelieve and desfinado, whose comments and suggestions were invaluable and made this fic much better than it originally was. Many thanks also to trialia who gave the fic the final check-up and found many missing commas. Readers are advised to note that I know nothing about fashion, vintage or otherwise. I googled some shit, it’s probably all ridiculously inaccurate. Additionally, I’m fully aware that Spencer’s turn on the catwalk is utterly unrealistic but STFU - getting him to wave that riding crop around was way higher on my list of priorities.
Mix: Thanks to the lovely tjs_whatnot there is now a brilliant mix to this fic. Go check out All Access immediately and prepare to cry your eyes out to Shakira. No? Okay, so maybe it was just me then...
Access All Areas
or: How Spencer Smith Got His Groove Back
Some people never find the love of their life. The one that makes you soar to the heights of happiness, or plunge to the depths of despair, sometimes both at the same time. That great love that you would do anything to keep, the one that fills you with so much mixed-up emotion that some days you can’t tell what it is that you’re feeling, just that your heart aches from it.
Some people never find it.
Spencer has. Twice.
***
The shop opens at 10.30, which is a random time if you don’t realise how it is in fact bang in the middle between 9 (“When all respectable businesses open, Ryan!”) and 12 (“You think we went into vintage fashion to be respectable? We sell go-go boots!”). It was a compromise they could both live with. Besides, it’s not as if their usual clientèle is the type to greet the sunrise.
Unlike Spencer, who is getting to work even earlier than usual. The city is still stretching itself awake, sluggish and grumpy, as he walks through the mostly empty streets, balancing a cup of coffee and three folders. Spencer likes the quiet. He uses the early mornings for paperwork, accounts, updating the website - all the boring but necessary jobs that keep a small business like theirs afloat. The truth is Spencer doesn’t mind most of it and even not-so-secretly enjoys some of it. There’s always been something about a neatly-laid-out spreadsheet that appeals to the side of his personality that would have probably gone for the MBA and a job in a multinational corporation, if not for Ryan.
Ryan, who presumably uses the extra hour-and-a-half in the mornings to sleep. Or possibly to contemplate the fall of capitalism or to have disgustingly languid and skinny-limbed early morning sex with whomever he’s taken to his bed the night before.
As a rule, Spencer tries not to think about the last two options too closely. Marxism tends to give him a migraine on the best of days, and experience tells him that wallowing in thoughts about what Ryan does and with whom will only lead to eating too much ice-cream and watching Love Actually for the thirty-sixth time.
Spencer refuses to be a cliché, although the whole in-unrequited-love-with-your-best-friend thing really cramps his style.
He rolls his eyes at himself, hefting up the folders that threaten to slip from the crook of his arm as he rounds the last corner. As usual, the sight of his destination makes Spencer’s chest swell with pride and contentment.
He digs out the keys, nudging the front door open, then shut again, with his hip. Carefully, he steps over a pile of mail, picks his way around the rack of truly ghastly neon-coloured tube-tops, narrowly avoids a half-dressed mannequin and then promptly trips over Ryan’s long legs.
“What the fu-?” The papers go flying, though Spencer manages to save his coffee. He has priorities.
Ryan is sprawled on the floor, looking supremely comfortable and pleased with himself despite his position.
Spencer takes in the dishevelled state of Ryan’s clothes and the lazy way he’s twisting a Rubik’s Cube around without any serious attempt at solving it.
“Oh my god.” Spencer’s eyes skitter over the fresh hickey forming just above Ryan’s collarbone, before he resolutely trains them on Ryan’s face. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“Good morning, Ryan. How are you, Ryan? Would you like a coffee, Ryan? Why yes I would Spencer, thank you. You are the best Best Friend a guy could hope for.” Ryan climbs to his feet, making grabby hands at Spencer’s thermos.
“At the moment you should consider me a Very Angry Business Partner instead,” Spencer says, slapping at Ryan’s hands. Angry is ten times better than jealous. Spencer does not look when Ryan buckles his belt. A hundred times better. A thousand. “Please, for the sake of my sanity and our cleaning bill, say that you didn’t have sex with Gabe in the shop. Again.”
Ryan shrugs, not looking even a little bit embarrassed. “Would you relax, Spence. Gabe likes it. The ‘80s room gets him very...” Ryan grins lazily. “Inspired. And when he’s inspired, well I-”
“Stop right there.” Spencer holds up a hand to prevent Ryan from providing any further details. He’s going to have to add bleach to his coffee as it is. The worst part is that Spencer isn’t exactly surprised to learn about Gabe’s preferences for the ‘80s section. After all, the guy wears most of it.
“You’re just grumpy because you haven’t gotten laid for, what is it, four months now? That big blond guy who was passing through?” Ryan’s voice is teasing, but there’s a serious undercurrent to the question, like Ryan really wants to know.
Spencer ignores it, wondering mournfully if it’s too late to call Bob and take him up on his offer after all. Bob was great, Bob never talked about the cultural importance of the socialist movement (or much at all) and he owned one sweet motorbike.
Ryan comes over, nudging his arm in a placatory fashion and fitting himself next to Spencer where he’s sitting on the window ledge. He leans on Spencer’s shoulder, all ankles and sleepy warmth.
Spencer feels his anger dissipate. Bob was also not Ryan, which is why watching him ride into the metaphorical sunset hadn’t been that difficult in the end.
He leans back against Ryan and silently hands over his thermos. Ryan makes a happy, vaguely indecent noise and takes a sip, his eyelids heavy with bliss. Spencer is pathetically, pathologically in love, but there’s no one here to see except Ryan and if he hasn’t figured it out yet he never will.
With a resigned sigh Spencer gathers up his papers and pretends to work while Ryan entertains himself by reading out loud chosen quotes from old issues of The Socialist. The air smells comfortingly of coffee and fabric softener, dust motes dancing in the solitary sunbeam cutting across the floorboards. They stay right where they are until it’s time to open the shop, sitting side by side, the window glass warming slowly against their backs.
***
Ryan is Spencer’s first love, and he didn’t even have to go searching for him. In fact, technically, it was Ryan who found Spencer; sitting alone in a sandpit, sulking because the bigger kids had stolen his truck and wouldn’t let him play. Ryan hadn’t spoken a word to him that first day, but he had gotten Spencer his truck back. Of course, it was lost again within a week, but by that time Spencer didn’t much care. After all, he had Ryan.
Two decades later, they find Spencer’s second love together, in the ‘For Auction’ section of the local newspaper.
***
The shop is what one might call ‘quirky’ if one was feeling generous and prone to smelling of incense. It’s located in the ironically trendy Western Quarter of the city, and sandwiched between a Polish delicatessen and a DVD rental place specialising in Independent Cinema and gay porn. Spencer still cringes inwardly about the time he sat down with Ryan to watch what was supposed to be a documentary about the rise of socialism in Scandinavia, and ended up being an entirely different sort of a story about the ‘struggles of the working man’. In Spencer’s defence, one Swedish title looks much like the other when you don’t speak the language and are only picking up the film because your best friend whined at you until you said you would.
The outside of the shop is painted deep burgundy with a stencilled pattern that Ryan insists is tasteful and Spencer knows is simply ridiculous. But because it makes Ryan happy he is prepared to put up with the reputation that comes from being a co-owner of a shop decorated in paisley.
Over the door and listing slightly to the left is a sign with Access All Areas written across it in funky cursive that, according to Brendon, their one and only employee, embodies free spirit and individuality. Spencer is pretty sure it actually embodies Brendon’s love of glitter and Spencer’s own inability to say no in the face of Brendon’s enthusiastic grin.
Inside the shop is surprisingly organised and well-lit, the layout making the space seem much bigger than it really is. The clothes are arranged according to the decade and displayed with some carefully chosen period-appropriate items. Spencer had put his foot down and so the only bead-curtain in the entire shop is the one separating the ‘60s and ‘70s rooms.
Access All Areas sells vintage clothes and accessories, the majority salvaged from flea-markets and estates and lovingly restored by Ryan. He and Spencer both harbour a not-so-secret resentment toward disposable fashion: cheap clothes made by underpaid workers in less economically developed countries and designed to be worn only a few times before being thrown away. Therefore, the few newly made ‘retro’ lines they stock all come from local designers and use only ethically sourced materials.
They have principles, and just because Spencer doesn’t rant about them to anyone who stays still long enough like some people, don’t mean he doesn’t believe in them just as passionately. Their profit margins stay modest, but then again neither Spencer nor Ryan got into this business for money. Well, okay, Spencer did, a little bit. But someone has to keep their feet on the ground. Besides, it’s difficult to muster the energy to fight the good fight with an empty stomach.
***
Brendon strolls in sometime during the afternoon, waving a cheery hello and tossing his hoodie over the nearest mannequin. Spencer is pretty sure his shift officially started an hour ago but the rota at Access All Areas is more of a suggestion than a strictly-followed regimen. And as long as it works, Spencer doesn’t really mind that much, although he still prints it out and pins it onto the notice board. Usually, the rota sheet is decorated with stickers, doodles and quotes of poetry within a day.
Brendon has been with them from the beginning, about two years now. Spencer and Ryan had decided early on that it was necessary for their continued health and friendship to hire a third person. They’d interviewed what felt like half of the city’s student population until Brendon had stumbled in the door. Five minutes into the interview he had made Ryan almost-laugh twice and Spencer had known that this was the one they were going to keep.
Afterwards, they’d seen Brendon out and were supposed to be having a serious business meeting to carefully consider all the candidates. Of course, the fact that they were going to hire Brendon was so obvious it didn’t even need discussing and they really were just kicking their heels instead. In the middle of an intense game of Donkey Kong, Ryan had gotten a narrow-eyed look and said: “You know, he’s actually kind of hot.”
Spencer had fumbled the buttons, causing his character to die in a pixelated explosion. Brendon was hot, and Spencer couldn’t honestly say he was surprised that Ryan had noticed. His best friend was kind of slutty when you got right down to it. “Yeah, in that annoying puppy-dog-on-crack sort of way, sure,” he’d said. It had come out snarkier than he’d meant, enough so that Ryan had raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“So, you going for it?” Spencer had asked, trying to cover up. He’d kept his eyes resolutely on the screen, watching the endless loop of the graphics so he didn’t have to watch Ryan.
“What? Of course not!” Ryan had exclaimed, sounding so indignant about it that Spencer had to believe him.
He couldn’t help but feel relieved, even though he didn’t really get it. “I don’t get it,” he’d said, finally turning around. “Why not?”
Ryan had looked at him like he was being dense on purpose. “Because he’s going to be our employee. I can’t fuck around with someone I work with. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
Ryan’s face had been open and earnest, and Spencer had wanted nothing more than to punch his lights out.
Instead he’d swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth, clutched a hand to his heart and said, mock serious: “I’m so proud. You’ve gone and grown morals. Did it hurt?”
Ryan had flipped him off laconically and they’d gone back to the game.
And later that night Spencer had gotten more drunk than he had been for a long time. Because stupid as it was, it had still felt like another rejection.
***
“Wentz Designs.”
Spencer props the phone between his ear and shoulder while simultaneously clicking through his inbox. “I thought you were going with Clandestine?”
“Clandestine is a stupid name,” Patrick says. Then, his voice dropping to a husky purr: “Spencer. It’s so good to hear from you.”
Spencer blinks, his fingers freezing on the keyboard. “Jesus Christ, Patrick,” he says. “Give a guy some warning.”
“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Patrick sounds like he should be selling sex toys instead of handling the business and marketing of one of the most wanted young designers in the state.
Speaking of which... “Pete’s sitting next you, isn’t he?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Spencer laughs. “You are evil, you know that, right?”
Pete may be Patrick’s long-time friend and sort-of boss, but he’s also completely in love with Patrick - he just hasn’t realised it yet.
Patrick, who Spencer thinks must have the patience of a saint to put up with Pete at all, has finally gotten tired of waiting for him to catch on. On their recent beer-and-bitching date Spencer had suggested Patrick should simply push Pete against the nearest wall and improvise it from there. Patrick, however, had decided that a bold move like that required some groundwork to be successful. Hence their sudden, steamy and entirely fake romance.
Patrick had told Spencer that he should make it work to his advantage too, but in the end, Spencer had let Ryan in on their ‘make Pete so jealous he either proposes or explodes in a green puff of impotent rage” plan. Spencer knows he is incapable of lying to Ryan’s face so he doesn’t see the point in trying. The only reason Ryan doesn’t know about Spencer’s own pathetic case of head-over-heels is because so far he hasn’t asked the right questions.
Spencer is yanked back to the present when Patrick laughs at the other end of the line. “Of course,” he says, low and intimate in Spencer’s ear. “But you know you like it when I’m a little... mean.”
Spencer promptly chokes on his own tongue. There’s a strangled sound in the background that tells him he wasn’t the only one.
Okay, enough is enough. “Put me on the speaker,” he tells Patrick. Two can play this game.
“Why?” Patrick sounds suspicious.
“Because there’s something I need to discuss with both you and Pete. Something business-related, okay?”
There’s a short pause during which Patrick clearly does some complicated risk assessment and Spencer deletes twelve spam emails.
Finally there’s a sudden increase in the background noise and Patrick informs Spencer that he is on the speakerphone.
“Pete,” Spencer greets brusquely. He didn’t lie; he does actually have some business to talk about with both partners of Wentz Designs (formerly Clandestine, P&P Fashion, and, memorably, Bats Have Hearts Too).
Spencer clarifies a couple of points with Patrick and Pete, sorting out a new order and talking about the charity show Access All Areas and Wentz Designs are both contributing to. After fifteen minutes or so Spencer has lulled them both into the security of mundane shop talk. He estimates that it’s the perfect time to advance Patrick’s plan.
“Excellent,” Spencer says, saving the spreadsheet on the computer screen. “I’ll see you tonight then.”
“What?” Pete and Patrick ask in unison.
Spencer puts some quality pout into his voice. “Oh don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, Trick.” Using Pete’s special nickname for Patrick is pretty low, but Spencer figures the end justifies the means.
“It’s Patrick’s and my two-week anniversary. And I’ve got something...” Spencer grins and puts on his best porn voice, “...extra special planned.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, just hangs up on Patrick’s silence and the sound of Pete kicking the desk. Spencer is awesome. He totally expects Pete to cave within twenty-four hours and be in Patrick’s bed in twenty-five.
The door bangs suddenly and Spencer startles, turning around just in time to catch a sight of Ryan’s retreating back. It’s not unusual for Ryan to flit between the office and his own sewing room, but it is unusual for him to do it without perching on the edge of Spencer’s desk to talk.
Spencer frowns, considers getting up and going after Ryan. But his inbox is still full of emails marked ‘urgent’ and if Ryan didn’t take the time to say hi then he must be busy too.
***
The whole thing just doesn’t make any sense, which is probably what Spencer resents most about it. Spencer likes things to make sense. He’s a sensible person, who went to University to do a sensible degree (Business Management with a minor in Fashion Industry - an entirely sensible combination since he and Ryan had talked about starting a vintage clothes shop ever since they were 16 and 17 and Ryan started sewing his own outfits because he couldn’t find what he liked anywhere).
Falling in love with his best friend went against all natural laws, Spencer’s very sensible personality and everything modern media has taught him about romance.
They’ve known each other since they were toddlers and Spencer has seen Ryan at his worst - sick, drunk, self-pitying. He knows all his secrets, disgusting habits and less-than-admirable characteristics. Like how Ryan eats his cereal with orange juice and clips his toenails in the kitchen. Or how one time he cheated in a maths test, or the three times he cheated on his high school girlfriend. Or how he can be a manipulative bitch and unnecessarily cruel to people he doesn’t like or agree with. Or how...
Of course there’s another side to that coin (really, if there wasn’t Spencer’s life would probably be much easier). Spencer knows Ryan can be too generous for his own good and needs Spencer to watch out for him so no one takes advantage of that. He’s passionate and intense and scarily intelligent, has an incorrigible sweet tooth and wants to learn to play the guitar.
Spencer is one of the few people who can make Ryan laugh - really laugh, not just twist his lips sardonically. He makes sure Ryan doesn’t take himself too seriously, but is the only one Ryan trusts enough to be serious with when he needs to.
In the end, Spencer thinks, it may not have been logical for him to fall in love with Ryan. But perhaps it was inevitable.
That doesn’t mean he has to like it.
***
Spencer straightens up from where he’s been sitting bent over the computer, stretching the crick from his neck. The clock on the wall tells him it’s way past home time, but he can still hear Brendon bustling on the shop floor, tidying up after the customers. Ryan had left as soon as they’d locked up, muttering something about seeing a gig with Gabe and uncharacteristically not inviting Spencer along. He usually did, mainly because Ryan didn’t see a reason not to and had no regard for proper date protocol - especially as he didn’t so much date as sleep with a string of people he also found interesting in some way.
Not that Spencer would have accepted. Not because Spencer hates Gabe or anything (in fact, Gabe makes hating him fairly impossible by sheer force of his relentlessly cheerful personality and inane fashion sense). It’s just that spending the night watching Ryan and Gabe compete over who could wriggle a hand into whose skinny jeans faster, is not his idea of a good time.
Still, it stung. Spencer hunches lower in his ergonomically-designed chair. What’s more, Ryan has been avoiding him most of the day, despite their companionable morning. Which is why Spencer is hiding in the backroom, playing Mario Kart on the computer and quite possibly sulking.
“Spencer Smith,” Brendon says from the doorway. He is, inexplicably, wearing a pinafore. “Are you sulking?”
“I am not sulking.” Spencer pauses the game, casting a disbelieving eye over the candy-striped monstrosity Brendon is dressed in. “Are you making some sort of a political statement?”
“You’ve been hanging around with Ryan for way too long. I just think it makes me look pretty.” Brendon grins, batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly.
“It makes you look ridiculous,” Spencer says, but can’t help grinning back.
“That too,” Brendon admits easily. “There’s a new bar,” he continues. “Jon and Tom are taking me there. You should come with. They have cocktails!”
Brendon is practically bouncing on the spot. “Think of the colours, Spencer! And the tiny paper umbrellas!”
Spencer takes a moment to contemplate the image of Brendon in a cocktail bar, all the alcohol, sugar and innuendo-laden names, and decides that such a thing probably shouldn’t be allowed without supervision. Jon and Tom don’t count as Spencer is pretty sure they are trying to get into Brendon’s pants and therefore cannot be trusted to remain objective.
“Fine,” he says, turning off the computer and grabbing his jacket.
“Really?” Brendon gapes. Spencer isn’t usually this agreeable for extemporaneous outings. “You’re really coming?”
Spencer raises an eyebrow. “You’re really wearing that to the bar?”
Brendon glances down at himself. “Well, maybe I am making a little bit of a political statement after all,” he says.
“Who isn’t?” Spencer sighs. “C’mon then, before I change my mind.”
Outside Tom and Jon are leaning on the wall, loose-limbed and smiling. If they are surprised to find Spencer crashing in on their night out with Brendon, they don’t show it.
“Nice dress,” Tom says, offering his arm to Brendon who accepts it with some giggling. Jon nudges Spencer in a friendly fashion and there’s worry and sympathy lurking in the corners of his eyes.
“Just don’t ask,” Spencer says. “I was promised cocktails.”
“Fair enough,” says Jon. “This way, if you please.”
***
The next morning dawns bright and painful. Spencer groans and wastes a few precious minutes sincerely regretting that third Purple Hooter. Then he downs about a gallon of water, jams on his biggest pair of sunglasses, getting to the shop barely in time for its opening. He’s scheduled to man the counter today, and the fact that it coincides with the first hangover Spencer’s had in six months is fucking typical of his life right now.
The shop is blissfully shaded and cool. Spencer gropes blindly through the ‘80s section (too much neon) and squints the rest of the way. He opens the register, sits down and carefully lays his head on his folded arms. Technically, he’s at work.
Ryan comes in around noon, by which time Spencer has managed to sell a pair of genuine bell-bottoms, a fake alligator skin belt and one of Pete’s retro design t-shirts, all without vomiting once. Saturday is the busiest day of the week so they’ve staggered the shifts with maximum overlap time and Brendon, the lucky S.O.B., is not due for another two hours.
Ryan takes one look at Spencer’s face and purses his lips together in a thin line of disapproval.
“What?” Spencer asks.
“Good night then?” The question is mild, but Ryan’s tone isn’t.
Spencer feels his temper flare. It’s not like he makes a habit of turning up to work with a hangover and Ryan damn well knows it.
“Yeah, it really was.” Spencer makes himself smile widely even though the effort threatens to split his head in two. “You? How was the show?”
Ryan ignores the question, huffily dropping a box of unsorted clothes on to the counter. “I would have thought Patrick had more sense than to get you drunk on a work night?”
“What are you? My mom?” Spencer stares at Ryan, both irritated and confused. “I was out with Brendon and Jon and Tom. What the hell has Patrick got to do with anything?”
Ryan shrugs. “We bumped into Pete at the gig. He said Patrick had gone out with you.” Ryan straightens up and glares at Spencer. “He’s really upset, you know. You two should be more considerate of his feelings.”
Spencer opens and closes his mouth in silence for a few seconds. He can’t decide whether he should be offended or laugh it off. In the end anger wins. Ryan ignored him yesterday, fucked off with his not-boyfriend, didn’t text him once during the night like normal and now turns all borderline personality disorder on him out of the blue when Spencer’s head is killing him and all he wants to do is curl in a ball and sleep but had dragged himself to work anyway.
“What the hell, Ryan?” he snaps, standing up to face Ryan directly across the counter. “Far as I remember, you thought Patrick’s plan was hilarious last week. What changed? You suddenly want to fuck Pete on the shop floor too? Maybe have a little threesome and roll around on the ruffled shirts, huh? Bet Gabe would just love that.”
Spencer is kind of breathless by the time he finishes shouting and Ryan’s face has gone pale and pinched.
“Um.”
Spencer and Ryan whip around. There’s a guy standing nearby, half-hidden behind the railing of housecoats. “Is this a bad time?” he asks, eyes darting around nervously. Even his hair looks apprehensive, sticking up like a startled bird’s nest. He’s gingerly holding a white ruffled shirt between his thumb and forefinger.
“No, not at all,” Spencer says, more than a little annoyed; arguing in front of a customer - very classy, very professional. “Ryan here is happy to help you.”
The whole thing was Ryan’s fault, let him sort it. Spencer turns around and stalks towards the back of the shop. He needs some time to calm down. Maybe to throw up, too.
***
Spencer is sitting on the stockroom floor, leaning against a pile of clothing sacks waiting for their charity pick-up. Everything they can’t sell in their shop gets donated to a women’s co-op in Ecuador. It always makes him smile to think that somewhere there is a village where shoulder pads and leggings are still haute couture.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, could be twenty minutes, could be an hour. It’s cool and relatively dark and it’s entirely possible he’d dozed off for a while. He should probably get up and do some work, or at least go home and write today off as a proper sick day.
Spencer sighs. He’d actually had a good time last night, but now the pleasure of it feels tainted by his stupid row with Ryan - which, honestly, Spencer is still not sure what it was about except Ryan being a complete and utter dick for no reason.
Speaking of (Ryan, not dick), the stockroom door inches open with a creak and a familiar figure shuffles in. Ryan nudges the door shut with his foot and when he gets closer Spencer sees he has his hands full of food and drink.
“I didn’t know what you’d like. Or be fit to consume,” Ryan says, dropping down cross-legged next to Spencer. He hands over a cup of coffee, water, two types of soda and a wide selection of sweet and savoury snacks.
“Ass,” Spencer says and grabs the bottle of water. He knows an apology when he sees it.
“Well, um, that might be a little awkward and all...” For some reason Ryan is actually blushing.
Spencer rewinds the conversation in his head, blinks, blinks again, and then starts laughing.
Ryan grins at him and then they’re both giggling, instantly regressing to when they were eight and nine and dirty words were inherently funny.
The hilarity is suddenly interrupted by a giant yawn that takes over Spencer’s face.
“Seriously, did you get any sleep at all or were you out all night partying?” Ryan asks. His voice is carefully neutral this time but more than twenty years of friendship means Spencer can tell when he’s holding something back.
“A couple of hours,” Spencer answers. He’s too tired to get angry again, or try to find out what’s got Ryan acting so weird. He lists back toward the softness of the clothes bags. A nap, that’s all he needs. “Shouldn’t you go check no one’s robbing us blind?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Ryan takes his phone out, settling more comfortably against the wall. Spencer is pretty sure there is no reception inside the stockroom. “I’ve left Brendon in charge. He, by the way, looks even worse.”
“Table-dancing will do that to a guy,” Spencer says, yawning again. “Don’t worry, I totally took photos.”
“Enough to blackmail Brendon into taking the morning shift for the next week?”
“More like the next month.”
Ryan smirks and bumps fists with Spencer. “This is why you’re my best friend.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer grumbles, closing his eyes.
Turns out he’s too tired to feel heartsick either, because when Ryan curls up next to him a few minutes later, Spencer doesn’t even think, just tucks him close and goes back to sleep.
Continue to Part 2/3.
For pushkin666 - Happy Belated Valentine!
***
Title: Access All Areas (or: How Spencer Smith Got His Groove Back) - Part 1/3
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Bandom, Panic At The Disco (the 4-pack version)/multiband
Pairing/Category: Ryan/Spencer, multiple background pairings (full list at the end of the fic), AU like whoa
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 14,500 (ahahahaha, oh jesus)
Disclaimer: Not true, only playing.
Summary: Ryan and Spencer own a vintage clothing shop. Spencer gets himself some goddamn attitude. Clichéd shenanigans ensue.
Author notes (tl;dr): This is a Sweet Charity assignment for pushkin666 and was originally finished and given to her within an acceptable margin of the deadline. However, for reasons related to RL commitments and my brain being difficult, it took me over six months to sit my ass down and do the required post-beta edits and additions. Have I mentioned how much I fail? Many, many thanks to my two amazing beta-readers bloodbelieve and desfinado, whose comments and suggestions were invaluable and made this fic much better than it originally was. Many thanks also to trialia who gave the fic the final check-up and found many missing commas. Readers are advised to note that I know nothing about fashion, vintage or otherwise. I googled some shit, it’s probably all ridiculously inaccurate. Additionally, I’m fully aware that Spencer’s turn on the catwalk is utterly unrealistic but STFU - getting him to wave that riding crop around was way higher on my list of priorities.
Mix: Thanks to the lovely tjs_whatnot there is now a brilliant mix to this fic. Go check out All Access immediately and prepare to cry your eyes out to Shakira. No? Okay, so maybe it was just me then...
Access All Areas
or: How Spencer Smith Got His Groove Back
Some people never find the love of their life. The one that makes you soar to the heights of happiness, or plunge to the depths of despair, sometimes both at the same time. That great love that you would do anything to keep, the one that fills you with so much mixed-up emotion that some days you can’t tell what it is that you’re feeling, just that your heart aches from it.
Some people never find it.
Spencer has. Twice.
***
The shop opens at 10.30, which is a random time if you don’t realise how it is in fact bang in the middle between 9 (“When all respectable businesses open, Ryan!”) and 12 (“You think we went into vintage fashion to be respectable? We sell go-go boots!”). It was a compromise they could both live with. Besides, it’s not as if their usual clientèle is the type to greet the sunrise.
Unlike Spencer, who is getting to work even earlier than usual. The city is still stretching itself awake, sluggish and grumpy, as he walks through the mostly empty streets, balancing a cup of coffee and three folders. Spencer likes the quiet. He uses the early mornings for paperwork, accounts, updating the website - all the boring but necessary jobs that keep a small business like theirs afloat. The truth is Spencer doesn’t mind most of it and even not-so-secretly enjoys some of it. There’s always been something about a neatly-laid-out spreadsheet that appeals to the side of his personality that would have probably gone for the MBA and a job in a multinational corporation, if not for Ryan.
Ryan, who presumably uses the extra hour-and-a-half in the mornings to sleep. Or possibly to contemplate the fall of capitalism or to have disgustingly languid and skinny-limbed early morning sex with whomever he’s taken to his bed the night before.
As a rule, Spencer tries not to think about the last two options too closely. Marxism tends to give him a migraine on the best of days, and experience tells him that wallowing in thoughts about what Ryan does and with whom will only lead to eating too much ice-cream and watching Love Actually for the thirty-sixth time.
Spencer refuses to be a cliché, although the whole in-unrequited-love-with-your-best-friend thing really cramps his style.
He rolls his eyes at himself, hefting up the folders that threaten to slip from the crook of his arm as he rounds the last corner. As usual, the sight of his destination makes Spencer’s chest swell with pride and contentment.
He digs out the keys, nudging the front door open, then shut again, with his hip. Carefully, he steps over a pile of mail, picks his way around the rack of truly ghastly neon-coloured tube-tops, narrowly avoids a half-dressed mannequin and then promptly trips over Ryan’s long legs.
“What the fu-?” The papers go flying, though Spencer manages to save his coffee. He has priorities.
Ryan is sprawled on the floor, looking supremely comfortable and pleased with himself despite his position.
Spencer takes in the dishevelled state of Ryan’s clothes and the lazy way he’s twisting a Rubik’s Cube around without any serious attempt at solving it.
“Oh my god.” Spencer’s eyes skitter over the fresh hickey forming just above Ryan’s collarbone, before he resolutely trains them on Ryan’s face. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“Good morning, Ryan. How are you, Ryan? Would you like a coffee, Ryan? Why yes I would Spencer, thank you. You are the best Best Friend a guy could hope for.” Ryan climbs to his feet, making grabby hands at Spencer’s thermos.
“At the moment you should consider me a Very Angry Business Partner instead,” Spencer says, slapping at Ryan’s hands. Angry is ten times better than jealous. Spencer does not look when Ryan buckles his belt. A hundred times better. A thousand. “Please, for the sake of my sanity and our cleaning bill, say that you didn’t have sex with Gabe in the shop. Again.”
Ryan shrugs, not looking even a little bit embarrassed. “Would you relax, Spence. Gabe likes it. The ‘80s room gets him very...” Ryan grins lazily. “Inspired. And when he’s inspired, well I-”
“Stop right there.” Spencer holds up a hand to prevent Ryan from providing any further details. He’s going to have to add bleach to his coffee as it is. The worst part is that Spencer isn’t exactly surprised to learn about Gabe’s preferences for the ‘80s section. After all, the guy wears most of it.
“You’re just grumpy because you haven’t gotten laid for, what is it, four months now? That big blond guy who was passing through?” Ryan’s voice is teasing, but there’s a serious undercurrent to the question, like Ryan really wants to know.
Spencer ignores it, wondering mournfully if it’s too late to call Bob and take him up on his offer after all. Bob was great, Bob never talked about the cultural importance of the socialist movement (or much at all) and he owned one sweet motorbike.
Ryan comes over, nudging his arm in a placatory fashion and fitting himself next to Spencer where he’s sitting on the window ledge. He leans on Spencer’s shoulder, all ankles and sleepy warmth.
Spencer feels his anger dissipate. Bob was also not Ryan, which is why watching him ride into the metaphorical sunset hadn’t been that difficult in the end.
He leans back against Ryan and silently hands over his thermos. Ryan makes a happy, vaguely indecent noise and takes a sip, his eyelids heavy with bliss. Spencer is pathetically, pathologically in love, but there’s no one here to see except Ryan and if he hasn’t figured it out yet he never will.
With a resigned sigh Spencer gathers up his papers and pretends to work while Ryan entertains himself by reading out loud chosen quotes from old issues of The Socialist. The air smells comfortingly of coffee and fabric softener, dust motes dancing in the solitary sunbeam cutting across the floorboards. They stay right where they are until it’s time to open the shop, sitting side by side, the window glass warming slowly against their backs.
***
Ryan is Spencer’s first love, and he didn’t even have to go searching for him. In fact, technically, it was Ryan who found Spencer; sitting alone in a sandpit, sulking because the bigger kids had stolen his truck and wouldn’t let him play. Ryan hadn’t spoken a word to him that first day, but he had gotten Spencer his truck back. Of course, it was lost again within a week, but by that time Spencer didn’t much care. After all, he had Ryan.
Two decades later, they find Spencer’s second love together, in the ‘For Auction’ section of the local newspaper.
***
The shop is what one might call ‘quirky’ if one was feeling generous and prone to smelling of incense. It’s located in the ironically trendy Western Quarter of the city, and sandwiched between a Polish delicatessen and a DVD rental place specialising in Independent Cinema and gay porn. Spencer still cringes inwardly about the time he sat down with Ryan to watch what was supposed to be a documentary about the rise of socialism in Scandinavia, and ended up being an entirely different sort of a story about the ‘struggles of the working man’. In Spencer’s defence, one Swedish title looks much like the other when you don’t speak the language and are only picking up the film because your best friend whined at you until you said you would.
The outside of the shop is painted deep burgundy with a stencilled pattern that Ryan insists is tasteful and Spencer knows is simply ridiculous. But because it makes Ryan happy he is prepared to put up with the reputation that comes from being a co-owner of a shop decorated in paisley.
Over the door and listing slightly to the left is a sign with Access All Areas written across it in funky cursive that, according to Brendon, their one and only employee, embodies free spirit and individuality. Spencer is pretty sure it actually embodies Brendon’s love of glitter and Spencer’s own inability to say no in the face of Brendon’s enthusiastic grin.
Inside the shop is surprisingly organised and well-lit, the layout making the space seem much bigger than it really is. The clothes are arranged according to the decade and displayed with some carefully chosen period-appropriate items. Spencer had put his foot down and so the only bead-curtain in the entire shop is the one separating the ‘60s and ‘70s rooms.
Access All Areas sells vintage clothes and accessories, the majority salvaged from flea-markets and estates and lovingly restored by Ryan. He and Spencer both harbour a not-so-secret resentment toward disposable fashion: cheap clothes made by underpaid workers in less economically developed countries and designed to be worn only a few times before being thrown away. Therefore, the few newly made ‘retro’ lines they stock all come from local designers and use only ethically sourced materials.
They have principles, and just because Spencer doesn’t rant about them to anyone who stays still long enough like some people, don’t mean he doesn’t believe in them just as passionately. Their profit margins stay modest, but then again neither Spencer nor Ryan got into this business for money. Well, okay, Spencer did, a little bit. But someone has to keep their feet on the ground. Besides, it’s difficult to muster the energy to fight the good fight with an empty stomach.
***
Brendon strolls in sometime during the afternoon, waving a cheery hello and tossing his hoodie over the nearest mannequin. Spencer is pretty sure his shift officially started an hour ago but the rota at Access All Areas is more of a suggestion than a strictly-followed regimen. And as long as it works, Spencer doesn’t really mind that much, although he still prints it out and pins it onto the notice board. Usually, the rota sheet is decorated with stickers, doodles and quotes of poetry within a day.
Brendon has been with them from the beginning, about two years now. Spencer and Ryan had decided early on that it was necessary for their continued health and friendship to hire a third person. They’d interviewed what felt like half of the city’s student population until Brendon had stumbled in the door. Five minutes into the interview he had made Ryan almost-laugh twice and Spencer had known that this was the one they were going to keep.
Afterwards, they’d seen Brendon out and were supposed to be having a serious business meeting to carefully consider all the candidates. Of course, the fact that they were going to hire Brendon was so obvious it didn’t even need discussing and they really were just kicking their heels instead. In the middle of an intense game of Donkey Kong, Ryan had gotten a narrow-eyed look and said: “You know, he’s actually kind of hot.”
Spencer had fumbled the buttons, causing his character to die in a pixelated explosion. Brendon was hot, and Spencer couldn’t honestly say he was surprised that Ryan had noticed. His best friend was kind of slutty when you got right down to it. “Yeah, in that annoying puppy-dog-on-crack sort of way, sure,” he’d said. It had come out snarkier than he’d meant, enough so that Ryan had raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“So, you going for it?” Spencer had asked, trying to cover up. He’d kept his eyes resolutely on the screen, watching the endless loop of the graphics so he didn’t have to watch Ryan.
“What? Of course not!” Ryan had exclaimed, sounding so indignant about it that Spencer had to believe him.
He couldn’t help but feel relieved, even though he didn’t really get it. “I don’t get it,” he’d said, finally turning around. “Why not?”
Ryan had looked at him like he was being dense on purpose. “Because he’s going to be our employee. I can’t fuck around with someone I work with. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
Ryan’s face had been open and earnest, and Spencer had wanted nothing more than to punch his lights out.
Instead he’d swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth, clutched a hand to his heart and said, mock serious: “I’m so proud. You’ve gone and grown morals. Did it hurt?”
Ryan had flipped him off laconically and they’d gone back to the game.
And later that night Spencer had gotten more drunk than he had been for a long time. Because stupid as it was, it had still felt like another rejection.
***
“Wentz Designs.”
Spencer props the phone between his ear and shoulder while simultaneously clicking through his inbox. “I thought you were going with Clandestine?”
“Clandestine is a stupid name,” Patrick says. Then, his voice dropping to a husky purr: “Spencer. It’s so good to hear from you.”
Spencer blinks, his fingers freezing on the keyboard. “Jesus Christ, Patrick,” he says. “Give a guy some warning.”
“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Patrick sounds like he should be selling sex toys instead of handling the business and marketing of one of the most wanted young designers in the state.
Speaking of which... “Pete’s sitting next you, isn’t he?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Spencer laughs. “You are evil, you know that, right?”
Pete may be Patrick’s long-time friend and sort-of boss, but he’s also completely in love with Patrick - he just hasn’t realised it yet.
Patrick, who Spencer thinks must have the patience of a saint to put up with Pete at all, has finally gotten tired of waiting for him to catch on. On their recent beer-and-bitching date Spencer had suggested Patrick should simply push Pete against the nearest wall and improvise it from there. Patrick, however, had decided that a bold move like that required some groundwork to be successful. Hence their sudden, steamy and entirely fake romance.
Patrick had told Spencer that he should make it work to his advantage too, but in the end, Spencer had let Ryan in on their ‘make Pete so jealous he either proposes or explodes in a green puff of impotent rage” plan. Spencer knows he is incapable of lying to Ryan’s face so he doesn’t see the point in trying. The only reason Ryan doesn’t know about Spencer’s own pathetic case of head-over-heels is because so far he hasn’t asked the right questions.
Spencer is yanked back to the present when Patrick laughs at the other end of the line. “Of course,” he says, low and intimate in Spencer’s ear. “But you know you like it when I’m a little... mean.”
Spencer promptly chokes on his own tongue. There’s a strangled sound in the background that tells him he wasn’t the only one.
Okay, enough is enough. “Put me on the speaker,” he tells Patrick. Two can play this game.
“Why?” Patrick sounds suspicious.
“Because there’s something I need to discuss with both you and Pete. Something business-related, okay?”
There’s a short pause during which Patrick clearly does some complicated risk assessment and Spencer deletes twelve spam emails.
Finally there’s a sudden increase in the background noise and Patrick informs Spencer that he is on the speakerphone.
“Pete,” Spencer greets brusquely. He didn’t lie; he does actually have some business to talk about with both partners of Wentz Designs (formerly Clandestine, P&P Fashion, and, memorably, Bats Have Hearts Too).
Spencer clarifies a couple of points with Patrick and Pete, sorting out a new order and talking about the charity show Access All Areas and Wentz Designs are both contributing to. After fifteen minutes or so Spencer has lulled them both into the security of mundane shop talk. He estimates that it’s the perfect time to advance Patrick’s plan.
“Excellent,” Spencer says, saving the spreadsheet on the computer screen. “I’ll see you tonight then.”
“What?” Pete and Patrick ask in unison.
Spencer puts some quality pout into his voice. “Oh don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, Trick.” Using Pete’s special nickname for Patrick is pretty low, but Spencer figures the end justifies the means.
“It’s Patrick’s and my two-week anniversary. And I’ve got something...” Spencer grins and puts on his best porn voice, “...extra special planned.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, just hangs up on Patrick’s silence and the sound of Pete kicking the desk. Spencer is awesome. He totally expects Pete to cave within twenty-four hours and be in Patrick’s bed in twenty-five.
The door bangs suddenly and Spencer startles, turning around just in time to catch a sight of Ryan’s retreating back. It’s not unusual for Ryan to flit between the office and his own sewing room, but it is unusual for him to do it without perching on the edge of Spencer’s desk to talk.
Spencer frowns, considers getting up and going after Ryan. But his inbox is still full of emails marked ‘urgent’ and if Ryan didn’t take the time to say hi then he must be busy too.
***
The whole thing just doesn’t make any sense, which is probably what Spencer resents most about it. Spencer likes things to make sense. He’s a sensible person, who went to University to do a sensible degree (Business Management with a minor in Fashion Industry - an entirely sensible combination since he and Ryan had talked about starting a vintage clothes shop ever since they were 16 and 17 and Ryan started sewing his own outfits because he couldn’t find what he liked anywhere).
Falling in love with his best friend went against all natural laws, Spencer’s very sensible personality and everything modern media has taught him about romance.
They’ve known each other since they were toddlers and Spencer has seen Ryan at his worst - sick, drunk, self-pitying. He knows all his secrets, disgusting habits and less-than-admirable characteristics. Like how Ryan eats his cereal with orange juice and clips his toenails in the kitchen. Or how one time he cheated in a maths test, or the three times he cheated on his high school girlfriend. Or how he can be a manipulative bitch and unnecessarily cruel to people he doesn’t like or agree with. Or how...
Of course there’s another side to that coin (really, if there wasn’t Spencer’s life would probably be much easier). Spencer knows Ryan can be too generous for his own good and needs Spencer to watch out for him so no one takes advantage of that. He’s passionate and intense and scarily intelligent, has an incorrigible sweet tooth and wants to learn to play the guitar.
Spencer is one of the few people who can make Ryan laugh - really laugh, not just twist his lips sardonically. He makes sure Ryan doesn’t take himself too seriously, but is the only one Ryan trusts enough to be serious with when he needs to.
In the end, Spencer thinks, it may not have been logical for him to fall in love with Ryan. But perhaps it was inevitable.
That doesn’t mean he has to like it.
***
Spencer straightens up from where he’s been sitting bent over the computer, stretching the crick from his neck. The clock on the wall tells him it’s way past home time, but he can still hear Brendon bustling on the shop floor, tidying up after the customers. Ryan had left as soon as they’d locked up, muttering something about seeing a gig with Gabe and uncharacteristically not inviting Spencer along. He usually did, mainly because Ryan didn’t see a reason not to and had no regard for proper date protocol - especially as he didn’t so much date as sleep with a string of people he also found interesting in some way.
Not that Spencer would have accepted. Not because Spencer hates Gabe or anything (in fact, Gabe makes hating him fairly impossible by sheer force of his relentlessly cheerful personality and inane fashion sense). It’s just that spending the night watching Ryan and Gabe compete over who could wriggle a hand into whose skinny jeans faster, is not his idea of a good time.
Still, it stung. Spencer hunches lower in his ergonomically-designed chair. What’s more, Ryan has been avoiding him most of the day, despite their companionable morning. Which is why Spencer is hiding in the backroom, playing Mario Kart on the computer and quite possibly sulking.
“Spencer Smith,” Brendon says from the doorway. He is, inexplicably, wearing a pinafore. “Are you sulking?”
“I am not sulking.” Spencer pauses the game, casting a disbelieving eye over the candy-striped monstrosity Brendon is dressed in. “Are you making some sort of a political statement?”
“You’ve been hanging around with Ryan for way too long. I just think it makes me look pretty.” Brendon grins, batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly.
“It makes you look ridiculous,” Spencer says, but can’t help grinning back.
“That too,” Brendon admits easily. “There’s a new bar,” he continues. “Jon and Tom are taking me there. You should come with. They have cocktails!”
Brendon is practically bouncing on the spot. “Think of the colours, Spencer! And the tiny paper umbrellas!”
Spencer takes a moment to contemplate the image of Brendon in a cocktail bar, all the alcohol, sugar and innuendo-laden names, and decides that such a thing probably shouldn’t be allowed without supervision. Jon and Tom don’t count as Spencer is pretty sure they are trying to get into Brendon’s pants and therefore cannot be trusted to remain objective.
“Fine,” he says, turning off the computer and grabbing his jacket.
“Really?” Brendon gapes. Spencer isn’t usually this agreeable for extemporaneous outings. “You’re really coming?”
Spencer raises an eyebrow. “You’re really wearing that to the bar?”
Brendon glances down at himself. “Well, maybe I am making a little bit of a political statement after all,” he says.
“Who isn’t?” Spencer sighs. “C’mon then, before I change my mind.”
Outside Tom and Jon are leaning on the wall, loose-limbed and smiling. If they are surprised to find Spencer crashing in on their night out with Brendon, they don’t show it.
“Nice dress,” Tom says, offering his arm to Brendon who accepts it with some giggling. Jon nudges Spencer in a friendly fashion and there’s worry and sympathy lurking in the corners of his eyes.
“Just don’t ask,” Spencer says. “I was promised cocktails.”
“Fair enough,” says Jon. “This way, if you please.”
***
The next morning dawns bright and painful. Spencer groans and wastes a few precious minutes sincerely regretting that third Purple Hooter. Then he downs about a gallon of water, jams on his biggest pair of sunglasses, getting to the shop barely in time for its opening. He’s scheduled to man the counter today, and the fact that it coincides with the first hangover Spencer’s had in six months is fucking typical of his life right now.
The shop is blissfully shaded and cool. Spencer gropes blindly through the ‘80s section (too much neon) and squints the rest of the way. He opens the register, sits down and carefully lays his head on his folded arms. Technically, he’s at work.
Ryan comes in around noon, by which time Spencer has managed to sell a pair of genuine bell-bottoms, a fake alligator skin belt and one of Pete’s retro design t-shirts, all without vomiting once. Saturday is the busiest day of the week so they’ve staggered the shifts with maximum overlap time and Brendon, the lucky S.O.B., is not due for another two hours.
Ryan takes one look at Spencer’s face and purses his lips together in a thin line of disapproval.
“What?” Spencer asks.
“Good night then?” The question is mild, but Ryan’s tone isn’t.
Spencer feels his temper flare. It’s not like he makes a habit of turning up to work with a hangover and Ryan damn well knows it.
“Yeah, it really was.” Spencer makes himself smile widely even though the effort threatens to split his head in two. “You? How was the show?”
Ryan ignores the question, huffily dropping a box of unsorted clothes on to the counter. “I would have thought Patrick had more sense than to get you drunk on a work night?”
“What are you? My mom?” Spencer stares at Ryan, both irritated and confused. “I was out with Brendon and Jon and Tom. What the hell has Patrick got to do with anything?”
Ryan shrugs. “We bumped into Pete at the gig. He said Patrick had gone out with you.” Ryan straightens up and glares at Spencer. “He’s really upset, you know. You two should be more considerate of his feelings.”
Spencer opens and closes his mouth in silence for a few seconds. He can’t decide whether he should be offended or laugh it off. In the end anger wins. Ryan ignored him yesterday, fucked off with his not-boyfriend, didn’t text him once during the night like normal and now turns all borderline personality disorder on him out of the blue when Spencer’s head is killing him and all he wants to do is curl in a ball and sleep but had dragged himself to work anyway.
“What the hell, Ryan?” he snaps, standing up to face Ryan directly across the counter. “Far as I remember, you thought Patrick’s plan was hilarious last week. What changed? You suddenly want to fuck Pete on the shop floor too? Maybe have a little threesome and roll around on the ruffled shirts, huh? Bet Gabe would just love that.”
Spencer is kind of breathless by the time he finishes shouting and Ryan’s face has gone pale and pinched.
“Um.”
Spencer and Ryan whip around. There’s a guy standing nearby, half-hidden behind the railing of housecoats. “Is this a bad time?” he asks, eyes darting around nervously. Even his hair looks apprehensive, sticking up like a startled bird’s nest. He’s gingerly holding a white ruffled shirt between his thumb and forefinger.
“No, not at all,” Spencer says, more than a little annoyed; arguing in front of a customer - very classy, very professional. “Ryan here is happy to help you.”
The whole thing was Ryan’s fault, let him sort it. Spencer turns around and stalks towards the back of the shop. He needs some time to calm down. Maybe to throw up, too.
***
Spencer is sitting on the stockroom floor, leaning against a pile of clothing sacks waiting for their charity pick-up. Everything they can’t sell in their shop gets donated to a women’s co-op in Ecuador. It always makes him smile to think that somewhere there is a village where shoulder pads and leggings are still haute couture.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, could be twenty minutes, could be an hour. It’s cool and relatively dark and it’s entirely possible he’d dozed off for a while. He should probably get up and do some work, or at least go home and write today off as a proper sick day.
Spencer sighs. He’d actually had a good time last night, but now the pleasure of it feels tainted by his stupid row with Ryan - which, honestly, Spencer is still not sure what it was about except Ryan being a complete and utter dick for no reason.
Speaking of (Ryan, not dick), the stockroom door inches open with a creak and a familiar figure shuffles in. Ryan nudges the door shut with his foot and when he gets closer Spencer sees he has his hands full of food and drink.
“I didn’t know what you’d like. Or be fit to consume,” Ryan says, dropping down cross-legged next to Spencer. He hands over a cup of coffee, water, two types of soda and a wide selection of sweet and savoury snacks.
“Ass,” Spencer says and grabs the bottle of water. He knows an apology when he sees it.
“Well, um, that might be a little awkward and all...” For some reason Ryan is actually blushing.
Spencer rewinds the conversation in his head, blinks, blinks again, and then starts laughing.
Ryan grins at him and then they’re both giggling, instantly regressing to when they were eight and nine and dirty words were inherently funny.
The hilarity is suddenly interrupted by a giant yawn that takes over Spencer’s face.
“Seriously, did you get any sleep at all or were you out all night partying?” Ryan asks. His voice is carefully neutral this time but more than twenty years of friendship means Spencer can tell when he’s holding something back.
“A couple of hours,” Spencer answers. He’s too tired to get angry again, or try to find out what’s got Ryan acting so weird. He lists back toward the softness of the clothes bags. A nap, that’s all he needs. “Shouldn’t you go check no one’s robbing us blind?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Ryan takes his phone out, settling more comfortably against the wall. Spencer is pretty sure there is no reception inside the stockroom. “I’ve left Brendon in charge. He, by the way, looks even worse.”
“Table-dancing will do that to a guy,” Spencer says, yawning again. “Don’t worry, I totally took photos.”
“Enough to blackmail Brendon into taking the morning shift for the next week?”
“More like the next month.”
Ryan smirks and bumps fists with Spencer. “This is why you’re my best friend.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer grumbles, closing his eyes.
Turns out he’s too tired to feel heartsick either, because when Ryan curls up next to him a few minutes later, Spencer doesn’t even think, just tucks him close and goes back to sleep.
Continue to Part 2/3.