Fic: The Coffee Shop AU - part 3
Part Three
William has cut his hair. Gabe stares at him, eyes wide, unblinking. This is impossible. This is inconceivable. The fact that it looks totally hot is completely irrelevant. His hair. Is gone.
“Are you on some crazy voyage of self-discovery? Did Victoria put you up to this?”
In response, William narrows his eyes and puts his hands on his hips. “Thanks, Gabe. I’m glad you like it,” he says dryly, and when he moves to walk into the club, Gabe panics and puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“No, Bill. It. It looks really good.” The words almost get stuck halfway up his throat, but he forces them out and is rewarded with William’s bright smile. The way his heart leaps a little is personal information that Gabe will keep to himself and never share with anyone, ever.
“Aww, thanks Gabe! You don’t look half shabby yourself,” William says with a glint in his eyes, and Gabe finds that the easiest thing to do when confronted with this situation is just to grin back and force himself to relax.
“Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you make out with me later,” he says, only half-joking, and wonders whether or not William will pick up on it. He can never really tell, with him.
“And maybe Patrick will actually show up.” The sarcasm is evident, and Gabe laughs and tries not to show his disappointment.
“Pete threatened to chop his limbs off this time, though.”
Bill raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms, jutting out his hip. Bill is quite the diva. “And last week, he threatened to stick pins in his eyes. He still didn’t show.”
Shrugging, Gabe slings an arm around William’s shoulders and leads him into the club. “Eventually, he’ll come up with a threat that actually works.”
Luciani’s already at the DJ booth, holding one headphone to his right ear and shuffling CDs with his spare hand. When he spots them, he waves and beckons Gabe over, and William slips out of Gabe’s grip and wanders towards the bar.
The place is still pretty much empty except for a few close friends. He doesn’t technically open the place for another half hour. The Basement, to him, is sort of like the café is to Patrick, he supposes. When he dropped out of college and decided that he’d much rather run a night club, he was surprised at how simple it was to find an old bar that the owner was more than willing to sell, and jazz it up a bit. At first, he didn’t quite have the money to pull off all the refurbishments and hire people like Luciani, but this is where it comes in handy to have friends like Ryan Ross. Gabe felt a little guilty asking him (after all, the poor kid’s parents had only just died), but Spencer assured him that Ryan would be more than happy to help out. As it turned out, Ryan actually seemed almost glad to be doing something with the fortune that had suddenly landed itself on his shoulders. He leant Gabe the money with a whispered thank you, and then a month later, signed off ownership of his parents’ stock and hotels to his uncle, so that he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Sometimes, Gabe wonders if Ryan regrets choosing to do what he did, but he knows that his uncle still sends him a large chunk of the income, and Ryan seems happier for having it out of his hair.
Within a year of Ryan’s donation, Gabe had the place up and running, newly done up and having hired a couple of friends to come in and do the DJ work, the lights, and everything else Gabe had no idea how to work. It became his second home, his favourite place to be, and it wasn’t long before he got a steady flow of people walking through the doors. As it happened, a man named Matt Rubano came in one night, asked Gabe if he could mix his own drink, and before long, had a queue of people lining up and asking him to do theirs. Gabe isn’t stupid, nor is he blind, and he hired Matt on the spot.
He can see Matt at the bar now, if he looks over his shoulder, checking the stock and disappearing out into the back room, coming back a moment later with a large crate of beer. Gabe is kind of amazed at the way Matt can hold down the bar all on his own, even though Gabe has offered several times to hire someone else in. Every time, Matt insists he can do it alone, that he wants to do it alone, and Gabe has seen the evidence, he’s more than capable, so he leaves him to it. Only having to pay one person hardly bothers him.
Gabe can’t see Will, but he assumes that he’s gone out the back to rifle through Gabe’s stuff. He does it fairly often, and Gabe still hasn’t bothered to ask why. He’ll get bored eventually, and toddle back out into the club to socialise by the time Gabe opens the doors. For now, Gabe turns his attention back to Ryan J, convinced that everything is running smoothly.
“What’s up Luciani, my man?”
Ryan J rolls his eyes and puts a CD on one of two piles. Gabe doesn’t bother asking what the two piles indicate. Luciani is a kickass DJ and Gabe will never, ever question his methods. He has this uncanny knack for knowing what people want to hear, what people are feeling, and he bounces off them, picking up on moods that Gabe didn’t even know existed and playing them for the masses. It’s kind of like an art, Gabe thinks, and you never ask an artist to explain why they do what they do.
“Pete just called, he’s on his way over,” Ryan tells him, and Gabe grins. Pete brings something to the party that you can’t find anywhere else, and Gabe loves him. Hopefully, tonight Pete will bring an extra thing nobody else can. A certain thing by the name of Patrick Stump.
“Did he say whether Patrick’s coming?”
Ryan laughs, and shakes his head. “Said that he’d threatened him, but that he wasn’t sure if he got a yes or a no. You know Patrick; if he doesn’t want to give a definite answer, he can be one vague motherfucker.”
Gabe does know Patrick, and does know just how elusive he can be when he doesn’t want to be somewhere. Crowds just aren’t really Patrick’s thing. Personally, Gabe thinks that if he could, Patrick would probably live in his coffee shop and never leave. Except occasionally to buy more milk, and even that would be a stretch. Maybe he’d carry coffee beans in his pockets so that he had a memento, a keepsake, while he was in the outside world. He wouldn’t doubt it.
“Got any special requests for tonight?” he asks as he shifts another CD over to a pile - the one on the right, this time.
Gabe shakes his head and pats Ryan on the arm. “You just work your magic Ryan J.”
Ryan smiles at him in response, lifts the headphone back to his ear and starts moving things around again. Gabe takes it as his cue, and wanders back towards the bar, checking the large clock on the wall. A couple of minutes until he opens. Donning a bright smile, Gabe makes his way over to the front door, and is happy to see that there’s a line formed. Nothing huge, no big names, but he’s beginning to make a name for himself and his club, and the regulars always come back. He’s ridiculously proud of what he’s created, and the line outside puts a smile on his lips and in his heart.
Pete is at the front of the line, and behind him, to Gabe’s delight, is Patrick. He looks awfully uncomfortable and out of place, and Gabe loves him for it.
“Oh my god, it’s a miracle. Patrick Stump, has left the coffee shop. I repeat: Stump has left the coffee shop.”
Patrick scowls at him, but really, he looks happy to be here, despite the fact that he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. It’s not often that they get Patrick out of a night, and Gabe doesn’t really expect him to be totally at ease. He’s probably not helping matters, but that’s what friends are for.
“Yeah. He gets to keep his legs tonight, I suppose,” Pete says in a dejected little voice, as if he’s a bit disappointed he doesn’t get to invoke his wrath on his best friend. He doesn’t really know why; in Gabe’s opinion, yelling at Patrick wouldn’t be much fun. Gabe prefers people who will shout and scream back - throwing things is always a bonus. Patrick seems like the kind of guy who would just stand there and try and make you see reason, and sigh in pity when you didn’t calm down.
“Unless I break them in there,” Patrick mumbles, looking down at his feet with cautious eyes.
Gabe can’t help but laugh. “Don’t worry, Trick. We’ll take good care of you. Scout’s honour.” He raises the scout’s salute, and Patrick huffs.
“You were never a scout,” he points out, and Gabe waves him off with a dismissive hand. Whatever. He could have been a scout if he really wanted to.
“Let’s open this baby up, yeah?” Gabe says to his security - this awesome guy called Bob who’s been with him from the start. Bob gives him a nod and cracks a smile, and Gabe is glad that Bob is the kind of security guy you can have a bit of a joke around with. He’d probably be too scared to even hire one of those burly, silent types.
He can hear Bob talking to the assembled line, but Gabe doesn’t wait around to listen. He’s about to head back into The Basement when he realises that Pete and Trick aren’t behind him. Rolling his eyes, he reaches back and grabs Pete’s arm, dragging him under the rope.
“You’re the owner’s best friends, and you think you have to line up with everyone else? I’m not that cruel.”
Pete gives him a look, one of those annoying oh really? looks, and Gabe pointedly ignores him. Gabe takes them to the bar first, and Matt slides them a few drinks across the bar in a quicker time than Gabe would have thought possible. This is why he hired him.
“Is Ryan going to be social tonight?” Gabe asks, turning to Pete. Pete just shrugs in response, taking a long swig of his beer (“mixed drinks are for chicks and wimps”) before answering.
“I have no idea. He said something about wanting to clean the house before Jon moves in tomorrow.”
Gabe raises his eyebrows and stares Pete down. “Liar. That’s Greta’s job.” He lets himself bask in temporary triumph. Catching people out in poorly formed lies is one of his favourite things to do, third after annoying Patrick, and staring at William.
“Greta’s gone to visit her parents for the weekend,” Pete replies easily, and Gabe scowls. Stupid Ryan being far too nice and letting people have time off when he could be here, enjoying himself. “Besides, Ryan likes cleaning. Says it calms him down.”
Gabe will never understand people. Honestly, how could cleaning his house even come close to comparing against partying in The Basement?
“His priorities are messed up, man,” Gabe says forcefully, and he tries not to let it show that he’s disappointed. Really, it doesn’t matter all that much. He just likes to know that he can give something back. It doesn’t matter that he’s paid off the money he owed to Ryan. It doesn’t matter that Ryan wasn’t expecting payment back in the first place. Ryan was the one who believed in him enough to lend him the money, and Gabe would like to think that he could show Ryan what he’s done with it, how seriously he’s taken it, and how well the club is going. So far, he can count on one hand the amount of times Ryan has set foot in The Basement since it opened. William’s here every weekend, sometimes even on weeknights.
In fact, Gabe thinks as he manoeuvres his way through a close-knit crowd of people on the dance floor, he’s going to call Ryan right now and give him a piece of his mind. Leaving Patrick and Pete in a daze behind him, Gabe makes for the back exit. He’s moving fast, intent on getting Ryan the hell over here before the party kicks off in full and he misses all the fun, when he stops dead in the middle of the floor.
He has to double check to make sure that it is what he thinks he’s seeing, before he’s moving with a new purpose in mind. His eyes are narrowed as he stalks toward the middle of the floor (just his luck that this has to happen in front of everybody). He reaches them, and is further enraged to see that the subject of his fury has his eyes closed and looks rather like he’s enjoying what’s happening.
William is dancing with his arms around some guy.
With a low growl in the back of his throat, Gabe clamps a hand down on the guy’s shoulder and tears him roughly backwards. He can hear a muffled “oh fuck, Gabe” from behind him, but he doesn’t stop to see who it was.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he says, and the voice that tears out of his throat sounds unfamiliar even to him. The usual laughter and carelessness is gone from his tone; all that remains is pure anger, betrayal, and the desperate desire to rip this guy to shreds.
“Who are you?” the guy retorts, flipping his bangs out of his eyes with a smug smile, and Gabe resists the urge to lunge at him.
“Who the fuck am I? I’m Gabe Saporta, and I own this place, so you better get your hands the fuck off him before I get security on you.” His hand still hasn’t loosened its grip on the guy’s shoulder, and he can see his knuckles turning white.
“Gabe, c’mon, don’t do this.” A hand settles on his upper arm, Patrick’s whispered voice in his ear. “Let it go, Gabe. Walk away.”
Gabe rolls his shoulders in an attempt to shrug the hand off, and Patrick complies, quietly. He can feel the soft reproach in Patrick’s eyes burning holes through the back of his head, and he flinches, but doesn’t let up. His skin is so heated he thinks he might start burning, and he’s never been so angry in his life. Bill fucking around with their guys, he can deal with. Sitting in Ryan’s lap, kisses on Travis’ cheek, he can deal with. Not some random fucker in his club.
“Look man, I didn’t know he was yours, okay?” The guy holds his hands up, palms flat in surrender, and Gabe takes his hand off his shoulder, but continues to stare at him, eyes icy.
“I’m not his,” Bill interjects quietly, but Gabe talks right over the top of him.
“You don’t touch him.”
He’d been drinking before the club opened, just to get himself loosened up, ready to flitter among his regulars and socialise. He’s not too drunk yet, but he can feel it beginning to affect his mind, his feelings, and he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter if he’s overreacting. He wants William away from this guy, now.
“Gabe, what the fuck?” It’s Bill’s voice that stops him where Patrick’s couldn’t, and he turns to face him, bewildered. Stuck for words, he just stares, beginning to realise what he’s done, beginning to realise that William probably liked dancing with this guy. He stands back, fighting the urge to punch the guy that William would choose over him, and puts his hands up in surrender.
He opens his mouth to say something, but can’t manage to get the words out. And then he just shakes his head before he turns on his heel and heads for the back room. The quicker he can get away from the anger in Bill’s eyes, the better. He hears someone start after him, his name dropping from lips in a rush, but then they stop, and he’s left alone. On his way past the bar, he swipes a beer from Matt without pausing, and then throws himself into one of the storerooms where he can berate himself in peace.
***
Brendon has an idea. It’s not much, but it’s an outline, the barest edges of what might one day become a plot, and that’s at least better than nothing. However, it’s the fifth idea that he’s tried to make work, so his hopes aren’t particularly high. The last four left him in this sort of mood as well. As if he can do anything, like he’s standing on the top of the world, and everything is perfect because finally he has the idea that’s going to send pages and pages churning from his fingers, the idea that’s going to make Ryland smile in relief and his publishers satisfied.
It’s nothing spectacular. But it’s the first thing that’s given him hope since... Well, since the last idea, if he’s being perfectly honest. But this feels different. This feels like it might be able to go somewhere, like he might have something to write about this time. The last four fell dead on the nose because he had no interest. He tried his best, but in the end he was just writing something that he was told to write, not what he felt. He couldn’t relate to the characters, nor their situation, didn’t understand their thought patterns, couldn’t put himself in their shoes. And that’s the only way Brendon knows how to write. To throw himself in all at once, submerged in the deep end of a character’s thoughts and write for them. To tell their story because he’s the only one who can. It doesn’t work if he’s just a bystander, writing for a deadline.
This time, he thinks, he might have something. This time, he knows these characters, knows them better than himself, sometimes. The only thing holding him back, is the knowledge that his... inspiration, may not be too happy with the end results. But oh well. He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. For now, he has a novel to plot.
Brendon takes a sip of his coffee a little too fast, and it scalds its way down his throat. He winces, but takes another large sip anyway. He’s bent over the notebook in front of him, writing so fast he’s a little wary that he might snap his pencil. His hand has already cramped up at least four times, but he does his best to ignore it and keeps writing.
Ryland would be proud of him, he thinks. Maybe he’ll call him tonight, just to gloat. Except that he knows doing so would only result in more pressure. He’s better off surprising them; slapping a manuscript down on Ryland’s desk and reaping the bragging rights afterwards. And so, he keeps his pencil to the paper, and doesn’t let up until he’s covered ten pages with notes and ideas and characters, his universe beginning to take shape before his eyes.
He’s not entirely sure that it’ll hold, but for now, it’s all he’s got, so he’ll take it and run with it.
It’s around midday that Gabe stumbles into the coffee shop. He looks miserable to say the least, but he brightens slightly when he sees Brendon. With a quick glance to the bin beside the table, Gabe is grinning.
“Brendon! Your bin is almost empty!” he shouts as if it’s a miracle. Brendon doesn’t answer, scribbles down a few more lines before the words register in his brain, and then his head snaps up and he falls out of his zone. Brendon supposes that it is kind of a miracle, really. This is the first time in months that he’s been able to keep writing, keep getting everything down, without filling the bin until it’s overflowing.
“Things are good, Gabe,” Brendon answers easily, shifting his arm to cover the piece of paper he’d been writing on. He knows that all the regulars are desperately eager to know what it is he’s writing, but he’s not about to tell them any time soon. Maybe, one day, he’ll show them all and let go of his secret, but for now, it’s something he wants to keep hidden. This place feels like home, the regulars like family, but that doesn’t mean that they have to know every little thing about each other.
“At least one of us is on the right track, huh?” Gabe says dryly, and Brendon abandons his pencil for the first time in four hours to look up and raise his eyebrows.
“Oh? And what have you done now?”
Gabe seems a little put out at the way Brendon automatically assumed that he’s the one who’s done something wrong, but he recovers quickly and opens his mouth to respond before Frank cuts him off.
“He almost beat up some poor guy at the club last night,” Frank snickers, and if looks could kill, Frank would on the floor in seconds with the way Gabe is looking at him. Frank seems unfazed, and just keeps grinning like it’s Christmas come early.
“Oh,” Brendon says, a small sound of acknowledgement. He tries to hold back his grin, and fails miserably. “This guy was somewhere in the vicinity of William Beckett, I assume? Perhaps looking at him from across the room? Brushed against his shoulder? Or heaven forbid, Gabe, did he dare to dance with your William?” Brendon throws a hand to his mouth dramatically, and Frank cackles madly. Gabe turns his glare to Brendon, full force, and Brendon can almost feel the acid pouring through to his bones.
“I hate you both,” he snaps, and then storms off to his usual booth. Brendon just rolls his eyes - Gabe’s tantrums are always more of a call for attention and joking than actual malice, but Patrick sighs and attempts to keep the peace by making Gabe his favourite lemon frappe, this time with added sprinkles. Gabe’s face lights up and Patrick allows a thank you but no payment, and Gabe slurps at his drink happily, all anger at Frank and Brendon forgotten. Most of the time, Gabe is easy to please.
He goes back to his papers with a drawn out sigh, nibbling on the end of his pencil. The interruption has left him stranded, and he can’t quite grasp the same ideas he was playing around with before Gabe entered the shop. He furrows his eyebrows and hunches down, worrying the eraser on the end of the pencil between his teeth and trying to think, but nothing is coming, and he lets out a loud groan of frustration.
Patrick notices and looks up from behind the counter, his eyes worried. “You okay, Bren?”
Frank turns his head to listen to the exchange, and though Gabe pretends like he hasn’t heard anything (probably more out of wanting to retain a facade of anger more than any respect for privacy), Brendon sees him cock his head to the side a little, and his eyes stay focussed in one place instead of scanning the newspaper he has in his hands. There’s no such thing as a private conversation in this place.
“I’m stuck,” he admits, and Patrick makes his way around the counter in a second. With a casual ease, Frank picks up where Patrick left off, washing coffee mugs with his eyes still trained on where Brendon is sitting.
When Patrick sinks into the chair beside him, he ducks his head and makes sure he keeps his voice low. No matter how much disrespect for personal conversations Gabe has, or how curious Frank is, Patrick will ensure that nobody overhears them. Brendon’s glad that he trusted Patrick with his secret.
“Can I help at all?” he asks softly, and Brendon knows that if there was something he could do, he’d do it in an instant. Patrick is awesome like that. Unfortunately, Brendon can’t think of any way Patrick could save him from Ryland’s wrath.
“Not unless you want to write a novel for me,” Brendon sighs, scribbling aimlessly on the piece of paper in front of him. “Ryland is going to have my head.”
Patrick frowns and reaches out to take the paper. Usually, Brendon is paranoid about anyone knowing anything about his novel before he finishes it. Some stupid superstition, like letting it out into the world before its time will see it crashing towards the ground. Right now though, it’s not like it’s shaping up to be a best-seller anyway, so why the hell not?
It takes a moment, and then Patrick is frowning, and then slowly, a small smile flitters across his face. “Gabe and William?” he questions, lowering his voice even further so that Gabe doesn’t hear them.
Brendon’s a little amused that Patrick figured it out so quickly, and his lips quirk at the corners. “That obvious?” It probably is, once he thinks about it. The names are different, and so is the situation, just barely, but it’s still fairly clear. His characters are just as clueless, just as infuriatingly oblivious, just as infatuated.
And he’s got it, he knows that he can make this one work, only... He can’t think of how it ends. He shuffles his papers around, slipping them into his folder and tucking his pen behind his ear. It’ll come to him, he hopes. For now, he wants to set it aside and think about something else for a change. The more time he spends on this, the harder it’s getting, and what he really needs is a break.
“If you know them well enough,” Patrick answers, handing Brendon the last piece of paper. Brendon adds it to the folder and shoves the whole thing in his bag just as Ryan enters the café with a lost sort of look on his face.
“Ryan! You, sir, are in so much trouble I can’t even begin to explain it.” Despite his words, Gabe is smiling, and it appears that whatever Ryan apparently did, it isn’t as bad as Frank and Brendon picking on him.
Ryan edges into the shop looking a little more wary now, keeping his distance from where Gabe is sitting, glancing towards Patrick for reassurance. “He’s not going to kill me, is he?” he asks as he passes the table, eyes shifting from Patrick to Brendon.
Patrick grins, and looks at Gabe. “I think that he deserves dismemberment at the least. After all, that was the threat put to the rest of us.” Sometimes, Patrick can be just as teasing as the rest of them, even if he usually prefers to be the only sane one around.
Now though, Ryan stares at him as if he’s sprouted an extra head. “You’re supposed to be sticking up for me!” he protests, as if Patrick has committed the highest form of betrayal there is. And perhaps he has. Going into league with Gabe isn’t something one does lightly.
Patrick gives an apologetic shrug, and Gabe’s eyes gleam. “You didn’t come to The Basement last night, Ryan.” He says it as if Ryan’s being accused of a crime. In Gabe’s eyes, he probably is.
And Ryan pauses, as if trying to think of what he did last night, before he rolls his eyes. “I was cleaning, Gabe. I promise I didn’t blow you off for someone cooler.” Something in Gabe’s eyes says that’s not all, that there was some other reason Ryan should have been there last night, but he doesn’t say anything, so nobody pushes it. You don’t push Gabe for details. If he wants to say something, he’ll say it (usually bluntly and offensively). Without making a sound, Patrick rises and slips back behind the counter, taking milk out of the fridge and mixing something into the blender. For a moment, that’s the only sound heard in the place, until Patrick stops the machine, pours the contents into a plastic cup, shoves in a straw and hands it to Ryan. In turn, Ryan raises his eyebrows in confusion, and Patrick grins.
“The Apology Special. Use it wisely,” he says simply, and a look of understanding dawns on Ryan’s face before he hands the drink over to Gabe. The fact that it was Patrick’s idea and handy-work doesn’t appear to matter; Gabe takes it anyway, putting the straw between his lips and taking a long slurp before he nods at Ryan solemnly.
“You’re forgiven.”
Brendon thinks that if everything in life was as easy as getting back in Gabe’s good books, everyone would be living the high life. Unfortunately, most things aren’t. Like writing a book for a deadline, for one.
Now safe from imminent death, Ryan slips into a seat and kicks his feet up. Patrick eyes him, flicking his gaze from Ryan’s face to his feet, and without him needing to say a word, Ryan gets the message, and pulls his feet down with a blush. Patrick will put up with Gabe and Travis knocking things over constantly, spilling drinks and breaking coffee grinders, but the second someone puts dirty feet on his precious couches, they’re in trouble. Patrick has an odd sort of outlook on things, sometimes.
“Has anyone seen Spencer lately?” Ryan asks, and though he tries to make it sound nonchalant, everyone can hear the undertone of worry to his voice.
“Missing your boyfriend already? It’s only been what, two days?” Gabe teases, but his eyes are warm, watchful, and there’s none of the earlier malice. This is how Brendon likes the shop; full of his favourite people and easy, laid-back laughter, something easy, quiet, relaxing. Here, he can... well, not kick his feet up, but sit back and let things roll off his shoulders. Here, he can forget about Ryland and the publisher’s stupid deadlines, and just relax.
Ryan snorts, so used to Gabe by now that the ‘boyfriend’ crack doesn’t bother him in the slightest. Instead, he just shrugs, and even he can see the way that, despite being apparently concerned about Spencer, Ryan is a lot more open and relaxed than he used to be. Brendon has no idea what caused it, but he’s beginning to think that maybe Spencer moving out is proving to be a good thing. If it means that Ryan is finally going to open his eyes and learn to be a little more independent, they’re all for it. And with Spencer having moved in with William, at least that seems to keep him a little more occupied and spending less time with his tongue down Gabe’s throat. It’s an Everybody Wins situation. Except perhaps Gabe. But then, he can’t always have what he wants, especially after going around and almost beating up poor guys in his own bar.
“He just hasn’t been around in a while, that’s all.”
A quick glance to the clock tells Brendon that it’s nearing on midday, which usually means that the suspects in question will be here soon. He had been considering making his way home before they arrived so that he could actually get some work done, but in light of recent events, he thinks that perhaps he’ll stay and wait. After all, watching Will and Gabe attempt to stay civil in the same room as each other after last night could prove to be very entertaining. From what he’s heard, Bill was less than impressed with Gabe’s behaviour, and Gabe being Gabe, will be adamant that he was in the right. It’s not in his nature to admit defeat and apologise. He might be remorseful for what he did, maybe, but there’s no way that he’ll tell William that he’s sorry. Which is saying something, really, because no matter how stubborn Gabe is, he’ll usually fold for Bill.
William Beckett has this odd knack for showing up exactly as he’s being talked or thought about. It would be annoying really, if it wasn’t so fucking creepy. None of them have any idea how he does it, and more than once it’s led to an awkward confrontation whether he’s just walked in on someone bitching him out (Victoria) or someone admitting feelings they hadn’t wanted William to know about (Gabe). It’s the sort of talent that Brendon doesn’t think he’d even want, really. Who wants to turn up just as someone’s saying how much they hate you? Not that the conversations ever really turn that venomous - along with this clever knack, William is also the kind of guy it’s impossible not to love at least a little - but either way, there’s got to be certain things he just wouldn’t want to hear. Ignorance is bliss, after all.
It’s through this ridiculous knack that William strolls through the door at that exact moment. Brendon has the sudden urge to think of something, someone else, as if he also has the power to know Brendon was thinking of him. All seems to go quiet as the playful chatter that had been filling the shop by Frank, Gabe and Ryan stops abruptly. They’re all left sitting there, at a complete loss for what to do, and the bright smile that had been on William’s face when he enters vanishes in a second.
“Did I just walk in on a funeral or what?” he says, forcing out a weak chuckle, and Brendon almost feels bad for him. Or at least he would, if this wasn’t so fun to watch.
Gabe and William used to be the sort of best friends you wanted to be like, the ones who could hold entire conversations in a glance, a quirk of the lips, a wriggle of an eyebrow. There were no secrets, no slipping around each other. And then Gabe discovered what it was to fall in love, and everything went downhill from there because he’s still too afraid to actually tell William. And Gabe will swear up and down that he doesn’t love him, that it’s “just a random hook up every now and then, whatever”, but Brendon can see, they can all see, what both Gabe and William can’t. It doesn’t matter how oblivious William is, or how stubborn or in denial Gabe is.
“Hi, Bill,” Gabe speaks up, and when William turns to look at him, the expression on his face is almost surprise. A bit of surprise, maybe a tiny bit of resentment still, and this aching need to forgive that Brendon can’t look away. His folder is completely forgotten now, and the idea of going home to finish working sounds ridiculous. “Feeling okay?” Gabe continues, his voice gaining confidence as he goes. He’s quick to recover, if nothing else, and despite the fact that he still wants to slaughter anyone daring to put their hands on William, he doesn’t like having Bill angry at him.
They all know that after Gabe stormed out of the club last night, William had proceeded to get himself drunker than drunk, completely and utterly off his face until he stumbled outside and collapsed in a heap at Bob’s feet. Always the kind soul, Bob had picked him up and taken him home, staying while William threw his guts up. Brendon can see why Gabe hired him, really, and he’s glad that at least someone was in the right sort of mind to look after William. At any rate, nobody was really expecting to see him until tomorrow, or at least not until late afternoon.
And yet here he stands - admittedly, looking rather under the weather. “Fine, thank you. Bob’s a saint, really. He and Patrick will be facing off for Kindest Person Alive any time now.” He’s rambling, he knows that, but he can’t help himself. At least it brings a small smile to Patrick’s face, though he tries to hide it by busying himself making coffee for no one in particular. Maybe that’s the one bad thing about rarely having any business outside the regulars: there’s no one to come in and distract him when he doesn’t want to be the centre of attention.
“At least you didn’t get hit on by some woman in her fifties,” Frank mutters from behind the counter. Brendon likes Frank. He’s good entertainment value, and he’s usually pretty good at lightening any kind of sombre mood. Whether it be with projectile sprinkles or clever remarks, Frank knows how to get a smile on almost everyone’s face. Today is no different, and there’s an appreciative laugh from William, turning his attention to Frank gratefully.
“It’s because you’re so sexy, Frank. Why the hell was there a woman in her fifties at the club anyway?” he asks, and Brendon has to second the question. It’s not exactly the most Family Friendly place.
Frank shrugs his shoulders, placing his palms flat on the counter and leaning his weight on them, a sparkle in his eyes. “I’ve no idea. To pick up hot guys like myself?”
With a snort, Patrick finishes making his coffee and turns to his colleague. “She wasn’t sixty, Frank, she was like, forty. It’s that motorbike. Must’ve worked after all,” he says wryly, and they must be missing out on some inside joke, because Frank laughs loudly and nudges him in the side.
“Maybe I’ll let you borrow it, Trick. You could get yourself a nice lady for the night.”
To his credit, Patrick doesn’t even falter. “Maybe we could ask her if she’s interested in a threesome, huh? On the motorbike, even. You wear the jacket.”
That’s all it takes, and Frank is screwing up his nose and throwing his hands up in surrender. By the sound of disgust coming from Gabe, he quite agrees. “I don’t want to even think about you two screwing any old ladies on motorbikes anywhere near my club. In fact, just for dirtying your mouths and our ears with that kind of talk, I’m enforcing life bans. Neither of you are allowed to step foot in my club ever again.”
William laughs and flops down into the chair beside Gabe so easily that no one notices at first, and then William stiffens up as if he’s just remembered he’s supposed to be angry. Brendon watches - and takes notes in his head, but no one need know about that - and William eventually seems to finish arguing with himself and relaxes, apparently content to blow the whole thing off for now. Brendon expected as much, as by the look on Patrick and Frank’s faces, they did too. When Gabe and William fight, it never really lasts long. They’re sort of like twins who’ve been separated at the hip (or perhaps lips) sometimes, and it’s almost like one can’t function properly without the other. They need each other for their own sanity, and usually, one or both of them will cave in a matter of hours or less. As far as Brendon can remember, the longest fight they’ve ever had lasted a week, and was when Gabe dropped out of college to pursue the idea of running his own night club. William had seen this as another one of Gabe’s “I can’t do anything right” phases, and immediately demanded that he pick back up his courses and graduate. Gabe decided that William was being too pushy, William said that Gabe was being too insecure, and they ran around in circles for a week before Patrick forced them to call a truce.
“Jon’s moving in this afternoon,” Ryan says to fill the silence that follows, and William’s eyes gleam. They all know about Ryan renting his place out, but only William has properly met Jon, while the others were busy engaging in the Sprinkle War.
“Are you excited, Ry? It’s the beginning of your new life without Spencer. Really, this afternoon will be a day for the history books. The Day Ryan Ross Grew Up. The children of the future shall know of your sacrifice Ryan Ross, and the way you bravely rented out your home to those in need.”
Sometimes, Ryan really hates Gabe. He has an annoying tendency to frequently take things too far, and one day, Ryan’s going to get sick of being the subject of 90% of Gabe’s teasing. Or perhaps that’s an exaggeration. Pete probably gets it worse, but then, Pete probably deserves it. “While you’re informing the world of my accomplishments and re-writing all the school history textbooks, Gabe, do remember to add in that part about you being an asshole. I’d hate for the children of the future to miss out on that vital piece of information.”
Gabe nods, his grin still firmly in place, and really, it’s like he was never miserable about William at all, let alone five minutes ago. The guy’s mood swings are ridiculous. They roll with it though; it’s safer to just go along with it than to remind them that they’re supposed to be pissed off. It’s a lot more fun dealing with a laughing and happy Gabe and William than it is to deal with angry and brooding Gabe and William.
“Is he the only one?” Frank asks, and the real question underlies the words without him having to say them.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Pete is definitely not moving in with me. I don’t care how nuts Victoria drives him, he’s not living in my house. You know how much mess he makes.”
“Where is Pete today? Shouldn’t he be working? The slacker.” William looks around as if Pete is going to pop out from behind a couch or a pot plant, don his apron and jump behind the counter, ready for work.
Patrick just laughs. “Where was Pete last night, William?”
“The club...”
“And where do you think Pete is now?”
A look of realisation dawns on Bill’s face and he grins. “Throwing up in a toilet, most definitely. So he was worse than me?” He appears to take joy in the fact that he wasn’t the worst case scenario last night, despite the fact that Pete writing himself off like that every weekend is a common occurrence.
“Pete will never, ever, work a Sunday. It’s pretty much a fact of life,” Frank explains, and he doesn’t seem that fussed that it means he and Patrick each have to work 7 days a week. Once upon a time, they used to both get Sundays off. Patrick left the shop in Pete’s charge, and hired a kid just out of high school, Alex DeLeon, to help bring up the slack. And then Gabe opened The Basement so Pete was no longer an option, and Alex quit soon thereafter in order to pursue his dreams of starting a band. It’s a wonder that Patrick and Frank haven’t put their collective foot down and told Pete to pull his weight and work a Sunday shift or two, but they seem content enough to fill the slot. Working seven days a week doesn’t do much for a social life, but then, their friends spend most of their time in the shop anyway, so it’s not like they’re missing out on anything. According to Pete, it’s a perfectly fair trade-off.
“So, when can we come over and meet Jon?” William asks. “Spencer’s dying to meet his replacement.”
Ryan groans and puts his head in his hands. “If any of you act anything like you usually do, none of you will ever meet him. He seems like an awesome guy, and he doesn’t need to be scarred and tainted by any of you lot.”
They each do their best to act shocked and appalled, which really, just ends up leaving them with twisted facial expressions similar to that of someone who’s just swallowed a lemon, and Ryan shakes his head at them.
“We are model citizens, Ryan. Jon Walker could learn a thing or two from us,” Gabe insists, and Ryan ignores him in favour of looking over at Brendon. He seems to have gone quiet again, and when Ryan looks over, he sees why. Some form of inspiration must have snagged Brendon while they were talking, because he’s fished the piece of paper he had before out of his bag and is scribbling over the back of it hastily (the front is already covered in his tiny scrawl). As Ryan watches, Brendon grins to himself and reaches for his cell phone, stuffing the paper back into the bag at the same time.
“Gotta run guys. I have a phone call to make,” he says to the room at large, and then before anyone gets a chance to reply, he’s running out the door. With every day that Brendon sits here and writes, Ryan grows more curious to know what he’s working on.
“I best be off too, actually.” Ryan follows suit and stands up. “Don’t want to leave Jon stuck outside.” He doesn’t know whether to be excited or nervous about having someone new living with him - a complete stranger at that - but he brushes it aside and smiles bright.
“Good luck!” Frank calls, and Ryan nods his thanks and takes a deep breath. He waves quickly to the others, and leaves just a few seconds after Brendon, shutting the door behind him and stuffing his hands into his pockets. This is something he can do, he’s sure of it. It’s just a little nerve-wrecking, having someone in his house who isn’t Spencer or Greta. He’s not the most gracious host; he tends to forget that there are people around and goes about his daily routine as per usual. However, he has to remind himself, this is different. He doesn’t have to play host because Jon Walker is not a guest, he’s a roommate. Technically, Ryan could probably go about his life without having to ever speak to Jon. The house is certainly big enough to accommodate the both of them without any awkward run-ins. But Ryan has met Jon, and he seems like the kind of guy he wants to get to know, and so maybe this won’t be so bad. He hopes.
He walks home in order to clear his head, and takes the time to think about how Spencer is getting on with William. He’ll call him tonight, he decides. It’s only been two days, but he’s so used to seeing Spencer first thing every morning, and the past couple of days have been weird. Ever since they were kids, Spencer has spent most of his time in the spare room across the hall from Ryan, and then he moved in, and Ryan stopped trying to imagine what it would be like when they grew up and Spencer left, because they were grown up, and Spencer was still there. When his world fell apart, Spencer was just across the hall, ready to pick him up and put everything together again, and Ryan has come to rely on him more than he would like to admit. What is all comes down to is: Ryan misses his best friend.
By the time he gets to the house, Jon is waiting outside after all. Once he spots the figure learning against the wall of the house, Ryan breaks into a jog and starts apologising as soon as he’s within ear-shot.
“Jon? Oh, I’m so sorry. I got caught up at Patrick’s, sorry, sorry. Have you been waiting long?”
Jon smiles, that same easy-going smile he had the day Ryan met him, and Ryan automatically feels himself relaxing. “Not long, it’s fine. My stuff’s just in my car; I was wondering if you could help me move everything inside?” Jon indicates to the only car sitting in the driveway (Ryan’s never bothered with buying one) and Ryan nods.
“Yeah, yeah, of course. That’s fine.” First, he unlocks the door and lets them both inside, figuring he should show Jon around before they start to move in any of his belongings. It must be kind of weird for Jon, to be moving into a house he’s never even seen.
“Wow, it’s beautiful,” are the first words out of Jon’s lips as they move into the entrance, and Ryan breathes a sigh of relief at the tidy appearance of the house. He hadn’t gotten around to finishing all of the cleaning on Saturday night, but even the piles of random crap he’d started to toss out of the storage cupboard (when Ryan cleans, he can’t help but clean everything) are gone. The only explanation is that Greta has come home from her parents’ early. He feels a new wave of affection for her, and revels in the knowledge that he doesn’t have to spend his first day getting used to Jon Walker alone.
Motioning for Jon to follow him, Ryan begins to move through the house, showing Jon each room on the first floor quickly. They pass the living room, the study, the kitchen and the dining room before they run into Greta, and Ryan smiles at her, trying to convey his thanks.
“Jon, this is Greta, Greta this is Jon.” They shake hands and smile, and Ryan struggles to find the words he’s looking for. “Greta is... Well, technically, she picks up after me, but she’s also one of the most awesome people in the world.” It’s probably not a very accurate description of Greta - with the excellent cleaning job she’s done for him, he’s beginning to think universe is more appropriate - and he hopes that Jon won’t be the kind of guy to treat her as below him just because she’s the maid, but his smile doesn’t falter.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Jon Walker, I’m your new roommate.”
Ryan appreciates the way he refers to Greta as their ‘roommate’ and he makes a mental note saying something along the lines of Jon Walker is Awesome.
“Don’t make too much of a mess and I’m sure we’ll get along spectacularly,” Greta says, and then, with a wink at Jon, “but don’t worry, I’m used to picking up after Ryan and nobody makes as much mess as that kid.”
Ryan blushes and scuffs his feet like a child being scolded. “’m not that bad.”
She just laughs and gestures around her. “Look at how spotless this place is! Well, it certainly wasn’t like that when I came home this morning and found the place full of piles of trash.”
“I was cleaning out the storage,” he says, as if that explains everything, and she puts her hands on her hips.
“Oh were you? Wonderful. Don’t do it again.”
Ryan flashes a grin and salutes her. “Yes ma’am.”
“Don’t mind him, Jon,” Greta says, and when she smiles at him, there’s a little something extra that Ryan’s never seen before. “He may be a total slob and a bit of a tool, but he’s a sweetheart, really.”
Choosing not to say anything about the sparkle in her eye, Ryan decides that while he may not say anything about that particular discovery, he’s certainly entitled to standing up for himself. “I’m tidy and I’m nice, Greta. Jon’s going to be living here; the least you could do is keep him from running for the hills just yet.”
If Jon’s feeling at all overwhelmed or awkward, he doesn’t show it. His posture is relaxed, even standing in the middle of an unfamiliar room, and he’s got one of those smiles people talk about, the ones that could rival the sun. Ryan has never really believed people when they talk about that kind of smile, but it’s hard to ignore something when it’s right in front of you. Jon has that ridiculous talent of making people feel comfortable wherever they are. He radiates this casual confidence and ease that’s contagious, and before he knows it’s happening, Ryan can feel any tension oozing out of his shoulders, his lips turning up into a smile without any conscious effort. He thinks he’s going to like having Jon Walker around.
They leave Greta in the kitchen where she agrees to make lunch for the three of them, and then Ryan takes Jon up the stairs. Jon immediately falls in love with the little bedroom down the hall. It’s nothing special, but the sun hits it just right of a morning, and it’s got this bright, sweet glow to it that Jon looks perfectly at home in. It’s small, but Jon doesn’t seem to mind, and it’s far enough away from Ryan’s room that they won’t be constantly knocking each other over in the hall, but close enough that Ryan is reminded that somebody else is going to live with him. Before, he was anxious, but watching the way Jon grins and sets his suitcase down on the bed, Ryan is glad that Jon’s bedroom is kind of close. Now that he has it, he realises he’s been kind of craving companionship, someone who isn’t Spencer being there to talk to of a morning and night, and now he has Jon, and Jon is more than satisfactory.
And though he tries to ignore it and shove it to the back of his mind, Ryan is a little relived that Jon didn’t choose the room across the hall. It doesn’t matter that he’s moved out; that room is Spencer’s, and will always be Spencer’s. He’s been there for years, and it would feel weird for someone else to sleep there, to live there. Suddenly, Ryan begins to understand the “boyfriend” remarks, and promptly turns his thoughts elsewhere.
When they head back downstairs, Ryan finds Greta dishing out ramen, and grins. Who cares if it’s nothing gourmet, Greta knows just how he likes it, and it’s quick and easy and it tastes good, so Ryan is more than happy to eat it. After all, Greta isn’t his cook, and he’s learnt in the past that there’s a good reason for it. Had she attempted anything much trickier than ramen or sandwiches, there’s a good chance that Ryan would have had to call the fire department, and then refurbish his kitchen. Ever since the Hamburgers Incident, Ryan has learnt not to trust her alone in the kitchen.
They sit down at the table and dig straight in, and nobody says a word for the first few minutes. Ryan’s at a loss for what to say, really, and Jon looks like he’s too hungry to bother speaking until he’s finished eating. Greta watches them both with a vague smile, but Ryan doesn’t miss the way her eyes brighten when she looks at Jon. The silence is beginning to seep into Ryan’s bones, and he purposely scrapes his fork against the bowl in order to fill the room with some sort of sound, and Greta just laughs at him. She knows him too well, and in the next second, she clears her throat to speak.
“So what do you do, Jon?”
Ryan snorts and puts his head down, shovelling noodles into his mouth as a means of distraction, because he knows that despite what he originally thought, Greta isn’t asking for Ryan’s benefit.
Jon flashes a grin, and has this look of such contentment in his eyes that even Ryan is eager to hear what he does for a living, now. Maybe something artistic to give him such a glow, or maybe it’s just that he makes a lot of money. And then, “I’m a kindergarten teacher,” Jon says, and Ryan thinks of course. There are only two types of people who can listen as well as Jon and be so calm and collected around new people: teachers and psychiatrists. Ryan might have had a little trouble imagining Jon as a teacher, if only because he doesn’t think Jon has it in him to be very firm, but the idea of Jon working with kids that young is probably the cutest thing Ryan has ever heard.
“You enjoy it?” Ryan asks, even though the look on Jon’s face pretty much gives him his answer.
“I love it. The kids, you know, they sort of make up a little part of you. Once you’re in, they grab on with their tiny little hands and refuse to let go. We actually mean something to them, y’know? It’s not like... Like teaching older kids, who just tolerate you because they have no choice, or go out of their way to drive you insane. These kids actually love you. It’s awesome.” He shrugs, smiles, and slurps up another noodle, and from the way he speaks, Ryan has this sudden urge to go and teach kindergarten. Jon’s only been here a day, and already he’s doing ridiculous things to Ryan’s brain.
“That’s really cool. You don’t hear of many guys enjoying that kind of job, these days,” Greta says, and she has this look on her face like she’s really impressed, and Ryan can almost see the little hearts in her eyes. As adorable as she is when she’s like this, he wonders what kind of affect this will have on his house. He didn’t rent it for some sort of Perfect Match meet-up, but as long as things don’t go horrendously bad, he’s happy for her. It’s been a while since Greta met someone who treated her right, and if Jon’s the guy to do it, then Ryan wishes them all the best.
He finishes his lunch quickly, and then makes up some excuse for retreating to his room as fast as possible. Really, he’d just prefer not to be in the room when the kissy-faces start.
Part Four
William has cut his hair. Gabe stares at him, eyes wide, unblinking. This is impossible. This is inconceivable. The fact that it looks totally hot is completely irrelevant. His hair. Is gone.
“Are you on some crazy voyage of self-discovery? Did Victoria put you up to this?”
In response, William narrows his eyes and puts his hands on his hips. “Thanks, Gabe. I’m glad you like it,” he says dryly, and when he moves to walk into the club, Gabe panics and puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“No, Bill. It. It looks really good.” The words almost get stuck halfway up his throat, but he forces them out and is rewarded with William’s bright smile. The way his heart leaps a little is personal information that Gabe will keep to himself and never share with anyone, ever.
“Aww, thanks Gabe! You don’t look half shabby yourself,” William says with a glint in his eyes, and Gabe finds that the easiest thing to do when confronted with this situation is just to grin back and force himself to relax.
“Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you make out with me later,” he says, only half-joking, and wonders whether or not William will pick up on it. He can never really tell, with him.
“And maybe Patrick will actually show up.” The sarcasm is evident, and Gabe laughs and tries not to show his disappointment.
“Pete threatened to chop his limbs off this time, though.”
Bill raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms, jutting out his hip. Bill is quite the diva. “And last week, he threatened to stick pins in his eyes. He still didn’t show.”
Shrugging, Gabe slings an arm around William’s shoulders and leads him into the club. “Eventually, he’ll come up with a threat that actually works.”
Luciani’s already at the DJ booth, holding one headphone to his right ear and shuffling CDs with his spare hand. When he spots them, he waves and beckons Gabe over, and William slips out of Gabe’s grip and wanders towards the bar.
The place is still pretty much empty except for a few close friends. He doesn’t technically open the place for another half hour. The Basement, to him, is sort of like the café is to Patrick, he supposes. When he dropped out of college and decided that he’d much rather run a night club, he was surprised at how simple it was to find an old bar that the owner was more than willing to sell, and jazz it up a bit. At first, he didn’t quite have the money to pull off all the refurbishments and hire people like Luciani, but this is where it comes in handy to have friends like Ryan Ross. Gabe felt a little guilty asking him (after all, the poor kid’s parents had only just died), but Spencer assured him that Ryan would be more than happy to help out. As it turned out, Ryan actually seemed almost glad to be doing something with the fortune that had suddenly landed itself on his shoulders. He leant Gabe the money with a whispered thank you, and then a month later, signed off ownership of his parents’ stock and hotels to his uncle, so that he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Sometimes, Gabe wonders if Ryan regrets choosing to do what he did, but he knows that his uncle still sends him a large chunk of the income, and Ryan seems happier for having it out of his hair.
Within a year of Ryan’s donation, Gabe had the place up and running, newly done up and having hired a couple of friends to come in and do the DJ work, the lights, and everything else Gabe had no idea how to work. It became his second home, his favourite place to be, and it wasn’t long before he got a steady flow of people walking through the doors. As it happened, a man named Matt Rubano came in one night, asked Gabe if he could mix his own drink, and before long, had a queue of people lining up and asking him to do theirs. Gabe isn’t stupid, nor is he blind, and he hired Matt on the spot.
He can see Matt at the bar now, if he looks over his shoulder, checking the stock and disappearing out into the back room, coming back a moment later with a large crate of beer. Gabe is kind of amazed at the way Matt can hold down the bar all on his own, even though Gabe has offered several times to hire someone else in. Every time, Matt insists he can do it alone, that he wants to do it alone, and Gabe has seen the evidence, he’s more than capable, so he leaves him to it. Only having to pay one person hardly bothers him.
Gabe can’t see Will, but he assumes that he’s gone out the back to rifle through Gabe’s stuff. He does it fairly often, and Gabe still hasn’t bothered to ask why. He’ll get bored eventually, and toddle back out into the club to socialise by the time Gabe opens the doors. For now, Gabe turns his attention back to Ryan J, convinced that everything is running smoothly.
“What’s up Luciani, my man?”
Ryan J rolls his eyes and puts a CD on one of two piles. Gabe doesn’t bother asking what the two piles indicate. Luciani is a kickass DJ and Gabe will never, ever question his methods. He has this uncanny knack for knowing what people want to hear, what people are feeling, and he bounces off them, picking up on moods that Gabe didn’t even know existed and playing them for the masses. It’s kind of like an art, Gabe thinks, and you never ask an artist to explain why they do what they do.
“Pete just called, he’s on his way over,” Ryan tells him, and Gabe grins. Pete brings something to the party that you can’t find anywhere else, and Gabe loves him. Hopefully, tonight Pete will bring an extra thing nobody else can. A certain thing by the name of Patrick Stump.
“Did he say whether Patrick’s coming?”
Ryan laughs, and shakes his head. “Said that he’d threatened him, but that he wasn’t sure if he got a yes or a no. You know Patrick; if he doesn’t want to give a definite answer, he can be one vague motherfucker.”
Gabe does know Patrick, and does know just how elusive he can be when he doesn’t want to be somewhere. Crowds just aren’t really Patrick’s thing. Personally, Gabe thinks that if he could, Patrick would probably live in his coffee shop and never leave. Except occasionally to buy more milk, and even that would be a stretch. Maybe he’d carry coffee beans in his pockets so that he had a memento, a keepsake, while he was in the outside world. He wouldn’t doubt it.
“Got any special requests for tonight?” he asks as he shifts another CD over to a pile - the one on the right, this time.
Gabe shakes his head and pats Ryan on the arm. “You just work your magic Ryan J.”
Ryan smiles at him in response, lifts the headphone back to his ear and starts moving things around again. Gabe takes it as his cue, and wanders back towards the bar, checking the large clock on the wall. A couple of minutes until he opens. Donning a bright smile, Gabe makes his way over to the front door, and is happy to see that there’s a line formed. Nothing huge, no big names, but he’s beginning to make a name for himself and his club, and the regulars always come back. He’s ridiculously proud of what he’s created, and the line outside puts a smile on his lips and in his heart.
Pete is at the front of the line, and behind him, to Gabe’s delight, is Patrick. He looks awfully uncomfortable and out of place, and Gabe loves him for it.
“Oh my god, it’s a miracle. Patrick Stump, has left the coffee shop. I repeat: Stump has left the coffee shop.”
Patrick scowls at him, but really, he looks happy to be here, despite the fact that he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. It’s not often that they get Patrick out of a night, and Gabe doesn’t really expect him to be totally at ease. He’s probably not helping matters, but that’s what friends are for.
“Yeah. He gets to keep his legs tonight, I suppose,” Pete says in a dejected little voice, as if he’s a bit disappointed he doesn’t get to invoke his wrath on his best friend. He doesn’t really know why; in Gabe’s opinion, yelling at Patrick wouldn’t be much fun. Gabe prefers people who will shout and scream back - throwing things is always a bonus. Patrick seems like the kind of guy who would just stand there and try and make you see reason, and sigh in pity when you didn’t calm down.
“Unless I break them in there,” Patrick mumbles, looking down at his feet with cautious eyes.
Gabe can’t help but laugh. “Don’t worry, Trick. We’ll take good care of you. Scout’s honour.” He raises the scout’s salute, and Patrick huffs.
“You were never a scout,” he points out, and Gabe waves him off with a dismissive hand. Whatever. He could have been a scout if he really wanted to.
“Let’s open this baby up, yeah?” Gabe says to his security - this awesome guy called Bob who’s been with him from the start. Bob gives him a nod and cracks a smile, and Gabe is glad that Bob is the kind of security guy you can have a bit of a joke around with. He’d probably be too scared to even hire one of those burly, silent types.
He can hear Bob talking to the assembled line, but Gabe doesn’t wait around to listen. He’s about to head back into The Basement when he realises that Pete and Trick aren’t behind him. Rolling his eyes, he reaches back and grabs Pete’s arm, dragging him under the rope.
“You’re the owner’s best friends, and you think you have to line up with everyone else? I’m not that cruel.”
Pete gives him a look, one of those annoying oh really? looks, and Gabe pointedly ignores him. Gabe takes them to the bar first, and Matt slides them a few drinks across the bar in a quicker time than Gabe would have thought possible. This is why he hired him.
“Is Ryan going to be social tonight?” Gabe asks, turning to Pete. Pete just shrugs in response, taking a long swig of his beer (“mixed drinks are for chicks and wimps”) before answering.
“I have no idea. He said something about wanting to clean the house before Jon moves in tomorrow.”
Gabe raises his eyebrows and stares Pete down. “Liar. That’s Greta’s job.” He lets himself bask in temporary triumph. Catching people out in poorly formed lies is one of his favourite things to do, third after annoying Patrick, and staring at William.
“Greta’s gone to visit her parents for the weekend,” Pete replies easily, and Gabe scowls. Stupid Ryan being far too nice and letting people have time off when he could be here, enjoying himself. “Besides, Ryan likes cleaning. Says it calms him down.”
Gabe will never understand people. Honestly, how could cleaning his house even come close to comparing against partying in The Basement?
“His priorities are messed up, man,” Gabe says forcefully, and he tries not to let it show that he’s disappointed. Really, it doesn’t matter all that much. He just likes to know that he can give something back. It doesn’t matter that he’s paid off the money he owed to Ryan. It doesn’t matter that Ryan wasn’t expecting payment back in the first place. Ryan was the one who believed in him enough to lend him the money, and Gabe would like to think that he could show Ryan what he’s done with it, how seriously he’s taken it, and how well the club is going. So far, he can count on one hand the amount of times Ryan has set foot in The Basement since it opened. William’s here every weekend, sometimes even on weeknights.
In fact, Gabe thinks as he manoeuvres his way through a close-knit crowd of people on the dance floor, he’s going to call Ryan right now and give him a piece of his mind. Leaving Patrick and Pete in a daze behind him, Gabe makes for the back exit. He’s moving fast, intent on getting Ryan the hell over here before the party kicks off in full and he misses all the fun, when he stops dead in the middle of the floor.
He has to double check to make sure that it is what he thinks he’s seeing, before he’s moving with a new purpose in mind. His eyes are narrowed as he stalks toward the middle of the floor (just his luck that this has to happen in front of everybody). He reaches them, and is further enraged to see that the subject of his fury has his eyes closed and looks rather like he’s enjoying what’s happening.
William is dancing with his arms around some guy.
With a low growl in the back of his throat, Gabe clamps a hand down on the guy’s shoulder and tears him roughly backwards. He can hear a muffled “oh fuck, Gabe” from behind him, but he doesn’t stop to see who it was.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he says, and the voice that tears out of his throat sounds unfamiliar even to him. The usual laughter and carelessness is gone from his tone; all that remains is pure anger, betrayal, and the desperate desire to rip this guy to shreds.
“Who are you?” the guy retorts, flipping his bangs out of his eyes with a smug smile, and Gabe resists the urge to lunge at him.
“Who the fuck am I? I’m Gabe Saporta, and I own this place, so you better get your hands the fuck off him before I get security on you.” His hand still hasn’t loosened its grip on the guy’s shoulder, and he can see his knuckles turning white.
“Gabe, c’mon, don’t do this.” A hand settles on his upper arm, Patrick’s whispered voice in his ear. “Let it go, Gabe. Walk away.”
Gabe rolls his shoulders in an attempt to shrug the hand off, and Patrick complies, quietly. He can feel the soft reproach in Patrick’s eyes burning holes through the back of his head, and he flinches, but doesn’t let up. His skin is so heated he thinks he might start burning, and he’s never been so angry in his life. Bill fucking around with their guys, he can deal with. Sitting in Ryan’s lap, kisses on Travis’ cheek, he can deal with. Not some random fucker in his club.
“Look man, I didn’t know he was yours, okay?” The guy holds his hands up, palms flat in surrender, and Gabe takes his hand off his shoulder, but continues to stare at him, eyes icy.
“I’m not his,” Bill interjects quietly, but Gabe talks right over the top of him.
“You don’t touch him.”
He’d been drinking before the club opened, just to get himself loosened up, ready to flitter among his regulars and socialise. He’s not too drunk yet, but he can feel it beginning to affect his mind, his feelings, and he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter if he’s overreacting. He wants William away from this guy, now.
“Gabe, what the fuck?” It’s Bill’s voice that stops him where Patrick’s couldn’t, and he turns to face him, bewildered. Stuck for words, he just stares, beginning to realise what he’s done, beginning to realise that William probably liked dancing with this guy. He stands back, fighting the urge to punch the guy that William would choose over him, and puts his hands up in surrender.
He opens his mouth to say something, but can’t manage to get the words out. And then he just shakes his head before he turns on his heel and heads for the back room. The quicker he can get away from the anger in Bill’s eyes, the better. He hears someone start after him, his name dropping from lips in a rush, but then they stop, and he’s left alone. On his way past the bar, he swipes a beer from Matt without pausing, and then throws himself into one of the storerooms where he can berate himself in peace.
***
Brendon has an idea. It’s not much, but it’s an outline, the barest edges of what might one day become a plot, and that’s at least better than nothing. However, it’s the fifth idea that he’s tried to make work, so his hopes aren’t particularly high. The last four left him in this sort of mood as well. As if he can do anything, like he’s standing on the top of the world, and everything is perfect because finally he has the idea that’s going to send pages and pages churning from his fingers, the idea that’s going to make Ryland smile in relief and his publishers satisfied.
It’s nothing spectacular. But it’s the first thing that’s given him hope since... Well, since the last idea, if he’s being perfectly honest. But this feels different. This feels like it might be able to go somewhere, like he might have something to write about this time. The last four fell dead on the nose because he had no interest. He tried his best, but in the end he was just writing something that he was told to write, not what he felt. He couldn’t relate to the characters, nor their situation, didn’t understand their thought patterns, couldn’t put himself in their shoes. And that’s the only way Brendon knows how to write. To throw himself in all at once, submerged in the deep end of a character’s thoughts and write for them. To tell their story because he’s the only one who can. It doesn’t work if he’s just a bystander, writing for a deadline.
This time, he thinks, he might have something. This time, he knows these characters, knows them better than himself, sometimes. The only thing holding him back, is the knowledge that his... inspiration, may not be too happy with the end results. But oh well. He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. For now, he has a novel to plot.
Brendon takes a sip of his coffee a little too fast, and it scalds its way down his throat. He winces, but takes another large sip anyway. He’s bent over the notebook in front of him, writing so fast he’s a little wary that he might snap his pencil. His hand has already cramped up at least four times, but he does his best to ignore it and keeps writing.
Ryland would be proud of him, he thinks. Maybe he’ll call him tonight, just to gloat. Except that he knows doing so would only result in more pressure. He’s better off surprising them; slapping a manuscript down on Ryland’s desk and reaping the bragging rights afterwards. And so, he keeps his pencil to the paper, and doesn’t let up until he’s covered ten pages with notes and ideas and characters, his universe beginning to take shape before his eyes.
He’s not entirely sure that it’ll hold, but for now, it’s all he’s got, so he’ll take it and run with it.
It’s around midday that Gabe stumbles into the coffee shop. He looks miserable to say the least, but he brightens slightly when he sees Brendon. With a quick glance to the bin beside the table, Gabe is grinning.
“Brendon! Your bin is almost empty!” he shouts as if it’s a miracle. Brendon doesn’t answer, scribbles down a few more lines before the words register in his brain, and then his head snaps up and he falls out of his zone. Brendon supposes that it is kind of a miracle, really. This is the first time in months that he’s been able to keep writing, keep getting everything down, without filling the bin until it’s overflowing.
“Things are good, Gabe,” Brendon answers easily, shifting his arm to cover the piece of paper he’d been writing on. He knows that all the regulars are desperately eager to know what it is he’s writing, but he’s not about to tell them any time soon. Maybe, one day, he’ll show them all and let go of his secret, but for now, it’s something he wants to keep hidden. This place feels like home, the regulars like family, but that doesn’t mean that they have to know every little thing about each other.
“At least one of us is on the right track, huh?” Gabe says dryly, and Brendon abandons his pencil for the first time in four hours to look up and raise his eyebrows.
“Oh? And what have you done now?”
Gabe seems a little put out at the way Brendon automatically assumed that he’s the one who’s done something wrong, but he recovers quickly and opens his mouth to respond before Frank cuts him off.
“He almost beat up some poor guy at the club last night,” Frank snickers, and if looks could kill, Frank would on the floor in seconds with the way Gabe is looking at him. Frank seems unfazed, and just keeps grinning like it’s Christmas come early.
“Oh,” Brendon says, a small sound of acknowledgement. He tries to hold back his grin, and fails miserably. “This guy was somewhere in the vicinity of William Beckett, I assume? Perhaps looking at him from across the room? Brushed against his shoulder? Or heaven forbid, Gabe, did he dare to dance with your William?” Brendon throws a hand to his mouth dramatically, and Frank cackles madly. Gabe turns his glare to Brendon, full force, and Brendon can almost feel the acid pouring through to his bones.
“I hate you both,” he snaps, and then storms off to his usual booth. Brendon just rolls his eyes - Gabe’s tantrums are always more of a call for attention and joking than actual malice, but Patrick sighs and attempts to keep the peace by making Gabe his favourite lemon frappe, this time with added sprinkles. Gabe’s face lights up and Patrick allows a thank you but no payment, and Gabe slurps at his drink happily, all anger at Frank and Brendon forgotten. Most of the time, Gabe is easy to please.
He goes back to his papers with a drawn out sigh, nibbling on the end of his pencil. The interruption has left him stranded, and he can’t quite grasp the same ideas he was playing around with before Gabe entered the shop. He furrows his eyebrows and hunches down, worrying the eraser on the end of the pencil between his teeth and trying to think, but nothing is coming, and he lets out a loud groan of frustration.
Patrick notices and looks up from behind the counter, his eyes worried. “You okay, Bren?”
Frank turns his head to listen to the exchange, and though Gabe pretends like he hasn’t heard anything (probably more out of wanting to retain a facade of anger more than any respect for privacy), Brendon sees him cock his head to the side a little, and his eyes stay focussed in one place instead of scanning the newspaper he has in his hands. There’s no such thing as a private conversation in this place.
“I’m stuck,” he admits, and Patrick makes his way around the counter in a second. With a casual ease, Frank picks up where Patrick left off, washing coffee mugs with his eyes still trained on where Brendon is sitting.
When Patrick sinks into the chair beside him, he ducks his head and makes sure he keeps his voice low. No matter how much disrespect for personal conversations Gabe has, or how curious Frank is, Patrick will ensure that nobody overhears them. Brendon’s glad that he trusted Patrick with his secret.
“Can I help at all?” he asks softly, and Brendon knows that if there was something he could do, he’d do it in an instant. Patrick is awesome like that. Unfortunately, Brendon can’t think of any way Patrick could save him from Ryland’s wrath.
“Not unless you want to write a novel for me,” Brendon sighs, scribbling aimlessly on the piece of paper in front of him. “Ryland is going to have my head.”
Patrick frowns and reaches out to take the paper. Usually, Brendon is paranoid about anyone knowing anything about his novel before he finishes it. Some stupid superstition, like letting it out into the world before its time will see it crashing towards the ground. Right now though, it’s not like it’s shaping up to be a best-seller anyway, so why the hell not?
It takes a moment, and then Patrick is frowning, and then slowly, a small smile flitters across his face. “Gabe and William?” he questions, lowering his voice even further so that Gabe doesn’t hear them.
Brendon’s a little amused that Patrick figured it out so quickly, and his lips quirk at the corners. “That obvious?” It probably is, once he thinks about it. The names are different, and so is the situation, just barely, but it’s still fairly clear. His characters are just as clueless, just as infuriatingly oblivious, just as infatuated.
And he’s got it, he knows that he can make this one work, only... He can’t think of how it ends. He shuffles his papers around, slipping them into his folder and tucking his pen behind his ear. It’ll come to him, he hopes. For now, he wants to set it aside and think about something else for a change. The more time he spends on this, the harder it’s getting, and what he really needs is a break.
“If you know them well enough,” Patrick answers, handing Brendon the last piece of paper. Brendon adds it to the folder and shoves the whole thing in his bag just as Ryan enters the café with a lost sort of look on his face.
“Ryan! You, sir, are in so much trouble I can’t even begin to explain it.” Despite his words, Gabe is smiling, and it appears that whatever Ryan apparently did, it isn’t as bad as Frank and Brendon picking on him.
Ryan edges into the shop looking a little more wary now, keeping his distance from where Gabe is sitting, glancing towards Patrick for reassurance. “He’s not going to kill me, is he?” he asks as he passes the table, eyes shifting from Patrick to Brendon.
Patrick grins, and looks at Gabe. “I think that he deserves dismemberment at the least. After all, that was the threat put to the rest of us.” Sometimes, Patrick can be just as teasing as the rest of them, even if he usually prefers to be the only sane one around.
Now though, Ryan stares at him as if he’s sprouted an extra head. “You’re supposed to be sticking up for me!” he protests, as if Patrick has committed the highest form of betrayal there is. And perhaps he has. Going into league with Gabe isn’t something one does lightly.
Patrick gives an apologetic shrug, and Gabe’s eyes gleam. “You didn’t come to The Basement last night, Ryan.” He says it as if Ryan’s being accused of a crime. In Gabe’s eyes, he probably is.
And Ryan pauses, as if trying to think of what he did last night, before he rolls his eyes. “I was cleaning, Gabe. I promise I didn’t blow you off for someone cooler.” Something in Gabe’s eyes says that’s not all, that there was some other reason Ryan should have been there last night, but he doesn’t say anything, so nobody pushes it. You don’t push Gabe for details. If he wants to say something, he’ll say it (usually bluntly and offensively). Without making a sound, Patrick rises and slips back behind the counter, taking milk out of the fridge and mixing something into the blender. For a moment, that’s the only sound heard in the place, until Patrick stops the machine, pours the contents into a plastic cup, shoves in a straw and hands it to Ryan. In turn, Ryan raises his eyebrows in confusion, and Patrick grins.
“The Apology Special. Use it wisely,” he says simply, and a look of understanding dawns on Ryan’s face before he hands the drink over to Gabe. The fact that it was Patrick’s idea and handy-work doesn’t appear to matter; Gabe takes it anyway, putting the straw between his lips and taking a long slurp before he nods at Ryan solemnly.
“You’re forgiven.”
Brendon thinks that if everything in life was as easy as getting back in Gabe’s good books, everyone would be living the high life. Unfortunately, most things aren’t. Like writing a book for a deadline, for one.
Now safe from imminent death, Ryan slips into a seat and kicks his feet up. Patrick eyes him, flicking his gaze from Ryan’s face to his feet, and without him needing to say a word, Ryan gets the message, and pulls his feet down with a blush. Patrick will put up with Gabe and Travis knocking things over constantly, spilling drinks and breaking coffee grinders, but the second someone puts dirty feet on his precious couches, they’re in trouble. Patrick has an odd sort of outlook on things, sometimes.
“Has anyone seen Spencer lately?” Ryan asks, and though he tries to make it sound nonchalant, everyone can hear the undertone of worry to his voice.
“Missing your boyfriend already? It’s only been what, two days?” Gabe teases, but his eyes are warm, watchful, and there’s none of the earlier malice. This is how Brendon likes the shop; full of his favourite people and easy, laid-back laughter, something easy, quiet, relaxing. Here, he can... well, not kick his feet up, but sit back and let things roll off his shoulders. Here, he can forget about Ryland and the publisher’s stupid deadlines, and just relax.
Ryan snorts, so used to Gabe by now that the ‘boyfriend’ crack doesn’t bother him in the slightest. Instead, he just shrugs, and even he can see the way that, despite being apparently concerned about Spencer, Ryan is a lot more open and relaxed than he used to be. Brendon has no idea what caused it, but he’s beginning to think that maybe Spencer moving out is proving to be a good thing. If it means that Ryan is finally going to open his eyes and learn to be a little more independent, they’re all for it. And with Spencer having moved in with William, at least that seems to keep him a little more occupied and spending less time with his tongue down Gabe’s throat. It’s an Everybody Wins situation. Except perhaps Gabe. But then, he can’t always have what he wants, especially after going around and almost beating up poor guys in his own bar.
“He just hasn’t been around in a while, that’s all.”
A quick glance to the clock tells Brendon that it’s nearing on midday, which usually means that the suspects in question will be here soon. He had been considering making his way home before they arrived so that he could actually get some work done, but in light of recent events, he thinks that perhaps he’ll stay and wait. After all, watching Will and Gabe attempt to stay civil in the same room as each other after last night could prove to be very entertaining. From what he’s heard, Bill was less than impressed with Gabe’s behaviour, and Gabe being Gabe, will be adamant that he was in the right. It’s not in his nature to admit defeat and apologise. He might be remorseful for what he did, maybe, but there’s no way that he’ll tell William that he’s sorry. Which is saying something, really, because no matter how stubborn Gabe is, he’ll usually fold for Bill.
William Beckett has this odd knack for showing up exactly as he’s being talked or thought about. It would be annoying really, if it wasn’t so fucking creepy. None of them have any idea how he does it, and more than once it’s led to an awkward confrontation whether he’s just walked in on someone bitching him out (Victoria) or someone admitting feelings they hadn’t wanted William to know about (Gabe). It’s the sort of talent that Brendon doesn’t think he’d even want, really. Who wants to turn up just as someone’s saying how much they hate you? Not that the conversations ever really turn that venomous - along with this clever knack, William is also the kind of guy it’s impossible not to love at least a little - but either way, there’s got to be certain things he just wouldn’t want to hear. Ignorance is bliss, after all.
It’s through this ridiculous knack that William strolls through the door at that exact moment. Brendon has the sudden urge to think of something, someone else, as if he also has the power to know Brendon was thinking of him. All seems to go quiet as the playful chatter that had been filling the shop by Frank, Gabe and Ryan stops abruptly. They’re all left sitting there, at a complete loss for what to do, and the bright smile that had been on William’s face when he enters vanishes in a second.
“Did I just walk in on a funeral or what?” he says, forcing out a weak chuckle, and Brendon almost feels bad for him. Or at least he would, if this wasn’t so fun to watch.
Gabe and William used to be the sort of best friends you wanted to be like, the ones who could hold entire conversations in a glance, a quirk of the lips, a wriggle of an eyebrow. There were no secrets, no slipping around each other. And then Gabe discovered what it was to fall in love, and everything went downhill from there because he’s still too afraid to actually tell William. And Gabe will swear up and down that he doesn’t love him, that it’s “just a random hook up every now and then, whatever”, but Brendon can see, they can all see, what both Gabe and William can’t. It doesn’t matter how oblivious William is, or how stubborn or in denial Gabe is.
“Hi, Bill,” Gabe speaks up, and when William turns to look at him, the expression on his face is almost surprise. A bit of surprise, maybe a tiny bit of resentment still, and this aching need to forgive that Brendon can’t look away. His folder is completely forgotten now, and the idea of going home to finish working sounds ridiculous. “Feeling okay?” Gabe continues, his voice gaining confidence as he goes. He’s quick to recover, if nothing else, and despite the fact that he still wants to slaughter anyone daring to put their hands on William, he doesn’t like having Bill angry at him.
They all know that after Gabe stormed out of the club last night, William had proceeded to get himself drunker than drunk, completely and utterly off his face until he stumbled outside and collapsed in a heap at Bob’s feet. Always the kind soul, Bob had picked him up and taken him home, staying while William threw his guts up. Brendon can see why Gabe hired him, really, and he’s glad that at least someone was in the right sort of mind to look after William. At any rate, nobody was really expecting to see him until tomorrow, or at least not until late afternoon.
And yet here he stands - admittedly, looking rather under the weather. “Fine, thank you. Bob’s a saint, really. He and Patrick will be facing off for Kindest Person Alive any time now.” He’s rambling, he knows that, but he can’t help himself. At least it brings a small smile to Patrick’s face, though he tries to hide it by busying himself making coffee for no one in particular. Maybe that’s the one bad thing about rarely having any business outside the regulars: there’s no one to come in and distract him when he doesn’t want to be the centre of attention.
“At least you didn’t get hit on by some woman in her fifties,” Frank mutters from behind the counter. Brendon likes Frank. He’s good entertainment value, and he’s usually pretty good at lightening any kind of sombre mood. Whether it be with projectile sprinkles or clever remarks, Frank knows how to get a smile on almost everyone’s face. Today is no different, and there’s an appreciative laugh from William, turning his attention to Frank gratefully.
“It’s because you’re so sexy, Frank. Why the hell was there a woman in her fifties at the club anyway?” he asks, and Brendon has to second the question. It’s not exactly the most Family Friendly place.
Frank shrugs his shoulders, placing his palms flat on the counter and leaning his weight on them, a sparkle in his eyes. “I’ve no idea. To pick up hot guys like myself?”
With a snort, Patrick finishes making his coffee and turns to his colleague. “She wasn’t sixty, Frank, she was like, forty. It’s that motorbike. Must’ve worked after all,” he says wryly, and they must be missing out on some inside joke, because Frank laughs loudly and nudges him in the side.
“Maybe I’ll let you borrow it, Trick. You could get yourself a nice lady for the night.”
To his credit, Patrick doesn’t even falter. “Maybe we could ask her if she’s interested in a threesome, huh? On the motorbike, even. You wear the jacket.”
That’s all it takes, and Frank is screwing up his nose and throwing his hands up in surrender. By the sound of disgust coming from Gabe, he quite agrees. “I don’t want to even think about you two screwing any old ladies on motorbikes anywhere near my club. In fact, just for dirtying your mouths and our ears with that kind of talk, I’m enforcing life bans. Neither of you are allowed to step foot in my club ever again.”
William laughs and flops down into the chair beside Gabe so easily that no one notices at first, and then William stiffens up as if he’s just remembered he’s supposed to be angry. Brendon watches - and takes notes in his head, but no one need know about that - and William eventually seems to finish arguing with himself and relaxes, apparently content to blow the whole thing off for now. Brendon expected as much, as by the look on Patrick and Frank’s faces, they did too. When Gabe and William fight, it never really lasts long. They’re sort of like twins who’ve been separated at the hip (or perhaps lips) sometimes, and it’s almost like one can’t function properly without the other. They need each other for their own sanity, and usually, one or both of them will cave in a matter of hours or less. As far as Brendon can remember, the longest fight they’ve ever had lasted a week, and was when Gabe dropped out of college to pursue the idea of running his own night club. William had seen this as another one of Gabe’s “I can’t do anything right” phases, and immediately demanded that he pick back up his courses and graduate. Gabe decided that William was being too pushy, William said that Gabe was being too insecure, and they ran around in circles for a week before Patrick forced them to call a truce.
“Jon’s moving in this afternoon,” Ryan says to fill the silence that follows, and William’s eyes gleam. They all know about Ryan renting his place out, but only William has properly met Jon, while the others were busy engaging in the Sprinkle War.
“Are you excited, Ry? It’s the beginning of your new life without Spencer. Really, this afternoon will be a day for the history books. The Day Ryan Ross Grew Up. The children of the future shall know of your sacrifice Ryan Ross, and the way you bravely rented out your home to those in need.”
Sometimes, Ryan really hates Gabe. He has an annoying tendency to frequently take things too far, and one day, Ryan’s going to get sick of being the subject of 90% of Gabe’s teasing. Or perhaps that’s an exaggeration. Pete probably gets it worse, but then, Pete probably deserves it. “While you’re informing the world of my accomplishments and re-writing all the school history textbooks, Gabe, do remember to add in that part about you being an asshole. I’d hate for the children of the future to miss out on that vital piece of information.”
Gabe nods, his grin still firmly in place, and really, it’s like he was never miserable about William at all, let alone five minutes ago. The guy’s mood swings are ridiculous. They roll with it though; it’s safer to just go along with it than to remind them that they’re supposed to be pissed off. It’s a lot more fun dealing with a laughing and happy Gabe and William than it is to deal with angry and brooding Gabe and William.
“Is he the only one?” Frank asks, and the real question underlies the words without him having to say them.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Pete is definitely not moving in with me. I don’t care how nuts Victoria drives him, he’s not living in my house. You know how much mess he makes.”
“Where is Pete today? Shouldn’t he be working? The slacker.” William looks around as if Pete is going to pop out from behind a couch or a pot plant, don his apron and jump behind the counter, ready for work.
Patrick just laughs. “Where was Pete last night, William?”
“The club...”
“And where do you think Pete is now?”
A look of realisation dawns on Bill’s face and he grins. “Throwing up in a toilet, most definitely. So he was worse than me?” He appears to take joy in the fact that he wasn’t the worst case scenario last night, despite the fact that Pete writing himself off like that every weekend is a common occurrence.
“Pete will never, ever, work a Sunday. It’s pretty much a fact of life,” Frank explains, and he doesn’t seem that fussed that it means he and Patrick each have to work 7 days a week. Once upon a time, they used to both get Sundays off. Patrick left the shop in Pete’s charge, and hired a kid just out of high school, Alex DeLeon, to help bring up the slack. And then Gabe opened The Basement so Pete was no longer an option, and Alex quit soon thereafter in order to pursue his dreams of starting a band. It’s a wonder that Patrick and Frank haven’t put their collective foot down and told Pete to pull his weight and work a Sunday shift or two, but they seem content enough to fill the slot. Working seven days a week doesn’t do much for a social life, but then, their friends spend most of their time in the shop anyway, so it’s not like they’re missing out on anything. According to Pete, it’s a perfectly fair trade-off.
“So, when can we come over and meet Jon?” William asks. “Spencer’s dying to meet his replacement.”
Ryan groans and puts his head in his hands. “If any of you act anything like you usually do, none of you will ever meet him. He seems like an awesome guy, and he doesn’t need to be scarred and tainted by any of you lot.”
They each do their best to act shocked and appalled, which really, just ends up leaving them with twisted facial expressions similar to that of someone who’s just swallowed a lemon, and Ryan shakes his head at them.
“We are model citizens, Ryan. Jon Walker could learn a thing or two from us,” Gabe insists, and Ryan ignores him in favour of looking over at Brendon. He seems to have gone quiet again, and when Ryan looks over, he sees why. Some form of inspiration must have snagged Brendon while they were talking, because he’s fished the piece of paper he had before out of his bag and is scribbling over the back of it hastily (the front is already covered in his tiny scrawl). As Ryan watches, Brendon grins to himself and reaches for his cell phone, stuffing the paper back into the bag at the same time.
“Gotta run guys. I have a phone call to make,” he says to the room at large, and then before anyone gets a chance to reply, he’s running out the door. With every day that Brendon sits here and writes, Ryan grows more curious to know what he’s working on.
“I best be off too, actually.” Ryan follows suit and stands up. “Don’t want to leave Jon stuck outside.” He doesn’t know whether to be excited or nervous about having someone new living with him - a complete stranger at that - but he brushes it aside and smiles bright.
“Good luck!” Frank calls, and Ryan nods his thanks and takes a deep breath. He waves quickly to the others, and leaves just a few seconds after Brendon, shutting the door behind him and stuffing his hands into his pockets. This is something he can do, he’s sure of it. It’s just a little nerve-wrecking, having someone in his house who isn’t Spencer or Greta. He’s not the most gracious host; he tends to forget that there are people around and goes about his daily routine as per usual. However, he has to remind himself, this is different. He doesn’t have to play host because Jon Walker is not a guest, he’s a roommate. Technically, Ryan could probably go about his life without having to ever speak to Jon. The house is certainly big enough to accommodate the both of them without any awkward run-ins. But Ryan has met Jon, and he seems like the kind of guy he wants to get to know, and so maybe this won’t be so bad. He hopes.
He walks home in order to clear his head, and takes the time to think about how Spencer is getting on with William. He’ll call him tonight, he decides. It’s only been two days, but he’s so used to seeing Spencer first thing every morning, and the past couple of days have been weird. Ever since they were kids, Spencer has spent most of his time in the spare room across the hall from Ryan, and then he moved in, and Ryan stopped trying to imagine what it would be like when they grew up and Spencer left, because they were grown up, and Spencer was still there. When his world fell apart, Spencer was just across the hall, ready to pick him up and put everything together again, and Ryan has come to rely on him more than he would like to admit. What is all comes down to is: Ryan misses his best friend.
By the time he gets to the house, Jon is waiting outside after all. Once he spots the figure learning against the wall of the house, Ryan breaks into a jog and starts apologising as soon as he’s within ear-shot.
“Jon? Oh, I’m so sorry. I got caught up at Patrick’s, sorry, sorry. Have you been waiting long?”
Jon smiles, that same easy-going smile he had the day Ryan met him, and Ryan automatically feels himself relaxing. “Not long, it’s fine. My stuff’s just in my car; I was wondering if you could help me move everything inside?” Jon indicates to the only car sitting in the driveway (Ryan’s never bothered with buying one) and Ryan nods.
“Yeah, yeah, of course. That’s fine.” First, he unlocks the door and lets them both inside, figuring he should show Jon around before they start to move in any of his belongings. It must be kind of weird for Jon, to be moving into a house he’s never even seen.
“Wow, it’s beautiful,” are the first words out of Jon’s lips as they move into the entrance, and Ryan breathes a sigh of relief at the tidy appearance of the house. He hadn’t gotten around to finishing all of the cleaning on Saturday night, but even the piles of random crap he’d started to toss out of the storage cupboard (when Ryan cleans, he can’t help but clean everything) are gone. The only explanation is that Greta has come home from her parents’ early. He feels a new wave of affection for her, and revels in the knowledge that he doesn’t have to spend his first day getting used to Jon Walker alone.
Motioning for Jon to follow him, Ryan begins to move through the house, showing Jon each room on the first floor quickly. They pass the living room, the study, the kitchen and the dining room before they run into Greta, and Ryan smiles at her, trying to convey his thanks.
“Jon, this is Greta, Greta this is Jon.” They shake hands and smile, and Ryan struggles to find the words he’s looking for. “Greta is... Well, technically, she picks up after me, but she’s also one of the most awesome people in the world.” It’s probably not a very accurate description of Greta - with the excellent cleaning job she’s done for him, he’s beginning to think universe is more appropriate - and he hopes that Jon won’t be the kind of guy to treat her as below him just because she’s the maid, but his smile doesn’t falter.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Jon Walker, I’m your new roommate.”
Ryan appreciates the way he refers to Greta as their ‘roommate’ and he makes a mental note saying something along the lines of Jon Walker is Awesome.
“Don’t make too much of a mess and I’m sure we’ll get along spectacularly,” Greta says, and then, with a wink at Jon, “but don’t worry, I’m used to picking up after Ryan and nobody makes as much mess as that kid.”
Ryan blushes and scuffs his feet like a child being scolded. “’m not that bad.”
She just laughs and gestures around her. “Look at how spotless this place is! Well, it certainly wasn’t like that when I came home this morning and found the place full of piles of trash.”
“I was cleaning out the storage,” he says, as if that explains everything, and she puts her hands on her hips.
“Oh were you? Wonderful. Don’t do it again.”
Ryan flashes a grin and salutes her. “Yes ma’am.”
“Don’t mind him, Jon,” Greta says, and when she smiles at him, there’s a little something extra that Ryan’s never seen before. “He may be a total slob and a bit of a tool, but he’s a sweetheart, really.”
Choosing not to say anything about the sparkle in her eye, Ryan decides that while he may not say anything about that particular discovery, he’s certainly entitled to standing up for himself. “I’m tidy and I’m nice, Greta. Jon’s going to be living here; the least you could do is keep him from running for the hills just yet.”
If Jon’s feeling at all overwhelmed or awkward, he doesn’t show it. His posture is relaxed, even standing in the middle of an unfamiliar room, and he’s got one of those smiles people talk about, the ones that could rival the sun. Ryan has never really believed people when they talk about that kind of smile, but it’s hard to ignore something when it’s right in front of you. Jon has that ridiculous talent of making people feel comfortable wherever they are. He radiates this casual confidence and ease that’s contagious, and before he knows it’s happening, Ryan can feel any tension oozing out of his shoulders, his lips turning up into a smile without any conscious effort. He thinks he’s going to like having Jon Walker around.
They leave Greta in the kitchen where she agrees to make lunch for the three of them, and then Ryan takes Jon up the stairs. Jon immediately falls in love with the little bedroom down the hall. It’s nothing special, but the sun hits it just right of a morning, and it’s got this bright, sweet glow to it that Jon looks perfectly at home in. It’s small, but Jon doesn’t seem to mind, and it’s far enough away from Ryan’s room that they won’t be constantly knocking each other over in the hall, but close enough that Ryan is reminded that somebody else is going to live with him. Before, he was anxious, but watching the way Jon grins and sets his suitcase down on the bed, Ryan is glad that Jon’s bedroom is kind of close. Now that he has it, he realises he’s been kind of craving companionship, someone who isn’t Spencer being there to talk to of a morning and night, and now he has Jon, and Jon is more than satisfactory.
And though he tries to ignore it and shove it to the back of his mind, Ryan is a little relived that Jon didn’t choose the room across the hall. It doesn’t matter that he’s moved out; that room is Spencer’s, and will always be Spencer’s. He’s been there for years, and it would feel weird for someone else to sleep there, to live there. Suddenly, Ryan begins to understand the “boyfriend” remarks, and promptly turns his thoughts elsewhere.
When they head back downstairs, Ryan finds Greta dishing out ramen, and grins. Who cares if it’s nothing gourmet, Greta knows just how he likes it, and it’s quick and easy and it tastes good, so Ryan is more than happy to eat it. After all, Greta isn’t his cook, and he’s learnt in the past that there’s a good reason for it. Had she attempted anything much trickier than ramen or sandwiches, there’s a good chance that Ryan would have had to call the fire department, and then refurbish his kitchen. Ever since the Hamburgers Incident, Ryan has learnt not to trust her alone in the kitchen.
They sit down at the table and dig straight in, and nobody says a word for the first few minutes. Ryan’s at a loss for what to say, really, and Jon looks like he’s too hungry to bother speaking until he’s finished eating. Greta watches them both with a vague smile, but Ryan doesn’t miss the way her eyes brighten when she looks at Jon. The silence is beginning to seep into Ryan’s bones, and he purposely scrapes his fork against the bowl in order to fill the room with some sort of sound, and Greta just laughs at him. She knows him too well, and in the next second, she clears her throat to speak.
“So what do you do, Jon?”
Ryan snorts and puts his head down, shovelling noodles into his mouth as a means of distraction, because he knows that despite what he originally thought, Greta isn’t asking for Ryan’s benefit.
Jon flashes a grin, and has this look of such contentment in his eyes that even Ryan is eager to hear what he does for a living, now. Maybe something artistic to give him such a glow, or maybe it’s just that he makes a lot of money. And then, “I’m a kindergarten teacher,” Jon says, and Ryan thinks of course. There are only two types of people who can listen as well as Jon and be so calm and collected around new people: teachers and psychiatrists. Ryan might have had a little trouble imagining Jon as a teacher, if only because he doesn’t think Jon has it in him to be very firm, but the idea of Jon working with kids that young is probably the cutest thing Ryan has ever heard.
“You enjoy it?” Ryan asks, even though the look on Jon’s face pretty much gives him his answer.
“I love it. The kids, you know, they sort of make up a little part of you. Once you’re in, they grab on with their tiny little hands and refuse to let go. We actually mean something to them, y’know? It’s not like... Like teaching older kids, who just tolerate you because they have no choice, or go out of their way to drive you insane. These kids actually love you. It’s awesome.” He shrugs, smiles, and slurps up another noodle, and from the way he speaks, Ryan has this sudden urge to go and teach kindergarten. Jon’s only been here a day, and already he’s doing ridiculous things to Ryan’s brain.
“That’s really cool. You don’t hear of many guys enjoying that kind of job, these days,” Greta says, and she has this look on her face like she’s really impressed, and Ryan can almost see the little hearts in her eyes. As adorable as she is when she’s like this, he wonders what kind of affect this will have on his house. He didn’t rent it for some sort of Perfect Match meet-up, but as long as things don’t go horrendously bad, he’s happy for her. It’s been a while since Greta met someone who treated her right, and if Jon’s the guy to do it, then Ryan wishes them all the best.
He finishes his lunch quickly, and then makes up some excuse for retreating to his room as fast as possible. Really, he’d just prefer not to be in the room when the kissy-faces start.
Part Four