Fic: Fear of Flying 1/4 NC-17 (Spencer/Brendon)
Title: Fear of Flying
Author: Mokuyoubi
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: NC-17
WC: 30,066
Summary: Spencer Smith, part-owner and celebrated head chef of noted restaurant Panic! At The Disco, is talented, rich, and gorgeous. The rest of the staff can't even seem to remember that Brendon works there.
“You’re really good at that,” Jon observed.
“Good at what?” Brendon asked, swirling his spoon in his dish. The ice cream was a melted mess by now.
“Finding excuses not to come to the party even when you’re invited, not letting Spencer get to know you even when he asks you a direct question about yourself,” Jon said casually.
Brendon dropped his spoon and glared across the table. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that you don’t want anyone getting any closer to you,” Jon said. “How long were you with your last boyfriend?”
Author’s note: Written for my help_haiti winner saba1789’s request for an AU with cook!Spencer working at or maybe even owning a restaurant + waiter!Brendon, on whom Spencer has a (seemingly) unrequited crush. There could be enforced having to spend time with each other and some pining and then a happy end.
This is kind of that fic… I hope you like it, babe.
Love and thanks to my terrific betas randomepiphany and okubyo_kitsune for being so patient with me, and to reni-days for cheerleading and making me smile, even though she was miserable. <3
Please see end of fic for extended notes/disclaimers :D
There was a message from Jon on Brendon’s voicemail when he got out of his last session saying, “Seriously, I’m not even joking, don’t be late today. Seriously.”
It didn’t do a lot for the anxious pit in his stomach that had been building since he’d left the restaurant the previous evening. Jason had set him down just after closing to talk about his habitual tardiness, and it wasn’t fucking fair.
Brendon was the best waiter at Panic!. He turned the most tables, handled the largest section, and he kept his customers and the cooks happy, and he’d only been with the restaurant for three months. Plus, they knew he had other obligations during the day, which didn’t stop Angela from scheduling him at four even when he wasn’t off until three.
The train pulled into the station at seven to four and Brendon ran full speed down Fifth Avenue and dodged down the alley, tumbling in the back door with about a minute to spare, vest unbuttoned, tie hanging loosely around his collar. He caught himself on the door frame, punching his team number into the computer before the clock could tick over.
Andrew gave him a slow once over. “New look,” he drawled.
“Fuck off,” Brendon muttered. He paused to catch his breath before entering the front of the house, trying to look inconspicuous. There were only a few patrons-a couple tucked into a booth in the back, a young man at the bar, and a group of four businessmen-but that would change within the half-hour, and then they’d be so busy Brendon wouldn’t have a moment to himself until after ten.
Brendon caught Jon’s eye before ducking into the bathroom and was still fumbling with his tie when Jon came in, gave him a fond smile, and knocked his hands away to do it for him. “How long have you been working here?” Jon teased.
“Shut up,” Brendon said, and felt himself blushing. He did up the buttons on his vest, fingers strangely numb-feeling. “You’re the one that sent me the freak-out message. What the hell?”
“See that guy in the back, with the blonde?” Jon asked, finishing the knot and tugging it into place.
Brendon nodded at his own reflection; he’d gelled his hair on the train ride over, and it had withstood his mad dash fairly well, considering how profusely he was sweating from the combined physical activity and heat. He slicked back the little curl that had slipped free and dabbed the sweat from his brow.
“That’s Ross,” Jon said.
“Ryan Ross?” Brendon asked, poking his head out the door for a better look. All he could really see was a head of brown curls, bent close to his companion, and a suit that fit nicely with the speakeasy décor.
“Smith’s been going crazy all morning. Apparently Ross didn’t call ahead, just shows up out of the blue with his new fiancée, who he never told Smith about…”
“Shit,” Brendon whispered.
“Yeah, so, heads up, dude,” Jon said, tapping him lightly on the chest.
“Thanks, yeah,” Brendon said.
Jon went back to the bar, giving him a thumbs-up for encouragement. Brendon shoved his bag in a locker in the break room, grabbed an apron, and pushed open the doors to the chaos of the kitchen.
Spencer was at his station, muttering about lobster, and Brendon really wanted to ask if he was all right, but it didn’t look like a good time. Last night, Spencer had mentioned training with Brendon to be an aboyeur for his dishes, starting with a lesson on garnishing. Now, he sort of doubted that was going to happen. He swallowed his disappointment, and the urge to lay his hand on Spencer’s back in comfort as he passed; Spencer didn’t even spare him a look or a word of greeting.
Greta gave him a lop-sided grin when he took a seat across the table from her. Alicia, Gabe, and Adam were already waiting, and Brendon held his breath, ready for one of them to comment on his lateness, but none of them did. It took them twenty minutes to go through the evening’s menu, and then Bill was poking his head into the back, telling Adam and Alicia they had a table, and Gabe and Brendon had been double-seated, and dinner had begun.
~*~
Despite what the name might imply, Panic! at the Disco was not a disco at all. Rumour had it that Ross had come up with the name, and since he was never around to confirm or deny, the rumour stood. Ross was also credited for the theme of the place-done up like an authentic speakeasy from the prohibition, Panic! featured live music, dancing, interesting and inventive cocktails, and of course, haute cuisine. Jon said Spencer and Ross had grown up in Vegas, and as a Vegas native himself, Brendon wasn’t surprised that they’d come up with the theme they had.
What really kept people coming was the atmosphere-from the art deco design and luxuriously upholstered furniture to the period-accurate costumes of every staff member in the front and back of the house, down to the requisite password and list of rules for dining (including no cell phones), Panic! was a hedonistic delight for all the senses.
In Ross’ absence, Pete took care of the day-to-day concerns for the front of the house, scheduling the waiters, maître d’, bartenders and entertainment, and took care of promoting the restaurant, while as co-owner, Spencer managed the kitchen staff, created the menus, and made sure the restaurant was a critical success thanks to his skill as a chef. The combination was a hit, with five-star ratings in all the guides of mention, awards lining Spencer and Pete’s offices, and a packed house every night of the week.
Tonight, Patrick was on stage at the piano, playing the blues. The track lighting along the layers of the stage was dim, casting Patrick in soft shadows. Later all the lights would be up, the blue columns with their golden sunburst, and there would be big band music, but the early diners preferred a more relaxing sound with their meals.
Brendon was dying to get up on the stage-had been since he’d first stepped into the restaurant for his interview. He’d mentioned to Pete when he’d been hired, in a hopeful sort of way, that he could play some instruments too, but he was pretty sure Pete had forgotten as soon as Brendon had left his office. It wasn’t like they needed any more performers. Between Patrick, Ryland, Alex, Travis and Amanda, things were pretty well covered.
Still, Brendon longed to get his hands on the polished maple of the Steinway, to lay his fingers along the ivory, see what sort of sounds he could coax from it. So far it had been impossible. Patrick guarded that thing like it was his kid-understandable, seeing how much it was worth-and he kept it working just as it had when it was made in the 20s. At night, even after they’d closed, Patrick would sit at the bench, playing for them as they cleaned up. But one of these nights, Brendon was going to get his turn.
Not tonight, though. He was double-seated with a table of two and a table of six, and it would only be a few minutes before he was double-seated again. He greeted the guests with his most charming smile, effectively forestalling any complaints about a wait, and began to list the menu from memory.
There was the foie gras terrine in a buttery crust with raspberry sauce and the black barley risotto with enoki mushrooms, epazote and carrot purée; duck liver mousse and squab with rosemary infused camembert; sea scallops in white wine sauce with green grapes and lamb with squash and walnuts. For dessert there were strawberries and balsamic served with almond crisps and pear sorbet, the almond cake with caramelised bananas and mocha mousse in a chocolate shell, and the chocolate gnocchi with rhubarb purée. Jon and Joe were ready to start every meal with cocktails made from hand-squeezed fruit and top shelf liquor, and matched every dish with the perfect wine.
Maybe the best part of working at Panic! was getting fed. Every night Greta or Jason would make a dish for all the employees to share, and after the customers had gone, someone was bound to break out the alcohol. Jon said it was important for training, that everyone had to know how the wines tasted with the food to sell them, right? Brendon sort of loved Jon.
If they were lucky, sometimes Spencer would make them dinner. Greta and Jason were excellent cooks, but they made quick, easy meals. Often it was things like spaghetti tossed in a buttery sauce with shrimp, or a spinach salad with romaine hearts, cranberries and feta cheese-simple, but delicious. But Spencer couldn’t do anything simple in the kitchen, not even for the employees. The meals he made them were just as complex and mouth-watering as the meals he put on the menu.
Before coming to work at Panic! Brendon hadn’t even heard of half the items on the menu, and the most adventurous he got was ordering the Asian salad at Applebee’s. Still, his mother had always said his stomach was the way to his heart, and if Spencer Smith’s cooking was any indication, she’d been right on the money. Because Brendon maybe sort of loved Spencer, too. Or maybe more than sort of.
Some nights Brendon could find a chance to steal a bite between serving his tables, but tonight there was no break. He was constantly running from the bar to the kitchen and back to his tables again. In the back, Spencer, Greta, Andrew and Arica moved as if their every action was part of a well-choreographed dance, dodging out of each others’ paths, passing dishes back and forth, and cleaning up any spills immediately. Spencer was serious about safety in his kitchen.
Andrew passed over the tapas for table seven with a wink and Brendon spared him a smile, snagging them and hurrying out the door. Mark was bussing one of Brendon’s tables and Brendon was on his way to fetch the cocktails for table five when a hand caught Brendon by the apron and tugged him toward booth three.
“Hey, kid,” the voice said, and Brendon pasted on his widest, fakest smile, faltering a little when he realised it was Ross.
The guy was good-looking, with big eyes and a full mouth twisted up in a sort of haughty smirk. His fiancée was seriously gorgeous, the kind of perfect that Brendon thought of as only existing in magazines and movies, and up close Brendon could see how finely they were both dressed, and the huge diamond on her finger. Brendon knew, in a vague way, that Spencer was wealthy, but Spencer never flaunted it like this. It just brought home what incredibly different worlds Brendon and Spencer were from.
“Mister Ross,” Brendon said, with as much deference as he could muster. It wasn’t much. Seriously, who would leave this place-leave Spencer?
Ross arched a brow. “You must be Brendon,” he said, and the sick feeling in Brendon’s stomach from earlier was back. He nodded and tried to look like a good employee-tall-backed, smiling but not too broadly, meeting Ross’ gaze. Ross shrugged after a long moment. “Look, tell Spencer I’m sick of waiting. We’ll stop by tomorrow before our meeting.”
“Of course, Sir,” Brendon said. Ross pursed his lips like he was annoyed, but he waved Brendon off in dismissal, and Brendon hurried off to the bar. “Jon,” he said, with his biggest puppy eyes, “can you run my order for table five?”
Jon rolled his eyes, but Brendon knew that was as good as agreement. He went into the kitchen, dodging Gabe on his way out with a tray. Spencer was finishing off an order-his last aboyeur had left before Brendon had started working and a new one had never been hired. Spencer liked seeing his dishes from beginning to end himself, and used the vacant position as an excuse. He was a control freak about his creations; he didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting a chance to mess them up.
Brendon paused to watch for a moment. Spencer put together his plates like they were pieces of art-drizzling savoury sauces in intricate patterns, grouping the canapé just right and laying the scallops neatly in place on top. It was relaxing, in a way, that no matter how rushed everything else was, in those moments Spencer slowed down, took his time, made it perfect.
“Hey,” Brendon said.
“Hey,” Spencer said back absently, slender fingers tweaking a spring of cilantro just right so it lay like a ribbon over the foie gras.
“Um,” Brendon bit his lip. “So, Mister Ross wanted me to tell you he was leaving, and that he’d be back tomorrow before his meeting.”
“Hmm?” Spencer said, and blinked up at Brendon like he hadn’t understood a word of what had been said. “Oh, right.” He rolled his eyes. “And of course he can’t be bothered to stick his head back here and tell me himself. Thanks, Brendon.”
Brendon couldn’t help the little flush of pleasure at Spencer’s gratitude. God, he was such a fucking girl. He stood there awkwardly, wishing he could somehow stretch the conversation out. But then Alicia ducked between them to snag the plates and Greta yelled for Brendon to get some more heirlooms from the walk-in and Spencer gave Brendon a distracted smile before turning back to his work.
By nine Adam was cut and by nine-thirty Alicia had gone, and it was down to two tables for Gabe and one for Brendon, finishing up the main courses. Part of the experience was having the waiters anticipate all of the guests’ needs, which meant that after the orders were placed at the beginning of the meal, it was up to Brendon to know just when to drop them in the kitchen and present them at the table.
He headed into the back, where things were quieter now. Greta was in the office going over some papers, Arica and Andrew were breaking down their stations, and Bob was catching up with the dishes from the dinner rush, sparing Brendon a quick flash of a smile on his way in. Brendon tried to clear his dishes as much as possible; he didn’t envy Bob his job at all.
Spencer was preparing the desserts for Brendon’s last table and glanced up and back down quickly when Brendon entered, concentrating on extracting the almond cake from its ramekin. “Brendon, shit, I entirely forgot about your training tonight.”
Brendon tried to look nonchalant, posing against Spencer’s station with his hip out. “It’s no big deal. You seemed stressed earlier.”
“Part of being best friends with Ryan Ross,” Spencer said wryly. “Come here, I can at least show you this.”
“What if I fuck it up?” Brendon asked, eyeing the cake nervously.
Spencer lips quirked up just a little. One of these days, Brendon was going to see Spencer smile for real. “That’s why I make extra. Come here.”
Brendon came around to Spencer’s side of the counter, taking the plate and cake Spencer passed him. Brendon watched Spencer as he placed the cake and scooped the mousse atop it in a neat little swirl. Brendon’s came out looking more like a lump.
“So, is, um, Mister Ross back to stay?” Brendon asked, trying to copy the way Spencer sprinkled the coconut shavings over the mousse and positioned the chocolate shell at a jaunty sort of angle.
“You have to stop calling him Mister Ross. It makes me think of his dad. And no, he isn’t back to stay. Ryan isn’t the sort to stay in one place for very long.” Spencer paused, looking at Brendon’s dessert with a critical eye. “We can dress it up with the syrup,” he said finally.
“So he’s just here to visit?” God, Brendon, could you be more nosy?
Spencer sighed and adjusted the banana halves around the cake. “He’s just gotten engaged, and he wants to have the engagement party here. This Wednesday.”
Wednesdays were the only days that Panic! closed. Most of the staff rotated, but Greta, Pete, and Spencer worked every day the restaurant was open, and Wednesdays were the least busy, so it made sense. “Wow, short notice,” Brendon commented.
“Yeah, and you should see the menu he wants,” Spencer said. “I have no idea when I’m going to have the chance to get this all put together, plus I’m going to have to bribe anyone to come in.”
“I can help,” Brendon said automatically. “I mean, I want to.”
Spencer gave him a tired half-smile. “Don’t you take classes?”
Brendon suppressed the urge to sigh. It wasn’t Spencer’s fault that no one ever paid any attention to what Brendon said and therefore got his second-hand information wrong. “Yeah,” he said instead, trying not to sound glum. “I have classes. But I’m off tomorrow. If you needed help getting stuff together.”
“It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to come in on your day off. Thanks anyway, though,” Spencer said. “I’ll figure something out.” He finished drizzling the caramel sauce around the edges of the plate and presented it to Brendon. Brendon turned his own plate for Spencer to see, grimacing a little.
“You should have seen my first attempt at garnishing desserts,” Spencer told him and Brendon couldn’t help but smile. “Hurry up and run these, and we can share yours.”
Brendon didn’t need to be told twice and when he came back Spencer already had spoons and two glasses of milk waiting. “You know,” Brendon started, then took a bite and momentarily lost his train of thought, eyes slipping closed in bliss.
When he blinked his eyes open, Spencer was watching him with a strange look on his face. He cleared his throat when Brendon met his gaze. “Yes?” he prompted.
“Oh,” Brendon said, and blushed. “I was gonna say I don’t mind coming in tomorrow. Working here is fun, and besides, it’s Ryan’s engagement. That’s important, right?”
Spencer tapped his spoon against the plate and said, “You’re a really nice guy, Brendon,” which, shit, was like a fucking kiss of death if Brendon had ever heard one. “I appreciate it.”
“No biggie,” Brendon said, pushing up from the table and swallowing his glass of milk all in one gulp. “I should go check on my table.”
Brendon helped Jon break down the bar station after his table had gone, and once all the customers had left, Pete poured drinks for them and for Gabe, and they sat at the bar, divvying out the tips for the bartenders and busboys.
“Gotta get to Vicky’s before Bill starts texting my ass,” Gabe said when they’d finished, shooting back his bourbon like it was nothing. “See you there, man?” he asked Pete, who tapped his fist to Gabe’s in agreement. “Jon?”
Jon shot a pointed look at Brendon and Brendon wanted to crawl under the bar and die. Fucking Jon Walker. He wasn’t making things better, unless by better he meant worse. “Oh, dude,” Gabe said, looking at Brendon like he’d never actually seen him before. “I didn’t even think you’d wanna. I mean, you have your classes…”
“I do,” Brendon agreed vehemently, shooting a glare at Jon. “It’s cool.”
“Well, I mean, of course you’re welcome,” Gabe said, and the thing was, Brendon believed that Gabe meant it. Still, he didn’t like the idea of being invited only because Jon had called Gabe out on it.
“I give up on you,” Jon said, after Gabe had left and Pete had wandered into the back.
“I’m not some charity case,” Brendon muttered.
“It isn’t fucking charity,” Jon snapped back. “You’re my friend, and you’re cool, and if you’d actually come along and give everyone a chance to get to know you outside of work, they’d think so, too.”
“Gabe’s right,” Brendon said. “I have class.”
“Yeah, class,” Jon said. “You forget who you’re talking to? Plus, I know you have tomorrow off.”
Brendon ignored him, going down the hall to the break room. Spencer was in his office with the door open and when Brendon walked by, called him in. Spencer looked worn out and too skinny without his jacket on. He was going over the cards from the evening that listed the number of guests for each table, their wait time, their orders, and servers. The maître d’ put them in the computer every night, and Pete hired a bookkeeper, but Spencer still liked to triple-check everything himself.
“Were you serious about tomorrow?” Spencer asked, and well…it wasn’t anything obvious, but Brendon had been watching him for three months now, and Spencer was usually so calm and in control, and now he seemed sort of desperate.
And maybe he didn’t see Brendon as anything beyond an employee and a nice guy, but Brendon still wanted to help. He couldn’t stop the excited leap in his chest at the idea of spending more time with Spencer.
“Definitely,” Brendon assured him, smiling brightly.
Spencer looked dubious. “I was going to take care of some things in the morning, but I only have a couple hours between market with Greta, and prepping for dinner, and truffles aren’t even in fucking season…”
“I can come in,” Brendon said quickly. “I can do whatever you need.” Stop sounding so desperate, for a start, a voice in his head ordered.
“He gives me this fucking menu and she says Tuscan theme and what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” Spencer asked rhetorically.
Brendon slumped down onto the chair across Spencer’s desk, vaguely intimidated by the room as usual. It looked like it belonged to some big CEO, plus all the awards and certificates and diplomas on the wall served to remind him just how important and distinguished Spencer was.
“You studied in Italy, didn’t you?” Brendon asked. About the same time Brendon had been slaving over his Ph.D. in Philadelphia, living out of an apartment the size of a shoe box, with a toilet in his closet, and everyone thought he was taking classes, like an undergrad, or some shit.
“Yeah,” Spencer said, rubbing his face wearily.
Brendon shifted awkwardly in his seat, wracking his mind for something to say in the pause. “Okay, well, it’s an engagement party, so you need flowers and favours and usually you have disposable cameras, or maybe some of those single-use video cameras…oh, and lots of embarrassing pictures of the future bride and groom to pass around. And since he wants a Tuscan theme, you could have the food laid out family style, so you won’t need a full staff of servers.”
Spencer gave him another one of those funny looks. “You plan a lot of engagement parties?” he asked.
Brendon shrugged, twisting his apron in his fists. “I’m the youngest in a big family. I’ve done my fair share.”
Spencer smiled a tiny smile. “My poor parents. Between me and the twins, I think they’re never going to get to plan one.” Brendon tried to laugh, but he was pretty sure it came out sounding weak. “Well, it sounds like you know what you’re doing. I can put together a list tonight-if you really don’t mind. I mean, this will be overtime pay for you-”
“You don’t need to do that. I just want to help out,” Brendon said, because it was all wrong. No matter how he tried, Spencer kept making sure things stayed professional between them.
“I can’t let you do that,” Spencer began and Brendon said, “Please, Spencer. I want to.”
Spencer gave him a long look and finally nodded. “Thank you, Brendon.”
~*~
Brendon got up early even though he didn’t have work and spent almost an hour trying on various outfits and staring at himself unhappily in his dresser mirror. It was ridiculous-Brendon had given up caring what other people thought of his appearance at a pretty young age. Being raised Mormon meant lots of hand-me-downs and rather plain ones at that. Having established himself as “that religious weirdo,” Brendon managed to ignore the new set of taunts regarding his sexuality that came along when he developed a sense of style of his own and started buying his own clothing.
But Spencer had only ever seen him in his speakeasy getup, and Brendon would readily admit that it made him look a lot hotter than he actually was. Something about the cut of the vest or the line of the pants, whatever, made him look sleek and a little dangerous.
On his own and at the centre, Brendon tended towards girl jeans and comfy, oversized t-shirts. His hair, free of gel and in need of a trim, kept falling into his eyes. And okay, no matter how much he wanted to impress Spencer, he was not going to wear contacts unless absolutely necessary. The thing was, though, as much as Brendon loved his red frames, they didn’t do a lot to make him look handsome or mature.
In the end, he gave up, threw on his old high school soccer shirt over his single pair of actual-facts guy jeans, put on his favourite pair of teal sequined converse, and grabbed a hoodie in case it got cool later on. So far they’d been having a very warm May, but one never knew. Emily, the college girl across the hall who dog-sat Bogart while he was at work, was hung over when Brendon knocked on her door with a sheepish look, but she still took Bogart for him.
Brendon went into the centre even though it was his day off, because being around the kids helped calm him down. Tiffany, one of the more functionally autistic children, spotted him when he came in, and he ended up doing story time, which was not-so-secretly his favourite, anyway. Story time meant getting to dress up and sing and play the guitar or piano.
Brendon’s parents were constantly on his case about his choice of career, and it hadn’t helped matters when he’d gone to work at a non-profit location. But he’d paid for his master’s and doctorate himself, so he didn’t particularly care what they thought. Besides, Brendon loved music more than anything, and if he could use it to help these kids when nothing else could, then who was he to charge their parents for it. They got enough in grants to cover most of his basic needs, and since he’d started working at Panic!, he was bringing in enough to live comfortably.
Brendon stayed to help out at snack time, passing out treats and helping to get them cleaned up after. Then, he swallowed down his rising anxiety and headed for the restaurant. He had a little running dialogue going on in his head the entire train ride across town, about how stupid an idea this had been, and how he was going to fuck things up, or how Spencer was going to totally see right through him, and essentially, everything was going to end in disaster, plus Brendon would get fired, and…
Then Brendon turned the corner and Spencer was leaning against the front of the building, hips tilted, head back, and the voices in Brendon’s head were struck speechless.
The thing about Spencer Smith was that he was perfect. He was smart and successful and sarcastically funny, and he was so fucking talented, not just with food, but according to Jon and Pete at music, too.
And as if that wasn’t enough, he was seriously the hottest guy Brendon had ever met. Those eyes-Brendon had never seen anyone with eyes so blue, and he had this constant blush in his cheeks. Even in the kitchen, hair limp and greasy under his toque, figure hidden by his jacket, he was attractive. But here, hair glossy bright around his face, dressed in nicely tailored slacks and a black button down-here he was fucking gorgeous.
Spencer saw Brendon and straightened up, pushing off the wall and running a hand through his hair. It was so shiny in the sunlight. He blinked at Brendon a couple of times and Brendon shifted self-consciously, tugging on the zipper of his hoodie.
“You have a tattoo,” Spencer said, after a long moment.
Brendon started, touching his fingers to flowers exposed by the sleeve bunched up near his elbow. He turned his arm so Spencer could see better. “Is it…” Spencer took a step closer, reaching out like he was going to touch, then dropping his hand. His brow furrowed. “Is it a piano?”
“Yeah,” Brendon said dully. He wanted to tell Spencer more, but the words never seemed to come out right with anyone else. He didn’t see why this time should be any different.
“Pete mentioned you played a little piano, I think, when he hired you,” Spencer said, and Brendon should have been flattered that Spencer even remembered that, but instead he felt a little crushed.
“Yeah. Hey, should we go?” Brendon asked, edging down the sidewalk.
“Oh, yeah, I’ve got an appointment at the florist’s and the liquor store,” Spencer said. He spun his key chain around his finger. “You okay if I drive?”
“I don’t mind,” Brendon said, and he shouldn’t have been all that surprised to see Spencer’s gleaming silver BMW, but he was anyway. It had probably cost more than Brendon’s college education, with its heated leather seats and tinted windows and built-in GPS.
“So, what is it you’re studying, anyway?” Spencer asked, once he’d pulled out of his parking spot and into traffic. “I always mean to ask you, and then things are so crazy at work.”
“Um,” Brendon squeezed his knees together and stared at the stationary cars parallel parked as they drove past. “Actually. Ha. I don’t know where everyone gets this idea I’m in school. I mean, I’ve told them all, but I guess…” Brendon had a very firm rule about not turning emo, particularly not when talking to hot guys, so he cut himself off.
“Wait, so you’re not in school?” Spencer asked in confusion.
Brendon shook his head and spoke casually, like it was no big deal. “Nah. I graduated a couple years ago. During the day I work with a non-profit organisation. The work is cool, but I needed a little more income to support myself, so I ended up here.”
“But then…” Spencer trailed off, darting quick glances at Brendon as he drove. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight,” Brendon sighed.
“You’re…you’re older than me?” Spencer asked, looking stunned. Brendon got that reaction a lot, when people realised how old he was. Frankly, he didn’t get it. He didn’t think he looked that young. It was seriously annoying, too; he was always getting carded.
“In all fairness,” Brendon said, “you’re very young to be so well-established.”
Spencer flushed. “I wasn’t. I didn’t mean it was a bad thing,” Spencer stammered. “Just because you’re not-I mean, non-profit is a good thing.”
“Sure,” Brendon agreed sourly, thumbing at the rubber of the window gasket. “So, is the florist first?”
Spencer didn’t answer right away, and eventually Brendon turned his head to see Spencer frowning at the road. He sighed when he caught Brendon watching and nodded. “Yeah.” He drew a breath like he wanted to say something else, but then let it out without speaking. Brendon sat back in his seat, crossed his arms, and told himself it was stupid to be disappointed.
~*~
It wasn’t strictly a disaster. For one thing, they got a lot taken care of. The florist was helpful and remarkably indulgent considering their out-of-season demands and the short notice. The amount of money Spencer threw around probably didn’t hurt. In the end, they decided on sunflowers and orange blossom roses, with rust and cream hydrangeas, magnolias and olive sprays.
Many of them had to be shipped overnight and while Brendon didn’t see any exact figures, he still knew Spencer was spending more on fucking flower arrangements than the centre saw in donations in a year. And, well, Spencer couldn’t really be blamed for his lifestyle, but it still made Brendon really uncomfortable.
The liquor store was slightly better. The bar at Panic! was fully stocked, which took care of the hard liquor, but apparently Ross had made some requests regarding wine. They loaded the trunk of Spencer’s car with twelve cases of a variety of wines Brendon had never even heard of.
Spencer had to go back to the restaurant to meet up with Ross, but he gave Brendon the company card and asked him to take care of the favours and decorations, giving him a list of colours, patterns and preferences.
So, it wasn’t a disaster, but Brendon still parted from him feeling weird.
Jon called him after noon to tease him. “How was the date?” he asked.
“Shut up,” Brendon muttered morosely, kicking the linoleum flooring of the party store. Everything here was seriously generic and cheap looking. He was going to have to go somewhere else, and mostly what he wanted to do was curl up with Bogart and eat ice cream.
“What the fuck happened? You were all jazzed about it last night,” Jon said.
Brendon shrugged, as if Jon could see him. “I don’t know. I guess, maybe, we don’t have anything in common. He’s all like, oh look at my shiny BMW and my super awesome career, and oh, non-profit, that’s nice.”
“That sucks, dude, I’m sorry,” Jon said.
“Whatever. No big deal. He only has the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen, and these freckles I want to lick, and-”
“TMI, jackass,” Jon said pleasantly.
Brendon chuckled weakly. “Sorry, I’m just bummed out. I’ll get over it.”
“Hey, want help? I don’t have to be in until five,” Jon offered.
“Please,” Brendon said automatically.
“I know a place over on Lombard,” Jon said. Brendon had seen it in passing; it was only two stops away on the train. “Meet you there in twenty?”
Jon already had a cart full of ridiculous party favours when Brendon met him up. Brendon eyed the contents of the basket and gave Jon a look. “I hope those are for some other party you’re planning, which has nothing to do with Ryan Ross’ engagement,” he said.
“Snob,” Jon said, tossing a bunch of shiny pink and purple crackers in with the rest. “I’m planning a Brendon-Urie-Is-An-Awesome-And-Talented-Dude-Who-You-Should-Know bash.”
Brendon rolled his eyes, knocking his own cart against Jon’s. “That’s gonna be weird if I’m not there,” he said.
“I will kidnap you, Urie,” Jon said, all blasé.
This place was better than the last, and Brendon found some nice golden brocade tablecloths and lots of gold, orange and olive coloured organza to decorate the urns he’d gotten for the flower arrangements. Spencer planned on lowering the house lights and using candles for atmosphere, but Brendon found some hanging lanterns that looked appropriate for the theme.
As far as favours went, Spencer had mostly left that up to Brendon, indicating only that he wanted something for the place keepers. There were some neat wine corks that had been carved and could hold the names, and which could be inscribed with the couple’s name. Brendon ordered them and the matching place cards with the names on the list Spencer had given him, to be picked up the next morning. For the rest, he went ahead and got a bunch of one-time Polaroid cameras and golden picture frames set with orange and red crystals.
Afterwards, they had a late lunch at a café near Panic! and Jon made Brendon tell him all about the morning. “You know,” he said, over ice cream, because Jon always knew just how to cheer Brendon up, “you could have been a little better at the whole communication thing yourself.”
Brendon shrugged uncomfortably. “I just. I just couldn’t see how it would change things. I’ve got a stupid crush, so what? He’s still my boss and in a whole different class from me.”
“Granted that I don’t know the guy all that well, but Spencer doesn’t seem like the kind of person who cares how much money you make,” Jon said, and he sounded so reasonable.
“Yeah, well, he is the kind of guy who’d care about the whole employee/employer thing. He takes his job so seriously. I couldn’t relax around him. It would never work,” Brendon said. It was hopeless, and it was stupid for them to even keep discussing it.
“You’re really good at that,” Jon observed.
“Good at what?” Brendon asked, swirling his spoon in his dish. The ice cream was a melted mess by now.
“Finding excuses not to come to the party even when you’re invited, not letting Spencer get to know you even when he asks you a direct question about yourself,” Jon said casually.
Brendon dropped his spoon and glared across the table. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that you don’t want anyone getting any closer to you,” Jon said. “How long were you with your last boyfriend?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Brendon said, shoving his chair away from the table. “I talk to you all the time. I tell you all about myself.”
“Yeah,” Jon said, dipping his head in agreement. “And I had to practically fucking stalk you to get you to spend any time with me. And you don’t want to have sex with me.”
“Whatever, I’m done with this conversation,” Brendon said, grabbing his bags and storming out of the café. He heard Jon sigh, and felt a little bad, reminding himself to pay Jon for his half later, when he wasn’t so pissed.
The problem was, Jon wasn’t exactly wrong, and Brendon knew that. He just wasn’t any good at the opening-up thing. He’d spent so long surrounded by people who wanted nothing to do with him that he didn’t know how to react to people who did want to know him. He couldn’t help the thoughts that were always running through his head, telling him they didn’t actually want to hear the answers to the questions they asked-they were just being polite, or wanted something from him.
He would apologise, when Jon caught up with him at the restaurant. It wasn’t Jon’s fault that Brendon was an awkward freak who couldn’t keep a relationship going. Or even get one started, most of the time.
Pete, Jason, and Greta were at a booth in the back, table covered in papers. All three of them were on their cell phones, and from the snippets he heard on the way back to the kitchen, they were all taking care of arrangements for the party. Pete slammed his phone down on the table as Brendon went by, and he let out a curse.
“What’s up?” Brendon asked, eyebrows climbing up his forehead.
Patrick, Gabe, Bill and Cass were at the neighbouring booth, playing cards. Brendon was always envious of the way none of them had day jobs and could just hang out at Panic! all day, if they wanted to.
Pete swore rather creatively and Patrick leaned over the table and in a loud whisper said, “He’s trying to find entertainment for Ryan’s little shindig. I’ve got a gig tomorrow night, and Ryan wants something classical, anyway.”
Patrick was a great musician, but piano wasn’t his strong point by any stretch of the imagination. He was amazing on the guitar and drums, and his voice made Brendon shiver sometimes, but when it came to piano, Patrick didn’t do much that had been written before 1900.
“You know, I can play. I’ve had lessons, even,” Brendon said, maybe a little bitterly, but seriously. He was so tired of everyone just looking past him, and Jon was right. It was never going to change unless Brendon changed it.
Pete gave him a smirk, and well, it wasn’t mean. It was just Pete. But then he said, “Yeah, didn’t everyone’s mom make them take lessons? I’m afraid we need something a little more sophisticated than ‘Heart and Soul,’” and something in Brendon sort of snapped.
Brendon’s lips twisted into a sneer without his permission and Pete looked unimpressed. Okay, said Brendon’s aggressive head voice, fuck that noise. He dropped his multitude of bags on the nearest table, rolled his shoulders, and climbed the tiers of the stage, taking a seat at the piano bench. Patrick made a little, half-aborted noise of protest, but Brendon laid his fingers over the keys and began playing without really thinking.
It wasn’t a surprise, really, what his fingers began to play. He was fucking pissed and hurt and naturally he started playing the most difficult piece he’d ever learned. The piece he’d hated with a passion, practicing hour after hour-blindfolding himself at one point-working through each individual movement until his fingertips ached and he hated the individual notes, until one day he realised he’d somehow fallen in love with it.
The sonata started very slowly, the staccato notes played in piano. Pete’s lip curled up with disdain after the first two measures and Brendon thought vindictively, just wait. Pete said, “Okay Brendon, you showed me,” in this mocking drawl, and Brendon hadn’t intended to play the whole thing; the thought of sitting there for upwards of thirty minutes was just ridiculous. He’d just wanted to play enough to say hey, quit ignoring me.
Only Pete was impatient, and as Brendon neared the allegro energico, he said, “Seriously, that’s enough.” Bill hushed him, and Brendon wasn’t surprised that he would be the one to recognise the piece. Brendon ignored them both, continuing to play, and Pete rolled his eyes and picked his cell phone back up, muttering, “Whatever.”
Brendon straightened his spine as he began to play forte. Except, even though it began as showing off, he just couldn’t do that to the music. It was worth so much more than being used like that, to put Pete Wentz in his place, and by the middle of the first movement, Brendon had already forgotten his audience, eyes closed, soaking up every note.
Brendon loved playing Chopin and Verdi and Mozart, and he always had. His love affair with Liszt, however, was much more complex and went so much deeper. The music curled up inside him, making his heart pound and his head swim.
Every time he played the sonata, he experienced it differently. Mostly there was the anger and longing of the surface, but beyond that there was always something new to experience-profound sorrow, or reverence, or terror, building up in his chest, rising ever higher, climaxing with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction at the recapitulation.
He lost track of time playing, letting his hands move as they wished at the ponderous larghissimo parts, rising above the keys, drawing shapes in the pauses, falling back down like in a dream. Then, at the adagietto, trusting his fingers to keep up with the dizzying pace even when his mind couldn’t. Day after arduous day of practice had made it instinct, and he still couldn’t believe his ears when it came out right, couldn’t help the rush of incandescent pleasure at succeeding after he’d failed so many times before.
Then came the ending, slow and hesitant, almost like an afterthought, and as Brendon played the final notes, he could hear the stillness of the restaurant, the distant sound of traffic outside over the silence within.
He was trembling when he finished, sweat beading along his hairline, shirt clinging to his back, and he didn’t want to open his eyes. He wanted to stay here with Liszt, where he felt like someone understood him, and he knew when he opened his eyes that feeling of intense satisfaction and belonging would be gone.
“Dude,” Gabe said, and Brendon opened his eyes, blinking against the light in the room. They were all staring; Pete’s mouth was literally hanging open, his expression one of wonder, Greta had her eyes closed and a dreamy look on her face, and Bill’s eyes might as well have been hearts. Andrew, Alicia, and Mark had come in from the kitchen and were standing in the doorway, and at some point Jon had come in, and he was just smiling softly.
And yet, it didn’t feel like a victory. Brendon felt shaky and sick and he sort of hated himself right now. He got to his feet and each step felt overly precise as he went down the steps of the stage. He did his best to keep his face expressionless, because if he didn’t, he was sure it would just express defeat.
“Dude,” Gabe said again, and held out his fist. “Badass.”
Brendon bumped his fist to Gabe’s, said, “Thank you,” with as much dignity as he could, nodded at Pete, and headed for the back door via the kitchen.
Spencer was standing in the hallway, blocking his path, staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. “Was that-was that you?” Spencer asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
Brendon nodded haltingly. Spencer took a step closer, crowding Brendon up against the wall and Brendon’s heart started pounding again. He had to tilt his head back to meet Spencer’s eyes. “You were. That was.” Spencer paused and shook his head. “Brendon.”
There was a feeling of adrenaline-fuelled recklessness left over from playing, and that was the only excuse he had for grabbing Spencer by the undone ends of his neckerchief and hauling him down, fitting their mouths together.
Spencer made a startled sound, stumbling into Brendon and bracing his hands against the wall. And then he was kissing Brendon back, little hesitant brushes of his lips to Brendon’s, and that was all the incentive Brendon needed to push further. He lapped at Spencer’s mouth and when Spencer opened for him, licked inside. Spencer tasted vaguely of something tangy and spicy and Brendon chased the taste with his tongue, a thrill of arousal shooting down his spine when Spencer moaned.
They stumbled again, Brendon nudging Spencer the short distance across the hall to pin him, hold him in place while Brendon took his fill. Spencer’s hands fell on Brendon’s waist, touch light, but intimate. Brendon’s fingers hurt from clenching so tightly, but he couldn’t let go. He was sort of worried he might pass out if he didn’t keep holding on.
Then he shifted his hips, pressing his growing erection against Spencer’s thigh and Spencer jerked back as if burnt. His hands shifted, no longer holding Brendon but pushing him away. “God, I-I’m so sorry. That shouldn’t have-I shouldn’t have-I’m so sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s okay,” Brendon started to say, but Spencer cut him off.
“You should probably go,” he said. “I have to-I’m sorry.” Then he turned and all but ran out the back door, before Brendon could say anything. If he could have thought of anything to say.
Brendon slumped against the wall, out of breath, staring helplessly at the door, as if Spencer might come back and make sense of things. And then the adrenaline ebbed and it all sank in how much he’d just fucked up. Showing off even when Pete told him to stop, throwing himself at Spencer like some sex fiend.
Jon came through the kitchen door and when he spotted Brendon, he gave him a questioning look. Brendon waved him off, still trying to catch his breath, but Jon arched a brow and Brendon wondered what he looked like. His lips felt sensitive and he was sure he was blushing, and oh god.
“I can’t, Jon. I can’t do this,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Jon asked. “You totally put Pete in his place. He wants to fucking marry you right now. He’s talking about what a dilemma he’s facing because you’re his best server, but you belong on the stage.” Jon’s smile was purely excited, but Brendon just felt wrung out and empty.
“That’s great,” he said, because of course he had to go and ruin everything by molesting his boss, just when people were actually paying attention. Of course he had to fuck up this job, which he loved, by being stupid and impulsive.
“It is,” Jon said vehemently. “They all want to hear you play another.”
Brendon’s shoulders slumped and he rubbed his face. “I have to go, Spencer told me I should…go,” he said, and ignored Jon’s noise of protest as he left.
Part Two
Author: Mokuyoubi
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: NC-17
WC: 30,066
Summary: Spencer Smith, part-owner and celebrated head chef of noted restaurant Panic! At The Disco, is talented, rich, and gorgeous. The rest of the staff can't even seem to remember that Brendon works there.
“You’re really good at that,” Jon observed.
“Good at what?” Brendon asked, swirling his spoon in his dish. The ice cream was a melted mess by now.
“Finding excuses not to come to the party even when you’re invited, not letting Spencer get to know you even when he asks you a direct question about yourself,” Jon said casually.
Brendon dropped his spoon and glared across the table. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that you don’t want anyone getting any closer to you,” Jon said. “How long were you with your last boyfriend?”
Author’s note: Written for my help_haiti winner saba1789’s request for an AU with cook!Spencer working at or maybe even owning a restaurant + waiter!Brendon, on whom Spencer has a (seemingly) unrequited crush. There could be enforced having to spend time with each other and some pining and then a happy end.
This is kind of that fic… I hope you like it, babe.
Love and thanks to my terrific betas randomepiphany and okubyo_kitsune for being so patient with me, and to reni-days for cheerleading and making me smile, even though she was miserable. <3
Please see end of fic for extended notes/disclaimers :D
There was a message from Jon on Brendon’s voicemail when he got out of his last session saying, “Seriously, I’m not even joking, don’t be late today. Seriously.”
It didn’t do a lot for the anxious pit in his stomach that had been building since he’d left the restaurant the previous evening. Jason had set him down just after closing to talk about his habitual tardiness, and it wasn’t fucking fair.
Brendon was the best waiter at Panic!. He turned the most tables, handled the largest section, and he kept his customers and the cooks happy, and he’d only been with the restaurant for three months. Plus, they knew he had other obligations during the day, which didn’t stop Angela from scheduling him at four even when he wasn’t off until three.
The train pulled into the station at seven to four and Brendon ran full speed down Fifth Avenue and dodged down the alley, tumbling in the back door with about a minute to spare, vest unbuttoned, tie hanging loosely around his collar. He caught himself on the door frame, punching his team number into the computer before the clock could tick over.
Andrew gave him a slow once over. “New look,” he drawled.
“Fuck off,” Brendon muttered. He paused to catch his breath before entering the front of the house, trying to look inconspicuous. There were only a few patrons-a couple tucked into a booth in the back, a young man at the bar, and a group of four businessmen-but that would change within the half-hour, and then they’d be so busy Brendon wouldn’t have a moment to himself until after ten.
Brendon caught Jon’s eye before ducking into the bathroom and was still fumbling with his tie when Jon came in, gave him a fond smile, and knocked his hands away to do it for him. “How long have you been working here?” Jon teased.
“Shut up,” Brendon said, and felt himself blushing. He did up the buttons on his vest, fingers strangely numb-feeling. “You’re the one that sent me the freak-out message. What the hell?”
“See that guy in the back, with the blonde?” Jon asked, finishing the knot and tugging it into place.
Brendon nodded at his own reflection; he’d gelled his hair on the train ride over, and it had withstood his mad dash fairly well, considering how profusely he was sweating from the combined physical activity and heat. He slicked back the little curl that had slipped free and dabbed the sweat from his brow.
“That’s Ross,” Jon said.
“Ryan Ross?” Brendon asked, poking his head out the door for a better look. All he could really see was a head of brown curls, bent close to his companion, and a suit that fit nicely with the speakeasy décor.
“Smith’s been going crazy all morning. Apparently Ross didn’t call ahead, just shows up out of the blue with his new fiancée, who he never told Smith about…”
“Shit,” Brendon whispered.
“Yeah, so, heads up, dude,” Jon said, tapping him lightly on the chest.
“Thanks, yeah,” Brendon said.
Jon went back to the bar, giving him a thumbs-up for encouragement. Brendon shoved his bag in a locker in the break room, grabbed an apron, and pushed open the doors to the chaos of the kitchen.
Spencer was at his station, muttering about lobster, and Brendon really wanted to ask if he was all right, but it didn’t look like a good time. Last night, Spencer had mentioned training with Brendon to be an aboyeur for his dishes, starting with a lesson on garnishing. Now, he sort of doubted that was going to happen. He swallowed his disappointment, and the urge to lay his hand on Spencer’s back in comfort as he passed; Spencer didn’t even spare him a look or a word of greeting.
Greta gave him a lop-sided grin when he took a seat across the table from her. Alicia, Gabe, and Adam were already waiting, and Brendon held his breath, ready for one of them to comment on his lateness, but none of them did. It took them twenty minutes to go through the evening’s menu, and then Bill was poking his head into the back, telling Adam and Alicia they had a table, and Gabe and Brendon had been double-seated, and dinner had begun.
~*~
Despite what the name might imply, Panic! at the Disco was not a disco at all. Rumour had it that Ross had come up with the name, and since he was never around to confirm or deny, the rumour stood. Ross was also credited for the theme of the place-done up like an authentic speakeasy from the prohibition, Panic! featured live music, dancing, interesting and inventive cocktails, and of course, haute cuisine. Jon said Spencer and Ross had grown up in Vegas, and as a Vegas native himself, Brendon wasn’t surprised that they’d come up with the theme they had.
What really kept people coming was the atmosphere-from the art deco design and luxuriously upholstered furniture to the period-accurate costumes of every staff member in the front and back of the house, down to the requisite password and list of rules for dining (including no cell phones), Panic! was a hedonistic delight for all the senses.
In Ross’ absence, Pete took care of the day-to-day concerns for the front of the house, scheduling the waiters, maître d’, bartenders and entertainment, and took care of promoting the restaurant, while as co-owner, Spencer managed the kitchen staff, created the menus, and made sure the restaurant was a critical success thanks to his skill as a chef. The combination was a hit, with five-star ratings in all the guides of mention, awards lining Spencer and Pete’s offices, and a packed house every night of the week.
Tonight, Patrick was on stage at the piano, playing the blues. The track lighting along the layers of the stage was dim, casting Patrick in soft shadows. Later all the lights would be up, the blue columns with their golden sunburst, and there would be big band music, but the early diners preferred a more relaxing sound with their meals.
Brendon was dying to get up on the stage-had been since he’d first stepped into the restaurant for his interview. He’d mentioned to Pete when he’d been hired, in a hopeful sort of way, that he could play some instruments too, but he was pretty sure Pete had forgotten as soon as Brendon had left his office. It wasn’t like they needed any more performers. Between Patrick, Ryland, Alex, Travis and Amanda, things were pretty well covered.
Still, Brendon longed to get his hands on the polished maple of the Steinway, to lay his fingers along the ivory, see what sort of sounds he could coax from it. So far it had been impossible. Patrick guarded that thing like it was his kid-understandable, seeing how much it was worth-and he kept it working just as it had when it was made in the 20s. At night, even after they’d closed, Patrick would sit at the bench, playing for them as they cleaned up. But one of these nights, Brendon was going to get his turn.
Not tonight, though. He was double-seated with a table of two and a table of six, and it would only be a few minutes before he was double-seated again. He greeted the guests with his most charming smile, effectively forestalling any complaints about a wait, and began to list the menu from memory.
There was the foie gras terrine in a buttery crust with raspberry sauce and the black barley risotto with enoki mushrooms, epazote and carrot purée; duck liver mousse and squab with rosemary infused camembert; sea scallops in white wine sauce with green grapes and lamb with squash and walnuts. For dessert there were strawberries and balsamic served with almond crisps and pear sorbet, the almond cake with caramelised bananas and mocha mousse in a chocolate shell, and the chocolate gnocchi with rhubarb purée. Jon and Joe were ready to start every meal with cocktails made from hand-squeezed fruit and top shelf liquor, and matched every dish with the perfect wine.
Maybe the best part of working at Panic! was getting fed. Every night Greta or Jason would make a dish for all the employees to share, and after the customers had gone, someone was bound to break out the alcohol. Jon said it was important for training, that everyone had to know how the wines tasted with the food to sell them, right? Brendon sort of loved Jon.
If they were lucky, sometimes Spencer would make them dinner. Greta and Jason were excellent cooks, but they made quick, easy meals. Often it was things like spaghetti tossed in a buttery sauce with shrimp, or a spinach salad with romaine hearts, cranberries and feta cheese-simple, but delicious. But Spencer couldn’t do anything simple in the kitchen, not even for the employees. The meals he made them were just as complex and mouth-watering as the meals he put on the menu.
Before coming to work at Panic! Brendon hadn’t even heard of half the items on the menu, and the most adventurous he got was ordering the Asian salad at Applebee’s. Still, his mother had always said his stomach was the way to his heart, and if Spencer Smith’s cooking was any indication, she’d been right on the money. Because Brendon maybe sort of loved Spencer, too. Or maybe more than sort of.
Some nights Brendon could find a chance to steal a bite between serving his tables, but tonight there was no break. He was constantly running from the bar to the kitchen and back to his tables again. In the back, Spencer, Greta, Andrew and Arica moved as if their every action was part of a well-choreographed dance, dodging out of each others’ paths, passing dishes back and forth, and cleaning up any spills immediately. Spencer was serious about safety in his kitchen.
Andrew passed over the tapas for table seven with a wink and Brendon spared him a smile, snagging them and hurrying out the door. Mark was bussing one of Brendon’s tables and Brendon was on his way to fetch the cocktails for table five when a hand caught Brendon by the apron and tugged him toward booth three.
“Hey, kid,” the voice said, and Brendon pasted on his widest, fakest smile, faltering a little when he realised it was Ross.
The guy was good-looking, with big eyes and a full mouth twisted up in a sort of haughty smirk. His fiancée was seriously gorgeous, the kind of perfect that Brendon thought of as only existing in magazines and movies, and up close Brendon could see how finely they were both dressed, and the huge diamond on her finger. Brendon knew, in a vague way, that Spencer was wealthy, but Spencer never flaunted it like this. It just brought home what incredibly different worlds Brendon and Spencer were from.
“Mister Ross,” Brendon said, with as much deference as he could muster. It wasn’t much. Seriously, who would leave this place-leave Spencer?
Ross arched a brow. “You must be Brendon,” he said, and the sick feeling in Brendon’s stomach from earlier was back. He nodded and tried to look like a good employee-tall-backed, smiling but not too broadly, meeting Ross’ gaze. Ross shrugged after a long moment. “Look, tell Spencer I’m sick of waiting. We’ll stop by tomorrow before our meeting.”
“Of course, Sir,” Brendon said. Ross pursed his lips like he was annoyed, but he waved Brendon off in dismissal, and Brendon hurried off to the bar. “Jon,” he said, with his biggest puppy eyes, “can you run my order for table five?”
Jon rolled his eyes, but Brendon knew that was as good as agreement. He went into the kitchen, dodging Gabe on his way out with a tray. Spencer was finishing off an order-his last aboyeur had left before Brendon had started working and a new one had never been hired. Spencer liked seeing his dishes from beginning to end himself, and used the vacant position as an excuse. He was a control freak about his creations; he didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting a chance to mess them up.
Brendon paused to watch for a moment. Spencer put together his plates like they were pieces of art-drizzling savoury sauces in intricate patterns, grouping the canapé just right and laying the scallops neatly in place on top. It was relaxing, in a way, that no matter how rushed everything else was, in those moments Spencer slowed down, took his time, made it perfect.
“Hey,” Brendon said.
“Hey,” Spencer said back absently, slender fingers tweaking a spring of cilantro just right so it lay like a ribbon over the foie gras.
“Um,” Brendon bit his lip. “So, Mister Ross wanted me to tell you he was leaving, and that he’d be back tomorrow before his meeting.”
“Hmm?” Spencer said, and blinked up at Brendon like he hadn’t understood a word of what had been said. “Oh, right.” He rolled his eyes. “And of course he can’t be bothered to stick his head back here and tell me himself. Thanks, Brendon.”
Brendon couldn’t help the little flush of pleasure at Spencer’s gratitude. God, he was such a fucking girl. He stood there awkwardly, wishing he could somehow stretch the conversation out. But then Alicia ducked between them to snag the plates and Greta yelled for Brendon to get some more heirlooms from the walk-in and Spencer gave Brendon a distracted smile before turning back to his work.
By nine Adam was cut and by nine-thirty Alicia had gone, and it was down to two tables for Gabe and one for Brendon, finishing up the main courses. Part of the experience was having the waiters anticipate all of the guests’ needs, which meant that after the orders were placed at the beginning of the meal, it was up to Brendon to know just when to drop them in the kitchen and present them at the table.
He headed into the back, where things were quieter now. Greta was in the office going over some papers, Arica and Andrew were breaking down their stations, and Bob was catching up with the dishes from the dinner rush, sparing Brendon a quick flash of a smile on his way in. Brendon tried to clear his dishes as much as possible; he didn’t envy Bob his job at all.
Spencer was preparing the desserts for Brendon’s last table and glanced up and back down quickly when Brendon entered, concentrating on extracting the almond cake from its ramekin. “Brendon, shit, I entirely forgot about your training tonight.”
Brendon tried to look nonchalant, posing against Spencer’s station with his hip out. “It’s no big deal. You seemed stressed earlier.”
“Part of being best friends with Ryan Ross,” Spencer said wryly. “Come here, I can at least show you this.”
“What if I fuck it up?” Brendon asked, eyeing the cake nervously.
Spencer lips quirked up just a little. One of these days, Brendon was going to see Spencer smile for real. “That’s why I make extra. Come here.”
Brendon came around to Spencer’s side of the counter, taking the plate and cake Spencer passed him. Brendon watched Spencer as he placed the cake and scooped the mousse atop it in a neat little swirl. Brendon’s came out looking more like a lump.
“So, is, um, Mister Ross back to stay?” Brendon asked, trying to copy the way Spencer sprinkled the coconut shavings over the mousse and positioned the chocolate shell at a jaunty sort of angle.
“You have to stop calling him Mister Ross. It makes me think of his dad. And no, he isn’t back to stay. Ryan isn’t the sort to stay in one place for very long.” Spencer paused, looking at Brendon’s dessert with a critical eye. “We can dress it up with the syrup,” he said finally.
“So he’s just here to visit?” God, Brendon, could you be more nosy?
Spencer sighed and adjusted the banana halves around the cake. “He’s just gotten engaged, and he wants to have the engagement party here. This Wednesday.”
Wednesdays were the only days that Panic! closed. Most of the staff rotated, but Greta, Pete, and Spencer worked every day the restaurant was open, and Wednesdays were the least busy, so it made sense. “Wow, short notice,” Brendon commented.
“Yeah, and you should see the menu he wants,” Spencer said. “I have no idea when I’m going to have the chance to get this all put together, plus I’m going to have to bribe anyone to come in.”
“I can help,” Brendon said automatically. “I mean, I want to.”
Spencer gave him a tired half-smile. “Don’t you take classes?”
Brendon suppressed the urge to sigh. It wasn’t Spencer’s fault that no one ever paid any attention to what Brendon said and therefore got his second-hand information wrong. “Yeah,” he said instead, trying not to sound glum. “I have classes. But I’m off tomorrow. If you needed help getting stuff together.”
“It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to come in on your day off. Thanks anyway, though,” Spencer said. “I’ll figure something out.” He finished drizzling the caramel sauce around the edges of the plate and presented it to Brendon. Brendon turned his own plate for Spencer to see, grimacing a little.
“You should have seen my first attempt at garnishing desserts,” Spencer told him and Brendon couldn’t help but smile. “Hurry up and run these, and we can share yours.”
Brendon didn’t need to be told twice and when he came back Spencer already had spoons and two glasses of milk waiting. “You know,” Brendon started, then took a bite and momentarily lost his train of thought, eyes slipping closed in bliss.
When he blinked his eyes open, Spencer was watching him with a strange look on his face. He cleared his throat when Brendon met his gaze. “Yes?” he prompted.
“Oh,” Brendon said, and blushed. “I was gonna say I don’t mind coming in tomorrow. Working here is fun, and besides, it’s Ryan’s engagement. That’s important, right?”
Spencer tapped his spoon against the plate and said, “You’re a really nice guy, Brendon,” which, shit, was like a fucking kiss of death if Brendon had ever heard one. “I appreciate it.”
“No biggie,” Brendon said, pushing up from the table and swallowing his glass of milk all in one gulp. “I should go check on my table.”
Brendon helped Jon break down the bar station after his table had gone, and once all the customers had left, Pete poured drinks for them and for Gabe, and they sat at the bar, divvying out the tips for the bartenders and busboys.
“Gotta get to Vicky’s before Bill starts texting my ass,” Gabe said when they’d finished, shooting back his bourbon like it was nothing. “See you there, man?” he asked Pete, who tapped his fist to Gabe’s in agreement. “Jon?”
Jon shot a pointed look at Brendon and Brendon wanted to crawl under the bar and die. Fucking Jon Walker. He wasn’t making things better, unless by better he meant worse. “Oh, dude,” Gabe said, looking at Brendon like he’d never actually seen him before. “I didn’t even think you’d wanna. I mean, you have your classes…”
“I do,” Brendon agreed vehemently, shooting a glare at Jon. “It’s cool.”
“Well, I mean, of course you’re welcome,” Gabe said, and the thing was, Brendon believed that Gabe meant it. Still, he didn’t like the idea of being invited only because Jon had called Gabe out on it.
“I give up on you,” Jon said, after Gabe had left and Pete had wandered into the back.
“I’m not some charity case,” Brendon muttered.
“It isn’t fucking charity,” Jon snapped back. “You’re my friend, and you’re cool, and if you’d actually come along and give everyone a chance to get to know you outside of work, they’d think so, too.”
“Gabe’s right,” Brendon said. “I have class.”
“Yeah, class,” Jon said. “You forget who you’re talking to? Plus, I know you have tomorrow off.”
Brendon ignored him, going down the hall to the break room. Spencer was in his office with the door open and when Brendon walked by, called him in. Spencer looked worn out and too skinny without his jacket on. He was going over the cards from the evening that listed the number of guests for each table, their wait time, their orders, and servers. The maître d’ put them in the computer every night, and Pete hired a bookkeeper, but Spencer still liked to triple-check everything himself.
“Were you serious about tomorrow?” Spencer asked, and well…it wasn’t anything obvious, but Brendon had been watching him for three months now, and Spencer was usually so calm and in control, and now he seemed sort of desperate.
And maybe he didn’t see Brendon as anything beyond an employee and a nice guy, but Brendon still wanted to help. He couldn’t stop the excited leap in his chest at the idea of spending more time with Spencer.
“Definitely,” Brendon assured him, smiling brightly.
Spencer looked dubious. “I was going to take care of some things in the morning, but I only have a couple hours between market with Greta, and prepping for dinner, and truffles aren’t even in fucking season…”
“I can come in,” Brendon said quickly. “I can do whatever you need.” Stop sounding so desperate, for a start, a voice in his head ordered.
“He gives me this fucking menu and she says Tuscan theme and what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” Spencer asked rhetorically.
Brendon slumped down onto the chair across Spencer’s desk, vaguely intimidated by the room as usual. It looked like it belonged to some big CEO, plus all the awards and certificates and diplomas on the wall served to remind him just how important and distinguished Spencer was.
“You studied in Italy, didn’t you?” Brendon asked. About the same time Brendon had been slaving over his Ph.D. in Philadelphia, living out of an apartment the size of a shoe box, with a toilet in his closet, and everyone thought he was taking classes, like an undergrad, or some shit.
“Yeah,” Spencer said, rubbing his face wearily.
Brendon shifted awkwardly in his seat, wracking his mind for something to say in the pause. “Okay, well, it’s an engagement party, so you need flowers and favours and usually you have disposable cameras, or maybe some of those single-use video cameras…oh, and lots of embarrassing pictures of the future bride and groom to pass around. And since he wants a Tuscan theme, you could have the food laid out family style, so you won’t need a full staff of servers.”
Spencer gave him another one of those funny looks. “You plan a lot of engagement parties?” he asked.
Brendon shrugged, twisting his apron in his fists. “I’m the youngest in a big family. I’ve done my fair share.”
Spencer smiled a tiny smile. “My poor parents. Between me and the twins, I think they’re never going to get to plan one.” Brendon tried to laugh, but he was pretty sure it came out sounding weak. “Well, it sounds like you know what you’re doing. I can put together a list tonight-if you really don’t mind. I mean, this will be overtime pay for you-”
“You don’t need to do that. I just want to help out,” Brendon said, because it was all wrong. No matter how he tried, Spencer kept making sure things stayed professional between them.
“I can’t let you do that,” Spencer began and Brendon said, “Please, Spencer. I want to.”
Spencer gave him a long look and finally nodded. “Thank you, Brendon.”
~*~
Brendon got up early even though he didn’t have work and spent almost an hour trying on various outfits and staring at himself unhappily in his dresser mirror. It was ridiculous-Brendon had given up caring what other people thought of his appearance at a pretty young age. Being raised Mormon meant lots of hand-me-downs and rather plain ones at that. Having established himself as “that religious weirdo,” Brendon managed to ignore the new set of taunts regarding his sexuality that came along when he developed a sense of style of his own and started buying his own clothing.
But Spencer had only ever seen him in his speakeasy getup, and Brendon would readily admit that it made him look a lot hotter than he actually was. Something about the cut of the vest or the line of the pants, whatever, made him look sleek and a little dangerous.
On his own and at the centre, Brendon tended towards girl jeans and comfy, oversized t-shirts. His hair, free of gel and in need of a trim, kept falling into his eyes. And okay, no matter how much he wanted to impress Spencer, he was not going to wear contacts unless absolutely necessary. The thing was, though, as much as Brendon loved his red frames, they didn’t do a lot to make him look handsome or mature.
In the end, he gave up, threw on his old high school soccer shirt over his single pair of actual-facts guy jeans, put on his favourite pair of teal sequined converse, and grabbed a hoodie in case it got cool later on. So far they’d been having a very warm May, but one never knew. Emily, the college girl across the hall who dog-sat Bogart while he was at work, was hung over when Brendon knocked on her door with a sheepish look, but she still took Bogart for him.
Brendon went into the centre even though it was his day off, because being around the kids helped calm him down. Tiffany, one of the more functionally autistic children, spotted him when he came in, and he ended up doing story time, which was not-so-secretly his favourite, anyway. Story time meant getting to dress up and sing and play the guitar or piano.
Brendon’s parents were constantly on his case about his choice of career, and it hadn’t helped matters when he’d gone to work at a non-profit location. But he’d paid for his master’s and doctorate himself, so he didn’t particularly care what they thought. Besides, Brendon loved music more than anything, and if he could use it to help these kids when nothing else could, then who was he to charge their parents for it. They got enough in grants to cover most of his basic needs, and since he’d started working at Panic!, he was bringing in enough to live comfortably.
Brendon stayed to help out at snack time, passing out treats and helping to get them cleaned up after. Then, he swallowed down his rising anxiety and headed for the restaurant. He had a little running dialogue going on in his head the entire train ride across town, about how stupid an idea this had been, and how he was going to fuck things up, or how Spencer was going to totally see right through him, and essentially, everything was going to end in disaster, plus Brendon would get fired, and…
Then Brendon turned the corner and Spencer was leaning against the front of the building, hips tilted, head back, and the voices in Brendon’s head were struck speechless.
The thing about Spencer Smith was that he was perfect. He was smart and successful and sarcastically funny, and he was so fucking talented, not just with food, but according to Jon and Pete at music, too.
And as if that wasn’t enough, he was seriously the hottest guy Brendon had ever met. Those eyes-Brendon had never seen anyone with eyes so blue, and he had this constant blush in his cheeks. Even in the kitchen, hair limp and greasy under his toque, figure hidden by his jacket, he was attractive. But here, hair glossy bright around his face, dressed in nicely tailored slacks and a black button down-here he was fucking gorgeous.
Spencer saw Brendon and straightened up, pushing off the wall and running a hand through his hair. It was so shiny in the sunlight. He blinked at Brendon a couple of times and Brendon shifted self-consciously, tugging on the zipper of his hoodie.
“You have a tattoo,” Spencer said, after a long moment.
Brendon started, touching his fingers to flowers exposed by the sleeve bunched up near his elbow. He turned his arm so Spencer could see better. “Is it…” Spencer took a step closer, reaching out like he was going to touch, then dropping his hand. His brow furrowed. “Is it a piano?”
“Yeah,” Brendon said dully. He wanted to tell Spencer more, but the words never seemed to come out right with anyone else. He didn’t see why this time should be any different.
“Pete mentioned you played a little piano, I think, when he hired you,” Spencer said, and Brendon should have been flattered that Spencer even remembered that, but instead he felt a little crushed.
“Yeah. Hey, should we go?” Brendon asked, edging down the sidewalk.
“Oh, yeah, I’ve got an appointment at the florist’s and the liquor store,” Spencer said. He spun his key chain around his finger. “You okay if I drive?”
“I don’t mind,” Brendon said, and he shouldn’t have been all that surprised to see Spencer’s gleaming silver BMW, but he was anyway. It had probably cost more than Brendon’s college education, with its heated leather seats and tinted windows and built-in GPS.
“So, what is it you’re studying, anyway?” Spencer asked, once he’d pulled out of his parking spot and into traffic. “I always mean to ask you, and then things are so crazy at work.”
“Um,” Brendon squeezed his knees together and stared at the stationary cars parallel parked as they drove past. “Actually. Ha. I don’t know where everyone gets this idea I’m in school. I mean, I’ve told them all, but I guess…” Brendon had a very firm rule about not turning emo, particularly not when talking to hot guys, so he cut himself off.
“Wait, so you’re not in school?” Spencer asked in confusion.
Brendon shook his head and spoke casually, like it was no big deal. “Nah. I graduated a couple years ago. During the day I work with a non-profit organisation. The work is cool, but I needed a little more income to support myself, so I ended up here.”
“But then…” Spencer trailed off, darting quick glances at Brendon as he drove. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight,” Brendon sighed.
“You’re…you’re older than me?” Spencer asked, looking stunned. Brendon got that reaction a lot, when people realised how old he was. Frankly, he didn’t get it. He didn’t think he looked that young. It was seriously annoying, too; he was always getting carded.
“In all fairness,” Brendon said, “you’re very young to be so well-established.”
Spencer flushed. “I wasn’t. I didn’t mean it was a bad thing,” Spencer stammered. “Just because you’re not-I mean, non-profit is a good thing.”
“Sure,” Brendon agreed sourly, thumbing at the rubber of the window gasket. “So, is the florist first?”
Spencer didn’t answer right away, and eventually Brendon turned his head to see Spencer frowning at the road. He sighed when he caught Brendon watching and nodded. “Yeah.” He drew a breath like he wanted to say something else, but then let it out without speaking. Brendon sat back in his seat, crossed his arms, and told himself it was stupid to be disappointed.
~*~
It wasn’t strictly a disaster. For one thing, they got a lot taken care of. The florist was helpful and remarkably indulgent considering their out-of-season demands and the short notice. The amount of money Spencer threw around probably didn’t hurt. In the end, they decided on sunflowers and orange blossom roses, with rust and cream hydrangeas, magnolias and olive sprays.
Many of them had to be shipped overnight and while Brendon didn’t see any exact figures, he still knew Spencer was spending more on fucking flower arrangements than the centre saw in donations in a year. And, well, Spencer couldn’t really be blamed for his lifestyle, but it still made Brendon really uncomfortable.
The liquor store was slightly better. The bar at Panic! was fully stocked, which took care of the hard liquor, but apparently Ross had made some requests regarding wine. They loaded the trunk of Spencer’s car with twelve cases of a variety of wines Brendon had never even heard of.
Spencer had to go back to the restaurant to meet up with Ross, but he gave Brendon the company card and asked him to take care of the favours and decorations, giving him a list of colours, patterns and preferences.
So, it wasn’t a disaster, but Brendon still parted from him feeling weird.
Jon called him after noon to tease him. “How was the date?” he asked.
“Shut up,” Brendon muttered morosely, kicking the linoleum flooring of the party store. Everything here was seriously generic and cheap looking. He was going to have to go somewhere else, and mostly what he wanted to do was curl up with Bogart and eat ice cream.
“What the fuck happened? You were all jazzed about it last night,” Jon said.
Brendon shrugged, as if Jon could see him. “I don’t know. I guess, maybe, we don’t have anything in common. He’s all like, oh look at my shiny BMW and my super awesome career, and oh, non-profit, that’s nice.”
“That sucks, dude, I’m sorry,” Jon said.
“Whatever. No big deal. He only has the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen, and these freckles I want to lick, and-”
“TMI, jackass,” Jon said pleasantly.
Brendon chuckled weakly. “Sorry, I’m just bummed out. I’ll get over it.”
“Hey, want help? I don’t have to be in until five,” Jon offered.
“Please,” Brendon said automatically.
“I know a place over on Lombard,” Jon said. Brendon had seen it in passing; it was only two stops away on the train. “Meet you there in twenty?”
Jon already had a cart full of ridiculous party favours when Brendon met him up. Brendon eyed the contents of the basket and gave Jon a look. “I hope those are for some other party you’re planning, which has nothing to do with Ryan Ross’ engagement,” he said.
“Snob,” Jon said, tossing a bunch of shiny pink and purple crackers in with the rest. “I’m planning a Brendon-Urie-Is-An-Awesome-And-Talented-Dude-Who-You-Should-Know bash.”
Brendon rolled his eyes, knocking his own cart against Jon’s. “That’s gonna be weird if I’m not there,” he said.
“I will kidnap you, Urie,” Jon said, all blasé.
This place was better than the last, and Brendon found some nice golden brocade tablecloths and lots of gold, orange and olive coloured organza to decorate the urns he’d gotten for the flower arrangements. Spencer planned on lowering the house lights and using candles for atmosphere, but Brendon found some hanging lanterns that looked appropriate for the theme.
As far as favours went, Spencer had mostly left that up to Brendon, indicating only that he wanted something for the place keepers. There were some neat wine corks that had been carved and could hold the names, and which could be inscribed with the couple’s name. Brendon ordered them and the matching place cards with the names on the list Spencer had given him, to be picked up the next morning. For the rest, he went ahead and got a bunch of one-time Polaroid cameras and golden picture frames set with orange and red crystals.
Afterwards, they had a late lunch at a café near Panic! and Jon made Brendon tell him all about the morning. “You know,” he said, over ice cream, because Jon always knew just how to cheer Brendon up, “you could have been a little better at the whole communication thing yourself.”
Brendon shrugged uncomfortably. “I just. I just couldn’t see how it would change things. I’ve got a stupid crush, so what? He’s still my boss and in a whole different class from me.”
“Granted that I don’t know the guy all that well, but Spencer doesn’t seem like the kind of person who cares how much money you make,” Jon said, and he sounded so reasonable.
“Yeah, well, he is the kind of guy who’d care about the whole employee/employer thing. He takes his job so seriously. I couldn’t relax around him. It would never work,” Brendon said. It was hopeless, and it was stupid for them to even keep discussing it.
“You’re really good at that,” Jon observed.
“Good at what?” Brendon asked, swirling his spoon in his dish. The ice cream was a melted mess by now.
“Finding excuses not to come to the party even when you’re invited, not letting Spencer get to know you even when he asks you a direct question about yourself,” Jon said casually.
Brendon dropped his spoon and glared across the table. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that you don’t want anyone getting any closer to you,” Jon said. “How long were you with your last boyfriend?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Brendon said, shoving his chair away from the table. “I talk to you all the time. I tell you all about myself.”
“Yeah,” Jon said, dipping his head in agreement. “And I had to practically fucking stalk you to get you to spend any time with me. And you don’t want to have sex with me.”
“Whatever, I’m done with this conversation,” Brendon said, grabbing his bags and storming out of the café. He heard Jon sigh, and felt a little bad, reminding himself to pay Jon for his half later, when he wasn’t so pissed.
The problem was, Jon wasn’t exactly wrong, and Brendon knew that. He just wasn’t any good at the opening-up thing. He’d spent so long surrounded by people who wanted nothing to do with him that he didn’t know how to react to people who did want to know him. He couldn’t help the thoughts that were always running through his head, telling him they didn’t actually want to hear the answers to the questions they asked-they were just being polite, or wanted something from him.
He would apologise, when Jon caught up with him at the restaurant. It wasn’t Jon’s fault that Brendon was an awkward freak who couldn’t keep a relationship going. Or even get one started, most of the time.
Pete, Jason, and Greta were at a booth in the back, table covered in papers. All three of them were on their cell phones, and from the snippets he heard on the way back to the kitchen, they were all taking care of arrangements for the party. Pete slammed his phone down on the table as Brendon went by, and he let out a curse.
“What’s up?” Brendon asked, eyebrows climbing up his forehead.
Patrick, Gabe, Bill and Cass were at the neighbouring booth, playing cards. Brendon was always envious of the way none of them had day jobs and could just hang out at Panic! all day, if they wanted to.
Pete swore rather creatively and Patrick leaned over the table and in a loud whisper said, “He’s trying to find entertainment for Ryan’s little shindig. I’ve got a gig tomorrow night, and Ryan wants something classical, anyway.”
Patrick was a great musician, but piano wasn’t his strong point by any stretch of the imagination. He was amazing on the guitar and drums, and his voice made Brendon shiver sometimes, but when it came to piano, Patrick didn’t do much that had been written before 1900.
“You know, I can play. I’ve had lessons, even,” Brendon said, maybe a little bitterly, but seriously. He was so tired of everyone just looking past him, and Jon was right. It was never going to change unless Brendon changed it.
Pete gave him a smirk, and well, it wasn’t mean. It was just Pete. But then he said, “Yeah, didn’t everyone’s mom make them take lessons? I’m afraid we need something a little more sophisticated than ‘Heart and Soul,’” and something in Brendon sort of snapped.
Brendon’s lips twisted into a sneer without his permission and Pete looked unimpressed. Okay, said Brendon’s aggressive head voice, fuck that noise. He dropped his multitude of bags on the nearest table, rolled his shoulders, and climbed the tiers of the stage, taking a seat at the piano bench. Patrick made a little, half-aborted noise of protest, but Brendon laid his fingers over the keys and began playing without really thinking.
It wasn’t a surprise, really, what his fingers began to play. He was fucking pissed and hurt and naturally he started playing the most difficult piece he’d ever learned. The piece he’d hated with a passion, practicing hour after hour-blindfolding himself at one point-working through each individual movement until his fingertips ached and he hated the individual notes, until one day he realised he’d somehow fallen in love with it.
The sonata started very slowly, the staccato notes played in piano. Pete’s lip curled up with disdain after the first two measures and Brendon thought vindictively, just wait. Pete said, “Okay Brendon, you showed me,” in this mocking drawl, and Brendon hadn’t intended to play the whole thing; the thought of sitting there for upwards of thirty minutes was just ridiculous. He’d just wanted to play enough to say hey, quit ignoring me.
Only Pete was impatient, and as Brendon neared the allegro energico, he said, “Seriously, that’s enough.” Bill hushed him, and Brendon wasn’t surprised that he would be the one to recognise the piece. Brendon ignored them both, continuing to play, and Pete rolled his eyes and picked his cell phone back up, muttering, “Whatever.”
Brendon straightened his spine as he began to play forte. Except, even though it began as showing off, he just couldn’t do that to the music. It was worth so much more than being used like that, to put Pete Wentz in his place, and by the middle of the first movement, Brendon had already forgotten his audience, eyes closed, soaking up every note.
Brendon loved playing Chopin and Verdi and Mozart, and he always had. His love affair with Liszt, however, was much more complex and went so much deeper. The music curled up inside him, making his heart pound and his head swim.
Every time he played the sonata, he experienced it differently. Mostly there was the anger and longing of the surface, but beyond that there was always something new to experience-profound sorrow, or reverence, or terror, building up in his chest, rising ever higher, climaxing with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction at the recapitulation.
He lost track of time playing, letting his hands move as they wished at the ponderous larghissimo parts, rising above the keys, drawing shapes in the pauses, falling back down like in a dream. Then, at the adagietto, trusting his fingers to keep up with the dizzying pace even when his mind couldn’t. Day after arduous day of practice had made it instinct, and he still couldn’t believe his ears when it came out right, couldn’t help the rush of incandescent pleasure at succeeding after he’d failed so many times before.
Then came the ending, slow and hesitant, almost like an afterthought, and as Brendon played the final notes, he could hear the stillness of the restaurant, the distant sound of traffic outside over the silence within.
He was trembling when he finished, sweat beading along his hairline, shirt clinging to his back, and he didn’t want to open his eyes. He wanted to stay here with Liszt, where he felt like someone understood him, and he knew when he opened his eyes that feeling of intense satisfaction and belonging would be gone.
“Dude,” Gabe said, and Brendon opened his eyes, blinking against the light in the room. They were all staring; Pete’s mouth was literally hanging open, his expression one of wonder, Greta had her eyes closed and a dreamy look on her face, and Bill’s eyes might as well have been hearts. Andrew, Alicia, and Mark had come in from the kitchen and were standing in the doorway, and at some point Jon had come in, and he was just smiling softly.
And yet, it didn’t feel like a victory. Brendon felt shaky and sick and he sort of hated himself right now. He got to his feet and each step felt overly precise as he went down the steps of the stage. He did his best to keep his face expressionless, because if he didn’t, he was sure it would just express defeat.
“Dude,” Gabe said again, and held out his fist. “Badass.”
Brendon bumped his fist to Gabe’s, said, “Thank you,” with as much dignity as he could, nodded at Pete, and headed for the back door via the kitchen.
Spencer was standing in the hallway, blocking his path, staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. “Was that-was that you?” Spencer asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
Brendon nodded haltingly. Spencer took a step closer, crowding Brendon up against the wall and Brendon’s heart started pounding again. He had to tilt his head back to meet Spencer’s eyes. “You were. That was.” Spencer paused and shook his head. “Brendon.”
There was a feeling of adrenaline-fuelled recklessness left over from playing, and that was the only excuse he had for grabbing Spencer by the undone ends of his neckerchief and hauling him down, fitting their mouths together.
Spencer made a startled sound, stumbling into Brendon and bracing his hands against the wall. And then he was kissing Brendon back, little hesitant brushes of his lips to Brendon’s, and that was all the incentive Brendon needed to push further. He lapped at Spencer’s mouth and when Spencer opened for him, licked inside. Spencer tasted vaguely of something tangy and spicy and Brendon chased the taste with his tongue, a thrill of arousal shooting down his spine when Spencer moaned.
They stumbled again, Brendon nudging Spencer the short distance across the hall to pin him, hold him in place while Brendon took his fill. Spencer’s hands fell on Brendon’s waist, touch light, but intimate. Brendon’s fingers hurt from clenching so tightly, but he couldn’t let go. He was sort of worried he might pass out if he didn’t keep holding on.
Then he shifted his hips, pressing his growing erection against Spencer’s thigh and Spencer jerked back as if burnt. His hands shifted, no longer holding Brendon but pushing him away. “God, I-I’m so sorry. That shouldn’t have-I shouldn’t have-I’m so sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s okay,” Brendon started to say, but Spencer cut him off.
“You should probably go,” he said. “I have to-I’m sorry.” Then he turned and all but ran out the back door, before Brendon could say anything. If he could have thought of anything to say.
Brendon slumped against the wall, out of breath, staring helplessly at the door, as if Spencer might come back and make sense of things. And then the adrenaline ebbed and it all sank in how much he’d just fucked up. Showing off even when Pete told him to stop, throwing himself at Spencer like some sex fiend.
Jon came through the kitchen door and when he spotted Brendon, he gave him a questioning look. Brendon waved him off, still trying to catch his breath, but Jon arched a brow and Brendon wondered what he looked like. His lips felt sensitive and he was sure he was blushing, and oh god.
“I can’t, Jon. I can’t do this,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Jon asked. “You totally put Pete in his place. He wants to fucking marry you right now. He’s talking about what a dilemma he’s facing because you’re his best server, but you belong on the stage.” Jon’s smile was purely excited, but Brendon just felt wrung out and empty.
“That’s great,” he said, because of course he had to go and ruin everything by molesting his boss, just when people were actually paying attention. Of course he had to fuck up this job, which he loved, by being stupid and impulsive.
“It is,” Jon said vehemently. “They all want to hear you play another.”
Brendon’s shoulders slumped and he rubbed his face. “I have to go, Spencer told me I should…go,” he said, and ignored Jon’s noise of protest as he left.
Part Two