Big Bang: Hold the Pose, Headers & Part 1/5
Well. It's been June 8th for a few hours for me, and since this will be an early day at work and I won't have much time tonight... It seems like a good idea to post my response to bandombigbang now! Also, whenever I rambled about this story in my LJ (hint: often), I called it Cleaner!Brendon, because I’m clever like that.
Bands: Panic-centric, with other Bandom members milling about the place
Pairings: Brendon/Ryan, Jon/Spencer (Gabe/William, Tom/Haley, Spencer/Haley, Brendon/Tom, Brendon/Cash, more mentioned)
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 42’000
Summary: In which Brendon cleans the apartment of published author Ryan Ross to finance his college studies, and Spencer opens up an Indian style café and hires Jon to brew his fair trade coffee.
Excerpt:
>> Brendon sorts through Ryan’s bathroom utensils while Nirvana is blasting from the speakers in the living room. Two tubes of toothpaste join a peaceful parade next to lip balm, moisturizing cream, aftershave and eyeliner that appears to have dried up.
It honestly wouldn’t have taken Spencer’s insinuation to figure out that Ryan’s not entirely straight.
To be fair, the lube in the bedroom drawer was a tiny clue, too, and yes, Brendon might have been snooping just a little. Anyone who’s in the middle of reading Ryan’s book would be curious, and Brendon’s especially curious where Ryan hides all the drugs he must have been doing during the writing process, churning out page after page when he was only nineteen. Against the background of Behind the Sea, it’s also easier to make sense of the scribbled notes Ryan leaves lying around, the tone and particular way in which Ryan phrases things slightly more familiar. Some of them have Brendon’s fingers itching with music. Ryan’s writing is even more lyrical when it’s torn out of context, isn’t bundled up neatly within a chapter.
Brendon refrains. It’s really not his place to leave a mark like that on things he’s merely supposed to straighten up. <<
Cheesiest thank you section, ever, no really: softlyforgotten - you rock my world, baby; dimmingdivine - no one can get in the way of your awesome; tardis80 - your ideas were like guiding stars; inderpal - you will always be blue and sparkly to me; the patient f-list - where would I be without you?; the Big Bang mods - &hearts .
[Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five]
[Bonus Fanart: One and Two by
saint_vee]
[Bonus music: Where once were eucalyptus trees by squigglepie - Soundtrack by pearldrop]
Disclaimer: Fiction.
=======================
Hold the Pose
Part 1
___________________
It began as a joke: When Brendon started college, high on getting out of Vegas and too overwhelmed with his scholarship to take into account all the additional expenses a college student might have to cover, he announced that if he never had to stand behind a counter again, he’d die a happy man, and that he’d rather work as an erotic cleaner than mix another smoothie. It was an hour after Jon had introduced himself as Brendon’s new roommate. When Jon grinned and mentioned his Starbucks job, Brendon felt momentarily horrified. Then Jon laughed and asked, “So, naked cleaning, huh?”
“Clothes are for the physically repressed,” Brendon replied.
“Like shoes?” Jon asked.
Brendon nodded emphatically, and just like that, he’d made his first friend.
Two years later, the whole cleaning thing doesn’t seem like such a joke anymore. Okay, Brendon isn’t desperate enough to consider erotic cleaning or whatever the official label is; fuck knows just how weird a person has to be to get off on someone scrubbing their floors in the nude. Ordinary cleaning, though - it doesn’t sound quite so bad anymore. As long as he finds a way to fix his appointments illicitly, he won’t even have to worry about taxes deducting half of it, or something. Brendon doesn’t know very much about taxes.
When he shows Jon his draft for an inconspicuous job ad, Jon, the fucker, spends several minutes laughing before he calms down. Then he takes another look at Brendon’s face and dissolves into laughter once again while Brendon stands with his arms crossed, glaring.
Since Jon agrees to put the ad up during his next shift at the Starbucks, Brendon still counts it as a win.
--
Brendon’s phone rings in the middle of his Theory class. He scrambles to turn it off, but of course the fucking thing has sneakily wormed its way to the bottom of his backpack because that’s just the way Brendon’s life works, okay? By the time his fingers find the mute button, the entire class is staring at him, including Professor Stump. He’s short and hides his red hair under a stunning selection of trucker hats, and usually, he likes Brendon. If there’s one thing Stump doesn’t like, though, it’s cell phones going off in his class. He takes his music seriously.
“Mr. Urie.” Stump’s voice is quiet and level. “Do you think I can continue now?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Brendon lowers his head. “I forgot to turn it off, sorry. Won’t happen again.”
“Yes, I hope so.” Another moment of silence, and then Stump picks back up right where he left off, detailing the significance of enharmonic spelling. Brendon breathes out as attention is directed away from him. He should probably be grateful William is sick today, or he’d never let Brendon hear the end of it - if Stump takes his music seriously, William considers it a matter of life or death. Coupled with his prejudices against modern technology and the enhancement of miscommunication through cell phones (he has a theory on it, complete with diagrams, and it took Gabe several months until William caved), it makes for an explosive mixture.
Brendon sets his chair on its two hind legs, absently listening to Stump while mild curiosity makes him anticipate the end of the lesson. The number on the display wasn’t a familiar one.
He’s certainly not so popular that random people just call him out of the blue to invite him to parties and the likes; they’re more likely to call if they can’t get behind a difficult music assignment. Brendon doesn’t mind those calls as much as Jon tells him he should. On the whole, though, he much prefers the idea that it might be someone calling about his job ad. Jon does work the morning shift today, and if Jon Walker promises he’ll put up a note, then putting up a note is what he does. He’s awesome like that.
At another glance from Stump, Brendon sets his chair back down and resumes taking notes. William will ask for them later anyway, so it’s a matter of self-preservation. Well, it would be if William weren’t just a willowy wisp of air who couldn’t hurt a fly. Which doesn’t really make much sense at all, but, yeah. The point is: self-preservation.
--
Brendon waits until he’s out of the building before he calls back. Around him, students are rushing towards the cafeteria, and he feels like the only one going at a normal pace. It’s not a common experience for him. He sits down on a deserted bench, even though the weather too cold to remain stationary for long, and counts the rings in his head. They’re hardly audible over the noise of garbage men emptying the trashcans just left of the cafeteria’s entrance.
He’s at five when someone picks up with a curt, “Yeah?”
“Uh.” Brendon watches a group of college kids pass him by, one guy laughing loudly, shoving at another one’s shoulder. “I think you called me earlier. This is Brendon Urie?”
“Oh, right.” The male voice changes from distracted to alert. “You might want to be a little less obvious about planning to dodge taxes and all. Your job ad.”
“I’m not planning to-”
The guy laughs. It’s not a mean sound. “Yeah, you are. I talked to your friend, Jon. And my name’s Spencer, by the way, Spencer Smith.”
Brendon sounds it out in his head; Smith, Spencer Smith. It rings like a cop’s name, but Brendon’s fairly certain Jon would have warned him. Jon’s people instincts are hardly ever wrong. Also, it’s not exactly likely some police person would bother with a tiny little job ad, right?
“Okay, Spencer Smith.” Brendon grins slightly to himself, then feels like a dork. But then, no one’s paying attention to him, so it doesn’t matter. “So, why did you call? What can I do for you?”
“Not for me, really,” Spencer replies. “Family. Ryan, he’s… already pretty busy with writing his new book, so he could use someone to clean the apartment for him, once a week.”
“Ryan?”
There’s a short pause. “My brother.”
“You’re getting someone to clean your brother’s apartment?” Brendon draws one leg up onto the bench, wiggling his toes in the sneakers he found yesterday. They were pretty. And red. His resolve just wasn’t that strong.
“It’s a long story,” Spencer says. He sounds weary. “So, you interested?”
“Definitely.” For emphasis, Brendon wiggles his toes once more.
“Good.” There’s a pause. With the garbage men gone, Brendon thinks he hears rustling paper on the other end of the line. “Anyway,” Spencer picks up again, “Ryan’s leaving for a mini book tour this afternoon, so I don’t think he’ll have time to show you where all the stuff is in his apartment. I’m not sure he knows, even. We could meet up tomorrow, though, and I’ll do it. Jon said you’re a music student?”
“Yeah. I have three classes tomorrow, but I’m free after two.” Another toe wiggle. The sneakers are bright, still clean and new. Maybe after his first shift, Brendon will feel less guilty about spending those 50 bucks.
“My last class ends at three,” Spencer says. “We could meet on campus afterwards, and then walk. It’s only a couple of minutes, and then we can also talk about your pay and all that.”
“Sounds good.” Brendon hopes the grin isn’t too obvious in his voice. Revealing just how badly he could use some extra money could put him at a disadvantage, pay-wise.
--
“He’s nice,” Jon says. “Spencer, I mean. Nice.” Then he knocks a glass over. Brendon is really, really proud he doesn’t immediately burst out laughing.
Four seconds isn’t immediately.
--
Light brown hair, chin length, and a slight beard - that’s about the extent of Jon’s description skills. He’d suck as an investigator.
Brendon leans against the wall and casually tries to look like someone who isn’t being stood up or has no friends to wait with him. He considers digging out his cell phone and sending Gabe a nonsense text mirroring the ones he always receives, just so he doesn’t appear desperate. Spencer is hardly even two minutes late yet. Brendon really needs to work on his cool façade.
He shifts his stance, looks up at the clouded sky, stuffs his hands in his pockets. The denim pulls uncomfortably tight. Maybe he should have worn something less… Well. Something less like what he’s wearing now. Old jeans might have looked more professional.
Wow, okay. Brendon is worried about not looking like a professional cleaner. What’s his life coming to?
“Sorry I’m late,” a guy says from beside him. “Brendon, right? Jon showed me a picture so I’d recognize you.”
Brendon turns, already grinning. “Yeah, he should have taken one of you, too. His descriptions suck.”
Spencer’s lips quirk up while his gaze quickly sweeps over Brendon, pausing at the shoes before flitting back up to his face. Brendon tries not to mind the scrutiny. It’s only to be expected, if he’s to be given free rein over the elusive brother’s apartment for three hours a week. “So,” Spencer says.
Brendon makes a conscious effort to look trustworthy and cool at the same time, at ease instead of jittery and nervous like someone who really could use some extra money. If all else fails, Brendon can still go back to the Smoothie Hut, probably, or work as a waiter. Working as a waiter wouldn’t be quite as much like going back on his word. “So your brother’s an author?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Spencer seems disinclined to add anything else.
“Okay, that’s cool.” Brendon smiles and rocks back on his heels. “So he’s not around a lot and needs someone to clean his apartment once a week, right?”
“Right.” There’s an awkward pause while Spencer is studying Brendon’s face, his clear blue eyes sharp, and Jon said he’s nice, but Jon has a thing for blue eyes, so it’s entirely possible he was biased in his opinion of Spencer. At least Spencer’s too young to be a cop. Probably. Brendon hasn’t met a lot of cops in his life.
“You said it wasn’t far from here?” Brendon asks.
“Just a few minutes by foot.” Suddenly, Spencer’s focused expression relaxes. “Let’s go, yeah? I can tell you a little on the way.”
Brendon takes his hands out of his pockets and nods quickly. “Sounds good, yes. Yeah. Great.”
“Okay, this way.” Spencer points to their right, in the direction of where Jon’s Starbucks is located.
The majority of other students is moving towards them, back onto the campus after the noon break, so they have to weave their way around groups of people. It makes talking difficult for the first couple of minutes, before the sidewalk clears somewhat and allows them to walk next to each other. In passing, Brendon absently trails his fingers over a sentence fragment that showed up on the yellowish wall of a house some days ago, simple black letters, different from the white-toothed monsters and swirling colors in the pedestrian underpass up ahead; if all in life is but a dream.
When he finds Spencer watching him closely, he quickly pulls his hand back.
(Art by
saint_vee)
The corners of Spencer’s lips seem to twitch with a smile. He hitches his backpack higher up and suddenly looks a lot younger, about Brendon’s age. “Jon told me you’re studying music?”
“Yeah, um. Piano and voice, yeah.” Brendon would really fucking appreciate if he didn't turn into a bumbling idiot every time he gets nervous. He chances a sideways glance at Spencer. “I never really wanted to do anything else, really. I mean, not that other stuff isn't cool, too, it is, it's just... not for me.”
Bumbling. Idiot.
“That's pretty brave, if you ask me.” It's hard to make out Spencer's expression in the dim light of the underpass, but Brendon has a feeling that it wouldn't be much easier in glaring sunshine. Jon liked Spencer, though, so for the sake of Jon's people skills, Brendon will just assume that 'brave' wasn't backhanded code for 'stupid.'
“Because it's not that easy to find a job, you mean?” he asks.
“Yeah.” On the periphery of his vision, Brendon catches Spencer's brief nod. It's only when they pass over a metal gutter that Brendon notices Spencer's shoes are pink. Pink. Seriously?
Then again, Brendon's shoes are red. According to Jon, that automatically disqualifies him for criticizing anyone else's fashion style. Jon's full of shit, though; Brendon has an amazing fashion sense that Jon only doesn't appreciate because he thinks a shirt with white and blue stripes is daring.
“Well.” Brendon steps over a dirty page of yesterday's newspaper. “Like I said, I never felt like I had much of a choice. It was just always what I wanted to do, I never gave the consequences much thought.” Come to think of it, taking up a cleaning job just might be an omen. He doesn't say that out loud.
“I’m studying law only because of the consequences,” Spencer says. It's impossible to read his tone.
Brendon glances at him. “As long as you like it, why not?”
“What if I don't?”
Is this some kind of test? “Then you should probably switch majors,” Brendon says carefully.
“Probably,” Spencer echoes. There's a pause, and Brendon wonders if he said the wrong thing, if this was a test and he failed. He didn't think it would be this hard to get a cleaning job. Suddenly, Spencer stops in front of a graying building. “This is it,” he says, and adds, after only a short break, “And really, I think my parents wouldn't appreciate me ditching a sure thing all that much.”
“Your brother did it.” Brendon watches Spencer sort through a set of keys. “I mean, writing books isn't really a foolproof way to get rich, either. So, it might have prepared them already? I mean. Well.” Nothing, that’s what Brendon means. He’s certainly not qualified to give family advice that anyone should take seriously.
“Ryan's different,” Spencer says flatly. He jams the key into the lock, and Brendon interprets it as a signal that their conversation is over. He nods meekly and follows Spencer into the building.
“It’s on the second floor.” Spencer motions towards the staircase, turning his head slightly as he leads the way. “It’s not a big apartment, but pretty cluttered, so you’ll have to move some stuff around while you go through it.”
“Should I be expecting roaches?”
Spencer laughs. His whole face lights up with it, and Brendon can kind of see what made Jon knock over a glass. Besides, Jon has a type. He doesn’t like it when Brendon calls him on it, but it’s so very true. “No roaches,” Spencer says. He speaks over his shoulder as he climbs up the stairs, Brendon hot on his heels. “Tons of books, though. Dusty books. And little notes scattered everywhere. Ryan agreed to have you gather them all up on his desk.”
“Sounds cool. Kind of like an absentminded movie professor.” Brendon grins and runs his hand over the worn wood of the banister. It’s an old house, not particularly fancy, but nice. The steps are made of stone.
Spencer pauses, and then he snorts. “I’ll tell Ryan you said that.”
“Uh.”
“No, really. It’s spot-on, and you haven’t even met him.” Spencer fumbles with his keys again before he finds the right one and unlocks the apartment door. There’s a small, hand-written nametag above the doorbell: Ryan Ross.
The name vaguely rings a bell; Brendon might have heard of him, or read a blurb or something. Also, it’s Ryan Ross, not Ryan Smith. Weird. From Spencer’s descriptions, it doesn’t sound like Ryan’s the type to marry and then change his last name to that of the woman (or guy, whichever), and Spencer doesn’t seem the type either. Especially considering he’s in his early twenties.
“Ryan’s your older brother?” Brendon asks, following into the apartment. In the entrance area, leather shoes are spilling out of a tiny shelf onto the honey-colored wooden floor, and a coat rack looks close to collapsing under the weight of its load. Most of it is tweed jackets, brown and gray, with some black pinstripes thrown in for good measure. The radiator suffers under a pile of paisley-patterned scarves.
“He’s a year older, yeah.” Spencer gives Brendon a quick glance that Brendon can’t quite read. It’s not an invitation to continue this conversation, though.
Brendon smiles and pointedly looks around, towards where light is streaming into the hallway from the kitchen. “So, let’s get started, right? Where are the cleaning utensils, and what do you want me to do, precisely?”
--
Spencer didn’t exaggerate: Ryan’s apartment is a horst of books, loose paper and dust bunnies. To Brendon’s relief, Spencer doesn’t hang around while Brendon cleans; he shows him the basic layout and explains what needs to be done before he retreats to Ryan’s bedroom.
Brendon comes in a couple hours later, after going through the kitchen and the living room with a vacuum cleaner, a mop and a rag, leaving behind neatly stacked mountains of books and piles of paper. He’s also fairly proud of the shining kitchen tiles. While he did read most of the notes pinned to the fridge (random sentence fragments, sometimes just single words or expressions that appear to have caught Ryan’s attention, a few things that almost resemble lyrics), he thinks he worked pretty efficiently, all things considered.
His mother taught him well. He ignores the stab of bitterness at the thought.
Spencer looks up when Brendon enters the bedroom. He’s sprawled on the bed, a heavy-looking law book open in front of him. His whole posture suggests he’s utterly at ease in this room, on this bed. “Done already?”
“Just with the kitchen and the living room,” Brendon says. “Not sure what I should do with the balcony, and I wanted to do the bathroom last.”
“Okay. Then I’ll clear out of here, right?” Spencer’s smile is easy, and he snaps his book shut and rolls off the bed. Brendon glances around the room. Like the living room, it’s dominated by books, a shelf on one wall reaching the ceiling. Two guitars are leaning against it, and, oh. Ryan owns a Takamine, and Brendon wants. He tears his gaze away with some effort.
Books are cluttered around the bed, and the desk is barely visible under a wild mess of what looks like tax formulas, official and informal letters and notes. A blackboard next to the desk displays a collection of pictures, some of them showing Spencer with a dark-haired, skinny guy who looks like some sort of cowboy pinup in one, and like a young grandfather in three more. He’s also in a couple of other pictures, so that probably makes him Ryan Ross.
While Spencer gathers up his book and backpack, Brendon takes another look at the pictures of Spencer and Ryan. They don’t resemble each other even a little.
Brothers. Hmm. Coupled with the different last names…
Maybe that’s what the kids are calling it, these days. Or maybe Brendon’s imagination is simply overactive.
--
Brendon’s halfway through the bathroom when Spencer shows up, leaning against the doorframe with one hip cocked to the side. “I just got a call from my girlfriend. She needs me to pick her up at the train station.”
So much for Brendon’s brotherhood theory, then. Also, so much for Jon’s chances with Spencer. Also, Brendon should stop fixating on Jon’s love life just because his own sucks.
“Okay.” Brendon brushes hair out of his eyes with a soapy hand. He should get a cut sometime in the near future. “D’you want me to just leave it like this? I mean, I’m done with the worst of it.”
“How about I give you the money now, and you’ll just let yourself out whenever you’re done?”
Brendon drapes the rag over the sink and brushes his hair back again. “Aren’t you worried I’ll steal the drafts for your brother’s next book, or something? Not that I would. I mean, just, hypothetically, I could.”
It’s the eloquence, stupid.
“I know where your friend works, and your phone number. Also, I have a friend who works as a bouncer.” Spencer’s grin is edged, but genuine. “So, really, I’m not particularly worried.”
“Fair enough.” Brendon dries his hands on a towel and isn’t quite sure how to get started on the whole money aspect. He’s always been bad at asking for things, and he kind of assumed this was only a test run.
“Ryan feels bad about making someone clean after his ass,” Spencer states, completely out of the blue. “He should.”
Brendon shrugs. “I’m not exactly complaining, am I?”
“Nah. The point is, I asked around, and the average pay for cleaning seems to be about 50 bucks for a small apartment twice a month, but since it’d be on a weekly basis and you also have to pick up stuff and all… Although you don’t need to mop the floor every time.” Spencer’s expression is unnecessarily apologetic. “We thought 150 would be fair? Half at the beginning of each month, and half at the end?”
It’s more than Brendon expected, nearly enough to cover the monthly half of what he and Jon pay for their apartment. He nods and gives Spencer a bright smile. “Fine with me.”
“Alright.” Spencer looks relieved. “Then Ryan will leave the first half on the table next time, if he’s not there, okay? And we can meet beforehand, like today, so I can let you in.”
This cleaning thing is pretty simple, so far. Or maybe Brendon’s just lucky in his clients. “Sounds good,” he says.
“Great. And hey, speaking of sounds…” Spencer points a thumb over his shoulder. “Feel free to dig into Ryan’s music collection, he doesn’t mind. Or you can hook up your iPod, or something.”
Brendon should do this for the rest of his life. His fingertips are pruney and the cleaning agent doesn’t smell of roses, but on the whole, it’s definitely a step up from mixing smoothies for impatient customers. The mere smell of bananas is still enough to turn his stomach upside down.
--
The afternoon air smells of spring when Brendon steps back out onto the street. It must have rained while he was cleaning because the pavement is dark and wet. He probably missed it while he was going through the windowless guest toilet with his earbuds in, moving his rag to the rhythm of Santana’s Supernatural.
In front of the building, he stands still for a moment. He could go back to his place, but the Starbucks is just around the corner, and if Brendon remembers Jon’s schedule correctly, he should be working right now.
Brendon turns left.
It’s only a couple of minutes to the Starbucks. Even before Brendon enters, his senses are attacked by the delicious smell of roasted coffee beans that Jon told him is all part of the business concept - lure the people in with mouth-watering aromas and rob them of their money while their judgment is clouded. Brendon’s never been particularly good at resisting any kind of temptation. His parents can testify.
He tries to catch a glimpse through the window to make sure it’s not too crowded inside. It isn’t.
Also, Tom’s behind the counter.
Holy crap, why didn't Jon tell him he was working with Tom today? Jon knows Brendon's trying to avoid running into Tom unprepared. It's the whole bumbling idiot thing again. Unfortunately Tom's already seen Brendon through the glass and is waving at him. Brendon squares his shoulders, tries to control his smile and pushes the door open.
The Starbucks welcomes him with a dark wooden interior and puffy armchairs. There are only a few customers in right now, so Brendon has no excuse to hang back, and besides, it’s not like he really wants to stay away from Tom, he does enjoy the prickling in his stomach, revels in it, even. It’s just…
Yeah, that. He has this irrational fondness for keeping his dignity.
“Brendon, hey!” Tom’s face is open and friendly, one more reason why it’s very easy to have a crush on him. His hair’s a little tousled today, growing out again even though he always complains it’s more of a hassle when it’s getting too long.
Brendon gives an awkward wave. “Hi, you’re working today?” Well, obviously. God. “How’s it going?”
“Good, good. Rush is over.” Tom sets his elbows on the counter, and shit, that smile. If Tom weren’t straight, Brendon would do something about it, seriously. He totally would. Really.
“So, a hot chocolate for you?” Tom asks.
“Vanilla frappuccino, please? They’re awesome. So much delicious sugar, and with the whipped cream and the ice, and also, caffeine, Tom.” Brendon needs to stop talking, like, yesterday.
Fortunately, that’s when Jon straightens behind the counter, two bottles of syrup in his hands and a shit-eating grin on his face. Even if he’d written it on his forehead, it couldn’t be more obvious he deliberately took his time rescuing Brendon from tripping over his own tongue.
“You know you’re not allowed caffeine after six,” Jon says.
“It’s five fifty-seven,” Brendon protests.
“It’ll be six by the time Tom’s done mixing. And…” Jon sets the syrup down and slings an easy arm around Tom’s shoulder because… Because sometimes he’s mean and likes to rub in that he can do what Brendon only wishes for. “And since I’m the one living with you, well, I don’t feel like putting up with you for the rest of the night.”
Brendon gives him an exaggerated leer. “You know you love putting up with me all night long.”
“Can’t resist you, baby.” Jon’s tone is bored. “You’re still not getting anything caffeine-related from me.”
“Tom?” Brendon asks hopefully. He glances at Tom’s face and quickly away again. If Brendon’s lucky, his ears aren’t turning red. He’s rarely lucky, though.
“Tom does as I tell him,” Jon says. He’s openly grinning at Brendon, the asshole.
Brendon narrows his eyes. Some best friend, seriously. “You are not the king of Tom.”
“He knows where my guitar lives,” Tom puts in.
Jon looks delighted. “Good point. So, anyway, Brendon. While Tom makes you hot chocolate with whipped cream, you can tell me about your cleaning job. Was there dirty underwear and used condoms on the floor?”
“You work as a cleaner?” Tom asks. His grin is showing through the tone. Brendon’s life is so unfair.
“Thank you, Jon.” Brendon instills his voice with as much sarcasm as he manages, but he’s never been very good at that sort of thing. “And no, no disgusting stuff. Just a few dust bunnies, but otherwise lots of books and paper. Told you the guy’s a writer. Ryan Ross, if you’ve heard of him?”
“I think I read his book,” Tom says. Brendon tries not to look as surprised as he is; he never thought Tom was much into reading. In between taking amazing, beautiful photos that Brendon frequently gushes over, it seems rather unfair that Tom also has time to be intelligent. And hot, of course. Also, straight.
“Wait, the one with the guy who just, like, ticks out because his girlfriend kicks him out? And then he loses himself in drug trips and stuff? That one?” Jon finally drops his arm from around Tom’s shoulders and leans sideways against the counter.
“I think so, yeah. Behind the Sea, I think?” Tom nods.
“Dude, that was weird.” Jon makes it sound like a good thing. Well, he would. He’s officially a pro at all things to do with drug trips - the harmless marihuana ones, at least. The point is, Jon’s an expert.
“Why has everyone but me read his book?” Brendon molds himself to the counter to let a woman and her daughter pass. The girl is demanding a refill of her hot chocolate.
Come to think of it, mhmm, hot chocolate.
“Also,” Brendon tilts his head, “hot chocolate?”
“Tom can make it,” Jon says.
Tom crosses his arms. “Why me?”
“Because Brendon would really, really like you to make it,” Jon says. One of these days, Brendon is going to kill him. It’ll be short and painless, okay, but Brendon is most definitely going to just sneak into Jon’s room at night, and that’ll be that. No more comments so clearly aimed at making Brendon fumble even more than he already is with Tom around.
“Hey, Jon?” Brendon pastes a bland smile onto his face. “Guess who’s straight?”
“Not you,” Tom says.
“Tom?” Jon suggests. Ass.
“Spencer,” Brendon tells him triumphantly. “At least he has a girlfriend. So, straight or bi, but definitely a girlfriend. No luck there, dude.”
Jon frowns. “Doesn’t mean shit. And I’m so not going to make you a hot chocolate now.”
“Spencer?” Tom asks. Then his confused expression clears. “Oh, hey, is that the guy you were drooling over yesterday? The one with the beard and the blue eyes and the pink shoes?”
“Okay, seriously, how are you straight?” Brendon asks. Then he feels like slapping himself. His stomach feels kind of cold.
“It’s one of nature’s miracles.” Tom lifts one shoulder and smiles, and right now, Brendon is just really, very, inordinately glad that one of Tom’s few shortcomings is a spectacular amount of obliviousness.
Jon laughs. Tom walks around him to gather the ingredients for Brendon’s hot chocolate, also reaching for the white chocolate sprinkles that aren’t officially part of the drink. Brendon is oh so in love. Really, he is. It’s a distant kind of love, more like admiration from afar, but it’s impossible to deny.
--
Ryan Ross.
Amazon does, indeed, give Brendon a number of hits, four different versions of a book called Behind the Sea - hardcover, paperback, audio book, another paperback - as well as one contribution to a collection of short stories. Brendon chooses the hardcover version of Behind the Sea.
Nearly 2,000 reviews, with an average of four-point-five stars. Okay then. Apparently, Brendon’s been sleeping through the last couple of years of modern pop literature, or whatever the genre’s called.
He shakes his head at his laptop, takes another bite of his sandwich and scrolls down to the summary.
‘It’s just one mistake, but one with consequences: Paul cheats on his girlfriend of three years, and she dumps him. True to Joni Mitchell, Paul doesn’t know what he’s got till it’s gone. His ensuing struggle to come to terms with the world and himself reads like a nightly roadtrip down a deserted highway with the headlights out, the windows pulled down, Nirvana blasting from the speakers and a joint glowing orange in the darkness. It’s a portrait of an American youth who lost his direction.’
Huh. Sounds rather difficult to digest. But then, arts majors like Jon and Tom might go for that sort of thing, Brendon supposes - not that he has much room to talk, given he’s an arts major himself.
After a moment’s consideration, Brendon clicks back to the paperback edition, adds it to his cart and proceeds to the checkout. He can spare 8 bucks to find out a little more about the guy who'll pay three quarters of his rent, from now on.
--
Brendon’s always been better at concentrating when he is around people. Cafés are his favorite working spot, and since Jon’s shifts keep him in a steady supply of free drinks and occasional cookies, the Starbucks usually wins out. It’s not the coziest place to be, too standardized to feel like a second home, but definitely the cheapest.
He managed to secure himself a spot at his favorite table near the window, his things spread out around him - three different scores, a notebook, pens and the paperback of Behind the Sea that he fished out of the mailbox on his way out. Since it’s only afternoon, Jon also granted him a vanilla frappuccino that is sitting precariously close to the edge. Brendon picks it up while glancing over at the counter, and, wait. Isn’t that…?
Spencer, yes. Leaning over the counter as he’s talking to Jon, ass jutting out. Well, well.
Brendon leans back in his armchair, sucking on his straw as he makes sure that Jon catches his smirk.
It’s only a couple of minutes before Spencer leaves without ever noticing Brendon. Jon watches him go until the door closes before he comes over to Brendon’s table, rag in one hand to keep up appearances, a threatening scowl firmly in place.
“Not a word,” he warns.
Brendon lets the straw slide out of his mouth with a slurping noise. “Hate to see him go, but love to watch him leave, right?”
“Shut up.”
Brendon smiles sweetly. “Or?”
Jon’s narrow-eyed glare is proof that he can do threats with the best of them, if he sets his mind to it. “Or I’ll tell Tom you want to have his babies.”
“You wouldn’t,” Brendon says, testing.
“Millions of babies,” Jon says. “Adopt little girls from China. Eat toast for breakfast and takeout for dinner, watch TV at night.”
Brendon considers it for about three seconds. Then he decidedly lifts the cup back up to his mouth and mutters a half-hearted, “I hate you,” around the straw. It's bitten flat already, not nearly enough vanilla frappuccino when he sucks on it. "And you need to stop listening to Lily Allen."
Jon’s reply consists of patting Brendon’s head. Sometimes, Brendon wonders why all his friends suck. Well, except for William, because William’s nice when he’s not trying to convince Brendon that medieval chamber music is the new black, or something like that. Come to think of it, Gabe isn’t so bad, either. Maybe that’s why the two work as a couple. Not all of Brendon's friends are loveless losers. Just most of them.
“Hate,” he repeats uselessly.
--
This time, Spencer's already there when Brendon gets to their meeting point. He's talking to someone on the phone and says a rushed goodbye when he sees Brendon, smiling in greeting. Considering Brendon was afraid Spencer might be kind of a bitch at first, it's surprising how much he's really not.
“Sorry,” Spencer says. “I was just talking to Ryan about getting a spare key done for you, so you can just let yourself in.”
Ryan, right. Ryan Ross, whose best-selling book is resting peacefully at the bottom of Brendon's bag, and who apparently doesn’t have many qualms about handing a near-stranger a key to stalk him and sell the results to the media, or something along those lines. Then again, chances are that few magazines would be interested in an author’s dirty underwear. Probably. Even if Ryan is rather popular with a specific generation.
“Uh, okay. I mean, that'd be cool.” Brendon nods his head. “Just, aren't you worried- Wait, I asked you about that, already, right?”
“Still have a friend who's a bouncer, still know where your friend works.” Spencer looks amused.
“Speaking of Jon,” Brendon says, falling into step when Spencer motions towards Ryan's apartment. “D'you come to the Starbucks often?”
“Huh?” Spencer glances over.
“Saw you last week. You seemed sorta in a hurry after talking to Jon, though, so I didn't, like, go over.”
“Right.” Spencer sounds briefly uncomfortable before he lifts one shoulder, a wry upwards quirk to his mouth. “I don't really like the Starbucks, or their coffee, but it's close.”
“It's kind of expensive, isn't it? Well,” Brendon amends. “It would be if Jon didn't give me the drinks for free when he's working. So, not so bad.”
“Their coffee's bad,” Spencer says. “So's their interior. I mean, black armchairs and dark wood? C'mon, who does that?” A beat. “Angels & Kings doesn't count. Pete's always been able to get away with that sort of thing.”
“Angels & Kings?” Brendon asks.
“Trendy bar by the river. A friend of Ryan's owns it. Pete Wentz?”
While Brendon hasn't heard of Angels & Kings - well, now that Spencer explained it, he might have heard someone mention it in passing - he’s sure heard of Pete Wentz. There aren't that many post-docs who throw away their university teaching position to plunge into risky business enterprises. The man's somewhat of a legend.
“I have heard of Pete,” Brendon says. “I just don't really-” go out a lot “-go to bars that aren't close to campus, I guess.”
Spencer doesn't appear to have noticed the moment of hesitation. “You should. Pete has a knack for hiring good live bands, you'd probably like it.”
“Then I guess I’ll give it a try.” The writing in black marker is still there, if a little more faded than last time. Brendon trails his fingers over it and tries to think of something to keep the conversation going.
“What kind of music do you like, anyway?” Spencer stuffs his hands in his pockets. His t-shirt sports a glittering Minnie Mouse. “I mean, I always thought music students would be into classical music or those geeky dissonances us mere mortals don’t get, you know? Clichés all the way.”
Brendon laughs. “Dude, I should introduce you to my friend William someday. Bill’s really totally as stereotypical as you can get.”
“So you’re not so much into the classical side of things, then?”
“At least not into medieval chamber music,” Brendon says. “I do love some classical stuff, though. Satie’s great, and Chopin, and-” And mostly people really don’t want to listen to Brendon’s ramblings about music. He cuts himself off.
“Chopin?” Spencer’s voice is both fond and exasperated. “Ryan discovered this CD a while ago, by a young Asian guy playing Chopin. He won the Warsaw Competition or something like that, pretty famous, and he was only nineteen. Most of Ryan’s book was written with that as a soundtrack. I think,” there’s a slight, barely noticeable shift to Spencer’s tone, “that Ryan really just had a crush on the guy, but hey.”
The statement is followed by a quick, searching glance at Brendon - as if Brendon would look down on someone else being gay, right. Which part of Brendon wearing a lavender hoodie did Spencer miss? Considering he seems to be into stereotypes, the hoodie should have been a dead give away.
“I think you mean Yundi Li,” Brendon says brightly. “He is pretty hot, yeah. I saw him in concert, a couple of years ago, and… Yeah. Also, he’s really, really good. I actually prefer his Lizt stuff, though.”
“Don’t tell Ryan,” Spencer advises. “Or he’ll buy it, and then it’ll be another three months for me listening to the same CD over and over again.”
“I haven’t even met Ryan yet, so I don’t think that’s much of a risk.”
“He’s out a lot. He doesn’t really like writing at home, and since his publisher is pressing for at least a rough draft of the first few chapters of the new book…” The keys clink together when Spencer pulls them out of his pocket.
“I get that,” Brendon says. “I work best when I’m sitting in a café. Less temptation to sort my music collection and all.”
“Maybe I should try it, too. I sure could use something to boost my concentration.” Spencer unlocks the door and holds it open.
Brendon brushes past him, turning towards the stairs. “Exam coming up?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Spencer’s tone is long-suffering. “Sometimes, it feels like all my professors are sadists.”
“I know the feeling.” Brendon’s bag knocks against the metal bars of the banister, and he switches it to his other shoulder.
“You’re telling me it’s not just a law professor specialty?”
“Well, they’re probably worse.” Brendon aims for a knowledgeable tone when all he really knows is that the law department is rather fond of suits held in cheerful mouse gray. He halts in front of the door to Ryan’s apartment.
“They are,” Spencer says. He selects another key from his set and unlocks the door, pushing it open. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it, okay? Ryan said he left the money on the kitchen table, and you know where everything is.”
“Sure, great.” Brendon wraps one hand around the strap of his bag. “So, I’ll see you next week?”
“If we don’t meet at Starbucks before that, yeah.” Spencer grins, nodding at Brendon before he turns to walk back down the stairs. For a moment, Brendon lingers in the doorframe, enjoying the strange feeling of a foreigner’s apartment at his complete command. Then he enters, dropping his bag near the front door.
His first trip, of course, is to the stereo. Ryan has a quite extensive selection of music, and it doesn’t take Brendon long to identify the Yundi Li CD he owns himself. He already knows that one, though.
Quickly, he flicks through a few more CDs that seem to have been arranged at random. The by far most common genre is indie, followed by some rock and pop, a little bit of classical music and a few errant Sounds of Nature albums thrown into the mix. After some careful consideration, Brendon goes for a band he hasn’t heard of before. That doesn’t happen too often, so, hey. Super 700 it is.
Once the band starts wooing him with a soft female voice, Brendon ambles over into the kitchen to pick up his money and retrieve the mop from the lumber-room.
--
Ryan’s desk is littered with balled up notes that have nothing but a sentence on them, two at the most. Brendon reads some of them - I’m the narrator and this is just the prologue and Don’t forget to call Spence about movie and There are no raindrops on roses and girls in white dresses - and hopes Ryan isn’t as aimlessly stuck on his writing as he seems to be.
After all, if he doesn’t finish his second book, he might no longer be able to pay Brendon, and he also looks kind of nice in the pictures Brendon finds lying around: delicate features and a wide smile that changes Ryan’s whole face. There’s one of him with the ocean in the background, sitting in some kind of café or something, a colored lantern glowing behind him, beaming at the camera with his hair tousled by the wind.
Brendon lingers only for a second before he stacks the picture on top of the other ones he picked up.
--
>> Part 2