piecesof_reeses (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
piecesof_reeses) wrote2009-07-02 02:10 pm
piecesof_reeses) wrote2009-07-02 02:10 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: You Got A Crew? (I Got A Crew Too) (2/3)
Brendon keeps a wary eye on Victoria as he weaves his way back to the counter. The night out had sounded like a good idea when Pete had suggested it, but when they got to the bar, it had already been infested with the Cobras. He scowls as Victoria drapes a heavy arm around Joe. Something fishy had been going on all evening. First, Gabe’s not here, and the Cobras hardly ever go anywhere without their head. Secondly, Nate’s stopped following Victoria like a lost puppy and is instead chatting with Ryland and Suarez. Thirdly…
Well, Brendon’s going to think of a thirdly when his head stops spinning! And another beer, Brendon is sure, would do wonders for that.
“Hey, Butcher!” he calls out, sloppily leaning his arm over the counter. “Get me another, please!”
The Butcher eyes him amusedly, and slides him over another cold beer. “Take it easy, Bren. You’ve always been a lightweight.”
Brendon scoffs at this piece of completely untruthful libel, but stops mid-scoff when he catches sight of a familiar bowl cut. “Oh, hey,” he tells a politely interested Butcher, “it’s Ryan Ross, Bowl Cut Man!”
Brendon’s finding it a little bit hard to walk over to Ryan Ross the Bowl Cut Man, what with the wily floor tipping this way and that under him, but he manages. After a few near falls—the precious beer is salvaged, thank god—he makes his way over there.
“Again?” Ryan Ross the Bowl Cut Man says, opening his eyes and mouth wide and raising his eyebrows all the way up to his hairline. It’s a funny face, so Brendon tries to copy him.
“It’s Ryan Ross the P-P-Perpetually Unhappy Bowl Cut Man!” Brendon says happily, and slings an arm around Ryan Ross’s bony shoulders. Dimly, he thinks there’s a good reason for him not to be doing this, but he can’t remember it right now. And it’s hurting his head to think this hard, so he takes another sip of beer.
“What?” Ryan Ross the Perpetually Unhappy Bowl Cut Man says, wrinkling his nose. “You smell bad, by the way.”
“Snobby, too,” Brendon whispers to himself. Ryan Ross starts to frown, so Brendon hurriedly says, “Hey, hey, you know what you should do?”
Ryan Ross rolls his eyes, but he asks, “What should I do?”
Brendon lays his head against Ryan’s shoulders and bats his eyelashes at him. “You should write an amazing review of Clandestine Salon! ‘Cause if you don’t, those people’ll win the ASS!” He points to Victoria, but she’s not there anymore. Neither is Joe. Brendon furrows his brow.
“Look, I’ll write whatever kind of review I want to write,” Ryan Ross tells him, looking annoyed.
“I know, I know! But, see…” Brendon moves himself so that he’s holding both of Ryan’s shoulders and looking earnestly into his eyes. His very brown eyes. They’re nice. What was he saying again? Oh, right. “See,” he starts again, “we deserve to win! We work so hard, Bowl Cut Man, you don’t even know. Pete puts in sixteen hour days sometimes, getting the salon all cleaned up and organized and everything! And anyway, the stupid Cobras have won for the past four years!”
“You know, you would have a better chance of convincing me if you stopped calling me the Bowl Cut Man,” Ryan Ross says dryly. “And also—maybe there’s a reason they’ve won this past four years.”
“It’s only because their sign is so neon,” Brendon says with great conviction. “Our sign is very tasteful and all, but bright pink and purple tend to draw the eyes,” he says sadly.
“That’s very unfortunate,” Ryan Ross tells him insincerely.
“No, really! We’ve done studies!” Brendon heaves out a gusty sigh. “You’re not taking me seriously.”
Ryan Ross doesn’t bother to dignify that with an answer.
Brendon frowns at him. The alcohol is coursing hot through his veins, and he feels frustrated and reckless all of a sudden. Stupid Ryan Ross. Stupid ASS.
Speaking of the ASS…Brendon grins to himself, pretends to fumble with his napkin, drops it on the floor, then bends over to pick it up, making sure to curve over slowly so that his very fantastic ass is on display. That’ll show stupid Ryan Ross and his stupid smirking face with his stupid lips--Oh, whoa. The floor seems to be coming up to meet him, which is very friendly and accommodating of the floor, but Brendon’s really feeling wobbly enough as it is, thanks, and ow.
Brendon blinks as he crashes into the floor. That was maybe not the best planned maneuver in the history of the universe.
“Need a little help?” Ryan calls from above, sounding very relaxed and very amused and just, overall, very smug.
Brendon turns to look up at him and pout.
“You’re really the most high-maintenance drunk ever, huh?” Ryan murmurs, reaching down to grasp him by the arm and pull him up.
Brendon takes advantage of the helpful arm to hoist himself up and deposit himself in Ryan Ross’s lap. All the other stools are full, he justifies to himself.
“Thanks for the seat, Ryan Ross,” he says happily.
Ryan Ross chokes, and then goes bright red when Brendon wriggles his ass a little. It’s quite a good seat. Ryan smells nice, and it’s just…really nice.
Brendon tells Ryan so, but Ryan just stutters something out incoherently.
“I like you much better like this,” Brendon informs Ryan placidly. He’s in a much better mood now.
“Like what?” Ryan manages to say.
Brendon beams at him. “You know, blushing and stuttering and soft.” He shifts his ass again to clarify his meaning. Ryan’s thighs look like sticks, but they actually make for very comfortable cushions.
Ryan Ross gapes at him.
“Like that, exactly!” Brendon gifts Ryan with another smile for being so acquiescent and pecks him on one of his adorably flushing cheeks. He yawns a little bit; the ruckus of the background is getting really loud, when all Brendon really wants to do is hide his face against Ryan’s neck and go to sleep.
“I don’t think—umm,” Ryan Ross stammers. The pulse in his neck is fluttering very quickly under Brendon’s cheek, which is concerning.
“If you were a rabbit, you would be dead,” Brendon says gravely, but half his words get lost, pressed against Ryan.
“Oh—kay,” Ryan draws out. He seems to calm down after a bit, though, sighing and leaning his head back against the wall. He begins to timidly card his fingers through Brendon’s hair, barely the softest pressure on the back of Brendon’s neck. It feels soothing, and Brendon sighs happily before closing his eyes.
Brendon’s not sure how much time passes before he opens his eyes again, but the bar looks ready to close up, and there is a very flustered Greta waving her arms around in front of him. She seems to be apologizing, and saying something about a “clingy drunk.” Brendon wonders who she’s talking about.
“C’mon, Bee, it’s time to go home,” Greta says firmly, attempting to dislodge him from his very warm perch.
“Why?” Brendon whines, turning his face further into the soft pillow. Stupid Greta, always trying to wake him up.
Wait. His pillow appears to be beating. Brendon lifts his head up in confusion, and then immediately regrets it when the world swims around him. He lurches into Greta’s waiting arms.
“Greta?” he says softly.
“Yeah, sweetie?” Greta says, still making apologetic gestures at Ryan Ross.
“I don’t feel very good,” Brendon says forlornly. And then he throws up all over Ryan Ross’s pointy leather shoes.
There is a single, awful moment of silence. Brendon, gulping, slowly lets his gaze travel upward, over Ryan’s too-tight pants and paisley shirt, until he arrives at his ferociously scowling face. “Uh, heh,” Brendon says, suddenly feeling incredibly more sober. “Oops?”
* * *
“And that’s when Greta steered me away before Ryan Ross could commit mass murder,” Brendon says, busily wiping away at the windows. He sighs a little bit, rubbing at one particularly stubborn spot. It’s too bad. They’d been getting along pretty well, Brendon thinks. Well, kind of. It might have been a little one-sided, considering Brendon was the one climbing all over Ryan.
His shoulders slump, and he pouts at his reflection in the newly clean windows. Stupid Ryan Ross.
“Speaking of Greta,” Pete says, his brow furrowing. “Where the hell is she?”
Brendon checks his watch, a feeling of impending doom washing over him as he sees the bright digital numbers: 9:25. Greta’s usually there earlier than any of them. And they’re opening in thirty-five minutes!
“Maybe we should call her,” Brendon says slowly. “I mean, she knows she can’t just ditch. It’s BOGO day! We’re going to be overflowing with customers!”
“Speaking of BOGO day,” Pete says, eyes widening. “Where the hell is Joe?” he whispers, as though he’s afraid of alerting nearby enemy soldiers.
They stare at each for a long minute, before turning in unison to look at Andy. Andy’s sitting legs crossed in his receptionist chair, painting his nails with great concentration. He shrugs at them.
This is bad. This is really bad. This is probably going to turn out to be their busiest day of the year, and half of their hairdressers aren’t even here! Brendon gnaws worriedly at the nails of his left hand while speed-dialing Greta with his right.
Pete waits impatiently while the phone rings, broom lying forgotten beside him.
“Hello?” Greta’s voice croaks out.
“Greta!” Brendon yells. Or, well, maybe screeches. Just a little bit. His voice might have cracked slightly. Pete is rubbing his ears, glaring.
“Brendon?” Greta says scratchily. There’s something off about her tone of voice.
“It’s BOGO day, Greta! Where the fuck are you??”
“Oh, Brendon. BOGO day. Shit. Don’t freak out, but—“
“Don’t freak out?” Brendon squeaks, freaking out.
“I might have caught the flu,” Greta says miserably.
“How bad is it?” Pete cuts in.
“Um, pretty bad,” Greta says slowly. “Hey, hold on a sec, I think I have to—“
The unmistakable sounds of vomiting emit loudly from the phone.
“Well, shit,” Pete says.
“I don’t think I can come in today, guys,” Greta says, obviously upset. “I’m so sorry!”
“It’s not your fault, Greta,” Pete says, scrubbing a stressed-out hand through his hair.
“But Joe isn’t here either!” Brendon says. Apparently, his voice is still in squeak mode.
“Joe isn’t there either?” Greta says, voice sharpening.
“No,” Brendon wails.
“Bren,” Greta says authoritatively, “stop wailing. You’re giving me a headache. Call Joe, and then call me back, okay?”
Weirdly enough, her bossy tone makes Brendon feel a little better. The tiniest bit. It figures that Greta’s still running things even when throwing up in her home.
Pete quickly pulls out his cell and dials Joe’s number.
“Hello?” A deep voice says.
Pete and Brendon exchange a glance. That is very definitely not Joe.
“Hi?” Pete says tentatively.
“This is Bob speaking on Joe’s phone,” Bob says boredly. “Joe’s a little too busy throwing up his vital organs to come to the phone right now, but I can take a message if it’s a matter of life or death.”
Brendon squinches up his face. Joe’s roommate’s always seemed a little surly to him.
“He’s sick too?” Pete says blankly, like he can’t even begin to comprehend the disaster this is.
Brendon contemplates pulling his hair out, but if he and Pete are the only ones holding down the fort today, it would probably be a good idea not to freak the customers out any more than necessary.
Bob’s hung up, and Pete is left staring at his cell in his hands.
“I’ll, um,” Brendon says. “I’ll call Greta?”
“Greta?” he says when she answers. “Joe’s sick too.”
“Joe’s sick too?” Greta’s voice raises half an octave through the sentence.
“Yeah,” Brendon says unhappily. “It sounds like he has the same thing you have.”
“Oh my god,” Greta says, and then begins muttering to herself.
Suddenly, their front doors burst open and Gabe comes striding in, a knowing smirk on his face. Brendon narrows his eyes. That is an awfully knowing smirk on Gabe’s face.
“So how are my friends over in Clandestine Salon doing today?” Gabe says in a gloating tone of voice. “Big day for all of you, isn’t it, what with your buy-one-haircut-get-one-free deal. Feeling up to snuff for it?”
Pete crosses his arms and glares up at Gabe. Brendon very carefully doesn’t mention that it looks kind of ridiculous, considering Pete comes up to about Gabe’s waist.
“What did you do, Gabe,” Pete says flatly.
“What did I do?” Gabe says, making an overly concerted effort at looking innocent. “I didn’t do anything, Peter Panda.”
Brendon folds his arms and joins Pete in glaring at Gabe. “Well, what did your minions do?” he asks in what he likes to consider a dangerous, smoky tone of voice.
“They’re not my minions,” Gabe says, looking briefly annoyed. “They are fellow devotees to the Cobra.”
“Whatever,” Brendon says. “What did your fellow devotees do?”
“We’ve just been trying out something new,” Gabe says nonchalantly, studying his nails. “We like to call it…” He pauses dramatically. “Victoria’s Kiss of Death™.”
“Victoria’s Kiss of Death,” Pete repeats. “So, what, she kissed Greta and Joe and now they’re both sick?”
“How do you even do something like that?” Brendon asks, waving his arms around.
“Well, uh.” Gabe looks shifty. “She might have already been sick. We just took advantage of the opportunity. Actually,” Gabe says, stroking his nonexistent beard, “she kissed Andy, too. Why aren’t you sick?” he addresses Andy.
Andy blows on his nails to dry them. “I have white T cells made of steel,” he informs Gabe flatly.
“Took advantage of the opportunity, huh?” Pete says in a low voice. He’s glowering at Gabe through his heavily-lined eyes. “Well, I hope you enjoy it while it lasts. Because we are going to make sure you spend every second afterward regretting you ever messed with Clandestine Salon.”
Brendon can’t think of anything else to add, so he just nods. Very emphatically.
Gabe’s smile widens toothily. “Oh, I’m ready for it,” he purrs. “Come on, bring it.”
And with those—decidedly lame, Brendon thinks—parting words, he departs from their salon with a flourish.
“Wow,” Greta’s tinny voice says from his phone. Brendon jumps; he forgot he was still on the line. “That was hot.”
“Greta, this is so not the time!” Brendon says, trying not to hyperventilate at the sheer magnitude of the shitstorm they have on their hands. “If only Pete and I are here, and all these customers come, and we can’t even serve all of them because there’s only two of us, and they all leave because they have better things to do than wait two hours for a haircut, and they get horrible impressions of our service because we’re in a hurry and freaking out and oh my god, Greta! We’re going to lose!”
“Shut up, Brendon, I’m trying to think,” Greta says.
Pete’s muttering things under his breath and clenching and unclenching his fists. Brendon surreptitiously backs away; Pete used to have kind of an anger management problem when he was a teen.
“I think,” Greta says after a long pause, “I think we might have to call in the Alexes.”
“The Alexes?” Brendon says in horror. “But they’re still in hairdressing school! I thought they were supposed to be our super freak-out emergency last resort!”
“Well, the time has come use our super freak-out emergency last resort,” Greta says solemnly.
“But they’ll scare all our customers away!” Brendon protests.
“Why?” Greta sighs.
“Because they all have such bad hair! Marshall with that—that mess on his head! And Singer! Oh my god! And Cash just looks like a douchebag. Who’s going to trust hairdressers with bad hair?”
Brendon can practically hear Greta rolling her eyes. “I think that’s something we’re going to have to chance, Bren,” she says. “Just do it. I mean, it’s not like this can get any worse, right?”
Pete reaches toward the table to knock on the wood.
* * *
“Oh my gosh, really?”
Brendon winces. Singer’s voice is incredibly squeaky over the phone. “Um, yeah,” Brendon says, feeling as though he is making a very, very big mistake.
“Really really?” Singer presses.
Pete grabs the phone from Brendon with an eyeroll. “Just be here in five minutes, dude.”
They both hear an “EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!” before the line’s cut off.
* * *
“Monday morning? Really? Ten AM on a Monday morning?”
Cash seems to be somewhat less enthused than Singer.
“Um, yes,” Brendon says. “Come on! This will be great work experience! And you’ll get paid.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cash yawns into the phone, probably scratching his ass. “I’ll be there in a few. Just let me kick Kacey out first. Friggin’ clingy one-night-stands.”
Brendon is speechless as he hears an outraged, “It’s Kathy!” before Cash hangs up. Somehow, that name seems familiar to him.
* * *
“Okay,” Ian says, as fucking zen as he always is.
“Cool!” Brendon says, grinning. That was easy. Three down, two to go.
“Hey, Marsh, Johnson,” Brendon hears faintly. “Clandestine wants us to go over there and cut some fucking hair. Move your asses out of my bed.”
…Wow. Brendon really, really does not want to know.
Pete does, though, judging by the look on his face.
* * *
By noon, Brendon’s sped through six haircuts at a breakneck pace. Pete’s been through at least as many, although he seems strangely distracted, continually craning his head to look out the windows, as though he were searching for someone.
But things have been going relatively smoothly, and Brendon can feel himself slowly starting to relax. Maybe—maybe this will be okay. Maybe they’ll actually make it through the day without any world-ending catastrophes.
Or, at least, any more world-ending catastrophes. The Alexes and the Two That Aren’t are actually far exceeding Brendon’s expectations (which were hovering somewhere at -100, to be honest) although there was a brief frightening moment when an overexcited Singer almost cut off a guy’s ear.
But it turned out to only be a nick, and they sent the guy out with a bandage and (another) free haircut coupon, by which time he was no longer threatening to sue.
They’ve relegated Singer to clean-up duty, anyway, and he’s currently sweeping up the hair scraps with a look of soul-crushing depression on his face.
Brendon chews on his lip thoughtfully as he quickly finishes up the old lady’s simple dye-job. The line of people has disappeared, presumably to go get lunch. After this lady, he can hopefully sit down and eat some food.
“All done!” Brendon says cheerfully. “How do you feel about it?”
“It’s fantastic, Pete, as usual,” the lady says, peering at him fuzzily. Apparently, she forgot her bifocals at home.
“Well, that’s great,” Brendon says. “Andy’s over there; he’ll have your receipt ready.”
“Thanks, honey, you’re such a sweetheart.” She pats his cheek with a wrinkled hand and toddles over to Andy, who’s taken advantage of the rare break in customers to flip through the latest Us Weekly.
Pete looks like he’s just about finished up too, so Brendon ambles over to him.
“Hey, Pete, how’s it going?” he asks, grabbing his bag to search for his lunch.
“Oh, you know,” Pete says, and then looks out the window for the billionth time.
The woman whose hair he’s cutting looks annoyed. “Um, excuse me? I do need to be somewhere, if you can hurry it up at all…”
“Oh, yeah,” Pete says absentmindedly. “I’m done. Enjoy your new hair. Hope to see you again.” He continues to stare out the window with a weird intensity.
“Pete, what are you looking at?” Brendon hisses after the woman’s stalked off. “You weren’t even looking at her half the time you cut her hair! You could have pulled a Singer!”
“Hey!” Singer calls. “Please don’t make that into some kind of phrase. It was a very traumatizing experience for me.”
Brendon ignores him with the ease of much practice. “Pete, I’m serious.”
“I’m just—“ Pete sighs and sits down heavily on the chair. “I thought, you know, Patrick might be coming.”
“Patrick?” Brendon frowns. The name sounds familiar. “You mean the sideburns guy?”
“Yeah,” Pete says dejectedly.
“Pete,” Brendon says reasonably—which is really annoying; Brendon hates having to be the voice of reason—“how do you know he even gets the LV Times? He might not have seen the ad! And also, he just got his hair cut a couple of weeks ago. He probably doesn’t need a trim so soon.”
Pete looks shifty. “Oh, he saw the ad, all right.”
“Pete?” Brendon says, not liking where this seems to be going.
“I might have, um.” Pete tugs at his fringe. “I might have maybe found out where he works? And hand-delivered him a copy?”
“You might have maybe?” Brendon repeats.
Pete shrugs. “It seemed like a good idea at the time?” he offers.
“Wow. Pete, you do remember what happened last time you did this, right? The whole restraining order thing?”
“He’s not going to get a restraining order against me,” Pete says, annoyed. “He just—I just—I mean, you saw the sideburns, right? Amazing, am I right?”
“Um, okay,” Brendon says, clapping Pete on the shoulder heavily. “Let’s just eat our lunch, alright?”
Pete pulls out his peanut butter sandwich and bites into it. They chew on their respective sandwiches for a few moments, silently. After Pete continues not to say anything, Brendon sighs.
“Look, Pete,” he says, patting Pete on the hand, “I’m sure you’ll find someone else with even better sideburns, okay? Someone who might not even be a customer! Think how awesome that would be!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pete mutters between peanut butter and bread. “Stop talking to me like I’m a fucking infant, Bren.”
Cash, Ian, Marshall, and Johnson have congregated around one of the other tables, chewing rapidly through what looks like poptarts and raw ramen. Singer is sneaking plaintive glances at them as he continues to sweep the floor.
“Hey, uh, Pete?” Singer says hesitantly. “Can I, um, eat yet?”
Pete waves a hand at him. “Finish sweeping up first.”
Brendon swears he sees Singer’s (not straightened, for once) hair droop.
* * *
The after-lunch rush comes way too soon, with dozens of people sweeping in and out of the salon at a time. Brendon has to carefully dodge three sulking preteens, two wailing infants, one harried mom, and four biker dudes—Brendon does a double-take at that—to get to the next person in line.
Brendon pauses. She looks vaguely familiar.
“Hey, um, so, you’re up next!” Brendon tells her, trying to match a name to her face.
“Great, I’m so glad I got you, Brendon!” she gushes.
“Cool, cool. So, why don’t you go introduce yourself to Andy, over there, so he can get, um, your receipt ready?” Brendon says, and then listens closely to catch her name. It’s Kathy.
“So, Kathy, what would you like today?” Brendon asks. “Are you unsatisfied with the haircut I gave you a few weeks ago?”
“Hm? Oh, no!” She titters. “It’s fantastic. I just wanted to get some, like, blonde highlights? You know?”
“Alright,” Brendon says cheerfully. “Blonde highlights coming right up!”
For some reason, this sets Kathy into a set of giggles. “Oh, Brendon, you are so funny,” she gasps out.
Ooookay, Brendon thinks to himself. She sounds maybe like she’s had a bit too much to drink.
“So, can you just hop into this chair right here?” Brendon asks.
“Anything for you,” Kathy says, winking.
“…” is all Brendon can manage.
Kathy is oddly silent for a while, as Brendon carefully wraps her hair up in the foil.
“Actually, Brendon, there is another reason I came here,” Kathy says.
“Hmm?” Brendon says, feigning polite interest.
“I really just wanted to see you again, Brendon,” she says with complete and utter sincerity.
Something is niggling at the back of Brendon’s brain. Something to do with Cash. “Um, weren’t you just with Cash this morning?” Brendon asks.
“How did you know that?” Kathy says, shocked. “I mean. Who’s Cash?”
“Right,” Brendon says. He tries to will the dye to work faster with his mind.
“It didn’t mean anything between me and him,” Kathy says, placing a hand on his arm. “Not like it does between you and me.”
Brendon tries not to edge too visibly away from the obviously deranged woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees something paisley walk in the door.
Brendon very deliberately does not wonder what it says about himself when he wheels around—completely dislodging Kathy’s hand in the process—to check if it’s Ryan Ross.
It is, miraculously enough.
“Hey, hold on a sec,” he tells a protesting Kathy absently, and walks toward the overwhelming visual onslaught of paisley.
“Hello,” he says to Ryan. His eyes dart downward uncomfortably; he’s not sure what else to say. Hey, wait. “Are you wearing Converse?” Brendon asks incredulously.
“Whose fault do you think that is?” Ryan says, giving him a level stare.
Oh. Right.
Brendon opens his mouth to explain, then shuts it again. Because really, what else is there to say besides “sorry I got pissed and upchucked all over your uglyass shoes”?
“Um,” Brendon says. He fidgets. “Um. What are you doing here? Oh, hey,” Brendon says, brightening, “want to get a haircut?”
There’s a really long pause, as Ryan seems to be communicating with his friend—Spencer Smith, was it?—entirely with eyebrows. “…No,” Ryan says finally. Spencer, apparently, thinks that Ryan has just said the stupidest thing ever, and rolls his eyes. “I actually just wanted to see you about getting some compensation for my shoes.”
“Oh.” Brendon tries valiantly not to droop. “Um, okay. I guess I can do that.”
Ryan yelps as Spencer elbows him. “Uh, actually, it’s fine,” he says, contradicting himself smoothly. “I just, you know. An apology would work, I guess?”
“Uh, okay.” Brendon pauses. Licks his lips. “Um. I’m really sorry. Even though those were some hideous leather shoes.” Brendon claps a hand over his mouth as soon as it comes out. I’m sorry, he mouths, not trusting himself to use his voice.
Ryan looks insulted. Spencer looks exasperated, tilting his head to ask the heavens for patience.
But when Spencer tilts his head, something seems to catch his eye, and he looks considerably less annoyed. “Hey, uh, Brendon, is it?” Spencer asks out of the blue, looking very invested in his answer.
“Yeah?” Brendon says.
“Actually, I feel like maybe getting a trim,” Spencer says, then smiles at Brendon with very blue eyes.
“Oh! Great!” Brendon grins at him.
“But could I maybe, uh, get him to do it?”
Brendon follows the direction of Spencer’s gaze to see Jon, who’s talking amiably with Andy.
“Sorry, Mr. Smith, but he doesn’t actually work here,” Brendon says apologetically. “One of us can do it for you, though.”
“Oh, well, then.” Spencer reddens. “Maybe not, actually.”
“No?” Brendon says, confused.
“Yeah.” Spencer waves his hand vaguely. “I guess the mood’s passed, or something. You know. The hair-cutting mood.”
Brendon narrows his eyes. “You know,” he says slyly, “you can talk to Jon without purchasing a haircut. Like, we don’t charge for the pleasure of his company.”
“Oh.” Spencer turns even redder. “Maybe…Maybe I will.”
He straightens his back and walks over to Jon, tapping him on the shoulder awkwardly.
Which leaves Ryan and Brendon standing there, still silently staring at each other.
“You know, those were some pretty fantastic leather boots,” Ryan says finally.
“What?” Brendon says. “Oh, right. Sure. Yeah. I guess so.”
They look at each other some more. Brendon fights the urge to shuffle his feet.
“Brendon! Get your fantastic ass over here and finish my highlights!” Kathy calls out.
Ryan’s face looks suddenly a lot more blank. “Yeah, Brendon. Get your fantastic ass over there and finish her highlights.”
“You just want to see me and my fantastic ass walk away, Ryan, don’t deny it,” Brendon blurts out, and then blushes.
Kathy is staring at them, eyes flicking from Ryan to Brendon. “Oh my god,” she says. “Oh my god. Is this why you haven’t called me? Because you’re gay?”
Her voice ends in a somewhat piercing tone, effectively spreading to every corner of the salon. The chattering falls silent. Even the babies stop crying. Brendon gapes.
There’s a moment of utter stillness.
Then the middle-aged woman sitting next to her says unsympathetically, “Honey, of course he’s gay. He’s a male hairdresser.”
A chuckle ripples through the customers, and like a switch has been flipped, they all immediately resume talking. The babies hiccup quietly, eyes dark and staring.
“Go on,” Ryan tells him. “Go do that poor girl’s hair.”
“Yeah, um, okay,” Brendon says. He ducks his head and looks up at Ryan through his fringe. “You know, I am really sorry about throwing up on you.”
“But not about ruining my shoes?” Ryan says wryly.
Brendon feels comfortable enough to give him a coy smile and a wink, and then sashays away back to Kathy.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon passes in a kind of blur, as Brendon snips his way from one customer to the next and the next one after that. Brown hair red hair black hair blonde hair—Brendon shakes his head a little bit, feeling dizzy. It’s almost closing time, and he is, quite honestly, amazed that they’ve made it through the entire day without any deaths. Although he supposes it’s too soon to say for sure.
Jon and Spencer wandered out of the salon somewhere around 2 o’clock, and Brendon swears they were hand-in-hand. It was cute as hell, but Brendon had felt kind of wistful, too. Then he gave himself a mental slap.
Somewhere around three, Cash made a sixteen-year-old girl run out of here crying. Fifteen minutes later, Singer tripped an old lady in her walker with the broom he was using. Thirty minutes after that, Marshall accidentally dyed a woman’s hair pink instead of brown. Fucking Alexes. The woman, luckily enough, had seemed pretty enchanted with her newly pink hair, and hadn’t wanted Marshall to change it. Instead, she walked out of the salon with a new bounce in her step.
It’s been…pretty good, overall. Brendon smiles to himself. Fifteen minutes until five, and then they’re all getting out of here and grabbing some celebratory dinner. Even the Alexes are invited, Brendon thinks generously.
They’re lounging around right now, the last customer having been seen off by Johnson a few minutes ago. Suddenly, the door opens, and someone new walks in.
He’s short, red-haired, and bespectacled, and looks kind of familiar. It’s too bad Brendon is absolutely shit with faces and names. None of the others are moving from their exhausted positions on the couch—Pete’s even got his hand over his eyes—so Brendon walks over to the guy.
“Hey, how can we help you?” Brendon asks.
“Um,” the guy says, biting his lip. “I’m Patrick. And, uh, I wanted to get a hairc—“
Pete’s up and bounding towards the guy before he even stops talking.
“—cut?” Patrick finishes squeakily.
“Hey,” Pete says, grinning stupidly.
“Hey,” Patrick says back, smiling shyly.
“I thought you might not be coming,” Pete admits. He’s grinning so hard the light is reflecting off of his shiny white teeth right into Brendon’s eyes.
“My shift ends late,” Patrick says quietly. He adjusts his trucker hat and stares at the ground.
“Well, um. I’m glad you came,” Pete says, with a sincerity that was almost painful.
Patrick looks up again, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah. Uh. Me too.”
Brendon looks away. He feels like a voyeur, or some other fancy French word, and besides, those two are worse than elementary-school kids.
He hears Pete say, “Can I pet your sideburns?” and shakes his head. Pete never could keep his creepy side concealed for long. But the guy hasn’t bolted out the door yet, so maybe Pete does have a chance. A slim one, anyway. Patrick looks a bit too sane for Pete.
Brendon walks over to the couch and sits down with a sigh. Across from him, Singer and Cash are conversing in low tones. Marshall has his head in Ian’s lap, and Johnson’s leaning against Ian’s shoulder. They look peaceful together, Ian gently running his hands through Marshall’s hair.
Brendon sighs. He fidgets a little bit. Everyone seems to be getting into couples (or threesomes, as the case may be). Not that Brendon cares. Nope.
…Maybe he needs to get a kitten.
* * *
Brendon walks cheerfully through the newspaper building, a bounce in his step and a tune on his lips. It’s been a good day. It’s been a great day, even. Record numbers of customers had come by—and on a Monday, too!—and most of them had seemed pretty satisfied. Except for Kristy or Kathy or whatever her name was. She’d seemed a little disgruntled. But, whatever—Brendon’s content.
Well, yeah, okay, so maybe the sight of people hooking up all over the salon had made him kind of depressed—and nauseous; he had no idea Marshall had such a long tongue—but he’s feeling considerably better now!
…Brendon refuses to wonder if that has any correlation with his rapidly increasing proximity to Ryan Ross and his bowl cut. He’s just here to set things straight! To make things right again! To save Clandestine Salon!!
Brendon puffs out his chest a little, considerably heartened, and raps on Ryan’s door.
“Come in,” a tired voice says.
Brendon goes in quietly—he might have bounced a bit, but the door’s not talking—and walks up to Ryan’s desk, smiling idiotically.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi?” Ryan says, with a perfectly tilted eyebrow. He has dark bags under his eyes, and he’s tapping his pen against his keyboard listlessly. He looks exhausted. Brendon feels abruptly guilty for bothering him.
“Working late?” he asks sympathetically.
“No later than usual,” Ryan says, then yawns hugely. “What are you doing here?”
Brendon looks down and shuffles his feet.
“You know,” Ryan says dryly, “if you’re still trying to convince me that you’re not stalking me, you’re really not doing the greatest job. I mean, accosting me at my workplace? Twice? And that bar incident? Your track record for creepiness isn’t all that great, I’m sorry to say.”
There’s a weird edge in Ryan’s voice, though, something that sounds a lot like—fondness.
“Actually, speaking of that bar incident,” Brendon says, “that’s why I’m here.”
Ryan looks briefly worried. “Why, you planning on vomiting all over me again?”
“It was only your shoes!” Brendon says, sidetracked.
“Oh, well, then, thanks so much for aiming.”
Brendon frowns at him. Somehow, Ryan’s mere presence is always enough to distract him from his original purpose. “Stop changing the subject! I came here to apologize!”
“Apology accepted,” Ryan says curtly.
“And—and I have this!” Brendon, with great difficulty, wriggles his hand into his jean pocket, and then triumphantly holds up a card. “I got you a gift card! To replace your, um, unique leather shoes.”
Ryan takes it from him. Their fingers brush, a tiny, insignificant instant of contact. Really.
Brendon starts doing multiplication tables in his head and tries to remind himself that he’s not in high school anymore, no matter how much his face wants to blush right now.
Ryan studies the gift card.
Brendon chews on his left thumbnail.
Finally, Ryan says, “You got me a Payless gift card?” in a disbelieving tone.
“Um. Yes?” Brendon says.
“For fifteen dollars?” Ryan continues.
“Okay, what? I’m just a hairdresser, not some millionaire businessman, all right?” Brendon scowls at him.
“I don’t think I could get slippers with this much money,” Ryan goes on, apparently unable to shut up when he gets going.
“Shut up,” Brendon says, fed up, and, in a fit of temporary insanity, he covers Ryan’s mouth with his hand. “Just—be quiet for a moment and let me talk, okay?”
Ryan stares at him, mute. His lips move slightly under Brendon’s hand, and he snatches it away like they’ve turned into tarantulas, or something equally disgusting.
“I hadn’t been done talking yet when you started going off about the gift card,” Brendon says in a quieter voice. “The gift card isn’t the entire method of compensation. I was thinking, maybe, um…”
He twists his fingers together. Brendon really hasn’t gotten any better at this part since high school.
“Maybe I could also buy you dinner to, um, make up for the shoes?” he finishes hopefully. He can feel his cheeks burning bright red, and he starts pulling at a lock of his hair nervously.
Ryan doesn’t say anything for a long moment. When he opens his mouth again, he suddenly sounds incredibly more tired. “Look, Brendon,” he says, “thanks for the gift card.”
He stops.
Brendon keeps his eyes on him.
Ryan starts tapping his pen against his keyboard again.
“Is that a no on the dinner offer?” Brendon asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Ryan says firmly, looking oddly defiant.”That’s a no.”
“Um. Okay.” Brendon looks down and rubs his hands against his jeans for no real reason. He swallows hard. “Uh, I’ll just. I’ll see myself out, then?”
When Brendon looks back up at Ryan, Ryan’s face has become completely blank.
Ryan says, “Okay,” with no hint of any emotion in his voice.
Brendon walks stiffly to Ryan’s door, trying not to just give in and rush out of there. He pulls it open forcefully, then staggers back as someone bowls right into him.
“Um, what the hell?” Brendon says, windmilling his arms for balance.
“Uh, sorry,” Spencer Smith says. “I was just, um, just—“
“Leaning on the door, ear pressed to the keyhole,” Ryan finishes for him flatly.
Brendon takes the opportunity to slip away. He can hear their voices conversing in the background, Spencer’s voice rising at one point—Brendon thinks he hears the word idiot—before dying back down. Brendon doesn’t try to listen any further than that, though, because he’s a little too focused on the gnawing, twisting, hurting feeling in his stomach.
He must be hungrier than he thought.
* * *
Brendon tries to let the soothing sound of Greta’s giggles lift his mood, but it’s not really working. He sighs forlornly.
“Baby, what’s the matter?” Greta asks, pulling him into an impromptu hug. Brendon snuggles his head against her amazing breasts, but even that doesn’t make him feel better.
“Nothing,” Brendon says heavily.
“Bullshit,” Greta says, smoothing his hair off his forehead. “What’s the matter? We’re here, printing off pamphlets that will totally ruin the Cobras, and you’re moping! How can you be moping at a time like this? I mean, just imagine Gabe’s face…”
She trails off, and Brendon scowls, piqued. He heaves another heavy sigh to break Greta out of her trance.
“It’s Ryan Ross,” Brendon says sadly.
“Oh, the reporter?” Greta says. “With the strangely attractive bowl cut?”
“It’s not attractive at all!” Brendon says, very deliberately not pouting.
“It’s a little bit attractive, sweetie,” Greta says gently, and then, with a shrewdness that her sweet face belies, “and that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brendon mutters.
“Just tell me what happened,” Greta says with a slight edge.
Brendon obliges hurriedly, because while it seems like Greta’s patience can stretch forever, it doesn’t. It really, really doesn’t.
“I think I might have…I kind of…I sort of tried to ask him out,” Brendon blurts.
“And?” Greta prompts.
“And he said no, of course!” Brendon says. “There is no other and!”
Greta’s silent for a while, and the whirring sounds of the copy machine fill the room.
“Bren, you two did get off on kind of the wrong foot,” she says delicately.
“I know,” Brendon sighs.
“And—and I don’t want to be a downer, sweetie, but maybe this is for the best.” Greta squeezes him. “You two seem to argue every time you even begin talking! It just…it just doesn’t seem like the greatest foundation for a relationship.”
“Maybe I didn’t want a relationship,” Brendon says rebelliously. “Maybe I just wanted to get fucking laid.”
“Uh huh,” Greta says, using that infuriating, humoring tone. “Of course, honey.”
“Maybe I did! Have you seen his crotch? Either he’s stuffing, or he has a truly monster cock…”
Greta gets a speculative gleam in her eyes. “There are other fish on the pond who have monster cocks, Brendon. How about Ray Toro…”
* * *
“Are you sure this is entirely legal?” Gerard asks, worrying his bottom lip with tiny teeth. He twists a strand of stringy black hair around his finger.
The Way brothers own the comic shop adjacent to Cobra Starship. They’re pretty awesome, but Brendon gets kind of freaked out sometimes by tiny teeth. And also their combined hair problems, which almost made Joe cry last time he was here. Brendon could do so much with Mikey’s hair, oh my god, but he refuses to let Brendon even come near him with sharp instruments.
“Legal? Legal?” Brendon says—or, okay, maybe he bellows it. “All is fair in love and war and the ASS!!”
Gerard continues to stare at him dolefully, looking completely unmoved.
“Look,” Brendon sighs, “I just want you to maybe hand out flyers to your customers. Nothing high pressure, okay?”
“Okay,” Gerard says after a pause. “But only because I saw those pictures of that fiend taking advantage of my baby brother”—his voice has suddenly risen three octaves—“and I am prepared to strike back in any manner possible!”
Brendon hears an indignant “Shut up, Gee, it’s none of your business what I do with Gabe!” coming from the back room and decides that sometimes, it’s just better not to ask.
“Um,” Brendon says. “Right. How about I just leave a small pile of flyers on your counter?”
“Hey, Brendon, what’s up?” Ray Toro asks, walking up from behind Brendon.
Brendon squeaks, jumps, then involuntarily darts his eyes toward Ray’s crotch. Oh god. That is really….hm.
Ray eyes him warily. “Feeling all right there, Bren?”
“I’m fine,” Brendon mutters very quickly. “Don’t forget to hand out the flyers I’ll see you two later bye!”
He hustles out of the comic store, and he can practically feel Gerard and Ray’s bewildered gazes on his back. Stupid Greta and her stupid little sly remarks.
* * *
Greta’s practically vibrating in the back corner, tossing a razor up and down to herself. Pete’s working on a customer next to her, who’s eyeing the moving razor warily.
“Do you think they’ve discovered the flyers yet?” Greta asks Brendon excitedly. “They would have come by if they did, right? Maybe I should just sneak on over there and see.”
Joe peers through the window, afro pushing up against the glass. “…I don’t think they’ve found them yet. Suarez is braiding Ryland’s hair, and Victoria…just winked at me.”
“That hussy,” Greta says, sounding delighted. She might as well be rubbing her little hands together and cackling in glee, Brendon thinks uncharitably.
He walks over to the couch and flings himself down, sighing as he does it. Something crinkles under his ass, and he feels under himself. It’s a magazine, with a pouty looking model.
She’s wearing paisley.
Groaning, Brendon drapes an arm across his eyes. Fucking paisley. In no state, country, or planet is that ever a valid fashion choice. Even if it does look kind of nice against creamy, pale, freckled skin, and brings out warm dark eyes that sparkle with a sly little glint every once in a while—
“Brendon?”
Brendon removes his arm and squints up at Pete’s looming face.
“Can you warm up the curling iron for me?” Pete asks, raising an eyebrow. Brendon flushes and quickly slides off the couch.
Suddenly, a gust of freezing wind floods through the salon. The floor seems to shudder underneath their feet, silently groaning. Overhead, the lights flicker. And in the very center of Brendon’s vision, a tall, dark silhouette stands menacingly, bracketed by the doorway.
Gabe has finally arrived.
Greta gives a happy little sigh.
“So, a funny thing happened to me a few minutes ago,” Gabe begins conversationally. “Some cheapass kid came in, got a haircut, and then demanded a free bottle of hair spray. The good kind. And I thought to myself, hey, that’s kind of random. And then, you know what the kid did?”
“Oh, oh, please tell us,” Pete says in a bored voice. “We’re dying to know.”
Gabe bares his teeth at Pete in a smile. “The kid produced a pink flyer saying that Cobra Starship would give out free bottles of hairspray for every haircut. Crazy, right?”
“Insane,” Joe agrees, nodding his head.
“Do you even know how much that kind of hairspray costs?” Gabe asks, clenching his hands. He’s always been, first and foremost, a businessman. Brendon allows himself a tiny little smile, feeling a bit cheered.
“Oh, we do,” Greta informs him happily, batting her eyelashes.
Gabe is momentarily distracted, then quickly regains his train of thought. “So don’t even try to deny it, Peter, we know that—“
“Oh, we’re not going to,” Pete says cheerfully.
Gabe cuts himself off, and looks at Pete for a long moment. “So that’s how it’s going to be?” he says finally.
“Guess so.” Pete grins his big, sloppy, horseteeth grin at Gabe. Gabe smirks back, but his eyes look deep and cruel and soulless. Brendon shudders.
“You know, Wentz, I’m actually kind of looking forward to this,” Gabe says, and suddenly his eyes are nice and pleasant and normal again.
He strides forward, long legs covering an absolutely staggering distance with each step—Brendon fights off a surge of height envy—and stops in front of Greta.
“Oh, Greta,” Gabe says sadly. Greta tilts her head up to him and smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s really too bad Wentz has dragged you down this destructive path. I had such high hopes…”
He bends down and gently brushes some hair off her face. His fingers linger there. “You do know that’s there is always an open offer from us, if you ever wish to work with some, ah, real professionals, right?”
Greta covers his hand with her own in an uncomfortably intimate gesture. Brendon holds his breath. “Of course, Gabe. And you do know that I will cut off three fingers and a foot before I do that, right?”
Gabe smirks again, but it seems fonder than the one he turned on Pete. Without another word, he turns around and leaves.
Pete and Joe and Greta all resume working again, but Brendon just keeps standing there, feeling rooted to the spot. Greta’s hand comes up to her face continually, as though trying to keep the memory of Gabe’s touch there as long as possible.
And Brendon can feel a phantom touch of his own, long, graceful fingers pushing gently through his hair, sliding through the locks and ghosting along the line of his neck. He can still feel the warmth that was radiating off Ryan’s shoulder that night, and the absolute feeling of comfort that permeated through all his bones, a sleepy haze of happiness and gratification and lo—
Brendon shakes his head to clear it of the unwanted thoughts, and seriously considers shooting himself.
Part 3
YAY!! Continued
Also, i really love greta. and i mean that in a totally lesbian way ;) haha, anywho.
favorite line for this part:... ah, hell... i can't really pick just one because it's the interactions, damn. Well, the whole 'apologizing for throwing up on ryan but not for ruining his ugly ass shoes' bit was the winner this time.
*next part!*
Re: YAY!! Continued
These comments are so awesome to come back to!!