piecesof_reeses | Fic: You Got A Crew? (I Got A Crew Too) (3/3)

So, okay. When Gabe had threatened to exact revenge for their prank, or whatever, it’s wasn’t that Brendon hadn’t been taking Gabe seriously. He really had! And, yeah, he’d worried about it briefly, but then he had kind of…forgotten about it. He’d had other things on his mind, okay. (longfingersbrowneyesstrangelyattractivebowlcuts)

Other things that Brendon is still very resolutely not thinking about, thank you very much.

Being ankle-deep in freezing cold water is rather enough to distract him, to be honest. Brendon gingerly tries to lift his foot above the mini flood, but it feels uncomfortably heavy and his socks make a gross squelching sound, so he just plunges it back in again.

He clears his throat. “So,” Brendon says. “Maybe we should get this cleaned up.”

Pete glowers at him. “That’s a fantastic idea, Brendon, thanks. With what?”

Brendon frowns. Then he runs to the closet with all the cleaning supplies—well, he slogs more than he runs. By the time he gets there, he’s wet to his knees because of all the water he’s stirred up. Brendon grimaces and opens the supply closet, first tugging with one hand and then pulling with both because the door doesn’t seem to want to open against the water pressure. He gapes at the sight inside.

“The mops are gone,” Brendon says blankly.

“Yeah,” Greta says, looking tired. “Guess the Cobras took care of everything.”

“But—But how did they even get in here to steal the fucking mops?” Brendon might be yelling a little bit and waves his arms around. Whatever. Sometimes, the situation just calls for it.

Greta very carefully stares at the ground, though, and Brendon falls quiet. Right.

“What kind of juvenile assholes even do this kind of shit?” he mutters. “Propping a garbage can full of water against a door, and then knocking to get the person inside to open the door and flood themselves? Who even thought of this?”

Poor Greta had been the one to open the door. She now looks like the winner of a wet-t-shirt contest. (Joe had choked when he’d seen her, so Brendon figures that it was probably a pretty overwhelming sight. Brendon’s not exactly the best judge, being gay and all. Greta’s breasts do look quite nice, though. Very…symmetrical, and all, which Brendon understands is quite important.)

“We used to do this all the time to each other in college,” Joe pipes up. He’s swirling his hands through the water, looking very placidly content with the situation. Which, yeah, Brendon is normally all in favor of Joe’s mellow personality, but not when they’ve got a flooded salon and an opening time thirty minutes from now.

“Okay,” Brendon says. “Okay. We have to do something about this! Let’s march over there and claim those mops! We’ll wipe the ground with their asses!”

He punches a hand above his head (the one holding the straightening iron) threateningly and lets out a passable imitation of a war yell.

None of the others look very impressed at all. Brendon has the worst colleagues ever.

“They’ve probably hidden the mops,” Pete says grimly. “I think it’ll take less time and effort to just run over to the nearest Fred Meyer and buy some new mops.”

They all look at Andy, who’s the only dry one of them all because he’d taken refuge at the top of his swivel-y receptionist chair when the water had come pouring in.

Andy licks his finger to flip a page of his Tattoo magazine. “Fred Meyer is an evil manifestation of the corporate devil systematically devouring us from within,” he intones.

“So you won’t go get some mops,” Pete clarifies.

“No.”

Sometimes Brendon thinks that Andy just pretends to be an anarcho-savagist to get out of doing any work.

“Well, I’m not going outside like this,” Greta says, gesturing to her torso.

“The sales clerk might give you a discount,” Joe says. He stops giggling when Greta smacks him hard upside the head.

“Oh, and, uh…” Joe looks vaguely guilty. “I think I might be over the legal limit of, like, pot, to drive anywhere.”

“There is no legal limit for pot,” Brendon says helpfully.

“Which is kind of the point,” Pete says. “Okay, Brendon, you’re going. Do it fast, alright, it’s almost time for us to open.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Brendon says solemnly, and then sprints outside to drive like a madman to Fred Meyer.

“Grab me a shirt while you’re there,” Greta yells after him.

* * *

Precious mop in hand, Brendon browses through the girls’ clothing section. Would Greta like a pink shirt with unicorns, or a blue one with flowers? If Brendon were a girl, he would want the one with unicorns—he even has a few shirts with unicorns on them at home—but Greta seems to really enjoy flowers.

Although, just because Greta likes live flowers, doesn’t mean she’ll want to plaster them all over herself. Brendon really likes Guitar Hero, but he’s not going to buy a shirt with the Guitar Hero logo.

Wow, buying clothes for girls is really hard. Brendon wanders over to the end of the aisle and picks up a shirt with smiling butterflies. Well, Greta likes to smile, and she also likes butterflies. Pleased with his impeccable logic, Brendon grabs it and turns around to walk over to the register.

Ryan Ross is standing right in front of him.

“Interesting sartorial choice,” he says with a smirk.

“Eek,” Brendon replies articulately. He doesn’t even know what the word sartorial means. Something to do with butterflies, maybe?

“I had no idea you liked crossdressing,” Ryan continues. “Although, if you’re into crossdressing, getting a shirt with butterflies seems like kind of a mild choice. The lingerie department is that way, you know.” He points helpfully.

Seeing Ryan Ross, with his stupid smirking face and his stupid long words, Brendon starts feeling a little angry. Ryan’s just standing over there, casually impugning his—his manhood, or whatever, right after rejecting—

No. No. Brendon is not even going to think about that. In fact…

“I was just looking at it,” Brendon says very nonchalantly. He drops it back on top of the rack, and walks over to the guys section in a cavalier manner, grabbing the first red, vaguely male shirt he sees. “This. This is what I wanted.”

“Really?” Ryan Ross drawls out infuriatingly. His eyes run over the red t-shirt, eyebrows raising to his hairline.

Brendon angrily fights the urge to glance down and see what kind of shirt, exactly, he’s just picked up. “Yeah, really,” he says wittily. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go attend to my hair salon.”

“Bye,” Ryan calls after him in an amused tone.

Brendon stomps off to the cash register. Fucking Ryan Ross. He wasn’t even wearing paisley today, and he was still annoying. And the bowl cut looked just as hideous. Really.

* * *

“Really,” Greta says. “Really?”

Brendon thinks to himself that Ryan and Greta could really teach a class on that drawl, because both of them have it down so well.

“I just grabbed the first shirt my hand touched!” Brendon defends uselessly. “I was in kind of a time crunch!”

“And the first shirt you touched just happened to say ‘I Heart Beer’?” Greta says.

Brendon sighs. It does seem kind of incriminating, now that he thinks about it.

“Look,” he says, kind of desperate, “it was all Ryan Ross’s fault!”

“Sweetie,” Greta says, looking pitying now, which is actually worse, “Ryan Ross wasn’t even there. How could it be his fault?”

“Yes, he was! He was standing right there in front of me, talking to me and distracting me, and—and—yeah,” Brendon finishes lamely.

Greta and Pete exchange an insultingly worried look.

“Guys!” Brendon says, annoyed. “I’m not hallucinating!”

“Right, of course,” Greta says soothingly. She slips into the bathroom to change into the t-shirt without any further protest.

Brendon stomps over to the chairs, where Joe is quietly cleaning some scissors. Joe’s nice. Joe’s awesome. Joe won’t give him any flak about Ryan fucking Ross.

“Brendon,” Joe begins, “I used to have bad trips all the time when I was on LSD.”

He actually has the gall to look offended when Brendon snarls at him.

* * *

The rest of the day only goes downhill.

* * *

“What do you mean?” Pete says slowly.

“Just what I said!” Brendon waves his arms around wildly. “I can’t find the fucking color supplies!”

“Did you look in back room?” Greta pipes up.

“Of course I looked in the back room,” Brendon says, annoyed. “I spent the last hour looking in the back room!”

“Look,” the customer says plaintively, caught in between them, “I just want to dye my hair. Really. That’s all I want.” He pauses. “Please?”

“And we’re going to do that for you,” Greta says soothingly. The customer perks up. “In just a few moments,” she finishes.

The customer’s “But I’ve been waiting for the past hour and a half!” gets largely ignored by them as they walk off.

“I don’t get it!” Brendon hisses. “I know we can’t have run out! What the hell?”

“Are you sure we haven’t?” Greta asks doubtfully.

“We can’t have,” Andy says.

“Really?” Joe says.

“I keep perfect books,” Andy glares.

“Fucking snakes,” Pete says.

“What snakes?” Brendon says.

“Victoria’s waving at me,” Joe says.

“Is Gabe there?” Greta asks.

Brendon thinks for a minute. Across the street, Gabe is winking lasciviously.

“Oh,” he says. Those snakes.

* * *

“It’s not my fault!” Brendon squeaks. He bites his lip when the others glare at him. “I just, ah…wanted to point that out.”

“Thanks, Brendon,” Pete says with exaggerated patience. “I think we’ve pretty much established that the flooding, the thefts, and the incessant beeping are all coming from one source.”

“The Cobras,” Joe adds helpfully.

Beeeeeeeep.

“Fuck!” Pete jerks at the ends of his severely straight-ironed bangs. Brendon giggles a little. It’s like the world is trying to censor Pete Wentz.

Greta purses her lips. “Guys, we can’t work like this. Where on earth is the beeping even coming from?”

Pete gives her a dark look. “If we knew, we would have stopped it by now.”

“There goes another customer,” Andy says cheerfully. That’s the fifth one that’s left since the beeping started.

There’s another beeeeeeeeeep, symbolizing Brendon’s thoughts perfectly.

“Fuck!” Pete says, even more vehemently. “Brendon, go look around the salon to see if you can find where it’s coming from.”

“I already did!” Brendon says. “That’s what I’ve been doing for the past hour! I can’t find anything!”

“Then look harder,” Pete says from behind clenched teeth.

Brendon rolls his eyes. Beeeeeeeeeep. “Go look your own damn self if you don’t trust me!” he huffs.

“Don’t throw a fit, Brendon, you’re not the only one who’s annoyed by the noise,” Greta says sharply.

“But I’m the only one who’s actually done anything about trying to stop it!” Brendon says.

“Right, because knocking over a few boxes totally counts as looking for the source of the sound,” Pete snorts.

“Fuck you,” Brendon spits. Beeeeeeeeeeep.

“Guys!” Joe holds up a hand. “Come on! This is what they want us to do!”

“Run around like headless chickens?” Andy offers.

“No,” Joe says slowly. “Fight amongst ourselves.” He shakes his head sadly. “Guys, where has all the team spirit gone?”

A particularly piercing beeeeeeeeep interrupts Joe’s very profound remark.

And they immediately start squabbling again.

* * *

Well, it’s 3:00, and the salon has completely emptied out. Rain’s started pouring from the sky, so Brendon’s soaked. Best of all, he skinned his knee crawling around on the pavement.

But on the bright side, he found the source of the beeps while doing said crawling! More specifically, sources plural.

“The Cobras were insane enough to put little travel alarm clocks around the entire salon?” Pete says disbelievingly.

“All set for 1:30 PM,” Brendon says brightly. He feels like he can’t stop smiling, because if he does, he’ll do something stupid like cry.

Or strangle Gabe.

Greta sighs. “At least the beeping’s gone, right?”

“Along with our entire customer line-up for this afternoon,” Pete says.

They’re silent for a moment. Then Andy takes one of his earplugs out.

“Hey, guys, the beeping stopped,” Andy says.

Brendon stares at him.

Joe says, “Anyone want a joint?”

* * *

“Man,” Brendon giggles, “your afro is so cool. It’s like…Like a big fluffy cloud. A big fluffy cloud that God accidentally dropped into a Port-A-Potty and stained shit brown.”

“Thanks, dude.” Joe smiles, wide and happy.

Brendon grins back.

There’s a large, coffee-colored blob obscuring Brendon’s vision of the shit-colored cloud. He narrows his eyes and makes the blob come into focus.

Oh.

“I am going to rip your throat out,” Brendon says very seriously.

Gabe laughs at him. Brendon fingers the razor he’s holding. It could happen! Really! But then Brendon figures that, depressingly, Greta would probably gut him for it.

“I trust you’ve all had a satisfying workday?” Gabe says solicitously.

“Fuck off,” Pete tells him. Pete gets kind of angry when he’s high.

“This is what happens when you play with the pros,” Gabe says smugly. Then his eyes fall upon Greta. His smile widens. “You heart beer, Greta, really?”

“It was an emergency measure,” Greta says, glaring. Brendon is very impressed at her ability to say four-syllable words. “For some reason, my original shirt got soaked through.”

“Shocking,” Gabe says.

“Not really,” Joe says, furrowing his brow. Greta elbows him.

“You’re going to be sorry,” Pete says, glaring. His threats tend to get more and more vague the more wasted he is.

“Ooh, I’m scared.” Gabe smirks smarmily.

“Good,” Greta sniffs. “Now get out, you’re in the way of the joint.”

“Is he really?” Brendon asks after he’s gone.

“He totally was,” Greta says annoyedly. “Just being all tall and looming and completely blocking my route to the pot.”

“No, I mean, like.” Brendon flops his hand into the air. It feels kind of heavy. “Is he really going to be sorry?”

Pete sits up. “We’re going to make him sorry,” he says coldly, enunciating the words very clearly.

But then he immediately starts singing the slow part of Beverly Hills kind of mournfully, so Brendon doesn’t take him too seriously.

* * *

“So this is like espionage?” Gerard asks excitedly, making little fluttery spirit fingers.

“Um.” Pete pauses. “Sure. Exactly.”

“So do you know anyone who could help?” Brendon butts in.

“Someone who would be willing to hulk around outside of Cobra Starship like a junkie hobo to scare off all the customers with their disgusting stench, stringy hair, questionable hygiene, and demon eyes?” Mikey clarifies.

“Who likes to pick their nose and scream obscenities?” Ray adds.

“And make out with people randomly to freak moms out?” Bob says.

Pete nods kind of uncertainly.

“Sure,” Frank says. “We know someone like that.”

* * *

Brendon is pretty sure that Clandestine Salon has never smelled this bad. Not even when Joe accidentally spilled hair spray everywhere and their eyes all started watering.

Pete’s smiling, though, and he looks like he approves, so there’s that, at least. Brendon tries to wrinkle his nose unobtrusively.

“Got a booger in there?” the short one with the black, stringy hair says, shoving his face right into Brendon’s.

“Um,” Brendon mentally flails. “No?”

“’Cause I could pick it for you,” he says magnanimously, before breaking into shrill giggles. “Look, Quinnie, we got a blusher!”

“Aw,” ‘Quinnie’ says. “His face is that rosy shade of pink your mom’s cunt was when I fucked her last night.”

The guy doesn’t seemed bothered by the comment and just hoots some more. Brendon starts to edge away without making any sudden movements.

“Yeah,” Pete says, seeming to come to a decision. “You guys are perfect. Bert, is it? And Quinn?”

Bert burps in response.

“Great. So how would you guys feel about getting paid to just stand around?” Pete says, trying to smile persuasively but really coming off more creepy than anything. Brendon doesn’t think they mind, though.

“Just stand around?” Bert says, raising bushy eyebrows.

“Let me guess,” Quinn says. “While we’re naked and modeling for a bunch of toothless old men?”

Brendon maybe lets out a squeak at that. “No! No, nothing like, um, that. We just, uh…”

“We want you guys to act creepy in front of that hair salon over across the street,” Greta says. “They’re our competition, and we’re hoping to put a dent in their customer base.” She smiles sweetly.

“Seven bucks an hour,” Pete says enticingly. His donkey teeth make a reappearance.

Bert looks at Quinn. Quinn looks back. Without another word, they walk off together to converse in the back corner of the salon. Brendon chews on his bottom lip. He can hear the words motherfucker, hugeass teeth, and smooth baby ass, which…really isn’t that reassuring.

“We’ll take the fucking job!” Bert suddenly yells, pumping his fist into the air.

“Awesome,” Pete says, smirking.

“So we’ll be back tomorrow over across the street?” Quinn says, brushing a strand of greasy hair off of his forehead.

“Yep! Give Gabe’s ass a pinch for me,” Greta chirps.

Bert leers at her, and then they turn around to walk out of the salon. Brendon lets out a sigh of relief and decides to breathe through his nose again.

Outside, Bert and Quinn have paused. He can hear Bert yelling, right into Quinn’s face, “We got ourselves a motherfucking gig, motherfucker!”

And then they start to make out. With a lot of tongue, and hair-grabbing, and…Oh, God.

Greta giggles.

* * *

10:00 AM:

“Operatives are in position,” Brendon mutters from in front of the store window. “Over.”

“Very good,” Pete mutters back. Greta rolls her eyes.

Bert and Quinn have made their way to the sidewalk by Cobra Starship, fashioning a little temporary home on one of the cement squares. Bert’s taken out a cigarette, and Quinn solicitously lights it for him.

“This is gonna be good,” Joe says happily.

11:00 AM:

A bit of a commotion has broken out in front of Cobra Starship. Brendon eagerly cranes his neck to get a better look.

One very straight-laced old lady is standing in front of Bert and Quinn, mouth pressed into a thin line. Bert drawls something and punctuates it by blowing smoke into her face.

She opens her mouth in outrage and spits something back.

Bert flips her off and very clearly says either “Bitch.” Or, hm, Brendon supposes it could be “bunch,” too.

The lady stands there unmoving and seemingly paralyzed in shock until Quinn very slowly and very deliberately gropes Bert. Then she hurries away like they have the swine flu.

“Another customer successfully diverted,” Brendon says in satisfaction.

“That makes how many now?” Pete says.

“Oh, about five.” They grin at each other.

Greta says, “It doesn’t look like Gabe’s noticed yet,” sounding kind of disappointed.

12:30 PM

“Um,” Brendon says carefully, “I think they’ve gotten a little bored.”

Joe comes by to stand next to him. He peers out the window. His eyes narrow, his lips curving downward. “Are they—“

“Yeah,” Brendon says.

Pete sends his customer off and, noticing their preoccupation, goes to stand by them. He blinks. His mouth opens to say something, and then, like he’s thought better of it, he shuts it again.

Greta wanders over too, on the other side of Brendon. They all slowly cock their heads to the right, following the movement of the….bodies.

There’s a long pause. They slowly tilt their heads in the other direction.

Finally, Greta breaks the silence.

“Do you think that counts as public indecency?” She sounds genuinely interested in the answer.

12:43 PM

“Ooh, Gabe’s come outside. And I think he’s yelling,” Brendon reports.

Greta hurries to his side and looks out the window very intently.

Bert carelessly flips off the wildly gesticulating Hispanic, without looking.

Gabe yells for a few more seconds.

Finally, Bert detaches his lips from Quinn’s unhurriedly. He looks up at Gabe and yawns obnoxiously.

Brendon can see Gabe wrinkle his nose from the influx of stinky air. He, despite himself, winces in sympathy. Gabe isn’t deterred, though, and resumes yelling.

Quinn yells back. Bert chews on his nails and watches.

They go back and forth for some time. Brendon leaves for a little bit, leaving Greta pressed to the glass, apparently trying to read their lips.

At one point, Brendon is pretty sure Bert starts burping the alphabet.

1:00 PM

Brendon looks out the window forlornly. The only reminder that Bert and Quinn had ever been in front of Cobra Starship are a few cigarette butts and what look like some greasy stains on the sidewalk.

“Well, at least they lasted for three hours,” Brendon says.

“That’s longer than I expected,” Joe pipes up.

They’re all sitting around idly in the couches, most of their customers still out at lunch.

“Drinks tonight?” Pete says after a silence.

“Fuck yes,” Brendon says with feeling.

* * *

“And did you see Gabe’s face?” Greta snorts with laughter. “I thought he was going to blow that vein up in his forehead, you know the one.”

“And when Bert started burping the alphabet for no fucking reason other than to be completely disgusting,” Pete says, grinning madly. “I thought he was going to pick the little fucker up and just fucking carry him away from the salon.”

“He could have done it, too, the body ratio was totally realistic,” Joe says like some kind of fucking expert on the issue, downing another beer.

Brendon fiddles with his drink, laughing along weakly. The alcohol sits heavily in his stomach, and not in a good way. He spies a dark head sitting inconspicuously at the bar and sits up straighter, then hates himself for it. It’s Ryan Ross.

“Hey, guys,” he says suddenly. “The ASS comes out tomorrow.”

Pete takes a sip of his beer. “We remember, Bren.”

Greta chews on her straw. “It’ll be fine, guys, right? I mean…it’s just one survey.”

Brendon wrinkles his nose at her. “Why are you talking it about like that? What is that defeatist attitude? You’re acting like it’s a given we’re going to lose.”

“Well, we have lost for the past four years,” Greta says, frowning.

“And after that whole fiasco with the bowl cut guy…” Joe puts in.

Pete shrugs. “Whatever happens, we’re still going to be here. Just trucking along like good little slaves to the system.”

“You sound like Andy,” Brendon says, slightly disturbed.

Pete rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. One stupid fucking survey isn’t going to make us shut down. If we get chewed out by the reviewer, whatever. We’ll get past it. We always do, don’t we?”

“We have four years of practice getting past it,” Brendon murmurs.

“Yeah.” Pete coughs. “So. We’ll be fine.”

“If we made it through the past week, we can make it through anything,” Joe says very profoundly, although his glassy eyes somewhat diminish the effect.

“You’re right.” Greta smiles at him a little mistily. “We can get through it together.”

She sniffs and pulls them all together for an impromptu group hug, smothering Joe’s ringing “WE WILL OVERCOME” into her shoulder. Brendon relaxes into the tangle of arms and tries to forget everything else.

But over the top of Joe’s head, he can see a small figure getting up from the bar and slowly walking away.

* * *

“Okay, so, when I said that I didn’t care about the ASS and that its results didn’t matter, I totally lied,” Pete says, bursting through the salon doors. “Who has a copy of that motherfucker?”

Brendon makes grabbyhands for the coffee that Pete’s holding in his hands before answering. “I’ve got the newspaper right here, relax.”

“So?” Pete asks him pointedly.

“Well, I haven’t looked at it yet!” Brendon says. “I’ve been waiting for everyone to come.”

“Haha, come,” Joe says. Greta smacks him.

“Um, we’re all here now,” Pete says slowly. “So what are you waiting for now?”

“Uh. Nothing,” Brendon says lamely.

He stares down at the newspaper in his hands. ANNUAL SERVICE SURVEY is splashed obnoxiously across its front page. Brendon can see that the complete list of results is printed on A5. He just…can’t actually make himself open the paper and look.

“It’s just—“ he starts, and then waves his hand around uselessly. “We’ve been working towards this for so damn long, you know? All that shit with Ry—with the reviewer, and then those fucking pranks…We’ve put our blood and sweat into the ASS. I just feel like we need to build up to important shit like thi—“

“Okay, that’s nice,” Greta says, snatching the newspaper from him.

Brendon scowls at her, but also finds that he has somehow lost the ability to breathe as her nimble hands quickly flip through the pages.

They’re all waiting—probably none of them breathing—while her eyes scan through the lines.

Her breath catches, and then theirs do too, like a stutter, or an imperfect echo.

“SO?” Pete demands.

“I’m so sorry,” Greta breathes out.

Andy drops his nail file, Joe’s afro droops dramatically, and Brendon’s breath comes out in one long, painful whoosh.

But Pete’s the only one of them who speaks. “What?” he says, and practically tears the newspaper away from her.

Greta’s shoulders seem to be shaking, and Brendon really hopes she doesn’t start crying. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats, “for Gabe.” And now the snickers start coming out, uncontrollable giggles and snorts as she beams at them.

Brendon’s mouth is open in shock. “Are you saying we…” He can’t even finish.

“We fucking won, motherfuckers!” Pete whoops, and suddenly they’re all moving towards each other, even Andy, who doesn’t even bother to pick up his treasured nail mile from the ground. Brendon barely has time to marvel at the miracle before he’s engulfed in a massive hug, everyone shaking and laughing and at least one person crying, Brendon can feel wetness on his shoulder.

He turns to look at Greta, but she’s not the one crying. Instead, Joe’s trying to surreptitiously use his afro as a makeshift tissue.

“I can’t believe we finally fucking did it,” Brendon manages to say between euphoric laughter and, ridiculously, enough, hiccups.

“Do you think it was the BOGO that pushed it toward us?” Greta asks excitedly. Her entire face is pink with pleasure.

“Or the two hobos?” Andy says.

“Man, no, it was totally my BOGO idea,” Joe is saying, and Brendon’s inclined to agree, only Pete’s stopped laughing, his eyes scanning the page again.

“What is it, Pete?” he asks, suddenly nervous. “You didn’t…We did actually win, right?”

“No, we did,” Pete says absently. “I just…”

“What?” Greta says, peeking over his shoulder.

“It wasn’t Bert and Quinn,” Pete says slowly. “Or BOGO. Guys, the survey was taken before any of the pranks started.”

He shows the newspaper page, which clearly reads: SURVEY RESULTS TAKEN BETWEEN JUNE 6, 2009 AND JUNE 9, 2009.

“Oh,” Brendon says. It all feels a little anticlimactic now.

Joe’s frowning, and Pete looks annoyed.

“All that work, gone to waste,” Greta says sadly. And then, “Oh well. We still won.”

And they’re grinning again. Brendon feels a little twinge—it took time to copy all those flyers and distribute them to fucking uncooperative Way brothers—but then it passes.

“Hey,” Pete says suddenly. “I have champagne.”

* * *

They’ve almost cleared out the bottle when Greta remembers.

“Oh, hey,” she says. “I wonder how Gabe’s doing.”

Brendon sighs and Pete rolls his eyes, but she determinedly walks over to the window and looks outside. “Their blinds are drawn,” she reports. “But it looks like the lights are on.”

“Maybe they’re crying,” Joe says dreamily.

“We should go over there!” Greta says. She’s already halfway out the door before they’re up and following her. Joe clutches the remaining champagne to his chest protectively.

Pete steps out in front and knocks on the locked door. Gabe’s head appears—with no signs of tears, Brendon is (slightly disappointed) to note—within a few minutes. He sees Pete’s face and immediately flips him off before turning to leave.

Greta quickly shoves Pete out of the way and raps on the door authoritatively. Slowly, Gabe’s face comes back into view. He looks visibly conflicted, before finally giving in and unlocking the door.

“Fine,” he sighs laboriously. “You can come in.”

They slowly file in, Joe taking a good long swig straight from the champagne bottle. Brendon can see Ryland and Alex hurriedly taking something down from the wall. It looks like a poster that says 2010 ASS PLAN OF ATTACK, but Brendon can’t be sure.

“So,” Pete says awkwardly. “I would offer some champagne, but I think Joe’s already polished that off.”

“Also, offering champagne would be rude and insensitive in their time of loss,” Greta says, driving an elbow into his stomach.

Ten minutes later, they’re spread out over the Cobra’s salon. Greta and Gabe are talking quietly in a corner, and the rest of them are sprawling on the couches.

“I still can’t believe you kissed me to get me sick,” Joe says, disgruntled.

“Please. It was the best thirty seconds of your life,” Victoria says dismissively.

Nate looks dejected.

“How did you manage to kiss Greta, anyway?” Brendon asks curiously.

Victoria starts laughing at that. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she gives them out pretty freely, Brendon,” she says casually, and jerks her head to the side. Brendon’s eyes follow that direction to see…Greta and Gabe making out very enthusiastically. When had that started? There’s a heave, and then Greta’s straddling him, leaning in to—

Okay, and Brendon’s definitely seen enough of that.

Pete’s smirking and seems to be giving Greta a thumbs up sign. Joe looks vaguely betrayed.

Brendon feels…He doesn’t know how he feels. Not jealous so much as—discontent. Restless. Because—

Oh. Wait.

“Pete!” he hisses.

“What, dude?” Pete says.

“The review!” He can’t believe he almost forgot about it. Did forget about it, for half an hour.

“The review?” Pete looks blank for a moment, before, “Oh, shit. Right.” Pete sits up and digs in his pocket for the newspaper. (Brendon has no idea how he fit that in there; Pete’s pants look like they’re painted on.) He pulls it out, looks through the pages, and frowns.

“Well?” Brendon asks impatiently. His foot’s bouncing up and down off the linoleum floor, and he’s finding it hard to breathe again. It’s almost like he’s more nervous for some stupid review than the results of the ASS, which is totally…totally ridiculous. Brendon bites at his thumbnail.

Pete is looking at the page, frowning. “Huh,” he says. A few seconds later, and, “Weird.”

For fuck’s sake. “Give it to me!” Brendon grabs for the newspaper, not even caring when he accidentally elbows Joe’s collarbone.

“Just a sec, Jesus Christ,” Pete says, and holds it out of his reach.

“You’re not even looking at it anymore, asshole!” Brendon clambers over Pete’s stupid Converse and starts tugging at Pete’s shirt warningly.

“Why do you care so much, anyway?” Pete flashes him his big, gleaming donkey teeth, and Brendon officially loses it.

He’s not, uh, exactly clear on what happens after that, but five minutes later he’s in possession of a (slightly more tattered) copy of the LV Times, so it’s all good.

He resolutely ignores Pete’s pained whimpers behind him. Joe will kiss it better, and besides, the asshole deserved it.

Quickly, Brendon flips through the pages and then looks through the smeared newsprint. They’re right below the nail people, just like every year before this. The title says UNTANGLING A HAIRY DECISION, but Brendon doesn’t even pause to grimace at the overabundance of bad puns. Instead, he looks further down to see the authors’ names. It says BY SPENCER SMITH AND—

Brendon blinks, shakes his head, and looks again to see if the letters in ERIC RONICK have rearranged themselves to spell out RYAN ROSS yet.

They haven’t.

What? “The fuck?” Brendon says.

Pete says, “I would have told you he wasn’t in there if you’d waited for five fucking seconds,” sounding very injured.

“Whatever,” Brendon says absently. “Why didn’t he write the review? That’s so weird. Do you think maybe he didn’t have time? But he came in here for a fucking haircut and everything! That doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s a typo.”

Joe says, “That’s possible. I definitely typo Ryan Ross as Eric Ronick all the time. Slip of the fingers, that.”

Pete snorts, but Joe just looks at him solemnly with big eyes. Brendon thinks that Joe’s had a bit too much to drink (and smoke).

“But then why…” Brendon stares down at the newspaper and bites his lip. The words ERIC RONICK stare back at him unblinkingly. It’s like they’re taunting him, like they’re daring him to…

Abruptly, Brendon stands up.

Pete looks up at him.

Brendon opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Finally, he just says, “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Our salon is opening in ten minutes,” Pete says slowly.

Brendon’s already walking away. “I’m taking one of my sick days,” he says, not really thinking about it, waving Pete’s words away.

He pushes the door open and steps out into the fresh air.

He can still hear Pete, unfortunately.

“You don’t get sick days, did you forget?” Pete yells obnoxiously after him. “You signed your soul over to me in that employment contract, Bren, and souls don’t get fucking sick days!”

Brendon flips him off and walks faster.

Pete just cackles, and then, after a beat, “Good luck, you crazy bastard!”

Brendon pretends not to know what he means. Brendon pretends very hard.

(…Besides, it’s not like Pete has any room to talk. He stalked Patrick because he liked his fucking sideburns. Brendon totally has more dignity.

Yeah. Right.)

* * *

So. Maybe Brendon forgot that Ryan’s workplace was quite a long ways away. And that the city bus doesn’t even come by until an hour later. Whatever. He can walk. Brendon’s a champion walker. It’s exercise. He’s great at it.

Sadly, though, his supply of mental noise is beginning to run out, and he still has about ten blocks left. Which means that he has time to think. To be introspective.

Brendon’s willing to admit he isn’t often introspective. It’s easier to just go through life and take things as they come, he finds. Besides, the last time he was continually and angstily introspective was in high school. And all that led to was him discovering he was gay.

Which, really, was awkward for everyone involved—him, his hand, his internet history, and the rather spotty kid in his gym class. And his parents, but…Brendon’s not even going to get into that.

Anyway. The point is. The point is that Brendon is walking twenty blocks to go see some stuck-up guy with a fucking bowl cut and an unfortunate affinity for paisley. The point is that Brendon is completely ignoring his boss’s words (he really doesn’t have any sick days, fucking Pete and his fucking fine print) and leaving his job behind to go see some fucker who takes his job waaaaay too seriously. The point is that Brendon is chasing after someone who’s made it clear that he thinks Brendon is a fucking idiot who treats his customers like crap. The point is that…Brendon is probably being an idiot again.

Brendon sighs to himself and chews on his thumbnail. It’s getting quite ragged.

Maybe he should just turn around and go back. But he’s already walked fifteen blocks. It would be stupid to go back now, right? After walking so long, and…all that.

He wrinkles his nose at himself. He hates it when he starts arguing with himself in his head. It’s frustrating, and also, he doesn’t like the freaked-out looks the passersby give him.

It’s kind of like…It’s kind of like Ryan’s a new curling iron, or like, a new straightener from FHI or whatever the fuck. He’s like some new piece of equipment that’s a little cranky, a little user-unfriendly. It’s probably missing its owner’s manual. And it burns Brendon a few times, before he really gets how to use it, and how to use it well. Maybe it results in a few fried bangs before he really understands.

But the thing is, it’s really good. It has the potential to make, like, perfect hair, or whatever, Brendon doesn’t know. The important part is that he can see them making beautiful, uh, hair together. He can see it in Ryan’s cutting little comments that would be kind of funny if they weren’t directed towards him. He can see it in the little quirk in his lips that Ryan always suppresses immediately afterward.

Fuck, he can even see it in Ryan’s fucking bowl cut. That cowlick’s just begging to be tamed. (Uh, literally.)

So…yeah. It’s all clear now. Ryan is a curling iron and Brendon just wants to get to know how to use him.

Right. Okay. Brendon has officially lost it. This is why he doesn’t like getting fucking introspective.

* * *

It would, Brendon reflects, probably be a bad idea to explain his genius hair equipment analogy to Ryan, who is looking at him expectantly. Especially before he’s even said hi.

So. “Hi,” Brendon says.

“Hi,” Ryan says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Um.” Brendon clears his throat. “So. How are you?”

“Brendon,” Ryan says, and actually rolls his eyes. Brendon tries not to glare in automatic response. “What are you doing here? The ASS is over, in case you haven’t realized.”

“I—I know that. I mean. That’s why I’m here. I just—I just wanted to know why you didn’t write the review.” He waves the newspaper in his hand around, feeling kind of foolish.

Ryan shrugs, looking uncomfortable. Then he smoothes his face back out—which is fucking unnerving—and says, “I felt like there was a conflict of interest. So I removed myself from the article.”

“A conflict of interest?” Brendon feels like he’s tripping a few lines of dialogue behind.

“What with you showing up at all hours to persuade me to change my mind about your salon, even resorting to bribery, I really don’t see how you can claim that there wasn’t,” Ryan says boredly.

Brendon takes a step back involuntarily. Everything about Ryan’s stance is incredibly standoffish—his back is ramrod straight, his arms are crossed, and his face is completely blank. It feels like a door’s been slammed shut in his face.

“I don’t—I mean—“ Brendon flails for a few more minutes before saying, helplessly, “what?”

“Look,” Ryan says, “you and I both know that there is exactly no reason for you to be here. Our brief, mostly unenjoyable acquaintance revolved entirely around the ASS. And it’s over now. So you can leave.”

Brendon gapes at him. What the fuck? It’s one thing for Ryan to just be his usual prickly self, but this weird, cold rudeness is going way beyond that.

“The door’s right there,” Ryan says helpfully.

“I’ll go just as soon as you tell me why you’re being such an ass,” Brendon blurts out. He doesn’t back down, though, and even folds his arms across his chest in what (he hopes) is a firm manner.

If possible, Ryan’s face gets even blanker.

So Brendon decides to just barrel on. “What is your fucking problem, anyway? I’ve been nothing but nice to you, practically groveling on my knees since that disastrous bowl cut! And you’re acting like, like I murdered your puppy or something insane like that! I thought we were—“ and he abruptly cuts himself off, because he is not going into that territory right now, particularly when Ryan’s face is set in thunderous lines.

“Right,” Ryan spits, “groveling on your knees after you find out that I’m the fucking reporter!”

“Talk about beating a dead horse,” Brendon interrupts, glaring. “I’ve already apologized for that a million times!” Somehow, he’s gotten a lot closer to Ryan, and now they’re practically yelling in each other’s faces.

“The horse isn’t dead, Brendon,” and before Brendon can ask what he means or inquire into his sanity, Ryan says, “Do you really think I’m that stupid? What were you going to do, get me out to dinner and then sleep with me to ensure a good fucking review? Take one for the team, is that it? Just prostitute yourself out until the salon finally makes it?”

“What?” Brendon says. His mouth is opening and closing, and he feels like a hundred different things are trying to come out of his mouth, but none of them quite make it.

Ryan sneers. “The really priceless thing, of course, is that you’re still here. Who the fuck is stupid enough to still try to bribe someone after the survey’s been published? Oh, and, in case you were hoping, I’m not the reporter assigned to the hair salons for next year’s issue, so you’re really just wasting energy now. Sorry if you were planning on this being a long-term investment.” He smiles insincerely.

Brendon pauses for a moment. He takes a deep breath. And then he thinks to himself, fuck it.

“Okay, you know what?” Brendon is aware that he is jabbing a pointy finger into Ryan’s chest right now, but he can’t even bring himself to care. “I can’t even fucking believe you right now! Do you have any idea what the fuck is spewing out of your mouth?”

Ryan opens his mouth, presumably in outrage, but Brendon doesn’t wait for him.

“I don’t even know if I should feel fucking sorry for you because you’re so dense, or angry because you’re calling me a slut.” Brendon tries on a sneer of his own, and it actually feels really good. “I have no clue who the hell you’ve been dealing with in terms of relationships your whole life, but I don’t actually ask people out just because of some shitty-ass survey that comes out every year! I mean, yeah, I probably wouldn’t have called you if I hadn’t known you were a reporter, but—“

“See?” Ryan says, waving his hands around wildly. “This is what I’m talking about!”

“Can you just shut up for five minutes and let me talk?” Ryan quiets, but he also looks five seconds away from plunging the nearest ballpoint pen into Brendon’s jugular, so he figures he should probably talk quickly. “That was in the beginning, okay, Jesus Christ. I wouldn’t have stalked you all the way to your workplace, I wouldn’t have begged you to come back to the salon, and I definitely wouldn’t have thrown up all over your shoes if I wasn’t at least kind of interested.” Brendon pauses for breath.

“It sounds like catching your interest is pretty fucking hazardous,” Ryan says, but he’s more subdued. His brown eyes flick up to look at Brendon, and then they back to staring at the ground.

“So,” Brendon says, and then he stops. He feels a little like he’s lost his train of thought. “Um, yeah,” he says lamely.

“You done ranting?” Ryan says, looking kind of cautiously amused.

Brendon wants to glare at him for that, but he just shrugs.

“Okay. Um.” Ryan bites his lip. “I guess…I should probably apologize for, uh, casting aspersions on your sexual habits.”

“Thanks,” Brendon says. “Do you know that the more flustered you get, the more you sound like you ate a thesaurus?”

Ryan flushes. “Whatever. So…you asked me out to dinner because you, um, liked me?”

Brendon rolls his eyes. “What do you think, seriously?”

“So, then…” Ryan fidgets and drops his gaze to the floor.

“Yeah?” Brendon prompts.

“Is that offer still open?” Ryan mutters, going bright tomato red.

“Of dinner?” Brendon asks blankly.

“No, of a free haircut,” Ryan snaps. “Yes, of dinner.”

Brendon tries, unsuccessfully, to suppress a smile. “Hm, I don’t know, I’ll have to think about it.”

Ryan looks a bit crestfallen. “Oh. Well. Of course, yeah, I understand.”

“Dude! Hey, wait.” Brendon lifts Ryan’s chin up from where it’s trying to dip down. “I actually find bowl cuts and paisley kind of hot now because of you. Which is so incredibly disturbing, but, um…” He trails off awkwardly. “That’s not the point. The point is…Yeah. I would love to go to dinner with you, thanks for asking.”

“Well.” Ryan blinks twice, rapidly. “Good.”

“Great!” Brendon beams at him.

There’s a long silence.

Then Ryan says, “You can stop listening at the door now, Spence.”

There’s a thump and a muffled curse.

* * *

Pete says, “I’m totally taking this out of your pay, you know.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Brendon says, flipping him off.

“I mean, taking off and completely ignoring your boss? Talk about unprofessional,” Pete continues blithely. “Although I guess it was for a good cause.”

He leers at Ryan, who looks vaguely amused. Brendon is not.

“Shut up and get your own, Pete,” Brendon says firmly.

“I dunno. Bowl cuts kind of grow on you, huh? And that cowlick is actually pretty hot,” Pete says, apparently having no sense of when to stop digging his grave.

Every tooth of Pete’s bright white, gleaming grin disappears in about 1.5 seconds.

“You’re right, Pete,” someone says calmly from behind him. Brendon can’t see him, so he must be pretty short. “That cowlick is really hot.”

Somehow, Brendon has the feeling that the guy doesn’t really think Ryan’s cowlick is hot. (Although, it is. It really, really is. Shut up.)

Pete turns around as slowly as possible, as though if he takes long enough, everything will be better.

“Hi, Pete,” says that short, bespectacled redhead from a week ago (Paul, was it? Maybe Rick?). His teeth seem to be clenched. “Remember me?”

“Patrick!” Pete says, trying to grin and failing. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, just visiting. Actually, I work at that record store a block from here? So, you know, easy stroll.” His teeth are still bared.

Pete blinks. “I thought you, um, worked at the other record store downtown.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says casually. “I did, but then I got fired for some reason. Maybe it was because I skipped out early from my shift to get a haircut before the salon closed for the day? Some really annoying guy kept pestering me about it.”

Pete’s eyes get really big. “Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Oops?”

Brendon isn’t too clear on what happened next, because it was all kind of a blur, but he’s pretty sure that the redhead let out something remarkably similar to a growl, lunged at Pete, and then dragged him outside.

He and Ryan blink at each other.

“…Should we help him?” Ryan asks, kind of unwillingly.

Brendon thinks about it for all of a second, and then says, “Nah. I’m hungry. Let’s just grab that dinner we were talking about.”

“Okay.” Ryan smiles at him, and Brendon smiles back, and he grabs Ryan’s hand to lead him outside, and it’s all disgustingly, perfectly sappy for a few moments, but then somehow Brendon’s foot slips on the polished floor and he’s still holding Ryan’s hand and they both go down and—

Well, long story short, Ryan sprains his wrist. Whoops. So, maybe their relationship has some kinks to work out.

(“Like, for instance,” Ryan tells him later on, over a hospital cafeteria dinner of overcooked chicken and green jello, “not throwing up and/or causing bodily injury every time you try to put some moves on me.”

“Sorry!” Brendon says. And then he adds, placatingly, “By the way, that hospital gown looks really good on you.” He gestures to the gown with the plastic fork.

It somehow manages to puncture Ryan’s arm.

…They are not ever, ever getting to second base.)

But, whatever. Brendon’s just mad that Pete and Patrick were too busy making out to help him call 9-1-1 for Ryan. Now that’s a fucked up relationship.

End.

Feedback is always cherished and given a good home. :)

...
Oh yeah, and totally OT (but relevant in my time of need)--someone needs to talk me out of writing an epic, completely cracky American Idol fic. Stat. /o\ /o\ /o\ I don't even know how this happened, guys, swear.

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From:

chaoticallyclev.livejournal.com

and the most epically winning line ever for no apparent reason: “You signed your soul over to me in that employment contract, Bren, and souls don’t get fucking sick days!”
what can i say? pete always manages to steal the show.
Anyway, love love love love love love love love love love this story and your characters and everything and you and now i'm going to go okay bye!

From:

heaven is overrated

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