Fic: How to Survive a Recession 2/5
Nov. 7th, 2009 02:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piecesof_reesesRight now, Brendon’s trying to deliver precious cargo to Spencer—his caramel macchiato. It’s piping hot and smells incredible. And Brendon knows how much Spencer depends on his midday coffee (he refuses to think about what that means, his head attempting to make connections between Spencer depending on coffee and Spencer depending on him).
As he walks, he passes Gerard Way slowly inching through the halls, back glued to the wall.
“Smoke break,” Gerard whispers at Brendon’s questioning look. “I haven’t had one in fucking ages; feels like I’m gonna die. I’ll just be gone for fifteen minutes. Ten minutes! Five, I swear. Oh, god, I should just go back to my cubicle.” He turns around and starts walking back.
Brendon stares after him, shaken. Cigarettes and coffee are what Gerard Way practically lives for (plus ogling Frank Iero, but everyone’s too kind to mention that). If the consultants are having him give up smoking, then things are worse than Brendon thought.
He reaches Spencer’s desk a few moments later.
“Hey, Spence,” he greets in a whisper.
Spencer looks up and breaks into a relieved grin. Brendon smiles back helplessly. His insides curl pleasantly, and he feels warm all over.
“Thank god,” Spencer says. “I was worried, with all this shit going on, you wouldn’t be able to make it.”
“I almost didn’t,” Brendon says solemnly. “It’s like a fucking war zone out there. I was almost ambushed by the enemy, but I made it here all right.”
Spencer snickers a little bit, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s great to hear. It does really feel like a war zone, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Brendon perches on the corner of Spencer’s desk, grateful for any excuse to talk. “I saw Gerard on the way here. He was gonna try to sneak out for a cigarette break, but chickened out halfway through.”
“Wow,” Spencer whistles.
“I know,” Brendon agrees.
“I think things are only going to get worse, though,” Spencer says, sighing heavily. “I heard they’re going to present recommendations to Pete tomorrow, and then we’re going to have an afternoon meeting.”
Brendon’s breath catches. “So soon? I thought they said the observation period might take a week.”
“I guess they’ve seen all they needed to see.” Spencer shrugs at him.
“…I really can’t tell if that’s good or really, really bad.”
“Me neither.”
“Well,” Brendon says, trying to smile, “at least that means they’ll stop sneaking around and pouncing at different intervals?”
“Hopefully,” Spencer says, smiling back a little. He lifts the cup and takes a long sip of the coffee, his pale throat working.
Brendon stares at the line his neck makes, arched back like that, and thinks very inappropriate thoughts. It’s even better when Spencer takes the cup away and licks some foam off his upper lip.
“Brendon?” Spencer says.
“What? Um, yes! I mean.” Brendon colors.
“Okay,” Spencer says, smirking. “I’ll see you later? We should probably get back to work before William pounces.”
“Yeah.” Brendon tries not to sound too reluctant. “I’ll see you later.”
* * *
It’s no use trying to avoid William, anyway. He latches onto Brendon on the way back to his cubicle, sniffing him suspiciously.
“Dude!” Brendon says. “What are you doing?”
“You smell like coffee,” William says triumphantly.
Brendon swallows. “Um, yes? I’m really sorry! You know. In advance…” He trails off.
William smirks at him. “You’ve been visiting the lovely Mr. Smith again, haven’t you?”
Brendon thinks quickly. He definitely doesn’t want to implicate Spencer in anything. “I was just getting him coffee! I mean, not that he asked me to. It’s just something I do. I mean. I can stop?” Brendon offers pathetically.
William is tsk-ing at him. “You know what they say about intra-office relationships, Brendon.”
“Don’t…don’t engage in them?” Brendon says in a small voice.
William pauses. “I was actually thinking that they’re incredibly hot, but that works.”
Brendon stares at him.
“You can toddle off to your cubicle, now!” William says, flicking his fingers at him.
Brendon walks off, bemused. That was really, really odd.
* * *
Everyone’s been tense all day. Well, Brendon qualifies in his head, tenser than usual, if usual means the last few ulcer-causing days. Patrick’s been yelling at even more people than normal, and Jon’s so shaken he wore socks with his flip flops.
And Spencer won’t even look him in the eye, he’s too busy rushing to file this and email that and remind Pete of whateverthefuck. Which, if Brendon’s being honest, is what bothers him most.
“Stop sulking,” Ryan advises him. “Spencer doesn’t like it when people mope.”
Brendon sticks out his tongue at him. “What do I care about what Spencer likes?”
Jon giggle-snorts, smiling for the first time today. Brendon sticks his tongue out at him, too.
“And anyway,” Brendon says, “if he doesn’t like mopey people, why’s he hung out with you for so long, Ryan?”
Ryan clucks his tongue loftily. “Don’t lash out at me just because you’re unhappy,” Ryan says in his most obnoxious tone of voice. Sometimes Brendon wonders why he’s still friends with Ryan. And then he remembers that he’s never come up with a good reason, so he gives up finding one as a lost cause.
Jon says, “I hope they don’t take away my flip flops,” looking sad again.
No one has to ask which “they” Jon is referring to.
“Dude, screw flip flops,” Joe says. “What about weed? We haven’t been able to hotbox the bathroom in ages.”
“I hope they’re still going to let me leave early on Fridays,” Greta says, frowning uncertainly. “I have to pick up my sister’s kid.”
Gerard pipes up, face haunted, “What if they mandate regular showers?” Next to him, his brother flinches violently.
“I bet they’ll take away the break room,” Cash joins in, sitting down in an empty chair next to Brendon.
“Do you think they’ll take away my iPod?” Mikey asks.
“They might not let you make coffee runs anymore, Brendon,” Ryan says. “We’ll have to satisfy ourselves with the break room coffee.”
Everyone’s faces blanch, except for Gerard, who seems unconcerned as long as he still has a source of caffeine.
“But wait,” Gerard says. “If they’re taking away the break room like Cash said, then we won’t have any coffee at all!”
“Guys, guys,” Brendon says, raising his voice. “Don’t even worry about stuff like that. It gets worse.”
He pauses dramatically. “I heard,” he continues, “that they’re thinking about taking Solitaire off all our computers.”
The entire department sucks in a collective, scandalized gasp.
“Now that is just low,” Joe says.
“Tell me about it.”
* * *
The meeting in which William and Michael are supposed to announce their recommendations is scheduled for 3 PM. By the time 3 PM rolls around, the entire building has jointly decided that the recommendations will include taking away all employee benefits, stripping them of their retirement savings, mandating five-minute lunch breaks, and also snatching their souls and selling them into sex slavery while they’re at it.
Brendon doesn’t think he’s seen a room of more depressed people since his grandmother died. Actually, not even then; his grandmother was a vicious bitch who enjoyed terrorizing others.
“It’s almost time for our reckoning,” Joe says heavily, keeping an eye on the clock.
“Do you think they’ll let me go home every once in a while?” Jon asks. “Just to see my cats, you know. And feed them.”
“Probably not,” Gerard tells him.
“Shit,” Jon says.
“Maybe they’ll shave our heads and make us work naked,” Ryan says.
Brendon whips his head around. “What? Why?”
“To more fully oppress us and stamp down on subversive behavior?” Mikey offers.
“Oh.” Brendon thinks about it. “You’re probably right.”
“Guys, it’s time to go,” Greta says quietly.
They file into a straight line without even thinking about it, as if determined to put up as little fight as possible. It’s like a funeral procession, Brendon reflects. There are enough people crying, anyway. Frank’s leading another line of people from the hallway connecting to Design, hiccuping suspiciously and wiping at his eyes.
Spencer falls into step behind Ryan and in front of Brendon. His shoulders are bowed, and he looks utterly defeated. Brendon swallows around a lump in his throat and resists the urge to just fling his arms around him until he looks happy again. He probably wouldn’t be happy with Brendon clinging to him, anyway. It’d just be counterproductive. Brendon sniffles a little bit.
The Alexes are all holding hands and swaying together as they walk. DeLeon’s hair is hanging in front of his face. Cash looks unhappy but determined, and Brendon wonders if he knows that he’s walking slightly in front of DeLeon, protectively.
Finally, they reach the meeting room at a snail’s pace. They walk inside, wordlessly taking up positions as close to the door as they can manage, as though ready to bolt at the nearest opportunity.
William and Michael are standing at the front of the room with Pete, looking very pleased with themselves. William’s wearing a jaunty red tie. Brendon feels a sudden, vivid need to just punch him, right in his perfect, thin little nose. But then Spencer jostles his elbow accidentally, and the moment passes.
“Hello, everyone,” William says pleasantly, flashing his beautifully white teeth at them. Brendon bets he whitens them. He bets he uses those cheap little whitening strips from Costco. And he probably follows the directions to a T, too, putting them on for exactly fifteen minutes every morning and night, with a little stopwatch just to make sure. It’s disgusting.
Brendon isn’t sure when he became so petty. He doesn’t care, either. Scowling, he focuses his angriest glare on William. William doesn’t even glance his direction, his gaze preferring to linger on the right side of the room, where Gabe is standing—although lounging might be a better word.
“Michael and I are very pleased to announce the recommendations we have formulated and customized for all of you.” William pauses, apparently for applause, but continues when no one so much as twitches. (It’s like they’ve all turned to zombies. Brendon has an uncomfortable flashback to Spencer’s comment about the HP employees.)
“Let’s just get on with things, shall we?” William says charmingly. “Firstly, we thought we’d institute a dress code. Nothing too formal, just a collared shirt and dress pants will do. Oh, yes, and dress shoes, of course.” Brendon swears he sees William smirk in Jon’s direction, and he balls his hands into fists. “We’d also like to mandate a one-hour, in-office lunch period. Michael and I noticed an alarming amount of people taking off for lunch and not returning until two hours later, or more. That is a very dangerous trend, and poses an extreme threat to workplace discipline and productivity mumble mumble mumble…”
Brendon looks around, but he’s pretty sure no one else can understand William’s mumblings either. Except for Carden. He’s smirking.
“We’re also looking into removing all games from work computers,” William continues, abruptly speaking clearly again. “The most pressing problem at Island Electronics is, I feel, the lack of structure and discipline. Games only increase frivolity and decrease productivity. Win/win situation, I’m sure you’ll all agree.”
Brendon doesn’t. Frivolity? What the fuck?
“The rest of our recommendations are comparatively small trifles. Making records electronic, using printers and copiers only for work-related purposes, taking away birthday celebrations, and other things like that. Just small, money-saving measures.”
“Thank you for your recommendations, William,” Pete drawls. “I’ll see how many of them we should actually instate.”
William clears his throat, a cultured, elegant sound. “Actually, Peter, the word recommendation is really only a formality. Your CEO is quite eager to implement all of our suggestions, as I am sure you understand.” He smiles at Pete.
Pete’s face freezes. “Greenwald?” he asks flatly.
“Yes. Alex.” William looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. Carefully, he smoothes a lock of brown hair back from his face. “Michael and I will check in periodically throughout the next week and hand out surveys at the end of that week. Then we’ll make any final adjustments.”
“You’re sticking around?” Frank says, glaring ferociously. “I thought the observation period was supposed to be over.”
“Well, we’re very dedicated to our craft, Michael and I,” William says.
There’s a very loud snort. Brendon quickly looks in the direction of the sound, but all he sees is Gabe’s nonchalant face.
William’s eyes narrow, but he continues without further ado. “So, we’re staying to see how well our recommendations work, and to fix any problems that might arise.”
“Fantastic,” Pete says. His face is grim.
“It will be,” William returns.
Brendon has a really bad feeling about all of this.
* * *
The dress code thing doesn’t go over too well. Brendon likes to think that it’s just because the employees at Island Electronics have too much creative spirit. Like, their artistic souls just won’t take to being oppressed by archaic—and lame—standards of dress.
Brendon, personally, is abiding by every single rule William set forth, but William still winces every time he sees Brendon, which Brendon’s patting himself on the back for. He’s got a collared shirt, yes, but it’s a Mickey Mouse polo. Brendon likes to think that the redness of Mickey’s shorts (pants? No, can’t be, they’re not long enough) brings out his eyes. Or something like that.
Jon’s rebelling in a slightly more subtle way. He’s got a pair of dress shoes with him, but the minute Jon’s safely in his cubicle and his feet parked squarely underneath his desk, he kicks them off. It’s not like William will be able to tell, at least not unless he bends forward and peers under Jon’s swivel chair into the dark abyss of Jon’s desk. Which actually sounds…vaguely dirty. So Brendon’s not going to think about that anymore.
And Gabe…Well, Gabe isn’t bothering to put up any pretense at all. The Monday they came back to work, he strode into the building wearing a loudly purple hoodie, tight zebra-striped jeans, rainbow hi-top sneakers, and his usual cobra pendant, only bedazzled. It was—really awesome, actually.
William’s face had looked extremely pinched. Then he walked over, placed a hand in the middle of Gabe’s back, and propelled him into the nearest room. They stayed in there for almost half an hour, and when they came out, both looked slightly defeated. Gabe had taken off his purple hoodie to reveal a blue polo, but he kept on his necklace, zebra pants, and sneakers.
That was a good day, all in all.
Of course, a lot of people are quietly abiding by William’s new rules. And, you know, that’s fine, too. Brendon’s perfectly fine with that. He strongly supports the right to do whatever you want, and if you want to follow rules, that’s cool. Brendon’s just that kind of 21st century, progressive dude.
It absolutely has nothing to do with the line of Spencer’s back in his suit jacket. Or the way dress pants fall just so over the curve of his ass. Or how those shiny leather shoes make a really commanding clacking noise on the tile floors that is in no way, shape, or form sexy.
Of course not.
Brendon discreetly adjusts his own dress pants. They’re just, uh, a bad fit. Brendon hasn’t worn dress pants since college graduation, and his ass definitely feels it.
And if Brendon might have a sort of thing for hot, capable, authoritative figures, well. It’s not his fault he had a particularly good looking high school principal.
“Being productive, Brendon?”
Brendon squeaks and jumps about a foot into the air. How the hell does William manage to be so damn quiet in those fucking shoes?
“Um. Uh, yeah. Of course I am.” Brendon fiddles with his mouse.
“You don’t have any windows open,” William says kindly, gently.
Brendon only hears doom.
“I just closed them! Like five seconds ago! I was being so productive before now, you have no idea,” he babbles. “I’m just getting ready to go! I mean, you know, for a coffee run. Since, uh, you took the office coffee out of the break room and closed the break room entirely.”
He flashes William a feeble smile.
William looks at him, considering. “You have a point,” he begins. Brendon’s shoulders inch their way down from where they were hunched up around his ears a moment before. “But do you really think coffee runs are a good use of your valuable work time?”
Brendon thinks that is a trick question. He is almost positive that is a trick question.
…He still has to fight off a really strong urge to ask and make sure, though.
“Um,” Brendon says, trying to stall. “Er. Well. Work time spent in the office is, um, only valuable if you’re, like. Working,” he says very profoundly.
William looks at him. Brendon’s shoulders hunch up again.
“And!” he says desperately. “And working isn’t very feasible if, um, you can’t concentrate. And, like, caffeine is good for that. Concentration, I mean. And coffee! Wait, what?”
Brendon stops and attempts to take stock of what he just said. He can’t. Which is probably kind of a bad sign.
William’s paused, though, and he’s stroking his chin thoughtfully. Brendon thinks about telling him that he doesn’t actually have a beard. Or a goatee. Or any sort of facial hair, really, besides his eyebrows, and even those are really thin. Maybe William plucks. Or something. Brendon wonders if this is what rabbits feel like when they’re cornered, when their hearts are beating frantically at a pace their bodies can’t keep up with and all their bodily systems are racing through their functions, until BOOM. There goes Fluffball. Brendon bites down on a hysterical giggle.
“I can see your reasoning,” William says. “Very well. You may go. Grab me one of those holiday-themed drinks, though, will you? I really like pumpkin spice,” he adds meaningfully.
Brendon is pretty sure William takes control freak to a whole new level.
Although he supposes someone who likes holiday-themed coffee drinks can’t be all evil. Just 99.9%, maybe.
* * *
After giving William his pumpkin spice latte (Brendon didn’t even spit in it; that is how good of a person he is), delivering everyone their own drinks, and skirting around a skulking, particularly grumpy-looking Michael Carden, Brendon heaves a sigh of relief and considers himself free to go down and give Spencer his caramel macchiato.
It’s not like Brendon deliberately saves Spencer for last, or anything. It’s just that he has a routine. And humans naturally form routines, or so that Yahoo! Science article told him. Whatever, those Yahoo! Science articles are totally legit.
“Hey, Spencer!” Brendon says cheerfully.
Spencer’s hunched over his computer, like he always is these days, and his neck looks twisted at a really uncomfortable angle. His eyes, though, when he looks up, are still clear and blue. Brendon stares, for a moment, before he remembers the cup in his hand.
“I got your caramel macchiato,” Brendon tells him, trying not to smile too broadly at the adorable lock of hair that stubbornly refuses to stay swept to the side of Spencer’s face.
“Oh. Oh, right.” Spencer touches the side of his neck for a second, face frozen in the beginnings of a frown.
“Something wrong?” Brendon asks.
“No, no, I was just.” Spencer shrugs, then winces slightly and rotates his shoulder. “I’ve been taking my coffee with a couple extra shots of espresso, lately, just to keep me going, you know?”
“Yeah?” Brendon says. “You want me to ask for another shot of espresso next time I get coffee?”
“That would be fantastic.” Spencer grins at him, and Brendon can’t help it, he smiles back even bigger, enjoying the way Spencer looks so happy and relaxed because of something Brendon did.
Spencer takes a slow sip of his drink. “I guess I’ve been trying to up my game, or whatever.” He blushes slightly, flushing pink. “Just trying to get everything done, you know? It’s been hell trying to keep everything together; finances have been even more disorganized this past month, and I can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
Spencer’s brows draw together, and he looks stressed again. “Receptionists aren’t exactly the most essential of employees, and I’m really worried that…that I’m not going to survive the fall-out.” He swallows, eyes closing for a moment. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to just dump all my baggage on you, especially after you brought me coffee.”
“No, don’t!” Brendon says. “I mean, like, that’s fine. You can always talk to me.” That last sentence rings a little too uncomfortably true, and Brendon rushes on to fill the silence. “And anyway, dude, you have nothing to be worried about. You work so hard, anyone could see that. You do everything, know everything, and just—“ He shrugs. “You’re kind of amazing at your job. Pete would be a goddamn idiot if he fired you.”
Spencer stares at him for a moment, searchingly. Brendon twists the hem of his Mickey Mouse polo.
“Thanks,” Spencer says. “Really.”
“It’s the truth,” Brendon says earnestly. Then he wants to smack himself upside the head, because wow, Urie, way to play it cool.
Spencer gives him another smile, a smaller, more secretive one, and then says, “Well, I should get back to work.” He turns, then cringes again when he rotates his neck.
“You’re too tense,” Brendon chides, and then, before he can chicken out, “Let me just do something.”
“What?” Spencer starts to ask, but Brendon’s already making his way around the corner, up behind Spencer, and puts his hands on Spencer’s shoulders.
“Just to help you loosen up,” Brendon says breezily. He hopes he’s not overstepping boundaries. They’ve been working together for years, and while Brendon’s been humiliatingly open about his feelings or whatever the fuck for the majority of that time, Spencer’s never made any reciprocating gestures. And if Spencer really wanted something more, he would have done something about it before now. Brendon is very much aware of all of that.
But Spencer’s shoulders feel really nice under his hands, and it’s a (really pathetic, his mind provides) excuse to touch him, and also…
Also Brendon just wants to make Spencer feel better.
Swallowing, he smooths his hands across Spencer’s shoulders (broad, he notes inanely) one time, and then he moves back to the junction between his neck and shoulders and digs in with his thumbs
“Fuck,” Spencer says, grimacing.
“You okay?” Brendon asks. He moves his thumbs slowly, digging in more gently now, and he just rubs at the muscles, firm and impossibly warm under his hands, even with the layer of cotton between them.
The moments seem to drag by, hot and viscous and slow-moving. Brendon is simultaneously hyperaware of everything, the sunlight coming through the window and the whirring of Spencer’s computer and the tinny clicks of mouses from the Design hall, and also utterly focused on Spencer. The little catches in Spencer’s breath when Brendon hits an especially sore spot are doing strange things to Brendon’s nerves.
He feels kind of tingly all over, like he’s had too many Red Bulls, or that time Mikey Way accidentally left a fork in the toaster in the break room and Brendon tried to get it out (it was a noble effort! Ross told him he’d blacked out for a whole ten minutes).
But yeah, no. It’s like those two times, and yet nothing like those two times, because this time he’s got Spencer underneath his hands, and he has Spencer making these little sounds, huffs of breath and soft curses and, one time, the beginnings of what Brendon is sure was a whimper. There’s heat dripping down into his gut as he presses into Spencer’s back, his heart starting to pound in this really ridiculous manner as Spencer melts under him.
Spencer’s got wisps of brown hair framing his neck, and as Brendon moves his hands up there, he has to bite down hard on his lip and think of things like Jon’s smelly flip flops and Gerard’s regrettable bout of foot fungus and the gigantic spider living in the corner of his apartment, because Spencer’s skin is soft and warm and blushes pink whenever Brendon presses his thumbs down hard. He stares down at the contrast of his tanned hands against Spencer’s neck, at the way Spencer’s head looks bowed down, completely comfortable and trusting enough to be vulnerable like this.
Shit. Brendon breathes out shakily and tries to regain his bearings.
“I, um. That good?” Brendon croaks, before clearing his throat.
Spencer sucks in a long breath, then straightens up and opens his eyes, like he’s waking from a nap. His blue eyes are slitted against the sunshine, and Brendon knows that is definitely not supposed to be so attractive.
“Mmm. Yeah. Thanks, Brendon.” Spencer gives him a lazy grin, the smile spreading across his face like slow molasses. “I needed that.”
Brendon has to catch a breath at the unexpected drawl, the languorous way he stretches his voice over the syllables. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Spencer so relaxed. Not around him, anyway.
“Y-yeah. No problem.” Brendon rubs a hand over his own neck—it’s still warm from Spencer’s body heat, and Brendon can feel a stupid thrill go through himself at the thought—and takes a step backward, saluting awkwardly with his other hand. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, later.”
Brendon makes his way back to his cubicle, sits down, and tries to open Solitaire five times until he remembers it was removed, before he feels like he can take one full breath.
No one says anything about the sappy way Brendon beams at everyone for the rest of the day. Ryan gives him this unimpressed look, the one that says you-are-such-a-dork-and-also-that-is-my-best-fucking-friend-you-creepy-psycho (Brendon is very familiar with this look), but it doesn’t even get to him like it usually does. Brendon just keeps beaming, the muscles in his cheeks protesting slightly, but in the good way, the gloriously happy kind of ache you get when you’re just cheerful, and pleased with the way life is going. When things are just really fucking awesome.
He doesn’t even stop smiling when Carden pops up and tries to reprimand him for looking so happy. He just grins cheerfully, with an added side-effect of driving Carden away within minutes. Brendon is kind of starting to think that Carden is allergic to joy.
It’s…a good day. A great one. Which should really have tipped Brendon off about what was to come.
* * *
Brendon doesn’t understand Ryan. He really, really doesn’t. He likes Ryan, of course, but Ryan also kind of drives him crazy. Like now.
Brendon isn’t exactly sure how this happened, but it’s just another regular Thursday, and Brendon was just minding his own business during their daily ordained lunch period, yet somehow, some way, he’s standing right in front of Spencer’s computer. And the desktop is changed to yet another glorious collage depicting the joys of gay sex. Ryan has, of course, completely disappeared, although Brendon swears he can hear giggles from the next hallway over.
Spencer is standing right in front of him, looking suspicious.
Actually, scratch everything Brendon just said. He doesn’t like Ryan. He hates Ryan. He’s going to shave all of Ryan’s beautiful curls off and then boil that skinny motherfucker in oil while he’s busy crying over the loss of his good looks.
“Brendon,” Spencer says.
“Yes?” Brendon smiles at him in a not at all forced manner.
“Why won’t you let me behind my own desk?” he asks slowly.
“I’m just, um, you know.” Brendon waves a desultory hand in the air.
“What, Brendon?” Spencer asks, beginning to look slightly exasperated.
“Just—I need to, just, hold on a sec!” Brendon says desperately, abandoning all semblance of calm, and begins frantically trying to restore Spencer’s old desktop. Right click, properties, and shit, the hourglass is coming up.
“What the fuck, Brendon?” Spencer says, and Brendon turns around, barely suppressing a squeak because Spencer is less than six inches away from him, looking hard and angry and…kind of sexy.
“I’m sorry!” Brendon says before Spencer can say anything else. “I’ll change it right away! I swear!”
“That’s not the point, Brendon!” Spencer says angrily. “I can’t believe you’re still pulling immature pranks like this when you know how much is at stake right now! I’ve even told you, fucking confided in you about how much I need this job, and you just do this the second I turn my back—“
“It wasn’t me, Spencer, really, just calm down!” Brendon says, waving his hands around in a slight frenzy.
“You are standing right in front of my desk, I can’t even believe you’re trying to make excuses like this, do you have any idea—“
Brendon stares at him, helplessly, as he keeps yelling, eyes narrowed and back tense, and Brendon can just see all the benefits from his impromptu massage being undone, so finally, being completely logical and rational like Brendon always is, he tries to shut Spencer up.
With, his lips.
Which, in retrospect, might not have been all that logical; Brendon’s willing to be the bigger man and admit that, but he was working in kind of a time crunch, and also, it’s achieving the intended effect, all right?
At least until Spencer yanks his head back, shocked, and breathes, “Brendon, what the hell?”
“Just…” Brendon’s hand has somehow traveled to the back of Spencer’s neck, stroking it absently as he tries to focus with Spencer’s eyes literally three inches away from his.
He can’t. So he gives up, and anyway, this is okay, right, this is great.
“Just breathe,” Brendon whispers, head tilting forward to say it right into Spencer’s ear, and there is no way he’s imagining that shiver. “You need to calm down.”
Slowly, carefully, hardly even able to believe he’s actually doing this, Brendon presses gentle kisses along Spencer’s jawline, lips just barely brushing the the skin. Then he reaches Spencer’s mouth, and Spencer’s ready for it this time, actually parting his lips and letting Brendon tentatively slide his tongue in, and oh, this is so much better, fuck. Brendon makes a pleased noise into Spencer’s mouth, moving forward until they’re pressed chest to chest, Spencer’s warmth radiating outward at every point of contact in this really dizzying way. Spencer lets Brendon keep kissing him for a few moments, Brendon just trying to ease their way into this and desperate not to spook Spencer, when suddenly, Spencer detaches their lips and lets out a heartfelt “fuck.”
“What?” Brendon says, heart racing anxiously. “What?”
Then Spencer moves, shoving Brendon against his desk, making an annoyed noise and then bodily lifting Brendon onto it. Brendon feels like maybe he should object to the manhandling, but it feels embarrassingly good, being overwhelmed, for once. And then Spencer’s reaching to catch Brendon by the lips again, and Brendon can’t even think anymore, Spencer’s beard scraping over his cheeks in a flash of so sharp so good roughness that feels incredible; Brendon’s gasping and trying to suck in air and grabbing handfuls of whatever he can reach, Spencer’s hair, his pristinely ironed shirt that’s crumpling within his hand.
But it’s not enough, still not enough, with Spencer’s mouth hot against his and tongue mapping paths and driving inward, and shit. Brendon wriggles, needing more contact and he doesn’t even care about the pens and the paperclips and the replacement staples that go scattering across the floor, and finally, he can spread his legs out a little more, and Spencer immediately takes the invitation to press in, and Brendon can’t help it, he lets out a tiny, needy sound, trying to pull Spencer in closer, and Spencer’s swearing in his ear, low and dirty and just as wrecked as Brendon feels.
“Can you—we have to—“ Brendon’s not even sure what he’s saying, what he’s asking, just knows that he needs, and Spencer’s nodding against his neck, from where he was licking against the curve of Brendon’s collarbone.
“Supply closet?” Spencer says, and Brendon whines unhappily and tries to press Spencer’s mouth back before he registers the words, and Spencer’s smiling, his lips curving against his skin.
“Yeah,” Brendon says, voice ragged, still trying to gulp in oxygen when Spencer picks him back up—Brendon gets another shiver—and sets him back down on the floor, and they stagger their way to the supply closet. Brendon spares a moment and a few remaining brain cells to thank God and whatever deity is listening that their lunch break is an hour long.
But then Spencer’s kissing him again, and it’s almost easier in the darkness of the tiny room, less embarrassing if Brendon whimpers or moans or clutches so tightly at Spencer’s shoulders that he leaves a row of neat red crescent marks. It’s more intimate, their panting strangely loud, when Spencer abruptly slides his hand out of Brendon’s back pocket.
“Spencer, what,” Brendon manages fretfully before he realizes that Spencer’s trying to undo the buttons of Brendon’s shirt one-handed, which is, wow, fantastic idea, fuck. He hurriedly tries to help Spencer, getting half-distracted in the smooth arch of Spencer’s back before he gets there, and their hands tangle together, bumping awkwardly, and then Spencer swears, and Brendon starts laughing, just a little bit, not really because it’s funny but just because he feels like he has to let out this gigantic swell of happiness before he explodes.
And then, just as suddenly, Brendon’s not laughing anymore, because Spencer’s mouth is on his chest, and he’s trying to undo Brendon’s fly with his other hand, bumping against Brendon’s dick, and Brendon has a slight moment where he blacks out or something, because next thing he knows he’s trying to climb Spencer, and it’s really not working, and Spencer grunts in annoyance and then bites Brendon’s nipple in retaliation when Brendon accidentally kicks his knee, which, “shit,” Brendon grits out.
Spencer licks over it apologetically, beard then scraping against it, and
“Fuck, Spencer, please, can we just,” Brendon babbles incoherently, fingers raking down Spencer’s back, and then finally, finally Spencer backs him up against the wall and lifts Brendon so that he’s half straddling him, and they’re rocking together unsteadily, the best fucking thing Brendon’s ever felt. There are sparks shooting up his spine every time Spencer shoves, and Brendon’s legs are failing him; Spencer just braces him against the wall and continues, and Brendon’s vaguely aware of gasping out some variation of “please,” and “shit,” and “fuck,” but everything’s blurring together now and then Spencer pushes right up against the seam of Brendon’s smooth dress pants, right up in that spot and shit, Brendon’s coming.
He vaguely registers Spencer coming as well, and they just stop, for a moment, Spencer leaning heavily against Brendon, breathing loud in his ears, and without really thinking about it, just because he wants to, Brendon turns his head and quickly kisses Spencer, chastely.
“That was a bad idea,” Brendon manages to say when he gets his voice back. The shelves of the supply closet are digging uncomfortably into his back. He wouldn’t move for the world.
“Very irresponsible and unprofessional,” Spencer agrees. He rests his head on Brendon’s shoulder.
“William would be very displeased,” Brendon says.
And with that, they’re both cracking up in helpless laughter, Spencer brushing back his hair and covering his eyes and Brendon laying his head back against the wall.
“But really, don’t tell anyone, yeah?” Spencer says a while later.
“Of course,” Brendon says. “I’m not desperately wishing for unemployment.”
Spencer smiles, and Brendon smiles back, leaning his forehead again Spencer’s for a moment.
“I’ll see you later,” Brendon says, quietly detaching himself. “Come out after five minutes?”
“Yeah,” Spencer says. “Bye,” he adds, suddenly sounding very young.
“Bye,” Brendon says back, like a promise.
* * *
“Oh my god,” Ryan says. His brown eyes are large and staring.
“What? I didn’t mean to! I mean, like, I did, but I didn’t plan for it, or anything. Totally unexpected! And I won’t do it again, in the workplace, that is, um.” Brendon stops rambling when he sees Ryan’s bemused look.
“I was actually referring to Jon’s bedazzled flip flops,” Ryan says slowly.
Brendon turns around to look. “Oh. Huh. Those are pretty cool.”
Jon gives him a friendly wink and a wave.
“I know, right? I’m thinking about bedazzling my bandana,” Ryan says completely seriously.
Brendon twists his face up. “Like around the edges? Because I could get behind that, but I don’t think you should just bedazzle shit all over it randomly, you know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Ryan pauses for a moment, then smirks. “Now, what did you think I was referring to?”
“Um.” Brendon thinks hard for a minute. “What?”
Playing dumb is always a good tactic in Brendon’s book.
“What were you not going to do in the workplace again?” Ryan says patiently.
“I was just, um.” Brendon slides his eyes away furtively from Ryan’s searching gaze.
“Oh my god,” Ryan says again.
“What? Did Jon bedazzle his bag, too?” Brendon asks hopefully.
“Did you just have sex with Spencer?” Ryan asks, choosing absolutely the worst time to be perceptive.
“Shhh!” Brendon hisses. And then, belatedly, “Of course not. That’s just, uh. That’s ridiculous! Why would you ever think that?”
Yeah, there was a reason Brendon never joined the Drama Club in high school. Apparently, an actor had to say lines with conviction.
“I can’t believe you finally found your balls,” Ryan says, smirking again. “Were they dusty after laying in retirement all those years?”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Brendon grumps. “And how did you know? Why did you immediately jump to that conclusion?”
“You’re kind of really obvious, dude,” Ryan says, enunciating very clearly like he’s speaking to a toddler.
“Well, I know I am,” Brendon says. “But Spencer totally wasn’t showing any signs of, you know, reciprocating my feelings.”
Ryan just shrugs mysteriously.
“Also,” Ryan adds after a second, “Your pants have dried with weird creases, and you’re walking like you’re trying to keep from touching the front of them.”
“Oh shit, really?” Brendon says. This is bad. He tries to adjust himself again, but sneakily, like a ninja. Or something.
“It’s alright.” Ryan shrugs. “People won’t really notice unless they’re studying your crotch really closely or whatever.”
Brendon gapes at him. Ryan just looks back obliviously.
“So, you totally owe me, yeah?” Ryan says out of the blue.
“What? Why?” Brendon splutters.
“For giving you the perfect opportunity to finally get somewhere with Spencer,” Ryan says pointedly.
“You mean changing his desktop to completely inappropriate images that pissed Spencer off?”
“Yeah. That,” Ryan says airily. “I was wondering how many times it would take before you finally got your act together, Jesus.”
“You’ve been—you’ve been doing that on purpose?” Brendon feels a little like a rug has been pulled from under him. And a lot like he wants to punch Ryan.
“I do what I can,” Ryan says, shrugging magnanimously. “I mean, you’re my friend, so I was matchmaking and shit.”
“You’re welcome,” Ryan adds when Brendon doesn’t do anything except open and close his mouth silently.
He gets up and walks away, but not before patting Brendon condescendingly on the shoulder and saying, “Condoms, man. They’re the greatest.”
Brendon feels like somewhere, at some point, his life got away from him. And somehow, he couldn’t care less.
* * *
“Greta, your hair looks absolutely beautiful today!” Brendon says cheerfully, swinging through the front doors.
She blinks, and then beams. “Thank you! You don’t look too shabby yourself.”
Brendon winks at her and continues to walk through the halls, humming a little tune under his breath. The sun’s out in full force today, spreading a warm glow over everything and making Brendon feel like he’s all lit up inside.
That’s precisely it. He’s happy because of the weather. Also, it’s Friday.
“Hey, Cash!” he calls out.
“Uh, hey, dude,” Cash says back. “What’s up with the creepy smile?”
Brendon ignores the totally uncalled-for remark, and besides—Cash is an idiot if he thinks he can call anyone else creepy without being a hypocrite.
“Dude,” Joe says as he passes him. “Did you get into some good weed, or something? Sharing is caring, man!”
“Nope!” Brendon says. “Just happy. It’s really nice outside, don’t you think?”
“Um. I guess?” Joe says.
Brendon gives him a jaunty little wave and continues on down the hall. He’s got a caramel macchiato in his hand and a bounce in his step, and life is just…life is really good. He makes a conscious effort to try to rein back his smile, then gives up. Whatever. He’s got a reason to be happy.
Brendon tries to ignore the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat as he approaches Spencer’s desk, and smoothes down his pants in a fit of anxiety.
“Hey, Spencer!” Brendon sings out. “I’ve got your coffee! With extra espresso, like you asked.” He sets the macchiato down on the desk, and leans against it.
Spencer looks oddly tense, and Brendon’s stomach drops a bit.
“Dude?” Brendon tries.
“We need to talk,” Spencer says curtly. He’s up and grabbing Brendon by the arm before he can respond, steering him firmly towards the supply closet.
Brendon’s sense of foreboding grows. They’re returning to the place where they fucked, which should be a good sign, but somehow, the entire situation feels all wrong.
“Spencer,” Brendon tries again when they’re back in there, his back pressed against the shelves in an uncomfortably similar imitation of yesterday’s positions. “Something wrong?”
“Something wrong?” Spencer huffs a bit, but it’s not easy or happy or humorous at all, just …bitter. “You told Ryan.”
Brendon blinks. “Ryan? But he’s your…He’s your best friend.”
“I told you not to tell anyone, Brendon, Jesus Christ.” Spencer has to take a step back and pinch the bridge of his nose before continuing. “Do you have any fucking clue how fast news like this goes around? Huh?”
“But—“ Brendon shakes his head a little. “You can trust Ryan! I don’t see…I don’t see what’s—“
“That’s not the fucking point!” Spencer interrupts. “The point is that you told. Even after I specifically asked you not to, and you agreed not to! What don’t you get, Brendon?”
“What?” Brendon gets out, throat closing up and his voice unraveling to a thin thread.
Spencer looks furious, towering over him, face set in stark, severe lines. Even the blues of his eyes have sharpened into icy glints of unrelenting blue-grey. It’s almost nauseating, suddenly, the way Spencer has him backed up against the wall just like yesterday, and the mirroring of their positions, the fucking mockery of it all, is screwing with Brendon’s head; he can’t even think straight, not with Spencer one inch away from him and looking at him like he’s disgusted.
“I’m not losing my goddamn job because of—“ Spencer breaks off, lips thinning. “I have no idea what I was thinking. Too busy being a fucking idiot. Don’t tell anyone else,” he adds, lips tightening even further. “I need this fucking job, even if you don’t care.”
Brendon stays in the closet long after Spencer’s stalked out, just staring at the wall and focusing on his breathing. In, out, and in, and out. There’s moisture on the side of his face, Brendon registers distantly after a few minutes, sliding down and irritating the corner of his lips. He finally fists his hand against the wall, and pushes himself up unsteadily, stumbling a little against the shelves. Roughly, he scrubs at his face with his left hand.
He needs to get out.
Brendon inhales and exhales one more time, and then he opens the door.
* * *
Spencer doesn’t look at Brendon for the rest of the day, not even when Brendon makes a record five pointless trips past his desk.
Brendon tries to tell himself that he didn’t expect anything, anyway, so it’s alright. Everything’s fine. Mostly he just follows the hour hand around with his eyes until they burn.
Really, Brendon’s always been good with dealing with things on his own. He just doesn’t see a point to bringing anyone else in it. Why depress someone else with your own heavy shit, right?
So, usually, he tries not to think about things like this. It’s a pretty good method; he just makes sure to talk a little more and smile a little brighter, and everyone leaves him alone. Because Brendon’s got a great smile. And he’s even better at making it look real.
Which had helped a lot, especially in high school when he’d still been figuring out the whole ‘gay’ thing and how his parents fit into it. He’d just kept his head up, continued at his classes, and soon enough, it didn’t really even hurt anymore.
Brendon is self-sufficient. It’s one of things he’s most proud of, not being dependent on anyone else. People don’t really get it; they just look at him and see some immature, happy-go-lucky guy, but Brendon’s okay with that. He’s okay with a lot of things.
And even if Spencer is so obviously done with him, Brendon’s all right with that, too. They’d done it in a fucking supply closet. It suddenly feels a lot seedier to Brendon, and he grimaces. It’s not even like he hadn’t known how much Spencer needed this job, how much Spencer needed to avoid being laid-off. He’s worked with the guy for two fucking years, flirted with him and been repeatedly rejected, and now he’s beginning to wonder why he even let himself think any different. Just because, what, they’d shared a few heartwarming stupid conversations and a shoulder massage and a fuck in the supply closet? Spencer’s always going to let his job come first, even if he does actually like Brendon, just a little bit.
And so maybe even though he realizes all that, he still has this irrational tickle in the back of his throat, and another duller, heavier ache in that space right behind his ribs, and a swollen, uncomfortable feeling behind his eyelids. Maybe he kind of wants to just go home and curl up in bed and let Dylan lick his hand until it tickles somewhere other than the back of his throat, until Dylan lays over his torso, heavy enough to replace the ache in his chest, and then, maybe, Brendon can hide his face in Dylan’s soft, smelly fur and his eyes won’t hurt so much anymore, either. Just for a little while.
Right now, though, Brendon is still self-sufficient, and he’s still at work, and he’s positive that if he can just finish the new ad they’re putting in the newspaper, he’s going to feel a little better.
And that will be enough.
So he moves his fingers back to the keys and starts typing.
* * *
“Hey, Bren!” Jon calls out, walking over to his cubicle an hour or so later.
Brendon shuts his eyes for a moment, then turns to him and reflexively flashes a bright, steady smile. It’s almost lunch, which means that he still has half the day to go.
“Hi, Jon!” he replies. “What’s up?”
But Jon falters, and his smile slips a notch. “Is something wrong?” he asks in this gentle, kind tone that Brendon really just wants to shove back down Jon’s throat, because it’s not doing anything for Brendon’s forced calmness.
“I’m just.” Brendon waves a hand in the air. “I guess the ad isn’t coming all that great? But it’s fine. Really.”
Jon’s looking at him like he doesn’t quite believe him, but Jon’s Jon, and he doesn’t push, just lays a warm hand on shoulder and squeezes.
“You’re fantastic at your job, Brendon, don’t ever forget that, yeah?” Jon says seriously.
Brendon gives him a smaller smile, feeling a little soothed by the familiarity of Jon’s compassion. “Yeah, whatever, man. What were you coming here to talk to me about, anyway?”
“What, I need to have a reason to talk to my favorite Marketing geek?” Jon teases.
“Don’t let Ryan catch you saying that,” Brendon rejoins, arching an eyebrow. But maybe it’s not quite as steady as he’d like, because Jon’s slipping his entire arm around Brendon comfortably, reassuringly.
“I love both of you equally,” Jon promises. “But, yeah, I was just wondering if you’d checked your email.”
Brendon furrows his brow. “Oh, no, I guess I haven’t yet today. Something important come in?”
Jon’s face looks a little grimmer, and Brendon braces himself.
“The survey’s just been sent out. We’re supposed to fill it out and email it back to William by the end of today.”
“Oh! Right. I can’t believe I forgot that was coming.” Brendon shakes his head sharply. He needs to get his head back in the game. Can’t afford to be so distracted.
“Cool. I just wanted to come around in case you didn’t realize what was going on,” Jon says, and he sounds like he means something a little bigger than the surveys, but before Brendon can ask about it, Jon slips away quietly, feet padding along in those bedazzled flip flops.
Brendon smiles a little bit at the sight of the rhinestones, a truer one, before he remembers the last time he’d seen them, and then his heart gives a quick little jerk in his chest.
What had Jon meant, anyway?
Part 3
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-10 03:50 am (UTC)P.s. One of my MANY (almost too many to count) favorite parts:
As he walks, he passes Gerard Way slowly inching through the halls, back glued to the wall.
“Smoke break,” Gerard whispers at Brendon’s questioning look. “I haven’t had one in fucking ages; feels like I’m gonna die. I’ll just be gone for fifteen minutes. Ten minutes! Five, I swear. Oh, god, I should just go back to my cubicle.” He turns around and starts walking back.
Poor Gerard lol.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-11 05:20 pm (UTC)