The role of the hero in antiquity 7/7
Over the next two weeks, Jon gradually started slipping into a system. He took as many early shifts at the Starbucks as he could, hooked up, went home to some quality bitching with his beloved flatmates and hit the net to arrange meets for the days to come.
He hated every second of it.
He hated to pretend around Ryan and Spencer, for one. They had taken to not-so-surreptitiously watching Jon and Brendon interact and casting each other meaningful glances and Jon was pretty sure there where bets running as to when Jon would have his big, tearful coming-out scene involving cuddles, forehead kisses and a penis-shaped chocolate cake which Spencer would bake specially for the occasion cause Spencer was maternal and supportive like that.
Jon also expected, somewhere down the line, for Spencer to sit him down for a serious lecture about safe gay anal sex he wasn’t particularly looking forward to. Ryan would probably just want a Q&A about what exactly it did to Jon’s emotional state to imagine his boyfriend getting fucked by strange older men, and again, Jon really wasn’t keen on having that conversation.
So far, they didn’t seem to have noticed the part where Jon himself was getting fucked by strange older men and Jon didn’t like to imagine what would happen once they found out. Brendon had been a stranger. Jon had been their friend and flatmate for two and a half years.
Jon expected them to hate him forever. He knew they couldn’t possibly hate him nearly as much as he hated himself, but that realization wasn’t exactly comforting.
Jon also hated the Johns. They never called them that. Apparently, they weren’t those kinds of hookers. Brendon had grinned the first time he’d used the term and made some remark about urchins and street-corners, but the fact remained that he really, really hated those sad bastards. Clients. Sick fucks. Customers. Depraved perverts.
Jon hated them and the way he’d learned how to play their game of bullshit and pretence so fucking quickly. He hated the manipulation and mind-fuckery of the job, if at all possible even more then he hated the job itself and hell, did he ever hate getting fucked.
Jon hated the fact that Tom still hadn’t called. 15 days, 17 hours and 13 minutes but hey, who was counting.
Jon hated having to deal with his co-workers at Starbucks, hated pretending that he was as easy-going and witty as he always had been, shooting the usual shit with their tiny tattooed hyperactive store-manager while his skin crawled with memories from the afternoon before and anticipation of the afternoon to come.
His camera hadn’t been touched since he’d taken those pictures of Brendon. He vaguely remembered having hating those, too.
So yeah, in sum, Jon hated. He wasn’t used to that. Jon did amusing, chilled-out, relaxed, friendly and open-minded, on the odd occasion veering into the territory of belligerent, argumentative, righteous, annoying, drunk, antagonistic or pissed-off, but Jon didn’t do hatred. Hadn’t done hatred. This was new and it certainly wasn’t improved.
Brendon was the only person Jon still felt half-way normal around, the one person that never asked, never questioned, never needed convincing that Jon was fine, thank you. Brendon wasn’t clingy, but whenever Jon wanted company, Brendon was around.
Jon avoided everyone else as much as possible. He didn’t have the energy for more bullshit. He should’ve known some of his friends would not be impressed. He should have known Gabe and Beckett, for starters, would really ride his ass about it. Without paying, no less.
They waltzed into the house one night, Gabe walking straight past Jon to retrieve the bong from the bedroom without so much as offering a greeting while Beckett just stood there, wide-eyed, one supportive hand reaching out to pet Jon’s arm reassuringly.
Jon rolled his eyes and pulled away, ignoring the flash of hurt on Bill’s too pretty face and grateful Saporta was thundering down the stairs before Bill got a chance to ask.
“Right, asshole. Where are my favourite fairy princesses?”
“If you’re referring to Ryan and Spencer, out somewhere. Dinner and a movie, something like that.”
Cause yeah, Ryan and Spencer did go on actual dates. After ten years of regular fucking, give or take. It was the kind of cute that was vaguely sickening.
“Sweet. Cause we’re gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse and those things are better done in private”, Gabe smirked, flopping down on the couch and rooting through the pockets of his pants for dope.
“If you’re talking threesomes, stop right there,” Jon warned, but Gabe just laughed.
“I’ve given up all hope, dude. ‘sides, much like you, Bill here still keeps telling himself he actually likes pussy.”
Bill was about to reply, but Jon didn’t let him get a word in. Last thing Jon had heard about Bill’s sexual preferences, Bill had kicked Tom out of the band cause Tom had refused to fuck him. Tom apparently had some secret that made all the mostly-straight folk reconsider their options. Water under the bridge.
“So whose body am I gonna help get rid of?” Jon asked when Gabe had finally smoked up and stopped fidgeting. He leaned back and grinned at Beckett.
“I’m having second thoughts, William. Apparently, Jon Walker isn’t much of a judge of character. Are you sure he’s a good bet? Stable? Reliable? Decent work-ethic?”
Bill rolled his eyes and turned to Jon.
“Okay, the deal is, we’re going on tour. A month, give or take. All over, pretty much.”
Jon exhaled a cloud of smoke. “No shit? The real deal?”
Cause everyone was always touring or at least pretending to be. Normally, it just meant they played five clubs rather then three in any given month.
Gabe nodded. “No, really. Pretty much all over the States. It’s still small shitty venues, fight-for-your-food and sell-your-own-merch obviously, but. Yeah.”
Jon smiled. There weren’t many moments when Gabe was actually serious. This was one of them.
“That’s great, guys. Really, fucking awesome. So, am I the lucky guy who gets to harvest your weed while you’re away?”
Gabe’s grin widened. “You wish. But it’s even better, Jonny Walker. We want you.”
“As a tech,” William supplied quickly when Jon’s eyebrows shot up questioningly.
“It’s not glamorous, dude. We can’t pay much and you won’t get to shower as frequently as you might like, but there’s a seat in the van that’s got your name on it. You game?”
Fuck. Not even three weeks ago, Jon would have packed up his shit without so much as a single question. He ran a hand through his hair.
“I. I can’t.”
Gabe stopped smiling and William choked on a hit. Well, William wasn’t very good with bongs, anyway. Still, Jon knew they were stunned.
“Why the fuck not, Walker?”
“I. There’s a project I’ve gotta finish for college. If I don’t get that in on time, they’ll kick me out. Also, I’ve got a job.”
“You work at Starbucks, dude.”
“Tom’s coming back in a couple of weeks.”
“I call bullshit.” Gabe looked all kinds of pissed off, but his voice was casual, even mocking.
Jon shook his head. “Look, I. He’s still in New York and there’s some shit he needs to sort out, but he’s gonna come back. Move back in.”
Gabe sneered. “And then what? Happily ever after?”
“You know it’s not like that.”
Jon couldn’t even defend himself, couldn’t even give them one good fucking reason. The truth was, he wanted in on the touring. He wanted it really badly, had wanted it for years.
Gabe shrugged. “Suit yourself, dude. If it’s not you, it’s gonna be someone else. I kinda hoped it’d be you, but. No worries.”
That pretty much summed Gabe up. Gabe believed in people making their own decisions.
William didn’t say anything for a while, but when they got up to leave, he looked at Jon with that overly intense expression.
“Just think about it, Jon? We’d. It’d be nice to have you with us.”
Jon absolutely did not sit around on his ass and mope for the rest of the night after they had gone.
He also didn’t almost go on a killing spree when Gabe and William offered the same gig to Spencer three days later and he accepted right away. Spencer didn’t know shit about being a tech. Then again, none of this really was Spencer’s fault and Jon was just being a jealous, bitter bitch.
Then, Bill showed up at the Starbucks during one of Jon’s shifts, which was pretty much unheard of. Everyone knew Bill was the kind of guy who avoided places like that like the plague, favouring small indie coffee houses with chipped mugs and scented candles on the tables and Conor Oberst’s latest folky fare on the record player. In 180 gram vinyl, no less. The point was, Bill Beckett was equal amounts alternative and pretentious and did not frequent dubious capitalist chain store establishments.
“What’s your pleasure?” Jon asked, not bothering to hide his grin, but losing it somewhere when Bill just pushed a printed-out newspaper article across the counter.
Arrest warrant issued. Thomas A. Conrad. Assault. Failure to show up in court for a preliminary hearing after having been released on bail on August 7th, 2009.
“Do you know anything about this, Jonny?”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” Jon snapped, still staring at the slip of paper on the counter.
“Jon, if he’s coming here, you gotta tell someone.”
But Jon knew Tom wasn’t gonna. He hadn’t admitted it, even to himself, but. No phone calls. Not a single word. 19 days, 4 hours and 41 minutes.
“He’s not, okay? He’s not fucking coming back, Bill.” Jon forced out through gritted teeth.
Bill raised an eyebrow.
“Jon-?” Jon had fucking heard Beckett swallowing the second syllable at the last second. “You bailed him out. You lent him ten thousand fucking dollars and he took off?”
When Jon was about half-way back to realizing what the fuck he was actually doing, Bill’s nose was bleeding and his knuckles hurt. Also, Frankie, the fucking nutter, was holding him back. Frankie was about half Jon’s size, but he was clinging to him, hanging from his back like a monkey on acid. Jon didn’t fight. Jon looked at Beckett, who was staring at the blood streaming through his hands and then meeting Jon’s gaze without a word. Jon walked out. What the fuck else was he supposed to do?
***
Spencer greeted him with his cell in hand and that ice-queen glare that would result in premature wrinkles around the eyes. “So, for the part where you think we’re all fucking stupid, Walker?”
Jon briefly flashed back to the fact that he might have just broken a pretty emo boy’s nose. The pretty emo boy Spencer was supposed to go on tour with. Jon could really get off on patterns of the universe and all that kind of thing when he’d had a few, but right this moment, there was nothing mysterious about them. Goddamn fucking Chicago was an incest pit and it really was that simple.
Spencer shook his head impatiently. Shrugged.
“Fuck’s sake, Walker. C’mere.” Jon was pretty sure the almost-suffocation Spencer’s bone-crushing hug resulted in was completely accidental.
“Jon fucking Walker”, Spencer mumbled over and over, occasionally interspersed with “Jesus Christ”. Jon didn’t confirm or deny. He wasn’t even sure who the fuck he was anymore and as fucking martyrdom went, the great JC probably didn’t have much on him, either.
Ryan appeared in the doorway to the living room and did that thing were he sorta almost kinda reached out to pat Jon’s back but didn’t, his hand hovering in mid-air for a moment before dropping back down like someone had cut a string on a puppet.
That was, pretty much, what made Jon pull away. The familiarity of the gesture, Ryan’s hesitation and Spencer’s gruff warmth, the way he knew these guys so well, liked them so much. Had lied to them so much.
“Don’t you dare fucking even finish that thought,” Ryan stated flatly. “What the fuck, Jon?”
“I just. You guys don’t know shit.”
Spencer smirked.
“Jon, I really hate to say it, but if you can overhear six hour fisting sessions that, by the way, might or might not have happened, don’t you think it’s safe to assume Ryan and I hear Brendon and you not engaging in such activities?”
Jon blinked. “You… you fucking actually saved that line for a situation like this, right?”
Spencer shrugged. “All I’m saying is, we knew some things. We. Jesus, I figured you just wanted some quick money, okay? I didn’t wanna be the uptight asshole giving you a speech about it, so I let it go.”
Something was seriously wrong with Jon’s world view.
“Dude, you’re the uptight asshole who gives everyone speeches about everything all the fucking time. It’s what you do.”
“Yeah, thanks. The point is, had I known Tom Conrad had something to do with this, I would’ve given you a lot more shit. Which wouldn’t have changed a fucking thing, cause there is the unfortunate element of you loving that bastard.”
He paused for a moment, glancing over at Ryan. “I kinda get that,” he finished.
Jon couldn’t even. He really couldn’t.
“What?” he choked out, cause seriously, they couldn’t just stand here and fucking understand. Ryan grinned.
“I told you he thought we’d judge him for this, didn’t I?”
“Ryan-“
“No, I told you.”
“Seriously, you two? Aren’t even real.” And that was all Jon had to say about that.