The Danger of Martha Stewart Living ~ [SA] domestic!fic at last
Title: The Dangers of Martha Stewart Living
Author: me, chaoticallyclev
Disclimer: oddly enough, i don't own anything. sad, i know.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Pairings: Ryan/Brendon, (Jon/Spencer)
Word Count: 8,668 so not quite as massive, as I'd originally thought it would be.
Summary: It all started with an innocent trip to Home Depot.... and then there was frilly aprons and things that are really, really not cupcakes and Dr. Phil is a sound-transmitted virus.
Or: The one where Ryan tries his hand at domestic activities with varying results, usually in the category of disaster.
Ryan knows his childhood was less than conventional. It wasn’t bad, it just -- didn’t quite fit with the “normal family” standard. That was okay. Ryan didn’t really miss his mom, and his step-sisters never liked him anyway, so having them gone was nothing traumatic. Plus, half of all marriages ended in divorce anyway, so the split wasn’t anything shocking. And, okay, his father had a drinking problem, but it hadn’t started out so heavy. By the time he was an alcoholic, Ryan had already formed a surrogate home with Spencer.
His family was unconventional, and Ryan accepted that. He really did. But that didn’t keep him from wanting. A more sober father, a mother who gave half a damn, a house that didn’t reek of beer, a garden.
Yes, a freaking garden.
All the other houses on his block had had immaculate front lawns, complete with flowerbeds, rose bushes, and sharply pruned shrubs. A lot of hot summer days had seen Ryan and Spencer playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles under Ginger’s watchful eye, as she carefully weeded her plant beds. (They were seven, okay? And TMNT will never not be awesome.)
Anyway, now that Ryan has grown up, made a platinum album, bought his own home, and finally has a break between tours, he will have a garden.
So here he is, ambling around Home Depot’s Garden Section, examining plants with a skeptical Spencer in tow.
“Okay… tell me again, what it is you’re doing?” Spencer asks, scrutinizing a withered mass of green that might have been a shrub once in a distant, not-dehydrated past.
“I’m getting plants.” Ryan examines an African violet; he thinks it looks okay (not that he would know, but it looks alive and pretty and that’s enough for him).
“Yeah, I can see that,” Spencer drawls as Ryan adds two of the violets to his cart, “but, why?’
“To plant.” So, maybe Ryan’s being a little evasive, but seriously. Spencer didn’t have to come along and bug him, okay? (And maybe Ryan is also ignoring the fact that Spencer is giving him a ride to and from Home Depot. What? Ryan’s car is not meant to shuttle dirt and bugs. Spencer could have just lent him the car, but no... Spencer had to come along because “I’m not letting you drive my car when you’re stoned, Ryan”)
“That would be the primary function of plants. But why the sudden interest in landscaping?” Spencer had abandoned his disapproving staring contest with the once-shrub, leaning back against the cart cautiously, as if he thought its orange paint might flake off and start choking him with its ugly.
“It’s not sudden; we just finally have some free time. My yard looks ugly anyway.”
Spence doesn’t look particularly satisfied with this answer either, but whatever. Spencer needs to stop ruining Ryan’s foray among the flowers with his cynicism.
“Hey, what exactly is ‘mulch’?” Ryan pokes a bag of the substance in question, nose wrinkled in disgust. It smells moldy.
Spencer shrugs, “I think it’s dirt or something. But, like, with nutrients in it.”
Ryan nods and puts a couple bags in the cart.
* * *
Stupid sun, stupid dirt. Ryan wipes at the sweat trickling down his forehead. Stupid Vegas. Why the hell is summer always so hot?
Ryan is planting some bulbs around his driveway. Well, he is trying to anyway. But the dirt is really hot, and the sun is really hot. And he keeps getting dirt all over his face when he wipes the sweat away. Not cool.
A shadow falls over Ryan’s face, and he enjoys the brief respite from the sun before he realizes that the shadow comes from a person. Brendon, to be exact.
“Um, Ryan? What are you doing?” Brendon’s voice sounds amused. Ryan reluctantly lifts his head to look at Brendon, who is grinning about as much as his voice suggested. Brendon’s eyebrows shoot up quickly, “And, uh, what happened to your face?”
“Stupid dirt,” Ryan mutters as a reflex. Then he remembers that he has an amused Brendon on his hands, which very easily has the possibility of turning into a Brendon who is actually on the floor laughing and possibly taking pictures of Ryan’s dirty face and sending it to the whole fucking label.
“I’m planting bulbs.” Ryan’s answer is terse, but it really isn’t that amusing so Brendon can cut it out with the grinning already.
“On your face? Because I think there is more dirt on your face than over that bulb.” Brendon nudges the freshly covered bulb with his sneaker.
“Oh, haha. The packet said to just barely cover it, so...” Ryan resists the urge to stick his tongue out at Brendon.
Brendon scratches the back of his neck while Ryan goes back to scratching at the ground with his shovel. After a few more minutes of Ryan attacking the ground and Brendon awkwardly shifting his weight back and forth, Brendon sits down across from Ryan.
“So…um,” Brendon licks his lips, “did the packet also tell you that bulbs are supposed to be planted in winter?”
Ryan scrunches his eyes shut, sticks the shovel into the dirt as hard as he can, and storms back inside.
“Ryan?” Brendon calls after him hesitantly. The slamming of Ryan’s front door is his only reply.
* * *
“Ryan Ross, friends don’t not tell friends when they are smoking up. It’s not-- friendly” Jon’s voice is solemn and static-ridden over the phone line. The solemn effect is ruined by the quiet little giggle that follows the statement.
Ryan rolls his eyes, “Look who’s talking. Does Spencer know you’re hot-boxing his bathroom?”
Jon shushes him, and giggles again, “Friends also don’t threaten friends with people who would stop them from smoking up.”
“Right, I’ll add that to the handbook.” Ryan responds dryly.
“Ah, the handbook! We should totally have a handbook! Oh-wait. That’s not why I called you. Ryan, why did I call you?” Ryan can imagine the confused expression of Jon’s face. He always gets very perplexed when stoned. Ryan remembers that time when Jon spent an hour trying to figure out if his shoelaces were snakes or spaghetti noodles and then deciding that Zach should remove his shoes in case they really were snakes, but he forgot and then joined Brendon in trying to play hide and seek under the carpet.
“I honestly have no idea, Jon.” Ryan scrawls out a few more words on the lined paper before scratching them out. Too obvious.
“Oh, well. Spencer’s bathroom has a really pretty ceiling.” A vague shuffling sound echoes through the receiver. Jon is probably lying in the tub again.
“That’s nice, Jon.” Maybe if he replaced inveigle with beguile? No, no, maybe if he replaced the kites with animal balloons?
“What’s nice? Hey, Ryan, do you know where Spencer is?” Jon sounds distressed in his confusion, “I think I lost Spencer. Don’t be mad.”
“Spencer is having lunch with his mom.” Ryan reminds him.
“Oh…” Jon sneezes into the phone, “Ryan, why can’t I feel my toenails?”
“Good-bye, Jon. Have fun being stoned in Spencer’s bathroom.” Ryan hangs up right as Jon asks where Spencer is again. Maybe if he re-works the second verse as a search for your soul, but conveyed with the loss of feeling in your toenails?
* * *
"What?" Ryan snaps as he answers his cellphone.
"Woah, um. Nice to talk to you too dude." Brendon huffs into the phone.
"Sorry. Hi. It's just--lyrics. And they--" Suck. A lot. Ryan scrunches his face up and throws his pen down in disgust. It wasn't getting him anywhere anyway.
"Wait. Lyrics? You've been holed up for the past few weeks working on lyrics, haven't you?" Brendon sounds disapproving, which is rich considering that he spends days playing Guitar Hero. At least Ryan's being productive.
Besides, “I haven't been holed up for weeks. Just a few days. A week, tops."
"Right, the dry, crispy plants in your yard would like to argue, but..."
Ryan drops his phone on the couch and runs outside. "Fuck."
It’s a fucking wasteland of shriveled up flowers and brown shrubs. Brendon is standing on his doorstep, phone still pressed to his ear. He snaps the phone shut and walks over to Ryan. "Two weeks. Ask Spencer if you don't believe me."
"Fuck. They're all dead." Ryan can't stop staring at the devastated yard, ignoring Brendon.
"Yeah, well. That's what happens when you live in Vegas and don't water your plants."
"But--they are all dead." $700 worth of plants dead. Ryan kind of wants to cry. He'd been taking such good care of them...fuck.
"Oh, um. You're really upset, aren't you? Well, you were in one of your writing phases. You barely keep yourself alive during those." Brendon wraps his arms around Ryan, pressing close to his back. He rests his chin on Ryan's shoulder, breath tickling at Ryan's neck.
Ryan lets out a weak laugh, "Well, I'm obviously alive, at least."
Brendon wrinkles up his nose, "You don't smell like it. When was the last time you showered?"
* * *
“First day of tour! First day of tour!” Brendon exclaims as he hops up the stairs into the bus. Ryan trudges along behind him, not sharing his enthusiasm.
“Whoopee. Three months crammed on a bus. Watch me jump for joy.” Ryan mutters, shoving his stuff into his bunk with some difficulty. He swears those things are getting smaller with each tour.
“Now, now, Ryan. Let’s not forget the lack of actual showers so that, while we tour the country during the hottest part of the year, we can smell like ass while doing it.” Spencer grins down from his bunk.
Jon frowns at them, “Come on now. It’s exciting! Touring with friends, doing what we love!”
Ryan peers at Jon’s eyes. His pupils are a little dilated. Good, that explains that.
“Ignore them, Jon. Ryan’s just bitchy because he stayed up too late working on lyrics last night. And well-- Spencer’s always a little bitch.” Brendon laughs as he dodges the sneaker Spencer lobs at his head.
Ryan blinks and rolls his head around; his neck is stiff from falling asleep on his notebook last night. Well-- this morning.
“How’d you know I was working on lyrics this morning?” Ryan eyes Brendon suspiciously.
“Easy, you’ve got pen on your face.” Brendon cheekily licks a finger and wipes it down the side of Ryan’s face, showing Ryan the black transfer.
“Sick.” Ryan pushes Brendon’s shoulder before stalking back into the bus lounge.
Spencer glares at Brendon, “I am not a bitch.”
Brendon spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence, eyes wide. Spencer huffs and follows Ryan.
* * *
Mid-way through the tour, somewhere near Tulsa, it hits Ryan. “My plants!” He blurts out, causing everyone to stare at him.
Okay, yeah, so maybe it’s an odd thing to blurt out in the middle of sound check, but whatever.
“Uh, what about your plants?” Brendon speaks the question directly into the microphone, his voice reverberating through the venue.
“They’re dead. Again.”
Jon plays a melancholy tune on his bass. Brendon grins at him before turning back to Ryan and waggling his eyebrows, “Are your plant senses tingling?”
“No,” Ryan glares at him, “I just remembered that I didn’t hook up a sprinkler system to water them before I left.”
“Ryan? There are people you can pay to water them for you.” Brendon says slowly.
Ryan rolls his eyes and adjusts his guitar strap, “I know, but that’s such a rip-off.”
The loud crash of cymbals makes Ryan nearly jump out of his skin. Fucking Spencer.
“Not that this plant talk isn’t fascinating, but can we please get on with sound check now?” Spencer’s irritation is obvious in his voice. He doesn’t wait for a reply before starting the count-off. Ryan sighs, forgetting about his once again ruined yard and leaping into Pas de Cheval.
* * *
There’s a cactus sitting on the kitchen table. A tiny, potted cactus, complete with pokey needles, sitting on the bus’ kitchen table.
Ryan blinks and pours himself some coffee. Steaming mug in hand, he blearily lumbers over to the table. Plopping down, he looks again. The cactus is still there.
He takes a gulp of his coffee. Then another.
Ryan pokes a cactus needle. A tiny pinprick of blood bubbles out of his fingertip.
Brendon stumbles into the kitchenette area and notices Ryan having a staring contest with the cactus. “Oh, hey! Like your cactus?”
Ryan blinks at him. “My cactus?”
“Yeah. Since your plants are all dead and stuff, I figured you could, I don’t know, start it again during the tour.” Brendon shrugs and heads over to get a bowl of cereal. Ryan continues staring at the plant while Brendon drenches his cereal in milk, splashing some onto the table in the process.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” Ryan pokes the cactus needle again.
* * *
“Why is there a cactus on our kitchen table?” Spencer is frowning at the object in question. Ryan looks up from his guitar. “Oh, Brendon got it to replace my dead plants.” He shrugs.
Spencer blinks a couple of times, “Okay…”
He walks over and sits in between Jon and Ryan on the couch. Jon grins at him before plucking out the start to ‘With a Little Help from My Friends” on his bass.
“I get by with a little help from my friends,” he croons. Ryan and Spencer eye him in confusion. “I get high with a little help from my friends”
Jon breaks off into giggles; Spencer hits him in the face with a throw pillow.
* * *
Somehow, the cactus manages to survive the rest of the tour. (It had a close call with a blender once, but Spencer saved it. And that’s when Jon was banned from making marijuana smoothies ever again.)
The plant had practically quadrupled in size though. It’s going to need a new pot. Or… Ryan looks out his front window at the still barren yard.
* * *
“You know, I’m pretty sure I can dig a hole without your supervision.” Ryan isn’t even sure he can call Brendon laying out on the lawn chair he brought over, sipping a Capri Sun and watching Ryan work with amusement, supervising.
Brendon looks at him from over the top of his pink framed sunglasses, “See, you would think that, but that’s okay, Ryan. It’s not your fault that you don’t know how vital my supervision is to the process.”
Ryan stops his stabbing at the hard, dry dirt. He leans on the top of the shovel handle and rests for a moment. “Right, and just how are you helping the process?”
“Plants love me, Ryan Ross. Like all living things, they cannot deny the awesomeness of me and my sunny personality, and thus they thrive and bloom in my presence,” Brendon says matter-of-factly, yellow straw clamped between his grinning teeth.
“Uh-huh.” Ryan rolls his eyes and grabs the hose at his feet.
Brendon topples over backwards as the cold water sprays him. “Fuck, Ryan, this means war!”
Ryan sprays him in the face, laughing at the wet dog look Brendon is now sporting. Brendon splutters and then picks up a clod of dirt and pelts Ryan with it.
Thirty minutes and a big puddle of mud later, the cactus was miraculously planted and Ryan and Brendon look like they had crawled out of a swamp. They kind of smell like it too, but Ryan is going to blame that on Brendon’s “deodorant optional” viewpoint.
Okay, and the worst part of the mud fight? It is very sunny, and now the mud is hardening. Which feels more gross than being caked in mud.
“I need a shower,” Ryan mutters, pulling himself up from the ground. Brendon sits up and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Rolling his eyes at Brendon’s immaturity, Ryan picks up the hose and sprays him again before running inside and locking the door, narrowly escaping the handful of mud Brendon had flung after him.
* * *
Two weeks after the tour ends, they’re back at it, heading over seas for the international part of promoting the new album. Ryan managed to get his yard re-planted, and this time he’s hired some neighborhood kids to water them (Brendon wouldn’t stop bugging him until he did. Seriously. He kept texting Ryan little reminders about hiring someone to water the plants, or else he was going to get Ryan a tombstone for his yard, to commemorate all the fallen plant-soldiers.) He feels stupid paying kids to water his plants, but yeah. No way in hell is he hiring a gardener, that is just-- no. And Ryan knows he would never be able to make a sprinkler system work right, so he unfortunately has to rely on pimply fourteen-year-olds to not kill his new garden.
“Ryan, at five dollars a day for two months? Trust me, those plants are going to be better off than they’ve ever been with you.” Spencer doesn’t even look away from his cell phone, where he’s busily texting.
Ryan scowls, “Shut up, Spencer.”
“It’s true. Stop being pissy and just admit it. Or is this just you expressing your separation anxiety? Do you already miss your plants?” Spencer snarks, still absorbed in his phone.
Brendon taps his fingers on his knee, more than happy to ignore Ryan and Spencer’s little tiff. He’s learned the hard way to never get involved in those. For the safety of his balls.
“Uh-huh. Right. Hey, Spence, stop being pissy and just admit that you’re a freak who can’t go the fifteen minutes it'll take for Jon to meet up with us without talking to him. Or is this just you expressing you separation anxiety?” Ryan squints his eyes at Spencer.
Brendon sinks lower in the airport chair, wishing Jon would hurry up and get here already.
* * *
Ryan is very much a creature of habit. Spencer knows this. Spencer also knows that any alterations in those habits should be regarded as a major warning sign of impeding disaster. So, the sudden trip to Home Depot and Ryan’s new life goal of planting a successful garden? Set the warning bells off at full blast. Spencer really didn’t want a repeat of the guitar-burning-in-the-forest scene.
His initial worry lessened over time, though, seeing as Ryan was still being Ryan. This was just another one of Ryan’s phases. Like the eyeliner, Jac, the cowboy outfits, Keltie, the flowers on the bus (although Spencer thinks that was more the marijuana than anything and probably equally Jon’s fault). Once Ryan managed to keep his cactus alive throughout the tour and actually planted it in his yard, it got better. Ryan finally had a sprinkler system installed (despite his vigorous protests of the overpriced system and blahblahblah) successfully, and so the Extreme Lawn Makeover stopped at some grass-seed and the cactus.
The warning bells quieted. Ryan was back to his normal, not-plant-obsessed self and nothing had been set on fire; Spencer relaxed.
The international tour had been pretty uneventful, no bottling, no cactus-marijuana smoothies, no crazy incidents… okay, well, there was that one thing with that one girl and the jumper cables, but Zack took care of it and, honestly? It was nothing that unusual. They got back a week ago and had followed the almost mandatory few days away from each other that a return from touring requires. Except for the fact that Jon is still staying with Spencer until he finds his own place here in Vegas. Anyway, Spencer was heading out to visit Ryan. Hopefully, the visit wouldn’t involve Spencer being forced to dig holes in the ground for Ryan’s stupid plants again.
Spencer pulls up to Ryan’s house, and immediately the warning bells sound. There’s a fire truck in the driveway. Ryan and Brendon are standing on the curb.
Spencer quickly parks his car and runs over to them. “What the hell happened?”
Ryan’s face is very carefully blank as he stares at Spencer’s forehead. Spencer can’t see any flames coming out of the house, but there is definitely some smoke drifting out of a side window. Brendon is wide-eyed, one of his hands clenching the fabric of Ryan’s shirt, rucking it up enough to expose a strip of skin above the waistband of Ryan’s pants.
“Ryan is never attempting to make flambé ever again. Never. Ever.” Brendon’s fingers twist the fabric tighter in his fist.
Ryan continues staring at Spencer’s forehead, Adam’s apple quivering, “the flambé torch thing-somehow a dish towel or something-it wasn’t a very big fire.”
Spencer looks at the fire truck pointedly.
“Well, it wasn’t,” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest defiantly, “Brendon is just a spaz.”
Brendon’s nostrils flare as he glares at Ryan, knuckles white from his stubborn hold anchoring him to Ryan.
“Your floor was on fire.” Brendon says the words carefully, angrily. He turns to a wide-eyed Spencer, “His floor was on fire and the idiot threw a dish rag on top of it.”
“I was trying to put the fire out!” Ryan snaps his head to the side to glare at Brendon.
“Well, you were doing a very shitty job of it, seeing as you almost got yourself caught on fire!” Brendon practically screams at Ryan. His free hand moves around Ryan’s back to grasp the other side of his shirt, holding Ryan in some bizarre form of a freaked out hug.
Spencer clears his throat, “I second the motion of Ryan never being allowed to make flambé again.”
Immediately, two sets of eyes fixate on him, one in a betrayed glare and the other in gratitude. Spencer fixes Ryan with a look. The latter grudgingly stops glaring and leans against Brendon. He stares at the cement and mutters, “It really wasn’t a very big fire.”
Spencer rolls his eyes at his best friend’s stubbornness. The angry set of Brendon’s posture bleeds away as he pulls Ryan into a real hug. As he presses a kiss to Ryan’s temple, Spencer can barely hear him mutter, “Never, ever again Ryan Ross. You’re not allowed to die in a fire.”
* * *
Since the Great Flambé Disaster of Last Week (as Brendon insists on calling it, eyes wide and glinting, smile stretched a little too tight over his teeth) Ryan has persevered in his cooking efforts. Despite everyone’s prayers that he would stop. It hasn’t required another fire department intervention yet, but it’s only a matter of time-- Brendon totally hid the flambé torch thing just in case. So far, Ryan’s --cooking--has only led to a very colorfully splattered kitchen. And a few burns. And some of the uglier looking things that have ever graced the earth. When Ryan proudly unveiled his special cupcakes, Jon couldn’t help but lean over and whisper into Spencer’s ear, “Does he think this actually resembles food?”
Spencer has tried to talk to Ryan about it, pointing out that Ryan doesn’t actually have any experience with anything more advanced than cereal and that this might not be such a good idea, but Ryan shut him down (“It’s simple, Spence. You just follow the instructions and everything will turn out perfectly”). Spencer relents; it’s always been next to impossible to convince Ryan not to do anything. Even if it’s obvious to everyone but Ryan that he is severely overestimating his own abilities.
Pete, of course, thought this latest development was hilarious; he sent Ryan a pink frilly apron with the words ‘Domestic Diva’ embroidered on the front.
* * *
Brendon pokes at the-thing-on his plate suspiciously when Ryan heads back into the kitchen to get the salad dressing. The thing jiggles. It looks like it’s slowly edging toward the rim of his plate. Brendon hopes it manages to climb off and conveniently fall onto the floor.
Ryan said it was Lentil Sheppard Pie. Brendon privately thinks it is more of a… fucked up Christmas colored lasagna thing. The twin looks of disgust painted on Jon and Spencer’s faces support his thoughts.
Brendon plasters a grin on his face as Ryan returns, vinaigrette bottle in hand. Ryan sits back down in his chair, placing the bottle next to the pan full of his supposed Sheppard pie and looking at the table expectantly, “Well? Aren’t you going to try it?”
No. Brendon bites his lip down on the word. Ryan tried really hard to make this and, well, it doesn’t look like he succeeded… but he still put a lot of effort into whatever the hell this is and the least Brendon can do is attempt to eat it. And that is totally up to him since Spencer is trying to destroy his plate with his bitch face and Jon looks like he would rather eat his flip-flops.
He cautiously scoops some up on his fork; Ryan fixes him with a hopeful look. Brendon gulps and gives him a tight smile before taking a bite.
At first, it doesn’t seem so bad, it’s just like a moldy, crunchy-okay, it’s horrible. The only thing Brendon can compare this to is regurgitating Chef Boyardee and hot chocolate. He tries, he really, really tries to control the impulse, but he can’t.
“Sick! Oh my god, get it off!” Spencer yelps, face splattered red and green. Brendon seizes his water glass and chugs it down as quickly as possible. Spencer grabs the tablecloth and attacks his face with it. Jon tries to cover his laughter with a cough, but he ends up falling to the floor, laughing harder than before.
Ryan’s shoulders slump. He covers his face with his hands, weight resting on the table. “Great, it sucks.”
“No. Really, Ryan, I liked it! I was just…surprised! At how good it was!” Brendon sputters out. Ryan lifts his head up enough to stare at him in disbelief; Brendon is a shitty liar. He tries again anyway, “I like the colors!”
Jon picks himself up off the floor and settles back onto his chair, cheeks flushed a brilliant red from oxygen depravation. Spencer shoots him a glare when he grins at Spencer.
“You’ve got some in your hair.” Jon points out, biting back a giggle. Spencer’s bitch face intensifies.
* * *
As it turns out, Brendon somehow contracted a light bout of food poisoning from Ryan’s Lentil pie. He was all puking and disgusting, Ryan was all horribly guilty and apologetic, and Spencer felt vindicated in his freaking out at any contact with the substance (“I am totally allowed to freak out when poisonous substances are on my face, Jon”).
Once Brendon had been, um, released from the hospital, Ryan insisted that Brendon come stay with him until he recovered. So, here he was. Playing video games on Ryan’s X-box, sitting on Ryan’s coffee table in the nest of blankets he made. And he’s kind of bored because Ryan is off doing who-knows-what and Brendon really doesn’t want to bother him (Ryan had gone off with that determined gleam in his eyes. The dangerous one that Brendon really did not feel up to getting involved with). So he calls Pete. In retrospect, yeah, bad idea.
"I still can't believe Ryan gave you food poisoning!" Pete crows into the phone, "That's actually hilarious."
"Okay, one, it was only a light thing of food poisoning, totally not that big of a deal, and two, you're an ass." Brendon rolls his eyes at the phone. He picks at the blanket covering his lap absentmindedly.
"Okay, it is kind of funny, you have to admit. All 'no good deed' and shit. Oops. Stuff. Stuff." Pete corrects himself quickly. He's probably on Bronx watch again. Brendon snorts to himself. "Anyway, I'll take it you're not at the hospital anymore?"
"Nah, I'm at Ryan's." Crap, he just pulled the thread out and made a hole in the blanket. Maybe Ryan won't notice?
Pete chuckles, "I still can't believe it. Food poisoning."
His chuckling morphs into a full-blown laughing fit.
"Pete, you’re kind of an asshole." Brendon hangs up on him. Stupid Pete. Brendon picks the X-box controller back up and resumes blasting vampire rabbits.
Around the time he reaches the level where the vampire rabbits start multiplying insanely and then morphing together to form a massive vampire bunny of doom, the smell of something burning wafts into his nostrils.
“Ryan?” he calls cautiously, fearing another flambé incident, “What’s burning?”
* *
Ryan startles from his position at the sink where he’d been vigorously scrubbing the leftover dough from the metal mixing bowl; that stuff can stick like none other.
“Crap!” he mutters, remembering that he had forgotten to set the oven-timer. He hurries over to the oven and pulls open the door. A cloud of black smoke oozes out. “Quadruple crap…”
Brendon’s muffled call could be heard from the living room, “Ryan?”
“Nothing! Nothing, it’s just the oven self-cleaning!” Ryan shouts back. He stares down at the scorched chocolate cookies. They are so blackened that they blend into the pan.
Ryan grimaces as he dumps the burnt tray of cookies into his trashcan; so much for his attempt at baking. Ryan pulls off the apron (the one Pete gave him, it’s the only one he has) and heads out towards the living room, remembering to turn on the oven’s self-clean button as he goes.
“Seriously, you’re playing the vampire rabbits again?” Ryan scrunches his nose up as he sits next to Brendon on the coffee table.
“Yes, ‘cause they’re awesome! And don’t give me any crap about it, Ross, or I’ll pull out Guitar Hero.” Brendon knocks Ryan’s knee with his own, flashing him a quick grin in between blasting rabbits. Ryan rolls his eyes; he’d hidden Guitar Hero months ago.
* * *
A couple nights later, a sort-of-miracle occurs: Ryan cooks something successfully. An entire meal, to be precise. That didn’t come entirely from a microwave (okay, and maybe Brendon helped him a little bit, but only a little). It’s a relatively simple meal; penne pasta with stewed tomatoes and basil, a side of steamed potatoes, and some garlic bread.
Spencer pokes his plate warily. “Are we sure it’s safe to eat?”
Ryan glares at him.
“What? Last time someone ate your cooking we had to go to the hospital; excuse me for being cautious,” Spencer mutters as he reluctantly scoops up a forkful to the noodles. He hesitates when the fork is pressed to his lips. Brendon rolls his eyes and takes a bite of his own pasta.
“Mmm… See? No spitting it out this time.” Brendon grins at Spencer, a piece of basil stuck between his front teeth.
Spencer frowns at him; having a face-full of regurgitated Lentil Sheppard Pie was not fun.
Jon shrugs and digs into his own plate, making appreciative noises as he does so. Ryan eyes Spencer challengingly.
“Fine, fine.” Spencer gives up and bites off the very corner of the noodle. Ryan gives him a smug smile when Spencer actually swallows it.
* * *
Spencer spits out the toothpaste and rinses his mouth out under the tap. Wiping the remaining foam off of his lips, he places his toothbrush back in its holder and turns off the bathroom light.
He walks out into the bedroom, socked feet whispering against the carpet. Sliding underneath the covers, Jon’s arms snake their way around him. Spencer smiles softly. “You left the toothpaste cap off again. It’s going to dry out if you keep doing that.”
Plus, it leaves crusty green marks on the counter for Spencer to scrub off.
Jon rests his head in the crook of Spencer’s neck, breath ghosting over his skin in tiny bursts. “Mmm… g’night, Spencer.”
Spencer rolls his eyes as Jon’s breathing evens out immediately, exhales turning into quiet whufflings.
* part 2 * *
Author: me, chaoticallyclev
Disclimer: oddly enough, i don't own anything. sad, i know.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Pairings: Ryan/Brendon, (Jon/Spencer)
Word Count: 8,668 so not quite as massive, as I'd originally thought it would be.
Summary: It all started with an innocent trip to Home Depot.... and then there was frilly aprons and things that are really, really not cupcakes and Dr. Phil is a sound-transmitted virus.
Or: The one where Ryan tries his hand at domestic activities with varying results, usually in the category of disaster.
Ryan knows his childhood was less than conventional. It wasn’t bad, it just -- didn’t quite fit with the “normal family” standard. That was okay. Ryan didn’t really miss his mom, and his step-sisters never liked him anyway, so having them gone was nothing traumatic. Plus, half of all marriages ended in divorce anyway, so the split wasn’t anything shocking. And, okay, his father had a drinking problem, but it hadn’t started out so heavy. By the time he was an alcoholic, Ryan had already formed a surrogate home with Spencer.
His family was unconventional, and Ryan accepted that. He really did. But that didn’t keep him from wanting. A more sober father, a mother who gave half a damn, a house that didn’t reek of beer, a garden.
Yes, a freaking garden.
All the other houses on his block had had immaculate front lawns, complete with flowerbeds, rose bushes, and sharply pruned shrubs. A lot of hot summer days had seen Ryan and Spencer playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles under Ginger’s watchful eye, as she carefully weeded her plant beds. (They were seven, okay? And TMNT will never not be awesome.)
Anyway, now that Ryan has grown up, made a platinum album, bought his own home, and finally has a break between tours, he will have a garden.
So here he is, ambling around Home Depot’s Garden Section, examining plants with a skeptical Spencer in tow.
“Okay… tell me again, what it is you’re doing?” Spencer asks, scrutinizing a withered mass of green that might have been a shrub once in a distant, not-dehydrated past.
“I’m getting plants.” Ryan examines an African violet; he thinks it looks okay (not that he would know, but it looks alive and pretty and that’s enough for him).
“Yeah, I can see that,” Spencer drawls as Ryan adds two of the violets to his cart, “but, why?’
“To plant.” So, maybe Ryan’s being a little evasive, but seriously. Spencer didn’t have to come along and bug him, okay? (And maybe Ryan is also ignoring the fact that Spencer is giving him a ride to and from Home Depot. What? Ryan’s car is not meant to shuttle dirt and bugs. Spencer could have just lent him the car, but no... Spencer had to come along because “I’m not letting you drive my car when you’re stoned, Ryan”)
“That would be the primary function of plants. But why the sudden interest in landscaping?” Spencer had abandoned his disapproving staring contest with the once-shrub, leaning back against the cart cautiously, as if he thought its orange paint might flake off and start choking him with its ugly.
“It’s not sudden; we just finally have some free time. My yard looks ugly anyway.”
Spence doesn’t look particularly satisfied with this answer either, but whatever. Spencer needs to stop ruining Ryan’s foray among the flowers with his cynicism.
“Hey, what exactly is ‘mulch’?” Ryan pokes a bag of the substance in question, nose wrinkled in disgust. It smells moldy.
Spencer shrugs, “I think it’s dirt or something. But, like, with nutrients in it.”
Ryan nods and puts a couple bags in the cart.
* * *
Stupid sun, stupid dirt. Ryan wipes at the sweat trickling down his forehead. Stupid Vegas. Why the hell is summer always so hot?
Ryan is planting some bulbs around his driveway. Well, he is trying to anyway. But the dirt is really hot, and the sun is really hot. And he keeps getting dirt all over his face when he wipes the sweat away. Not cool.
A shadow falls over Ryan’s face, and he enjoys the brief respite from the sun before he realizes that the shadow comes from a person. Brendon, to be exact.
“Um, Ryan? What are you doing?” Brendon’s voice sounds amused. Ryan reluctantly lifts his head to look at Brendon, who is grinning about as much as his voice suggested. Brendon’s eyebrows shoot up quickly, “And, uh, what happened to your face?”
“Stupid dirt,” Ryan mutters as a reflex. Then he remembers that he has an amused Brendon on his hands, which very easily has the possibility of turning into a Brendon who is actually on the floor laughing and possibly taking pictures of Ryan’s dirty face and sending it to the whole fucking label.
“I’m planting bulbs.” Ryan’s answer is terse, but it really isn’t that amusing so Brendon can cut it out with the grinning already.
“On your face? Because I think there is more dirt on your face than over that bulb.” Brendon nudges the freshly covered bulb with his sneaker.
“Oh, haha. The packet said to just barely cover it, so...” Ryan resists the urge to stick his tongue out at Brendon.
Brendon scratches the back of his neck while Ryan goes back to scratching at the ground with his shovel. After a few more minutes of Ryan attacking the ground and Brendon awkwardly shifting his weight back and forth, Brendon sits down across from Ryan.
“So…um,” Brendon licks his lips, “did the packet also tell you that bulbs are supposed to be planted in winter?”
Ryan scrunches his eyes shut, sticks the shovel into the dirt as hard as he can, and storms back inside.
“Ryan?” Brendon calls after him hesitantly. The slamming of Ryan’s front door is his only reply.
* * *
“Ryan Ross, friends don’t not tell friends when they are smoking up. It’s not-- friendly” Jon’s voice is solemn and static-ridden over the phone line. The solemn effect is ruined by the quiet little giggle that follows the statement.
Ryan rolls his eyes, “Look who’s talking. Does Spencer know you’re hot-boxing his bathroom?”
Jon shushes him, and giggles again, “Friends also don’t threaten friends with people who would stop them from smoking up.”
“Right, I’ll add that to the handbook.” Ryan responds dryly.
“Ah, the handbook! We should totally have a handbook! Oh-wait. That’s not why I called you. Ryan, why did I call you?” Ryan can imagine the confused expression of Jon’s face. He always gets very perplexed when stoned. Ryan remembers that time when Jon spent an hour trying to figure out if his shoelaces were snakes or spaghetti noodles and then deciding that Zach should remove his shoes in case they really were snakes, but he forgot and then joined Brendon in trying to play hide and seek under the carpet.
“I honestly have no idea, Jon.” Ryan scrawls out a few more words on the lined paper before scratching them out. Too obvious.
“Oh, well. Spencer’s bathroom has a really pretty ceiling.” A vague shuffling sound echoes through the receiver. Jon is probably lying in the tub again.
“That’s nice, Jon.” Maybe if he replaced inveigle with beguile? No, no, maybe if he replaced the kites with animal balloons?
“What’s nice? Hey, Ryan, do you know where Spencer is?” Jon sounds distressed in his confusion, “I think I lost Spencer. Don’t be mad.”
“Spencer is having lunch with his mom.” Ryan reminds him.
“Oh…” Jon sneezes into the phone, “Ryan, why can’t I feel my toenails?”
“Good-bye, Jon. Have fun being stoned in Spencer’s bathroom.” Ryan hangs up right as Jon asks where Spencer is again. Maybe if he re-works the second verse as a search for your soul, but conveyed with the loss of feeling in your toenails?
* * *
"What?" Ryan snaps as he answers his cellphone.
"Woah, um. Nice to talk to you too dude." Brendon huffs into the phone.
"Sorry. Hi. It's just--lyrics. And they--" Suck. A lot. Ryan scrunches his face up and throws his pen down in disgust. It wasn't getting him anywhere anyway.
"Wait. Lyrics? You've been holed up for the past few weeks working on lyrics, haven't you?" Brendon sounds disapproving, which is rich considering that he spends days playing Guitar Hero. At least Ryan's being productive.
Besides, “I haven't been holed up for weeks. Just a few days. A week, tops."
"Right, the dry, crispy plants in your yard would like to argue, but..."
Ryan drops his phone on the couch and runs outside. "Fuck."
It’s a fucking wasteland of shriveled up flowers and brown shrubs. Brendon is standing on his doorstep, phone still pressed to his ear. He snaps the phone shut and walks over to Ryan. "Two weeks. Ask Spencer if you don't believe me."
"Fuck. They're all dead." Ryan can't stop staring at the devastated yard, ignoring Brendon.
"Yeah, well. That's what happens when you live in Vegas and don't water your plants."
"But--they are all dead." $700 worth of plants dead. Ryan kind of wants to cry. He'd been taking such good care of them...fuck.
"Oh, um. You're really upset, aren't you? Well, you were in one of your writing phases. You barely keep yourself alive during those." Brendon wraps his arms around Ryan, pressing close to his back. He rests his chin on Ryan's shoulder, breath tickling at Ryan's neck.
Ryan lets out a weak laugh, "Well, I'm obviously alive, at least."
Brendon wrinkles up his nose, "You don't smell like it. When was the last time you showered?"
* * *
“First day of tour! First day of tour!” Brendon exclaims as he hops up the stairs into the bus. Ryan trudges along behind him, not sharing his enthusiasm.
“Whoopee. Three months crammed on a bus. Watch me jump for joy.” Ryan mutters, shoving his stuff into his bunk with some difficulty. He swears those things are getting smaller with each tour.
“Now, now, Ryan. Let’s not forget the lack of actual showers so that, while we tour the country during the hottest part of the year, we can smell like ass while doing it.” Spencer grins down from his bunk.
Jon frowns at them, “Come on now. It’s exciting! Touring with friends, doing what we love!”
Ryan peers at Jon’s eyes. His pupils are a little dilated. Good, that explains that.
“Ignore them, Jon. Ryan’s just bitchy because he stayed up too late working on lyrics last night. And well-- Spencer’s always a little bitch.” Brendon laughs as he dodges the sneaker Spencer lobs at his head.
Ryan blinks and rolls his head around; his neck is stiff from falling asleep on his notebook last night. Well-- this morning.
“How’d you know I was working on lyrics this morning?” Ryan eyes Brendon suspiciously.
“Easy, you’ve got pen on your face.” Brendon cheekily licks a finger and wipes it down the side of Ryan’s face, showing Ryan the black transfer.
“Sick.” Ryan pushes Brendon’s shoulder before stalking back into the bus lounge.
Spencer glares at Brendon, “I am not a bitch.”
Brendon spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence, eyes wide. Spencer huffs and follows Ryan.
* * *
Mid-way through the tour, somewhere near Tulsa, it hits Ryan. “My plants!” He blurts out, causing everyone to stare at him.
Okay, yeah, so maybe it’s an odd thing to blurt out in the middle of sound check, but whatever.
“Uh, what about your plants?” Brendon speaks the question directly into the microphone, his voice reverberating through the venue.
“They’re dead. Again.”
Jon plays a melancholy tune on his bass. Brendon grins at him before turning back to Ryan and waggling his eyebrows, “Are your plant senses tingling?”
“No,” Ryan glares at him, “I just remembered that I didn’t hook up a sprinkler system to water them before I left.”
“Ryan? There are people you can pay to water them for you.” Brendon says slowly.
Ryan rolls his eyes and adjusts his guitar strap, “I know, but that’s such a rip-off.”
The loud crash of cymbals makes Ryan nearly jump out of his skin. Fucking Spencer.
“Not that this plant talk isn’t fascinating, but can we please get on with sound check now?” Spencer’s irritation is obvious in his voice. He doesn’t wait for a reply before starting the count-off. Ryan sighs, forgetting about his once again ruined yard and leaping into Pas de Cheval.
* * *
There’s a cactus sitting on the kitchen table. A tiny, potted cactus, complete with pokey needles, sitting on the bus’ kitchen table.
Ryan blinks and pours himself some coffee. Steaming mug in hand, he blearily lumbers over to the table. Plopping down, he looks again. The cactus is still there.
He takes a gulp of his coffee. Then another.
Ryan pokes a cactus needle. A tiny pinprick of blood bubbles out of his fingertip.
Brendon stumbles into the kitchenette area and notices Ryan having a staring contest with the cactus. “Oh, hey! Like your cactus?”
Ryan blinks at him. “My cactus?”
“Yeah. Since your plants are all dead and stuff, I figured you could, I don’t know, start it again during the tour.” Brendon shrugs and heads over to get a bowl of cereal. Ryan continues staring at the plant while Brendon drenches his cereal in milk, splashing some onto the table in the process.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” Ryan pokes the cactus needle again.
* * *
“Why is there a cactus on our kitchen table?” Spencer is frowning at the object in question. Ryan looks up from his guitar. “Oh, Brendon got it to replace my dead plants.” He shrugs.
Spencer blinks a couple of times, “Okay…”
He walks over and sits in between Jon and Ryan on the couch. Jon grins at him before plucking out the start to ‘With a Little Help from My Friends” on his bass.
“I get by with a little help from my friends,” he croons. Ryan and Spencer eye him in confusion. “I get high with a little help from my friends”
Jon breaks off into giggles; Spencer hits him in the face with a throw pillow.
* * *
Somehow, the cactus manages to survive the rest of the tour. (It had a close call with a blender once, but Spencer saved it. And that’s when Jon was banned from making marijuana smoothies ever again.)
The plant had practically quadrupled in size though. It’s going to need a new pot. Or… Ryan looks out his front window at the still barren yard.
* * *
“You know, I’m pretty sure I can dig a hole without your supervision.” Ryan isn’t even sure he can call Brendon laying out on the lawn chair he brought over, sipping a Capri Sun and watching Ryan work with amusement, supervising.
Brendon looks at him from over the top of his pink framed sunglasses, “See, you would think that, but that’s okay, Ryan. It’s not your fault that you don’t know how vital my supervision is to the process.”
Ryan stops his stabbing at the hard, dry dirt. He leans on the top of the shovel handle and rests for a moment. “Right, and just how are you helping the process?”
“Plants love me, Ryan Ross. Like all living things, they cannot deny the awesomeness of me and my sunny personality, and thus they thrive and bloom in my presence,” Brendon says matter-of-factly, yellow straw clamped between his grinning teeth.
“Uh-huh.” Ryan rolls his eyes and grabs the hose at his feet.
Brendon topples over backwards as the cold water sprays him. “Fuck, Ryan, this means war!”
Ryan sprays him in the face, laughing at the wet dog look Brendon is now sporting. Brendon splutters and then picks up a clod of dirt and pelts Ryan with it.
Thirty minutes and a big puddle of mud later, the cactus was miraculously planted and Ryan and Brendon look like they had crawled out of a swamp. They kind of smell like it too, but Ryan is going to blame that on Brendon’s “deodorant optional” viewpoint.
Okay, and the worst part of the mud fight? It is very sunny, and now the mud is hardening. Which feels more gross than being caked in mud.
“I need a shower,” Ryan mutters, pulling himself up from the ground. Brendon sits up and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Rolling his eyes at Brendon’s immaturity, Ryan picks up the hose and sprays him again before running inside and locking the door, narrowly escaping the handful of mud Brendon had flung after him.
* * *
Two weeks after the tour ends, they’re back at it, heading over seas for the international part of promoting the new album. Ryan managed to get his yard re-planted, and this time he’s hired some neighborhood kids to water them (Brendon wouldn’t stop bugging him until he did. Seriously. He kept texting Ryan little reminders about hiring someone to water the plants, or else he was going to get Ryan a tombstone for his yard, to commemorate all the fallen plant-soldiers.) He feels stupid paying kids to water his plants, but yeah. No way in hell is he hiring a gardener, that is just-- no. And Ryan knows he would never be able to make a sprinkler system work right, so he unfortunately has to rely on pimply fourteen-year-olds to not kill his new garden.
“Ryan, at five dollars a day for two months? Trust me, those plants are going to be better off than they’ve ever been with you.” Spencer doesn’t even look away from his cell phone, where he’s busily texting.
Ryan scowls, “Shut up, Spencer.”
“It’s true. Stop being pissy and just admit it. Or is this just you expressing your separation anxiety? Do you already miss your plants?” Spencer snarks, still absorbed in his phone.
Brendon taps his fingers on his knee, more than happy to ignore Ryan and Spencer’s little tiff. He’s learned the hard way to never get involved in those. For the safety of his balls.
“Uh-huh. Right. Hey, Spence, stop being pissy and just admit that you’re a freak who can’t go the fifteen minutes it'll take for Jon to meet up with us without talking to him. Or is this just you expressing you separation anxiety?” Ryan squints his eyes at Spencer.
Brendon sinks lower in the airport chair, wishing Jon would hurry up and get here already.
* * *
Ryan is very much a creature of habit. Spencer knows this. Spencer also knows that any alterations in those habits should be regarded as a major warning sign of impeding disaster. So, the sudden trip to Home Depot and Ryan’s new life goal of planting a successful garden? Set the warning bells off at full blast. Spencer really didn’t want a repeat of the guitar-burning-in-the-forest scene.
His initial worry lessened over time, though, seeing as Ryan was still being Ryan. This was just another one of Ryan’s phases. Like the eyeliner, Jac, the cowboy outfits, Keltie, the flowers on the bus (although Spencer thinks that was more the marijuana than anything and probably equally Jon’s fault). Once Ryan managed to keep his cactus alive throughout the tour and actually planted it in his yard, it got better. Ryan finally had a sprinkler system installed (despite his vigorous protests of the overpriced system and blahblahblah) successfully, and so the Extreme Lawn Makeover stopped at some grass-seed and the cactus.
The warning bells quieted. Ryan was back to his normal, not-plant-obsessed self and nothing had been set on fire; Spencer relaxed.
The international tour had been pretty uneventful, no bottling, no cactus-marijuana smoothies, no crazy incidents… okay, well, there was that one thing with that one girl and the jumper cables, but Zack took care of it and, honestly? It was nothing that unusual. They got back a week ago and had followed the almost mandatory few days away from each other that a return from touring requires. Except for the fact that Jon is still staying with Spencer until he finds his own place here in Vegas. Anyway, Spencer was heading out to visit Ryan. Hopefully, the visit wouldn’t involve Spencer being forced to dig holes in the ground for Ryan’s stupid plants again.
Spencer pulls up to Ryan’s house, and immediately the warning bells sound. There’s a fire truck in the driveway. Ryan and Brendon are standing on the curb.
Spencer quickly parks his car and runs over to them. “What the hell happened?”
Ryan’s face is very carefully blank as he stares at Spencer’s forehead. Spencer can’t see any flames coming out of the house, but there is definitely some smoke drifting out of a side window. Brendon is wide-eyed, one of his hands clenching the fabric of Ryan’s shirt, rucking it up enough to expose a strip of skin above the waistband of Ryan’s pants.
“Ryan is never attempting to make flambé ever again. Never. Ever.” Brendon’s fingers twist the fabric tighter in his fist.
Ryan continues staring at Spencer’s forehead, Adam’s apple quivering, “the flambé torch thing-somehow a dish towel or something-it wasn’t a very big fire.”
Spencer looks at the fire truck pointedly.
“Well, it wasn’t,” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest defiantly, “Brendon is just a spaz.”
Brendon’s nostrils flare as he glares at Ryan, knuckles white from his stubborn hold anchoring him to Ryan.
“Your floor was on fire.” Brendon says the words carefully, angrily. He turns to a wide-eyed Spencer, “His floor was on fire and the idiot threw a dish rag on top of it.”
“I was trying to put the fire out!” Ryan snaps his head to the side to glare at Brendon.
“Well, you were doing a very shitty job of it, seeing as you almost got yourself caught on fire!” Brendon practically screams at Ryan. His free hand moves around Ryan’s back to grasp the other side of his shirt, holding Ryan in some bizarre form of a freaked out hug.
Spencer clears his throat, “I second the motion of Ryan never being allowed to make flambé again.”
Immediately, two sets of eyes fixate on him, one in a betrayed glare and the other in gratitude. Spencer fixes Ryan with a look. The latter grudgingly stops glaring and leans against Brendon. He stares at the cement and mutters, “It really wasn’t a very big fire.”
Spencer rolls his eyes at his best friend’s stubbornness. The angry set of Brendon’s posture bleeds away as he pulls Ryan into a real hug. As he presses a kiss to Ryan’s temple, Spencer can barely hear him mutter, “Never, ever again Ryan Ross. You’re not allowed to die in a fire.”
* * *
Since the Great Flambé Disaster of Last Week (as Brendon insists on calling it, eyes wide and glinting, smile stretched a little too tight over his teeth) Ryan has persevered in his cooking efforts. Despite everyone’s prayers that he would stop. It hasn’t required another fire department intervention yet, but it’s only a matter of time-- Brendon totally hid the flambé torch thing just in case. So far, Ryan’s --cooking--has only led to a very colorfully splattered kitchen. And a few burns. And some of the uglier looking things that have ever graced the earth. When Ryan proudly unveiled his special cupcakes, Jon couldn’t help but lean over and whisper into Spencer’s ear, “Does he think this actually resembles food?”
Spencer has tried to talk to Ryan about it, pointing out that Ryan doesn’t actually have any experience with anything more advanced than cereal and that this might not be such a good idea, but Ryan shut him down (“It’s simple, Spence. You just follow the instructions and everything will turn out perfectly”). Spencer relents; it’s always been next to impossible to convince Ryan not to do anything. Even if it’s obvious to everyone but Ryan that he is severely overestimating his own abilities.
Pete, of course, thought this latest development was hilarious; he sent Ryan a pink frilly apron with the words ‘Domestic Diva’ embroidered on the front.
* * *
Brendon pokes at the-thing-on his plate suspiciously when Ryan heads back into the kitchen to get the salad dressing. The thing jiggles. It looks like it’s slowly edging toward the rim of his plate. Brendon hopes it manages to climb off and conveniently fall onto the floor.
Ryan said it was Lentil Sheppard Pie. Brendon privately thinks it is more of a… fucked up Christmas colored lasagna thing. The twin looks of disgust painted on Jon and Spencer’s faces support his thoughts.
Brendon plasters a grin on his face as Ryan returns, vinaigrette bottle in hand. Ryan sits back down in his chair, placing the bottle next to the pan full of his supposed Sheppard pie and looking at the table expectantly, “Well? Aren’t you going to try it?”
No. Brendon bites his lip down on the word. Ryan tried really hard to make this and, well, it doesn’t look like he succeeded… but he still put a lot of effort into whatever the hell this is and the least Brendon can do is attempt to eat it. And that is totally up to him since Spencer is trying to destroy his plate with his bitch face and Jon looks like he would rather eat his flip-flops.
He cautiously scoops some up on his fork; Ryan fixes him with a hopeful look. Brendon gulps and gives him a tight smile before taking a bite.
At first, it doesn’t seem so bad, it’s just like a moldy, crunchy-okay, it’s horrible. The only thing Brendon can compare this to is regurgitating Chef Boyardee and hot chocolate. He tries, he really, really tries to control the impulse, but he can’t.
“Sick! Oh my god, get it off!” Spencer yelps, face splattered red and green. Brendon seizes his water glass and chugs it down as quickly as possible. Spencer grabs the tablecloth and attacks his face with it. Jon tries to cover his laughter with a cough, but he ends up falling to the floor, laughing harder than before.
Ryan’s shoulders slump. He covers his face with his hands, weight resting on the table. “Great, it sucks.”
“No. Really, Ryan, I liked it! I was just…surprised! At how good it was!” Brendon sputters out. Ryan lifts his head up enough to stare at him in disbelief; Brendon is a shitty liar. He tries again anyway, “I like the colors!”
Jon picks himself up off the floor and settles back onto his chair, cheeks flushed a brilliant red from oxygen depravation. Spencer shoots him a glare when he grins at Spencer.
“You’ve got some in your hair.” Jon points out, biting back a giggle. Spencer’s bitch face intensifies.
* * *
As it turns out, Brendon somehow contracted a light bout of food poisoning from Ryan’s Lentil pie. He was all puking and disgusting, Ryan was all horribly guilty and apologetic, and Spencer felt vindicated in his freaking out at any contact with the substance (“I am totally allowed to freak out when poisonous substances are on my face, Jon”).
Once Brendon had been, um, released from the hospital, Ryan insisted that Brendon come stay with him until he recovered. So, here he was. Playing video games on Ryan’s X-box, sitting on Ryan’s coffee table in the nest of blankets he made. And he’s kind of bored because Ryan is off doing who-knows-what and Brendon really doesn’t want to bother him (Ryan had gone off with that determined gleam in his eyes. The dangerous one that Brendon really did not feel up to getting involved with). So he calls Pete. In retrospect, yeah, bad idea.
"I still can't believe Ryan gave you food poisoning!" Pete crows into the phone, "That's actually hilarious."
"Okay, one, it was only a light thing of food poisoning, totally not that big of a deal, and two, you're an ass." Brendon rolls his eyes at the phone. He picks at the blanket covering his lap absentmindedly.
"Okay, it is kind of funny, you have to admit. All 'no good deed' and shit. Oops. Stuff. Stuff." Pete corrects himself quickly. He's probably on Bronx watch again. Brendon snorts to himself. "Anyway, I'll take it you're not at the hospital anymore?"
"Nah, I'm at Ryan's." Crap, he just pulled the thread out and made a hole in the blanket. Maybe Ryan won't notice?
Pete chuckles, "I still can't believe it. Food poisoning."
His chuckling morphs into a full-blown laughing fit.
"Pete, you’re kind of an asshole." Brendon hangs up on him. Stupid Pete. Brendon picks the X-box controller back up and resumes blasting vampire rabbits.
Around the time he reaches the level where the vampire rabbits start multiplying insanely and then morphing together to form a massive vampire bunny of doom, the smell of something burning wafts into his nostrils.
“Ryan?” he calls cautiously, fearing another flambé incident, “What’s burning?”
* *
Ryan startles from his position at the sink where he’d been vigorously scrubbing the leftover dough from the metal mixing bowl; that stuff can stick like none other.
“Crap!” he mutters, remembering that he had forgotten to set the oven-timer. He hurries over to the oven and pulls open the door. A cloud of black smoke oozes out. “Quadruple crap…”
Brendon’s muffled call could be heard from the living room, “Ryan?”
“Nothing! Nothing, it’s just the oven self-cleaning!” Ryan shouts back. He stares down at the scorched chocolate cookies. They are so blackened that they blend into the pan.
Ryan grimaces as he dumps the burnt tray of cookies into his trashcan; so much for his attempt at baking. Ryan pulls off the apron (the one Pete gave him, it’s the only one he has) and heads out towards the living room, remembering to turn on the oven’s self-clean button as he goes.
“Seriously, you’re playing the vampire rabbits again?” Ryan scrunches his nose up as he sits next to Brendon on the coffee table.
“Yes, ‘cause they’re awesome! And don’t give me any crap about it, Ross, or I’ll pull out Guitar Hero.” Brendon knocks Ryan’s knee with his own, flashing him a quick grin in between blasting rabbits. Ryan rolls his eyes; he’d hidden Guitar Hero months ago.
* * *
A couple nights later, a sort-of-miracle occurs: Ryan cooks something successfully. An entire meal, to be precise. That didn’t come entirely from a microwave (okay, and maybe Brendon helped him a little bit, but only a little). It’s a relatively simple meal; penne pasta with stewed tomatoes and basil, a side of steamed potatoes, and some garlic bread.
Spencer pokes his plate warily. “Are we sure it’s safe to eat?”
Ryan glares at him.
“What? Last time someone ate your cooking we had to go to the hospital; excuse me for being cautious,” Spencer mutters as he reluctantly scoops up a forkful to the noodles. He hesitates when the fork is pressed to his lips. Brendon rolls his eyes and takes a bite of his own pasta.
“Mmm… See? No spitting it out this time.” Brendon grins at Spencer, a piece of basil stuck between his front teeth.
Spencer frowns at him; having a face-full of regurgitated Lentil Sheppard Pie was not fun.
Jon shrugs and digs into his own plate, making appreciative noises as he does so. Ryan eyes Spencer challengingly.
“Fine, fine.” Spencer gives up and bites off the very corner of the noodle. Ryan gives him a smug smile when Spencer actually swallows it.
* * *
Spencer spits out the toothpaste and rinses his mouth out under the tap. Wiping the remaining foam off of his lips, he places his toothbrush back in its holder and turns off the bathroom light.
He walks out into the bedroom, socked feet whispering against the carpet. Sliding underneath the covers, Jon’s arms snake their way around him. Spencer smiles softly. “You left the toothpaste cap off again. It’s going to dry out if you keep doing that.”
Plus, it leaves crusty green marks on the counter for Spencer to scrub off.
Jon rests his head in the crook of Spencer’s neck, breath ghosting over his skin in tiny bursts. “Mmm… g’night, Spencer.”
Spencer rolls his eyes as Jon’s breathing evens out immediately, exhales turning into quiet whufflings.
* part 2 * *