Saturation Part 1/5
Title: Saturation
Author: Mokuyoubi
Pairing: Jon/Spencer/Ryan
Rating: so, so NC-17
Word Count: 38,100 +
Summary: Jon decides it’s time to grow up. Even if that means living out of his car in Las Vegas. Sequel to “Before There Was A Name,” prequel to Elf!GSF “Standing Right Outside Your Door.”
AN: Jon in this is based very much off the interview in which he said, “A lot of people do hate us before they like us…even with me, there was definitely preconceived notions of lumping them in with Fall Out Boy. But as soon as I saw them, I felt like such an idiot for ever telling my friends that I didn’t like this band before I had heard their songs.”
Thanks to lolab for beta-ing this, making me write it in the first place, and giving me endless, wonderful feedback that kept me going. Thanks to Muse for being my cheerleader and writing really sexy fanfic for my fanfic.
If anyone's interested, I threw together an FST for this thing, Close To You.
Jon hadn’t meant to end up in Las Vegas. It was one of those things, a chain of events, loosely interconnected, leading him inexorably to a certain place, all seemingly random, until, looking back and studying it all, played out as inevitably as fate.
The Academy Is… was on tour again, but since he only had one quarter left to graduate, Jon decided it was time to stop playing around with his famous friends and do something with his own goddamn life.
Tom was covering his share of rent, but Jon had subleased his room to bring in a little extra cash and a friend of Jon’s new (temporary, until Tom got home, except these days Tom being home meant days instead of weeks) roommate was into photography as well, had done pretty well for himself as a freelance artist on the west coast and he and Jon began to communicate through email, sending pictures back and forth. The guy, Eric, wasn’t Tom, but he was pretty good with a camera.
Jon’s advisor was getting on his back about deciding whether he planned on going to graduate school or straight into the work force. Jon had never planned on doing any more school after finishing his BFA, but the job field for an aspiring artist was just as dismal as the movies made it out to be.
“There’s a position for an executive assistant at a research company downtown,” Professor Fields said. “Starting salary 25k. Better than most can look forward to, straight out of undergrad.” Neither of them had to say anything. They both knew the likelihood of Jon finding a successful career as a photographer was pretty slim.
Cassie said, “We all have to grow up sometime, Jon. A lot of people end up doing things they didn’t plan on doing.” And, well, it wasn’t even that she said it unkindly. In fact, she’d been really sympathetic about it. But just…the fact that she had said it, that she obviously thought that sacrificing ones dreams was just part of growing up…it was so different from everything Jon believed in, he knew right then they wouldn’t last.
They broke up two weeks later, a week before Jon’s graduation ceremony. She still came to watch him receive his diploma and went out with his family for pizza afterwards, and held his hand and gave him a kiss on the cheek and said, “I hope all your dreams come true, Jon Walker.”
Tom sent the text tour got extended-europe dates, hell yeah.
There were two gushing, fan-girly responses to Jon’s most recent photoblog post, the screen names vaguely familiar as they were about the only people besides Jon’s friends and family who actually looked at Jon’s stuff.
Eric called and said, “I know this guy in Vegas who’s retiring, and he’d rather sell his studio to someone he knows will keep it than see the building go to someone who’d use it for something else. Some of the equipment would need replaced, but the darkroom is awesome.”
It wasn’t as if Jon hadn’t considered opening his own studio, but starting from scratch was way too expensive, and the cheapest studio for sale in the Chicago area had been going for 90k. Eric’s guy was willing to cut a deal for a friend, only asking 20 thousand down and 600 a month in rent until the rest was paid off, for a grand total of 70 thousand for his place.
The studio was pretty nice-a good central location just a few blocks south east of the bustle of The Strip. Aggressive advertising at local hotels meant the business was a recognised name for weddings and tourists, and the owner had an established client base with many families in the area.
Jon was passionate about what he did, but he wasn’t stupid. He researched. He gathered data and talked to his father’s accountant and visited a dozen banks to find the best deals and financing. He emailed and called the owner for over a month, asking questions, finding out which equipment would need replacing, and what the overhead costs were, getting the info on necessary local contacts.
The plan was for Jon to come with the check for the full amount, at which time Eric would pay his share. It made sense to have one payment, and Jon’s parents had helped him sign for the bank loan.
Eric had a suite at one of the more affordable residential hotels in town, and offered his couch to Jon until things were more settled. So Jon packed up his cameras and a few changes of clothes, stored the rest with his parents, posted to his blog (for those two fans he had, out there, somewhere) and prayed to god his car would make it the whole way.
Jon had only been out west with The Academy Is…, where most travel days were spent passed out from a night of excessive drinking. At some of the venues he’d ventured out for day trips with Tom, taking in some of the local sights, but he’d never really gotten a feel for the desert.
He’d agreed to go into this with Eric because it was the best thing going for him, but as he drew closer to Vegas, watching the scenery change from mountain to the desert painted orange and purple at twilight, Jon thought maybe there would be more for him. And then there was the city, all bold lights and striking skyline. He could definitely find inspiration in Las Vegas, do some freelance work.
Eric was out of town when Jon arrived, but he’d had a key held for Jon at the front desk of the hotel. He was due back the next day so they could go together to the studio to sign the paperwork, but apparently he had been held up in Los Angeles on business.
The city beckoned, but the drive had been exhausting, and besides, there would be plenty of time for that now that this was his home. Instead he watched the local news, feeling a slight pang of homesickness for the familiar anchors at home, and fell asleep early with the T.V. still playing.
Jon met with the studio owner, Avery Black, the morning after Jon arrived. It was weird going by himself, like his first official act as a real adult. Leaving Chicago, Jon had thought that being almost twenty-three meant being grown up, but he felt so fucking childish and unprepared, shaking hands with Mister Black.
They couldn’t do anything without Eric, but Mister Black (“call me Avery”) took Jon on a tour of the studio and Jon fell in love. It was all open and airy, with great lighting and lots of dynamic space to show their work, and the darkroom really was a thing of beauty. If Jon hadn’t already bargained his future on the loan he’d taken out, he’d have been sold upon seeing this place.
The studio was on a quaint stretch of street, along with three chapels, an upscale clothing boutique and a café, where they went to lunch. “I really like you work,” Avery told Jon. “Even if Eric wasn’t involved, if you still wanted the place, and could afford it, I’d be okay with that. Knowing it was in your hands.”
And while that was flattering, it wasn’t really reassuring. Especially since when Jon got back to the hotel, Eric was there, and he didn’t look like a man excited about purchasing a business.
“I got offered a position with a travel magazine in Seattle,” Eric explained. “They’re going to send me all over the place, and the salary is just…insane. I couldn’t turn it down. This is what I’ve always wanted.”
Jon was too freaked out to be gracious or understanding about things. There was a screaming match followed by Eric telling Jon he was leaving again in two days and had paid the room off for another week, at which point Jon would have to leave. Jon called his dad and spoke until the sun was coming up again about what his options were, and in the morning he went back to the studio and Avery had new paperwork drawn up for Jon to sign on the dotted line.
The studio was named Captured Expressions, so it wasn’t like Jon had to switch the name, or anything, though he might get around to it eventually. It was better this way, until clients learned his name. Captured Expressions was familiar to people, trusted.
It also helped that Avery’s three employees stayed on through the transition. He thought there might have been a little resentment from one of the guys, Jake, but he hadn’t bought the place, so whatever. Jake’s work was okay, but he mostly helped with the equipment and did some family portraits now and then.
Stephanie, a photography student at the University of Nevada Las Vegas, was in her senior year. She mostly took care of secretarial work, but Avery had given her full use of the equipment and, if customers requested her, had allowed her to do shoots of her own.
Rose was a retired school teacher who’d gone back to school for photography and now did some really impressive work. She had fairly steady income from online sales of her pieces, and mostly did weddings and confirmations for the studio.
And, well. It wasn’t what Jon had been expecting, when he’d dreamed of being a photographer, but he couldn’t complain. All three of his employees were booked out for the next three months, and even after Jon had explained to their current client base the change in ownership, calls started streaming in to request Jon, too.
He’d have preferred to get a chance to do some work of his own choosing-getting out and seeing the city, go exploring in the desert, maybe take a couple day trips down to the Grand Canyon or something. Dealing with temperamental brides and bitchy seniors was not exactly Jon’s idea of a good time, but every time he reminded himself that he was barely bringing in enough to pay on his loan and Avery’s rent and space rental, and he kept going.
So, okay, Jon was living in his car. But it was just, he didn’t have any other options at the moment. He supposed he could have slept in his office at the studio, but his backseat was a lot more comfortable than the hardwood flooring, and besides, he didn’t want to have to explain it to any of his employees if they came across him in the morning.
He usually stayed at the studio past closed catching up on paperwork, got fast food for dinner and then hung out at the all night bookstore/coffee shop on campus until he was tired. The parking lot worked fine-there was an all night grocery shop in the same plaza, so there was plenty of lighting, and it was only a ten minute drive to the office. Every morning he got up early so he could clean up in the studio’s bathroom, and on weekends he visited the Laundromat.
It wasn’t too bad, really, even though it could get surprisingly cold at night. Everyone said that about the desert, but Jon hadn’t understood until he’d spent his first night in his car. After that he’d sprung for a thick comforter at Target and slept with his winter coat on. Of course, he woke up sweating every morning, but he supposed it could be a whole hell of a lot worse.
Researching online, he’d found that it would probably be getting too cold for comfort by November. But Jon had done the math and figured that if he busted his ass and took on more afternoon and early evening jobs, he could set aside a bit of cash. It wasn’t like he had any life outside of work anyway. And that way, by late September or mid-October he should be able to afford first and last rent on a studio apartment.
Stephanie put a call through to Jon’s cell just as he was finishing up at a family reunion. The family had been pretty cool, even though they’d made him a little homesick for his own. They’d insisted Jon share their lunch with them and he’d ended up playing with the kids after, taking tonnes of pictures that weren’t even part of the deal, but he’d had fun doing it. Felt like he’d finally taken some pictures he wanted to.
“Jon Walker,” he greeted. He was still working on how to say it. He wanted to come across as confident or knowledgeable, or something. Mostly, he thought he ended up sounding pretentious or constipated.
“Mister Walker,” came the harried, no-nonsense voice, “I’ve spoken with Mister Black and he assured me you were a suitable replacement, and honestly this has been put off too long for me to go hunting down someone else.” She took a breath and pushed on.
“My client can be a bit…picky about who he’ll work with, but when I mentioned your name, he approved as well, and I know it is short notice, your receptionist said something about you being booked up for the month, but the deadline is next Monday. Of course we can compensate you appropriately for the extra time you’d be putting in…”
Jon wasn’t even sure what he was agreeing to, but despite the ‘suitable’ comment, it sounded promising. He wasn’t about to turn down any job, especially not one promising extra compensation. “I could probably work something Friday or Saturday evening,” he said. “I have appointments in the afternoon, but I’m free after seven both nights.”
There was the sound of pen scraping across paper. “I’ll talk to my client,” the woman said. “We’ll need you to sign the same confidentiality agreement we had with Mister Black. I’ll have that faxed to your studio along with the appointment time. My client prefers to be shot in his own home, rather than in the studio. We’ll have a car sent.”
“I can drive myself,” Jon protested, starting to wonder what, precisely he was getting into.
The woman made a strange noise. “My client would prefer to have a car sent for you, Mister Walker. I’ll contact you soon with further information. Please look over the papers I send you. Feel free to discuss them with your lawyer. I’ll just need them back before you go for the shoot.” She ended the call before Jon could ask any further questions.
Sure enough, the papers were waiting when Jon got back to the studio. They were for a company called Setting Sun Publications, a division of Penguin Group. There were eight pages to the thing, most of it fancy lawyer talk Jon didn’t really get, but essentially saying that all prints, negatives and digital copies of the pieces he took of their client were the property of Pearson PLC, and must be surrendered immediately upon completion of each job. Furthermore, Jon wasn’t to repeat anything he heard or saw in the course of working each job.
And it wasn’t like Jon was going to go around telling anyone, anyway, but the details of what would happen if he did-the amount of financial damage he would take-was enough to ensure he’d keep his mouth shut no matter what.
There was also a message from the woman he’d spoken with earlier, written in Stephanie’s neat cursive. She’d given her name as Ms. Celia Larkin and quoted a price for Friday at 7:30 for more than double what Jon would normally ask. She didn’t provide many other details, other than to say that he was taking shots for a book jacket and a website.
“Is this a little weird?” Jon asked, waving the contract in front of Rose and Stephanie.
Rose shrugged. “The author thing? Avery didn’t really talk about it, except to say that it was a shame he couldn’t keep copies of the work. Said the boy was really photogenic, took some great shots.”
“Yeah, he’s photogenic,” Stephanie said dreamily, and that was that.
If Avery had been okay with it, Jon would be too, for what they were paying him. He signed the contract and had a copy faxed over immediately, sending the hardcopy by courier.
Stephanie scribbled out the name of the author before she left that evening. “He’s amazing,” she said. “You’re so lucky.”
Jon had heard the name Ryan Ross-it had been impossible to avoid since his first book of poetry had been published two years previously-but Jon had never had any desire to read it. Emo kids loved it, which was enough to ensure Jon stayed well away. But he didn’t like the idea of going into this whole thing unprepared.
Tom called, like every night before a show. Tom tended to get anxious before going on stage-not nervous, exactly, but uneasy, and this was the first tour without Jon along to distract and entertain him.
Jon told him about the assignment and Tom told Bill who told everyone, and they all laughed and started shouting emo jokes in the background. “Oh my god,” Bill said, stealing the phone away, “Jonny Walker, you have to tell me everything after you meet him! You must take pictures of his ‘daddy didn’t love me’ self-cut scars.’”
“Sorry, Bill,” Jon said, sort of vaguely annoyed, because, you know, he wasn’t actually about the mocking. He’d had friends who’d been cutters, and it wasn’t really funny. “Signed a confidentiality agreement.”
That set off a whole new round of laughter and jokes about how paranoid Ross must be, and what a freak, and what sort of horrible, crazy things Jon would see at his place.
That night, Jon tried to set aside his preconceived notions and grabbed Ross’ newest collection at the bookstore. He hunkered down in the café with a huge cup of coffee, determined to read at least a little. A little over an hour later he finished and went right back to the shelf for the other two Ross had put out. Jon liked to think he wasn’t a judgemental asshole, but he couldn’t believe that he’d dismissed Ross’ work before.
Jon liked poetry well enough-he loved music and spent most of his life since his early teens in various bands. Good poetry could be like lyrics, and Jon could appreciate that. But Ross poetry wasn’t just good. It wasn’t just catchy and lyrical and painful and bittersweet. Ross’ poetry made Jon hear music. It was incredible.
He ended up buying all three books, the first luxury items he’d bought since arriving in Las Vegas. He stayed up late in his car, reading his favourites over and over again by the parking lot lights.
There wasn’t a lot of information on Ryan Ross, Jon discovered, when he looked online the next day. He was seriously tight-lipped in interviews-unsatisfying relationship with his parents, passion for literature and music, and yes, he is dating someone and no, he won’t discuss it any further.
The only pictures Jon could hunt down were a couple yearbook shots, and Avery’s work-the headshots from the dust jackets. All the photos were black and white. The yearbook shots were grainy and pixelated, but Jon could tell Ross had a wide, generous mouth and mischievous eyes.
Avery’s shots were beautiful and wistful, but they were all profile or three-quarter shots of Ross turning away from the camera in soft focus. The most Jon could get from those was that Ross’ hair looked impossibly soft and that his facial structure was delicate and regal.
By Friday Jon was about to die of curiosity. It wasn’t at all like him. He was a pretty laidback guy, which was why everyone on tour had always loved him. No matter how worked up everyone else got, no matter how stressful the situation, Jon kept cool.
But Ross’ words kept repeating over and over in Jon’s head with snippets of music. He thought about them while he worked, found himself trying to capture the idea of a particular phrase in a picture. He thought about them at night and dreamed about them. It was sort of insane.
The car came at 7:30 precisely and Jon left Stephanie in charge of locking things up for the evening. Ross’ condo was in the suburbs, further than Jon had ventured. He’d been in Vegas just over a month, and it was sort of surreal-he kept forgetting where he was. Most of his time was spent working. The only time he’d spent near any of the casinos was when he visited hotels for weddings. He hadn’t played a single game or seen any of the real attractions of the city, so it was easy to forget.
Ross’ condo was small, but the carved stone gate around the complex and the highly manicured lawns and gardens bespoke of wealth. Jon figured that, given the guy was twenty-one, it was impressive that he owned his own place at all, let alone a place as nice as this.
Jon couldn’t quite get over the fact that Ross was younger than him. His words were so powerful and he wrote with such an impressive vocabulary-Jon had read online that a lot of the stuff from Ross’ first book had been written when he was in high school-fifteen and sixteen years old, writing poetry that would make Bill Beckett sick with envy if he’d ever bother to get over stupid preconceptions and read it.
The door was answered by a strikingly pretty boy with silky honey gold hair down to his shoulders and sweet blue eyes, dressed like he’d raided a twelve year old girl’s closet. “Mister Walker?” he asked.
“Jon, please.”
The boy opened the door wider for Jon to enter. “Please come in, Jon. I’m Spencer.” He shook Jon’s hand and leaned into the hall to shout, “Ryan! Jon is here!”
Spencer gave Jon a small, sheepish smile when he turned back. “He’s freaking over what to wear,” he explained. “The publishers are making a website. Can I get you something to drink while you wait? Tea, or coffee?”
Jon forced himself not to be weird or uncomfortable, no matter how awkward it was standing in a stranger’s house…a stranger he’d been obsessing over for the better part of the week, no less. “Coffee sounds good,” he said.
“Come, have a seat in the living room,” Spencer said. And, well, there was something about the kid. He looked like he couldn’t be more than eighteen, and his clothes and hair didn’t help…but something about the way he carried himself, and the way he spoke, politely and with careful phrasing, that made him sound older.
Spencer showed him to a seat and went into another room, presumably the kitchen. Alone, Jon took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. The living room had a cosy feel about it-lots of warm colours and soft lighting from small lamps instead of an overhead lights. On the longest wall there was a huge plasma television and a crazy expensive looking sound system. The entertainment centre was stuffed to bursting with jewel cases and vinyls.
Across from the chair where Jon was seated there was an overstuffed sofa hugged by matching end tables, both decorated in knickknacks and covered with books. The coffee table had a half-finished game of Scrabble and notebook covered in slanted handwriting. Jon was tempted, really tempted to take a peek, see if it was something new Ross was working on, but he forced himself to look away.
That was when his eye caught on the framed piece above the sofa. It took him a second to wonder why it was so familiar. It wasn’t that Jon didn’t recognise his own work, but he had no expectation of seeing this piece anywhere at all, really, let alone in Ryan Ross’ home.
Even if people recognised his work, it wasn’t this stuff…the stuff he’d done the first time he’d gone on the road with The Academy Is… shooting all the time. It was disappointing, because that was some of his favourite work, but early on Jon had learned that photography wasn’t about what he liked. At least, not if he expected to make a living.
For a second, Jon thought maybe it was just that Ross was a fan of The Academy Is…, because the shot was of Bill and Tom sharing a mic, foreheads pressed together. But then Jon’s gaze was drawn across the room to the other frames-there were several of his other pieces-a schoolyard fence, a silhouetted figure in a dark alley, a series all along the back wall of Chicago through the seasons.
Spencer came back in and Jon jerked his eyes away quickly to look at him. “What…?”
“Oh,” Spencer said, looking at the ground. He set the cup on the coffee table in front of Jon. “Ryan and I are fans of yours.”
“Where did you even find these?” Jon asked. “How did you get them?”
Spencer looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Ryan saw one of your pieces on William Beckett’s blog, and he followed the link and we saw these, and had them printed professionally. But, I mean, we’ll pay you, of course. That was why Ryan was so eager when he heard you’d purchased Avery’s business. We’ll pay you whatever price you feel is fair.”
Jon wasn’t even sure this kid was for real. “You don’t have to…I don’t want your money,” he said.
“Well,” Spencer began, hands clasped so tightly together they were going white and red.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mister Walker,” came another voice and Jon turned to see Ross descending the last few stairs, straightening the cuffs of his crisp, white button down. The accompanying pinstripe pants and black vest enhanced a long, willowy frame, making Ross look delicate and painfully thin. There was a bright blue cravat around Ross' long neck, drawing Jon's gaze down to where the top button of Ross' shirt had been left undone. None of the pictures had done him justice.
“You can call me Jon,” he said, and almost cringed at how he sounded, hollow and uncertain.
It had to be obvious, the way he was staring at Ross, drinking in his features, the things he couldn’t get from the black and white shots-the peach of his skin, the catlike amber of his eyes, the soft pink of his mouth, and his hair, which seemed to range from golden blonde to dark brown so seamlessly, Jon couldn’t figure out what to call it.
Ross leaned in to whisper something to Spencer. They were of a height, and stood very near to one another, Spencer’s soft curves framed by Ross’ severe angles. Jon was struck by what a stunning pair they were, beautiful in very different ways, so much that he couldn’t say which was more so.
He liked the way Spencer’s fingers hooked through the loops of his girl jeans, hips cocked to the side, and the way Ross’ long bangs fell into his eyes, head angled close to Spencer’s. Whatever Ross said made a slow blush creep up Spencer’s cheeks, made his lips turn up in a shy smile. Jon wondered how inappropriate it would be if he started taking pictures of his subject’s...what? Brother? Roommate? Assistant?
“I’m Ryan, Jon,” Ryan said, extending his hand, and Jon thought that Spencer and Ryan must have been friends a long time; their mannerisms were strangely similar. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” His voice was monotone and surprisingly deep. Jon wondered how it sounded reciting his poetry, if it changed.
“It’s alright,” Jon said cautiously, “Spencer was telling me about how you came to have my work on your walls.”
Ryan blinked, and Jon got the impression that was a big reaction for him. “Of course we’ll pay you whatever price you ask,” Ryan said slowly. “You are a difficult man to get in contact with. Your blog has no email address. I tried leaving a few posts, asking if you would accept reimbursement…”
And suddenly, Jon did remember the posts, months and months ago, from a couple college kids, saying they’d had his stuff printed out and they didn’t feel right just taking it and Jon had been so flattered, and it wasn’t like he was a nazi about his stuff anyway, so he’d told them not to worry. There’d been a few more posts after, insistent, but he’d been insistent right back, and eventually it had died down.
“I meant what I said then,” Jon said. “I’m just glad you like them. Besides, what your publishers are paying me now more than makes up for it.” He smiled to soften the words, to show he was teasing, because Ryan was an unknown quantity. Jon had to be careful not to say the wrong thing. Ryan’s poetry hinted at complexity and social awkwardness.
But Ryan smiled softly in return, tucking a bit of hair behind his ear in what was no doubt a regular nervous gesture. “That’s very magnanimous of you,” he murmured. And, like, it was pretentious as shit, and if Bill had said it, Jon probably would have scoffed and hit him in the arm or something, because Bill was an idiot who happened to have a good head for big vocabulary words and liked to rub it in people’s face. But Ryan sounded so sincere, Jon was just charmed.
“So,” Jon said, because this could get uncomfortable quickly. “I thought we could do some outdoor shots before it got dark.”
“Oh!” Ryan said, like he’d entirely forgotten the reason for Jon coming. “Of course. Whatever you think is best.” He shook his head, a frown of distaste pulling at his lips. “The editors want some ‘diverse shots’ for the website.” He rolled his eyes.
“I’m gonna let you guys do your thing,” Spencer said. “I’m so glad I got a chance to meet you, Jon.”
Ryan’s frown deepened. “You’re going?”
“Told Crystal and Jackie I’d come over for movie night. They were pulling that ‘you never come around anymore and only live ten minutes away’ guilt trip shit again. You can come over after you’re done. We’re getting pizza and Crystal’s challenged me to an all-night Halo tournament. I think she called Brent, too,” Spencer said.
“It might be late before we finish,” Ryan said, biting his lip. He looked hesitantly at Jon.
“All-night Halo tournament,” Spencer repeated, nudging Ryan’s shoulder with his own.
“I’ll call you when we’re done,” Ryan said.
“I’ll order pineapple for you. We can just crash there tonight. Mom will be glad of the chance to feed you breakfast again,” Spencer said, the expression on his face telling of a long battle. Jon was sort of intrigued by these two.
“Mmm. Mom pancakes. I’m sold,” Ryan said, his first real smile since he’d come down. “Tell Crystal her ass is going down.” Then Ryan tucked his finger in the collar of Spencer’s shirt and tugged a little, and they were kissing. It was quick and soft and close-mouthed, but there was no mistaking it. It was a kiss between lovers.
Spencer grinned when he pulled away, and it just lit up his face. His eyes were fucking sparkling. Jon was struck with the urge to photograph him again. Thankfully Spencer took that temptation away, waving goodbye and disappearing down the hall with a “Nice to meet you, Jon.”
“Sorry about that,” Ryan said, in a dismissive way that invited no questions. “So. Outdoor shots?”
They worked outside until after the sun had set. The lighting was nice for Ryan’s complexion, the colours cast by the setting of the sun making Ryan’s skin look warm and golden and glinting off the highlights in his hair. Ryan didn’t really pose so much, and Jon preferred his work to be natural anyway, so it worked out well.
Indoors, Ryan showed him upstairs to his study. Every wall was lined in bookshelves, the only free space taken up by a gorgeous writing desk, above which there was a framed woodcut that looked like something out of The Inferno.
There was a cream coloured leather chaise in the corner, and Jon imagined Spencer and Ryan curled up there together, reading, or Spencer there alone while Ryan worked at his desk, maybe bouncing ideas back and forth. In the opposite corner there was a drum set and a guitar in its stand.
“Spencer’s on drums,” Ryan explained, and didn’t offer any more. Jon figured that, given how private Ryan was, he’d already offered a lot tonight. Jon was still trying to process the fact that Ryan had kissed Spencer right in front of him. For a guy who was usually so taciturn about his relationship, it was shockingly open of him.
Jon had to mess around with the lighting in the study to get it right. It was nice for reading and writing, no doubt, soft light, but bright enough not to strain the eyes. It just didn’t work so well for photography.
By the time Jon decided they had enough, he’d had to delete a handful of shots off his 4 gig card just to fit in all the shots he wanted of Ryan. He couldn’t help it though. Every time he thought he’d just got the perfect shot, Ryan would do something even better, tilt his head just so, or dip his lashes or shift his posture in the smallest, almost imperceptible way. There were many shots that worked just like a movie, a solid stream of tiny motions because Jon couldn’t stop taking them.
“I’ve got what I need,” Jon told him, when the clock read close to eleven. “Still plenty of time for Halo.”
Ryan spared him a small smile at that. “I really do appreciate you giving your evening up like this. I shouldn’t have put this off so long, but I’m not really a big fan of having my picture taken, knowing so many people are going to see it.”
Jon could have made light of it, talking again about how much he’d been paid for this evening, or how he hadn’t really had anything better to do, but even though it had started out like that, that wasn’t the whole truth. And Jon wanted to tell Ryan the truth.
“I’m glad I got the chance, actually,” Jon said, smiling at the carpet. “I sort of really wanted to meet you.”
“Yeah?” Ryan asked, sounding pleased and puzzled. “I wouldn’t have…Most guys our age don’t like my stuff.”
Jon shrugged and looked up at Ryan. “Most guys our age are douchebags,” he said. That earned him an even bigger smile, even if it was wry around the edges.
“Look,” Ryan said, when he was standing at the front door and Jon was already halfway down the drive. The same car that had brought him was waiting at the curb.
“Yeah?” Jon turned and liked the way Ryan looked, backlit in the doorframe.
Ryan fidgeted with a bit of hair, twisted his mouth uncertainly. “Avery used to go over the pictures with me. Let me see them before they went to the publishers, got rid of any I didn’t want being seen, you know.” Jon nodded. “Celia said…she gave me the option of tonight or tomorrow night, for your time. I’ll pay you the same you were paid tonight, if you’re still free tomorrow night.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Jon told him. It didn’t seem right to ask Ryan to pay for that, especially when Jon wouldn’t mind spending more time with him.
“Well…let us make you dinner, at least,” Ryan said. “Spencer kicks ass in the kitchen.”
There was something about Ryan’s posture-the cant of his skinny hips, jutted in Jon’s direction, eyes heavily lidded-the suggestion in the pitch of his voice, low, and the most emotive he’d been all evening.
“Dinner sounds good,” Jon said.
Ryan nodded as if there had never been another option, all closed off and aloof again in an instant. “I should let you go, then, before it gets any later. Does seven-thirty sound alright for tomorrow, too?”
“Can I drive myself?” Jon asked.
Ryan laughed. “I suppose you can find your way back?”
Jon grinned. “Seven-thirty.” He gave Ryan a little salute and hurried off to the waiting car.
Jon didn’t get much sleep after the driver dropped him off at the studio. He booted up his computer and popped in his SD card, planning to clear off all the non-Ross stuff, but once that was finished, he couldn’t help looking through the shots of Ryan.
It wasn’t like Jon could use any of the pictures in his work, which was all he’d really taken into consideration when he’d first signed the agreement. What he hadn’t accounted for was the chance that he might want to keep some of the pictures for himself.
And, it wasn’t even like Jon was being a creepy stalker pervert. Well, not entirely, anyway. It was just…it was like Bill and Tom and Siska, who were so fucking beautiful that even apart from being famous or his friends, or whatever, were just nice to look at. Who, when caught just right, were fucking works of art.
Ryan was like that.
Jon went through the shots-all 1500+ of them, deleting a few here and there, blurry or with remarkably poor composition, and the odd shot that caught just Ryan’s shoulder, or foot, or didn’t catch him in the frame at all. He managed to cut things down by a good quarter that way.
Often, Jon found himself lingering several minutes on one shot, admiring the way a lock of hair curled behind Ryan’s ear, or the slightest twist of Ryan’s lips. One shot he spent a good ten minutes on, noticing the beginning curves of black ink on the inside of Ryan’s wrist as he pushed his hair out of his face. It wasn’t something Jon had noticed at the time, and he stared at it long and hard, trying to make out what it was.
He was worried that showing all of these to Ryan might be giving away something Jon didn’t want known. He hadn’t meant for the pictures to show a muted longing. Jon wasn’t even sure what he was longing for. He wasn’t that guy, who tried to win people who’d already been won by someone else. He wasn’t even sure he’d want Ryan like that, even if he could have him. He didn’t actually know the guy.
There were probably plenty of fans out there who all thought that reading Ryan’s poetry meant knowing him. Who thought that they were the ones who could make Ryan happy and whole, or some shit like that. Jon wasn’t that presumptuous. All Jon did know was that Ryan’s writing fascinated him, and his manner was strange and intriguing, and the guy was really photogenic.
In the end, Jon left them all on the card except one. It was one of the last from Ryan’s backyard, just as last rays of the sun were dipping over the horizon. The orange glow cast half of Ryan’s face in shadow, a stark contrast to the pale of his skin. His mouth was parted just slightly and he was looking at something in the distance with a wistful, longing expression.
Jon dragged it across the desktop, but he just couldn’t let it go in the recycle bin. He hesitated a long time, finger aching from holding in the mouse. It ended up in his private folder-shots of friends and family that he didn’t share with anyone else. It wasn’t really a breach of contract if no one else ever saw it, right?
Part Two
Author: Mokuyoubi
Pairing: Jon/Spencer/Ryan
Rating: so, so NC-17
Word Count: 38,100 +
Summary: Jon decides it’s time to grow up. Even if that means living out of his car in Las Vegas. Sequel to “Before There Was A Name,” prequel to Elf!GSF “Standing Right Outside Your Door.”
AN: Jon in this is based very much off the interview in which he said, “A lot of people do hate us before they like us…even with me, there was definitely preconceived notions of lumping them in with Fall Out Boy. But as soon as I saw them, I felt like such an idiot for ever telling my friends that I didn’t like this band before I had heard their songs.”
Thanks to lolab for beta-ing this, making me write it in the first place, and giving me endless, wonderful feedback that kept me going. Thanks to Muse for being my cheerleader and writing really sexy fanfic for my fanfic.
If anyone's interested, I threw together an FST for this thing, Close To You.
Jon hadn’t meant to end up in Las Vegas. It was one of those things, a chain of events, loosely interconnected, leading him inexorably to a certain place, all seemingly random, until, looking back and studying it all, played out as inevitably as fate.
The Academy Is… was on tour again, but since he only had one quarter left to graduate, Jon decided it was time to stop playing around with his famous friends and do something with his own goddamn life.
Tom was covering his share of rent, but Jon had subleased his room to bring in a little extra cash and a friend of Jon’s new (temporary, until Tom got home, except these days Tom being home meant days instead of weeks) roommate was into photography as well, had done pretty well for himself as a freelance artist on the west coast and he and Jon began to communicate through email, sending pictures back and forth. The guy, Eric, wasn’t Tom, but he was pretty good with a camera.
Jon’s advisor was getting on his back about deciding whether he planned on going to graduate school or straight into the work force. Jon had never planned on doing any more school after finishing his BFA, but the job field for an aspiring artist was just as dismal as the movies made it out to be.
“There’s a position for an executive assistant at a research company downtown,” Professor Fields said. “Starting salary 25k. Better than most can look forward to, straight out of undergrad.” Neither of them had to say anything. They both knew the likelihood of Jon finding a successful career as a photographer was pretty slim.
Cassie said, “We all have to grow up sometime, Jon. A lot of people end up doing things they didn’t plan on doing.” And, well, it wasn’t even that she said it unkindly. In fact, she’d been really sympathetic about it. But just…the fact that she had said it, that she obviously thought that sacrificing ones dreams was just part of growing up…it was so different from everything Jon believed in, he knew right then they wouldn’t last.
They broke up two weeks later, a week before Jon’s graduation ceremony. She still came to watch him receive his diploma and went out with his family for pizza afterwards, and held his hand and gave him a kiss on the cheek and said, “I hope all your dreams come true, Jon Walker.”
Tom sent the text tour got extended-europe dates, hell yeah.
There were two gushing, fan-girly responses to Jon’s most recent photoblog post, the screen names vaguely familiar as they were about the only people besides Jon’s friends and family who actually looked at Jon’s stuff.
Eric called and said, “I know this guy in Vegas who’s retiring, and he’d rather sell his studio to someone he knows will keep it than see the building go to someone who’d use it for something else. Some of the equipment would need replaced, but the darkroom is awesome.”
It wasn’t as if Jon hadn’t considered opening his own studio, but starting from scratch was way too expensive, and the cheapest studio for sale in the Chicago area had been going for 90k. Eric’s guy was willing to cut a deal for a friend, only asking 20 thousand down and 600 a month in rent until the rest was paid off, for a grand total of 70 thousand for his place.
The studio was pretty nice-a good central location just a few blocks south east of the bustle of The Strip. Aggressive advertising at local hotels meant the business was a recognised name for weddings and tourists, and the owner had an established client base with many families in the area.
Jon was passionate about what he did, but he wasn’t stupid. He researched. He gathered data and talked to his father’s accountant and visited a dozen banks to find the best deals and financing. He emailed and called the owner for over a month, asking questions, finding out which equipment would need replacing, and what the overhead costs were, getting the info on necessary local contacts.
The plan was for Jon to come with the check for the full amount, at which time Eric would pay his share. It made sense to have one payment, and Jon’s parents had helped him sign for the bank loan.
Eric had a suite at one of the more affordable residential hotels in town, and offered his couch to Jon until things were more settled. So Jon packed up his cameras and a few changes of clothes, stored the rest with his parents, posted to his blog (for those two fans he had, out there, somewhere) and prayed to god his car would make it the whole way.
Jon had only been out west with The Academy Is…, where most travel days were spent passed out from a night of excessive drinking. At some of the venues he’d ventured out for day trips with Tom, taking in some of the local sights, but he’d never really gotten a feel for the desert.
He’d agreed to go into this with Eric because it was the best thing going for him, but as he drew closer to Vegas, watching the scenery change from mountain to the desert painted orange and purple at twilight, Jon thought maybe there would be more for him. And then there was the city, all bold lights and striking skyline. He could definitely find inspiration in Las Vegas, do some freelance work.
Eric was out of town when Jon arrived, but he’d had a key held for Jon at the front desk of the hotel. He was due back the next day so they could go together to the studio to sign the paperwork, but apparently he had been held up in Los Angeles on business.
The city beckoned, but the drive had been exhausting, and besides, there would be plenty of time for that now that this was his home. Instead he watched the local news, feeling a slight pang of homesickness for the familiar anchors at home, and fell asleep early with the T.V. still playing.
Jon met with the studio owner, Avery Black, the morning after Jon arrived. It was weird going by himself, like his first official act as a real adult. Leaving Chicago, Jon had thought that being almost twenty-three meant being grown up, but he felt so fucking childish and unprepared, shaking hands with Mister Black.
They couldn’t do anything without Eric, but Mister Black (“call me Avery”) took Jon on a tour of the studio and Jon fell in love. It was all open and airy, with great lighting and lots of dynamic space to show their work, and the darkroom really was a thing of beauty. If Jon hadn’t already bargained his future on the loan he’d taken out, he’d have been sold upon seeing this place.
The studio was on a quaint stretch of street, along with three chapels, an upscale clothing boutique and a café, where they went to lunch. “I really like you work,” Avery told Jon. “Even if Eric wasn’t involved, if you still wanted the place, and could afford it, I’d be okay with that. Knowing it was in your hands.”
And while that was flattering, it wasn’t really reassuring. Especially since when Jon got back to the hotel, Eric was there, and he didn’t look like a man excited about purchasing a business.
“I got offered a position with a travel magazine in Seattle,” Eric explained. “They’re going to send me all over the place, and the salary is just…insane. I couldn’t turn it down. This is what I’ve always wanted.”
Jon was too freaked out to be gracious or understanding about things. There was a screaming match followed by Eric telling Jon he was leaving again in two days and had paid the room off for another week, at which point Jon would have to leave. Jon called his dad and spoke until the sun was coming up again about what his options were, and in the morning he went back to the studio and Avery had new paperwork drawn up for Jon to sign on the dotted line.
The studio was named Captured Expressions, so it wasn’t like Jon had to switch the name, or anything, though he might get around to it eventually. It was better this way, until clients learned his name. Captured Expressions was familiar to people, trusted.
It also helped that Avery’s three employees stayed on through the transition. He thought there might have been a little resentment from one of the guys, Jake, but he hadn’t bought the place, so whatever. Jake’s work was okay, but he mostly helped with the equipment and did some family portraits now and then.
Stephanie, a photography student at the University of Nevada Las Vegas, was in her senior year. She mostly took care of secretarial work, but Avery had given her full use of the equipment and, if customers requested her, had allowed her to do shoots of her own.
Rose was a retired school teacher who’d gone back to school for photography and now did some really impressive work. She had fairly steady income from online sales of her pieces, and mostly did weddings and confirmations for the studio.
And, well. It wasn’t what Jon had been expecting, when he’d dreamed of being a photographer, but he couldn’t complain. All three of his employees were booked out for the next three months, and even after Jon had explained to their current client base the change in ownership, calls started streaming in to request Jon, too.
He’d have preferred to get a chance to do some work of his own choosing-getting out and seeing the city, go exploring in the desert, maybe take a couple day trips down to the Grand Canyon or something. Dealing with temperamental brides and bitchy seniors was not exactly Jon’s idea of a good time, but every time he reminded himself that he was barely bringing in enough to pay on his loan and Avery’s rent and space rental, and he kept going.
So, okay, Jon was living in his car. But it was just, he didn’t have any other options at the moment. He supposed he could have slept in his office at the studio, but his backseat was a lot more comfortable than the hardwood flooring, and besides, he didn’t want to have to explain it to any of his employees if they came across him in the morning.
He usually stayed at the studio past closed catching up on paperwork, got fast food for dinner and then hung out at the all night bookstore/coffee shop on campus until he was tired. The parking lot worked fine-there was an all night grocery shop in the same plaza, so there was plenty of lighting, and it was only a ten minute drive to the office. Every morning he got up early so he could clean up in the studio’s bathroom, and on weekends he visited the Laundromat.
It wasn’t too bad, really, even though it could get surprisingly cold at night. Everyone said that about the desert, but Jon hadn’t understood until he’d spent his first night in his car. After that he’d sprung for a thick comforter at Target and slept with his winter coat on. Of course, he woke up sweating every morning, but he supposed it could be a whole hell of a lot worse.
Researching online, he’d found that it would probably be getting too cold for comfort by November. But Jon had done the math and figured that if he busted his ass and took on more afternoon and early evening jobs, he could set aside a bit of cash. It wasn’t like he had any life outside of work anyway. And that way, by late September or mid-October he should be able to afford first and last rent on a studio apartment.
Stephanie put a call through to Jon’s cell just as he was finishing up at a family reunion. The family had been pretty cool, even though they’d made him a little homesick for his own. They’d insisted Jon share their lunch with them and he’d ended up playing with the kids after, taking tonnes of pictures that weren’t even part of the deal, but he’d had fun doing it. Felt like he’d finally taken some pictures he wanted to.
“Jon Walker,” he greeted. He was still working on how to say it. He wanted to come across as confident or knowledgeable, or something. Mostly, he thought he ended up sounding pretentious or constipated.
“Mister Walker,” came the harried, no-nonsense voice, “I’ve spoken with Mister Black and he assured me you were a suitable replacement, and honestly this has been put off too long for me to go hunting down someone else.” She took a breath and pushed on.
“My client can be a bit…picky about who he’ll work with, but when I mentioned your name, he approved as well, and I know it is short notice, your receptionist said something about you being booked up for the month, but the deadline is next Monday. Of course we can compensate you appropriately for the extra time you’d be putting in…”
Jon wasn’t even sure what he was agreeing to, but despite the ‘suitable’ comment, it sounded promising. He wasn’t about to turn down any job, especially not one promising extra compensation. “I could probably work something Friday or Saturday evening,” he said. “I have appointments in the afternoon, but I’m free after seven both nights.”
There was the sound of pen scraping across paper. “I’ll talk to my client,” the woman said. “We’ll need you to sign the same confidentiality agreement we had with Mister Black. I’ll have that faxed to your studio along with the appointment time. My client prefers to be shot in his own home, rather than in the studio. We’ll have a car sent.”
“I can drive myself,” Jon protested, starting to wonder what, precisely he was getting into.
The woman made a strange noise. “My client would prefer to have a car sent for you, Mister Walker. I’ll contact you soon with further information. Please look over the papers I send you. Feel free to discuss them with your lawyer. I’ll just need them back before you go for the shoot.” She ended the call before Jon could ask any further questions.
Sure enough, the papers were waiting when Jon got back to the studio. They were for a company called Setting Sun Publications, a division of Penguin Group. There were eight pages to the thing, most of it fancy lawyer talk Jon didn’t really get, but essentially saying that all prints, negatives and digital copies of the pieces he took of their client were the property of Pearson PLC, and must be surrendered immediately upon completion of each job. Furthermore, Jon wasn’t to repeat anything he heard or saw in the course of working each job.
And it wasn’t like Jon was going to go around telling anyone, anyway, but the details of what would happen if he did-the amount of financial damage he would take-was enough to ensure he’d keep his mouth shut no matter what.
There was also a message from the woman he’d spoken with earlier, written in Stephanie’s neat cursive. She’d given her name as Ms. Celia Larkin and quoted a price for Friday at 7:30 for more than double what Jon would normally ask. She didn’t provide many other details, other than to say that he was taking shots for a book jacket and a website.
“Is this a little weird?” Jon asked, waving the contract in front of Rose and Stephanie.
Rose shrugged. “The author thing? Avery didn’t really talk about it, except to say that it was a shame he couldn’t keep copies of the work. Said the boy was really photogenic, took some great shots.”
“Yeah, he’s photogenic,” Stephanie said dreamily, and that was that.
If Avery had been okay with it, Jon would be too, for what they were paying him. He signed the contract and had a copy faxed over immediately, sending the hardcopy by courier.
Stephanie scribbled out the name of the author before she left that evening. “He’s amazing,” she said. “You’re so lucky.”
Jon had heard the name Ryan Ross-it had been impossible to avoid since his first book of poetry had been published two years previously-but Jon had never had any desire to read it. Emo kids loved it, which was enough to ensure Jon stayed well away. But he didn’t like the idea of going into this whole thing unprepared.
Tom called, like every night before a show. Tom tended to get anxious before going on stage-not nervous, exactly, but uneasy, and this was the first tour without Jon along to distract and entertain him.
Jon told him about the assignment and Tom told Bill who told everyone, and they all laughed and started shouting emo jokes in the background. “Oh my god,” Bill said, stealing the phone away, “Jonny Walker, you have to tell me everything after you meet him! You must take pictures of his ‘daddy didn’t love me’ self-cut scars.’”
“Sorry, Bill,” Jon said, sort of vaguely annoyed, because, you know, he wasn’t actually about the mocking. He’d had friends who’d been cutters, and it wasn’t really funny. “Signed a confidentiality agreement.”
That set off a whole new round of laughter and jokes about how paranoid Ross must be, and what a freak, and what sort of horrible, crazy things Jon would see at his place.
That night, Jon tried to set aside his preconceived notions and grabbed Ross’ newest collection at the bookstore. He hunkered down in the café with a huge cup of coffee, determined to read at least a little. A little over an hour later he finished and went right back to the shelf for the other two Ross had put out. Jon liked to think he wasn’t a judgemental asshole, but he couldn’t believe that he’d dismissed Ross’ work before.
Jon liked poetry well enough-he loved music and spent most of his life since his early teens in various bands. Good poetry could be like lyrics, and Jon could appreciate that. But Ross poetry wasn’t just good. It wasn’t just catchy and lyrical and painful and bittersweet. Ross’ poetry made Jon hear music. It was incredible.
He ended up buying all three books, the first luxury items he’d bought since arriving in Las Vegas. He stayed up late in his car, reading his favourites over and over again by the parking lot lights.
There wasn’t a lot of information on Ryan Ross, Jon discovered, when he looked online the next day. He was seriously tight-lipped in interviews-unsatisfying relationship with his parents, passion for literature and music, and yes, he is dating someone and no, he won’t discuss it any further.
The only pictures Jon could hunt down were a couple yearbook shots, and Avery’s work-the headshots from the dust jackets. All the photos were black and white. The yearbook shots were grainy and pixelated, but Jon could tell Ross had a wide, generous mouth and mischievous eyes.
Avery’s shots were beautiful and wistful, but they were all profile or three-quarter shots of Ross turning away from the camera in soft focus. The most Jon could get from those was that Ross’ hair looked impossibly soft and that his facial structure was delicate and regal.
By Friday Jon was about to die of curiosity. It wasn’t at all like him. He was a pretty laidback guy, which was why everyone on tour had always loved him. No matter how worked up everyone else got, no matter how stressful the situation, Jon kept cool.
But Ross’ words kept repeating over and over in Jon’s head with snippets of music. He thought about them while he worked, found himself trying to capture the idea of a particular phrase in a picture. He thought about them at night and dreamed about them. It was sort of insane.
The car came at 7:30 precisely and Jon left Stephanie in charge of locking things up for the evening. Ross’ condo was in the suburbs, further than Jon had ventured. He’d been in Vegas just over a month, and it was sort of surreal-he kept forgetting where he was. Most of his time was spent working. The only time he’d spent near any of the casinos was when he visited hotels for weddings. He hadn’t played a single game or seen any of the real attractions of the city, so it was easy to forget.
Ross’ condo was small, but the carved stone gate around the complex and the highly manicured lawns and gardens bespoke of wealth. Jon figured that, given the guy was twenty-one, it was impressive that he owned his own place at all, let alone a place as nice as this.
Jon couldn’t quite get over the fact that Ross was younger than him. His words were so powerful and he wrote with such an impressive vocabulary-Jon had read online that a lot of the stuff from Ross’ first book had been written when he was in high school-fifteen and sixteen years old, writing poetry that would make Bill Beckett sick with envy if he’d ever bother to get over stupid preconceptions and read it.
The door was answered by a strikingly pretty boy with silky honey gold hair down to his shoulders and sweet blue eyes, dressed like he’d raided a twelve year old girl’s closet. “Mister Walker?” he asked.
“Jon, please.”
The boy opened the door wider for Jon to enter. “Please come in, Jon. I’m Spencer.” He shook Jon’s hand and leaned into the hall to shout, “Ryan! Jon is here!”
Spencer gave Jon a small, sheepish smile when he turned back. “He’s freaking over what to wear,” he explained. “The publishers are making a website. Can I get you something to drink while you wait? Tea, or coffee?”
Jon forced himself not to be weird or uncomfortable, no matter how awkward it was standing in a stranger’s house…a stranger he’d been obsessing over for the better part of the week, no less. “Coffee sounds good,” he said.
“Come, have a seat in the living room,” Spencer said. And, well, there was something about the kid. He looked like he couldn’t be more than eighteen, and his clothes and hair didn’t help…but something about the way he carried himself, and the way he spoke, politely and with careful phrasing, that made him sound older.
Spencer showed him to a seat and went into another room, presumably the kitchen. Alone, Jon took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. The living room had a cosy feel about it-lots of warm colours and soft lighting from small lamps instead of an overhead lights. On the longest wall there was a huge plasma television and a crazy expensive looking sound system. The entertainment centre was stuffed to bursting with jewel cases and vinyls.
Across from the chair where Jon was seated there was an overstuffed sofa hugged by matching end tables, both decorated in knickknacks and covered with books. The coffee table had a half-finished game of Scrabble and notebook covered in slanted handwriting. Jon was tempted, really tempted to take a peek, see if it was something new Ross was working on, but he forced himself to look away.
That was when his eye caught on the framed piece above the sofa. It took him a second to wonder why it was so familiar. It wasn’t that Jon didn’t recognise his own work, but he had no expectation of seeing this piece anywhere at all, really, let alone in Ryan Ross’ home.
Even if people recognised his work, it wasn’t this stuff…the stuff he’d done the first time he’d gone on the road with The Academy Is… shooting all the time. It was disappointing, because that was some of his favourite work, but early on Jon had learned that photography wasn’t about what he liked. At least, not if he expected to make a living.
For a second, Jon thought maybe it was just that Ross was a fan of The Academy Is…, because the shot was of Bill and Tom sharing a mic, foreheads pressed together. But then Jon’s gaze was drawn across the room to the other frames-there were several of his other pieces-a schoolyard fence, a silhouetted figure in a dark alley, a series all along the back wall of Chicago through the seasons.
Spencer came back in and Jon jerked his eyes away quickly to look at him. “What…?”
“Oh,” Spencer said, looking at the ground. He set the cup on the coffee table in front of Jon. “Ryan and I are fans of yours.”
“Where did you even find these?” Jon asked. “How did you get them?”
Spencer looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Ryan saw one of your pieces on William Beckett’s blog, and he followed the link and we saw these, and had them printed professionally. But, I mean, we’ll pay you, of course. That was why Ryan was so eager when he heard you’d purchased Avery’s business. We’ll pay you whatever price you feel is fair.”
Jon wasn’t even sure this kid was for real. “You don’t have to…I don’t want your money,” he said.
“Well,” Spencer began, hands clasped so tightly together they were going white and red.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mister Walker,” came another voice and Jon turned to see Ross descending the last few stairs, straightening the cuffs of his crisp, white button down. The accompanying pinstripe pants and black vest enhanced a long, willowy frame, making Ross look delicate and painfully thin. There was a bright blue cravat around Ross' long neck, drawing Jon's gaze down to where the top button of Ross' shirt had been left undone. None of the pictures had done him justice.
“You can call me Jon,” he said, and almost cringed at how he sounded, hollow and uncertain.
It had to be obvious, the way he was staring at Ross, drinking in his features, the things he couldn’t get from the black and white shots-the peach of his skin, the catlike amber of his eyes, the soft pink of his mouth, and his hair, which seemed to range from golden blonde to dark brown so seamlessly, Jon couldn’t figure out what to call it.
Ross leaned in to whisper something to Spencer. They were of a height, and stood very near to one another, Spencer’s soft curves framed by Ross’ severe angles. Jon was struck by what a stunning pair they were, beautiful in very different ways, so much that he couldn’t say which was more so.
He liked the way Spencer’s fingers hooked through the loops of his girl jeans, hips cocked to the side, and the way Ross’ long bangs fell into his eyes, head angled close to Spencer’s. Whatever Ross said made a slow blush creep up Spencer’s cheeks, made his lips turn up in a shy smile. Jon wondered how inappropriate it would be if he started taking pictures of his subject’s...what? Brother? Roommate? Assistant?
“I’m Ryan, Jon,” Ryan said, extending his hand, and Jon thought that Spencer and Ryan must have been friends a long time; their mannerisms were strangely similar. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” His voice was monotone and surprisingly deep. Jon wondered how it sounded reciting his poetry, if it changed.
“It’s alright,” Jon said cautiously, “Spencer was telling me about how you came to have my work on your walls.”
Ryan blinked, and Jon got the impression that was a big reaction for him. “Of course we’ll pay you whatever price you ask,” Ryan said slowly. “You are a difficult man to get in contact with. Your blog has no email address. I tried leaving a few posts, asking if you would accept reimbursement…”
And suddenly, Jon did remember the posts, months and months ago, from a couple college kids, saying they’d had his stuff printed out and they didn’t feel right just taking it and Jon had been so flattered, and it wasn’t like he was a nazi about his stuff anyway, so he’d told them not to worry. There’d been a few more posts after, insistent, but he’d been insistent right back, and eventually it had died down.
“I meant what I said then,” Jon said. “I’m just glad you like them. Besides, what your publishers are paying me now more than makes up for it.” He smiled to soften the words, to show he was teasing, because Ryan was an unknown quantity. Jon had to be careful not to say the wrong thing. Ryan’s poetry hinted at complexity and social awkwardness.
But Ryan smiled softly in return, tucking a bit of hair behind his ear in what was no doubt a regular nervous gesture. “That’s very magnanimous of you,” he murmured. And, like, it was pretentious as shit, and if Bill had said it, Jon probably would have scoffed and hit him in the arm or something, because Bill was an idiot who happened to have a good head for big vocabulary words and liked to rub it in people’s face. But Ryan sounded so sincere, Jon was just charmed.
“So,” Jon said, because this could get uncomfortable quickly. “I thought we could do some outdoor shots before it got dark.”
“Oh!” Ryan said, like he’d entirely forgotten the reason for Jon coming. “Of course. Whatever you think is best.” He shook his head, a frown of distaste pulling at his lips. “The editors want some ‘diverse shots’ for the website.” He rolled his eyes.
“I’m gonna let you guys do your thing,” Spencer said. “I’m so glad I got a chance to meet you, Jon.”
Ryan’s frown deepened. “You’re going?”
“Told Crystal and Jackie I’d come over for movie night. They were pulling that ‘you never come around anymore and only live ten minutes away’ guilt trip shit again. You can come over after you’re done. We’re getting pizza and Crystal’s challenged me to an all-night Halo tournament. I think she called Brent, too,” Spencer said.
“It might be late before we finish,” Ryan said, biting his lip. He looked hesitantly at Jon.
“All-night Halo tournament,” Spencer repeated, nudging Ryan’s shoulder with his own.
“I’ll call you when we’re done,” Ryan said.
“I’ll order pineapple for you. We can just crash there tonight. Mom will be glad of the chance to feed you breakfast again,” Spencer said, the expression on his face telling of a long battle. Jon was sort of intrigued by these two.
“Mmm. Mom pancakes. I’m sold,” Ryan said, his first real smile since he’d come down. “Tell Crystal her ass is going down.” Then Ryan tucked his finger in the collar of Spencer’s shirt and tugged a little, and they were kissing. It was quick and soft and close-mouthed, but there was no mistaking it. It was a kiss between lovers.
Spencer grinned when he pulled away, and it just lit up his face. His eyes were fucking sparkling. Jon was struck with the urge to photograph him again. Thankfully Spencer took that temptation away, waving goodbye and disappearing down the hall with a “Nice to meet you, Jon.”
“Sorry about that,” Ryan said, in a dismissive way that invited no questions. “So. Outdoor shots?”
They worked outside until after the sun had set. The lighting was nice for Ryan’s complexion, the colours cast by the setting of the sun making Ryan’s skin look warm and golden and glinting off the highlights in his hair. Ryan didn’t really pose so much, and Jon preferred his work to be natural anyway, so it worked out well.
Indoors, Ryan showed him upstairs to his study. Every wall was lined in bookshelves, the only free space taken up by a gorgeous writing desk, above which there was a framed woodcut that looked like something out of The Inferno.
There was a cream coloured leather chaise in the corner, and Jon imagined Spencer and Ryan curled up there together, reading, or Spencer there alone while Ryan worked at his desk, maybe bouncing ideas back and forth. In the opposite corner there was a drum set and a guitar in its stand.
“Spencer’s on drums,” Ryan explained, and didn’t offer any more. Jon figured that, given how private Ryan was, he’d already offered a lot tonight. Jon was still trying to process the fact that Ryan had kissed Spencer right in front of him. For a guy who was usually so taciturn about his relationship, it was shockingly open of him.
Jon had to mess around with the lighting in the study to get it right. It was nice for reading and writing, no doubt, soft light, but bright enough not to strain the eyes. It just didn’t work so well for photography.
By the time Jon decided they had enough, he’d had to delete a handful of shots off his 4 gig card just to fit in all the shots he wanted of Ryan. He couldn’t help it though. Every time he thought he’d just got the perfect shot, Ryan would do something even better, tilt his head just so, or dip his lashes or shift his posture in the smallest, almost imperceptible way. There were many shots that worked just like a movie, a solid stream of tiny motions because Jon couldn’t stop taking them.
“I’ve got what I need,” Jon told him, when the clock read close to eleven. “Still plenty of time for Halo.”
Ryan spared him a small smile at that. “I really do appreciate you giving your evening up like this. I shouldn’t have put this off so long, but I’m not really a big fan of having my picture taken, knowing so many people are going to see it.”
Jon could have made light of it, talking again about how much he’d been paid for this evening, or how he hadn’t really had anything better to do, but even though it had started out like that, that wasn’t the whole truth. And Jon wanted to tell Ryan the truth.
“I’m glad I got the chance, actually,” Jon said, smiling at the carpet. “I sort of really wanted to meet you.”
“Yeah?” Ryan asked, sounding pleased and puzzled. “I wouldn’t have…Most guys our age don’t like my stuff.”
Jon shrugged and looked up at Ryan. “Most guys our age are douchebags,” he said. That earned him an even bigger smile, even if it was wry around the edges.
“Look,” Ryan said, when he was standing at the front door and Jon was already halfway down the drive. The same car that had brought him was waiting at the curb.
“Yeah?” Jon turned and liked the way Ryan looked, backlit in the doorframe.
Ryan fidgeted with a bit of hair, twisted his mouth uncertainly. “Avery used to go over the pictures with me. Let me see them before they went to the publishers, got rid of any I didn’t want being seen, you know.” Jon nodded. “Celia said…she gave me the option of tonight or tomorrow night, for your time. I’ll pay you the same you were paid tonight, if you’re still free tomorrow night.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Jon told him. It didn’t seem right to ask Ryan to pay for that, especially when Jon wouldn’t mind spending more time with him.
“Well…let us make you dinner, at least,” Ryan said. “Spencer kicks ass in the kitchen.”
There was something about Ryan’s posture-the cant of his skinny hips, jutted in Jon’s direction, eyes heavily lidded-the suggestion in the pitch of his voice, low, and the most emotive he’d been all evening.
“Dinner sounds good,” Jon said.
Ryan nodded as if there had never been another option, all closed off and aloof again in an instant. “I should let you go, then, before it gets any later. Does seven-thirty sound alright for tomorrow, too?”
“Can I drive myself?” Jon asked.
Ryan laughed. “I suppose you can find your way back?”
Jon grinned. “Seven-thirty.” He gave Ryan a little salute and hurried off to the waiting car.
Jon didn’t get much sleep after the driver dropped him off at the studio. He booted up his computer and popped in his SD card, planning to clear off all the non-Ross stuff, but once that was finished, he couldn’t help looking through the shots of Ryan.
It wasn’t like Jon could use any of the pictures in his work, which was all he’d really taken into consideration when he’d first signed the agreement. What he hadn’t accounted for was the chance that he might want to keep some of the pictures for himself.
And, it wasn’t even like Jon was being a creepy stalker pervert. Well, not entirely, anyway. It was just…it was like Bill and Tom and Siska, who were so fucking beautiful that even apart from being famous or his friends, or whatever, were just nice to look at. Who, when caught just right, were fucking works of art.
Ryan was like that.
Jon went through the shots-all 1500+ of them, deleting a few here and there, blurry or with remarkably poor composition, and the odd shot that caught just Ryan’s shoulder, or foot, or didn’t catch him in the frame at all. He managed to cut things down by a good quarter that way.
Often, Jon found himself lingering several minutes on one shot, admiring the way a lock of hair curled behind Ryan’s ear, or the slightest twist of Ryan’s lips. One shot he spent a good ten minutes on, noticing the beginning curves of black ink on the inside of Ryan’s wrist as he pushed his hair out of his face. It wasn’t something Jon had noticed at the time, and he stared at it long and hard, trying to make out what it was.
He was worried that showing all of these to Ryan might be giving away something Jon didn’t want known. He hadn’t meant for the pictures to show a muted longing. Jon wasn’t even sure what he was longing for. He wasn’t that guy, who tried to win people who’d already been won by someone else. He wasn’t even sure he’d want Ryan like that, even if he could have him. He didn’t actually know the guy.
There were probably plenty of fans out there who all thought that reading Ryan’s poetry meant knowing him. Who thought that they were the ones who could make Ryan happy and whole, or some shit like that. Jon wasn’t that presumptuous. All Jon did know was that Ryan’s writing fascinated him, and his manner was strange and intriguing, and the guy was really photogenic.
In the end, Jon left them all on the card except one. It was one of the last from Ryan’s backyard, just as last rays of the sun were dipping over the horizon. The orange glow cast half of Ryan’s face in shadow, a stark contrast to the pale of his skin. His mouth was parted just slightly and he was looking at something in the distance with a wistful, longing expression.
Jon dragged it across the desktop, but he just couldn’t let it go in the recycle bin. He hesitated a long time, finger aching from holding in the mouse. It ended up in his private folder-shots of friends and family that he didn’t share with anyone else. It wasn’t really a breach of contract if no one else ever saw it, right?
Part Two