Fic: You Got A Crew? (I Got A Crew Too) (1/3)
So. Long time no see, el-jay.
Um...oops?
Anyway, I come bearing fic! Labor of love through many long hours, yadda yadda yadda.
Title: You Got A Crew? (I Got A Crew Too)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Brendon/Ryan; background Pete/Patrick, Jon/Spencer, and Greta/Gabe
Wordcount: ~24,000
Warnings: None. Swearing, I suppose.
Thanks to: chaoticallyclev, who cheered me on relentlessly, withstood my whining patiently, and, overall, is just a lovely human being! You are so awesome, bb. ;________;
Author's Notes: Um, I know nothing about hairdressing. And it probably shows. But--it's fic! Given with a healthy dose of crack. :)
Summary: AU. Every June, in the world of Las Vegas hair care, it’s all about one thing: the Annual Services Survey. Can struggling hairdresser Brendon Urie and his coworkers finally win over rival salon Cobra Starship? Shenanigans ensue as they battle it out, all while Brendon struggles to keep his eye on the prize-and away from that cute but prickly reporter.
Brendon figures the best thing to do is just keep nodding. Carefully schooling his face into a blank expression, he bobs his head along rhythmically to the beat of the Beatles song playing in the background.
“So, like, you know what I’m saying?” Katie-or Kali or Kayla or Kristy, Brendon’s long since forgotten after this girl’s talked for the past century.
“Of course,” Brendon says professionally. He’s actually very proud of his professional tone. It’s calm, assured, in-control. Even when he has no idea what the fuck the customer wants. Like now, for instance. “Why don’t you just recap it for me, though?”
“Okay!” Kali dimples at him. “I kind of want, like, layers? Only not really? You know?”
“Oh, definitely.” Brendon nods very seriously.
“Great!” Kayla chirps.
Brendon carefully swings the cape around her shoulders and clips it in place. Moving quickly, he pins the top part of her hair up and begins snipping away. If layers-but-not-really is what Kristy wants, it’s what Kristy’s damn well going to get.
“So, do you go to school around here?” Brendon asks the standard hairdresser question boredly. If he’s lucky, it’ll keep her talking through the entire haircut.
“Um, yeah? I go to UNLV?” Katie starts.
Brendon lets his mind drift off as she chatters. Pete’s over in the corner, charming the pants off some new customer. Pete’s severely flat-ironed hair sometimes disturbs customers-they tend to ask if there are any other hairdressers available. But it never fazes him; he just flashes that hugeass smile of his and starts babbling about nothing in particular to put them at ease. Pete’s the best out of all of them with customers, actually; he was the one who came up with the Standard Hairdresser Questions: designed for customers of all ages and guaranteed to keep them occupied! Brendon’s only seen the list once or twice; after seeing the question engineered for senior citizens-something to do with dentures and bingo-he figured they probably only worked for Pete, anyway.
Brendon frowns. It looks like Pete’s petting the customer he’s ensnared, but that can’t be right. Pete wouldn’t do that to a new customer. He knows better! Especially with the Annual Services Survey coming up. He chews on his lip nervously.
“Um, are you, like, done?” Kayla asks.
“Hm? Oh, yeah.” He quickly brushes her hair out and gently combs a bit of gel through. “What do you think?”
“It’s great, thanks so much!” Kali beams at him and stands up. “And um…” She peers at him through thick lashes. Brendon’s kind of impressed by the maneuver despite himself, considering she’s almost half a foot taller than him. But seriously-how does he not notice these situations until it’s too late? She’s already got a piece of paper out and is scribbling something on it.
“If you ever want to, you know, grab a cup of coffee or whatever-“she smirks “-that’s my number.” She smiles at him coyly and tucks a five dollar bill in his back pants pocket.
“Tip,” she tells him huskily after he protests. Brendon shivers, feeling vaguely violated.
“Thanks, um,” he glances down at the slip of paper, “Kathy.”
“Anytime,” she promises, and then-finally-sashaying her way to Andy to pay the twenty-five dollars for the haircut. Brendon breathes a sigh of relief.
“Another leech?” Greta asks from behind him, using their “code” terminology for frightening man-eaters.
“Yeah.” Brendon sighs a little and throws away the slip of paper that says CALL ME XOXO KATHY.
“Sweetie, it’s because you give off the single man vibe,” Greta tells him.
“What, and not the very very gay man vibe?”
Greta shrugs at him. “Some people are very selective about what they pick up. Anyway,” she links her arm through his, “there’s only one way to fix it. I know this really sweet guy; his name’s Chris, and-“
“Greta!” Brendon frowns at her sternly. He isn’t so far gone that he needs Greta setting him up. Really. He hopes.
“Oh, fine.” Greta sighs cutely. “I think Darren’s already claimed him, anyway.”
Brendon’s lips twitch into a smile. Right. Greta always pretends to forget small details like that. She’s so small, yet so devious. Brendon grins down at her. It’s why he likes her so much.
“Hey.” Greta’s pretty lips turn down suddenly. “What’s Pete doing over there?”
Brendon turns to look. Weirdly enough, Pete still hasn’t finished cutting that customer’s ginger hair. Or, rather, he’s finished cutting it, but he doesn’t look finished running his fingers through it lovingly.
The customer looks this close to just bolting, bill be damned.
“Fucking Pete,” Brendon says grumpily.
Beside him, Greta is frowning just as ferociously. “I can’t believe him! He knows the ASS is coming up any day now! We can’t afford to keep doing things like this!”
She puts her small fists on her hips and marches over. Brendon decides to just lean against the counter and watch without getting involved. Some things are just smarter to sit out.
* * *
Brendon likes to think of himself as a man of simple pleasures. Give him a Red Bull? Awesome. Capri Sun? Great. Watch a Disney movie with him? Fan-fucking-tastic, especially if you sing along. He’s really not all that hard to please. Ask any one of his past boyfriends. Or even better, his one past girlfriend. She’ll tell you he was so easy to please it only took five seconds.
And she’ll be exaggerating, but, uh. Not by much. He was in high school, all right? And he used to be an active Mormon. He feels like there should be exceptions for these kinds of crippling circumstances.
Anyway. Brendon? Really easy, happy, glass-half-full type of guy. And seriously, he would be so exceedingly happy if they actually just won the fucking ASS for once!
Greta nods emphatically. “Just once, Pete! Just one year without you shooting us all in the foot! We have lost to those damn Cobras for the past four years!”
Joe tilts his head to the side, his massive afro tilting slowly after him, like a reluctant shadow bobbing into place. “I thought we only started up four years ago.”
Greta throws up her arms. “Exactly!”
“Guys,” Pete says, placating, “it’s just a survey!”
“A survey to determine the best hair salon in all of Las Vegas,” Brendon reminds him. “Our honor is being compromised! By Gabe!”
“Gabe compromises everyone’s honor just by managing to exist,” Pete says sulkily.
“He does, doesn’t he?” Greta says a little dreamily.
Brendon snaps his fingers in front of her. This is no time to let that pesky sexual tension she has going on with Gabe interfere with their working environment, especially with the ASS so close.
“Sorry!” Greta says, her eyes flickering back into focus.
“Seriously, guys, any new customer is a toss up. But our regulars will totally vote for us!” Pete says bracingly.
“But Pete, what if that was the reporter?” Brendon asks.
Every year, the Las Vegas Times sends a reporter to each business the ASS includes. The reporter writes up their own opinion on who should have won each category. Two years ago, Mezzeti’s had lost to Signor John’s for best pizza restaurant. But the reporter wrote a hugely flattering review of Mezzeti’s. And the following year? Mezzeti’s totally slammed Signor John’s in the category. The reporter’s opinion could decide the outcome of the ASS for years to come!
“That wasn’t the reporter,” Pete says.
“How do you know?” Brendon asks. He may be waving his arms around wildly. Whatever. This is the most important thing their business faces every year! “They don’t tell you they’re reporters! They’re anonymous! They could be anyone, Pete. You could have just molested the reporter!”
“He wasn’t,” Pete maintains firmly.
“How do you know?” Brendon needles.
“Because he was too-“ Pete waves his hand vaguely. “He was too…Patrick. And anyway,” Pete continues mutinously, “I couldn’t have stopped myself from petting him anyway. Have you guys seen him? He has sideburns!”
“So?” Brendon says, but mostly just to be contrary. Sideburns are pretty cool, he has to admit.
“I could take such good care of his sideburns,” Pete says wistfully.
Brendon and Greta exchange glances. Pete’s obviously down for the count.
“So, Joe,” Greta starts. Joe shrinks back a little bit.
“Yeah?” he asks, obviously knowing what’s coming.
“Could you maybe lay off some of the pot?” Greta asks gently, staring up at him with huge, soulful eyes. “I just-some people really don’t enjoy a cloud of pot smoke engulfing them every time they get a haircut. I don’t know, Joe. Some people are just weird like that.”
Joe stares at her, clearly trying to hold strong in the face of Greta’s pleading gaze. Brendon doesn’t envy him. Smirking a little, he sits back to watch. Greta’s a little monster when she wants to be.
“Come on, Joe,” Greta wheedles. “Just a bit. And only until the ASS comes out! We’ve only got a few weeks left, Joe. Come on,” she coaxes. “Let’s make it a sprint to the finish!”
“Well…” Joe stares dispiritedly down at the table.
“I’ll bake you some of my special cookies,” Greta says, going in for the kill.
“All right,” Joe says, heaving out a big sigh.
Brendon tries to keep from grinning.
“And you, Brendon.” Without warning, Greta turns around to fix her brown eyes on him. Suddenly, it’s not so hard to keep from grinning anymore.
“Um, yeah?” Brendon gulps.
“About those Red Bulls you like so much…”
* * *
“I can just feel it,” Brendon says, carefully snipping away around Jon’s ears. Jon’s a regular and a friend; he drops in every so often to get a trim or just to hang out.
“Feel what?” Jon asks patiently.
“We’re going to win this year!” Brendon waves his hand around enthusiastically. He aborts the movement after seeing Jon’s wince when the scissors got a little too close to his eye. “We’ve built up a much larger customer base this year, I think, and I’m pretty sure our satisfaction rate’s gone up!”
“Awesome,” Jon says genially. “So you’ll finally be able to put the Cobras in their place after four years?”
“Yeah.” Brendon exhales. He can practically see it. Gabe, probably weeping. Nate definitely weeping. Victoria fainting. It’s going to be amazing.
“You know,” he tells Jon, carefully working across his neck, “I don’t even know how they’ve won these past four years. Who the hell wants to go to a salon called Cobra Starship, anyway? It’s so random.”
“Well…” Jon draws the word out. “You are working in a hair salon called Clandestine, so I’m not sure you’ve exactly got any right to be making judgments…”
“The name’s cool!” Pete calls from across the room. He somehow manages to develop superhuman hearing every time someone maligns the name for his hair salon (which is often). “It’s subtle! And it sounds really neat.”
Brendon and Jon waggle their eyebrows at each other in the mirror, mutually puzzling at the general weirdness that is Pete Wentz.
He gives Jon’s hair one final snip before putting his scissors down and unclipping the cape from around Jon with a flourish.
“All done!”
“Thanks, Bren,” Jon says, giving him an affable grin. He ambles over to pay Andy, carefully skirting a man standing in right in the way of his path.
Brendon blinks. The man’s standing perfectly still and straight, like he just sprouted out of the tile floor, stiff and unbending as a wooden board. He’s staring back at Brendon, actually, with calm brown eyes-almost unnervingly calm, Brendon thinks. He feels like jiggling his hand or tapping his foot just to make up for all the non-motion surrounding the guy.
“I’d like to get my hair cut,” the man calls to him from across the floor. His words are awkward and stilted, kind of. He sounds almost as out of place as he looks-the sheer amount of scarves and paisley he’s sporting makes Brendon’s head hurt.
“Um, alright,” Brendon answers. He feels absurd talking to someone ten feet away. They’re standing facing each other, with a huge expanse of the floor just stretching out between them.
“Well, uh,” Brendon says before stopping. He blinks and forcibly wills his composure back. It’s like he’s some kind of goddamn rookie at this again. “I’m free, so if you’ll just walk this way, I can help you.”
“Thank you,” the man says seriously. He walks slowly over, his long, lanky legs transforming his gait into a conflicting mix of ungainly grace. His high-heeled leather shoes clack across the polished tiles. The noise is strangely sharp amidst the chaotic roar of blow-driers, razors, and chatter.
The man carefully sits himself down in the leather chair and then looks at Brendon expectantly.
“Well-“ Brendon’s voice comes out too loud, too brash, so he clears his throat and starts over. “What can I do for you today?”
The man blinks at him slowly. “I’d like to get my hair cut.”
“Um, yes, I did understand that much,” Brendon says with infinite patience. “But how would you like me to cut your hair? What style? You don’t want me to just shave it all off, do you?” he cracks weakly.
The man’s lips don’t even twitch. “No, I don’t.”
“Well. Alright.” Brendon fiddles with his apron.
“I’d just like a simple haircut,” he explains haltingly. “With straight bangs, and just-“ He gives up on explaining and simply makes motions around his shaggy brown hair. His fingers are long and straight.
Brendon furrows his brow and shakes his head a bit. But no, the man is still sitting there and he’s still asking for-
“A bowl cut?” Brendon asks disbelievingly.
“Well, yes.”
“A bowl cut?” Brendon clarifies just one more time, because really-a bowl fucking haircut. Brendon snorts in spite of himself.
“Do you have a problem with that?” the man asks, a slight edge in his voice.
“Look-what was your name again?” Brendon asks.
“Ryan. Ryan Ross,” Ryan Ross says coolly.
“Okay, Ryan. I mean, Ryan Ross.” Brendon laughs a little bit. “Why do you want a bowl cut?”
“Do I have to give a reason?” Ryan Ross says stiffly. “Isn’t the customer always supposed to be right?”
“Yeah, except when they’re wrong and on the verge of committing style suicide,” Brendon says, still laughing.
“The term style suicide doesn’t even make sense,” Ryan Ross informs him icily.
Brendon lets out a fresh chortle at this completely inane remark. He has a feeling he’s being rude, but, wow. A bowl cut. That’s one he hasn’t heard before. “Really, dude. Is this a joke? Lose a bet?”
“No,” Ryan Ross says emphatically, the very tops of his cheekbones beginning to flush.
“Why the hell would you want to look like a twelve-year-old?” Brendon asks, honestly curious.
“Okay, wow, I don’t have to give you my business,” Ryan Ross says angrily, beginning to get up from the chair. “I would be more than happy to go somewhere else if you just can’t find it within your obviously perfectly tressed self to give me a fucking bowl cut.”
“Hey, no, man, sit down.” Brendon pushes down lightly on his shoulders. “I’ll give you the best fucking bowl cut ever.”
He clips the cape in place, still silently sniggering to himself. A fucking bowl cut.
A few minutes later, he frowns, in the middle of cutting Ryan Ross’s bangs.
“Hey, was that sarcasm?” he asks suspiciously.
“What?” Ryan Ross asks in a monotone.
“The whole ‘my perfectly tressed self’ comment.” Brendon frowns at Ryan in the mirror.
Ryan looks blankly back at him. “I don’t know. What do you think?” His eyes dart up to stare at Brendon’s hair and then back down.
“Hey, this haircut is amazing, okay? The bangs, everything. It flatters my cheekbones and takes attention away from my eyebrows,” Brendon tells him seriously. Brendon fucking slaved over this haircut. And it is pretty good, if he does say so himself. “Besides, this kind of shag is really in right now,” Brendon adds.
“Of course. Because you would obviously know all about the latest fashion trends,” Ryan Ross says, still inflectionless. His eyes go over Brendon’s lavender hoodie and skinny black jeans derisively enough to tell Brendon all he needs to know, though.
Okay, yeah, this guy was kind of amusing at first, with his whole stiff-scarecrow routine, but this? This is so crossing the line. Especially considering what he’s wearing.
“Look at yourself,” Brendon tells him, snipping away angrily with his scissors-not really looking where he’s cutting, actually. Bowl cuts are simple enough for him to do in his sleep, and anyway, if he accidentally nicks this guy, well…He wouldn’t exactly be devastated.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ryan Ross asks, a crease forming between his brows.
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Brendon says. “The paisley? The scarves? The pointy leather shoes? It’s like you fell into three different time periods and decided to wear souvenirs from all of them.”
Ryan Ross’s eyes bore into him. They’re still calm, but now they also look soulless. He’s obviously finished making conversation with Brendon, which Brendon is perfectly fine with, especially now that he’s-
“Done,” Brendon says shortly. “I hope you enjoy your new haircut. Oh, and don’t bother leaving a tip; I’m sure you’ll need all the money you can save to replace your mirrors.” He pauses. “After they break when you look into them,” he adds, just to make sure Ryan fucking Ross got the point. Brendon’s not much for subtlety, okay?
“Duly noted,” Ryan says equally curtly.
He marches over to Andy, slams the money down, and then marches out the door. His thin hips move intriguingly when he’s stomping around like that. Brendon quickly shakes his head to get rid of the rogue thought.
Pete’s eyeing him from across the room, eyebrow raised. Brendon rolls his eyes and shrugs back at him. He needs a fucking break.
* * *
“Honestly, Brendon, I expected this from Pete, but now you?” Greta’s looking at him sternly, hands fisted at her hips. “This is completely unacceptable behavior, Brendon. That customer practically stormed out! I thought you actually cared about the ASS!”
In the booth next to them, Joe’s cutting some old lady’s hair. She’s mouthing the word ‘ass’ to herself and looking scandalized. Brendon sighs and shushes Greta.
“The customer’s name is Ryan Ross, Greta. Crazy alliteration, yeah? Crazy guy, too. You know, he wanted a bowl cut.”
“So just give him one!” Greta says exasperatedly.
“I did!” Brendon says. “But I might have, um, needled him about it first.”
“And that was why he stormed out?” Greta asks.
“Well, no. We kind of…got into an argument.” Brendon rubs the back of his neck.
Greta looks at him patiently.
“Well, he started going off on my clothing! I mean, seriously. Low blow, right? Who the hell insults someone’s taste in fashion?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Greta says. “Maybe someone who insults another person’s taste in hairstyles?”
“Greta,” Brendon whines.
“So you two just started arguing about that? Hair and clothing choice? And he got so mad he stormed out?” Greta asks. Her lips seem to be trembling. Brendon eyes her.
“Um, yes? What?” he asks as Greta presses a hand to her mouth. “No, seriously, what?”
“Brendon, sweetie…You know I don’t like to use labels, and all, but…” Greta looks up at him, eyes twinkling. “Honey, that is really, really gay.”
“I am gay,” Brendon points out.
Greta just giggles.
* * *
Brendon can feel the back of his neck prickling, goosebumps rising despite the warm temperature inside the salon. Victoria’s watching him again. He forces himself to continue putting away the tools. He’s not turning around for another one of Victoria’s creepy smiles.
It is, he reflects, really fucking annoying to have your business situated right across the street from your biggest competition. Especially when said competition is scary as hell. He turns around to put the spray bottle away, accidentally raises his gaze, and sees Victoria curve blood red lips at him in a sultry smile.
Brendon shudders. Victoria’s beautiful, but she also looks like she could devour him in one bite. And something about that smile is ominous.
He quickly turns away again.
Behind him, Andy starts talking to someone who just came in.
“What’d you say? Your name’s Ryan Ross?”
Brendon whirls around. “What, you’re here again? You want me to shave that mess off your head, or something?” he blurts out. “It’d look better than that bowl cut, anyway.”
Ryan-dressed in a blue v-neck and several necklaces this time-merely looks back at him, unruffled. He even smirks a bit. Brendon pushes back a rapidly mounting feeling of foreboding.
There’s a solid, bearded man standing behind him. His brown hair falls in a shiny curve over blue eyes. Paired with a black t-shirt and jacket, the effect is…nice. Brendon looks at him consideringly.
“Now that is a good haircut,” Brendon says definitively after a few moments of contemplation. “Why don’t you take a few pages out of your friend’s book, Ross, hm? Those bangs are amazing for your cheekbones,” he tells the bearded man. “Where’d you get it cut?”
He smirks, mirroring Ryan. “Actually, I got it cut across the street at Cobra Starship.”
Brendon nearly bites off his tongue. “Oh.”
Brendon looks back at Ryan. “So what are you here for?” he asks slowly.
“Not a head-shaving, surprisingly enough,” Ryan says. Brendon almost smiles before schooling his expression into something suitably cooler. “In fact, I’m here with Spencer Smith-“ he inclines his head at his friend; Brendon mentally exults in another fantastic alliteration “-to take some pictures.”
Brendon blinks. “Pictures?”
Greta and Pete, sensing an approaching menace with their Jedi mind powers, have come up behind him. “Pictures?” they echo.
“Yeah.” Ryan grins now, revealing every one of his shiny white teeth. “For the newspaper. I write for the LV Times. I’m currently doing a piece for the Annual Services Survey; I don’t know if you’ve heard of it?”
Behind them, Joe drops the curling iron with a resounding clack.
* * *
“Okay. So. This might be a problem,” Brendon says, trying not to hyperventilate.
“Really, Bden, do you think so?” Pete asks him sarcastically. He’s tossing the curling iron up and down to himself.
“Brendon, that reporter looked like he hated you,” Greta says worriedly. “If he writes a really, really terrible review-and he definitely looked capable of it, did you see that grin?--we could lose countless customers! We could go out of business!” Her voice goes up at the end of the sentence, tight and squeaky.
Even Joe looks disturbed. His afro appears to be quivering fretfully. “Bren, man, this is bad,” he says.
“C’mon, guys, water off a duck’s back, right? We’ve had bad reviews before!” Brendon says.
Pete gives him a look. “Yeah, Bren, we’ve had bad reviews before, but none of those reviewers actively hated any of us. A review from him would probably go beyond bad and settle somewhere in appalling.”
Brendon bites his lip. They sit silently for a few minutes, staring at the hair salon. Their hair salon, the salon that Pete built up himself from scratch and that they all had devoted their lives to.
Greta latches onto his arm. “Brendon, you’ve got to do something!” she says urgently.
“What?” Brendon asks helplessly.
“Anything! Apologize, or, just-anything is better than nothing, Bren.” She looks at him, eyes bright with unhappiness. “I mean, it’s not like it can get any worse, right?”
“Any worse. Right. Thanks, Greta,” Brendon huffs out. She raises an eyebrow at him.
He inclines the chair he’s sitting on until he’s almost horizontal, staring at the ceiling. They had Gerard paint it a few years back, and Brendon stares at the jagged streaks of color until they start to bleed together, one huge mash of red and white and green and purple and black.
“How would I get in touch with him, though?” Brendon asks finally.
“He’s on the newspaper, right?” Pete says. “So it can’t be too difficult to look him up and get contact information.”
Brendon smiles a little despite the situation. Pete’s always the one to go to if you don’t know how to start stalking a person.
“So, what? I just call him out of the blue and apologize? That would sound so fake, though.”
“Brendon Urie, I don’t give a damn if you’re embarrassed about sounding fake.” Greta’s determined face appears in his field of vision, hovering right over his face. “You are going to give that Ryan Ross a call and give him a suitably demeaning apology. I think some groveling would be involved.”
Brendon sighs. Groveling. Right.
* * *
The bright light of the computer screen glares into his eyes mercilessly, the black digits stamped across the page standing out in full relief. Ryan Ross, it says. Reporter, the following line continues helpfully. But Brendon’s eyes are fixed on the third line: 829-3441.
Well. Brendon quickly dials the number before he can chicken out, his fingers trembling slightly on the numberpad.
The harsh ring startles him, for some reason, and he gnaws on his fingernail before remembering to stop. Damn it. Brendon tries to mentally run through the apology he had prepared-with Greta; she was very insistent on using the words deeply, regretful, and ashamed-before realizing that it had all completely flown out of his head.
“Hello?” a sleepy voice asks.
Oh, shit. Um. Um. “Hello?” Brendon says back hesitantly.
“Yeah?” the voice says.
“Is this, um.” Brendon licks his lips. “Is this Ryan Ross?”
The voice sounds amused. “Shouldn’t I be asking you to identify yourself?”
“Um.” Brendon can feel himself flailing mentally.
“If it helps you regain the power of speech, this is in fact Ryan Ross,” Ryan says clearly and gently, like he’s talking to someone mentally slow.
“This is…” Brendon clears his throat. “This is Brendon Urie?” he says, voice going up at the end involuntarily.
“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” Ryan asks patiently.
“From, um.” Brendon takes a deep breath and says, “the hair salon? Clandestine?”
There is absolute silence on the other end.
Brendon decides to just continue. “I just wanted to apologize for my behavior a few days ago; it was completely unprofessional of me, and you know, some people can pull off bowl cuts! Courageous people! You have a lot of courage, dude,” he babbles. “Uh, dude?”
Silence.
“Ryan?”
And then there’s a ring tone.
Brendon jerks the phone away from his ear and stares at it. Call disconnected, the screen blinks at him happily. What the-? Brendon stares at it in disbelief. Did the guy seriously just--? Hang up? And while he was apologizing, too! Fucking-
Before he can think further, he jabs at the redial button furiously.
“What?” Ryan says tersely after a few rings.
“Okay, wow, I’m just going to assume that the call was cut off because, I don’t know, you don’t have great reception where you are, because hanging up on someone while they’re trying to apologize to you is incredibly rude! And obnoxious!” Brendon says all in one breath, and then sits there breathing heavily into the phone, because, well….oops.
“You know, maybe I really am clueless about the rules of etiquette,” Ryan says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “but that somehow doesn’t sound like an apology, even to my uncultured ears.”
Brendon sputters into the phone for a few seconds.
“Am I allowed to hang up now?” Ryan drawls.
“No, wait!” Brendon says hurriedly. He can’t let obnoxious assholes get in the way of the good of Clandestine, right? Right. He swallows down bile and says, “You know, I really am sorry I let my temper get the best of me the other day. It was very unprofessional of me, and I just wanted to let you know that that is definitely not a regular occurrence,” Brendon rattles off, the rehearsed apology speech suddenly coming back to him.
“Really?” Ryan says in a disbelieving tone. “Because somehow I seem to remember returning at a later date and you doing a repeat performance of Rudest Hairdresser in Las Vegas. Just for my benefit, I’m assuming?”
Brendon sighs and counts to ten before answering. “You are completely right,” he starts.
“Oh, so now the customer is right?” Ryan interrupts. “After you discover that the customer is in fact not a customer, but a reporter?”
Brendon opens and closes his mouth.
“You know, I really can’t stand people like you,” Ryan tells him conversationally. “People who think they can get away with being rude to customers, and then suddenly kissing ass when the customer actually turns out to be important? This is exactly the kind of breach of service the anonymity of my review is supposed to discover. So, thanks, really. For giving me material that is pure gold for my review.”
“Look,” Brendon says desperately, “it was just! A bowl cut, man? Are you kidding me?”
“You might want to do something about that broken record,” Ryan says, and then, very deliberately, hangs up.
* * *
“And then! And then he called me a broken record!” Brendon paces up and down the hair salon floor, gesticulating wildly.
Greta bites her lip and doesn’t say anything.
Joe is looking at him with a hang-dog, disappointed air. “Wow, man,” he says. “That’s like-Ryan Ross: 1, and Brendon Urie: -1000.”
“Thanks so much, Joe,” Brendon snaps.
“See, like that!” Joe says, pointing.
“Like what?”
“Your temper! All I did was make one little comment, and you snap at me! You use bitter sarcasm! Maybe that Ryan Ross dude really does know what he’s talking about.”
“Are you kidding me?” Brendon says.
“Look, sweetie,” Greta says, holding out her hands placatingly, “you just seem a bit on edge right now, is all. I’m not saying you have issues with anger management normally, but ever since interacting with Ryan Ross, you do seem a bit…”
“Like you’re pms-ing,” Pete tells him bluntly.
Brendon stares at them.
“Let’s just take a step back and try to salvage what’s left of the situation, okay?” Greta says.
Brendon flops down on a chair with a groan. “What’s there left to salvage? He hates me! He’s going to write a scathing report of the hair salon! And then we’re all going to be out of jobs!”
“Brendon, calm down,” Greta says sharply. “What if we approach this from a different angle?”
Pete’s nodding at her, looking thoughtful. “More survey-focused, instead of review-focused?”
“Right!” Greta beams at him.
“What are you guys talking about?” Brendon asks, feeling stupid. Joe looks equally puzzled, but that’s kind of his default expression.
“What if we try to reach out to the whole population, instead of just focusing on changing the opinion of one reporter? We could change the opinions of the entire city!” Greta says, growing more excited with each word.
“It would definitely have long-term benefits,” Pete says. “But how exactly would we do that?”
“Publicity!” Brendon says suddenly. “We’re banking on the fact that if people try us, they’ll love us, right? Because if they don’t, then we shouldn’t be in business anyway.”
Joe’s peering at him from under his afro. “According to that logic, shouldn’t Ryan Ross’s hatred of Clandestine Salon mean we ought to be out of business?”
Brendon waves a hand at him. “Whatever. That guy’s an asshole. He doesn’t count. What if…” Brendon bounces in his chair, savoring the spark of anticipation he gets whenever he hits on a really great idea. “What if we hand out flyers that give away free haircuts? The whole city will come! And then we’ll transform them into loyal customers!”
“You make us sound like brainwashing Nazis,” Pete says, a large grin slowly taking over his face.
Greta’s frowning and scribbling something down on a piece of paper. “We can’t afford to give away free haircuts for the week and a half until the ASS. We’d have to make it a one day deal…”
“We could make it BOGO,” Joe says, jumping into the conversation.
They look at him.
“Sorry,” Joe says, looking sheepish. “Payless reference. Those commercials are everywhere. Anyway. We could make it buy one get one free! Everyone would bring their friends! And we’d still make money.”
“That’s genius!” Greta says, beaming at him.
Joe blushes. Pete grins and claps him on the back. “That’s great, man. I’ll start working on those flyers…” Pete saunters out of the store, whistling something unidentifiable.
“Well,” Brendon says, smiling stupidly. “This is fantastic! It’d seriously wipe the smirk off that asshole’s face if we actually won best hair salon!”
“Brendon,” Greta says, looking solemn.
“What?” Brendon says warily.
“I think we shouldn’t give up on Ryan Ross just yet.”
“B-but! He’s a total asshole! Any of you would probably end up arguing with him if you guys talked! And besides, kissing up would only validate his point, right?”
Greta shakes her head. “An apology after being completely rude is not kissing up, Bren. And, no,” she holds a hand up to stop his protests, “that apology you gave him, liberally seasoned with insults, does not count.”
Brendon looks at her dubiously. “So, I just call him up again?”
“Why don’t you try talking to him face to face? It might go over better if he can see your puppy eyes…”
* * *
Brendon stares down at the Mapquest directions with a sense of imminent doom. According to the sheet of paper, he’s arrived at the destination. According to the sign proudly proclaiming the Las Vegas Times, he’s arrived at his destination.
…But, you know, maybe he should make sure. And just stand here for a few minutes, making sure. In fact, maybe he should go back to the hair salon and look at the newspaper website again just to make absolutely sure that this is where Ryan Ross works. Yeah, that sounds reasonable.
Brendon turns around to start walking back when his cell phone starts ringing.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Brendon, hi!” Greta says. “Are you talking to Ryan Ross yet?”
“Um,” Brendon says.
“Are you inside his office yet?”
“Um,” Brendon says.
“Are you inside the newspaper building yet?”
“Well, see-“ Brendon starts.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Greta says, cutting him off. “Go inside. And if any of us see you back at the salon before you talk to Ross, we’re not letting you in.”
“Um,” Brendon says.
“G’luck, sweetie!” Greta chirps before hanging up.
Brendon resists the urge to gnash his teeth or pull out his hair or something else that suitably expresses his agony. Instead, he valiantly walks the three feet to the door, pulls it open, and somehow convinces his feet to walk him inside.
The blanket of quiet that immediately surrounds him is unnerving. A lesser man would have immediately turned around and walked back out. But no, Brendon continues. Brendon perseveres. Brendon is…talking about himself in the third person in his own head.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asks politely.
Brendon squeaks.
She says, “Pardon? I didn’t catch that.”
“I said, um. I need to speak with Ryan Ross. Please?” Brendon tries to plaster a charming grin on his face.
“His office is down the hall and to the left.”
“Thanks,” Brendon says.
He makes his way down the hall nervously until he reaches a battered door with a small placard that reads Ryan Ross, Reporter.
Fantastic. Should he knock? He should probably knock.
Brendon raises a hand and timidly knocks.
No one answers. Brendon frowns and knocks harder.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be there in a minute. I’m on the phone,” Ryan says irritably through the door.
Brendon waits there, fidgeting. This is awkward. People are milling about all around him. He wonders if any of them are curious about him. What they’re thinking. Brendon straightens up and tries to comb down his hair a little.
All of a sudden, the door is pulled open and Ryan pokes his thin face out.
“You?” he asks incredulously.
Brendon tries to smile at him. “Yep. Me.”
“Are you actually stalking me?” Ryan asks (unfairly, Brendon thinks).
“No, of course not! I mean, it wasn’t actually hard to figure out where you worked after you told us. I’m not really brain-damaged, even though I sometimes act like it.” Brendon offers him a sheepish grin.
“Just because it’s not hard doesn’t mean it’s not stalking,” Ryan says flatly.
“I’m not! Look, I just wanted to chance to give you a real apology.”
“A real one,” Ryan repeats.
“Yeah. I know we kind of got off on the wrong foot-“
“Really? I didn’t notice that at all,” Ryan deadpans.
“Okay. Um.” Brendon nobly chooses to disregard Ryan’s sarcastic comment. “The point is, I know I was an asshole. I shouldn’t have made comments about your clothing choice or your hairstyle choice. It slipped out when I wasn’t thinking.”
“Do you ever? Think, that is,” Ryan says boredly.
“See? See? This is totally why we got into an argument! It takes two to tango,” Brendon says triumphantly.
“Um, what?”
“Yeah, okay, maybe I shouldn’t have made those comments about the bowl cut. But you didn’t exactly lay back and take it! You were insulting me too!”
“You started it,” Ryan says, almost petulantly.
“So, okay. Why don’t we just stop arguing about whose fault the argument was, and try to start new?” Brendon opens his eyes up really wide and tries to look as sincere as possible.
“Hah, yeah, no. Nice try,” Ryan says and starts closing his door.
Brendon sticks his foot in desperately. “C’mon, please. Just give me a few more minutes!”
Ryan stares at him. Brendon tries to exude an aura of puppies and kittens and other lovable things. Although, once Brendon thinks about it, someone like Ryan Ross probably kicks puppies for fun.
“Fine,” Ryan mutters. “I was about ready to take a break anyway.”
He opens the door a fraction of an inch wider, just enough for Brendon to squeeze his way through. They sit down, Ryan behind his desk, Brendon in a ratty old armchair.
They stare at each other for a few minutes. Brendon worries his lip. The sound of the clock ticking in the corner is really loud.
“So?” Ryan says. “Are you just going to sit there, staring at me, or do you actually have something to say?”
“I do! I-“ Brendon leans forward earnestly. “Look, you can’t just base your review on my attitude, right? That would be like-like watching a movie and just commenting on the costume design!”
Ryan raises an eyebrow.
Brendon presses onward. “You have to consider the haircut, too! Look at it! Is that not the most beautiful bowl cut you have ever seen?”
Ryan gives him a look that tells him exactly how unimpressed he is.
Brendon huffs out a breath. “Okay, come on. You have to give me something to work with! If you’re not satisfied with the cut, it’s probably just because you chose the wrong style! Which, honestly, a bowl cut is the wrong style for everyone.”
“Blaming the customer again?” Ryan says pleasantly.
Brendon clenches his teeth, frustrated. “I’m just saying…Give us another chance. Please. Maybe I can fix that bowl cut to make you look less hideous.”
“Wow, I don’t know how I can say no in the face of such flattery,” Ryan says. “Oh, wait. No.”
“I’m serious!” Brendon cocks his head to the side and studies Ryan. “Maybe if I shortened the side like this…” He reaches out and gently moves Ryan’s hair around, considering. The strands feel soft and slippery.
Ryan is looking at him oddly, his cheeks beginning to color red. Brendon frowns and leans in closer. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.
“Are you feeling alright?” Brendon asks in a hushed tone; because he’s about three inches from Ryan and it somehow doesn’t feel polite to bellow in his face.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” a female voice says from behind Brendon. “I didn’t realize you had, um. A visitor.”
Ryan seems to have become a statue. His mouth has fallen slightly open. Grinning, Brendon nudges it closed and turns around to see a young woman.
She’s staring, openmouthed in shock for some reason. Huh.
“So, I’ll, uh…” Weirdly, she looks really flustered. “I’ll just, um, leave you two to it! I’ll, uh, talk to you later, Ryan. When your, er, visitor, is gone.”
And then she turns around and starts walking rapidly away.
Brendon looks back at Ryan. “Is she shy, or something?” he asks.
“No, she isn’t shy,” Ryan says, sounding strangled.
“Well, she kept stuttering,” Brendon says reasonably.
“That’s because you were about two centimeters away from me and cupping my face!” Ryan says, getting really red now.
Brendon frowns, perplexed. He thinks he’s missing something.
“Um, okay,” Brendon draws out. “So. What do you say?”
“About what?” Ryan asks in an annoyed tone, still flushed.
“Coming back in for a redo!” Brendon smiles at him.
“Brendon, I’m perfectly happy with my hair the way it is,” Ryan says exasperatedly.
“Did you just call me Brendon?” he asks, a huge grin taking over his face.
“Isn’t that your name?” Ryan asks pointedly.
“Well, yeah, but…I’m growing on you, aren’t I?”
“Like a rash that won’t go away,” Ryan says huffily.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t even front. I’m charming!” Brendon crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue out. The corners of Ryan’s lips twitch, and Brendon smiles. He knew it.
“Here, tell you what,” Brendon says. “We’re having a special next Monday; buy one haircut get one free! Here’s the coupon.” He shoves it into Ryan’s unresisting hand. “You can bring your friend! The one with the good hair!”
“Spencer?” Ryan says.
“Yes, Spencer! Spencer Smith! It’ll be amazing.”
Ryan starts trying to hand him back the flyer. “Look, I really don’t think-“
Brendon curls his hand over Ryan’s, and he shuts up. “Just keep it, alright? Maybe you’ll change your mind.” Brendon winks, then gets off the chair and starts walking away.
“I’ll see you on Monday!” he calls, looking back for a moment. Ryan has to drag his eyes up to meet his gaze, which…
Brendon narrows his eyes as he walks out the building. Ryan was dragging his eyes off a region considerably south of Brendon’s face. Meaning…
Brendon grins and hums a little ditty. This is really convenient.
* * *
There’s a loud bang as Gabe bursts in through the front door, brandishing what looks like today’s paper. His eyes have a crazed glint in them. He looks even more manic than usual. Brendon smirks.
“What is the meaning of this?” Gabe demands as he shakes the newspaper.
“What’s the meaning of what?” Brendon asks smoothly. Beside him, Joe whistles innocently.
“The meaning of this!” Gabe shoves the newspaper in Brendon’s face.
“Oh, that,” Brendon drawls.
Pete comes up from behind him and rests an elbow on Brendon’s shoulder. “It’s just a coupon, man. Why, you want a haircut?” Pete grins at him wolfishly.
“Oh, I see how it is.” Gabe takes a step back and begins stroking an imaginary mustache. “You’re playing dirty, huh?”
“Dirty?” Greta purrs. Brendon jumps, somehow she came up behind him without him noticing. “Of course not, Gabe.”
They smirk at each other. Gabe drags his eyes in a heated line along Greta’s body.
“Okay!” Brendon squeaks, jumping in front of Greta. “It’s just a coupon! Nothing special!” Greta shoves him aside.
“You know,” Gabe continues, eyes still on Greta, “I didn’t realize the ASS was this important to you.”
“Oh, my mind is always on the ASS,” Greta drawls. “I’m constantly thinking of ways to…win it.”
Brendon exchanges an uncomfortable look with Joe. Somehow, he doesn’t think they’re talking about the survey anymore. Pete’s still grinning, looking amused by the whole thing.
“Well, you’ll be sorry,” Gabe says in a silky voice.
“Will I, Gabe?” Greta asks, looking demure. “Will you make me…sorry?”
Brendon clears his throat loudly. “Um, so, we’re opening in fifteen minutes, and I’m pretty sure you guys are too, so…” Brendon trails off pointedly.
Gabe barely spares a glance for him. “You seem to be right, little Urie. This isn’t over,” he promises Greta.
“Oh, I hope not,” she breathes.
Her eyes stay on him as Gabe saunters back out the door, an extra sway in his hips that Brendon is sure he put there deliberately for Greta.
As soon as he’s gone, Brendon wheels on her.
“Greta!” he says.
“What?” she asks languidly.
“You can’t just--! Just--!” Brendon can’t even-he has no words. He is speechless, for possibly the first time in his life.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she tells him airily. “Gosh, it looks like it’s going to be a great day today, isn’t it? It’s so nice and sunny outside.”
Brendon eyes the sky doubtfully. Dark thunderclouds are gathering at the horizon.
“C’mon, Bren,” Pete says, clapping a hand on his shoulder and steering him away. “Let’s not deprive Greta of the kicks she gets out of fraternizing with the enemy, yeah?”
“I still don’t know what you mean,” Greta says loudly, but a blush has stained her cheeks a rosy pink.
Brendon glares menacingly at the Cobra Starship salon across the street. Going after Greta is totally hitting below the belt! The snake on the sign looks almost like it’s smirking at him. Brendon blinks. He must be imagining things.
Part 2
Um...oops?
Anyway, I come bearing fic! Labor of love through many long hours, yadda yadda yadda.
Title: You Got A Crew? (I Got A Crew Too)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Brendon/Ryan; background Pete/Patrick, Jon/Spencer, and Greta/Gabe
Wordcount: ~24,000
Warnings: None. Swearing, I suppose.
Thanks to: chaoticallyclev, who cheered me on relentlessly, withstood my whining patiently, and, overall, is just a lovely human being! You are so awesome, bb. ;________;
Author's Notes: Um, I know nothing about hairdressing. And it probably shows. But--it's fic! Given with a healthy dose of crack. :)
Summary: AU. Every June, in the world of Las Vegas hair care, it’s all about one thing: the Annual Services Survey. Can struggling hairdresser Brendon Urie and his coworkers finally win over rival salon Cobra Starship? Shenanigans ensue as they battle it out, all while Brendon struggles to keep his eye on the prize-and away from that cute but prickly reporter.
Brendon figures the best thing to do is just keep nodding. Carefully schooling his face into a blank expression, he bobs his head along rhythmically to the beat of the Beatles song playing in the background.
“So, like, you know what I’m saying?” Katie-or Kali or Kayla or Kristy, Brendon’s long since forgotten after this girl’s talked for the past century.
“Of course,” Brendon says professionally. He’s actually very proud of his professional tone. It’s calm, assured, in-control. Even when he has no idea what the fuck the customer wants. Like now, for instance. “Why don’t you just recap it for me, though?”
“Okay!” Kali dimples at him. “I kind of want, like, layers? Only not really? You know?”
“Oh, definitely.” Brendon nods very seriously.
“Great!” Kayla chirps.
Brendon carefully swings the cape around her shoulders and clips it in place. Moving quickly, he pins the top part of her hair up and begins snipping away. If layers-but-not-really is what Kristy wants, it’s what Kristy’s damn well going to get.
“So, do you go to school around here?” Brendon asks the standard hairdresser question boredly. If he’s lucky, it’ll keep her talking through the entire haircut.
“Um, yeah? I go to UNLV?” Katie starts.
Brendon lets his mind drift off as she chatters. Pete’s over in the corner, charming the pants off some new customer. Pete’s severely flat-ironed hair sometimes disturbs customers-they tend to ask if there are any other hairdressers available. But it never fazes him; he just flashes that hugeass smile of his and starts babbling about nothing in particular to put them at ease. Pete’s the best out of all of them with customers, actually; he was the one who came up with the Standard Hairdresser Questions: designed for customers of all ages and guaranteed to keep them occupied! Brendon’s only seen the list once or twice; after seeing the question engineered for senior citizens-something to do with dentures and bingo-he figured they probably only worked for Pete, anyway.
Brendon frowns. It looks like Pete’s petting the customer he’s ensnared, but that can’t be right. Pete wouldn’t do that to a new customer. He knows better! Especially with the Annual Services Survey coming up. He chews on his lip nervously.
“Um, are you, like, done?” Kayla asks.
“Hm? Oh, yeah.” He quickly brushes her hair out and gently combs a bit of gel through. “What do you think?”
“It’s great, thanks so much!” Kali beams at him and stands up. “And um…” She peers at him through thick lashes. Brendon’s kind of impressed by the maneuver despite himself, considering she’s almost half a foot taller than him. But seriously-how does he not notice these situations until it’s too late? She’s already got a piece of paper out and is scribbling something on it.
“If you ever want to, you know, grab a cup of coffee or whatever-“she smirks “-that’s my number.” She smiles at him coyly and tucks a five dollar bill in his back pants pocket.
“Tip,” she tells him huskily after he protests. Brendon shivers, feeling vaguely violated.
“Thanks, um,” he glances down at the slip of paper, “Kathy.”
“Anytime,” she promises, and then-finally-sashaying her way to Andy to pay the twenty-five dollars for the haircut. Brendon breathes a sigh of relief.
“Another leech?” Greta asks from behind him, using their “code” terminology for frightening man-eaters.
“Yeah.” Brendon sighs a little and throws away the slip of paper that says CALL ME XOXO KATHY.
“Sweetie, it’s because you give off the single man vibe,” Greta tells him.
“What, and not the very very gay man vibe?”
Greta shrugs at him. “Some people are very selective about what they pick up. Anyway,” she links her arm through his, “there’s only one way to fix it. I know this really sweet guy; his name’s Chris, and-“
“Greta!” Brendon frowns at her sternly. He isn’t so far gone that he needs Greta setting him up. Really. He hopes.
“Oh, fine.” Greta sighs cutely. “I think Darren’s already claimed him, anyway.”
Brendon’s lips twitch into a smile. Right. Greta always pretends to forget small details like that. She’s so small, yet so devious. Brendon grins down at her. It’s why he likes her so much.
“Hey.” Greta’s pretty lips turn down suddenly. “What’s Pete doing over there?”
Brendon turns to look. Weirdly enough, Pete still hasn’t finished cutting that customer’s ginger hair. Or, rather, he’s finished cutting it, but he doesn’t look finished running his fingers through it lovingly.
The customer looks this close to just bolting, bill be damned.
“Fucking Pete,” Brendon says grumpily.
Beside him, Greta is frowning just as ferociously. “I can’t believe him! He knows the ASS is coming up any day now! We can’t afford to keep doing things like this!”
She puts her small fists on her hips and marches over. Brendon decides to just lean against the counter and watch without getting involved. Some things are just smarter to sit out.
* * *
Brendon likes to think of himself as a man of simple pleasures. Give him a Red Bull? Awesome. Capri Sun? Great. Watch a Disney movie with him? Fan-fucking-tastic, especially if you sing along. He’s really not all that hard to please. Ask any one of his past boyfriends. Or even better, his one past girlfriend. She’ll tell you he was so easy to please it only took five seconds.
And she’ll be exaggerating, but, uh. Not by much. He was in high school, all right? And he used to be an active Mormon. He feels like there should be exceptions for these kinds of crippling circumstances.
Anyway. Brendon? Really easy, happy, glass-half-full type of guy. And seriously, he would be so exceedingly happy if they actually just won the fucking ASS for once!
Greta nods emphatically. “Just once, Pete! Just one year without you shooting us all in the foot! We have lost to those damn Cobras for the past four years!”
Joe tilts his head to the side, his massive afro tilting slowly after him, like a reluctant shadow bobbing into place. “I thought we only started up four years ago.”
Greta throws up her arms. “Exactly!”
“Guys,” Pete says, placating, “it’s just a survey!”
“A survey to determine the best hair salon in all of Las Vegas,” Brendon reminds him. “Our honor is being compromised! By Gabe!”
“Gabe compromises everyone’s honor just by managing to exist,” Pete says sulkily.
“He does, doesn’t he?” Greta says a little dreamily.
Brendon snaps his fingers in front of her. This is no time to let that pesky sexual tension she has going on with Gabe interfere with their working environment, especially with the ASS so close.
“Sorry!” Greta says, her eyes flickering back into focus.
“Seriously, guys, any new customer is a toss up. But our regulars will totally vote for us!” Pete says bracingly.
“But Pete, what if that was the reporter?” Brendon asks.
Every year, the Las Vegas Times sends a reporter to each business the ASS includes. The reporter writes up their own opinion on who should have won each category. Two years ago, Mezzeti’s had lost to Signor John’s for best pizza restaurant. But the reporter wrote a hugely flattering review of Mezzeti’s. And the following year? Mezzeti’s totally slammed Signor John’s in the category. The reporter’s opinion could decide the outcome of the ASS for years to come!
“That wasn’t the reporter,” Pete says.
“How do you know?” Brendon asks. He may be waving his arms around wildly. Whatever. This is the most important thing their business faces every year! “They don’t tell you they’re reporters! They’re anonymous! They could be anyone, Pete. You could have just molested the reporter!”
“He wasn’t,” Pete maintains firmly.
“How do you know?” Brendon needles.
“Because he was too-“ Pete waves his hand vaguely. “He was too…Patrick. And anyway,” Pete continues mutinously, “I couldn’t have stopped myself from petting him anyway. Have you guys seen him? He has sideburns!”
“So?” Brendon says, but mostly just to be contrary. Sideburns are pretty cool, he has to admit.
“I could take such good care of his sideburns,” Pete says wistfully.
Brendon and Greta exchange glances. Pete’s obviously down for the count.
“So, Joe,” Greta starts. Joe shrinks back a little bit.
“Yeah?” he asks, obviously knowing what’s coming.
“Could you maybe lay off some of the pot?” Greta asks gently, staring up at him with huge, soulful eyes. “I just-some people really don’t enjoy a cloud of pot smoke engulfing them every time they get a haircut. I don’t know, Joe. Some people are just weird like that.”
Joe stares at her, clearly trying to hold strong in the face of Greta’s pleading gaze. Brendon doesn’t envy him. Smirking a little, he sits back to watch. Greta’s a little monster when she wants to be.
“Come on, Joe,” Greta wheedles. “Just a bit. And only until the ASS comes out! We’ve only got a few weeks left, Joe. Come on,” she coaxes. “Let’s make it a sprint to the finish!”
“Well…” Joe stares dispiritedly down at the table.
“I’ll bake you some of my special cookies,” Greta says, going in for the kill.
“All right,” Joe says, heaving out a big sigh.
Brendon tries to keep from grinning.
“And you, Brendon.” Without warning, Greta turns around to fix her brown eyes on him. Suddenly, it’s not so hard to keep from grinning anymore.
“Um, yeah?” Brendon gulps.
“About those Red Bulls you like so much…”
* * *
“I can just feel it,” Brendon says, carefully snipping away around Jon’s ears. Jon’s a regular and a friend; he drops in every so often to get a trim or just to hang out.
“Feel what?” Jon asks patiently.
“We’re going to win this year!” Brendon waves his hand around enthusiastically. He aborts the movement after seeing Jon’s wince when the scissors got a little too close to his eye. “We’ve built up a much larger customer base this year, I think, and I’m pretty sure our satisfaction rate’s gone up!”
“Awesome,” Jon says genially. “So you’ll finally be able to put the Cobras in their place after four years?”
“Yeah.” Brendon exhales. He can practically see it. Gabe, probably weeping. Nate definitely weeping. Victoria fainting. It’s going to be amazing.
“You know,” he tells Jon, carefully working across his neck, “I don’t even know how they’ve won these past four years. Who the hell wants to go to a salon called Cobra Starship, anyway? It’s so random.”
“Well…” Jon draws the word out. “You are working in a hair salon called Clandestine, so I’m not sure you’ve exactly got any right to be making judgments…”
“The name’s cool!” Pete calls from across the room. He somehow manages to develop superhuman hearing every time someone maligns the name for his hair salon (which is often). “It’s subtle! And it sounds really neat.”
Brendon and Jon waggle their eyebrows at each other in the mirror, mutually puzzling at the general weirdness that is Pete Wentz.
He gives Jon’s hair one final snip before putting his scissors down and unclipping the cape from around Jon with a flourish.
“All done!”
“Thanks, Bren,” Jon says, giving him an affable grin. He ambles over to pay Andy, carefully skirting a man standing in right in the way of his path.
Brendon blinks. The man’s standing perfectly still and straight, like he just sprouted out of the tile floor, stiff and unbending as a wooden board. He’s staring back at Brendon, actually, with calm brown eyes-almost unnervingly calm, Brendon thinks. He feels like jiggling his hand or tapping his foot just to make up for all the non-motion surrounding the guy.
“I’d like to get my hair cut,” the man calls to him from across the floor. His words are awkward and stilted, kind of. He sounds almost as out of place as he looks-the sheer amount of scarves and paisley he’s sporting makes Brendon’s head hurt.
“Um, alright,” Brendon answers. He feels absurd talking to someone ten feet away. They’re standing facing each other, with a huge expanse of the floor just stretching out between them.
“Well, uh,” Brendon says before stopping. He blinks and forcibly wills his composure back. It’s like he’s some kind of goddamn rookie at this again. “I’m free, so if you’ll just walk this way, I can help you.”
“Thank you,” the man says seriously. He walks slowly over, his long, lanky legs transforming his gait into a conflicting mix of ungainly grace. His high-heeled leather shoes clack across the polished tiles. The noise is strangely sharp amidst the chaotic roar of blow-driers, razors, and chatter.
The man carefully sits himself down in the leather chair and then looks at Brendon expectantly.
“Well-“ Brendon’s voice comes out too loud, too brash, so he clears his throat and starts over. “What can I do for you today?”
The man blinks at him slowly. “I’d like to get my hair cut.”
“Um, yes, I did understand that much,” Brendon says with infinite patience. “But how would you like me to cut your hair? What style? You don’t want me to just shave it all off, do you?” he cracks weakly.
The man’s lips don’t even twitch. “No, I don’t.”
“Well. Alright.” Brendon fiddles with his apron.
“I’d just like a simple haircut,” he explains haltingly. “With straight bangs, and just-“ He gives up on explaining and simply makes motions around his shaggy brown hair. His fingers are long and straight.
Brendon furrows his brow and shakes his head a bit. But no, the man is still sitting there and he’s still asking for-
“A bowl cut?” Brendon asks disbelievingly.
“Well, yes.”
“A bowl cut?” Brendon clarifies just one more time, because really-a bowl fucking haircut. Brendon snorts in spite of himself.
“Do you have a problem with that?” the man asks, a slight edge in his voice.
“Look-what was your name again?” Brendon asks.
“Ryan. Ryan Ross,” Ryan Ross says coolly.
“Okay, Ryan. I mean, Ryan Ross.” Brendon laughs a little bit. “Why do you want a bowl cut?”
“Do I have to give a reason?” Ryan Ross says stiffly. “Isn’t the customer always supposed to be right?”
“Yeah, except when they’re wrong and on the verge of committing style suicide,” Brendon says, still laughing.
“The term style suicide doesn’t even make sense,” Ryan Ross informs him icily.
Brendon lets out a fresh chortle at this completely inane remark. He has a feeling he’s being rude, but, wow. A bowl cut. That’s one he hasn’t heard before. “Really, dude. Is this a joke? Lose a bet?”
“No,” Ryan Ross says emphatically, the very tops of his cheekbones beginning to flush.
“Why the hell would you want to look like a twelve-year-old?” Brendon asks, honestly curious.
“Okay, wow, I don’t have to give you my business,” Ryan Ross says angrily, beginning to get up from the chair. “I would be more than happy to go somewhere else if you just can’t find it within your obviously perfectly tressed self to give me a fucking bowl cut.”
“Hey, no, man, sit down.” Brendon pushes down lightly on his shoulders. “I’ll give you the best fucking bowl cut ever.”
He clips the cape in place, still silently sniggering to himself. A fucking bowl cut.
A few minutes later, he frowns, in the middle of cutting Ryan Ross’s bangs.
“Hey, was that sarcasm?” he asks suspiciously.
“What?” Ryan Ross asks in a monotone.
“The whole ‘my perfectly tressed self’ comment.” Brendon frowns at Ryan in the mirror.
Ryan looks blankly back at him. “I don’t know. What do you think?” His eyes dart up to stare at Brendon’s hair and then back down.
“Hey, this haircut is amazing, okay? The bangs, everything. It flatters my cheekbones and takes attention away from my eyebrows,” Brendon tells him seriously. Brendon fucking slaved over this haircut. And it is pretty good, if he does say so himself. “Besides, this kind of shag is really in right now,” Brendon adds.
“Of course. Because you would obviously know all about the latest fashion trends,” Ryan Ross says, still inflectionless. His eyes go over Brendon’s lavender hoodie and skinny black jeans derisively enough to tell Brendon all he needs to know, though.
Okay, yeah, this guy was kind of amusing at first, with his whole stiff-scarecrow routine, but this? This is so crossing the line. Especially considering what he’s wearing.
“Look at yourself,” Brendon tells him, snipping away angrily with his scissors-not really looking where he’s cutting, actually. Bowl cuts are simple enough for him to do in his sleep, and anyway, if he accidentally nicks this guy, well…He wouldn’t exactly be devastated.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ryan Ross asks, a crease forming between his brows.
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Brendon says. “The paisley? The scarves? The pointy leather shoes? It’s like you fell into three different time periods and decided to wear souvenirs from all of them.”
Ryan Ross’s eyes bore into him. They’re still calm, but now they also look soulless. He’s obviously finished making conversation with Brendon, which Brendon is perfectly fine with, especially now that he’s-
“Done,” Brendon says shortly. “I hope you enjoy your new haircut. Oh, and don’t bother leaving a tip; I’m sure you’ll need all the money you can save to replace your mirrors.” He pauses. “After they break when you look into them,” he adds, just to make sure Ryan fucking Ross got the point. Brendon’s not much for subtlety, okay?
“Duly noted,” Ryan says equally curtly.
He marches over to Andy, slams the money down, and then marches out the door. His thin hips move intriguingly when he’s stomping around like that. Brendon quickly shakes his head to get rid of the rogue thought.
Pete’s eyeing him from across the room, eyebrow raised. Brendon rolls his eyes and shrugs back at him. He needs a fucking break.
* * *
“Honestly, Brendon, I expected this from Pete, but now you?” Greta’s looking at him sternly, hands fisted at her hips. “This is completely unacceptable behavior, Brendon. That customer practically stormed out! I thought you actually cared about the ASS!”
In the booth next to them, Joe’s cutting some old lady’s hair. She’s mouthing the word ‘ass’ to herself and looking scandalized. Brendon sighs and shushes Greta.
“The customer’s name is Ryan Ross, Greta. Crazy alliteration, yeah? Crazy guy, too. You know, he wanted a bowl cut.”
“So just give him one!” Greta says exasperatedly.
“I did!” Brendon says. “But I might have, um, needled him about it first.”
“And that was why he stormed out?” Greta asks.
“Well, no. We kind of…got into an argument.” Brendon rubs the back of his neck.
Greta looks at him patiently.
“Well, he started going off on my clothing! I mean, seriously. Low blow, right? Who the hell insults someone’s taste in fashion?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Greta says. “Maybe someone who insults another person’s taste in hairstyles?”
“Greta,” Brendon whines.
“So you two just started arguing about that? Hair and clothing choice? And he got so mad he stormed out?” Greta asks. Her lips seem to be trembling. Brendon eyes her.
“Um, yes? What?” he asks as Greta presses a hand to her mouth. “No, seriously, what?”
“Brendon, sweetie…You know I don’t like to use labels, and all, but…” Greta looks up at him, eyes twinkling. “Honey, that is really, really gay.”
“I am gay,” Brendon points out.
Greta just giggles.
* * *
Brendon can feel the back of his neck prickling, goosebumps rising despite the warm temperature inside the salon. Victoria’s watching him again. He forces himself to continue putting away the tools. He’s not turning around for another one of Victoria’s creepy smiles.
It is, he reflects, really fucking annoying to have your business situated right across the street from your biggest competition. Especially when said competition is scary as hell. He turns around to put the spray bottle away, accidentally raises his gaze, and sees Victoria curve blood red lips at him in a sultry smile.
Brendon shudders. Victoria’s beautiful, but she also looks like she could devour him in one bite. And something about that smile is ominous.
He quickly turns away again.
Behind him, Andy starts talking to someone who just came in.
“What’d you say? Your name’s Ryan Ross?”
Brendon whirls around. “What, you’re here again? You want me to shave that mess off your head, or something?” he blurts out. “It’d look better than that bowl cut, anyway.”
Ryan-dressed in a blue v-neck and several necklaces this time-merely looks back at him, unruffled. He even smirks a bit. Brendon pushes back a rapidly mounting feeling of foreboding.
There’s a solid, bearded man standing behind him. His brown hair falls in a shiny curve over blue eyes. Paired with a black t-shirt and jacket, the effect is…nice. Brendon looks at him consideringly.
“Now that is a good haircut,” Brendon says definitively after a few moments of contemplation. “Why don’t you take a few pages out of your friend’s book, Ross, hm? Those bangs are amazing for your cheekbones,” he tells the bearded man. “Where’d you get it cut?”
He smirks, mirroring Ryan. “Actually, I got it cut across the street at Cobra Starship.”
Brendon nearly bites off his tongue. “Oh.”
Brendon looks back at Ryan. “So what are you here for?” he asks slowly.
“Not a head-shaving, surprisingly enough,” Ryan says. Brendon almost smiles before schooling his expression into something suitably cooler. “In fact, I’m here with Spencer Smith-“ he inclines his head at his friend; Brendon mentally exults in another fantastic alliteration “-to take some pictures.”
Brendon blinks. “Pictures?”
Greta and Pete, sensing an approaching menace with their Jedi mind powers, have come up behind him. “Pictures?” they echo.
“Yeah.” Ryan grins now, revealing every one of his shiny white teeth. “For the newspaper. I write for the LV Times. I’m currently doing a piece for the Annual Services Survey; I don’t know if you’ve heard of it?”
Behind them, Joe drops the curling iron with a resounding clack.
* * *
“Okay. So. This might be a problem,” Brendon says, trying not to hyperventilate.
“Really, Bden, do you think so?” Pete asks him sarcastically. He’s tossing the curling iron up and down to himself.
“Brendon, that reporter looked like he hated you,” Greta says worriedly. “If he writes a really, really terrible review-and he definitely looked capable of it, did you see that grin?--we could lose countless customers! We could go out of business!” Her voice goes up at the end of the sentence, tight and squeaky.
Even Joe looks disturbed. His afro appears to be quivering fretfully. “Bren, man, this is bad,” he says.
“C’mon, guys, water off a duck’s back, right? We’ve had bad reviews before!” Brendon says.
Pete gives him a look. “Yeah, Bren, we’ve had bad reviews before, but none of those reviewers actively hated any of us. A review from him would probably go beyond bad and settle somewhere in appalling.”
Brendon bites his lip. They sit silently for a few minutes, staring at the hair salon. Their hair salon, the salon that Pete built up himself from scratch and that they all had devoted their lives to.
Greta latches onto his arm. “Brendon, you’ve got to do something!” she says urgently.
“What?” Brendon asks helplessly.
“Anything! Apologize, or, just-anything is better than nothing, Bren.” She looks at him, eyes bright with unhappiness. “I mean, it’s not like it can get any worse, right?”
“Any worse. Right. Thanks, Greta,” Brendon huffs out. She raises an eyebrow at him.
He inclines the chair he’s sitting on until he’s almost horizontal, staring at the ceiling. They had Gerard paint it a few years back, and Brendon stares at the jagged streaks of color until they start to bleed together, one huge mash of red and white and green and purple and black.
“How would I get in touch with him, though?” Brendon asks finally.
“He’s on the newspaper, right?” Pete says. “So it can’t be too difficult to look him up and get contact information.”
Brendon smiles a little despite the situation. Pete’s always the one to go to if you don’t know how to start stalking a person.
“So, what? I just call him out of the blue and apologize? That would sound so fake, though.”
“Brendon Urie, I don’t give a damn if you’re embarrassed about sounding fake.” Greta’s determined face appears in his field of vision, hovering right over his face. “You are going to give that Ryan Ross a call and give him a suitably demeaning apology. I think some groveling would be involved.”
Brendon sighs. Groveling. Right.
* * *
The bright light of the computer screen glares into his eyes mercilessly, the black digits stamped across the page standing out in full relief. Ryan Ross, it says. Reporter, the following line continues helpfully. But Brendon’s eyes are fixed on the third line: 829-3441.
Well. Brendon quickly dials the number before he can chicken out, his fingers trembling slightly on the numberpad.
The harsh ring startles him, for some reason, and he gnaws on his fingernail before remembering to stop. Damn it. Brendon tries to mentally run through the apology he had prepared-with Greta; she was very insistent on using the words deeply, regretful, and ashamed-before realizing that it had all completely flown out of his head.
“Hello?” a sleepy voice asks.
Oh, shit. Um. Um. “Hello?” Brendon says back hesitantly.
“Yeah?” the voice says.
“Is this, um.” Brendon licks his lips. “Is this Ryan Ross?”
The voice sounds amused. “Shouldn’t I be asking you to identify yourself?”
“Um.” Brendon can feel himself flailing mentally.
“If it helps you regain the power of speech, this is in fact Ryan Ross,” Ryan says clearly and gently, like he’s talking to someone mentally slow.
“This is…” Brendon clears his throat. “This is Brendon Urie?” he says, voice going up at the end involuntarily.
“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” Ryan asks patiently.
“From, um.” Brendon takes a deep breath and says, “the hair salon? Clandestine?”
There is absolute silence on the other end.
Brendon decides to just continue. “I just wanted to apologize for my behavior a few days ago; it was completely unprofessional of me, and you know, some people can pull off bowl cuts! Courageous people! You have a lot of courage, dude,” he babbles. “Uh, dude?”
Silence.
“Ryan?”
And then there’s a ring tone.
Brendon jerks the phone away from his ear and stares at it. Call disconnected, the screen blinks at him happily. What the-? Brendon stares at it in disbelief. Did the guy seriously just--? Hang up? And while he was apologizing, too! Fucking-
Before he can think further, he jabs at the redial button furiously.
“What?” Ryan says tersely after a few rings.
“Okay, wow, I’m just going to assume that the call was cut off because, I don’t know, you don’t have great reception where you are, because hanging up on someone while they’re trying to apologize to you is incredibly rude! And obnoxious!” Brendon says all in one breath, and then sits there breathing heavily into the phone, because, well….oops.
“You know, maybe I really am clueless about the rules of etiquette,” Ryan says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “but that somehow doesn’t sound like an apology, even to my uncultured ears.”
Brendon sputters into the phone for a few seconds.
“Am I allowed to hang up now?” Ryan drawls.
“No, wait!” Brendon says hurriedly. He can’t let obnoxious assholes get in the way of the good of Clandestine, right? Right. He swallows down bile and says, “You know, I really am sorry I let my temper get the best of me the other day. It was very unprofessional of me, and I just wanted to let you know that that is definitely not a regular occurrence,” Brendon rattles off, the rehearsed apology speech suddenly coming back to him.
“Really?” Ryan says in a disbelieving tone. “Because somehow I seem to remember returning at a later date and you doing a repeat performance of Rudest Hairdresser in Las Vegas. Just for my benefit, I’m assuming?”
Brendon sighs and counts to ten before answering. “You are completely right,” he starts.
“Oh, so now the customer is right?” Ryan interrupts. “After you discover that the customer is in fact not a customer, but a reporter?”
Brendon opens and closes his mouth.
“You know, I really can’t stand people like you,” Ryan tells him conversationally. “People who think they can get away with being rude to customers, and then suddenly kissing ass when the customer actually turns out to be important? This is exactly the kind of breach of service the anonymity of my review is supposed to discover. So, thanks, really. For giving me material that is pure gold for my review.”
“Look,” Brendon says desperately, “it was just! A bowl cut, man? Are you kidding me?”
“You might want to do something about that broken record,” Ryan says, and then, very deliberately, hangs up.
* * *
“And then! And then he called me a broken record!” Brendon paces up and down the hair salon floor, gesticulating wildly.
Greta bites her lip and doesn’t say anything.
Joe is looking at him with a hang-dog, disappointed air. “Wow, man,” he says. “That’s like-Ryan Ross: 1, and Brendon Urie: -1000.”
“Thanks so much, Joe,” Brendon snaps.
“See, like that!” Joe says, pointing.
“Like what?”
“Your temper! All I did was make one little comment, and you snap at me! You use bitter sarcasm! Maybe that Ryan Ross dude really does know what he’s talking about.”
“Are you kidding me?” Brendon says.
“Look, sweetie,” Greta says, holding out her hands placatingly, “you just seem a bit on edge right now, is all. I’m not saying you have issues with anger management normally, but ever since interacting with Ryan Ross, you do seem a bit…”
“Like you’re pms-ing,” Pete tells him bluntly.
Brendon stares at them.
“Let’s just take a step back and try to salvage what’s left of the situation, okay?” Greta says.
Brendon flops down on a chair with a groan. “What’s there left to salvage? He hates me! He’s going to write a scathing report of the hair salon! And then we’re all going to be out of jobs!”
“Brendon, calm down,” Greta says sharply. “What if we approach this from a different angle?”
Pete’s nodding at her, looking thoughtful. “More survey-focused, instead of review-focused?”
“Right!” Greta beams at him.
“What are you guys talking about?” Brendon asks, feeling stupid. Joe looks equally puzzled, but that’s kind of his default expression.
“What if we try to reach out to the whole population, instead of just focusing on changing the opinion of one reporter? We could change the opinions of the entire city!” Greta says, growing more excited with each word.
“It would definitely have long-term benefits,” Pete says. “But how exactly would we do that?”
“Publicity!” Brendon says suddenly. “We’re banking on the fact that if people try us, they’ll love us, right? Because if they don’t, then we shouldn’t be in business anyway.”
Joe’s peering at him from under his afro. “According to that logic, shouldn’t Ryan Ross’s hatred of Clandestine Salon mean we ought to be out of business?”
Brendon waves a hand at him. “Whatever. That guy’s an asshole. He doesn’t count. What if…” Brendon bounces in his chair, savoring the spark of anticipation he gets whenever he hits on a really great idea. “What if we hand out flyers that give away free haircuts? The whole city will come! And then we’ll transform them into loyal customers!”
“You make us sound like brainwashing Nazis,” Pete says, a large grin slowly taking over his face.
Greta’s frowning and scribbling something down on a piece of paper. “We can’t afford to give away free haircuts for the week and a half until the ASS. We’d have to make it a one day deal…”
“We could make it BOGO,” Joe says, jumping into the conversation.
They look at him.
“Sorry,” Joe says, looking sheepish. “Payless reference. Those commercials are everywhere. Anyway. We could make it buy one get one free! Everyone would bring their friends! And we’d still make money.”
“That’s genius!” Greta says, beaming at him.
Joe blushes. Pete grins and claps him on the back. “That’s great, man. I’ll start working on those flyers…” Pete saunters out of the store, whistling something unidentifiable.
“Well,” Brendon says, smiling stupidly. “This is fantastic! It’d seriously wipe the smirk off that asshole’s face if we actually won best hair salon!”
“Brendon,” Greta says, looking solemn.
“What?” Brendon says warily.
“I think we shouldn’t give up on Ryan Ross just yet.”
“B-but! He’s a total asshole! Any of you would probably end up arguing with him if you guys talked! And besides, kissing up would only validate his point, right?”
Greta shakes her head. “An apology after being completely rude is not kissing up, Bren. And, no,” she holds a hand up to stop his protests, “that apology you gave him, liberally seasoned with insults, does not count.”
Brendon looks at her dubiously. “So, I just call him up again?”
“Why don’t you try talking to him face to face? It might go over better if he can see your puppy eyes…”
* * *
Brendon stares down at the Mapquest directions with a sense of imminent doom. According to the sheet of paper, he’s arrived at the destination. According to the sign proudly proclaiming the Las Vegas Times, he’s arrived at his destination.
…But, you know, maybe he should make sure. And just stand here for a few minutes, making sure. In fact, maybe he should go back to the hair salon and look at the newspaper website again just to make absolutely sure that this is where Ryan Ross works. Yeah, that sounds reasonable.
Brendon turns around to start walking back when his cell phone starts ringing.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Brendon, hi!” Greta says. “Are you talking to Ryan Ross yet?”
“Um,” Brendon says.
“Are you inside his office yet?”
“Um,” Brendon says.
“Are you inside the newspaper building yet?”
“Well, see-“ Brendon starts.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Greta says, cutting him off. “Go inside. And if any of us see you back at the salon before you talk to Ross, we’re not letting you in.”
“Um,” Brendon says.
“G’luck, sweetie!” Greta chirps before hanging up.
Brendon resists the urge to gnash his teeth or pull out his hair or something else that suitably expresses his agony. Instead, he valiantly walks the three feet to the door, pulls it open, and somehow convinces his feet to walk him inside.
The blanket of quiet that immediately surrounds him is unnerving. A lesser man would have immediately turned around and walked back out. But no, Brendon continues. Brendon perseveres. Brendon is…talking about himself in the third person in his own head.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asks politely.
Brendon squeaks.
She says, “Pardon? I didn’t catch that.”
“I said, um. I need to speak with Ryan Ross. Please?” Brendon tries to plaster a charming grin on his face.
“His office is down the hall and to the left.”
“Thanks,” Brendon says.
He makes his way down the hall nervously until he reaches a battered door with a small placard that reads Ryan Ross, Reporter.
Fantastic. Should he knock? He should probably knock.
Brendon raises a hand and timidly knocks.
No one answers. Brendon frowns and knocks harder.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be there in a minute. I’m on the phone,” Ryan says irritably through the door.
Brendon waits there, fidgeting. This is awkward. People are milling about all around him. He wonders if any of them are curious about him. What they’re thinking. Brendon straightens up and tries to comb down his hair a little.
All of a sudden, the door is pulled open and Ryan pokes his thin face out.
“You?” he asks incredulously.
Brendon tries to smile at him. “Yep. Me.”
“Are you actually stalking me?” Ryan asks (unfairly, Brendon thinks).
“No, of course not! I mean, it wasn’t actually hard to figure out where you worked after you told us. I’m not really brain-damaged, even though I sometimes act like it.” Brendon offers him a sheepish grin.
“Just because it’s not hard doesn’t mean it’s not stalking,” Ryan says flatly.
“I’m not! Look, I just wanted to chance to give you a real apology.”
“A real one,” Ryan repeats.
“Yeah. I know we kind of got off on the wrong foot-“
“Really? I didn’t notice that at all,” Ryan deadpans.
“Okay. Um.” Brendon nobly chooses to disregard Ryan’s sarcastic comment. “The point is, I know I was an asshole. I shouldn’t have made comments about your clothing choice or your hairstyle choice. It slipped out when I wasn’t thinking.”
“Do you ever? Think, that is,” Ryan says boredly.
“See? See? This is totally why we got into an argument! It takes two to tango,” Brendon says triumphantly.
“Um, what?”
“Yeah, okay, maybe I shouldn’t have made those comments about the bowl cut. But you didn’t exactly lay back and take it! You were insulting me too!”
“You started it,” Ryan says, almost petulantly.
“So, okay. Why don’t we just stop arguing about whose fault the argument was, and try to start new?” Brendon opens his eyes up really wide and tries to look as sincere as possible.
“Hah, yeah, no. Nice try,” Ryan says and starts closing his door.
Brendon sticks his foot in desperately. “C’mon, please. Just give me a few more minutes!”
Ryan stares at him. Brendon tries to exude an aura of puppies and kittens and other lovable things. Although, once Brendon thinks about it, someone like Ryan Ross probably kicks puppies for fun.
“Fine,” Ryan mutters. “I was about ready to take a break anyway.”
He opens the door a fraction of an inch wider, just enough for Brendon to squeeze his way through. They sit down, Ryan behind his desk, Brendon in a ratty old armchair.
They stare at each other for a few minutes. Brendon worries his lip. The sound of the clock ticking in the corner is really loud.
“So?” Ryan says. “Are you just going to sit there, staring at me, or do you actually have something to say?”
“I do! I-“ Brendon leans forward earnestly. “Look, you can’t just base your review on my attitude, right? That would be like-like watching a movie and just commenting on the costume design!”
Ryan raises an eyebrow.
Brendon presses onward. “You have to consider the haircut, too! Look at it! Is that not the most beautiful bowl cut you have ever seen?”
Ryan gives him a look that tells him exactly how unimpressed he is.
Brendon huffs out a breath. “Okay, come on. You have to give me something to work with! If you’re not satisfied with the cut, it’s probably just because you chose the wrong style! Which, honestly, a bowl cut is the wrong style for everyone.”
“Blaming the customer again?” Ryan says pleasantly.
Brendon clenches his teeth, frustrated. “I’m just saying…Give us another chance. Please. Maybe I can fix that bowl cut to make you look less hideous.”
“Wow, I don’t know how I can say no in the face of such flattery,” Ryan says. “Oh, wait. No.”
“I’m serious!” Brendon cocks his head to the side and studies Ryan. “Maybe if I shortened the side like this…” He reaches out and gently moves Ryan’s hair around, considering. The strands feel soft and slippery.
Ryan is looking at him oddly, his cheeks beginning to color red. Brendon frowns and leans in closer. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.
“Are you feeling alright?” Brendon asks in a hushed tone; because he’s about three inches from Ryan and it somehow doesn’t feel polite to bellow in his face.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” a female voice says from behind Brendon. “I didn’t realize you had, um. A visitor.”
Ryan seems to have become a statue. His mouth has fallen slightly open. Grinning, Brendon nudges it closed and turns around to see a young woman.
She’s staring, openmouthed in shock for some reason. Huh.
“So, I’ll, uh…” Weirdly, she looks really flustered. “I’ll just, um, leave you two to it! I’ll, uh, talk to you later, Ryan. When your, er, visitor, is gone.”
And then she turns around and starts walking rapidly away.
Brendon looks back at Ryan. “Is she shy, or something?” he asks.
“No, she isn’t shy,” Ryan says, sounding strangled.
“Well, she kept stuttering,” Brendon says reasonably.
“That’s because you were about two centimeters away from me and cupping my face!” Ryan says, getting really red now.
Brendon frowns, perplexed. He thinks he’s missing something.
“Um, okay,” Brendon draws out. “So. What do you say?”
“About what?” Ryan asks in an annoyed tone, still flushed.
“Coming back in for a redo!” Brendon smiles at him.
“Brendon, I’m perfectly happy with my hair the way it is,” Ryan says exasperatedly.
“Did you just call me Brendon?” he asks, a huge grin taking over his face.
“Isn’t that your name?” Ryan asks pointedly.
“Well, yeah, but…I’m growing on you, aren’t I?”
“Like a rash that won’t go away,” Ryan says huffily.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t even front. I’m charming!” Brendon crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue out. The corners of Ryan’s lips twitch, and Brendon smiles. He knew it.
“Here, tell you what,” Brendon says. “We’re having a special next Monday; buy one haircut get one free! Here’s the coupon.” He shoves it into Ryan’s unresisting hand. “You can bring your friend! The one with the good hair!”
“Spencer?” Ryan says.
“Yes, Spencer! Spencer Smith! It’ll be amazing.”
Ryan starts trying to hand him back the flyer. “Look, I really don’t think-“
Brendon curls his hand over Ryan’s, and he shuts up. “Just keep it, alright? Maybe you’ll change your mind.” Brendon winks, then gets off the chair and starts walking away.
“I’ll see you on Monday!” he calls, looking back for a moment. Ryan has to drag his eyes up to meet his gaze, which…
Brendon narrows his eyes as he walks out the building. Ryan was dragging his eyes off a region considerably south of Brendon’s face. Meaning…
Brendon grins and hums a little ditty. This is really convenient.
* * *
There’s a loud bang as Gabe bursts in through the front door, brandishing what looks like today’s paper. His eyes have a crazed glint in them. He looks even more manic than usual. Brendon smirks.
“What is the meaning of this?” Gabe demands as he shakes the newspaper.
“What’s the meaning of what?” Brendon asks smoothly. Beside him, Joe whistles innocently.
“The meaning of this!” Gabe shoves the newspaper in Brendon’s face.
“Oh, that,” Brendon drawls.
Pete comes up from behind him and rests an elbow on Brendon’s shoulder. “It’s just a coupon, man. Why, you want a haircut?” Pete grins at him wolfishly.
“Oh, I see how it is.” Gabe takes a step back and begins stroking an imaginary mustache. “You’re playing dirty, huh?”
“Dirty?” Greta purrs. Brendon jumps, somehow she came up behind him without him noticing. “Of course not, Gabe.”
They smirk at each other. Gabe drags his eyes in a heated line along Greta’s body.
“Okay!” Brendon squeaks, jumping in front of Greta. “It’s just a coupon! Nothing special!” Greta shoves him aside.
“You know,” Gabe continues, eyes still on Greta, “I didn’t realize the ASS was this important to you.”
“Oh, my mind is always on the ASS,” Greta drawls. “I’m constantly thinking of ways to…win it.”
Brendon exchanges an uncomfortable look with Joe. Somehow, he doesn’t think they’re talking about the survey anymore. Pete’s still grinning, looking amused by the whole thing.
“Well, you’ll be sorry,” Gabe says in a silky voice.
“Will I, Gabe?” Greta asks, looking demure. “Will you make me…sorry?”
Brendon clears his throat loudly. “Um, so, we’re opening in fifteen minutes, and I’m pretty sure you guys are too, so…” Brendon trails off pointedly.
Gabe barely spares a glance for him. “You seem to be right, little Urie. This isn’t over,” he promises Greta.
“Oh, I hope not,” she breathes.
Her eyes stay on him as Gabe saunters back out the door, an extra sway in his hips that Brendon is sure he put there deliberately for Greta.
As soon as he’s gone, Brendon wheels on her.
“Greta!” he says.
“What?” she asks languidly.
“You can’t just--! Just--!” Brendon can’t even-he has no words. He is speechless, for possibly the first time in his life.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she tells him airily. “Gosh, it looks like it’s going to be a great day today, isn’t it? It’s so nice and sunny outside.”
Brendon eyes the sky doubtfully. Dark thunderclouds are gathering at the horizon.
“C’mon, Bren,” Pete says, clapping a hand on his shoulder and steering him away. “Let’s not deprive Greta of the kicks she gets out of fraternizing with the enemy, yeah?”
“I still don’t know what you mean,” Greta says loudly, but a blush has stained her cheeks a rosy pink.
Brendon glares menacingly at the Cobra Starship salon across the street. Going after Greta is totally hitting below the belt! The snake on the sign looks almost like it’s smirking at him. Brendon blinks. He must be imagining things.
Part 2