The Salty Sea Wench [standalone, joncer, ryden, R]
Title: The Salty Sea Wench
Author: silver_etoile
Pairing: Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own. This didn't happen.
Summary: Jon is content with his job in the little coastal town with his regular customers and easy orders, but when a strange fisherman clomps into his bar, things start to change.
A/N: written for panicolympics off the prompt A calm sea does not make a skilled sailor. Maybe you saw it before. I dunno. In case you're wondering, the town is based off where I grew up. I know some people commented on that before... beta'd by gingerrstar
*
Jon Walker sees a lot of things while at his job tending bar in the little pub down off Ocean Avenue. The Salty Sea Wench attracts a similar type of clientele with the occasional oddball lawyer or business man down on his luck. Jon watches everyone that passes through the little swinging, mermaid-topped doors.
Most of them are regulars, though the occasional tourist stumbles upon the little bar, nestled deep into the Oregon coastline. It’s always wet, a lingering damp that never seems to leave their bodies, even when curled up at home in front of a crackling fireplace.
The little town, mainly a fishing community with a spattering of corporate holdings, manages to slip by, unnoticed by most of the world, and it’s content to do so.
Jon has worked at the Salty Sea Wench for several years, ever since finishing college with not a job opportunity in the world. He’d learned how to tap beer without getting too much foam, how to uncork bottles without fear of overflow. He’d learned how to make the fancy drinks for the tourists, the cosmos and the sex on the beaches, the margaritas, the mimosas for the ladies. Jon knows the bar and he knows it well.
He knows the regulars, the ones who take the same seat every evening and order the same drink. He knows the ones who only come in on Saturdays and order a few, the ones who tell him about their lives, the ones who say nothing. He knows them all.
There’s Pete, the reporter who works for the little local paper, The Driftwood Chronicle. He writes little pieces about the town, but it’s a tiny town and not much really goes on. He’s got a notebook he keeps in his back pocket that’s covered from front to back in words, songs, little writings that Jon doesn’t get to see. Jon always asks him why he doesn’t send in his writings to bigger newspapers, magazines, publishers. All he gets is an unclear grumble and Pete pulling his bottle closer.
Pete hangs out down at the tattoo parlor a lot, getting more and more to adorn his arms. Jon wonders why he does it sometimes, but Pete just says he likes them.
There’s Gerard, who comes in sporadically since his job keeps him on the road. He works as a traveling face painter for fairs and carnivals. When he’s not traveling, he drops by the bar to nurse a beer and not tell Jon about his life. Jon’s seen a few of Gerard’s drawings. He’s not bad, not terrible. Jon wonders why he wastes his time painting rainbows and unicorns on little girls’ faces when he could be in art school or drawing masterpieces.
There’s Ryan, the fresh-from-college boy working in the upscale, or as upscale as it gets in the little town, business of Johnson fisheries. But Ryan doesn’t work as a farmer. He’s in the corporate office in town, running meetings and keeping the business afloat. He’s surprisingly good at what he does and seems to enjoy it.
Jon sees all of these people on a regular basis and he doesn’t question what makes Pete mumble answers to his questions, or Gerard’s glares when he asks questions. Instead, he cleans glasses and pours taps, mixes drinks for the lost tourists and gazes out the back window at the Pacific Ocean that lies beyond.
The day is overcast, as always, and a lonely drizzle has been coming down all day. From his little window, Jon can see the ocean, angry and hurling itself against the fragmented shore. The seagulls burst from their cliff-side nests, squawking at the sea.
Jon cleans an empty glass, placing it with a clink under the counter, right next to its fellows, as the door opens with a gust of wind. The wooden mermaids clack together and a cold breeze sweeps the place. A collective grumble rises from the customers and the door swings shut again.
Jon glances up as the newcomer enters the bar. He doesn’t recognize him, and he doesn’t look like a tourist. The kid is young, maybe twenty. He doesn’t look old enough to drink, but he takes a seat at the bar anyway.
Jon takes a moment to look over the boy as he pulls off his hood and glances around him. The boy is wearing thick boots and a warm overcoat. His hair is wet, even after being under the hood. It’s messy and drips into his face, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are large and brown, blinking slowly as he takes in the anchors on the wall, the sturdy wooden tables topped with long-flickering candles.
So Jon pauses, finishing the glass he’s cleaning and setting it down finally, heading over to where the kid has pulled out a wrinkled book and set it on the table.
“What can I do for you?” Jon asks, like he does to all new customers.
The boy pauses, looking thoughtful. “I’ll have a Black Dragon,” he says finally, smiling at Jon and tapping the counter once with his knuckles.
Jon doesn’t show his surprise at a boy like this ordering something other than a beer. Most customers don’t order much else.
“I need to see an I.D.,” he says, suspicious of the boy’s age.
The kid digs in his pockets, coming out with a weathered card that he slides across the bar. He’s not looking at Jon as Jon inspects it.
It’s an Oregon license and the boy’s picture is on it. Brendon Boyd Urie, reads the name across the top and Jon skips down to the birth date. It’s dated a few months before. This kid is just barely twenty-one.
“Brendon, eh?” Jon asks as he hands back the I.D.
Brendon just smiles, glancing at the mast standing in one corner of the bar. He tucks the card back in his jeans and sighs. It’s not an unhappy sigh. It’s just a sigh.
Jon wonders at him for a moment, but turns and makes his drink, coming back a few minutes later and sliding it across the counter.
Brendon smiles again, a sort of dreamy look in his eyes as though he’s not really there.
“So, Brendon,” Jon says conversationally, leaning on the counter and smiling nicely. “Whereabouts are you from?”
Brendon just blinks and takes his drink but doesn’t drink it.
Jon waits for an answer, curious as to this new boy whom he’s never seen before. He waits about a minute before deciding that Brendon isn’t going to answer him. He stands up, preparing to leave and go back to his cleaning, when Brendon speaks.
“I am a crane standing amongst a flock of chickens.”
Jon stops and turns. “What?”
Brendon just smiles and gazes out the back window at the drizzling rain. “It’s a nice day today.”
Jon glances back and frowns. When he turns back around, Brendon is sipping his drink and staring into the room at the few other patrons that choose to spend their Tuesday evenings in a bar. Jon’s not sure what to make of him. He tries again.
“Where are you going?”
Brendon blinks and smiles. “Here and there.”
Jon doesn’t get it, and is about to ask another question when the door swings open again and another cold burst of air sweeps the bar. The grumbling returns but the man in the door just ignores it and takes steps to the bar where he sits down heavily in his usual chair.
“Evening, Pete,” Jon greets the man sitting two chairs from Brendon.
Pete just nods. “Give me a beer.”
Jon gets him his order and slides it down. After a lingering glance at Brendon, Jon moves back to his spot cleaning glasses.
“How’s it going, Pete?” he asks conversationally, setting the glass down with a clink next to the others.
Pete shrugs dully. “Slow. We need more action in this town.”
Jon smiles. “Not enough people in trouble or not enough people?”
Another shrug. “It’s slow,” is the only response he gets apart from a heavy sigh.
Jon continues cleaning glasses, listening to the howling wind and crash of the ocean down below them. There’s an old radio in the corner, but it isn’t loud enough to be heard over the wind. On good days, when the sun peeks through the clouds, it can be heard playing fragmented streams of old 60s and 70s rock, bits of Jimmy Buffet songs and some Johnny Cash slipping through. Most of the time, however, it’s too windy to hear the music and no one pays attention anyway.
Jon glances a time or two at Brendon down the bar. His drink is only halfway gone and he has the same faraway look in his eyes as he gazes out the window.
Jon turns back to Pete. “I was reading about some contest in a magazine, a writing contest, you ever enter one?”
Pete mumbles something unintelligible and gestures for another drink, which Jon slides him slowly.
“One cannot refuse to eat just because there is a chance of being choked.”
Both Pete and Jon look over at Brendon, who’s spoken and is now gazing at the ceiling, his head tilted to the side as though finding some sort of meaning in it.
Pete looks curious. “Who are you?”
“Brendon,” Jon replies for him, having the feeling that Brendon won’t respond. He’s right, as Brendon just smiles slightly and looks down from the ceiling to Pete.
“Who is he?” Pete asks again, addressing Jon and not Brendon.
Jon shrugs. “A swan amongst ducks or something.”
Pete gives him a weird look and he shrugs again.
Brendon tilts his head to the side, unperturbed that they’re talking about him right in front of him.
“It’s raining harder.”
Jon looks out the back window to see that Brendon’s right. The drizzle has turned into a pour, rain splashing the low window and wind rattling the shutters. The ocean is more turbulent than before and slams against the shore.
Jon and Pete exchange a glance and look back at Brendon. Brendon doesn’t notice, sipping his drink. He’s down to the second level now.
“You a fisher?” Pete asks, glancing at Brendon’s boots. Jon looks closer and realizes that the black material is covered in drawings of fish and boats. They look like the fisherman boots that Jon sees many men wearing in the bar.
Brendon turns and glances out the window to the ocean. “The ship has docked for two weeks.”
Pete turns to Jon and nods at Brendon. “Tuna fisherman. They come in to unload this time of year.”
Jon just frowns. Brendon is barely twenty-one. He didn’t think they were so young.
“How long have you been working out there?” He nods out the window.
Brendon’s eyes flicker to him and his mouth quirks into a smile. “Long enough.”
Jon feels a little confused, perplexed by this new arrival in the bar. Pete seems to have heard enough and turns back to his drink. Jon decides it’s probably better to leave well enough alone, and since Brendon doesn’t seem inclined to talk about himself, he might as well get back to work.
Resuming his cleaning, he listens to the snatches of songs he catches in between gales of wind and the pounding of rain on the roof. Pete remains in his seat, tracing the mouth of his beer with his finger and taking an occasional sip. Brendon merely sits in his chair, staring wistfully out the window.
The sky darkens before the door to the bar opens and another frosty gust of wind invades. It’s shut quickly, though, before the customers can start grumbling again. Jon doesn’t look up until there’s a heavy sigh and another person joins Pete at the bar.
Before Jon can even look up, he hears a familiar voice.
“God, I hate this town.”
Laughing, Jon reaches under the bar for a beer and sets it down in front of Ryan. “What happened today?”
Ryan sighs, taking the beer and lifting it to his lips, but doesn’t drink. “I’ve had them all. Every single one of the giggling little girls in this town. Keltie, you know the blond who works over at Harry’s Hideaway? She asked me to coffee tomorrow.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” Jon remembers Keltie. She’s pretty and thin, a rarity in a town like this.
“I don’t know,” Ryan groans. “I’ve just, I’ve dated them all. And they’re all nice. They all think I’m great ‘cause I wear a suit to work and sit in an office instead of working down on the docks.”
“What’s the problem then?” Jon asks, unsure why Ryan’s complaining.
Ryan sets down the beer with a clunk and sighs again. “I just feel bored, or like something’s missing or something.”
“No wind, no waves,” Brendon says quietly from his little corner of the bar.
Ryan frowns as he looks up, noticing Brendon for the first time since entering.
Pete just scoffs. “We’ve got plenty of both.”
Ryan ignores Pete and stares at Brendon. Brendon just smiles down at his drink on the counter. It’s nearly empty now.
“And you can’t make wind without moving,” Brendon adds, glancing up at Ryan, who just stares.
“Who’s that?” he asks Jon quietly.
Jon shrugs. “His name is Brendon, and I guess he’s a fisherman here for the Tuna season.”
Ryan watches Brendon more a few more minutes after Brendon turns idly back to his drink.
Finally, he turns away and takes a swig of his beer. “Why does it feel so empty?”
Jon picks up the bottle and shakes it. “Because it is.” He fishes for another one as Ryan sighs.
“No, I meant this.”
Jon shrugs, uncapping the bottle and sliding it over. “Life is what it is.”
“This is all it is?”
“Maybe.”
Ryan falls silent and stares at his bottle. He looks up, though, as a scraping chair signals Brendon’s rise from the stool.
“Leaving so soon?” Jon asks, heading over to wipe down the counter.
Brendon’s smile is sedate and a little distant. “The early bird catches the worm.”
Jon actually understands that one, although he’s unsure what Brendon is referring to. He watches Brendon pull on his large coat and cover his head again. He turns back to the bar, tossing a few dollars on the counter and glancing at Jon.
“Enjoy the weather.” Then he leaves and Jon is left staring after him. He turns to Ryan, who’s doing the same.
“Did he fall from the sky?”
Ryan blinks and a tiny smile curves the corner of his mouth. “I have no idea.”
Shaking his head, Jon collects the money and takes the glass, another to add to his pile of things to clean.
*
The weekends at the Salty Sea Wench are busier than the weekdays, although not by much. Jon still knows everyone that comes in, still greets Pete with a simple head nod and has his beer uncapped and ready when he sits down. He replaces the peanuts on the tables and wipes them down.
Outside, it’s dark with overcast clouds. It’s been like this all week, but this is normal down here on the coast. A thick mist lingers in the air if you go outside. Jon hasn’t been out since that morning when he arrived.
Instead, he’s spent his day inside watching the mist cloud up the back window.
“Miserable weather,” Pete mutters into his beer bottle. He pokes at the bandage on his arm, a fresh tattoo.
Jon doesn’t mind the weather, but he does occasionally wish for sun. He doesn’t reply to Pete, but glances up as the door swings open and the mermaids clack against each other. Jon is surprised to see Brendon clomping into the bar in his large fishing boots. He’s not wearing the giant overcoat now, but a hooded sweatshirt. He has the hood up, but pulls it down as he slides onto the same stool as before.
Jon pauses a moment before heading over to where he sits. “Hey, there, Brendon, back again?”
Brendon merely smiles. “Good things come to those who wait.”
“Um, right,” Jon mutters, shaking away the strange feeling that comes over him. “What can I get you? Black Dragon?”
“Wooly Mitten,” Brendon says instead, and Jon is again surprised. Most people who come back don’t change their order.
“Coming right up,” he says instead, turning and making the drink.
“What the hell are you making?” Pete asks as Jon pours Southern Comfort and peppermint Schnapps into a glass.
“It’s a Wooly Mitten,” Jon explains simply, adding a dash of Bailey’s.
Pete looks a little disgusted and pulls his beer to him. “I think I’ll stick with beer.”
Laughing, Jon finishes the drink with a little whipped cream and takes it over to Brendon.
“Here you go,” Jon says, presenting him with the drink. “A Wooly Mitten.” He pauses as Brendon takes the drink. “Where’d you learn drinks like this?”
Brendon’s smile is soft and unassuming as he stares down at his drink. “You learn a lot out there.”
Jon assumes he’s talking about the sea and lets it be. Instead, he leaves Brendon and goes back to where Pete sits, gazing out the rain-soaked window.
“Anything interesting happen today, Pete?”
Pete rouses himself and takes a swig of beer. “Nah. Just some little eighteen-year old breaking into the school. Typical.”
“Wishing we had something a little more exciting going on?”
Pete shrugs, pushing his bottle along the heavy wooden countertop. “Can’t create drama, so why bother?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Jon and Pete glance at Brendon, but he doesn’t appear to have spoken, only gazes fondly at his drink and blinks as the door opens behind him and a loud group enters the bar.
Jon’s attention is distracted from Brendon as the loud group, led by Ryan, apparently, heads for the counter. Ryan is laughing and looks happier than normal. He has a boy Jon hasn’t seen before with him.
The boy looks young but smiles at everyone around him as they sit him down in a seat at the bar. Pete looks mildly interested and turns around to watch the interaction.
“Jon!” Ryan yells gleefully, and Jon’s taken aback. He isn’t sure that he’s ever seen Ryan this animated.
“Hey, Ry, what’s going on?”
Ryan grins. “Funny you should ask. My friend Spencer here, today is his birthday. His twenty-first birthday.”
The boy on the stool grins, glancing from Ryan to Jon. Jon stares for a minute as the boy’s bright blue eyes land on him and they sparkle in the dull lighting in the bar. Shaking himself, he smiles warmly. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Spencer says, his smile widening as he looks at Jon.
Feeling nervous, for God knows what reason, Jon clears his throat and looks expectantly at Ryan. “I expect you didn’t come here just to chat?”
“Of course not.” Ryan grins. “We’ve come to get Spencer his first legal drink.”
Jon nods, leaning on the counter and smiling at Spencer. “So what’ll you have?”
Spencer blinks at Jon, speechless for just a second, staring at him. Luckily, Ryan answers for him.
“Make him one of those weird city drinks, Jon! You know, the ones they drink on T.V.”
Jon pulls away from the counter, rummaging under the counter for the cranberry juice and making Spencer a cosmo, just like on Sex and the City.
The boys with Spencer, who Jon suspects have already had more than their share of alcohol, laugh raucously as Jon presents it to Spencer. Spencer stares at it, glancing up at Ryan and Jon.
Jon grins. “Here you go, princess. A special treat for your twenty-first.”
Spencer’s blush is nearly the same color as the drink and he glances up at Jon as though this isn’t some big joke that Ryan’s playing on him. He seems to realize it’s not and picks up the drink, eyeing the pink-ness of it.
At the urgings of his friends, he takes a careful sip. There’s a pause in which the group falls silent and stares at Spencer as though he might drop dead at any moment.
Then Spencer licks his lips and his face spreads into a smile. “It’s not bad.”
A burst of laughter and cheer comes from the group and they disperse into the bar. Ryan slides onto the stool next to Spencer and claps him on the back.
“We’ve got to get Spencer good and drunk tonight,” he declares. “Because tomorrow he begins his descent into the working class.”
“Starting a new job?” Jon asks, cleaning out a glass and glancing down the bar.
Brendon is occupied humming a quiet tune to himself and staring out the drizzly window. Pete is listening to their conversation and peeking under his bandage periodically.
“Yep,” Spencer replies, looking ambivalent. “I’m gonna be working over at the Gardens, planting daisies and pushing earth worms into holes.”
Jon grins. “I take it it’s not the dream job?”
“I like flowers,” Spencer comments slowly. “I can do this job. I don’t mind.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and orders a beer. “Spence is great with flowers. Much better than me. Mine always die.”
“Failure teaches success.”
Ryan turns to Brendon, his eyebrows furrowing as he looks at him. “Do you speak in anything other than proverbs?”
Brendon smiles and fingers his drink. It’s almost halfway empty, but Jon doesn’t suppose he’ll want another one when he’s through.
“Of course, but life doesn’t live by anything else.”
Spencer isn’t paying attention to Brendon, or Ryan as he stares at him. Instead, he turns to Jon.
“Have you worked here long?”
“Couple years.” Jon shrugs.
“Are you a good bartender?”
“Is that a good drink?” Jon counters and Spencer smiles, almost shyly.
“Yeah,” he admits after a second. “But you could be better.”
Jon is silent as he thinks, watching Brendon, who’s ignoring Ryan’s stare and stirring his drink with a skinny straw, as though it’s coffee.
“We could all be better at something.”
Spencer makes a motion of agreement and sips his cosmo. “I suppose.”
Ryan is still watching Brendon, even though Brendon is clearly ignoring him, or doesn’t care that he’s being watched. Jon frowns slightly as he notices.
“So, Ry, how’d that date with Keltie go?”
Finally, Ryan looks away from Brendon. He sighs. “She’s nice. She’s pretty. She’s smart. She’s everything I should want.”
“But you don’t?”
“Well.” Ryan shrugs. “I mean, she’s okay. It’s not like there’s anyone else to date.”
Jon sighs, but can’t really argue. It’s the curse of living in a small town. Pretty girls are few and far between, and unfortunately for Jon, men are even further.
Instead of answering Ryan, he looks around the bar again. It’s fairly full considering what it’s usually like on a Saturday night. The tables are full and someone’s playing darts on the board by the door.
Pete has given up on the conversation, now examining his tattoo. It’s a black and red bass guitar on his right bicep. A few licks of flame crawl up the neck of the guitar and disappear into another tattoo of a bulldog on his upper arm.
Spencer is sort of staring at the tattoos but looks fearful to ask about them. Instead, he finishes the cosmo and Ryan orders him a regular beer.
Jon passes it over, thinking that he’s still got a few more hours left on his shift. Down at the other end of the bar, Brendon is finishing his drink. He sets down the empty glass and tilts his head to the side.
“All finished?” Jon asks as he comes over, grabbing the glass and rinsing it out.
Brendon smiles. “You have a nice bar.”
“Oh, it’s not mine,” Jon replies, wiping out the glass. “The boss is just never here.”
Brendon doesn’t nod or give any sign that he’s heard Jon. He just blinks at him and slides off the stool.
“If a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing well.” Then Brendon leaves, both Jon and Ryan staring after him.
“That is one weird guy,” Ryan says slowly as the door shuts behind him.
Jon glances at Ryan. “Yeah.”
Heading back to his post, Jon glances at Spencer, who is swaying slightly on his stool. He grins.
“Having a good birthday, Spencer?”
Spencer looks at Jon, his eyes taking a moment focus. He blinks a few times, trying to focus. “Yeah. What was in that pink thing?”
“Not much,” Jon replies, laughing. “I’m afraid to inform you that you’re a lightweight.”
“I am not,” Spencer protests. “I just need fuel for tomorrow. New job and all.”
“Right.” Jon grins. “Maybe you should get him home, Ry.”
Ryan shrugs and grabs his arm anyway. “Come on, Spence, you have to be up early for potting the daffodils.”
“No, wait!” Spencer protests, struggling against Ryan’s arm fruitlessly. “Wait. Jon,” he says a little breathlessly. “Do you always work here?”
“Every day the sun shines.”
Spencer looks confused and Jon smiles.
“Yeah. Every day.”
“Oh,” Spencer says quietly, smiling. “Good.”
“Good,” Jon echoes, smiling as Ryan escorts his stumbling friend from the bar, the door swinging shut behind them.
He turns back to the glasses he has to clean, and Pete clears his throat.
“He who hesitates is lost.”
“Oh, shut up,” Jon says, grinning and throwing a towel at Pete. Pete just laughs and tucks the towel away, smiling as he takes the last gulp of his beer.
*
It’s raining again on a Thursday afternoon as Jon wipes down the counter. It’s been dead all day and only a lone person or two sits in the dark corners of the bar. It’s barely three in the afternoon, and already, the sky is black outside the little window. The rain is a steady stream of water falling from the sky and hitting the pavement outside the bar, gathering in the long-standing potholes and dribbling into the drainage lines.
Jon is wiping down the bar for the tenth time that hour, wishing they had a television so he could at least check the weather and see if it is ever going to stop raining.
A wave a relief flows over Jon as he hears the bar door open and the clunking of someone coming to the bar. Whatever relief he had, though, is gone as he turns around and sees a familiar gruff face staring at him.
“Gerard,” he greets the man simply. “When did you get back?”
As usual, all he receives for his question is a nod summoning a beer which Jon retrieves quickly. As he slides it over, he leans down. Normally he would leave Gerard alone, but he’s desperate for someone to talk to.
“Another fair?”
Gerard’s expression is annoyed as he glances at Jon.
“How many rainbows was it this time? Do you keep count?”
Jon knows he’s pushing it, but he just can’t stop himself. He needs someone to talk to.
“Where are you off to next?” Jon asks.
“Fuck, Jon, be quiet,” Gerard finally snaps, pulling a napkin to him and beginning a small drawing on it.
Jon sighs and moves away to a new customer who’s just entered the bar.
“Hello, sir,” he greets the man. His eyes take in his suit and shiny shoes. “What can I get for you?”
“Scotch on the rocks with a twist,” the man says, almost bored as he glances around the tiny bar.
“Comin’ up,” Jon replies, putting together the drink quickly and sliding it over.
The man takes a drink and makes a surprised face. “You been bartending long?”
“Couple years,” Jon replies, grabbing a rag, thankful for someone to talk to.
“What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” Jon asks, slightly confused.
The man sets down the drink and takes a card from his jacket pocket. He hands it to Jon and Jon reads it carefully.
William Beckett
CEO MGM Grand Casino and Bar
Las Vegas
“From Las Vegas, huh?” Jon asks, setting the card down and continuing his cleaning.
William nods, taking another sip of his drink. “You’ve got some skill, you know.”
“With a rag,” Jon jokes, wiping down the counter slowly.
“With a drink mixer,” William continues. “We need people like you down in Vegas.”
Jon stops cleaning, staring at William. “You want me to move to Vegas?”
“I want you to come bartend for me down there.”
Jon hesitates. “I don’t know. I mean, I’m just a regular bartender. I don’t know about those really fancy drinks or how to do it down there.”
“Staying here won’t teach you that,” William says, standing up as the door opens and Spencer comes in. He sees Jon and smiles, making his way towards him.
“Hi, Jon,” he says brightly as he reaches him.
William pauses, looking from Spencer to Jon, then grabs his jacket and turns to Jon. “Call me if you change your mind.”
He leaves, Spencer’s eyes on his back as he does so. When he’s gone, Spencer turns back around. He doesn’t say anything about the man, but regards Jon curiously for a moment before smiling nervously.
Slipping the card into his pocket, Jon sighs and looks at Spencer. “Back so soon?”
Spencer nods, drumming his fingers nervously on the counter and smiling.
Jon can’t help but feel the flip his stomach makes as Spencer glances up at him through his curtain of dark hair.
“I just felt like a drink,” Spencer replies, “and now that I’m twenty-one, I actually can go for one.”
Laughing, Jon nods. “Yeah, you can. So what’ll you have?”
“Um, just a beer,” Spencer says quickly, taking the cold bottle as Jon slides it across the counter.
Jon waits a minute, thinking he should say something, but the door opens and he looks up to find Brendon clunking inside. He seems in good spirits, as always, and stops as he comes to the chair he usually sits in. Gerard is in his chair, which is actually Gerard’s chair, it’s just that he’s not often there.
Jon wonders for a second if Brendon is going to get upset. He knows Gerard would be if he found Brendon on his stool.
But then Brendon’s mouth just quirks and he takes the seat next to him, closer to Jon. Spencer doesn’t even look at Brendon, still busy watching Jon.
Scratching his neck nervously, Jon moves over to Brendon, not even bothering to assume he’s going to order the same drink as last time.
“What’ll you have today?”
“Carmel Apple.”
Jon has no idea where Brendon learned all these fancy drinks, but he tries his best to fill his order. He’s not used to making so many different things. Usually, it’s just “a beer” and that’s all. As he digs for Butterscotch Schnapps, he inspects Brendon.
He’s still got the same clunky fishing boots on and his sweatshirt that appears wear-worn from the wind and rain. His hair is windswept and messy as he shakes it from his eyes. He’s sort of gazing out the back window with a content smile on his face, but looks around him idly.
His eyes fall on the napkin Gerard has been embellishing silently for the past ten minutes. There’s hardly any white left on the thin paper, mostly covered with intricate designs, far from the simple rainbows he paints on little girls’ cheeks.
Brendon continues to watch him, even after Jon sets his drink in front of him.
Jon has half a mind to warn Brendon of the consequences talking to Gerard might incur, but he decides to leave well-enough alone. Brendon can handle himself, he thinks, or he hopes, rather.
Spencer, meanwhile, is gazing at Jon with a sort of sheltered innocence and Jon looks away. A familiar flutter has crept into his stomach. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in a while, and he knows what it means.
Jon remains turned away as he reorganizes bottles on the wall behind him and listens to the wind howling through the cracks of the little building.
“You’re a good artist.”
Jon glances back as he hears Brendon speak quietly, obviously directed at Gerard.
Gerard just makes a dark noise and shuffles the napkin further under his arm to hide it from Brendon’s sight.
“Do you work at the tattoo place?”
Gerard’s expression darkens and Jon turns around.
“Brendon, how’s your drink?” he asks, distracting Brendon from talking to Gerard.
Brendon merely smiles, but doesn’t look away from Gerard.
Gerard is shielding the drawing from Brendon, continuing to color in dark areas. Brendon’s head tilts to the side as it so often does. Jon wonders if this is a clue as to what he’s going to say next.
“Familiarity breeds contempt.”
Gerard’s eyebrows come down as he scowls and looks up at Brendon, bristling like an angry dog. “Who the fuck are you?” he demands finally, pulling his black jacket on tighter and glaring at Brendon.
Brendon’s smile doesn’t falter. “I am a camel standing amidst a flock of sheep.”
Gerard just stares and Jon knows he’s thinking that Brendon is psychotic.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Brendon just smiles. “Crows everywhere are equally black.”
Gerard looks annoyed and confused. “Yeah, well, good fences make good neighbors,” he spits back, scooting down a seat and turning his back on Brendon.
Jon suppresses his smile at the effect Brendon seems to be having on his customers. Brendon is hardly affected, but he leaves Gerard alone and turns to stare out the window again.
Jon turns back to find Spencer still watching him intently. His piercing blue eyes, as blue as the sky would be if the clouds ever left, settle on Jon contently as though he could watch him all day and never get tired. The constant stare makes Jon nervous and makes the loose butterflies in his stomach try for an escape attempt.
“Do you like working here?” Spencer asks after a minute, taking a sip of his drink and setting it onto the counter with a dull clunk.
“Oh, yeah,” Jon responds, tearing his eyes from Spencer’s and grabbing his discarded rag, folding it repeatedly in his hands.
“Meet lots of interesting people?”
Jon pauses. “Not really.” He glances down at the bar at Brendon, who appears to be singing under his breath. Jon catches a few lines that go something like, ‘What do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor, ear-ly in the morning?’
“Well,” he amends. “Most days.”
Spencer smiles, almost secretly as he glances down at his bottle. Jon feels his stomach flip again and hastily unfolds the rag.
“How are the flowers?”
Spencer glances up, sighing contently. “They’re doing well. A little too much rain.”
Jon laughs. “That’s to be expected around here.”
The wind chooses that moment to slam into the walls outside, shaking the little pub. Rain continues to drizzle down the window
Gerard glances up and scowls again, scooting his drawing further away from everyone. Spencer drinks his beer, and Jon thinks that this is his life.
“So you’re not in school?”
Spencer shrugs. “It wasn’t for me. Growing up in this town doesn’t leave much room for getting out.”
“Ryan went to school.”
“And came right back.” Spencer grins. He laughs quietly. “It’s kinda hard to… to get out.”
Jon frowns. He’s never thought of it like that. He’s been in this town for several years now and he hasn’t thought about “getting out”.
He’s never had a problem with this town.
Brendon has stopped singing, but is still humming quietly to himself, barely audible over the wind outside. Spencer glances at him for a second.
“You get out, don’t you?” he asks curiously.
Brendon blinks as though coming out of a reverie. He looks at Spencer for a moment. “The sea is a demanding mistress.”
Spencer looks confused, and glances at Jon, who just shrugs.
“You’ve been out, though, like, out there.” He gestures vaguely out the window to where the sea can be seen crashing against the shore. “What’s out there?”
Brendon pauses. “A lot of things. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
Spencer is persistent. “You’re a fisherman. You spend all your time on the ocean. Doesn’t it get boring?”
Brendon gazes over the nearly empty bar as he answers. “Boring is as boring does. It’s not about what’s boring.”
“What’s it about?”
Brendon merely smiles. “Are you bored with your flowers?”
Spencer frowns. “No. I like flowers.”
“And I like the sea.”
Spencer pauses, but Brendon pulls up his hood again and leaves a few dollars on the counter, leaving before Jon or Spencer can ask another question.
Gerard looks up as the door swings shut. “Finally, that nutcase is gone. What a fucking nuisance.”
Jon glances at him. He’s finally uncovered his napkin and Jon’s isn’t surprised to see good drawings covering the entire surface.
“He said you were a good drawer.”
Gerard makes a face and tears the napkin in half, setting his drink on top of it. “He doesn’t know shit.”
Sighing, Jon turns back, staring at the door through which Brendon left and thinking that maybe Brendon isn’t such a nuisance.
*
Ryan and Pete are at the bar, discussing the difference between grunge rock and alternative rock. Pete maintains stubbornly that alternative rock does not include Nirvana, and that they were part of grunge rock, a completely different culture.
“Come on!” Ryan says exasperatedly. “They were completely alternative rock. They started the damn movement!”
“And I suppose you’ll be saying that Diana Ross started the classical movement next!” Pete exclaims, setting down his beer hard enough that it foams over a little.
Ryan’s eyes narrow. “Nirvana was alternative rock,” he says, slowly and simply, as though that might help Pete understand.
Pete just shakes his head. “No, they aren’t!”
Ryan gives an exasperated sigh and turns to Jon. “Hey, you know about music, right? Nirvana, alternative or not?”
Jon glances between the two and knows that if he answers, he’ll be in big trouble with someone.
“Oh, I don’t know that much about it,” he lies smoothly, drying a clean glass and setting it with a clink under the counter.
Ryan scowls and huffs, sitting back down to his drink as the door to the bar opens.
Jon isn’t surprised to see Brendon sliding into his regular seat since Gerard isn’t there.
Ryan seems to perk up as Brendon sits down but doesn’t say anything.
“Evening, Bren,” Jon greets him casually.
“Six-six-six,” Brendon says without even waiting for Jon to ask for his order.
Surprised, Jon fumbles for a second. He’s never made this drink. He quickly pulls out his little Cheat Book and looks up the drink. Usually, he doesn’t have this much trouble with orders. Why can’t Brendon be like everyone else and order the same thing?
Ryan’s still looking at Brendon, but tears his gaze away to speak to Jon, though his eyes flick periodically back to the humming boy down the way.
“I went out with Keltie again,” he says. “We went to that little restaurant down on the bay.”
“Was it nice?” Jon asks, eyeing the bottle of Jack Daniels and pouring some into a glass.
Ryan nods, glancing at Brendon again. “Yeah. She’s great. You know she wants to go to college?”
“Yeah?” Jon pauses, reaching for the tequila. “She doesn’t want to get married?”
“Oh, she does.” Ryan sighs. “They all do.”
Jon finishes Brendon’s drink and slides it over. Brendon just smiles and takes a sip. He doesn’t spit it out, so Jon assumes he did it right, or well enough.
“You think she’s the one?”
Ryan groans softly. “I don’t know. I’ve dated girls like her my whole life.”
Jon shrugs, reaching for another glass to dry. Ryan pauses, his eyes landing on Brendon for a moment. Brendon doesn’t notice, humming another sea shanty to himself while gazing out the back window at the grey sky.
“Well, you’re gay,” Ryan starts after a minute. “Is it any different? I mean, you can’t get married so you don’t have to worry about that, right? No guy is gonna ask you to marry him.”
Jon smiles. “Thinking about turning a new leaf? It’s not really any easier.”
Ryan frowns. “But what if, I mean, you don’t like girls. Are guys easier?”
Jon sighs and sets down his glass. “You’ve dated girls for years, Ry. You know it’s not hard with anyone once you’ve got it figured out. You know what Keltie wants. Can you give it to her?”
“Well, of course.” Ryan shrugs. “It’s just, maybe I don’t want to.”
“Something is better than nothing,” Brendon says suddenly, quiet in his corner. “But having nothing builds character.”
Ryan’s eyebrows come together and he can’t seem to find a response. Instead, he turns jerkily back to Jon. “What do you think?”
“I think maybe you need to ask yourself that. Keltie’s a nice girl. You’ve always dated nice girls.”
Ryan sighs. “Maybe that’s my problem.”
“That you like nice girls?”
“No.” Ryan sets his elbows on the counter and sighs again. “They’re all too easy, and I don’t mean easy like, ‘hey, welcome to my backseat.’ I mean, I know what they want. They want to get married and have a kid. They want me to head off to work every morning while they tend the garden. The story of my life.”
“Stories can be rewritten.”
Ryan looks up sharply as Brendon speaks again. “Well, do you have a pen?”
To Ryan’s - and Jon’s - great surprise, Brendon digs in his jeans and pulls out a mangled pen. He places it on the counter and stands up, flipping up his hood.
He starts to leave and Ryan’s eyes move from the pen to Brendon. Jon watches as he stands quickly, nearly knocking over the stool in his haste.
“Hey, wait!” he calls as he struggles through the tables and chairs to where Brendon’s paused at the door.
Brendon doesn’t say anything, but tilts his head to the side again.
Ryan looks flustered as Brendon waits for whatever he wanted to say. “Um, are you, I mean, are you staying in town?”
“The Golden Octopus,” Brendon replies, naming one of the little motels down by the beach. It’s usually empty this time of year because of the weather.
“Right, right,” Ryan mutters, more to himself than anyone else.
Brendon just stands by the door, looking distantly pleased as Ryan mumbles to himself.
“Well, have you seen much of the town?”
“Good things come in small packages.”
Ryan sort of frowns for a second, but shakes it away, his nerves returning. “I c-could show you around, if you want.”
Brendon smiles then, slow and sweet. Jon watches from the counter and thinks it’s a different smile than he’s seen before. It somehow seems more focused, more in control than normal.
“The best way to find yourself is to get lost.”
Ryan looks confused, as though he’s not sure whether it’s a yes or a no.
“Is that a yes?”
Brendon’s smile strengthens and he looks a little less lost. “If you want to show me around, you can.”
“I do,” Ryan says firmly, and Brendon nods.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Ryan’s mouth twists into a confused smile as Brendon turns and leaves into the dark street beyond.
Slowly, he makes his way back to the bar. Jon is cleaning Brendon’s glass as Ryan takes his seat again.
Pete just watches him suspiciously over his bottle.
“What about Keltie?” Jon asks as he puts the glass away.
Ryan pauses. “Maybe it’s not about Keltie.”
“What does that mean?”
Glancing out the window, Ryan takes a breath and sighs contentedly. “Maybe I’ve been playing it too safe.”
Jon looks out the window too, then frowns at Ryan. “And taking this Brendon character out is better? He could be a psychopath.”
“He’s been here for a week and hasn’t killed anyone,” Ryan points out. “I think he’s safe.”
Jon’s not sure, but shrugs. “All right, but if he does kill you, just remember that I warned you.”
“Yeah, I’ll remember that when I’m dead,” Ryan replies, rolling his eyes and taking a sip of his beer.
Pete frowns at the both of them and shakes his head. But he doesn’t say anything as he turns to stare out the darkening window.
*
The man from Las Vegas comes back a few days later and Jon is surprised to see him sliding past the cluttered tables.
“Back again?” Jon asks simply, putting away the glass he’s been drying.
William smiles, taking a stool and tapping his card against the counter. “You thought about what I said?”
Jon frowns. In truth, he hasn’t thought much of it. He’s just a bartender in the small little pub, The Salty Sea Wench. That is his home.
William keeps his gaze steady on Jon and Jon can feel the question boring into his skin.
“Not really,” he replies, wiping down the counter, mostly just to keep his hands busy.
William pauses. “You know, there are a lot of people with no talent whatsoever in this world.”
Jon doesn’t say anything, but frowns.
“And then there are people with talent. And there are people who don’t use that talent. You’re good, but you’re not great.”
Jon isn’t sure what this man is getting at. “Look, Mr. Beckett, I-”
“Call me Bill,” William interrupts.
“Bill.” Jon shakes his head and sighs. “This is my job. I live in this town. I know it’s small, but I like it.”
“You prepared to stay here for the rest of your life?”
Jon pauses. Glancing around the bar, he wonders if he is. It’s awfully small here, awfully boring sometimes.
William seems to know what he’s thinking. “Let me tell you something. A lot of people go through life being average, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But if you’re willing to take a chance, you could be more than average.”
Jon is silent, avoiding William’s eyes. William waits a minute, then stands.
“I’ll be around if you change your mind.”
Then he leaves and Jon sighs as he turns to stare at his pile of glasses left to dry.
Part Two.