bandslash fic: Worlds in Black and White (panic, Brendon/Jon, au)
And after 9 long months, I have FIC. (omg)
Worlds in Black and White
[Panic; Brendon/Jon; 3200 words; au]
Summary: Coffeeshop!au. Because Jon Walker as a barista makes my heart sing.
Hugs to audrarose for the beta and (most definitely) for unfailingly listening to me whine. :D
Worlds in Black and White
by Sori
Jon didn't regret that after three weeks, he still didn't know the guy's name. It wasn't like names came up in casual conversations all that often, even at a coffee shop, and, sure, maybe Jon had thought about getting the guy's name and number since his third visit, but he liked to think that he actually had some level of professionalism. Not to mention originality.
The barista hitting on the customer? Fucking cliché. And not in any good way.
"Hey, white mocha! How's it going?" Jon said, grabbing up the nearest cup and scribbling out the order as soon as the guy tumbled through the door. Even if it wasn't 3:10 exactly, the same time as usual, it was always hard to mistake him for anyone else. Quiet wasn't necessarily his thing. He always came barreling in all laughter and grins and too big motions, already waving at Jon like they were long lost friends.
"Okay, wow, is that actually what you call me in your head? Because, dude, most people just call me Brendon."
Brendon. Jon couldn't help grinning down at the cup in his hand.
"It's subtly evocative," Jon said, waggling his eyebrows.
White mocha guy - no, Brendon - blinked at him once, twice, before smiling. Jon possibly melted a little.
"Right, but what if I suddenly order, like, a vanilla latte? Or a soy cappuccino? Or," Brendon leaned closer and whispered, his eyes darting quickly side-to-side, his hand cupped along side his mouth, "Plain coffee? Then where would the nickname have gotten you?" Brendon's look was nothing if not smug.
Jon tried, but he couldn't work up much irritation. "Well," Jon said slowly, "For starters, it got me your name."
Brendon leaned his elbows against the counter. "You would have gotten that anyway."
Jon cleared his throat. "So, Brendon, huh?" He said at last, mostly because the grin was still there in unerring force and Jon couldn't really think of anything else to say.
"So I'm told. But I'm easy so it's whatever works for you," Brendon reached across the counter and ran his finger across the engraving on Jon's nametag, "Jon."
"Whoa. Those are some mad reading skills." Jon whistled low under his breath as he added whip cream to Brendon's drink. It gave his twitching fingers something else to do besides wrap around Brendon's hand. He was already biting his lip, trying to keep from laughing too much, though he was failing spectacularly if Brendon's smile was anything to go by.
"I pride myself on those reading skills." Brendon leaned over and swiped his finger through whip cream on top of his drink.
Jon carefully didn't stare as Brendon popped his finger in his mouth and licked if off.
He looked up at Brendon's face, and then added more whip cream to the top of the coffee. "Okay, you're obviously a whip cream kind of guy."
Brendon's laugh drowned out the whirling espresso machine. "I think I love you," Brendon said for no apparent reason except that maybe he really did love his whip cream.
"I get that a lot," Jon said, nodding. "It's a curse I've learned to live with." It wasn't like Jon was going to complain about spontaneous declarations of love. He wasn't stupid.
"I can only imagine, Jon the Cute Barista. I can only imagine." Brendon nodded seriously as he reached out and took his finished drink from Jon. Their fingers brushed together, just a quick touch of skin as the cup exchanged hands.
Brendon waved over his shoulder as he left.
**
And just like that Brendon was Brendon and not White Mocha Guy. And while maybe he didn't have a phone number yet, Jon did at least have a name to go with the face.
Small victories.
Besides, between the coffee shop and the gallery show he'd committed to next month it wasn't like he had time. No time for sex, much less dating someone new. That always required time, and energy, and the awkward getting-to-know-you phase that only sometimes led to sex and other times led to miserable dinners and stalker-like phone calls.
Instead, Jon went for the easy thrill he got when Brendon laughed with him (usually a lot), or when Brendon told him the story about one of his TA's and the Music Department secretary that had Jon laughing till he was almost crying, or when Jon would slide the coffee cup across the counter a little more deliberately, waiting until Brendon's hand wrapped around the cup before he'd pull back.
Jon started looking forward to their brand of inane, pointless chatter. Their random bits of aborted conversations in line and at the register that would carry right over to the espresso machine because apparently, Brendon was a talker.
The kind of talker that never stopped talking. Ever.
Jon heard about the three new bands that were playing downtown at the Cellar and the composition that had just won an award in some journal that he'd never heard of; he listened while Brendon talked about the piano concert at the university last week and the new James Bond movie that was opening soon. It was all normal and good, and it wasn't anyone's business if Jon could spend hours listening to Brendon, watching the way his hands moved and his eyes crinkled up at the corners, showing off the laugh lines that Jon hadn't realized he was old enough to have.
Completely (mostly) normal, until it suddenly wasn't so much normal at all.
The particular conversation lasted through Jon making three lattes, two macchiatos, and a frappuccino. Brendon sat up on the counter, talking easily as the few customer's around him came and went, glaring at him sometimes, not that he ever seemed to notice. Jon was fairly certain he wouldn't have done anything differently even if he had noticed.
"Best utilization of the twelve-tone technique...," Brendon was saying, "And Scott Bradley? Classically trained, but look what he did. Created a whole new musical genre, evolving the classical techniques and combining them with...."
Jon grinned, listening as the cadence of Brendon's speech got faster and faster, and his hands started flailing around. Mostly though, Jon blinked cluelessly, because seriously.
"Who?" Jon finally asked. Not that he cared all that much about the composer; he just didn't want Brendon to stop talking, didn't want him to lose that look in his eyes that Jon hadn't yet been able to entirely figure out.
It was a look he liked though.
"Dude, the composer for Tom and Jerry." Brendon was practically vibrating from his place on the counter.
"As in the cartoon?" Jon's hands froze on the espresso measure. "Seriously?"
"Is there any other Tom and Jerry?"
The duh dangled happily between them.
And really, Jon thought, that was probably The Moment. The Moment in capitals, just like that, because Jon was a big believer in the idea that sometimes life should be lived on the edge.
After all, it wasn't everyday he tumbled headfirst into inappropriate capitalization.
**
In his head, Jon had started a list. When he was listening to Brendon talk, he'd think of the list and title it simply "Brendon," like that somehow said it all.
Jon's list, in no particular order, went something like this:
1) Brendon always, always, had music floating around him. Classical and opera, old school rock and Fall Out Boy tunes from a decade ago, the music pouring out from the iPod that he wore like a second skin. There once was even some AC/DC, even though Brendon didn't really seem like the AC/DC type. He was a walking musical anomaly. Jon liked that about him.
2) There were calluses on his thumb and pointer finger that Jon recognized on site. Guitar calluses that every time Jon noticed (which was possibly more than he really wanted to admit), he rubbed his own fingers together, remembering the feel of toughened skin, the slow, smooth glide of the bass guitar against his chest. It was like a phantom itch, not so much painful as just a vague feeling that made Jon smile and blink in memory.
3) Most days Brendon would settle at the table closest to the counter, before pulling out a battered, old notebook from his messenger bag and scribbling away for an hour or two with one of his bright, sparkly pens. It was ridiculous, no doubt, but Jon had sort of fallen completely in love with purple glitter pens.
4) When he laughed and laughed every time Jon said, "Put it up to 11," and gasping out, "dude," between his laughs like it was funniest thing ever, Jon assumed he had Brendon all figured out. Then one day, a kid called out, "Professor Urie," as he jogged up to Brendon, a textbook in hand, already babbling something about the structural theory of opera. Up until then, Jon had possibly been thinking grad student whenever he thought about Brendon. He hadn't thought Professor, but maybe - maybe that made sense.
It was at least one small mystery still to solve; Jon liked those.
5) Usually, Brendon was laughing and smiling, but Jon had also gotten to see this sort of crazed, manic grin that looked fine on the surface, but felt somehow wrong. Jon hadn't been able to figure it out, not really, until one day Brendon said, "Parents, you know. No matter how old you are, it's still like your 17 and not living up to their expectations."
Jon had nodded his head, and started watching closer. Once Jon knew what to look for, he realized the look on Brendon's face wasn't so much sadness, although that was that too; mostly, he just looked resigned, as if the whole thing was somehow an argument that went around circles.
On days like that, Jon would make Brendon a caramel macchiato - extra caramel - and then he'd slide into the seat across from him and talk about the price of insulated paper cups and the band his friend used to play in; the new song he heard on the radio and the Hallmark movie he watched on TV. He'd talk and talk until Brendon's hand would stop scratching lines into the cup and his expression would get less manic grin and more soft comfort.
Jon didn't like those days much, but he did like that he was the one Brendon sat quietly with.
6) Jon didn't consider himself all that shallow, but Brendon had these tight, tight pants, and these tauntingly ridiculous red framed glasses, and this way of spiking his hair that pretty much looked like a night of great sex. And it wasn't like Jon needed to actually contemplate any of these things more than he already did, but he was hoping for some sort of reverse psychology mojo. If he thought of those things now, then later, maybe, he could finally think of something else.
**
In the dead of night, when Jon would think of that same list, he'd also remember the feel of Brendon's hand and the look in his eyes as he watched Jon. Jon would end up distracted halfway through, lost in the thought that maybe the list wasn't so much about the things Jon noticed about Brendon, but was instead about all the ways Brendon made Jon feel.
He wasn't sure what to think of that, except that he was a dumb ass for not having gotten a phone number a long time ago.
**
"Jon the Cute Barista!" Brendon said as he walked up to the counter. He was wearing a bulky, pea coat and scarf and Jon couldn't really figure out how he had managed to avoid heatstroke.
Jon wiggled his toes in his flip flops. "I thought we'd moved beyond nicknames," Jon said, already scribbling Brendon's order on the cup even though the place was dead as could be.
"Nicknames make us close." Brendon leaned across the counter and whispered the words directly into Jon's ear.
Jon could feel the hot puff of breath and the prickly slide of a late afternoon cheek against his skin. He very carefully did not pull back.
Brendon may have lingered for a couple seconds too long before grinning at Jon, one of Brendon's usual wide, obnoxious grins -- all lips and eyes and a blinding row of teeth.
"You realize this is California, right? By the beach? Where winter means you should go ahead and turn off the air conditioner?"
"I've heard about this place called California, yes." Brendon made a face as he dropped his messenger bag on the floor and hopped up on the counter next to the cash register.
Jon was faced with a birdseye view of Brendon's ass against the countertop. It was distracting, but it was probably also rude to stare for too long. Instead, he focused on Brendon's legs swinging back and forth, quietly tapping out some rhythm that Jon was fairly sure he could pick out if he tried hard enough.
"So," Jon said, after a minute. He looked Brendon up and down.
"So," Brendon wiggled his eyebrows, mouth puckering up and making kissy faces at Jon.
Jon sighed. "So, coat." Jon reached out and tugged on the collar of Brendon's bulky pea coat. He didn't bother tugging on the wool scarf that was wrapped around his neck and flopping over his shoulder.
Probably dead from a scarf's version of heat stroke.
"What?" Brendon blinked, dragging his eyes away from Jon's hand gripping the fabric of his coat. "It's winter, Jon. Winter. I've always wanted to live someplace that had a real winter."
Looking outside, Jon could see the sun shining through the sky, the distant, slightly murky haze settling like a blanket on the coast, the wind softly rustling the leaves that were still hanging around on the trees. "Winter," he said. He shook his head. "Of course."
Brendon rolled his eyes. "I'm from Vegas. This," Brendon nodded his head toward the big wall of windows, "is winter. Practically freezing." Brendon grinned bigger than usual, like there was some sort of joke that Jon was totally in on.
"This is San Diego," Jon said slowly. "The beach is ten miles that-a-way." Jon tipped his head toward the window.
"And?" Brendon asked, wiggling around, his ass bouncing against the counter.
Jon couldn't help but think ass, over and over like a chant that was somehow relevant to their conversation.
"Well, I'm from Chicago," Jon said. He was still holding on to Brendon's sleeve. He fingers didn't seem to want to let go.
"That explains a lot," Brendon said, nodding sagely. "It explains the flip-flops and the t-shirts. Not that I'm complaining or anything, because I find your toes absurdly cute."
"I do pride myself on my cute toes," Jon said, sliding Brendon's drink across the counter, his fingers brush deliberately across Brendon's hand once, twice, three times.
Hopping down off the counter, Brendon wandered around the shop, sipping at his coffee and looking at the photos on the wall. He paused for a minute in front of different pictures, finally stopping in front of the last black and white photo along the back wall. The muted blues were tipping at the shadows, dancing around Tom's hands on his guitar strings, his hair hanging down, half covering his face, the guitar pick larger than life and sharpened against the focus.
It was one of the Jon's favorites.
"Like it?" He asked, walking over and standing next to Brendon. He could feel the brush of Brendon's coat against his arm as Brendon shuffled from foot to foot.
"It's sort of completely awesome," Brendon said. He didn't turn to look at Jon. Reaching out, he ran his finger down along the edge of the frame.
"Yeah?" Jon ducked his head down, not able to completely fight down the warmth in his stomach. He watched Brendon from the corner of his eye.
"Are you fishing for compliments, Jon Walker?"
Brendon's head twisted just enough toward him that Jon could see his face, could see the smile on the lips and the way he was waggling his eyebrows up and down stupidly.
"Do I want to know how you found out my last name?"
" The other baristas are surprisingly easy. Unlike you, Jon Walker. I just had to ask them for you last name and they were singing like the birds." Brendon said, knocking into Jon's shoulder with a laugh. "Not that I'm a stalker or anything."
Jon blinked. "Not a stalker, huh? Then how'd you know this was one of my photographs?" Jon carefully did not laugh at the look on Brendon's face.
"I'm sort of a fan. I accidentally walked into the show you did last year at that gallery downtown," Brendon said.
And Jon stood there, mouth open for a second, shocked and pleased and maybe (even though, seriously, he'd never actually admit it out loud) blushing. "Are you my groupie?" He gasped out, his hand over his chest, grinning like an idiot probably. "Because, wow. I have groupies. Dude."
Brendon snorted. "Dude, groupie. Singular. As in one." He was laughing though.
"Don't be a downer. How often do photographers have groupies, anyways?" Jon cleared his throat and reached out, touching his index finger to the glass above the guitar pick.
He remembered the day he took the picture, the hundred of shots it'd taken to get the angle just right so that Tom was everything in the background, the guitar pick still and unmoving, caught between one note and the next. He'd never decided if the picture was about the music, or the silence that came between the music. "This is one of my favorites."
Brendon nodded, staring at the photo. His face was framed in the shadows, and Jon stopped fighting the need to touch and instead, reached out and traced the line where light met shadow as it sliced across Brendon's cheek. Brendon sighed and leaned into the touch.
"Who is it?" Brendon asked, nodding at the photo.
"Tom," Jon answered, watching Brendon bite on his bottom lip a little. He let his thumb trace the line of shadow down onto his neck, below his ear, pushing aside Brendon's t-shirt just enough to feel skin where his neck met his shoulder.
Brendon raised his eyebrows. "Tom, huh?"
Jon smiled. "A friend."
"Yeah. A friend. That's good," Brendon said, reaching up and wrapping his fingers around Jon's hand. He cleared his throat and slid an inch or two closer. "So, I've been sort of dodging around this for months now, but I was thinking that maybe we could have dinner. Together. Sometime."
"Dinner? Like a date?" Jon asked, looping his pinkie around one of Brendon's wandering fingers.
"Date? Never," Brendon snorted. "We'd just be eating together in the same general vicinity. You know, breaking bread within our community or some shit." Brendon tugged on Jon's hand a little. "Kissing optional, but highly encouraged."
Jon turned his hand over, linking their fingers together. He pulled, till Brendon shuffled a half-step closer. "I like communal dining," Jon said. He leaned across the whisper of space between them, mouth brushing along Brendon's ear. "And I pretty much love kissing."
Brendon shivered. "Yeah, I was hoping you'd say that."
Worlds in Black and White
[Panic; Brendon/Jon; 3200 words; au]
Summary: Coffeeshop!au. Because Jon Walker as a barista makes my heart sing.
Hugs to audrarose for the beta and (most definitely) for unfailingly listening to me whine. :D
Worlds in Black and White
by Sori
Jon didn't regret that after three weeks, he still didn't know the guy's name. It wasn't like names came up in casual conversations all that often, even at a coffee shop, and, sure, maybe Jon had thought about getting the guy's name and number since his third visit, but he liked to think that he actually had some level of professionalism. Not to mention originality.
The barista hitting on the customer? Fucking cliché. And not in any good way.
"Hey, white mocha! How's it going?" Jon said, grabbing up the nearest cup and scribbling out the order as soon as the guy tumbled through the door. Even if it wasn't 3:10 exactly, the same time as usual, it was always hard to mistake him for anyone else. Quiet wasn't necessarily his thing. He always came barreling in all laughter and grins and too big motions, already waving at Jon like they were long lost friends.
"Okay, wow, is that actually what you call me in your head? Because, dude, most people just call me Brendon."
Brendon. Jon couldn't help grinning down at the cup in his hand.
"It's subtly evocative," Jon said, waggling his eyebrows.
White mocha guy - no, Brendon - blinked at him once, twice, before smiling. Jon possibly melted a little.
"Right, but what if I suddenly order, like, a vanilla latte? Or a soy cappuccino? Or," Brendon leaned closer and whispered, his eyes darting quickly side-to-side, his hand cupped along side his mouth, "Plain coffee? Then where would the nickname have gotten you?" Brendon's look was nothing if not smug.
Jon tried, but he couldn't work up much irritation. "Well," Jon said slowly, "For starters, it got me your name."
Brendon leaned his elbows against the counter. "You would have gotten that anyway."
Jon cleared his throat. "So, Brendon, huh?" He said at last, mostly because the grin was still there in unerring force and Jon couldn't really think of anything else to say.
"So I'm told. But I'm easy so it's whatever works for you," Brendon reached across the counter and ran his finger across the engraving on Jon's nametag, "Jon."
"Whoa. Those are some mad reading skills." Jon whistled low under his breath as he added whip cream to Brendon's drink. It gave his twitching fingers something else to do besides wrap around Brendon's hand. He was already biting his lip, trying to keep from laughing too much, though he was failing spectacularly if Brendon's smile was anything to go by.
"I pride myself on those reading skills." Brendon leaned over and swiped his finger through whip cream on top of his drink.
Jon carefully didn't stare as Brendon popped his finger in his mouth and licked if off.
He looked up at Brendon's face, and then added more whip cream to the top of the coffee. "Okay, you're obviously a whip cream kind of guy."
Brendon's laugh drowned out the whirling espresso machine. "I think I love you," Brendon said for no apparent reason except that maybe he really did love his whip cream.
"I get that a lot," Jon said, nodding. "It's a curse I've learned to live with." It wasn't like Jon was going to complain about spontaneous declarations of love. He wasn't stupid.
"I can only imagine, Jon the Cute Barista. I can only imagine." Brendon nodded seriously as he reached out and took his finished drink from Jon. Their fingers brushed together, just a quick touch of skin as the cup exchanged hands.
Brendon waved over his shoulder as he left.
**
And just like that Brendon was Brendon and not White Mocha Guy. And while maybe he didn't have a phone number yet, Jon did at least have a name to go with the face.
Small victories.
Besides, between the coffee shop and the gallery show he'd committed to next month it wasn't like he had time. No time for sex, much less dating someone new. That always required time, and energy, and the awkward getting-to-know-you phase that only sometimes led to sex and other times led to miserable dinners and stalker-like phone calls.
Instead, Jon went for the easy thrill he got when Brendon laughed with him (usually a lot), or when Brendon told him the story about one of his TA's and the Music Department secretary that had Jon laughing till he was almost crying, or when Jon would slide the coffee cup across the counter a little more deliberately, waiting until Brendon's hand wrapped around the cup before he'd pull back.
Jon started looking forward to their brand of inane, pointless chatter. Their random bits of aborted conversations in line and at the register that would carry right over to the espresso machine because apparently, Brendon was a talker.
The kind of talker that never stopped talking. Ever.
Jon heard about the three new bands that were playing downtown at the Cellar and the composition that had just won an award in some journal that he'd never heard of; he listened while Brendon talked about the piano concert at the university last week and the new James Bond movie that was opening soon. It was all normal and good, and it wasn't anyone's business if Jon could spend hours listening to Brendon, watching the way his hands moved and his eyes crinkled up at the corners, showing off the laugh lines that Jon hadn't realized he was old enough to have.
Completely (mostly) normal, until it suddenly wasn't so much normal at all.
The particular conversation lasted through Jon making three lattes, two macchiatos, and a frappuccino. Brendon sat up on the counter, talking easily as the few customer's around him came and went, glaring at him sometimes, not that he ever seemed to notice. Jon was fairly certain he wouldn't have done anything differently even if he had noticed.
"Best utilization of the twelve-tone technique...," Brendon was saying, "And Scott Bradley? Classically trained, but look what he did. Created a whole new musical genre, evolving the classical techniques and combining them with...."
Jon grinned, listening as the cadence of Brendon's speech got faster and faster, and his hands started flailing around. Mostly though, Jon blinked cluelessly, because seriously.
"Who?" Jon finally asked. Not that he cared all that much about the composer; he just didn't want Brendon to stop talking, didn't want him to lose that look in his eyes that Jon hadn't yet been able to entirely figure out.
It was a look he liked though.
"Dude, the composer for Tom and Jerry." Brendon was practically vibrating from his place on the counter.
"As in the cartoon?" Jon's hands froze on the espresso measure. "Seriously?"
"Is there any other Tom and Jerry?"
The duh dangled happily between them.
And really, Jon thought, that was probably The Moment. The Moment in capitals, just like that, because Jon was a big believer in the idea that sometimes life should be lived on the edge.
After all, it wasn't everyday he tumbled headfirst into inappropriate capitalization.
**
In his head, Jon had started a list. When he was listening to Brendon talk, he'd think of the list and title it simply "Brendon," like that somehow said it all.
Jon's list, in no particular order, went something like this:
1) Brendon always, always, had music floating around him. Classical and opera, old school rock and Fall Out Boy tunes from a decade ago, the music pouring out from the iPod that he wore like a second skin. There once was even some AC/DC, even though Brendon didn't really seem like the AC/DC type. He was a walking musical anomaly. Jon liked that about him.
2) There were calluses on his thumb and pointer finger that Jon recognized on site. Guitar calluses that every time Jon noticed (which was possibly more than he really wanted to admit), he rubbed his own fingers together, remembering the feel of toughened skin, the slow, smooth glide of the bass guitar against his chest. It was like a phantom itch, not so much painful as just a vague feeling that made Jon smile and blink in memory.
3) Most days Brendon would settle at the table closest to the counter, before pulling out a battered, old notebook from his messenger bag and scribbling away for an hour or two with one of his bright, sparkly pens. It was ridiculous, no doubt, but Jon had sort of fallen completely in love with purple glitter pens.
4) When he laughed and laughed every time Jon said, "Put it up to 11," and gasping out, "dude," between his laughs like it was funniest thing ever, Jon assumed he had Brendon all figured out. Then one day, a kid called out, "Professor Urie," as he jogged up to Brendon, a textbook in hand, already babbling something about the structural theory of opera. Up until then, Jon had possibly been thinking grad student whenever he thought about Brendon. He hadn't thought Professor, but maybe - maybe that made sense.
It was at least one small mystery still to solve; Jon liked those.
5) Usually, Brendon was laughing and smiling, but Jon had also gotten to see this sort of crazed, manic grin that looked fine on the surface, but felt somehow wrong. Jon hadn't been able to figure it out, not really, until one day Brendon said, "Parents, you know. No matter how old you are, it's still like your 17 and not living up to their expectations."
Jon had nodded his head, and started watching closer. Once Jon knew what to look for, he realized the look on Brendon's face wasn't so much sadness, although that was that too; mostly, he just looked resigned, as if the whole thing was somehow an argument that went around circles.
On days like that, Jon would make Brendon a caramel macchiato - extra caramel - and then he'd slide into the seat across from him and talk about the price of insulated paper cups and the band his friend used to play in; the new song he heard on the radio and the Hallmark movie he watched on TV. He'd talk and talk until Brendon's hand would stop scratching lines into the cup and his expression would get less manic grin and more soft comfort.
Jon didn't like those days much, but he did like that he was the one Brendon sat quietly with.
6) Jon didn't consider himself all that shallow, but Brendon had these tight, tight pants, and these tauntingly ridiculous red framed glasses, and this way of spiking his hair that pretty much looked like a night of great sex. And it wasn't like Jon needed to actually contemplate any of these things more than he already did, but he was hoping for some sort of reverse psychology mojo. If he thought of those things now, then later, maybe, he could finally think of something else.
**
In the dead of night, when Jon would think of that same list, he'd also remember the feel of Brendon's hand and the look in his eyes as he watched Jon. Jon would end up distracted halfway through, lost in the thought that maybe the list wasn't so much about the things Jon noticed about Brendon, but was instead about all the ways Brendon made Jon feel.
He wasn't sure what to think of that, except that he was a dumb ass for not having gotten a phone number a long time ago.
**
"Jon the Cute Barista!" Brendon said as he walked up to the counter. He was wearing a bulky, pea coat and scarf and Jon couldn't really figure out how he had managed to avoid heatstroke.
Jon wiggled his toes in his flip flops. "I thought we'd moved beyond nicknames," Jon said, already scribbling Brendon's order on the cup even though the place was dead as could be.
"Nicknames make us close." Brendon leaned across the counter and whispered the words directly into Jon's ear.
Jon could feel the hot puff of breath and the prickly slide of a late afternoon cheek against his skin. He very carefully did not pull back.
Brendon may have lingered for a couple seconds too long before grinning at Jon, one of Brendon's usual wide, obnoxious grins -- all lips and eyes and a blinding row of teeth.
"You realize this is California, right? By the beach? Where winter means you should go ahead and turn off the air conditioner?"
"I've heard about this place called California, yes." Brendon made a face as he dropped his messenger bag on the floor and hopped up on the counter next to the cash register.
Jon was faced with a birdseye view of Brendon's ass against the countertop. It was distracting, but it was probably also rude to stare for too long. Instead, he focused on Brendon's legs swinging back and forth, quietly tapping out some rhythm that Jon was fairly sure he could pick out if he tried hard enough.
"So," Jon said, after a minute. He looked Brendon up and down.
"So," Brendon wiggled his eyebrows, mouth puckering up and making kissy faces at Jon.
Jon sighed. "So, coat." Jon reached out and tugged on the collar of Brendon's bulky pea coat. He didn't bother tugging on the wool scarf that was wrapped around his neck and flopping over his shoulder.
Probably dead from a scarf's version of heat stroke.
"What?" Brendon blinked, dragging his eyes away from Jon's hand gripping the fabric of his coat. "It's winter, Jon. Winter. I've always wanted to live someplace that had a real winter."
Looking outside, Jon could see the sun shining through the sky, the distant, slightly murky haze settling like a blanket on the coast, the wind softly rustling the leaves that were still hanging around on the trees. "Winter," he said. He shook his head. "Of course."
Brendon rolled his eyes. "I'm from Vegas. This," Brendon nodded his head toward the big wall of windows, "is winter. Practically freezing." Brendon grinned bigger than usual, like there was some sort of joke that Jon was totally in on.
"This is San Diego," Jon said slowly. "The beach is ten miles that-a-way." Jon tipped his head toward the window.
"And?" Brendon asked, wiggling around, his ass bouncing against the counter.
Jon couldn't help but think ass, over and over like a chant that was somehow relevant to their conversation.
"Well, I'm from Chicago," Jon said. He was still holding on to Brendon's sleeve. He fingers didn't seem to want to let go.
"That explains a lot," Brendon said, nodding sagely. "It explains the flip-flops and the t-shirts. Not that I'm complaining or anything, because I find your toes absurdly cute."
"I do pride myself on my cute toes," Jon said, sliding Brendon's drink across the counter, his fingers brush deliberately across Brendon's hand once, twice, three times.
Hopping down off the counter, Brendon wandered around the shop, sipping at his coffee and looking at the photos on the wall. He paused for a minute in front of different pictures, finally stopping in front of the last black and white photo along the back wall. The muted blues were tipping at the shadows, dancing around Tom's hands on his guitar strings, his hair hanging down, half covering his face, the guitar pick larger than life and sharpened against the focus.
It was one of the Jon's favorites.
"Like it?" He asked, walking over and standing next to Brendon. He could feel the brush of Brendon's coat against his arm as Brendon shuffled from foot to foot.
"It's sort of completely awesome," Brendon said. He didn't turn to look at Jon. Reaching out, he ran his finger down along the edge of the frame.
"Yeah?" Jon ducked his head down, not able to completely fight down the warmth in his stomach. He watched Brendon from the corner of his eye.
"Are you fishing for compliments, Jon Walker?"
Brendon's head twisted just enough toward him that Jon could see his face, could see the smile on the lips and the way he was waggling his eyebrows up and down stupidly.
"Do I want to know how you found out my last name?"
" The other baristas are surprisingly easy. Unlike you, Jon Walker. I just had to ask them for you last name and they were singing like the birds." Brendon said, knocking into Jon's shoulder with a laugh. "Not that I'm a stalker or anything."
Jon blinked. "Not a stalker, huh? Then how'd you know this was one of my photographs?" Jon carefully did not laugh at the look on Brendon's face.
"I'm sort of a fan. I accidentally walked into the show you did last year at that gallery downtown," Brendon said.
And Jon stood there, mouth open for a second, shocked and pleased and maybe (even though, seriously, he'd never actually admit it out loud) blushing. "Are you my groupie?" He gasped out, his hand over his chest, grinning like an idiot probably. "Because, wow. I have groupies. Dude."
Brendon snorted. "Dude, groupie. Singular. As in one." He was laughing though.
"Don't be a downer. How often do photographers have groupies, anyways?" Jon cleared his throat and reached out, touching his index finger to the glass above the guitar pick.
He remembered the day he took the picture, the hundred of shots it'd taken to get the angle just right so that Tom was everything in the background, the guitar pick still and unmoving, caught between one note and the next. He'd never decided if the picture was about the music, or the silence that came between the music. "This is one of my favorites."
Brendon nodded, staring at the photo. His face was framed in the shadows, and Jon stopped fighting the need to touch and instead, reached out and traced the line where light met shadow as it sliced across Brendon's cheek. Brendon sighed and leaned into the touch.
"Who is it?" Brendon asked, nodding at the photo.
"Tom," Jon answered, watching Brendon bite on his bottom lip a little. He let his thumb trace the line of shadow down onto his neck, below his ear, pushing aside Brendon's t-shirt just enough to feel skin where his neck met his shoulder.
Brendon raised his eyebrows. "Tom, huh?"
Jon smiled. "A friend."
"Yeah. A friend. That's good," Brendon said, reaching up and wrapping his fingers around Jon's hand. He cleared his throat and slid an inch or two closer. "So, I've been sort of dodging around this for months now, but I was thinking that maybe we could have dinner. Together. Sometime."
"Dinner? Like a date?" Jon asked, looping his pinkie around one of Brendon's wandering fingers.
"Date? Never," Brendon snorted. "We'd just be eating together in the same general vicinity. You know, breaking bread within our community or some shit." Brendon tugged on Jon's hand a little. "Kissing optional, but highly encouraged."
Jon turned his hand over, linking their fingers together. He pulled, till Brendon shuffled a half-step closer. "I like communal dining," Jon said. He leaned across the whisper of space between them, mouth brushing along Brendon's ear. "And I pretty much love kissing."
Brendon shivered. "Yeah, I was hoping you'd say that."