twentysomething

Fandom: Bandom, Panic

Pairing: intended Brendon/Spencer

Length: 2600 wordsish.

Warnings: ugh I love New York a lot okay

Notes: This is the summation as per merelyn: "the broadway AU where Brendon's an up-and-coming star who lives in a ridic tiny apt in HK and Spencer's a harried Asst Director like basically I want Bden to live in that apt on 48th with the shower stall in the wall next to the bright yellow "kitchen" and the green closet with the toilet in it and the dark red room with pink molding and a chandelier and a fake fireplace and whatnot and a creepy roommate and Spencer doesn't know what's more horrifying but Brendon loves it thiiiiiis much. dude and you know he'd like be all over the piano bar Don't Tell Mama on 46 and singing Being Alive on Sondheim night @ Duplex. Bden has this cornfed tiny Cheyenne Jackson vibe & no one thinks he can play the Emcee and he's only the understudy but one day the main guy gets food poisoning so Bden has to go on and he's so nervous he's going to puke but then the spotlight hits him and he launches into the opening number and BAM EVERYONE IN THE AUDIENCE SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUSTS

also this needs some cheesy part where B&S are on a crowded subway car and it lurches and knocks Bden into Spencer's chest

also omg Ryan is Bden's Parsons/FIT-attending roommate which explains that entire garish and shitty 6th floor walk up apt y/y?"

Yeah, that about says it all.



Spencer had never intended to work in theater. But he'd been strong-armed by Ryan into countless high school drama productions, the first time as a miserable Shakespearean ensemble member, until the drama teacher had pulled Spencer aside, given him a clip board and let him yell at people for missing their cues. It had been an act of desperation and mercy- their stage manager had gotten mono and been promptly sick and grounded and Spencer couldn't be trusted to stand on the stage and not look like someone was murdering him.

"It'd be one thing if we were doing Brecht," Mrs. Richter had said, smiling at him ruefully. "But this is As You Like It, so maybe we'll let you work backstage."

But Spencer had been good at it- his anal-retentive attention to detail and bitchy glares proving extremely effective- and what's more, he'd liked it. Liked it enough that he'd even done it without Ryan throughout college, but graduating and realizing that the only thing he was really good at was stage managing hadn't really been in his plans.

He'd been bitching about it to Ryan- who'd dropped out a semester and a half in, worked a number of increasingly horrifying part-time jobs, then transferred to FIT with a vengeance- who'd finally just said, "Well, get the fuck out here, then."

Spencer had thought about it for half a week before he'd succumbed to the inevitable and started packing his bags.

"And you're sure it's cool if I crash with you until I find a job and a place?" Spencer asks, for maybe the twentieth time, in line for the security check at the airport.

"Spence, get on the damn plane," Ryan says. Ryan had offered to come out to the airport to meet him, but Spencer had headed that disaster off at the pass. He only regrets the decision a little, crammed onto a bus with seemingly every other human on the planet, bouncing across a bridge at top speed, carefully consulting his google maps printout again and again, like a safety blanket.

The blocks are fucking long with his duffel bag from years of summer camp crammed with shit resting haphazardly on top of the giant rolling suitcase he'd taken from his mother, equally crammed with shit. It's also the dead of summer and Spencer swears he's never sweat this much in his whole goddamn life, only breathing in the shade of the infrequent trees along 48th Street.

Pressing the buzzer feels like the world's smallest, saddest victory.

"Yes." comes the familiar, toneless voice.

"Dude, if you don't get down here and help me with my bags, I'm going to die," Spencer groans.

The door buzzes at him mechanically and he shoves his way in even as he hears the faint echo of feet on stairs. He's just starting to get his wind back when he looks up and sees the never ending spiral up. Nearly a whole minute later, Ryan appears at the bottom of the stairs and Spencer realizes the hardest part is yet to come. He thinks about crying, but he figures he needs the moisture inside his body more.

Four flights later, Spencer thinks about revising his opinion on crying, because his thighs are aching and he's out of breath, wondering if he's that out of shape or whether this is actually just hell.

"Two more," Ryan pants and he's equally miserable, which is comforting.

In the mindless bliss of no more stairs, for a moment, Spencer doesn't even notice the apartment.

There is a shower stall in the wall next to the bright yellow "kitchen"- as far he can tell that's what the tiny fridge and miniature stove mean. There's a green closet that Ryan waves a hand at with an airy "Toilet." The room itself is dark red with pink molding, a dinky IKEA chandelier and a fake fireplace.

It looks like Picasso had a one night stand with the interior decorator of a bordello and this- this- is their mutant baby.

"Wow," Spencer says, finally, after he's kept down "What" and more importantly "Why."

"Yeah, the paint was expensive, but it was worth it," Ryan agrees- as usual- missing the actual subtext of the statement.

Spencer just lets Ryan direct him through the only actual door that doesn't lead to a piece of porcelain to drop his stuff off in Ryan's room- which is just like the rest of the apartment if... more so.

"Brendon's room is that way," Ryan points to the screen next to the the shower. "He's at work or something, but tomorrow night we'll go visit Jon in 5c and get some weed and really welcome you to the City." Spencer can hear the capital C and it hits him- he brought two bags and his body and moved to New York City.

"I think I need a drink," Spencer says, letting himself fall onto the futon, which- judging by the paisley cover- was another Ryan Ross DIY project.

Two beers and a piss in the world's most offensively green bathroom later, Spencer has recovered a little of his equilibrium, even if the world is slightly more red-tinted due to exposure. Despite it being only 8 or so- still light in the height of summer- the light from the one good window in the living room is blocked by the building across the street, so Ryan turns on the bizarre overhead paper light and- oh god.

A fiercely ugly strand of multicolored Christmas lights spring into life and Spencer is again struck mute by the wonder and horror of Ryan's apartment.

They crash embarrassingly early, cramming into Ryan's bed together because they can't be fucked to find the air mattress pump. They've shared a bed under pretty much all kinds of terrible circumstances, so while Ryan's bony elbows and sweat-tacky skin aren't ideal, it's better than sleeping on the decidedly lumpy futon.

Spencer wakes up to find Ryan gone- he snorts, because he's probably not the first, or even the first guy, to wake up in this bed, wondering where Ryan is. There is- to his credit- a hastily scrawled note on the square foot of counter space that either says "durr" or "class", depending on how one reads Ryan's wretched "artsy" scratchings.

Spencer just shrugs and braves the fridge. He spends about thirty seconds mistrustfully sniffing the milk before deciding that not getting food poisoning on his first real day in New York is a better choice than cereal, even if his stomach is growling pretty insistently. He's scratching absently at a vague itch in the region of his kidney, waiting for the coffee maker to stop hissing at him and actually produce coffee, when he hears "Jesus, son of a fucking fuck- oh, I forgot- you must be Spencer."

Spencer looks up to find a mostly naked and extremely hot guy staring at him from behind thick, black framed glasses.

The only thing Spencer can think is that he looks like porno Clark Kent.

"Hi," Spencer finally says, because he knows this has to be Brendon, and he knows it never would have occurred to Ryan to warn Spencer that his roommate has a tendency to be under-dressed and over-attractive, but he really would have appreciated some fucking warning.

"Sorry, let me try that again," Brendon says with a bright, shameless grin, sticking his hand out like he's not just wearing a pair of black boxer briefs and glasses straight out of a used record shop. "Hi, I'm Brendon, you must be Spencer." Spencer attempts to smile back, like a completely normal human.

"I'm Spencer, you must be Brendon," he agrees and Brendon's smile grows impossibly wider.

"Awesome," Brendon says, like it really is awesome that Spencer's here, and fuck he moved to New York, it is awesome. "I'm guessing Ryan went to class and left you here with no idea of where to get or do anything and certainly no keys?" Spencer shrugs, because he's used to Ryan, and from the fondly exasperated tone in Brendon's voice, he is too.

"I'm coming to the realization that I have nothing to do today other than look for a job, so," Spencer explains. Brendon raises his eyebrows, and leans against the wall, apparently totally comfortable with having a conversation with a virtual stranger in his underwear. Then again, if Spencer looked like Brendon, he would probably be cool with it, too.

"What do you do?" Brendon asks, casually reaching around Spencer for a glass and filling it from the tap over a stack of decaying plates. "Ryan didn't say." Spencer shrugs because he's sort of used to getting shit from friends of his parents and old high school friends, but it's not something crazy, like wanting to act, or anything.

"I'm a stage manager," Spencer says. Brendon's face lights up.

"No way! I'm an actor," Brendon chirps.

Case in point.

"This is great!" Brendon says. "I'm going to put on pants, I'll show you the hangover bagels and the laundromat and we can steal the wifi from Starbucks."

Somehow this translates to the two of them spending the better part of the day looking at listings on Backstage, Mandy and Playbill and squatting in the only two armchairs in the Starbucks. Around 2, Spencer's phone buzzes with a text from Ryan that just says, party @ jons tonite 2 welcome you 2 ny Spencer doesn't know who Jon is, but Brendon assures him that Jon is made of sunshine and happiness- "He smells like Christmas! And certainly doesn't have any unauthorized pets."

Spencer lets Brendon rip his resume apart and put it back together- "This is showbiz, everyone exaggerates when they're not busy lying." When he's done Spencer reluctantly admits it's about a thousand times better. He'd hire him. Between the two of them, Spencer feels like they've applied to every job in the theater district.

They're headed back to the apartment- the worst of the day's heat is over with, meaning it only feels burning, not scorching- when Brendon's phone chimes.

"Fucking- seriously?" Brendon whines. "One of the other servers bailed tonight and they need me to come in and cover a shift. Fuck, they're lucky I need money." Brendon isn't even winded when they get to the top of the stairs- which is criminal- but he only stops in long enough to grab a bag and head back out the door.

"I'll be late, but I'm not missing this party, Spencer Smith!" he calls, already halfway down a flight of stairs.

Which means the sum total of people Spencer knows at this party is Ryan.

Jon and Cassie are great- as are their collection of "totally not pets"- but Spencer can't cling to them all night. Ryan- of course- disappears no more than an hour into the party with a chick that looks way too cool for him. It's a crushing amount of people and even though it's night, the heat is unbelievable in the room. As cold as the beer is, Spencer finally gives up and sneaks out onto the fire escape to get some fresh air.

It's like stepping into air conditioning, even though Spencer knows it can't be cooler than 80 degrees, probably.

He nurses his beer, reluctant to head back in when he hears clanging above him.

"What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" Brendon calls, sticking his head over the rail.

"Hey," Spencer says, oddly relieved. "How was work?" Brendon makes an "ehh" sound as he clambers down.

"It was work. Shitty tipping." He lights up a cigarette. "I know, it's bad for my voice, don't tell." Spencer shrugs, because it's none of his business, anyway.

"You got another one of those?" Spencer asks, instead. He's usually just a stress smoker, but Spencer would kill for a cigarette. Brendon shakes his head apologetically.

"Swapsies?" Brendon offers, holding the cigarette out and tapping Spencer's beer.

"Not a lot left," Spencer warns him, but Brendon just shrugs as they trade vices. Spencer distracts himself from the motion of Brendon's throat working by taking a deep drag.


And that's where I stopped writing- but I had written this part that was set about a month or two later:


They're going to some ridiculous party out on the L, because Ryan had insisted and Brendon had said it would be fun so Spencer just nuts up and wears the coat he'll least give a shit about getting drunkenly taken out of the coat pile by somebody's girlfriend. October is cold, not wretched, but even so, when Spencer sees Brendon outside of the 49th Street NQR, he's wearing a scarf, a hat with earflaps and fucking mittens.

"Are you for real" is on the tip of Spencer's tongue, but Brendon just flaps a bright pink hand at him.

"Hi, Spence," Brendon chirps, and Brendon looks stupidly good in the ugly yellow-orange sodium lighting, his glasses starting to fog as they head down the stairs. Spencer's found that no matter what the temperature is like above ground, the platform is always uncomfortably hot, so it's no surprise when Brendon spends the following five minutes waiting for the train reluctantly peeling off layers of unnecessary winter wear.

"This is going to be like the foam party, isn't it," Spencer says, resigned, as he tries to distract himself from the damp, sweaty strands of dark hair stuck to Brendon's forehead as the hat gets crammed into a messenger bag.

"I'm pretty sure it's just going to be the usual tame drugs and drinking this time," Brendon grins. Spencer sighs, because once you've been to someone's building that used to be a warehouse and is now still a warehouse but with rent-paying squatters in it, you've been to all of them.

"Thank god for that," Spencer agrees.

It's late enough that the train is pretty uncrowded- the majority of people pouring out of Times Square post-show have done so, and it's still too early for the ones who are eating after. Brendon is characteristically cheerful the whole way, talking about how their choreographer is totally trying to nail the lead if it kills him, all the way to 14th Street- Spencer has to prod Brendon out of the train so they can transfer.

The L, however, is pretty packed- there have been work delays all day and Brendon and Spencer squeeze in at the last second, Spencer's back against the doors.

"Well, this is cozy," Brendon offers, trying to maintain a polite, inch-ish distance between him and his neighbors, and thus, utterly failing to reach any kind of rail.

Spencer sees it coming a mile away, but he still manages to be surprised when the car bounces dramatically as they pass under the river, knocking Brendon off his balance and straight into Spencer's chest.

Instinctively, Spencer tucks an arm around Brendon, steadying him and it's about then when Spencer loses all higher brain function because this close, Brendon's eyes are huge and so very brown and if Spencer were to lean down at all, his mouth would be pressed against Brendon's and that is an all-encompassing thought.

The train bounces again, in the opposite direction, but Spencer's arm is still tight around Brendon's waist and this probably became awkward about five seconds ago, but as the train jostles its way into "next stop, Bedford Avenue," Spencer's still holding Brendon. It isn't until the train actually stops that Spencer whips his arm back to his side, and he can feel the tips of his ears burning.

"Um," Brendon says, after a second, before smiling sheepishly. "Thanks for keeping me from taking a header into the doors, bro." Spencer nods, because he doesn't really trust himself to not say something totally obvious and awful.

"No problem," Spencer says.

But he sees Brendon very deliberately grab the rail before the train pulls out, and well. That's that.