Open All Night

Happy, happy birthday, my darling chazper! Um, I wrote you bandom? Not really, but I promise I am still working on Kat's O.C. prompts, so I haven't abandoned you completely! I hope you've had a swell day!

This is just a little post-breakup (I keep wanting to type post-apocalypse. What hast thou wrought, Supernatural?) musing.

Title: Mise en Place
Author: overnighter
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,527
Disclaimer: The following is fiction and no profit is made. No disrespect intended. These are fictional representations of real people only.

Summary: Mise en place, literally "putting in place," is a French phrase defined by the Culinary Institute of America as "everything in place", as in set up. . .Celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain has often referred to mise en place as his religion.

Brendon doesn't like cheeseburgers.

Notes: Many thanks, as always, to the marvelous goshemily, brandywine421 and miss_begonia who made this story a zillion times better with their very sharp eyes and smart suggestions. And thanks especially to miss_begonia for the brilliant title.



Brendon doesn't like cheeseburgers.

It's not a big deal, really. He'll eat them, but he prefers his hamburgers plain, with lots of ketchup.

To him, it's the taste of a million backyard barbecues when he was a kid, and the youngest, and there weren't ever quite enough cheese slices to go around. It's the taste of the first time he ate meat in four years, in a diner in North Carolina after he went swimming with Amanda Palmer.

Every time he says it, though, Ryan lectures him about the aesthetics of the perfect American fast-food experience, and brings him back a cheeseburger.

He's done it so often now that Brendon doesn't even bother scraping the cheese off, even if it's the gross orange kind. He does, however, forget to ask for no pickles on Ryan's order at least once a tour when it's his turn to get the takeout. It's worth the epic bitchfit that accompanies his mistake just for the chance to smirk in Ryan’s face and sing snatches of Cheeseburger in Paradise under his breath all day.

Or at least it used to be. In order for him to enjoy annoying Ryan, he would have to have spoken to Ryan for more than ten minutes on the phone at any time in the past three months.

He tries not to think too much about what it will be like on the upcoming tour, if the bus will feel half empty. Probably not. By the end of Rock Band Live, he and Spencer were spending most of their time in the front lounge with Zack, watching bad movies. They tried writing all together, once or twice, but Ryan said Brendon ruined the vibe that he and Jon got writing alone.

That, apparently, didn't change after the tour ended, and the last time -- the only time -- that they all tried to make music together, Brendon ended up throwing his burger, cheese and all, at Ryan’s head after he called Brendon’s lyrics jejune once too often. Even if Brendon had to look it up later, it wasn’t like he didn’t know when he was being insulted. Still, it wasn’t his finest hour.

He takes the phone call on the Fourth of July.

They’re not having a party, really, not anything like the one that Vicky-T is throwing at her parents’ compound in the Colony. They’re just grilling in the backyard, throwing sticks for the dogs to chase and listening to music and hoping to catch a glimpse of the fireworks later over the water.

Shane is on the ground with the dogs and Spencer is manning the grill, snapping his tongs ferociously whenever anyone comes too close, so Brendon and Regan are sitting at the patio table cutting up fruit for his mother’s fruit salad. They're chatting about the movie they saw last night when Spencer’s phone rings. It’s on the table between them and Brendon grabs it without thinking. He doesn’t even check the caller display. He knows everyone Spencer knows, and they answer each other’s phones all the time.

“Heeey, Spence.”

He’s so startled when he hears Ryan’s voice on the other end that he almost drops the phone into the hollowed-out watermelon, but he recovers before anyone can see. Ryan’s voice is slow and rough; he sounds like he just woke up, or smoked up, or maybe both.

“It’s me, Ry,” he says automatically, then adds, feeling stupid, “Brendon. Spencer’s at the grill.”

“Oh, hey, man. How’s it goin’?” Ryan asks, affably enough that Brendon eyes the phone suspiciously.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ve started recording for . . .”

“Yeah, I heard – that’s great,” Ryan says, rolling over him. “Look, tell Spencer I’m sorry. I got the times screwed up and we’re not going to be able to swing by after all. I woke up too late, and Jon’s still jetlagged, and now we’re running behind. Maybe after, if you guys will be around . . .”

Brendon lets it hang there for a moment, watching Spencer fend off Shane, who’s gotten up off the ground to try a stealth run at the grilled peppers. He didn’t know that Spencer had even invited Ryan, or that Jon was back in L.A. again. He takes a deep breath and nods, even though Ryan can’t see him.

“No, no, it’s cool,” he says. “We’re just hanging out. Come by later if you want. We’ll be here.”

Ryan hangs up with a relieved sigh, but without a goodbye. That’s not unusual, though. Regan raises an eyebrow but goes back to halving grapes without a word as Brendon shuts the phone gently and lays it back down on the table.

He stands up and walks over to the grill, stopping to grab two Coronas from the plastic bucket filled with ice and beer that he and Shane bought at Target their first weekend in the new house, specifically because it was advertised as a giant bucket that could be filled with ice and beer. He waves them like a white flag, and Spencer lets him come stand next to him and peer at the grill.

“That was Ryan,” he says, and Spencer busies himself scooping up one of the hamburger patties and sliding it into one of the only-slightly-too-toasted buns. “He and Jon aren’t coming. He fucked up the times for Vicky’s thing. He said maybe after.”

Spencer sighs and hands Brendon the hamburger.

“Of course he did. Look, I didn’t say anything because . . .”

Brendon cuts him off.

“No, I get it. It’s cool. I’m glad – it’s good you asked. And I think he just. . . you know Ryan, he fucks up stuff like that all the time.”

Brendon bites into the burger. It’s so dry it’s crunchy, and after he chokes it down he has to take a long swallow of beer just to be able to talk. Spencer is watching Brendon’s face, and whatever he sees there makes his own face fall, just a little.

“Disgusting, right?” Spencer says with a sigh. “Those are the turkey burgers. I think the hamburgers are better. I hope. And there are hot dogs.”

He looks chagrined, and Brendon’s not entirely sure it’s because of the food. He doesn’t like not being sure.

“It’s fine. Look, you know I’m glad you and Ross are talking, right? I mean, I’m glad you’re still . . . we’re all still friends.”

Spencer and Ryan are still friends. That much is true and probably always will be. He doesn’t know about the rest of it, but sometimes it’s enough to want something to be true.

“Yeah,” Spencer says. He goes to take the burger back from Brendon, but Brendon holds onto it.

“It’s fine,” Brendon says, holding it back out of reach. It will take half a bottle of ketchup to make it remotely edible, but Spencer’s resulting grin is worth it. “It’ll be fine.”

*
Brendon likes his coffee with cream and sugar, even if it's really good coffee. Which, most of the time on tour, it’s not.

He likes it even though Jon and Ryan and the rest make fun of him for it, even when there are options like peppermint mochas and iced double-caramel macchiatos available.

To him, it's the first forbidden taste of a world outside his parents' house, even more than his first joint, or his first illicit beer. He never really acquired a taste for cola, but coffee -- that was worth giving up a Temple recommend for. It tastes like music and friends and freedom.

If Jon is sober, he will bring Brendon back a cup of coffee that is the perfect shade of tan, with just enough cream to make it feel thick in his mouth. Jon remembers everyone's coffee orders when he's sober, and not hungover.

Otherwise, he brings back as many black coffees as he can carry and a pocket full of those non-dairy creamers. Non-dairy creamer leaves little floating clumps at the top of the coffee, and the coffee's always too cool by the time Jon gets back to really melt the sugar, which means the first half is too bitter and the second is too sweet.

Brendon mostly drinks coffee at home now, from the fancy French press that Regan bought him to compensate for taking Shane -- and Shane's Miele coffeemaker -- along with her to their new place in Malibu. It's the big Bodum one, and it makes enough for him and Spencer both if Spencer gets up early enough to go surfing with him in the morning.

The last time he has coffee with Jon though -- before Jon flies back to Chicago for a long weekend after the announcement -- they meet at the Coffee Bean in Thousand Oaks.

They sit at a table outside in the sunshine, and Brendon chokes down an ice-blended tiramisu-flavored concoction that Jon ordered for him before he got there. It’s watery and cloying, but it gives him something to do in the long stretches of silence in between forced small talk about their respective pets, and Buehrle's perfect game for the Sox.

Jon’s hair is getting longer, curling at the bottom, and he’s got a tan, but he doesn’t look healthy. He has dark circles under his eyes, and Brendon wants to ask if he’s sleeping okay, if he’s happy to go home to Cassie and the cats and Marley, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to anymore, if he ever was.

Jon starts and stops his sentences two and three times, like he’s examining each one for accidental bombshells before completing it. Brendon doesn’t think he sounds much better himself.

They’re having a dumb conversation about working out, and he’s flailing because he doesn’t know how to say that he’s trying to build up stamina for the upcoming tour, that he’s afraid of being alone -- all alone -- at the front of the stage for the first time in his life.

Jon waits until Brendon grinds to an excruciating halt, spinning his coffee cup between his fingers.

“It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t personal,” he says finally, looking up at Brendon through his too-long bangs.

Brendon nods.

“I know.”

“It was always about the music.”

He doesn’t understand how Jon doesn’t realize that’s the most personal thing of all.

He manages to smile, though, and pat Jon’s hand clumsily.

“It’s okay,” he says. “We’ll be okay. We just need a little bit of time.”

Jon looks so grateful that Brendon almost believes it.

He isn’t sure why he’s so much angrier with Jon than with Ryan. It’s not rational, and it’s not fair, but there it is. With Ryan, it is personal – it always has been – but somehow six years of fighting the same fight over and over makes it seem like just more water under the bridge.

He’s used to Ryan acting like he took a class from Brendon’s siblings in How to Act Embarrassed by Your Kid Brother to Maximum Effect; Ryan acted like that before they were famous – or their version of it – and probably would until the day he died.

He met Jon when he was already a professional, though, and he respected Jon’s opinions from the first. He thought Jon had done the same, but now he isn’t sure, and isn’t sure what to do with that information.

He feels like maybe he missed a clue somewhere, and it bothers him. He’s not always good at reading social cues -- even now -- but he’s usually pretty good at picking up on which people actively dislike him. It’s a finely-honed self-preservation skill, left over from middle school.

He doesn’t like to think of Jon that way, though, so most days he doesn’t. Most days, he just tries to remember that they are friends, and that they likely wouldn’t have been if they were still trying to make music together. It doesn’t mean he has to be okay with it all the time, though.

They've been mostly texting, since that day. It's easier, somehow, to send stupid jokes and pictures of their lunches and snatches of lyrics -- never their own -- than to talk face to face again.

Still, they're trying, and that's better than the nothing he's been doing with Ryan. When the photos surfaced, two days after the announcement, he sent Ryan a message – RU OK?

He never heard back, and that was that.

*
Brendon loves the food at La Buca almost as much as he loves the way the restaurant looks – tiny, cramped tables and pictures of Italy and people waving their hands in the air as they eat. He hasn't been there since he and Sarah called it quits.

To him, it isn't "their place," really -- any more than any of the other fifty restaurants they tried in their quest to eat their way across Los Angeles. But it holds special memories for him as the scene of his first adult date.

He called the moment he knew she was coming to visit him in L.A. that last time – coming out to help him kill time and manage stress before the announcement became official -- because it took forever to get a reservation.

He dressed in a suit, and she wore a too-fancy dress and they tried to act like they weren't the youngest people in the restaurant, as well as the only ones speaking English. They talked about traveling to Italy -- one of the places he'd never been to with Panic -- and fed each other bits of their dinners and kissed on a street corner while they were walking the three blocks back to the car.

Spencer knows all that because Brendon told him one night after Shane moved out -- drunk on self-pity and SoCo and lime. Brendon railed against the unfairness of having a restaurant that good ruined for him forever by the breakup and Spencer didn’t mention the next morning that Brendon had punctuated his statement by throwing up on poor Bogart.

So Brendon's more than a little surprised when they cap a day in the studio with a drive into Hollywood. Spencer doesn't tell him where they're going until they get there, and Brendon’s trying to decide if he should feel hurt when Spencer grins at him and says, "I figured any restaurant that makes a grown man cry is worth a second look." Okay, Brendon was really, really drunk that night.

It's earlier in the evening than the last time he was here, and he doesn't feel under-dressed in his jeans and jacket, even though he probably should. There are more couples from the neighborhood this time, closer to their age, and no one looks at him twice. The food's really good -- better than he remembers -- and they split a bottle of wine, even though neither of them has really been drinking much while they've been in the studio.

When Brendon comes back from the bathroom, Spencer is nursing a tiny cup of espresso and studying an equally tiny dessert menu intently. There's a bigger cup of regular coffee in front of his own place, a pot of sugar and a tiny pitcher of cream beside it.

"The waiter thinks you're a heathen," Spencer says without looking up from the menu when Brendon sits back down, "but I defended your honor."

Brendon snorts and adds cream and sugar to his cup.

"My hero," he says, and realizes as he does that he hasn't thought of Sarah once since they sat down.

Spencer finally looks up.

"If I get the tiramisu, can we push back our start an hour in the morning?" he asks idly. Brendon knows this means he's thinking about working out.

Spencer is officially not dieting; he's "getting healthier" and "trying to be present in his own body.”

Brendon, it turns out, is not the only one getting gifts from Regan. Her cousin the New Age nutritionist is a good-natured trip, but Spencer likes her a lot, and he's being more careful about a lot of stuff with her help.

Before Brendon and Spencer started recording in earnest Spencer was working out every day. Lately, they've been going surfing in the evenings and weekends, and taking the dogs out for a walk in the mornings, but they're on track, and they can make up the time in the days before they go down to San Diego.

"If we get the pear tart thing, too, I'll get up early and go with you. We can take the dogs up to the canyon and bring 'em with us -- Dan said he didn't mind."

Spencer rolls his eyes, but he’s already nodding, so Brendon knows he's won.

Brendon doesn't actually care if Spencer eats four desserts and has to roll himself out onstage every night in a cart, but he's glad that Spencer cares again. Despite everything, Spencer seems a lot happier now then he did at the end of the last tour, when he was a miserable, sullen mess who spent most the time when he wasn't high shut up in his bunk and whispering furiously down the phone at Haley. Some things are definitely better now.

"Fine. But you have to let me order the tart thing so I can tell Mackenzie I had fruit for dessert and not be lying."

They end up splitting them both anyway, and when they're done, Spencer gets up and stretches.

"We should get going then, if we want to be up early. I wanna watch the new Entourage we missed last night."

Brendon stares up at him.

"We are not playing dine and ditch at La Buca, Spence. With the taste of pear-chocolate tart still on your tongue, how could you?"

Even as he says it, though, their waiter is weaving his way through the cramped tables with a brown folder in his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," he says, and hands it over to Spencer, who pockets his credit card and signs the slip with a smirk. "Please come again."

"We sure will," Spencer says. "It was delicious." Brendon is still sitting in his seat, staring at Spencer long enough that Spencer shifts uncomfortably on his feet. "What? I paid the bill while you were in the bathroom. It's no big deal."

"Spencer Smith," Brendon says, but he can't really keep a straight face, "are you trying to seduce me?"

Spencer reaches over and cuffs him on the back of the head, lightly.

"Get up, dumbass," he says. "People are starting to stare."

Brendon doesn't know what Spencer thinks he's going to accomplish with that statement. Brendon's a front man. Brendon likes attention.

"Let 'em stare," Brendon says, waving his hand, "I want an answer to my question."

Spencer sighs and stares up at the ceiling for a moment, then leans in so close that Brendon can count the freckles on the bridge of his nose.

"I realize that in your world, Wanna fuck? is an elaborate courting ritual, but believe me when I tell you if I were seducing you, you'd know." He stays there for a minute, his coffee-scented breath puffing warmly against Brendon's already-heated cheeks. "Now let's go."

He walks away without another word, threading his way through the dining room towards the front door. Brendon waits for another minute, but even still his knees are weak under him when he stands. When he gets out the door, though, Spencer is waiting, grinning at him like always, and holding out a wrapped mint. It's not quite dark, and Spencer's hair is shining in the rays of the sinking sun.

"C'mon. I think we'll miss the worst of the traffic by now."

They're halfway up the block, standing in front of a bodega, when it occurs to Brendon to wonder.

"How long ago did you make a reservation?" he asks as Spencer tries to dig his keys out of his back pocket. Spencer shrugs, concentrating on disentangling the key chain from a loose thread in the lining.

"A couple weeks," he says, as Brendon waves Spencer's hands away impatiently and untangles the keys himself, dropping them into Spencer's palm with a smile.

Right before the announcement went up at the web site. Right after Sarah left for the last time.

"I thought maybe you'd want to make some new associations. Plus, you know, you went on and on and on about the damn gnocchi."

Brendon grins at him.

"And they lived up to the hype, didn't they?" Brendon asks. Spencer nods, and twirls his keys. "Seriously, though. It was -- nice. It was more than nice. It was exactly what I didn't know I needed."

Spencer smiles, wide enough that Brendon can count his teeth even in the darkening gloom.

"Some things are easier to fix than others," he says.

Brendon leans in and hugs him then, even though the old man behind the counter of the deli is giving them the stinkeye. When he’s done, Spencer doesn't let go, just moves his arm over Brendon's shoulder and steers them both up the street in silence.

And he doesn't complain when, on the long drive up the PCH, Brendon tangles their fingers on the gear shift.