Work Text
Ryan scrambled across Uncle Cluck’s parking lot like a madman, legs nearly tripping over each other, eyes narrowed, plowing through the drizzle and sheen of mist that last night’s storm had reduced to. God, imagine getting fired your first day on the job. Nothing could be more embarrassing, no matter how bullshit the job is. The run from Jon’s car to the front door was enough to get his clothes lightly soaked– Ryan cursed under his breath, frantically trying to pull open a push door and grumbling that this practice space better be worth it.He bounded through the front door, the bell ringing shrilly, knocking back against the wall as he checked his watch, crossing the distance to the register. “Cock a doodle do, welcome to Cluck’s, how can I help you?” a tired, alarmingly familiar voice called from behind his back, turning languidly to face Ryan.On the same day the desert flooded, Hell froze over.The boys locked eyes with each other, mirroring their shocked expressions as Ryan’s eyes grew a hint of a smile, scanning up and down Brendon, wishing he could take a mental picture of this moment forever. The high and mighty “good little altar boy” who swore his scrappy shitshow of a band would trample Coda with a Curse like a stepping stone on their way to the top was now standing in front of him, bug-eyed and swallowing nervously, gripping the electronic register and biting his tongue for the sake of keeping his job. All he could do was maintain a stone-cold glare while Ryan grew even more amused at his appearance– blue pinstripe overalls, red tie, dress shirt, and a ginormous rubber chicken head to bring it all together. He was right there, pale as a ghost, standing at attention and ready to take his order– just like Ryan would be in 15 minutes. Fuck.Before Ryan could cackle and howl in Brendon’s face, or march straight out of the building and tell Jon they suddenly went out of business, a head popped out of the kitchen window. Pete bounded in front of the counter and stuck his hand out to shake Ryan’s. The boy in the chicken hat gaped at the scene in front of him, amusement replacing the panic on his face as the gears inside his huge forehead turned. “Oh, Ryan, you’re here!” now it was Urie’s turn to hold back a grin, “I almost thought you wouldn’t show– remember, early is on time, and two minutes late is late.” he chided, Ryan’s shoulders dropping with his gaze as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t give Urie the satisfaction of seeing him get scolded with his tail between his legs– like he was somehow better than him.“I know.” Ryan pursed his lips, struggling to remember how to put on a smile, “Sorry, Pete. Won’t happen again.” Not like it’s practically fucking hailing outside, and there are only two customers in the entire restaurant he almost adds.“I’ll let you off the hook this time since it’s your first day– but you shouldn’t waste time catching up when you’re supposed to be working.” Pete looked at Brendon for the first time since he walked in, raising his eyebrows in a way that suggested they should know what he was talking about.The two almost exchanged confused glances, like old buddies on the same team, but they both just stared expectantly at Pete. “I mean, you’re friends, aren’t you? Either that or you’re about to brawl behind the counters– that’d be a huge pain in the ass.” he laughed, shaking his head and absently combing through his short, dark bangs. “Mhm.” Brendon nodded solemnly, looking just about ready to have Ryan thrown out when Pete turned away.Ryan glared downwards as Pete dragged him to his office to sign papers and begin training. And size him for a uniform, Jesus Christ– he’d rather wear a clown suit covered in little kids’ puke than that God-awful chicken head. Fuck, this was going to be the longest four hours of his life.Pete grinned, handing him a pile of clothes, along with the famed rubber prison he’d be serving customers in. Why the manager was exempt from the rule and gets to wear a white headband with a small red comb instead of a giant, smelly piece of garbage, Ryan had no clue.What kept Ryan going was the knowledge that he’d be getting paid for this– $5.30 an hour, a whole fifteen cents above minimum wage– but not nearly enough to sit around all day and pretend to play nice with Urie. They’ve been trying to steal their bookings, heckling them at shows, and talking shit about their band since before they’d even written their first EP. It wasn’t just beef between the bands– Urie and Ross had some personal problems nobody quite understood. The only clue anyone had was Brendon “stealing” Spencer from Ryan, who refused to speak to him after finding out how close they were getting, and worst of all, their pathetic little fantasies of having a famous rock band and sold-out shows. That felt like a true punch to the gut, which Ryan returned kindly with a fist to his face. He’d never admit that the regret kept him awake at night. Let bygones be bygones.Ryan’s band was going to trample Brendon’s sad little Beatles tribute once they got to Vegas, finally being able to kiss middle of buttfuck nowhere Nevada goodbye and never having to deal with snarky little Catholic pricks and their watered-down Puritan hippie project.He marched to the bathroom, crumpling the bundle of clothes in his fist, pointedly avoiding Brendon’s gaze.Grimacing, he removed his pants and shoes. Slipping on the overalls, he paused to glance in the mirror. God, throw in a newsboy cap and he’d look like a fucking train conductor. He couldn’t believe this place was considered a serious business, ridiculous gimmicky costumes should only belong in a Hooters. He thinks somehow working there would be less humiliating than this. Maybe he could convince Jon that they didn’t need this job– sometimes the shitty bars in town gave them twenty bucks for the whole night, and beggars can’t be choosers. But he supposes that’s how he got here in the first place, not a single fucking business out here was hiring this time of year, believe him, he tried.And look where all that effort got him. Standing in a grimy little bathroom wearing blue and white pinstripe overalls that fit far too loose to look professional, with a white dress shirt and a big red tie, looking into the mirror at a man he doesn’t recognize. Ryan adjusted his tie, touching up his eyeliner and ruffling his hair in a futile attempt to look presentable, sighing and groaning exasperatedly, postponing the inevitable final step.He picked up the chicken head, glaring into its bugged-out, cartoony eyeballs. A childish urge to punch the head in the face entered the back of his mind, along with a sudden craving for the Marlboro Reds he left in Jon’s car. What he wouldn’t do for an hour-long smoke break right now– as if anything could prepare him for the next God knows how long he’d be coworkers with him. That fucking twerp loves to go on and on about how classic rock is superior to the “thrashy, loud, whiny garbage” bands these days are putting out. He still remembers when Urie thought his liberal use of eyeliner was downright satanic, which was just a euphemism for gay-looking. Like it was the makeup that made him queer, not the clandestine affairs he had over the summer.Ryan pulled the mask over his head, struggling to turn the mask and keep the chicken head on straight, fitting his face through the gap and huffing, the odor from the old rubber and the lingering scent of sweat hitting him instantly.Taking one final look in the mirror, he set his jaw and absently pulled his bangs over his face. This was all for his dream to be a rockstar and get the fuck out of Nevada, he reminded himself. Just a regular, shitty job that anyone with the ability to rub two brain cells together could do– he couldn’t screw this up. He couldn’t let Urie win– but with no scuffs, black eyes, and held-back tears, it was impossible to tell who won. They had come to a draw.Time seemed to drag on like molasses the more he glanced at the clock.Training with Pete hardly flew by, listening to him fuss about not giving customers one single crumb of extra chicken, and always greeting them with a smile and a cheery “Cock a doodle do! Welcome to Cluck’s how may I help you?” Something Brendon failed to do when he arrived, Ryan almost mentioned to Pete, who was certainly a character in his own way. The man was only nineteen, yet somehow became the head manager, instead of the crabby old geezer (Pete’s words, not his) who remained assistant manager, forever spiteful at Pete for “taking his job” from him. His demeanor was intensely outgoing, though Ryan could tell by how much of a stickler he was that there was a much more hot-headed side of him just beneath the surface. Pete wearing almost as much eyeliner as Ryan was his only redeeming quality so far.Now, with the lunch rush mostly calmed down, Ryan and Brendon stood at opposite ends of the restaurant, if you can even call it that silently eyeing the clock. It seemed to deliberately tick slower, sadistically watching them fidget more and more impatiently, exhausted by the forced smiles they threw each other’s way when Pete was watching.Once the big hand hit twelve, Ryan internally sighed in relief. Sparing a glance at Brendon, he noticed him turning his body and stepping away from the drive-thru window. On instinct, his legs began to move.Ryan crossed the distance to the register, cutting Brendon off and punching his code in to clock out, barely suppressing a grin. He could feel Brendon’s glare behind him but smiled and waved goodbye to Pete (who had fortunately been within earshot the whole time), hightailing it out of the restaurant, and checking his phone on the way out.He took in the beautiful, sweet fresh air, his hand blocking the sun over the dimly lit Blackberry display. One voicemail from Jon, and a notice from Mikey that he couldn’t make practice today. Ryan was waiting for the right moment when all of them were present. He guessed it couldn’t happen today, but he was more relieved than upset. He scanned the small parking lot for Jon’s bright blue ‘92 Escort, nowhere to be seen among the four cars that bothered winding up here. Ryan sighed, checking Jon’s voicemail—“Car troubles— I can’t get this old battery to jumpstart, give me a bit, sorry. See you soon.”Figures. He sighed, pocketing his cell and turning the corning into the alleyway to listen to music until Jon pulled up and he could ramble about what he'd just gone through. Ryan frowned and ripped the rubber mask off his head, when hard hands slammed into his back, launching him towards the wall, knocking Ryan’s walkman onto the ground.“Hey!” he whipped around, “You’re dead, prick.”Of course it had to be Urie. God, fuck this, and fuck the stupid, shit-eating, Cheshire grin he’s got on his face. Ryan sidestepped and tried to cross in front of Brendon, only to be met with another shove into the dark street, “What, scared I’ll smudge your makeup or something?” Brendon sneered. Well, now he has to fight back, just for the sake of his pride.Ryan was always up for a fight, as long as it was Brendon.They knew just how to push each other’s buttons. He smiled as he squared his stance, “What’d your priest say tomorrow if you came to service covered head to toe in bruises and contusions ‘cause you lost another fight?”He grinned as Brendon scowled, reminiscing of the time he had dragged Jon to Urie’s church, snickering at the black eye clear as day on his face as he stood out like a sore thumb in formation with the other altar boys.Just as they both stepped farther into the dingy alleyway, a silent mutual agreement that things were about to get ugly, Ryan lunged at Brendon. Screw giving him any courtesy. A half-landed punch on the side of his face sent him teetering backward, stepping on something with a loud crunch. Ryan’s breath caught for a moment, he glanced at the ground curtly, too angry at Brendon to even mourn his walkman or try to piece it together.“Are you fucking kidding me? You clumsy piece of shit!” he dove at him again, successfully knocking him over with a muffled “oomph” sound. Ryan attempted to straddle him, being kicked off to the side by an uncoordinated frenzy of flailing legs. Suddenly he no longer had the upper hand, a fist striking his cheek as Brendon tried to get on top of him instead, as if Ryan would ever let that happen.Just as another strike went towards his head, he grabbed Urie’s face and pushed his head down to the pavement, successfully scratching up his cheek. Brendon hissed and instinctively cupped his face, glowering at Ryan as he stumbled to his feet, ready to strike, when the bell at the front door jingled loudly out to the quiet alley, where they stood panting with matching scowls. They silently watched as Pete rounded the corner to the other side of the building, face buried in his cell phone and clutching a pack of cigarettes, blissfully unaware that they actually did want to brawl behind the counters. The boys glanced at each other, reaching a standoff.“Forget it, you’re not even worth it anyways.” Urie grumbled as he brushed off his elbows and knees, setting off toward his house. That’s right, turn the other cheek, fuckin’ pussy Ryan smiled to himself smugly.To be continued, then. This was far from their first fistfight, and is certainly wouldn’t be their last.Ryan squatted down to pick up his walkman and the dreaded chicken head, hissing when he realized Brendon had somehow gotten his knees scratched up from the pavement. His pants were torn at the knees, too. It’s a shame he was never taught how to mend clothes, and he knew his mother wouldn’t pick up if he called her, not that he knew her phone number anyway. He’d have to ask Jon if he could talk to his mom for him– speaking of him, where the hell is that fucker?Ryan’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he instinctively knew who it was. Speak of the devil, there was his little blue Escort pulling in right now.He smiled a little for the first time that day– not like the one Pete insisted that he wore at work, but one that reached his eyes and reminded him that things weren’t so bad. He broke into a light jog and waved Jon over, harshly pulling open the passenger side door and immediately slumping into the seat with all his body weight, slamming it shut. “Whoa, hey, easy on Gertie man.” Jon warned him, glancing at him pointedly before faltering.“The hell happened to you?” he questioned, eyebrows raised up to his hairline. Ryan sighed, letting his body sink into the floor as much as his long legs would allow him, “Urie.”That was the only explanation they ever needed. It was routine at this point, getting on each other's nerves and inevitably ending up rolling on the floor in a frantic frenzy of fists and elbows. Jon pursed his lips and began to nod, pausing when he realized the situation's absurdity. “Wait, so did the kid come and bug you at work or something?”“Or something.” Ryan replied, “We’re fucking coworkers, man.”Jon gaped at him, eyes showing a hint of a smile “Wait, seriously? God, that’s fucked. You better not be punking me right now dude.” he cast a weary look to the driver's side, watching Jon shift into drive, swerving out of the parking lot. “No, I’m not, Jon. This is totally fucked, I’m totally fucked. Are you sure I even need this job?”Now it was Jon’s turn to look at him wearily, “You’re not fucked, okay? And this job isn’t about you, Ryan. It’s about the band– that’s what it’s all about, man. I know you lose sight of that sometimes, we all get caught up in our heads, but don’t you want to get the hell out of Kedelig?” he paused, stopping at an intersection and fishing for something behind him in the glove compartment, seeming frustrated when he came out empty-handed. “Don’t let some fucking kid you’re obsessed with–” Ryan scoffed, “Not obsessed, okay?”Jon quirked his lips into a smile, “Sure you’re not.” he continued, ignoring the look Ryan was sending his way, “Look, my point is that you shouldn’t let whatever beef you have with him or anyone else get to your head. It’ll all be a foggy, distant memory once we reach Vegas, okay?” he eyed Ryan expectantly, fishing for confirmation.Ryan nodded solemnly, “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just– you know how he gets, don’t you? I mean, just try picturing yourself in my shoes for a second.” he relayed all the jabs and insults they threw each other’s way over the last couple years, tensing his shoulders just thinking about it.Jon raised an eyebrow at him, “I mean, not to point out the obvious here, but you know you don’t have to get into a fistfight every time he opens his mouth, right?” Ryan clenched his jaw and stared out the window, trying to shut down that conversation immediately. They’ve had it before, and it’s utterly pointless. He doesn’t know all the ways Brendon loves to get under his skin– or why the fag jokes bother him so much. It’d fill up an entire notebook if he tried to describe all the reasons he hated Urie, so he never bothered anyone with the full explanation, it’s just how things always were. Jon turned his body to look at Ryan, who stubbornly refused to look away from the road, “Look, man, just try to keep your head on straight, okay?”Ryan didn’t respond, absently thinking back to straightening the bulky chicken head constantly throughout his shift.A few minutes passed before Jon asked him to pop in some music, anything to fill the sudden silence they’d lapsed into, he’d even let Ryan pick. He shuffled through the CD player, smiling to himself when he saw the Rufio album he’d brought from home was still in there, letting the sounds of Clark Domae shredding his guitar at the intro to the song fill the space. Ryan laid back and shut his eyes, desperately trying to forget about the way he never got to finish the fight and how his Walkman was most definitely shattered when he noticed Jon ruffling around in the compartment between the seats again, quirking a brow at him.He smiled at Ryan, fishing out a neatly rolled joint and a lighter, throwing it in his lap. “For your troubles.” he said in an obnoxious, haughty accent, “Oh, much obliged, dear friend.” Ryan replied with the same silly voice, grinning from ear to ear as he opened the window and pressed the joint to his lips.Jon waved goodbye at him as he hopped out of the car, shouting a “Goodnight!” out the window for extra measure. Between work, band practice, and enough of both weed and munchies to feed a family of twelve, Ryan was drained and exhausted to the bone.He trudged upstairs, not even bothering to look at his father snoring in front of the TV playing Jeopardy reruns and cradling empty beers under his arm, silently appreciating that he’d already passed out for the night. Practice slowly devolved into leaving Jon’s garage for his living room, lighting up a bowl for a few more rounds, and making semi-permanent dents in the couch from where they’d crashed for the afternoon. It’d been awkward without their bassist, anyway.Now it was nearing one in the morning, and Ryan’s legs were wobbling as he slipped into his room, gently shutting the door out of habit. He guessed he’d brush his teeth tomorrow, then.Despite watching the dawn of the living nightmare he unknowingly signed himself up for, Ryan still smiled smugly into his pillow knowing Brendon would have to wake up early in the morning to stand around in a big white robe and set up candles. While Ryan would be sleeping in as late as he damn well pleased, and then promptly finding any possible way not to stay in– being home for the weekends wasn’t exactly his favorite part.Just get to Vegas, he told himself. That’ll show him.