Brendon is running late. Again. Spencer is going to shout at him about morals. Dallon will whine insatiably about how he was wasting his time in an empty studio rather than with his wife and family. Brendon doesn't really care about either of these things; he cares about his morning cappuccino a lot more. In his mind, Spencer shouldn’t be so uptight, and Dallon shouldn’t have joined a very sexually oriented band if he was still full-operating mormon boy. But, no one else cares what Brendon thinks on the matter, seeing as he is single, arrogant and lazy.
He runs into the nearest Starbucks, pulling out his membership card in anticipation, shuffling his beanie around on his freshly-trimmed hair thoughtfully. He glances around the coffee shop, the light slinking through the windows, the students staring vapidly at screens while middle-aged businessmen slurp coffees pretending to read the politics section in the newspapers. Brendon waits impatiently at the end of the line, tapping his card against his fingers in a beat that vaguely resembles Vegas Lights, his latest song.
“And how can I help you today, sir?” the too-young barista asks sunnily from behind the stained wooden counter.
“Medium double shot, wet, soya cappuccino please.” Brendon replies, not bothering to fully replicate the barista’s tone, she is, after all, in a mediocre service job that probably leaves her feeling unfulfilled and underappreciated. Again, Brendon doesn't really care.
He doesn't care up until the voice that startles him from his thoughts. A voice he hasn't heard in over 4 years.
“Medium skimmed caffe latte to go, please, Aria.” Brendon’s eyes widen, and he turns to face his ex-friend/band-member/confidant and lover.
“Of course, Mr Ross.”
“Please, Aria, how many times have I told you to call me Ryan?” Brendon swallows. Hard.
