Spencer loves New York City. He loves the way each neighborhood has its own flavor, how everybody does their own thing and it's a matter of pride not to notice people who might be famous. Somehow, LA missed the memo on that.
Brendon loves it, too, but at the moment it's because, "Seriously, Spencer, best vinyl selection anywhere, okay? There are a dozen record shops in the East Village alone, and we've only hit two of them so far."
He's not paying much mind to where he's going, walking and talking at the same time, talking with hands, and the bag with his deluxe-cover version of Queen Rocks not earning the respect it merits given the search Brendon's made for it, and Spencer can see what's going to happen, knows there's no way to stop it.
One emphatic wave too many, whoops! The Stumptown to-go cup of the guy passing them flies from his hand, splashing what appears to be plain coffee all over his sweatshirt.
"Oh, fuck." Yeah, Brendon sometimes lacks in the social graces.
"Oh god, I am so sorry--"
The mess is clearly, absolutely Brendon's fault, but the guy stutters and apologizes to Brendon.
"No, really, he's sorry. Let us... fuck, I don't know, it's not like I have a handkerchief or anything..."
The guy holds his sweatshirt away from his body, and shrugs sheepishly. "Hang on." He lets the strap of his backpack fall, pulls a couple of crumpled napkins from the front pocket. Brendon plucks one from his hand - "Dude, my bad, I should help clean it." - and starts blotting the spreading stain.
He seems vaguely familiar, but Spencer's not sure if it's because he's seen the guy around or he's, you know, someone he should recognize. He doesn't seem like an industry guy. He's wearing a ball cap, and he tugs it lower on his head, so that unruly brown-red curls poke out.
He's being pretty cool, joking with Brendon that he'd likely have spilled it on himself anyway because he's just that awkward and accident prone, and Spencer figures they're about to part ways - they're supposed to meet Ian and Dallon at St. Marks - when the guy smiles. Dimples, he has ridiculously deep dimples, and those lips. Spencer forces himself to look away. A glance at Brendon, and Spencer can see he's not the only one intrigued.
"So, are you--"
"Let me make up for that mess--"
"We didn't introduce our--"
They're all talking over each other, apologizing, when British voice interrupts, "Haven't Emma and I warned you about talking to strangers, Jesse?"
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Brendon loves it, too, but at the moment it's because, "Seriously, Spencer, best vinyl selection anywhere, okay? There are a dozen record shops in the East Village alone, and we've only hit two of them so far."
He's not paying much mind to where he's going, walking and talking at the same time, talking with hands, and the bag with his deluxe-cover version of Queen Rocks not earning the respect it merits given the search Brendon's made for it, and Spencer can see what's going to happen, knows there's no way to stop it.
One emphatic wave too many, whoops! The Stumptown to-go cup of the guy passing them flies from his hand, splashing what appears to be plain coffee all over his sweatshirt.
"Oh, fuck." Yeah, Brendon sometimes lacks in the social graces.
"Oh god, I am so sorry--"
The mess is clearly, absolutely Brendon's fault, but the guy stutters and apologizes to Brendon.
"No, really, he's sorry. Let us... fuck, I don't know, it's not like I have a handkerchief or anything..."
The guy holds his sweatshirt away from his body, and shrugs sheepishly. "Hang on." He lets the strap of his backpack fall, pulls a couple of crumpled napkins from the front pocket. Brendon plucks one from his hand - "Dude, my bad, I should help clean it." - and starts blotting the spreading stain.
He seems vaguely familiar, but Spencer's not sure if it's because he's seen the guy around or he's, you know, someone he should recognize. He doesn't seem like an industry guy. He's wearing a ball cap, and he tugs it lower on his head, so that unruly brown-red curls poke out.
He's being pretty cool, joking with Brendon that he'd likely have spilled it on himself anyway because he's just that awkward and accident prone, and Spencer figures they're about to part ways - they're supposed to meet Ian and Dallon at St. Marks - when the guy smiles. Dimples, he has ridiculously deep dimples, and those lips. Spencer forces himself to look away. A glance at Brendon, and Spencer can see he's not the only one intrigued.
"So, are you--"
"Let me make up for that mess--"
"We didn't introduce our--"
They're all talking over each other, apologizing, when British voice interrupts, "Haven't Emma and I warned you about talking to strangers, Jesse?"