templemarker: (Default)
Jon's not ever done this for the money. He would have happily teched around with his friends for the rest of his life, occasionally putting up prints of his better photographs on Tom's website, without ever thinking twice about having more than rent and beer money. He's still not used to the revenue his album--his first album as a member of Panic instead of the guy who filled in for Panic--going into his bank account every month like clockwork, sometimes lager and sometimes smaller, but always far, far more than he could have ever made pressing buttons on Verismo machines and taking inventory on cookies and muffins. That was never even going to be his job for more than a summer; when he went to Columbia he thought he could maybe open a studio someday, a small place up north that took pictures of confirmations and weddings and color-coordinated families that would fund his less lucrative photography habits. Even that wouldn't have come close to the kind of money he makes as a member of a successful, touring band.

He remembers what it was like when Panic just started to get big--not the part where people started to know Ryan's lyrics by heart or the guys' faces on-sight, but the slowly dawning realization that the concerts had sold out and whatever financial problems they had, or their parents had anticipated them having, weren't an issue (at least, in the short-term). He was only seeing the touring revenue off that, not even the album sales or a big percentage of the merch, and it was still enough for him to pay off the few thousand dollars in student loans. And to purchase the Leica M6 Classic he'd been coveting since he was 10.

It's strange, the things a person can get used to. He's not rich, and probably never will be, but if someone had told him when he was seventeen that he'd be in a band again, touring all over the world and making enough money to retire on--if someone had told him that, he doesn't think seventeen-year-old-Jon would have believed them. He's grateful for everything that's happened to him, and pretty aware of how lucky he is, even when stuff gets hard. But this is so much more than he ever thought he'd have that sometimes he wishes he was still a tech, fiddling around on other people's guitars for two hours with the rest of the time to himself, on his own guitar.

Only some of the time. Most of the time he wouldn't want to be anywhere else, no matter how much you paid him.


[livejournal.com profile] we_are_cities 01.01.09.
templemarker: (Default)
When the door shut, Spencer looked around the cluttered living room that, until moments ago, had been a place filled mostly with good memories. He walked over to the couch (where Jon had kissed him for the first time) and moved around some of the magazines on the coffee table. He sat down, stood up again, and didn't turn off the lights when he went into the hallway. (Jon hated complete darkness.)

He ran his hands along the baseboard (that Jon had helped him paint) and didn't look in the bathroom (where Jon had wandered into Spencer's shower that morning, smelling of coffee and sweat and the faint memory of sex). He closed his eyes going into his bedroom, not bothering to look because Jon's shoes weren't on the floor, his jeans weren't a haphazard pile next to them, and Spencer didn't have to step over a dirty t-shirt to climb into bed and pull the covers (that still carried Jon on them) over his head.

Spencer was not a dumb guy. Everything about the last two hours of his life screamed over over over, and for the first time in his twenty-two years he let himself feel so deeply that he gasped for breath until he couldn't breathe anymore.
templemarker: (Default)
The hardest thing about closing the door behind him was looking at the blank beige wall that marked the other side of Spencer's door. They had joked so many times about Spencer living in a doctor's office, or an accountant's, while coming back here after a night out. The jokes were silly, not even that funny, but there was a hard burning in Jon's chest even at the thought of laughing with Spencer.

He wouldn't be doing that for awhile.

Jon wasn't lying to either of them. He knew he had fucked up here, that it came down on him in the end, but it didn't change the feeling of anger and sorrow at the way Spencer had just shut down. Jon didn't understand how Spencer could be so completely on one day and then so...blank the next. It was fucked up, is what it was, and Jon thumped his fist in frustration against Spencer's door before pushing off and moving down the corridor.

If that was how he wanted to play it, fine. Fine. Jon could shut down too, turn off all the memories and the happiness and the way Spencer had changed his life. He could do it because it wasn't worth remembering if Spencer wasn't around to share it with him.

As he walked down the stairs to the cold desert December below, he slapped at the half-lit Exit sign that always hung low enough for him to hit when he jumped. He heard it crash behind him, and didn't bother to look back and watch it break.


templemarker: (Default)

October 2016



RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags