We Would Bring It On And On [3/3]

[skoosiepants]

part two

Band is still band without Brendon. They didn’t really interact much in practices anyway, so it’s not like it’s a huge adjustment. Spencer likes band because he likes to drum, and he likes being flanked by Butcher and Patrick – Pete’s very special friend Patrick, it turns out, and Patrick turns bright red every time someone teases him about that – and he likes being shown up by Andy, because there is no fucking person in the world who can drum better than Andy, except for maybe Bob.

Spencer’s willing to admit he’s a little biased about Bob, but Bob can fucking drum with Frankie perched on top of his kit, and that takes some serious skill. Frank’s a danger to himself and others when he’s playing guitar.

So Spencer feels the loss of Brendon sort of minimally, in the grand scheme of band, and Spencer has never been a band geek – mostly, he’d joined up because of his mom, because it was something to do to get him out of the house, because he loves drumming, basically in all forms, and because the whole fucking move is temporary anyway – but Spencer has fun at practices. He likes the crew he’s with, likes his section. The director is kind of a douche, but he lives with it.

Patrick tips his hat back off his forehead with his thumb and grins. “Furries, eh? Pete’s over the moon, dude. He’s got, like, a stash of outfits just for things like this.”

Spencer blinks at him. “Pete’s a weirdo.” It’s just about the nicest thing he can say about Pete, really.

“No doubt,” Butcher says absently, sprawled low in his seat.

Andy leans over the back of their chairs and says, “Yeah, you should see what he’s got planned for you, Patrick,” and Patrick shakes his head.

“Oh, no way,” he says. “No fucking way, Pete’s a delusional asshole if he thinks I’m wearing that fucking bunny suit again.”

“Again?” Spencer asks, both eyebrows arched.

“It’s nothing,” Patrick says.

“Easter, 2006,” Butcher says. He tips his head back onto the lip of the metal chair and closes his eyes. “It was unusually warm for April, and Patrick was sweating like a motherfucker at the Wentz’s seventh annual Easter egg hunt and barbecue. Patrick’s secret crush, Mike Card—”

“I will kill you.” Patrick is flushed, fingers clenched over his drumsticks, and Spencer seems to recall Andy warning him about Patrick’s infamous temper a couple times, but Spencer hasn’t witnessed it full force yet. Once, he’d punched Dirty in the kidney, but Spencer’s pretty sure that had been a bet.

Butcher grins. “I think Pete’s fixed the zipper by now.”

“Wait, you have a secret crush on Mike Carden?” Spencer asks. Maybe not the wisest move on his part, but Patrick’s really a little guy – Spencer’s sixty percent sure he could take him - and Spencer’s curious. He remembers Mike. Mike used to eat bugs for quarters. Now, Mike looks like he’s the kind of dude who’s got lots of hunting paraphernalia locked away in his bedroom. Like maybe he sharpens knives in his free time; sits around with toothpicks hanging out of the corner of his mouth, wears lots of camo and has an extensive collection of wife beaters. Spencer has no proof of this; he just gets that feeling from him.

Patrick’s turning an interesting shade of fuchsia, and his eyes are threatening painful, messy death.

Butcher is laughing his ass off, but not really making any noise. He’s just sort of curled up on his seat, one arm across his stomach, huge grin on his face.

Andy looks zen, chin propped on a palm, fingers tapping out a rhythm on his upper lip.

Johnson comes strolling over, one hand in his pocket. “What’s up?” he asks, dropping his school bag at Spencer’s feet. He cocks his head. “Did you break Patrick?”

“We’re just discussing his secret crush on Mike Carden,” Butcher says, and Patrick’s kind of mute with rage. He makes some sputtering sounds, and Spencer tries not to find that funny.

“I don’t have a fucking crush,” Patrick bites out finally. “I just.” He flails a hand. “He’s really cool, okay?”

“Mike Carden is indeed cool,” Butcher says.

“Mike Carden has just entered the room,” Andy says, getting to his feet. “I’ll be back.”

For a second, Spencer thinks Andy’s going to approach Mike and embarrass the hell out of Patrick, but he just makes his way over to Joe. Joe, Spencer has learned from Bill, is the best guy to go to if you can’t get to Jon Walker. Joe doesn’t seem like Andy’s kind of dude – Andy’s sort of epically straight edge – but they’re always hanging around together anyway.

Mike gives them a funny look, and Spencer realizes they’re all kind of staring at him, and Patrick lets out a pained groan.

“Oh my fucking god, seriously,” Patrick says, tugging his hat down low on his forehead.

Johnson claps his shoulder. “Dude, it’s fine. He already thinks we’re all insane thanks to Butcher.”

The drum section has a reputation, Spencer’s found out. This is mainly because the Butcher enjoys sporting skimpy short-shorts whenever possible, and Spencer has no idea how he manages to pull that look off and not get the shit beaten out of him.

Butcher gives them a slow smile and says, “I’m awesome. You’d be lost without me.”

“You sunbathed on my front lawn all weekend,” Johnson says, kicking his bag under his chair and sitting down next to Patrick. “My parents think we’re dating. I’m not even gay.”

“You’re just confused.” Butcher reaches across Patrick and pats Johnson’s knee. “Soon, Johnson. Soon, you’ll succumb to my naked wiles.”

Johnson shoves at his hand, says, “Fuck off,” but he’s grinning.

Spencer’s pretty sure Butcher’s dating several girls at once. Spencer doesn’t know how he does it.

Andy wanders back over when Mr. E finally comes out of his office and yells at them to get quiet and get serious, and Spencer spends the next hour and a half trying not think about how off the brass section sounds – he’s sure it’s all in his head, anyway.

By the time practice is over, it’s already dark out, the cool October twilight deepening earlier and earlier each day. He follows Butcher, Andy and Patrick towards the parking lot, gives them an absent wave before ducking into his piece of shit Civic.

Right about now, back in Jersey, Spencer would be finishing up dinner already, scrambling to clear the table and get to Frank’s. They’d sprawl on his bedroom floor, music blaring, waiting for Mikey to get off work.

Spencer feels a wave of homesickness swell over him, and he swallows it down, tightens his grip on the steering wheel. Seriously, he’s seeing Frank in two fucking days. It’s maybe not the same thing as going home, but it’s pretty fucking close.

When he swings open the door to the kitchen, dropping his book bag by the island, he spots an iced chocolate cake sitting out on the table, an unlit candle in the middle and a giant smiley face traced out in mini pretzels. His mom is so weird.

“It’s your three month cake, Spence.” She kisses his forehead. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart, you’re doing so well,” she says, which is mom-speak for, ‘You’re not getting into fights, hurray!’ Spencer’s not actually an angry guy, though. Most of Spencer’s aggression had come from being a social dredge in a Catholic high school. Here, his friends aren’t so prone to getting pummeled for rocking the croquet field. He’s not so sure it’s much of an accomplishment.

“Thanks, Mom,” Spencer says dryly.

“Will Gabe be home for dinner?” she asks, moving to the cabinets, getting dishes down. Spencer suspects his mom likes having Gabe there because his sisters are still in Jersey, finishing middle school - which is fucking unfair, but Spencer’s had that argument with his parents too many times to count.

Spencer shrugs. “He didn’t say.”

“Hon.” She frowns at him.

Spencer feels his stomach clench, because that’s her I’m-divorcing-your-father look. That’s her I’m-uprooting-you-to-Vegas set to her mouth.

But then she just says, “You’ll keep Frankie out of trouble, right?” and Spencer laughs. Out of equal parts relief and disbelief, because no one can keep Frank out of trouble. Frank is trouble; it’s part of what makes him so awesome.

“Mom,” he says, shaking his head. “Mom, seriously, this is Frank.”

She looks exasperated. “Just don’t go punching strangers for him, okay?”

And, okay, that’s low, because Spencer has never punched a stranger, for Frank or otherwise. “Mom.”

She just keeps her gaze steady. “His mom’ll kill me if he comes back worse than how we got him,” she says.

Spencer rolls his eyes. It’s his unspoken whatever, because he knows better than to talk back to his mom.

She grins at him, her I’m-still-the-boss-of-you grin. She says, “So I’m thinking we need a dog, what do you say?”

*

Spencer doesn’t fully realize he’s actually growing a beard, not really, until he picks Frank up at the airport and the first thing Frank says is, “Dude, your mustache is a little evil French scientist, right?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Spencer says, but he’s grinning, because fucking Frank is there and it’s almost like it’s been years and only minutes since he’s seen him, all at the same time. “Brendon likes it.”

“Brendon’s a preteen girl,” Frank says, and Spencer punches him, hard, in the arm.

It’s kind of surreal, having Frank standing there on the sidewalk in front of him, and then Frank says, “You look tan, Smith,” and, “What the fuck have you been eating?” and sort of attacks him. It’s not quite a hug, more like a tackle. And then he’s pushing at Spencer’s back. “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “Airports give me hives.”

“Breathing gives you hives,” Spencer says, which isn’t strictly true. Frank’s sick a lot, but mainly it’s fucking pneumonia or staph or a nasty bug or whatever. Spencer’s spent almost as much time as Frank has in hospitals, just visiting.

Spencer grabs Frank’s bag, and Frank doesn’t even protest for show. Just grins, drops his shades down over his eyes and stuffs his hands in his pockets, following Spencer over to the car.

“Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” Frank says when he slides into the passenger seat.

Spencer slants him a glance, gives an amused snort. “Yeah, right.”

“Seriously, this’ll be epic, you’ll see,” Frank says, grin turning just slightly manic, and Spencer feels a giddy laugh swelling his chest and he shakes his hair out of his eyes, bites his lip to keep it down, because Frank will make fun of him for fucking ever if he lets it out.

Frank spends the entire ride back to Spencer’s house talking about Mikey and this girl, Alicia, who Mikey’s somehow convinced to go out with him.

“It’s pretty hilarious,” Frank says, gripping the dash as they turn onto Spencer’s street. “Mikey actually has entire conversations with her. I mean, they’re either about music or cats, but that dead carp thing Mikey does when he doesn’t agree with you totally doesn’t faze her at all. It’s kind of awesome, really. I think maybe he’s happy.”

“He sent me a Hippogriff with Gerard’s head on it last night.” Spencer’s just pointing out how, in the grand scheme of things, Mikey still seems to be Mikey.

“Well, yeah.” Frank pokes his shoulder. “I told him to.”

Spencer sighs and wishes Mikey could have flown out, too.

Frank’s poke turns into a punch. “Seriously, stop brooding, it’s my fucking birthday.”

It is, actually, exactly Frank’s birthday. Spencer grins. “Your party’s tomorrow, though,” he says.

Frank laughs. “You didn’t actually have to throw me a party, you know that right?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Spencer shakes his head. “Like you would’ve shut up if I didn’t.” He throws the car in park in front of his house.

Frank looks out the window. “You live here?”

Spencer shrugs. It’s a little too suburban, white picket fence, manicured lawn for him, but his mom loves it.

“Is that—is that a rat?” Frank jabs his finger into the glass, smooshes up close, and Spencer can’t see around his head, but he’s pretty sure what he’ll find.

“No,” Spencer says. “That’s Lola.” Lola is a teacup yorkie. Lola is his mom’s midlife crisis or whatever, and they’ve had her for all of one day and she’s already completely destroyed the living room coffee table.

Frank looks over his shoulder at him. “Lola?”

“Gabe named her.” Gabe, who seriously needs to get the fuck out of his house. He’s not jealous or whatever, but his mom let him fucking name their dog.

“That motherfucker needs to call Chaz, dude. She hasn’t heard from him since August.” Frank gets out of the car, stretching a little. “They’re supposed to play through again and pick him up.”

Spencer can’t imagine Gabe leaving, but then he couldn’t really imagine him staying, either, and there they are. He’s got Bill here, but he’s got his Cobra crew back in Jersey, so who the fuck knows. “Whatever. Good luck with that.”

Frank grabs his wrist and tugs him towards the house. “Come on, I wanna see your mom and your room and your rat and I could eat a pizza the size of your head, dude, and then we can fuck with Mikey online all night.”

“Sounds awesome,” Spencer says dryly, but he mostly means it.

The rest of the night is a blur of food and Gabe and Frank and Spencer kind of thinks he maybe ate his weight in Swedish fish and at some point he passes out in bed with all his clothes on, because the last thing he remembers is watching Frank sit at his computer, hurling good-natured insults at Gabe as they combine their powers for what can only be pure evil.

Saturday, Spencer wakes up to an epic stare down between Brendon and Frank, sitting nose to nose on the foot of Spencer’s bed.

“Are you wearing makeup?” Frank asks, and Brendon says, “No,” and, “How do you feel about Lucky Charms?”

Frank’s eyes narrow. “Depends. Are we talking sugary goodness, or am I gonna have to get blood all over your pretty pink shirt?”

Brendon blinks, face completely blank for a moment, and Spencer bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Uh. What?”

Frank beams at him. “Okay.” He turns to Spencer, hooks a thumb towards Brendon. “I like him. A little slow, a lot gay—”

“Hey!” Brendon says, and Spencer feels his entire body relax, relief coursing through him. Brendon is Spencer’s friend - somehow he’s bullied his way into, “Best Vegas friend, Spencer Smith, true blue!” – and apparently it’d been more important to Spencer for Brendon and Frank to get along than he’d realized.

Frank pats Brendon’s shoulder. “It’s okay, little buddy, you’re special.” He’s not teasing meanly, exactly, and Brendon can obviously tell.

“You,” Brendon says, “are not a nice person. I can see why Spencer loves you.”

“Awww, Smithsonian,” Frank says, clasping his hands and fluttering his lashes at him. “You love me.’

Spencer’s just really glad his legs aren’t tangled in any blankets, so his feet are clear to kick Frank in the head.

*

Frank is surprisingly enthusiastic about the cat concept, and Brendon shows up sometime in the evening with a selection of ears and tails and makeup. So Spencer and Frank are fully prepared for the party, drawn on whiskers and all, and Spencer would feel a lot more ridiculous, except Brendon’s decked out in the tightest pair of black pants he’s ever seen. With wedge-heeled boots and a black scoop-neck sweater that Spencer swears is Greta’s. He looks completely stupid and really fucking hot.

“So,” Frank says, collapsing on the couch where Spencer’s set up camp and dropping an arm over Spencer’s shoulders, “I like your boyfriend.”

“He’s not,” Spencer says.

“Why the fuck not, dude?” Frank kicks at his calf. Spencer shrugs and Frank kicks him harder. “I raised you better than this, Smith the Fifth. Edie’s right, you’re a total fucking pussy.”

Spencer slants him a glare and pulls his leg out of the harm’s way, gulping the rest of his beer. Frank’s whiskers are smudged and his ears are hanging around his neck, and the fake blood from his scalp – “I’ll be an undead cat, dude, like Pet Sematary, check out my head wound!” - is just one big smear over his forehead. Spencer thinks he probably doesn’t look much better.

“I’m not talking about this,” Spencer says, and then completely negates that by saying, “Ryan told me—“

“Oh, Ryan. Ryan, fuck, that kid’s a giraffe, right, because otherwise we’ve got completely different views on what a cheetah actually looks like.” Frank switches out his full glass for Spencer’s empty.

Spencer would glare at him some more, except: beer. “Me and Brendon,” he says, “make about as much sense as—holy shit.” There is every possibility that Spencer is drunk, even though he’s only had two beers, because it really looks like Edie just fucking attacked Cash Colligan on the other side of the room.

“What, what?” Frank says, whipping his head around.

Spencer uses Frank’s thigh as leverage and pushes to his feet. There’s some screaming going on – Edie – and Colligan looks kind of like he’s afraid she’ll eat him.

Johnson grabs his arm as he passes him, but Spencer just shakes him off, ignores him, because he doesn’t know what the fuck happened, but he’s going to have Edie’s back, no matter what. He looms up over behind her just as she hisses, “Seriously, Colligan, what the fuck?”

Colligan lifts his hands, palms out. “Wait, wait, no, I thought—”

“You can’t. You can’t fucking do that,” Edie says, and her voice is shaking a little, and Colligan better hope to god he didn’t just make Edie cry.

“You’re just. I thought you wanted,” Colligan stutters, face red. “Edie. Edie, I’m sorry.”

Spencer fits a hand over Edie’s shoulder and she flashes a look up at him, all big welling eyes, and Spencer’s other hand clenches into a fist before he narrows his gaze over her head at Colligan. “Want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

The thing is, Colligan could probably take him in a fair fight. Spencer’s not really good at sticking to fair fights. He feels someone slide up beside him and he thinks it’s Frank, knows it’s Frank, but he’s not expecting Brendon to be there, too, arms crossed, huffing a breath to get his sweaty hair out of his face.

“This’s just a misunderstanding, man,” Colligan says.

“Edie,” Spencer says, still staring Colligan down, “what’s wrong?”

“He kissed me, Smith. Can you—can you fucking believe that?”

Spencer blinks. Frank maybe giggles beside him. If Edie didn’t sound like the fucking world was ending, he’d maybe laugh a little, too, what the fuck. “Edie. Seriously, what?”

Edie says, “Spencer,” in a strangled voice and Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, Edie, come here a sec.”

Edie lets him pull her into the kitchen and then she gets her wits back and tugs her hand away, scowling, crossing her arms over her chest. “I can take care of myself, Smith.”

“Hey, not arguing.” Spencer mirrors her stance. “Except Cash Colligan just kissed you and you flipped the fuck out. What’s up with that?”

Edie flounders for a brief second before rallying another glare. “Fuck off.”

“Hey,” Ashlee says, sweeping into the room in a giant furry panda suit, only the head missing. She’s been claiming nakedness underneath all evening, and Spencer would think she’s joking except she’s entirely too close to Pete to joke about nakedness. “Cash is hiding in the bathroom. He thinks Edie’s going to set him on fire or something. I’m here to confiscate all lighters and-or matches.” She’s got her paws wrapped awkwardly around a plastic cup.

“Mind your own fucking business, Simpson,” Edie says.

Ashlee shrugs. “You didn’t bite him, girl. I’m pretty sure that’s love.”

Edie deflates a little. “His initiative is inconvenient.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Spencer says, because, Jesus Christ, Edie’s fucking stubborn about some things. “I’m finding Frank. Don’t kill Colligan.”

Spencer doesn’t find Frank. He finds Patrick, looking half-miserable and resigned in a bunny outfit, big bunny head resting on his lap, wedged into the corner of a sofa next to Trace and Mason, who are doing their very best to eat each other’s faces. Spencer gives him a total I-feel-your-pain salute and then bumps directly into Jon Walker. His belly only swoops a little when Jon smiles.

“Ryan,” Jon says, “is a giraffe.”

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees. He’s got the neck for it. And the haircut.

“He’s currently being a giraffe on the back porch,” Jon says, nodding.

Spencer nods back. “Let’s go join him, then,” he says, and Spencer ends up spending the rest of the night on Pete’s back porch with Jon, Ryan and Zack. Zack is sort of just lurking, though, a hulking shape just outside the spotlight.

“He’s your henchman, right?” Spencer asks Ryan. Spencer’s cross-legged on the wooden deck and his ass is steadily going numb.

Ryan laughs. He’s sprawled out on a chaise lounger with Jon, feet up by Jon’s head. He’s got his own head tipped off the bottom, and Spencer holds the joint up to Ryan’s mouth, lets him take a hit before leaning forward and passing it to Jon.

Ryan lets the smoke out slowly, seeping out of the corner of his mouth. He looks really fucking stupid. Or French.

“Zack’s cool,” Jon says.

Zack snorts. “Thanks, Walker.”

“No problem.” Jon cocks his thumb and forefinger like a gun at him.

Spencer. Spencer is really fucking high maybe. And he has a beard. “I have a beard, guys.”

Ryan bites the side of his hand, smile wide around it, upside down.

“I.” Spencer laughs, because it’s fucking hilarious and it itches like a bitch. “I grew a beard for fucking Brendon.”

“You’re fucking Brendon?” Jon asks.

“Hey, hey.” Ryan waves his hands around like a fucking Muppet and almost falls off the chaise; Zack catches his wrist before he can slide off onto his face. “Hey. No one’s fucking Brendon.”

“Seriously,” Spencer says to Zack. “Henchman.” He’s such a fucking henchman. Spencer totally wishes he had a henchman, too. Or a minion. A minion would fucking rock. “Do you do his evil bidding?”

“Dude.” Jon giggles. “Evil bidding. That’s like. Ryan’s evil, it’s true.”

Ryan frowns. “Why don’t we have those—you know what we need?”

“Cookies,” Jon says.

“No, no. I mean yes, hell yes to cookies, but I’m like—those, like, mini pizza things. Those individual size pizzas, dudes, they’re just for one.”

“There’s three of us,” Spencer says. “Plus Zack.”

“So, like, six of us,” Jon says, nodding. “I see what you mean.”

“More than one,” Ryan says. He’s still fluttering his hands over his head. “They’re just. Perfectly sized for me. I could eat five of them.”

“Ten. Ten, they’re tiny, right,” Jon says, and Spencer’s getting really fucking hungry from all the pizza talk.

“Fooooood,” Ryan says, drawing out the word. “Zack. Zack, fooooooood.”

“Henchman.” Jon laughs.

Zack makes a breathy noise, like a sigh only louder and with more meaning. Spencer’s pretty sure it means why-the-fuck-me. Zack says, “I’m looking for Brendon.”

“Bring him here,” Ryan says. He rolls over, accidentally kicking Jon in the face, but Jon just laughs. “Bring me Brendon, Zack, please. Make sure he has food.”

Jon laughs harder, and Spencer leans into Ryan, forehead resting on his side, and he grins so wide his face hurts.

*

It’s really fucking bright and really fucking early, Spencer thinks, groaning as he presses a hand over his closed eyes. Whatever he’s lying on is rock hard and there’s something pointy poking into his side and he thinks maybe he fell asleep out on Pete’s back porch. Awesome.

When he cracks his eyes open he sees Ryan’s giraffe skin vest, which means the pointy thing poking him is probably one of Ryan’s bony limbs.

“Holy fuck,” Spencer tries to say, but it comes out more of a croak. He lifts his head, leverages up on his elbows. Jon’s sprawled out on the lounger, snoring, Ryan’s curled onto his side next to Spencer, one knee jammed up against his ribs, and Brendon’s sitting up by Spencer’s feet, blinking owlishly at him.

“Glargh,” Brendon says. He no longer has any whiskers and his ears are a crooked. His scoop-neck sweater is pulled down off one shoulder, and Spencer has the insane urge to bury his face in the crease of his armpit. That’s some fucked up shit.

Spencer looks blearily around and there’s food carnage all over the deck. He feels a little bad for that torn apart bag of Doritos. He shakes his head, a little fuzzy, but mostly just from a crappy night’s sleep. He elbows Ryan in the head. “Wake up.”

“Fuck,” Ryan groans. He flutters his eyes, widening them as he takes in Spencer and the porch, and he says, “Fuck,” again, and, “Pete better not have pictures.”

Then the glass door slides open behind them and Pete crows, “Pancakes, kiddies.”

Frank’s facedown at the kitchen table when they all shuffle in, a hand loosely curled around a mug of coffee. Spencer isn’t fooled. Anyone who reaches for it risks getting his fingers bitten off.

Patrick’s sitting next to him in sweats and a scowl, looking only marginally more awake than Spencer feels.

Butcher, sitting up on the counter, swinging his feet, looks downright cheery. It’s kind of annoying as fuck, but it’s Butcher, so he gets away with it.

“Okay,” Pete says brightly – Spencer gets the feeling maybe Pete hasn’t slept at all; there’s a manic light in his eyes – “so who can cook?”

“Diner,” Jon says, slumping into the doorframe.

“Diner,” Patrick echoes around a yawn.

Spencer isn’t going to argue. He can cook, but he isn’t going to offer to cook for these douches.

They stuff themselves into Brendon’s minivan, and somehow Spencer ends up on Jon’s lap. He has no fucking idea, right, but it’s completely embarrassing. His cheeks heat and Jon has one arm around his waist and his chin hooked over his shoulder. Spencer can feel Jon smiling against his jaw. There’s no way Jon’s legs aren’t going numb from his weight, and Spencer hears Frank snickering behind them. Frank is a total shithead. He’s the smallest; he should have been the one sitting on someone’s lap.

Spencer sends out I-hate-you-all vibes, but he thinks maybe it’s overlooked in the wake of hangovers and lack of sleep.

Spencer wants orange juice. And coffee. And a huge motherfucking stack of pancakes.

He slides into a booth across from Frank when they get there, and Frank kicks at his shins and makes stupid faces at him until Spencer gives him his hoodie, because Frank always gets fucking cold indoors and Spencer’s a fucking sucker.

Brendon leans into his side, and Patrick sits down next to Frank, and the other guys noisily pile into the booth directly behind them.

“How did I end up with all the vegetarians?” Spencer asks.

“Incredible luck,” Brendon murmurs into his sleeve.

Spencer jostles his head. “Hey, hey, no drooling on me, Urie.”

“Cooooffeee,” Brendon says, and snuggles further into Spencer.

Frank arches an eyebrow at them.

“Don’t,” Spencer says, because he knows Frank’s gonna say something fucking embarrassing and then Spencer is going to have to kill him, and that’d just be a shame.

“I’m leaving this afternoon, Spence,” Frank says idly, picking up a laminated menu. “You have to be nice to me.”

Spencer kind of feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Frank leaving fucking sucks. “Yeah,” he says, staring down at his own menu.

Frank kicks him again, hard.

Spencer glances up with a glare and Frank makes kissy faces at him, and Spencer rubs a fist over his mouth to stifle a grin.

“Waffles,” Patrick says. Only his hat is visible over the menu he has propped up on the table in front of him. “A coffee the size of my head.”

The waitress, who Spencer belatedly realizes is standing there taking their order, taps her pad impatiently.

“Make that two coffees the size of Patrick’s head,” Frank says. “And a short stack.”

“Coffee, short stack, and a side of bacon and sausage, please,” Spencer says. He doesn’t think he’s going to eat it all, but Frank pulls a face and Brendon groans, “Meeeeeat.”

“Meat is murder,” Frank says, nodding.

Brendon holds his hand up for a high-five without moving away from Spencer, then orders pancakes and coffee of his own.

Later, Frank says, “See you in two months, motherfucker,” and Spencer bumps his fist and says, “Yeah, see you,” and he kind of wishes he wasn’t alone, standing there outside the airport, watching Frank walk away.

Frank gives him a wave over his shoulder. Spencer is absolutely not choked up. He’s just got fucking allergies.

*

Homecoming is apparently a pretty big deal. It’s all anyone’s fucking talking about and Spencer feels dumb, because even Edie and Trace and Butcher are into it, and Spencer would think Homecoming would be the last thing Edie’d want to go to. Awkward dancing and crappy music don’t actually sound like a good time to Spencer.

“Smith, seriously, Wentz always gets an awesome line up,” Edie says, leaning back on the bleachers and kicking her feet up on the bench in front of them.

Colligan abruptly twists on the field, eyes scanning the stands, and the littlest Alex takes him out with a flying tackle. Edie laughs. And it’s not, like, a mean laugh, and Spencer turns wide eyes on her.

“What the fuck?” he asks.

Edie straightens up and crosses her arms. “I’ve amended my plan,” she says. “He’s got the stupidest fucking tattoo I’ve ever seen on his chest. I’m letting him take me to Homecoming.”

“No you’re not,” Spencer says automatically, and she glares at him.

“Not all of us are social fucktards, Smith.”

Spencer bristles. First of all, Edie is a total social fucktard, if her actions at Frank’s birthday party are anything to go by. And second of all, it’s not his fucking fault. “Ryan told me to—”

“Like that makes any difference, Christ. If you’d really wanted to say yes, Smith, you would have said yes. Ross makes less sense than Ashlee Simpson as an actual person, you know this,” she says. “Ross thinks he’s a fucking cowboy three days out of every week.”

Spencer doesn’t think that’s a fair assessment. Of Ryan or himself. “You’re talking out of your ass,” Spencer says. He’s getting the feeling that Edie always talks out of her ass, more or less. He loves her, but she’s got some fucking problems.

“Urie’s going with Walker to Homecoming.” She gives him a smug look that isn’t quite a grin, but comes damn close.

“Walker’s straight.” Spencer has it on good authority that Jon is straight. Or, okay, maybe not good authority, because it’s Bill, but Spencer knows Jon has never dated a guy. Spencer’s even caught him making out with that sophomore, Cassie, in the photography classroom after school.

Edie says, “Walker’s a good fucking friend, and he didn’t want Urie to go alone.”

Spencer wants to know how she even knows all this. He doesn’t ask, though, just buries his face in his hands and groans a little. His life sucks.

Edie nudges his knee with hers. “You know what your problem is, Smith? You’re thinking this is all fucking temporary, right, and not worth your time.”

“I don’t—”

“I couldn’t care less either way,” Edie cuts him off. “You’re a warm body I can verbally abuse, and for some reason you keep coming back for more. But Urie and Ross are a little more sensitive.”

Spencer clenches his hands in his lap, stares down at them. “I really fucking hate school dances,” he mutters.

“Suck it up,” Edie says brightly.

Spencer lets out a noisy breath.

Down on the field, Colligan pants the littlest Alex and Edie lets out a snort of laughter. “Dumb as a box of rocks,” she says, grinning. Spencer’s going to assume she’s talking about Colligan and not him.

He’s got math with Brendon next, and he spends the entire time trying to figure out how to bring up Jon Walker and Homecoming without seeming fucking dumb, but he can’t think of a single thing to say. Brendon gives him weird looks, but just makes him play connect the dots with him and it ends up a draw when the bell rings.

By the time Spencer gets to the photography room, his skin feels tight and uncomfortable, because he knows if Jon isn’t in there now, he’ll be in there by the end of class, vying for darkroom time, and Spencer’s not exactly sure how to deal with him.

Jon Walker is taking Brendon out. Like, on some sort of date.

Spencer isn’t all that great at photography, mainly because he doesn’t seek out any new material. Half the time he just ends up with pictures of Brendon or Gabe, working through his assigned aperture and f-stop effects and exposure. It’s an okay class, and it’s nice to do some hands-on shit, and he doesn’t have any problems with his classmates, even if he doesn’t try and, like, talk to them. Ever. Mostly they’re sophomores and freshmen. He’s pretty sure they’re afraid of him, and he’s fucking fine with that.

Of course, then Jon shows up ten minutes before the end of class and calls Spencer, “Pretty as a sugar plum, dude, Brendon’s words, not mine,” which makes Nick snicker and Miley shoot him these huge, earnest doe eyes and go, “Oh, darlin’, you’ve got the sweetest blush,” and Spencer growls at them because what the fuck.

There’s something about Jon Walker that makes Spencer feel like a total girl, though. He’s not proud of that fact. He ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck, damp with sweat. It’s not like Jon’s the only one who’s ever called him pretty before, but he’s kind of the only one who hasn’t gotten a bloody nose for it.

“Stay and chat with me, Spencer Smith,” Jon says, holding up a few rolls of film.

Spencer’s got some time before band practice starts, so he shrugs and follows Jon into the darkroom.

Jon’s as quiet as Spencer with the lights off, and Spencer can hear the scratch of metal on metal as Jon fills the canisters with his negatives. Then there’s a shuffle of feet on linoleum and the red light snaps on. Jon eyes him over the chemicals, standing a lot closer to Spencer than he would’ve guessed.

“So what’s wrong?” Jon asks.

It occurs to Spencer that he’s never actually had a conversation with Jon. Not sober, at least.

“I don’t really smoke,” Spencer says.

Jon arches his eyebrows, but says gamely, “Okay. I do.”

Spencer shakes his head and smiles, because what the fuck.

“Seriously,” Jon reaches out and squeezes his arm. “What’s up?”

The thing is.

The thing is there’s something there, Spencer’s sure of it.

It’s entirely possible that everyone feels this way around Jon, but Spencer doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think Jon gives everyone that smile, the one where he bites the corner of his mouth and shakes his hair out of his face. It’s distracting.

Spencer doesn’t exactly think about it beforehand, it isn’t premeditated or anything. If he thought about it at all, it wouldn’t have happened, he knows this. He just crowds Jon a little, he’s standing so close anyway, and Jon’s eyes widen and he says, “Spencer, what—” and Spencer cuts him off with his mouth. Just the press of his lips, because Jon doesn’t kiss him back.

He doesn’t push him away, either, and then Spencer feels light touches at his waist and Spencer tilts his head a little more, lets his tongue slip out, and Jon makes a little questioning sound in his throat and opens his mouth and even with tongues, even with Jon finally, finally reciprocating here, it feels amazingly chaste, strangely sweet, the scruff of Jon’s cheeks scratching his palms as Spencer cups them.

When Spencer steps back, Jon has slightly dazed eyes that quickly fade into focus, blink. Jon gives him a soft smile and says, “I normally just date girls, you know. Like, exclusively.”

“I know,” Spencer says. His face is hot, but he doesn’t feel all that embarrassed, not really.

Jon sweeps his hair off his forehead, grin widening. “So that was pretty awesome, Spencer Smith.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Brendon has a hardcore, solid crush on you, though.” Jon prods him in the belly.

“You’re taking Brendon to Homecoming.” Spencer isn’t entirely sure he meant to say that, but he crosses his arms over his chest and tries to look deliberate.

“I’m taking Brendon to Homecoming,” Jon says, nodding. “Should be fun.”

“Right.” Spencer stares down at his feet. This is fucking awkward, and not just because he kissed Jon – and what the fuck, really, Frank’s gonna laugh his ass off over that – but because Spencer gets the distinct feeling that Jon is disappointed in him.

Having Jon Walker disappointed in you is close to the worst feeling ever apparently. It almost makes him queasy.

Jon sighs. “I am, however, also taking Tom. You’re welcome to tag along with us.”

“Oh, that’s um,” Spencer shakes his head, “that sounds—” really fucking awful.

Jon stares at him with level calm, but Spencer thinks maybe he’s laughing at him deep down inside.

Spencer’s shoulder’s slump. “I hate dances.”

Jon claps his upper arm, mouth splitting into a sudden, huge grin. “This isn’t just a school dance. This is Pete Wentz’s baby, dude. I hear he got Gabe from Midtown to MC.”

Spencer groans. Midtown’s been disbanded for nearly a year, in favor of Gabe’s on again, off again nameless Cobra tribute. “You realize I live with that guy, right?” Spencer doesn’t think Jon’s idea of fun coincides with Spencer’s, not if Gabe’s involved.

Jon just keeps on grinning. “Come on,” he says, and it’s this I-know-you-can’t-resist-me tone of voice, because Spencer kind of thinks he’s never going to live down that impulsive lip-lock. Jon’s one step away from lilting a teasing, “You love me, you wanna kiss me,” Spencer just knows it.

Spencer doesn’t actually say he’ll go, but he thinks it’s written plain on his face when he gives up. Jon just looks smug.

*

Spencer wakes up the morning of Homecoming, deep in the middle of November, to find Gabe straddling his chest, face inches from his own, and Spencer’s heart almost stops, because waking up to find Gabe Saporta crouching over him is one of his top five nightmares, only usually Gabe’s mouth is covered in a lot more blood. “Fuck,” Spencer breathes, clutching at the bed sheets.

“I’ve decided what’s wrong with you.” Gabe pokes him in the sternum. “I’ve decided that you, sir, are scared.”

“Gabe.” Spencer scrubs a hand over his face. There’s barely a trickle of light spilling in from the window. “What?”

“You’re scared, and I know you’re scared, because you’ve never dated a guy before.” Gabe grins down at him, grins like he’s got everything figured out. “You’re terrified of little Brendon Urie.”

“Gabe, I don’t know what—”

“You’ve never dated a guy, Smithy, and you came out to Frank nearly two years ago, and I know that because he called me and nearly everyone else he knows almost directly after.”

Spencer hates his life. Spencer has no idea why he loves Frank so much, because Frank is the biggest shithead in the entire world.

“In fact, I’d be willing to bet you’ve never even kissed a guy,” Gabe says, and Spencer ordinarily wouldn’t tell Gabe shit, except it’s way too early for any of his faculties to be functioning correctly, and Spencer’s fucking pissed off here.

“I kissed Jon Walker,” he says, only slightly petulant.

“You kissed—” Gabe shakes his head and laughs. “You’re proving my point, dude. You pretended to date Boof—”

“Her name’s Edie,” Spencer says, not because it makes any difference, but because Gabe is seriously a freak.

“—and you kissed Stiles, all in the name of fucking up whatever you could have with Urie, because you’re fucking frightened out of your mind, Smithy.” Gabe pokes him again. “I know my shit.”

“Gabe,” Spencer says as calmly as he can, “get the fuck off me.” He doesn’t know what the fuck Gabe’s on, but he’s not scared of Brendon. Brendon’s like a miniature poodle, a sweet fuzzy kitten, a harmless little lamb, and Spencer is absolutely not scared of him at all.

Gabe rolls off him and says, “Whatever, dude,” grin sharp, before settling down in Spencer’s desk chair in front of his computer, no doubt starting off his morning with a friendly Mikey taunt.

Spencer groans and grabs for his cell phone. He hits speed dial two and Frank picks up on the fifth ring.

“’lo,” Frank says, voice gruff.

“I’m going to Homecoming.”

“You are,” Frank rasps, then clears his throat and says a little louder, “You are,” and giggles. Then Frank’s cell beeps and he says, “Hang on,” and then, “Who’s Stiles?” and Spencer glares at the back of Gabe’s head, while Gabe’s shoulders shake in silent laughter, because Gabe is a motherfucking annoying asshole who deserves to die.

“Jon Walker,” Spencer says.

“Way to go, dude, he’s that flip-flop guy with the scruff and the track suit fetish, right?”

“You’ve just summed him up exactly,” Spencer says, struggling out of his covers and propping himself against the headboard.

“Awesome. Why are you calling me at buttfuck o’clock?”

“Because I hate Gabe.”

Gabe flips him off over his shoulder but he doesn’t turn around.

“We all hate Gabe,” Frank says around a yawn. “It’s because he’s so charming. Seriously, tell him to call Chaz. He’ll be gone in three weeks.”

“Frank says you need to call Michelle,” Spencer says to Gabe, and Gabe says, “I’ve already heard from that temptress,” in this you-have-offended-me-greatly tone, and Spencer rolls his eyes.

“I’m hanging up now and going back to sleep,” Frank says, and then does just that, because apparently it’s, like, fucking six in the morning, and Gabe needs to die. Like, really fucking slowly. School doesn’t start for hours, and there’s no way Spencer’s getting back to sleep now.

He gropes for a book off his floor and chucks it at Gabe’s head. “Fucking make me breakfast,” he says.

“I don’t think Mikey sleeps,” Gabe says thoughtfully, ignoring him.

Spencer sighs and slides back down on the bed. He feels like screaming into his pillow. “Mikey sleeps in class.” Mikey has always slept in class, for as long as Spencer’s known him. He doesn’t understand how he passes, except his glasses are so thick and Mikey’s so good at staying propped upright even when he’s completely out of it, that nobody seems to actually notice he’s asleep.

“Anyway,” Gabe spins the desk chair around so he’s facing Spencer, “Chazzy has informed me that She Said’s playing through again. The winds are a-changing, Smithy.” He licks his forefinger and holds it up. “The Cobra is calling me home.”

Spencer blinks. “When?”

Gabe shrugs. “A month, maybe less?”

Spencer thinks about doing a little dance. He doesn’t, but it’s close.

There’s a scratch and whine at Spencer’s closed door and Gabe’s eyes light up as he scrambles to open it. “Oh, Lola dearest, is it time for your walky-poo? I’m going to miss you most of all, besides Billiam, perhaps, one entire side of my hexagonal soul.”

Lola barks and hops around on her tiny, tiny paws.

“My own Victoria would just love you to death,” Gabe says, scooping Lola up, and she wriggles between his hands and tries to lick his face off.

Lola barely tolerates Spencer. Barely. She curls her tiny lip back and growls at him whenever they’re alone.

Even when Gabe leaves to take Lola out for her morning walk – “Constitutional, dude, it centers her chi and shit” – Spencer just stares up at his ceiling, mind on overdrive. Today is Homecoming. Homecoming means going to a school dance with Brendon - and Tom and Jon – but it also means a pep rally and football, both requiring Spencer’s presence, which really fucking sucks.

It’s after seven when Spencer finally drags his ass out of bed and into the shower. His mom’s left out cereal for him and Gabe’s leaning up against his car, his Team Fish polo cleaner and more subdued than anything Spencer has ever seen on Gabe, by the time he gets outside.

Spencer’s cell goes off – The Mexican Hat Dance, because Butcher stole it once in band and he’d randomly assigned weird ringtones to all his contacts - just as he unlocks the doors, and he answers it without checking the ID.

“So how much do you love me?”

“What—” Spencer holds his phone out and stares at the screen, then holds it up to his ear again and ventures, “Brendon?”

“How willing are you to come pick Ryan and me up? Spencer, Spence, my ride died, dude, totally conked out. Pretty please come pick us up? I’ll be your best friend forever. Ryan’s giving me scary, evil looks of death here, I didn’t do this on purpose, Ryan Ross!”

Spencer sighs but his lips are twitching. “Yeah, sure,” he says, and taps his fingers on the steering wheel as Brendon rattles out directions.

He drops off Gabe first, because Gabe’s work is closer to the school, but Brendon’s apartment is further along in the opposite direction. And Spencer thinks it’s a good idea to ditch Gabe before he gets Brendon anyway, because Gabe can’t be trusted, and Gabe has this fucking theory now, and it’s not entirely beyond the realm of possibility that he’ll tell Brendon to his face that Spencer is scared of him – which he totally, completely isn’t. Gabe’s a delusional bastard.

Spencer pulls up in front of Brendon’s apartment building – it’s a little rundown, and not in a great area, but it’s maybe not as horrible as Spencer had thought, and he realizes maybe he’s been avoiding coming here, seeing exactly what Brendon’s gotten himself into - and Brendon and Ryan stumble out from the doorway and down the stoop, shoulders banging together. Spencer hasn’t really seen Ryan laugh before, but his face looks awfully close to cracking up. Brendon’s waving his arms around a lot and Ryan’s biting his lip and shaking his head.

When he gets to the car, though, he just yanks on the back door and drops inside and says, “Fucking finally.”

Brendon slips into the passenger seat and grins and says, “You are a savior, Spencer Smith, a champion.”

“Yeah, now I don’t have to kill him in his sleep for making me late to English. Again.” Ryan knocks a fist into Spencer’s shoulder and Spencer can see him smiling at him in the rearview mirror and it’s. It’s kind of surreal, because last thing Spencer knew Ryan had written him off as a douchebag. Maybe he felt they’d really bonded during Frank’s party, what with all of Jon Walker’s pot and those poor defenseless Doritos.

“Uh. It’s no problem,” Spencer says, and he shrugs a little before turning out of the lot.

*

Ryan apparently won the Homecoming theme debate with support from Pete, but Spencer ignores the riverboat dictate - “Think riverboat gambler, only more gay,” Pete had told him - and digs out an ancient pair of black dress pants and layers a paper-thin white button-down over a Robot Queen t-shirt that he’s pretty sure is Frank’s. He’s just tugging on his boots when the doorbell rings, and seconds later his mom’s calling up the stairs.

Spencer doesn’t know what he’d been expecting – Jon maybe, or even just a blaring car horn out front - but it isn’t Brendon in pinstripes and rouge, no top hat in sight, with a paisley waistcoat worthy of Ryan Ross.

Brendon beams at him when he hits the landing, stuffing his wallet in his back pocket and swiping his still-wet hair back from his face. He doesn’t feel self-conscious, exactly, but he does feel a little underdressed.

“You boys have fun,” Spencer’s mom says after passing a glance over Spencer’s outfit with a slight frown.

“Is it okay if Spence stays at my place tonight?” Brendon asks, rocking back on his heels, and that surprises the hell out of Spencer, but he tries not to let it show.

“Of course, hon. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She pats Spencer’s cheek before he can duck his head, and then Spencer grabs Brendon’s arm and drags him out the door. He thinks she’s on the edge of whipping out a camera, and this isn’t the fucking prom.

Afterwards, the night is just a mess of impressions, of Gabe up on stage, of pretty decent bands and more than decent bands and spiked punch, of Brendon making a complete fool out of himself on the dance floor, of Colligan and Edie having a screaming fight by the DJ table over classic rock, of Ryan’s awkward attempts at stealing Greta out from William’s long-reaching clutches.

In the middle of the night, they end up down on the football field, sprawled in the grass. They’re spread out in clumps, and Spencer’s got Ryan sitting up next to where he’s on his back, hands pillowing his head. Ryan’s knees are pulled up to his chest, hands clasped around his calves, head resting on top, turned sideways, and they’re not talking and it’s possibly the most normal they’ve ever been together – Spencer feels almost comfortable, almost like the intervening years haven’t been filled with complete radio silence.

Sometimes, Spencer thinks about how different it would be if they’d never lost touch. Sometimes, he thinks the only thing that’d change is the way they look at each other.

Ryan nudges his arm with the tip of his shoe. He says, “Okay?” and Spencer thinks this is some kind of forgiveness. Some kind of truce, maybe.

Spencer nods and says, “Okay.”

Ryan is sort of important. Ryan’s important to Brendon and Ryan’s important to Spencer’s life there, and at some point over the past few months Spencer started thinking about this as being more than temporary. He thinks if he keeps focusing on later, well. That’ll make for a pretty crappy now. Spencer smiles, and Ryan’s still watching him, even if Spencer can’t read his eyes in the darkness.

Ryan huffs, almost a laugh. He unfolds his spider-like limbs and gets to his feet, swiping his palms on his thighs.

“Ry,” Brendon shouts, bounding up behind Ryan and gripping his hips. “Hide me, hide me.” His breath is hitching with laughter, and he ducks around Ryan and collapses on the ground by Spencer’s side. “Spencer, oh my god, seriously, hide me from Butcher.”

Spencer arches an eyebrow, because Butcher’s harmless. And usually busy torturing Johnson.

Brendon’s lost his jacket and waistcoat and his sleeves are rolled up and he’s probably getting grass stains all over his nice pants. Spencer likes how he doesn’t seem to care.

“Spencer Smith,” Brendon whispers close to his face. He’s just south of buzzed, Spencer can tell. He tugs on the chunk of hair hanging over Spencer’s forehead. “Spencer Smith, I think you’re wonderful.”

Spencer feels his cheeks heat because god. God, Brendon’s such a dork.

Brendon beams, trails his fingertips over Spencer’s face, and Spencer has absolutely no explanation for why he’s not jerking away. None at all.

“You’re blushing,” Brendon says.

“No.” There’s no way Brendon can tell if he’s blushing or not. It’s too dark on the field, even with the clear sky and the star- and moonlight, even then. There is no way Brendon can prove it.

“You are,” Brendon insists. “It’s lovely.”

“Oh my god.” Spencer slips a hand over his eyes. Lovely and wonderful are not terms that Spencer has ever heard to describe himself. Spencer’s definitely not lovely and wonderful.

Brendon chuckles. “Really, Spencer, I am so serious here. You make me want to be a better boy.”

“Shut up, what are you—are you quoting crappy movies at me?”

Brendon’s eyes are wide and dark. “Yes. Yes I am. Is it working?”

“Working for—Brendon.” Brendon’s hands have wandered down over his neck, one thumb petting his pulse point, and Spencer grabs his wrists but doesn’t shove him back. “Brendon.”

“I’m not going away, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says, and it’s kind of the most serious Spencer’s ever heard him sound. “You’re not ever getting rid of me, you realize this, right?”

Spencer’s heart is beating a little fast. He feels a little lightheaded, a little—a little terrified and, fucking hell, Gabe’s right. Gabe is so so right. Spencer wants to throw up. “I don’t think—”

It’s not how Spencer imagined it – and Spencer has imagined it, he’s not a robot, but Brendon’s usually a lot less focused and lot more playful and Spencer can always breathe – but it feels like Spencer’s entire chest has seized up, like time’s fucking stopped, and then Brendon groans into his mouth and everything snaps into motion again, and Spencer’s hyperaware of Brendon’s hands on his stomach, just under the hem of his tee, of Brendon’s tongue slipping in between his lips.

Spencer’s eyes fall shut and he grabs fistfuls of Brendon’s shirt and tugs him completely on top of him, settling him between his legs where all the pressure is just exactly right, and Spencer vaguely hears Ryan go, “Oh, come on,” and, “My eyes, guys, seriously,” and Spencer lets Brendon go long enough to flip him off.

Brendon has a fantastic mouth. It’s hot on his throat, sucking kisses onto the underside of his jaw, and Spencer is maybe arching up into him a little, but it’s dark out still and nobody can fucking prove anything, okay.

“Bren,” Spencer manages. “Brendon.”

Brendon lifts his head, bites Spencer’s chin and says, “We’re making out here, Spence, just go with it.” He adds, “Please,” and he sounds half-desperate and Spencer almost laughs, because he’s not going to tell him to stop – he’s not a fucking idiot, no matter what Edie says – but he doesn’t really want to do this in the middle of the football field, their friends and various acquaintances scattered around them.

Spencer’s still sort of frightened out of his mind – scared of fucking this up, of not fucking it up – but he can’t stop it from happening, not anymore. He doesn’t think he’d really even want to, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

Brendon threads his fingers in Spencer’s hair and says, “What, what?”

Spencer shakes his head and slips an arm around Brendon’s waist. And then he rolls them over and Brendon’s eyes widen and he wriggles around under Spencer and Spencer bites his lip and tries to keep perfectly still. He’s not going to make a scene. Or anymore of one, since he thinks that’s fucking Pete catcalling from somewhere close by.

“Spencer,” Brendon says, breathy. “Spence, I can totally see your tattoo now, right?”

Spencer tips his forehead against Brendon’s and says, “Yes.”

*

“Smithy,” Gabe says, gripping Spencer’s shoulder. “The time has come for me to depart.”

What the fuck, Spencer thinks, because he’s pretty sure Bill’s weeping, hovering over Gabe’s shoulder, wringing his hands. “Good,” Spencer says.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Gabe still sounds perfectly serious. “Do not be like that, Smithy. My boy’s all grown up and doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Fuck off, Gabe,” Spencer says, Jesus Christ. His eyes are not stinging, damn it. “I’ll see you at Christmas.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps, but not for good, Smithy. I sense your true destiny lies here.” He leans forward and whispers, “Keep an eye on Billy for me. He’s my pride and joy, you know.”

“Gabe—”

“I came, I saw,” Gabe says loudly, spreading out his arms, “I made love, not war.” Gabe’s cell beeps and he glances at it, shaking his head. “Chazzy calls, my children.”

“Gabe—”

“I’ll see you at the show tonight.” He spins around and saunters off with Bill trailing miserably after him, and Spencer’s looking forward to the show and he’s looking forward to Gabe leaving, he really, really is. Damn it.

He rubs a fist into his eyes and sniffs.

Ryan’s holding up a baggie when he turns back into the room. Brendon’s making grabby hands at it and Spencer thinks that’s a fucking ace idea.

Whatever happens next is totally the weed’s fault, whether Spencer breaks down about losing Gabe – who’s been practically a brother, a really annoyingly creepy older brother, but still a brother, family – or about how much his dog still fucking hates his guts and pissed all over his school bag.

Before long, Ryan’s making snow angels on the floor of Spencer’s bedroom and Brendon’s snuggled up against Spencer’s side, humming to himself, fingers chasing the trails of smoke as Spencer exhales.

“Oh, oh,” Brendon says suddenly, sitting up. “Ohhhhh,” he waves his hands around, “we should totally start a band.”

Ryan’s voice floats up from the floor, eerily flat. “Michael Clarke Duncan’s Exit Dream,” he says.

“We should. No, Spence, hear me out,” Brendon says. “We should totally get Jon Walker for our band.” Brendon shackles Spencer’s wrist and shakes his whole arm.

“The Damn Fine Natives,” Ryan says.

Brendon says, “He’s got a million of those, seriously, he’s been saving up for years.”

“Quality Assurance for Your Hate,” Ryan says. “Panic at the Disco.”

“Think about it, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says. He twists around so he’s right up in Spencer’s face, nose to his nose, straddling his waist.

Spencer goes a little cross-eyed. He pulls back some and Brendon’s eyes are huge and black and his cheeks are flushed and Spencer kind of doesn’t remember what they were talking about. He says, “Okay,” anyway.

Brendon’s eyes, if possible, get bigger. “Yeah?”

Spencer nods. He thinks he’ll agree to almost anything if t means they can make out, like, soon. “Sure.”

Brendon grins and licks the tip of Spencer’s nose. “You can play my tambourine.”

Spencer makes a face, because he hates the tambourine. “I hate the tambourine.” The tambourine is slotted right down in between the triangle and the cowbell, which isn’t nearly as cool as Christopher Walken has led most people to believe.

“Sugarcane,” Ryan says. Spencer can see his creepy-long fingers wiggling in the air above the edge of the mattress. “Easy Morning Capital Gain.”

“Jon Walker’s Grand Funk Revival Band,” Brendon says, nodding solemnly.

Spencer likes how Brendon can get away with making fun of Ryan. He likes how he can kind of get away with it now, too. “The Awesome Team,” Spencer says.

“Dude.” Ryan sits up, hair sticking up everywhere, eyes rimmed red, staring at him, and Spencer freezes, thinks for a split-second he’d been wrong, but then Ryan just says, “Duuuuuude,” again, and snaps his fingers a lot.

Brendon grins and says, “Win.”

Comments

[skoosiepants.livejournal.com]

Huzzah!! Thank you so much, hon!

Are you going to ever continue--IDK snippets or something--with this? I'm not sure - it took so much out of me just to get this all down; I still can't believe how long it got! But we shall see :)