New bandslash fic: Special Delivery For Hoops McCann

[skoosiepants]

Title: Special Delivery For Hoops McCann
Pairing: Spencer/Jon
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 9,000+
Prompt: One Crazy Summer
Summary: The summer after high school graduation is traditionally a summer of celebration...
A/N: For reel_band, created by the awesome natacup82; you don’t really have to have seen One Crazy Summer to understand this, but I did manage to follow my prompt. Kind of :) Title comes from the Steely Dan song Glamour Profession, and Hoops McCann is, of course, John Cusack’s character in the movie. Huge, mammoth thanks to darksylvia for beta’ing the crap out of this for me! This was mainly amazingly fun for me to write, so I hope you all enjoy.

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Special Delivery For Hoops McCann

[I.]

The summer after high school graduation is traditionally a summer of celebration, Spencer knows this. He’s still not sure how he let Brendon talk him into visiting his grandmother on Nantucket, though.

“It’ll be awesome,” Brendon says, fiddling with the radio.

Ryan smacks his hand away, angles into the last gas station before the ferry. He pulls up next to the single pump, pops the fuel cap and says, “Everybody who’s going to the bathroom better go to the bathroom.”

Spencer doesn’t necessarily have to piss, but he needs to get out of the car before he kills Brendon. There’s only so much of the kid he can take in an enclosed space, and they’ve been driving for hours.

That’s how he meets Jon.

*

“Hi, hey, I’m Jon,” the guy in the bathroom says. Spencer looks into the warped mirror, sees this scruffy guy with a guitar strapped to his back.

Very slowly, Spencer says, “Hello.” He’s heard about bathroom crazies before. He doesn’t want to startle him into, say, doing something homicidal.

“You didn’t happen to see any, um, really angry guys outside, did you? About yea high,” he raises his hand nearly a foot over his head, “leathery, sweating like stuck pigs?”

Spencer arches an eyebrow. “No.” He turns on the water, washing his hands and trying not to think about how many germs are having a party all over the faucet.

“Good, great, thank—”

And that’s when the door busts in.

Spencer has a split-second to think before he’s pulling the loose paper towel holder off the wall and clocking the smelly, leathery guy in the head. He’s dazed, but not down, and Jon doesn’t waste any time shoving Spencer out the door as the guy staggers around and growls, holding his sluggishly bleeding head.

“Holy shit,” Spencer says, but he lets Jon push him out into the sunshine where, it seems, even more menacing dudes are waiting for them. Him. Jon. On bikes.

Ryan honks the horn impatiently and Brendon’s leaning halfway out the window, shouting at him to hurry up, the ferry’s leaving.

Spencer doesn’t know why, but he grabs Jon’s wrist.

*

“This is Jon,” Spencer pants after they’ve practically dived into the backseat. Brendon is looking at them with big curious eyes.

Jon says, “You might want to get out of here,” and there’s the ominous rev of engines as just about fifteen gorillas kick start their bikes.

Ryan floors it, no questions asked, which makes Spencer think he’s been waiting his whole life for a high-speed chase. They fishtail out of the parking lot, motorcycles spinning up dust behind them, a fucking biker gang is chasing them, and in the distance the ferry whistle blows.

Ryan is flushed and disturbingly bright-eyed when they screech to a stop on the deck, just inches from the bumper in front of them, tires burning. There’s a splash and some shouts, and apparently none of the bikers made it past the ramp. Spencer sees a couple of the guys flailing around in the water.

Brendon says, “Dude, that was so cool,” even though his fingernails are stuck into the dashboard.

Spencer turns to Jon and asks, “What the fuck?”

Jon levers the door open, grins at Spencer. “Thanks for the help,” he says, then grabs hold of Spencer’s t-shirt, reels him in.

Spencer goes easily, since he’s not quite sure what’s going on. He’s not quite sure what’s going on until Jon’s mouth is on his, until his hand is on his waist and going lower, over his ass, and Spencer’s too stunned to even kiss him back. When Jon draws away, Spencer’s hands are opening and closing on air, and he’s blinking fast, like there’s too much light, and Jon just laughs and gets out of the car.

He shoulders his guitar and he’s gone and Spencer makes this embarrassing whining sound in the back of his throat.

“I guess he liked you,” Brendon says, eyes wide. He’s turned all the way around in his seat, hands gripping the headrest.

Spencer flips him off.

*

They meet Patrick and Pete at the dock. They’re both really short and dressed in gray, stained coveralls, and Patrick has black smudges on his cheeks, a hat pulled down low on his forehead.

Brendon apparently knows them pretty well from his previous summers on the island, and Pete and Brendon do this weird, complicated handshake and Patrick shoves his hands in his pockets and nods at them.

A tall guy with flippy hair slides over and leers at Ryan and purrs, “Hello there,” and Pete introduces him as William.

“He’s a douche,” Pete adds, “but he’s a rich douche, and he’s letting me work on his Ferrari.”

William seems perfectly fine with being called a rich douche. He slips on a pair of dark shades and smiles.

Pete and Patrick own a garage together. They can fix anything with an engine, according to Brendon, and he says they’re like brothers.

“Only not,” Pete says, waggling his eyebrows, and Patrick turns bright red.

Spencer isn’t going to ask.

*

Brendon’s grandmother is a tiny little bone-thin woman with a shock of white hair that might have been curly at one point, but now it just sort of sticks straight out, like she’s trapped in a wind tunnel. She’s got a Denny’s apron on over her bright floral housedress, a pencil wedged over her ear, and Spencer is not entirely sure she’s in her right mind.

She calls Spencer Dear and Brendon Boy and Ryan You There, and after dinner she sets a check down on the table, three little white and red mints in a tray, and grins expectantly at them without any teeth.

Brendon whistles and looks up at the ceiling. Ryan averts his eyes and pretends to buff his nails.

Spencer sighs, shifts up and reaches into his back pocket.

And that’s how he finds out that Jon stole his wallet.

[II.]

The problem with trying to make money as a lone musician is that most places expect you to sing. Jon doesn’t sing.

Sometimes, places don’t want to pay what they said they’d pay if you don’t sing. So sometimes Jon steals. It works out great usually, unless the place is a biker bar, and the owners have some really large, angry friends.

Meeting Spencer James Smith the Fifth, age eighteen, five foot ten, blue eyes with no corrective lenses, was a stroke of good fortune.

He stuffs the driver’s license back into the billfold and pulls out a couple dollars to buy a hamburger.

It’s more habit than anything else. He doesn’t plan on abusing the guy’s credit cards or anything, but the sixty-five bucks is fair game.

*

Before he died, Jon’s grandpa lived in a single room in a huge beach house he’d owned at the far side of the island. Miss Agnes still lives down the hall with her three cats, and Mr. Bollinger lives directly above her and smokes like a chimney. There’s also Sadie Joe, Uncle Pip, and Mr. and Mrs. Mikes who occupy the first floor. There’s an old dog that’s burrowed under the front porch, and the entire house feeds him scraps, and once every few months they turn the hose on him and scrub him down.

Jon loved his grandpa, and he loves the old mismatched cottage that he’s been coming to stay in every summer since he was twelve, but he doesn’t love the sign out front that says Coming Soon: Beckett Condominiums.

Jon stuffs fifty-eight of the sixty-five dollars he stole from Spencer Smith into Grandpa’s old cigar tin. It won’t help much, maybe, but it’s a start.

*

The people at the bank are all assholes, and Jon’s a pretty affable guy, but he’s tempted to punch someone in the face when they tell him there’s nothing they can do. His grandpa owed too much in back mortgages when he died. They’ve been as flexible as they can under the circumstances, they tell him with shark grins and a fake air of apology. The beach house is being put up for auction at the end of the month, and all of Grandpa’s old friends will be out of a home.

Mr. Beckett’s already got investors in town for the proposed condominium project. Jon doesn’t have any great ideas to come up with the money owed. He can play, he can play as many places as possible, but he still doesn’t think that’ll be enough.

Really, though, it’s the only thing he can do.

*

Andy tells him about this bar. Andy’s always telling him about bars, but he swears this one will pay him, since it’s a recent opening and he knows the owner pretty well.

He maybe gets a little buzzed before getting up on stage. It doesn’t matter, though. There’s hardly anybody there, it’s barely worth it, barely worth pulling up the stool, settling with his ankle hooked around the front leg, but he does it anyway.

Sometimes, it’s not about the crowd.

Sometimes, it’s about the pads of his fingers, the hollow wood warm against his thigh, the humming vibrations along his belly.

Sometimes, it’s just about the music.

*

“You stole my wallet.”

“Spencer, hey.” Jon nods at him, grins his mom’s grin, the grin his dad always said could wiggle her out of any trouble she’d inevitably gotten herself into. Spencer James Smith the Fifth still looks really pissed, though.

“You stole my wallet,” he says again, hip cocked and one arm out, hand flat against the wall, boxing Jon in the narrow bathroom hallway.

Jon decides to go for honesty. Honesty, Jon has learned, tends to throw people off. “I might have stolen your wallet,” he says, nodding.

Spencer blinks, relaxes his stance.

Score.

*

Spencer is sort of ridiculously attractive.

Jon isn’t easily impressed with looks, not since that summer William dumped him for someone thinner and taller and with a thicker bank account.

There isn’t any hard feelings there, though, because Jon has always known William, and William’s always been kind of an ass – he can’t seem to help it – and all that experience did was make Jon wary of pretty boys with gorgeous smiles and pretentious names.

He shouldn’t like Spencer at all, really.

Jon buys him a drink, even though he doesn’t have any money on him.

One of Spencer’s friends – “Brendon, I’m Brendon,” he says - scrapes his barstool closer, elbow resting on the polished wood of the bar, cupping his chin in his hand. He’s grinning at Jon with this high-wattage grin, and Jon immediately likes the kid, because there’s absolutely nothing behind that mouth and those big, brown eyes except pure amusement and warmth, but anyway. Brendon is all over Jon.

Brendon is sort of exhausting and refreshing at the same exact time.

Spencer is not quite scowling, but there’s disapproval written in his stiff back, the way his fingers are clenched around his sweating soda glass.

Jon’s good at reading people. He knows the other guy, the one who didn’t introduce himself and arched a mocking eyebrow at him when he’d trailed Spencer out of the back hallway, thinks the whole thing is darkly amusing. He knows that Spencer’s uncomfortable, that he wants to rifle through his wallet that Jon had slipped into his hands before casually suggesting they make their way back to the bar. Wants to see what’s missing and what isn’t, but doesn’t want to do it in front of Jon.

He thinks, also, that Spencer might be a little jealous, a little pink-cheeked and bothered. It’s pretty damn cute.

*

Jon knows before he does it that it’s a bad idea.

That has never stopped him before, though.

“Hi, Spencer, hi,” he says, and he’s maybe had two glasses of JD to Spencer’s one Coke, so he isn’t anything but relaxed, soft enough to see Spencer’s mouth and Spencer’s hands, to fixate on the way he licks his lips and rubs his fingers over his jaw line, past the sweaty mess of hair sticking to the back of his nape. “Spencer,” he says again, low, and Spencer has gray-blue eyes and they’re startled round when Jon grips his hips, pushes him back against the bank of sinks.

“Jon, what—”

Jon has kissed Spencer before, with Spencer caught so off guard he’d hardly responded at all, but that had been purposeful, premeditated – although Jon had admittedly been tempted by Spencer-the-boy even then, his wrist still throbbing from the hard press of Spencer’s fingers. But this kiss. This kiss has Spencer’s hands tightly gripping Jon’s arms, has Spencer whining low in his throat as Jon licks inside his mouth.

Jon grins against his lips, says, “Hey, hey,” and nudges his cheek with his nose, dips back to bite Spencer’s ear, and Spencer is seriously the prettiest thing he’s seen in months, years, maybe, with these hips that fit into his palms, let his thumbs dig into the skin just above his pants, on the soft curve of bone.

Spencer moans, tries to jerk back, and Jon just ends up pressing harder into him, shifting one leg between his, with Spencer angled slightly against the counter so their bodies are evenly matched.

“God,” Spencer says, and, “This is. Fuck, this is such a bad idea,” and then, when Jon laughs, scrapes his teeth along his throat, “You stole my wallet, you asshole.”

Jon thinks it’s a shame Spencer can still form full sentences. He walks his fingers oh so stealthily towards the button on Spencer’s jeans. “I did,” he says, thumbing them open, fingers working at the zipper. “Does it matter?” He stops, knuckles pressed along his dick, looks up at Spencer, because he’s definitely accosting him, oh yeah, is he totally accosting him, but he doesn’t want to force Spencer into something he doesn’t really want.

Spencer blinks, slow and thick, and says, “No.”

[III.]

Since this is Spencer’s last free summer before college, before he has to find a part time job to supplement his allowance and foster his shopping addiction, his plan is really just to nap on the beach as much as possible.

He settles down under a huge striped umbrella with Ryan. Brendon slathers on SPF 30 and lies out in the sun, limbs sprawled. Ryan buries his nose in a book. Spencer closes his eyes.

Spencer’s almost asleep when there’s a loud whoop and sand scatters across his face. He sputters, rubs at his nose and eyes and then glares at Pete, who just grins at him unrepentantly, teeth gleaming, hands on his hips. Patrick’s standing behind him, and they’re both still in their coveralls, except Pete’s stripped out of the top of his, arms tied around his waist, naked chest warm and brown and liberally tattooed.

“Spencer Smith,” he says, then cocks his head.

“Go away, Pete,” Spencer grumbles. Spencer has only known Pete for a week, and it already feels like too long.

“No can do, Spencer Smith—”

“Stop it.”

“—we’re meeting Bill.”

Patrick sighs, swipes his forearm over his forehead and then resettles his cap. He kind of looks like he wants to apologize for Pete, but doesn’t. There’s no apologizing for Pete, Spencer has learned. If you try, he’ll just make a bigger ass of himself to compensate.

“Hey,” Brendon says. “Hey, who wants to bury me in the sand?”

Pete points at him and says, “Oh, do not tempt me.”

“It’ll be totally cool,” Brendon insists.

“Brendon,” Ryan says without looking up from his book.

“What? No, seriously, cool.”

Ryan glances at him then, one brow arched.

“Do you guys have a shovel?” Pete asks.

“No,” Ryan says flatly.

“Fine,” Brendon huffs, flopping back on his towel. “You’re a ruiner, Ryan Ross. A ruiner of wholesome fun.”

*

The beach is clean and the breeze off the water is warm, the air salty and damp.

Ryan is snoring a little, book open on his chest, one hand spread wide on his bare stomach.

Spencer is thinking about dinner and not about Jon at all. He’s not thinking about his hands or his fucking mouth or the way his eyes went nearly black when he’d wrapped his fingers around Spencer’s dick. Not even a little bit.

“Spencer.” Brendon pokes him with his toe. “Spencer, Spence, Spence.” He’s been trying to get Spencer to bury him in the sand for the past three hours. Spencer’s tempted just to do it and leave him there, but he knows Ryan would be mad.

“Spencer, Spence—”

“Jesus Christ, Brendon, what?”

Brendon smiles at him. “Wanna help me build a sandcastle?”

Anything, Spencer thinks. Anything to shut him up. “Yes, Brendon. Yes, I do.”

*

“Oh, man, I’m totally sorry,” William says, standing directly on top of Brendon’s sandcastle. Or what was once Brendon’s sandcastle. He doesn’t sound particularly sorry, but he doesn’t sound spiteful either. Spencer doesn’t think he actually set out to ruin it.

Brendon still looks pretty upset, though. He’d had a little drawbridge and a moat and four towers and two shell ponies that he’d named Harriet and Buttons.

William ruffles Brendon’s hair and calls him kiddo.

Spencer bristles, because only Spencer and Ryan are allowed to treat Brendon like that, like he’s younger than he actually is, like he’s a pet, a puppy, sometimes, eager and innocent and so fucking cute.

Brendon ducks his head, though, smiling, and Spencer ends up just rolling his eyes.

*

The Lobster Pot is one of William’s dad’s restaurants, and William’d insisted their meals were on the house, said he’d call and arrange everything for them, since he accidentally destroyed Brendon’s sandcastle.

Brendon, apparently, has never been inside the Lobster Pot. Immediately after they arrive, Spencer thinks maybe that was a good thing.

Spencer catches Brendon’s t-shirt in his fist and holds him back, but there’s still enough give in the material to let Brendon plaster himself up against the lobster tank, hands spread and eyes big.

“Guys, guys,” Brendon says, looking at them over his shoulder. “This isn’t. I can’t—”

“I’m going to eat that one,” Ryan says, pressing the tip of his finger on the glass. He grins a shark grin.

“Ryan,” Brendon says. “These are, like, living things. How can you—”

“I’ve heard they scream when you drop them in boiling water,” Ryan says, and his eyes say this is payback for leaving him sound asleep next to that fat dude who kept eating beans and farting all afternoon while they went off to look for seashells.

Brendon sniffs, starts to fidget and twist his fingers in the hem of his shirt, and Spencer knows he’s going to break out the Lip at any moment now, the Urie Pout that Ryan has some sort of immunity to, but which almost always renders Spencer completely powerless.

“They don’t scream,” Spencer says hastily, shooting Ryan a glare. “They don’t feel a thing, Brendon.”

“How do you know?” Brendon asks.

“He doesn’t,” Ryan says. “Hey look, my dinner’s fighting with somebody else’s dinner. Hey, hey, garçon,” Ryan snaps his fingers at the host, “d’you think you could snatch this one out before he looses a claw or something? I’m not too big on eating gimpy lobsters—”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Brendon says, and Spencer knows Ryan’s mostly joking – Ryan has a really horrible sense of humor – but Brendon looks gray-green and miserable and if he throws up all over the foyer rug, Ryan’s going to be the one explaining everything to the host.

*

Spencer bundles Brendon up in his bedroom with a glass of chocolate milk and a devildog and confronts Ryan in the kitchen, hands on his hips.

Ryan’s really good at winning arguments, though.

“You were seriously mean to Brendon,” Spencer says.

“You let a pickpocket jerk you off in a public bathroom,” Ryan says. He stares at him.

Spencer stares back.

Ryan’s eyes are like dead pools.

Ryan’s really good at winning arguments, because he has no soul.

Unlike Pete, who’s apparently really good at winning arguments because he has no moral compass.

*

“I’m building a boat,” Pete tells them grandly the next afternoon.

“You’re not building a boat,” Patrick counters. He wipes his hands on a rag, then stuffs it into his back pocket.

“Okay, we’re building a boat,” Pete says, and Patrick shakes his head.

“You’re using parts of William’s old catamaran on a wreck you found at the beach,” Patrick points out.

Pete blinks at him blankly. “Yes.”

“You’re using his Ferrari engine.”

“Patrick.” Pete puts a hand on his shoulder. “Patrick, you want me to win the Regatta this year, right?”

Patrick’s sigh is long-suffering. “Pete, you’ve never been in the Regatta before. You have no idea how to even sail.”

Pete blinks at him blankly again. “Do you have a point?”

Patrick starts to get really red in the face.

And then Ryan says, “Hey, don’t you know how to sail, Spencer?” and his grin is so smugly evil that Spencer is actually kind of impressed.

[IV.]

Jon goes back to the same bar that Andy told him about, because the pay was all right and they seemed to like him. Plus, there’s a chance he’ll run into Spencer again.

The owner – Joe, who plays guitar himself, compliments Jon’s acoustic, and strums out a riff of Morrissey before waving him back into his office – says he likes his style, the quiet humming, the understated confidence.

“Heartfelt,” Joe says, sitting behind his desk and propping his feet up, dirty sneakers carelessly smudging papers. “Dude, you never get anyone who feels the music anymore, right?” He ties a bandana around his forehead, knot tangling in the back of his curly fro, then digs around in a drawer and lights a joint.

“Here, dude, share,” he says, and by the time Jon’s ready to play, he’s so mellow he maybe sings a bit, words slipping past his lips, slightly broken, swelling on the parts he really loves.

When he looks up, Spencer’s standing right there by the door, staring at him.

*

“So we’re pretending that night didn’t happen, right?” Jon says. He’s got Spencer all to himself for the moment, because Ryan – the other guy’s name is Ryan, and Jon only knows that because Spencer had said his name, once, low and controlled when Ryan’d narrowed his eyes at him – had dragged Brendon off towards the opposite end of the bar.

Spencer chokes on a piece of ice. “Um.”

“It’s cool.” Jon smiles.

Spencer smiles back, tentative at the edges.

“So what brings you to Nantucket?” Jon asks, and he realizes with some surprise that they’ve never really had an actual conversation before. Intimately involved before the first date. They’re doing everything backwards, and Jon finds that strangely satisfying.

Spencer shrugs. “Just a vacation. Brendon’s grandmother, she’s,” he ducks his head a little, like he’s embarrassed, the tops of his cheeks pink, and Jon thinks that’s fucking adorable, “kind of insane, but she’s only charging us ten bucks a night, so.” He looks up at Jon through his eyelashes.

“Spencer Smith, dude, let me buy you dinner tomorrow night,” Jon says, because he can’t not, even though he’s got maybe a twenty from Joe left over after their drinks. At the rate he’s going, there’s no way he can even make a dent in what his grandpa owed in back payments. It was sort of a totally unrealistic goal, anyway.

Spencer licks his lips. “Okay?”

Jon grins, slips the tips of his fingers along the hand Spencer’s resting on the bar. He figures he should just make the most of his last summer on the island.

*

Jon tries to talk to William about it, because why not? It’s not like it’ll do any harm to bring it up. He catches him at the marina, a drink in his hand, sprawled in the plush seats of his new yacht. William’s loose with sun and alcohol and actually kind of sympathetic, too, as much as he can be, but that doesn’t really help much.

William’s dad is a power-hungry lunatic obsessed with three things: money, lobsters and winning at all costs. William doesn’t hold that much sway with him. It’s probably why he’s given up being anything other than a rich douchebag so early in life.

Jon remembers when he used to have dreams, when they used to have plans together, but years and years stuck under Mr. Beckett’s thumb – and, Jon suspects, years and years of being stoned out of his mind – have leant William a lackadaisical air.

“Jonny,” William says, draping an arm across his shoulders. “Jonny, my wee lad, I’d like to help you out, I would, honest, hand to heart,” he presses a palm to his chest, “but Dad won’t listen to me, you know that.”

Jon nods, smiles with half his mouth. “Worth a shot, though,” he says, and William nods, too.

“I will always do my very best towards you, Jon Walker,” William says grandly. He gives him a smacking kiss on his forehead and, okay, Jon’s pretty screwed, but William’s good at lightening his mood, no matter how much of a jackass he is.

“Thanks, Bill,” Jon says, and he means it.

*

“You should do a concert,” Joe says. “Dude, totally, yes. Put on a concert here. We’ll charge a cover and you’ll get, like eighty percent, ‘cause I’m such a nice guy.” Joe grins at him.

Jon seriously likes Joe, and he’s kind of glad he spilled out his problems to him, because that’s a decent idea. “I play the guitar,” he points out. “That’s not much of a concert.”

“I play the guitar, too,” Joe says. He tilts his head back against his office wall. “I’d have your back on rhythm. I won’t even take a performance cut, and hey. Hey, dude, I’ve totally got this friend who’ll play bass. He’s not very good, but he’ll. Wait, wait, you know Pete, right? You know Andy, so you have to know Pete.”

Jon knows what this sounds like, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I can’t play with your band, Joe,” he says. It’s not like he doesn’t appreciate the offer, but it wouldn’t be his show anymore, and it’d be pretty sucky of him to hog all the money from it. Plus, if they were going to talk about playing in a group, Jon’s a much better bass player than he’s ever been on lead guitar.

Still. His mind won’t entirely let it go.

*

Jon has twenty bucks, and he takes Spencer to a crab shack his grandpa had always loved, plastic red-checkered table clothes spread out over long picnic tables, piled with crabs covered in old bay, little pots of melted butter and plates smeared with cocktail sauce. Their fingers are slick, messy, and it’s maybe not the best place for a first date, but Spencer smiles at him over the cracked shells.

He’s not sure why he tells Spencer everything he told William and Joe. He seems to be spilling his guts left and right here, and he’s normally a fairly reserved guy. Jon thinks it’s a testament to how upset he is, even though he keeps up his unflappable front, his easygoing smile.

Spencer cocks his head at him over the table and Jon gets the feeling that Spencer can see everything going on inside of him, all the helpless anger and little-boy sadness.

He doesn’t say anything, though, and nods his head when Jon offers Joe’s suggestion, why he had to shoot it down, and Spencer opens his mouth, says, “I,” then stops.

“What?”

Spencer shakes his head, pushes his hair behind his ears. “Forget it.”

“No, seriously, what?” Jon leans forward, forearms pushing a bowl of shells into his water glass, making it clink and rock but thankfully not tumble.

“It’s just,” Spencer shrugs, “I play the drums.”

“You’re. You have a band?” Jon asks.

“Not now, no.” Spencer stares at him, lips pressed together.

Jon sort of feels like Spencer’s daring him to ask what happened, but Jon’s not an invasive guy, and the most salient point is that Spencer seems willing to help Jon out, and Jon wouldn’t be filching off someone else’s limelight. “Okay.” Jon nods, slow.

Spencer flashes a grin. “Brendon’s a spaz, but he’s. I mean, I noticed you don’t really sing, so.”

“No, okay, he can—”

“Yeah, sure, he’s had training and stuff,” Spencer says, “and Ryan’s been playing guitar since forever,” and Jon’s eyes go wide with realization, because they might not technically be in a band right then, Jon doesn’t think Spencer was lying, but at some point they totally had been, and Jon suddenly feels like an outsider again, that itch between his shoulder blades he got at Joe’s suggestion, and it’s not like.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to do it, but it feels weird, okay, and how much money would he really make, anyway?

“Uh,” Jon hedges, staring down at the table. “Thanks, but—”

“No, no, I get it, that’s fine,” Spencer cuts him off hastily, and Jon jerks his head back up, watching the grin melt off Spencer’s face, the curve of his mouth still there, but just sort of lingering as a empty gesture.

“Thanks,” Jon says again, firmly, trying to make sure Spencer knows he really means it.

Spencer nods. “Okay.”

*

Jon holds Spencer’s hand. They smell like salt and seafood and Jon kind of feels like he bathed in butter, but their hands are laced together as they make their way out of the restaurant.

He’d borrowed Andy’s van, but he doesn’t feel like taking Spencer home yet. The sky is almost red, layered over orange and then cloudy blue, just at the horizon, skimming the dark water.

“Walk with me?” Jon asks nodding his head towards the beach, and Spencer says, “Yeah,” wiggling his fingers in his.

“Yeah, okay.”

[V.]

Pete has absolutely no idea what he’s doing with his boat, that much is obvious.

William’s catamaran is parked out back. It looks picked apart, skeleton-like, and the name Santi is now prominently displayed on the side of Pete’s pleasure yacht, as he calls it, and Pete says, “We’ll just paint over that part,” like it’s not seven kinds of illegal, what they’re doing.

“Right,” Spencer says, squinting at him.

Pete’s got an engine up on a block. Spencer suspects it’s from William’s Ferrari, which is settled in one side of the garage.

Patrick has on ear buds, humming, head ducked under the hood of a tiny little hybrid and ignoring everything Pete’s doing.

Pete says, “I’m thinking of calling her Pattycake, or The Man Mobile, or, hey, El Guapo, the handsome, like me.”

Spencer sort of wishes he was somewhere far far away. Ryan deserves to die.

“Spencer, hey, how do I know when she’s sea worthy?” Pete asks, patting the hull affectionately.

Seriously. Spencer is going to kill Ryan. “I’m pretty sure this will never be sea worthy, Pete,” Spencer says.

“Oh, come on, I’m awesome, there’s no way I can’t fix this baby up,” Pete counters, grinning at him. “Admit it, Spencer, you’re jealous of my prowess with a monkey wrench.”

“Did you even use a monkey wrench for this?” Spencer thinks Patrick’s the brains behind this operation, but he’s not completely sure. He’s just got a feeling.

“I used all sorts of wrenches.” Pete nods. “I’ve got a belt and everything.”

“Uh huh, right.” Spencer does not want to ever ride in anything Pete has worked on. This is going to be one of his life rules.

*

Brendon gets burned because he went in the water and forgot to reapply.

“Spencer,” he whines, leaning into a chair back, arms folded over the top and chin resting on his wrists. His eyes are puppy-dog sad. “You’re supposed to remind me.”

Since Ryan’s basically Brendon’s unofficial keeper, Spencer’s not sure how it’s his fault Brendon’s red as a Maryland crab, but Ryan’s sort of giving him pissy looks as he spreads cooling aloe gel all over Brendon’s back.

“What?” Spencer snaps.

“What?” Brendon asks, looking from Spencer to Ryan over his shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ryan says flatly.

“Oh, seriously?” Spencer asks, understanding dawning. “Seriously? You’re mad about Jon?”

“No,” Ryan says, but he rubs Brendon a little too hard, and Brendon yelps, “Ow!” and Ryan mutters, “Sorry,” all without shifting his glare off Spencer.

“It was just dinner,” Spencer says. Dinner and then a little walk on the beach, and Jon had been nothing but gentlemanly. Honest.

“Ryan Ross, you don’t like Jon?” Brendon asks, openly horrified.

Ryan arches a brow. “He stole your wallet,” he points out. “You had sex in a bar bathroom—”

“What?” Brendon says, whipping his head back and forth. “What?”

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes. “Ryan, Christ, we didn’t have sex—“

“What?” Brendon shouts.

“He’s.” Spencer doesn’t know why, exactly, but he really likes Jon. He seems like a good guy, despite everything, and he’s, okay, maybe it’s a little weird after the hand job thing, but.

Jon gives great hugs.

He’d folded Spencer up in his arms, bare feet buried in night-cool sand, and he’d smoothed his palms up and down Spencer’s spine. He’d pressed his lips to the corner of his mouth, warm and dry, and it had been so familiar and comforting and Spencer hadn’t realized how tightly wound, how tense he’d been after the whole band conversation until he’d let out a breathy sigh and just. Relaxed against Jon, let him shoulder some of his weight. “I like him,” Spencer finally says.

Ryan stares at him, some of the glare softening, gaze more searching than anything else. “Okay,” he says, and Brendon says, “Seriously, what are you guys talking about?”

Ryan pats his head.

*

Spencer is sprawled out in the sun, eyes closed. A shadow falls across him, he feels the sudden cool on his skin, and then he squints up at Jon.

“Hi,” Jon says, waves a little. His face is shadowed, his hair tipped with gold.

“Hi.” Spencer feels a smile creep across his mouth. He leverages himself up on his hands, tilts his head back.

“Hey,” Ryan says from his chair under the umbrella. He kicks Jon in the shin. “You make Spencer cry and I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

Spencer turns bright red because fuck, and he groans, “Ryan.”

Ryan just gives him a cool stare, then turns expectantly to Jon.

Jon laughs, says, “I’ll remember that.”

“See that you do.” Ryan nods. He buries his nose back in his book, but Spencer can tell he’s still watching them.

“Wanna take a walk?” Jon asks, cocking his head.

“Hey, hey, can I come?” Brendon bounces to his feet. “Please? Please, Spencer Smith?”

Jon is grinning, and Spencer feels like butterfly wings are brushing his insides, so he nods yes and Brendon pumps his fist like a giant dork and takes off down the beach.

*

“If.”

“Yeah?” Ryan doesn’t look up from his notebook.

Spencer shifts on his feet. “If it would maybe help someone out, would you play again?”

“Would I.” Ryan narrows his eyes, taps the tip of his pen against his lower lip. “Would I play again?”

“Yeah.” Spencer nods. He doesn’t say anything else, because Ryan has his thinking face on, and Spencer knows he really wouldn’t be listening anyhow.

Finally, Ryan says, “We don’t have our stuff,” and it’s as good as him saying yes, saying okay.

Spencer shrugs. “Brendon says Patrick has every instrument ever created by man.”

Now he just has to convince Jon.

*

It isn’t a big deal.

They had a band once, an almost record deal, a vision, and then Brent quit and Spencer’s parents wanted him to think of college, and Ryan got this awesome scholarship and Brendon, the little weirdo, had signed up for cosmetology school on a freaking whim one day and it had all just fallen apart. They hadn’t been committed, is what it basically boiled down to, and sure, Spencer’s still sort of sad about it. Not bitter, because it hadn’t been anyone’s specific fault, but they’d had dreams, and none of them had been strong enough to see them through.

Spencer doesn’t like to think about it. They don’t talk about it much either, except he’ll occasionally catch Brendon singing one of their songs, and Brendon’ll flush and duck his head and give him a sheepish smile.

His palms are soft now, calluses almost sloughed entirely away. Occasionally, though, Spencer’s fingers will itch, tap restless beats on his thighs.

Spencer wants to do this for Jon, yes, but he can’t delude himself into thinking it isn’t mostly for them, too.

*

Pete talks to Joe. Patrick lets them borrow whatever they want, and Spencer feels at home again, sitting behind a kit, bottom-heavy sticks cradled in his hands.

Ryan bends his head over a guitar in concentration, hair falling over his face, curtaining his expression. His shoulders are squared, though, spine straight, posture ready.

Brendon just turns and grins at Spencer, mic hiding half his mouth, eyes sparkling.

[VI.]

Jon’s completely surprised to find Spencer and his friends at Joe’s. He’s. He’s not upset, exactly, but his skin prickles and he has to fight off a tight frown, because it’s sort of more than a little presumptuous of them, to set this up.

Joe leans back on a bar stool, smiles. “Hey, man, it’s cool,” he says, and Jon nods.

“Sure.”

Brendon has a great voice, strong but imperfect, passionate and loud and Jon can tell he’s having a blast. Ryan is intense, quiet, a mile of calm as Brendon hangs all over him. Spencer’s face is flushed, the pounding rhythm shaking his whole body, and Jon thinks, god, he’s fucking perfect like that.

“Jon Walker,” Brendon says into his mic after they stumble to a stop, Ryan frowning at a twanging chord. “Jon Walker, will you play my tambourine?”

“I’ll play your tambourine,” Pete says, winking at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the little stage with a bass in his lap, feet swinging.

Jon figures, what the hell, and nods towards Pete. “I can play that,” he says, and Pete jumps down.

“You sure?” Pete asks. “Tambourine players get all the ladies.” He grins toothily. “They line up for my mad skills, right ‘Trick?”

“Totally,” Patrick says absently, hunched over a laptop. He resettles his hat, then flashes Jon a grin.

Jon can’t help but grin back.

He takes the bass from Pete, lets Brendon help him step up on stage. Spencer’s watching him, he can tell, and he turns a little, flashes him a narrow-eyed look, and afterwards, after they’ve played a half dozen songs, still sort of unfamiliar with each other, he pushes the bass around his back, strap cutting across his chest, and leans over the drum kit.

“Yeah?” Spencer asks. His eyes are smiling, even if his mouth isn’t.

Jon was maybe going to protest. He was going to say that this was fun and all, but he can’t play with them, he can’t, he doesn’t fit, not really, but the words get trapped in his throat.

Spencer’s eyes are smiling, and he’d thought the curve of his mouth was beautiful, but it’s apparently nothing compared to his freaking eyes. And when he glances at Brendon, Brendon’s being a total ham, a huge excitable dork and Ryan seems actually happy, so he just says, “Think we can pull this off in a week?”

*

“You need to advertise,” Pete says.

Jon agrees, but advertising ain’t cheap.

“I know this guy,” Pete says. “His brother’s kind of scary, but he does great work, and he’ll probably do it for free.”

Jon nods. “Okay.” He isn’t going to be picky.

“Just, okay,” Pete says, and then he pulls out his Sidekick. “He’s a little sensitive about his, you know, artistic soul.”

Jon nods again. “Okay.” Whatever. Jon’s pretty easygoing. He’s not going to insult the guy or anything.

Pete pushes some buttons on his cell, grins as he holds it up to his ear. “Mikey! Is Gerard still living in your basement?” Pete asks. There’s a pause, and Pete nods. “Hey, no, light sensitivity, totally valid.” He waggles his eyebrows at Jon, then nods again. “I have a request, a commission for Gerard, only without the part where we actually pay him for his services. I am totally not taking advantage, Mikes. Gerard does this stuff for the betterment of mankind.” He gives Jon a thumbs-up, then nods a few more times, hums, then tells Mikey he’ll see him tomorrow and ends the call.

“All set,” he says to Jon. “Gerard’s gonna love your cause. Your uncle’s running a home for runaway pregnant gay teens, right?”

“What? No, it’s my grandpa’s—”

“Gerard saves lives, Jon,” Pete says, putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Don’t you want him to save your life?”

Jon bites his lip. “Um.”

“Exactly.”

*

Mikey Way’s basement is dark, hazy with cigarette smoke, and his brother, Gerard, has sunglasses on, hunched over a drawing table with a single dim yellow bulb dangling over it, dressed completely in black and chewing on the end of a ballpoint pen. It’s been slowly leaking, and his lips are half blue, smudged down his chin with absent fingers.

He pushes his shades up and grins at them when Spencer and Jon hit the bottom step. He’s a got a great, wide smile, and his eyes are seriously hardcore happy. Jon thinks Pete’s right; he’s a little scary.

“Thanks for seeing us,” Jon says.

“Oh, hey, no problem, man.” Gerard keeps grinning, and Jon feels Spencer shift awkwardly beside him, reach for his hand, curl his fingers tightly around his wrist.

Jon clears his throat. “We’re, uh, putting on a benefit show? We need, like.”

“Advertising,” Spencer says. “Posters, flyers.”

Gerard nods. “Cool, sure, benefits are my thing, so. How do you feel about vampires?”

*

Jon’s okay with the vampires. A surprising amount of people are okay with the vampires, actually, and also the liberal use of blood and zombies, so there’s a fairly good turnout at ‘Jon Walker’s Benefit Concert, Featuring The Summer League, June 28th at Joe’s Bar, Cover: $10.’

“Thanks for coming out tonight, folks,” Jon says, looking out onto the packed floor with a hum of anticipation spreading up from the base of his spine, and then he rocks out on the bass as hard as he can.

None of them really have any idea what they’re doing. They’re out of practice and Jon’s never played half the songs they cover, but they’re having a lot of fun up there, and he thinks the crowd can tell. They’re loud and raucous and dancing and drinking and Jon thinks, fuck it, even if they don’t get any money out of it at all, it was totally worth the effort.

Afterwards, they sit around the tables, dirty glasses, napkins, balled up in messes that measure the amount of fun everybody had. Joe hands Jon a stack of money that falls ridiculously short of his goal, he already knows. This was never going to solve his problem.

Still, he’s sweaty and sated, eyes itchy with exhaustion, limbs twitching with adrenalin and it’s the greatest performance high Jon’s ever had.

He leans towards Spencer, whispers, “Spencer Smith,” in his ear, smiling, and Jon doesn’t want to go home.

*

Spencer has soft hands for a drummer. He slides them under Jon’s t-shirt, over his stomach, pushing the material up, bunching it in his fingers, and Jon takes the hint, lifts his arms, lets Spencer tug the shirt over his head.

“Jon,” Spencer says, secret-small, breathy.

“Yeah.” Jon smiles, can’t stop smiling, and he slips his fingers into Spencer’s hair, curls them over his nape, pulls him close and bumps their noses, nudges his lips with a kiss, licks the corner of his mouth until Spencer’s breath hitches and parts on a shaky inhale, Jon’s tongue pushing deeper.

Spencer pulls back, says, “Wait, wait,” and skims out of his own shirt, fingers fast on the clasp of his belt, and Jon just watches, watching all that pale, soft skin, those hazy eyes, hair messy to his shoulders. Zipper undone, buckle apart and heavy on either side of his open jeans, boxers a dark V under the slight curve of his belly, Spencer grabs for Jon, hooks two fingers in his waistband. “Off,” he says, echoing Jon’s grin, “take these off,” and Jon laughs.

Spencer’s smile is so wide his eyes crinkle up at the corners, and he pushes Jon back, pushes him back onto his bed, hands tugging at Jon’s jeans and Jon lifts his hips, lets Spencer slide them down to his thighs. He kicks them off, wraps his fingers around Spencer’s arms and pulls him up, presses their chests together, kisses the curve of his lips, ignores the cold of Spencer’s belt buckle as it bites into his stomach. “Thanks for tonight,” he says.

Spencer quirks an eyebrow, wriggles against him. “We haven’t even gotten to the good parts yet.”

Jon smoothes his hands down Spencer’s back, touches his forehead to his. “We have,” he says. “We totally have.”

[VII.]

Spencer’s sort of disappointed that the money they make at the show isn’t enough, but he got too much out of the night to be truly upset.

Ryan’s humming over his morning blueberry muffin.

It’s a strange but heartening moment.

Brendon is clearly delighted by Ryan’s good mood, too, and dances around the kitchen table. And then he spills his coffee all over his hands, and Ryan has to pull him towards the sink, run the cold water until his sniffles dry up.

Spencer’s still happy, though. Jon has sleepy eyes and bed head and a hand heavy and high on Spencer’s thigh as they sit side-by-side at the table.

*

“What we should do,” Pete says, “is confront Bill’s dad.”

“That’ll help,” Patrick says, and he clearly means that it won’t help at all. Spencer is in complete agreement.

“No one wants condominiums and lobster restaurants on Nantucket,” Pete insists.

Ryan, sitting on the stern of Pete’s boat, kicking his heels into the hull, says, “I like lobster,” and Brendon pulls a face and crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Ryan Ross, you are so mean.”

Ryan cocks a finger at him and grins.

And then Pete’s Sidekick buzzes and he answers and says, “Hey, Bill, sure. Sure, we’d love to crash your dad’s party for all his investment types,” throwing an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and smushing a kiss to his temple, displacing Patrick’s hat a little, and Spencer’s not sure if that was a set up or not, but he’s deeply suspicious.

*

Pete shows up at William’s with a Patrick-sized Godzilla.

“I’m not even going to ask,” Spencer says.

“I’m stuck.” Patrick’s voice is muffled by the rubber suit. “Also, I hate Pete.”

“Aww, you love me, dude,” Pete says, wrapping an arm around his Godzilla neck.

Spencer figures it’s one of those things that only makes sense to Pete and Patrick. He really doesn’t want to know.

“Hey,” William says, sneaking up behind Pete, “Godzilla, cool, d’you wanna come stomp on all my dad’s mini-scale buildings? It’ll be like—”

“Bill.”

William’s brow scrunches. “Is that you in there, Patrick?”

“I’m not going to stomp on your dad’s buildings.”

“Oh.” William pouts. “Too bad.”

*

William’s dad is sort of unbelievably angry that they’ve all shown up uninvited and hogged all the hors d'oeuvres. The fact that Patrick is a giant rubber lizard apparently doesn’t go over too well with him, either, although everyone else seems to think that’s mainly hilarious.

And then Pete gets into a screaming fight with Mr. Beckett, it is not a proud moment for either of them, and Spencer’s not exactly sure what they’re saying, but in the end they decide to race the Regatta for Jon’s grandpa’s house. Pete’s unnamed homemade disaster against William’s Sisky Business. The Regatta is less than two weeks away.

“Are you kidding me?” Spencer is half amused, half horrified, since apparently he’s expected to help.

“I’ll be the captain,” Pete says, “and Patrick’s my adorable first mate, and you’ll—”

“Do all the work,” Spencer growls. Of course, that’s assuming the boat doesn’t sink the minute they slide it into the water.

Jon shoves his hands into his pockets, rocks back on his heels and grins at Spencer. “We can fix up the boat with the money from the show,” he offers, like Spencer was going to say no, to just give up on getting Jon’s grandpa’s house back, no matter how shitty a chance they had.

Spencer says, “That’s for the house.”

“Besides,” Pete says, “it’s mostly done. Just needs some paint and some sails and stuff.”

“Ryan can help with the sails. He’s great at sewing,” Brendon says brightly, and Spencer’s glad Brendon said it and not him, because the impotent look of rage on Ryan’s face is pretty much the best thing ever. Brendon swings a hopeful look Ryan’s way. “Right?”

Ryan may be immune to the Urie Pout, but he always caves when in the direct path of Brendon’s boundless enthusiasm. That doesn’t mean Brendon won’t pay for it later, though.

*

Spencer doesn’t exactly mind helping out with Pete’s boat, if only because Jon looks hot wielding a hammer. Brendon keeps hurting himself, though, and Ryan is shooting everyone death glares from his spot in the garage, piles of cast-off clothes around him, his giant sewing kit at his feet.

Joe brings beer and sits out on a beach chair in the sun and naps. Pete is pretty useless, too, but at least Patrick seems to know what he’s doing, and it doesn’t take nearly as long as Spencer thought it would to finish her up.

They christen her Tina for no other reason than Pete is insane, and thinks the bright yellow paint – all they could afford – makes her look like a Tina. Or a Patrick, but Patrick had put his foot down.

When they’re finally finished, Pete stands beside the bow, holding a bottle of cheap sparkling wine. He grins, says, “Nearly two weeks ago, you all doubted my supreme awesomeness,” and then he says a bunch of other stuff that Spencer tunes out, because Pete is longwinded and Jon is scratching his nails lightly along Spencer’s palm, and that’s really distracting.

But then Pete clears his throat, says, “Ready?” and whacks the side of the boat with the bottle, but instead of shattering and spilling sparkling goodwill all over the elaborately lettered name painted on the hull, it just sort of goes right through, wood splintering.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then Brendon lets out a little giggle.

Pete says, “I can totally fix that,” and Spencer makes a mental note to double check their stash of lifejackets.

*

There are ten boats racing in the Regatta this year, but Pete’s and William’s are the only ones that really matter. William’s, because he always wins, and Pete’s, because it looks like a retarded clown built it, and if nothing else it’ll be fun to watch it sink. There’s a large crowd at the dock to see them off. Brendon’s grandmother is selling homemade pennants.

The first leg of the race is pure sail, and William salutes them amiably across the marina as the starter gun goes off.

“Hoist the mainsail,” Pete shouts, and Spencer is pretty sure Pete has no idea what’s he’s talking about, but he helps Jon and Patrick with the rigging and they manage to catch some wind. This is slightly surprising, since the sails are made up of multicolored patches of sheets and t-shirts and what looks like Brendon’s favorite pair of jeans.

“Hey. Hey, that’s my favorite pair of jeans,” Brendon says, and Ryan, perched near the bow with a book in his lap, just grins. Sharp.

William yells, “Dudes, nice,” from his sailboat several lengths away, waving an open palm and grinning.

Pete yells back, “Billy, Bill, let us win.”

“I’m far too competitive to throw a race,” William answers good-naturedly, and it’s laughable, really, how easily the Sisky Business pulls ahead of them, slicing through the rolling waves.

Pete doesn’t seem all that worried. “Just wait ‘til we round the buoy,” he tells them.

Spencer thinks Pete’s confidence is misplaced, but Jon’s taken his shirt off and tied it around his head and his jeans are rolled up almost to his knees, and even though he looks ridiculous, Spencer can’t take his eyes off him. He’s pretty sure he’s in love.

*

In a shocking twist, no one is visibly more surprised than Pete when they motor into the harbor ahead of Sisky Business.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Pete says incredulously, hands on his hips. They haven’t won yet, but Patrick had started the engine as soon as they’d cleared the mid-race buoy, turning back towards the shore, and that Ferrari apparently had some sort of jungle cat under its hood, because they’d left William in the dust.

“That wasn’t supposed to work,” Spencer says, because he’s maybe just a hair behind Pete on the surprise thing. He looks at Patrick, sitting smug in the captain’s chair, and points out, “That was sort of impossible.”

Patrick says, “Ah-yep,” tugs his hat down lower over his eyes, and Pete. Pete, Spencer thinks, is close to the luckiest boy in the world to have all that on his side. Patrick, Spencer thinks, is apparently magic.

When they reach the dock, William is behind them, shouting, “Fuckers!” and laughing and when they pull up, hop onto the planks, he’s grabbing Pete around the waist and saying, “Fucking classic, dude, seriously,” and Spencer thinks it’s a shame William’s dad is such a mammoth prick.

William’s dad looks angry. William doesn’t seem to care.

An arm snakes around Spencer’s chest, another one over his stomach, thumb hooking into the top of his jeans. “Hi,” Jon says into his shoulder.

“We won,” Spencer says. He turns his head a little, so he can look down at him.

Jon’s eyes are smiling. “Yes.”

*

The summer after Spencer’s high school graduation is the best summer he’s ever had, hands down.

The sun is hot, Spencer’s completely relaxed in his chair, sleepy, and Brendon’s buried up to his neck in the sand.

“Guys, seriously, this is so awesome,” Brendon says, wiggling the tips of his fingers and toes, and Ryan’s grinning his ass off, sprawled out on his stomach on a towel next to him.

Jon laughs, brandishes his shovel. “My work here is done,” he says, then collapses on the sand beside Spencer’s chair, rests his chin on Spencer’s arm.

“Hi,” he says, and he’s happy, and Spencer doesn’t think anything will ever top this.

Jon says, “Wait,” though. “Just wait.”

Comments

[kevlarhearts.livejournal.com]

Awesomeness overload.

[skoosiepants.livejournal.com]

*grins* thank you!