Bandslash fic: We Would Bring It On And On [1/3]

[skoosiepants]

We Would Bring It On And On | @27,000 | PG-13
Spencer/Brendon (minor Spencer/Jon, Spencer/OFC, Colligan/OFC, Pete/Ashlee, Pete/Patrick, Frank/Jamia, Mikey/Alicia, Ryan/Greta, Bill/Greta, Gabe/VickyT, Gabe/Bill)
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Every day he texts Frank that he’s dying a slow, painful death, and Frank always ignores him and sends him pics of Gerard’s nostrils or dog shit or something. Frank’s an asshole. He has no idea why they’re friends, and Spencer misses him so much sometimes he feels like punching something that’ll punch back.

WARNING FOR: gratuitous cursing, POINTLESS RAMBLING, Original Female Character of Doom, Gabe Saporta, and everyone is practically the same age here, okay, because I like it that way. The high school is made up and this is completely unrealistic!

VERY IMPORTANT A/N: This is my attempt at taking a badfic premise – Spencer moves away! Spencer comes back with a Jersey EDGE (kind of) - and trying to make it as entertaining as possible. Many, many thanks to t_usual_suspect for the awesome beta, for the encouragement and for thinking this is actually funny! Title comes from the Mates of State song Goods.

When it lasted all day, we would blast it all day
We would bring it on and on

It's all in your head

We Would Bring It On And On

The only good thing about summer band practice is that Spencer isn’t going into his senior year at a new school blind. Although he wouldn’t be going in completely blind anyway, since he’d gone to elementary school with a large chunk of these guys, but seven years is a difficult gap to span, and Spencer doesn’t think, “Hey, so remember that time Chris projectile vomited all over Greta?” is going to cut it.

It’s fucking hot in Vegas in August, and Spencer misses Jersey. It’s insane, because Jersey summers have this stench about them, this wet garbage, dead babies smell, but Jersey summers have beaches and salt air and all his fucking friends, and Vegas has this dry heat that’s roasting him from the inside out.

Every day he texts Frank that he’s dying a slow, painful death, and Frank always ignores him and sends him pics of Gerard’s nostrils or dog shit or something. Frank’s an asshole. He has no idea why they’re friends, and Spencer misses him so much sometimes he feels like punching something that’ll punch back.

Andy kicks Spencer in the side, and Spencer cups a hand over his eyes and squints up at him from his sprawl in the grass.

“Time to get out of here,” Andy says, sounding bored. Andy always sounds bored, except when he’s drumming. Spencer can respect that.

Spencer lifts his head up a little and catches the tail end of a mass exodus from the field, Butcher bringing up the rear. Last practice of the summer is over, which means school is that much closer to starting. Spencer’s really sort of dreading it.

“Spencer Smith!” Brendon comes bounding out of nowhere and tackles Spencer before he can even struggle upright. Brendon’s a senior, too, and he plays the trombone, and he’s decided to adopt Spencer – he’d said it just like that, too: “Spencer Smith, I’m adopting you,” and he’d lounged all over his lap during lunch break, like, two days into camp - and he’s possibly got more energy than Frank. Or maybe not more, exactly, just a different kind of energy. Brendon sings Disney songs and pretends to strip for the Butcher and wears tiny purple hoodies and jeans that barely cover his ass. Frank kicks Gerard in the balls and rides around on Bob’s back and calls Spencer a motherfucker at least five times a day.

“Stop sighing,” Brendon says, poking Spencer in the belly. “Oh my god, cheer the fuck up before you bring me down with you.”

“That’s impossible,” Spencer says. He shoves at Brendon until Brendon rolls off him and into the grass.

He writhes a little, because he’s kind of obscene.

“Jesus, Brendon,” someone says, and then Spencer’s looking up at—someone really familiar.

Brendon sticks his tongue out. Then he goes a step farther and touches the tip to his nose and the guy snorts and Brendon says, “Yeah, you know you want this, Ross,” and ruins the entire effect by giggling.

Spencer’s sort of stuck in place, though, this weird half-recline that’s seriously hurting his arms. Ross. Ryan fucking Ross.

“Ryan?” Spencer says, and it’s not like he meant to, because way to be cool, Smith, but he goes with it, schooling his face into what Bob calls his bitch-please look.

Ryan cocks an eyebrow at him, and Spencer isn’t surprised when he just seems a little puzzled.

Ryan has a bandana around his head and a flowered vest layered over a kelly green t-shirt. He’s sort of unreal. He says, “Do I know you?” just as Brendon says, “Hey, hey, this is Spencer,” and Ryan’s eyes widen in recognition, though Spencer doesn’t know if it’s because he remembers how they were once best fucking friends, or because Brendon’s been talking about him behind his back.

“Spencer—”

Frank had set his ringer to Panama because he thinks he’s funny, and Spencer’s more eager to talk to Frank than Ryan, really, so he says, “Hey, I gotta take this,” and rolls to his feet and walks away.

He can feel their eyes on him as he pushes talk and he hunches into himself a little, pacing down the length of the football field. “Iero,” he says, and Bob says, “I’m gonna kill Frank,” and Frank’s in the background yelling, “Motherfucker, tell Smith he owes me.”

“You can’t kill Frank,” Spencer says, and then there’s a scuffle and Frank’s on the line, panting a little.

“You owe me, Smith,” he says. He’s a smug bastard. “Friday night. She Said, dude, I got Chaz to get her brother to put you on the list.”

She Said, fuck. That’s pure blind luck that they’re even in town, but. “I can’t.”

“You’re in, motherfucker, no ID, I own you. Take your band buddy.”

Spencer laughs. “Yeah, okay. I’ll take Brendon.” Brendon would get eaten, or at the very least trampled to death. He’s, like, Frank small, only softer.

“Pussy,” Frank says. “Bob’ll kick your ass if you miss this. Oh, shit, gotta cheese it, Smith,” and then he’s gone.

Spencer stares bemusedly at his cell before slipping it back into his pocket, shoving it under his battered pack of cigarettes. Brendon’s still splayed out in the grass by Spencer’s snare when he starts walking back, but Ryan’s no where in sight. Spencer’s mostly relieved. Mostly relieved, but a little curious. When he’d been ten—hell, when he’d been five they were inseparable. It’s all just a little weird.

Brendon’s humming, and he smiles brightly when Spencer looms over him. He’s really a nice guy, Spencer thinks, and he smiles back.

“Tomorrow, Spencer,” Brendon says, hopping to his feet and brushing off his jeans. “Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow. We’ll hang out, it’ll be awesome.”

Spencer seriously has no clue how he ended up with him. “I hang out with you every day,” Spencer says.

“Well, yeah, but no band practice! And listen. Listen,” Brendon leans in close and pokes at his lip ring, “did that hurt? ‘Cause I was thinking tattoo, man, you know? Like, piano keys or a green tiger ala Battle Cat, right, but maybe a piercing would be less painful.”

Spencer blinks. Gerard would fucking love this kid. He’ll probably regret it, but he collects his sticks, stuffs them in his back pocket before hefting his drum, and asks, “So what are you doing Friday night?”

*

Spencer drives a piece of shit Civic with a Frank-sized dent on the bumper, cleverly covered up by an I Brake For Unicorns sticker, because the Way brothers are the weirdest fucking kids in Jersey and Mikey’d given it to him with a totally sincere twinkle in his eyes. Frank had almost fucking choked he’d laughed so hard, but Spencer hates disappointing Mikey, so he’d slapped it on anyway.

Spencer drives his piece of shit Civic to the grocery store with a list from his mom, then stops at this dive comic book place right next door. Spencer takes one step inside and. And his eyes start pricking, because he’s a giant fucking girl and it’s sort of like coming home. Spencer has little to no interest in comics, but it’s hard to be friends with Gerard and Ray and not spend at least eighty percent of your free time in a store just like this one.

He takes a deep breath and slips down a random aisle and just stands there for a minute.

And then this tiny hardcore girl with dyed black hair and a nose ring appears out of nowhere and says, “If you even think about stealing anything I’m gonna have to shank you.”

Spencer blinks. “Yeah, no.”

“Good.” She nods, then says brightly, “Happy shopping,” and walks away.

She reminds him of Frank. He sort of falls half in love with her right then and there.

He picks up a Doom Patrol just to have something to do with his hands, then thinks, fuck it, and takes it up to the front counter. He can call Gerard later and Gerard’ll fucking talk his ear off about it and maybe then Spencer won’t feel so much like committing seppuku.

He kind of really wants to start up a conversation with the clerk, but Spencer sucks at starting conversations. He thinks maybe that’s Gerard’s influence, ‘cause it sure as shit isn’t Frank’s. Frank can talk to a lamppost.

The girl bobs her head to the M83 being piped throughout the shop and says, “Electronic pop. It’s totally making a comeback,” and Spencer doesn’t know if she’s joking or not. She smiles at him with all her teeth after she rings him up.

Spencer tries on a tight smile of his own and wanders outside to text Frank: epic fail

dude at life, Frank texts back, and then, i want cookies tell gee to share

Spencer laughs. He sends: fuck you and then taps out a cigarette, because he feels like a good wallow. Spencer smokes when he’s stressed, and he smokes because Frank and Gee smoke – like fucking chimneys - but he’s somehow managed to never get addicted, can stretch one pack into two months or more.

“Those’ll knock sixteen years off your life, you know.”

Spencer squints at the guy across from him. He’s backlit, but Spencer can sense his smile, can see the edges of a too-lazy-to-shave beard. “Do I get to choose which ones?”

“Nope.” He stuffs his hands in his jeans and rocks back on his heels. “It’s always the ones you wish you had.”

Spencer pinches the end and tosses it into the nearest trashcan. He quirks an eyebrow. “Happy?”

The guy shrugs. “Sure. I’m Jon,” he says, shifting on his feet, and Spencer can suddenly see his grin. It’s a whole lot wider than he’d imagined it.

“Spencer.” Spencer cocks a hip, the one Frank always laughs and pokes at, and Spencer realizes he’s fucking flirting, god. And with some sort of hybrid frat boy stoner. Spencer’s got nothing against weed, seriously, but he doesn’t advertise it with a beard and flip-flops and, like, a hemp bracelet, what the fuck.

Jon palms his nape, ducks his head a little. “Yeah, so, Edie’ll kill me if I’m late.” He moves past Spencer, tilts a shoulder into the door, angling towards him. “See you around, Spencer,” he says, and there’s hair sweeping across his forehead and he’s smiling with his entire face and Spencer’s chest tightens up.

He looks like the kind of guy who’d let his friends beat the shit out of Gee for being a fag, except maybe not, since his eyes are sort of amazingly kind.

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “See you.”

His cell vibrates just as the door closes behind Jon, and it’s a text from Brendon.

Texts from Brendon pretty much consist of hi! hi hi! and maybe a wot r u doin and this one isn’t any different. Except it also says im at urhouse and yur mom is great!!!! and Spencer maybe twists something in his mad dash to get to his car.

And it’s true, Spencer’s mom is great, but Spencer’s mom also thinks the move here is gonna break him out of his, “destructive slide, you’ve got to learn how to curb your anger, and, honey, you know I like Frank and Mikey, but maybe you should think about colors, hmm?” and Brendon’s, like, a circus tent worth of colors. An extremely gay circus tent filled with ponies. The last thing he needs is to have Brendon prove how much this move had been the right move, because they totally have a deal. One term here, and then, if Spencer’s still miserable, he has the option to go live with his dad back in Jersey to finish out his school career. Like that’s not going to happen.

Spencer has some minor aggression issues, yeah, but that’s mainly from being best friends with a foul-mouthed elf that routinely gets stuffed into lockers. He’s had to deal with all the fights Frank’s started for years, so maybe he’s a little quick on the draw now. Maybe he likes to punch first, because that way maybe Gerard won’t get punched at all. Bob calls him overprotective, but Spencer’s witnessed Bob deck a guy for just looking at Mikey wrong, so he really has no room to talk.

Spencer’s tires screech when he skids to a stop out in front of his house. He pulls on the emergency brake by habit – it’s rolled backwards down a hill before, and he’s pretty sure it’d been Frank’s fault, and the Frank-sized dent in his bumper, but it’s just easier to always remember the brake now, as a contingency – and hops out of the car and is sort of breathless when he flings open his front door.

Brendon’s in his den. And he’s not alone.

Ryan looks just about as awkward as Spencer feels, but Spencer’s mom is gushing over him, so it’s understandable.

“Spencer, hon, look who it is,” Spencer’s mom says, sort of hovering and fluttering her hands. God, she’s so embarrassing. “You remember Ryan, right?”

Spencer can’t help the scowl. “Yeah, hi.”

Brendon says, “Well, this is fun,” and from anyone else it would’ve been sarcastic, but Brendon’s totally got a manic gleam of amusement in his eyes. Spencer thinks maybe he’s just a little sadistic.

“Um.” Ryan twists his fingers in his truly ridiculous scarf – it’s August – and Spencer rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” Spencer says, half-turning out of the room, “let’s go up to my room.”

Brendon bounds ahead of him up the stairs, because he’s seriously like a golden retriever or something, and it kind of makes Spencer smile. Then he sees Ryan looking at him from the corner of his eye and he scowls again and says, “What?”

Ryan just shakes his head, a weird little smile of his own on his lips.

It sucks, but Spencer has to fight to keep his frown.

It’s like. Spencer wasn’t the one who stopped calling, okay? And they’d been ten and fine. Fine, it’s not like ten-year-olds have the best attention span, but Ryan had been his whole world and not only had he had to start over in a new town, a new school, but he hadn’t had any fucking support from the one kid who knew every fucking thing about him and had loved him anyway.

He’d been in a hole of sucking misery, and then he’d met Frank.

Frank had been the loser outcast who actually had no clue he was a loser outcast, so he made his own fucking awesome mischief and laughed off everyone’s attempt to put him down. Spencer had kind of worshipped him.

Spencer hasn’t done much to his room. It’s part rebellion, and part plain disinterest; he just doesn’t see this place as permanent. He’s got one wall, though, that’s covered in band flyers. Gerard had handed him a stack before he’d left, ink-stained fingers gripping the rumpled papers and big-ass sunglasses perched over his tiny-doll nose, smile sheepish-wide. The posters are real, but they all have special Gerard adjustments – zombies, vampires, werewolves, robots – and their favorite, She Said She Knows Your Mom, has a little red-eyed crazy chimp on it with Frank written across its t-shirt.

Brendon says, “Cool,” even though the entire rest of his room is fucking bare. He bounces back onto Spencer’s bed.

Spencer slides into his desk chair and stares at Ryan until he stops fidgeting in the doorway and folds himself up on the floor. Ryan has, like, the most awkward body since Mikey Way, all spindly limbs, thin fingers and skin stretched tight over bone. Spencer’s pretty sure he could break him with a strategically placed poke.

“Okay, seriously,” Brendon says after a minute of creepy, even-breathed silence. “You guys are boring. Tell me you have a Wii or something, Spence. Or, like, we should visit Greta and Bills.”

Spencer flicks a glance at his digital clock and it’s flashing four-thirty. Spencer’s mom is weird about dinner. Curfews never seemed to stick – they can’t really, not with the company he keeps, not unless his mom wants to ground him until the end of time - but she always insists that he’s home for dinner. Frank, Ray and Bob’s families are the same exact way and Gerard and Mikey don’t always run home at five, but they always run somewhere. Dinner is dinner. You don’t miss it.

“I can’t,” Spencer says. “I’ve got dinner soon.” And he kind of wants them out of there before his mom starts tossing out invites.

“No, wait, wait.” Brendon jerks upright, waves his hands around. “You guys used to know each other. Tell me all about it!”

*

Spencer has a shoe problem. He’s always had it, and Frank thinks it’s the funniest shit ever, especially since Spencer never wears any of them. He’s got a closet full of pristine, unworn shoes, and he bums around in these battered black boots that Gerard’s drawn all over in whiteout.

Spencer wakes up Wednesday – afternoon, he thinks, he hopes, since he’d been online with Mikey for fucking ever the night before – and there’s noises coming from his closet. Humming noises. ABBA noises, and then Brendon breaks into the chorus to Fernando and Spencer rolls over with a groan. He blinks up at his ceiling. “Brendon,” he says.

“Spencer, what’s the deal with the shoes, huh? I mean. I could build a fort with all these boxes. Oh my god, seriously, are these sparkly?” Brendon’s voice goes kind of squeaky.

Spencer’s cheeks heat. Fuck Gerard and his fucking lectures on gender-specific roles in the economy. He’d pulled some voodoo shit and suddenly Spencer found himself buying a pimped out pair of blue sparkly Skechers for the greater good. Gerard’s been known to show up at school in a skirt, and Spencer really has to remember things like that before letting him tag along on trips to the mall.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asks.

“It’s after two, Spence, seriously, did you turn your phone off?”

Spencer shifts up onto his elbows, sees Brendon peeking out of his closet, puppy-dog quizzical with hair sticking up every which way. “Maybe,” Spencer says. He might have. Frank likes to call him at seven every morning on his way to work, and some days Spencer just doesn’t want to deal with that. Days when he’s been up ‘til four trying to talk Mikey down from Gerard-inspired crazy, involving Spiderman or his Breakfast Monkey or something. Mostly he’d just IM’d Spencer pics of horses and manips of Gerard’s head on different Harry Potter characters.

Brendon holds up a pair of shiny white paten leather loafers that Spencer doesn’t even remember buying. “Don’t let Ryan see these,” he says.

“Do I want to know why?” Spencer asks. Ryan had been freaky quiet throughout dinner the night before – yeah, that had been fun – but he’d doled out these little smiles, delight hidden in the corners of his mouth, and Spencer really has no idea what to do with him.

“He’s got this,” Brendon waves a hand, “this vision for Homecoming this year. Riverboat gambling, Mark Twain chic or whatever, and he’s already got Greta and Darren in his corner on the committee, so this’ll, like, cement his resolve. I mean, I like pinstripes as much as the next guy, but I’ve been looking forward to wearing my new top hat. I’m rooting for something more Dickens-ian.” He cocks his head, eyes thoughtful. “Like Technicolor Great Expectations, you know?”

Spencer blinks, but Brendon doesn’t look like he’s joking. He says, “Huh?” and, “Why would my shoes even matter?”

“Dude, this is Ryan. He pretty much thinks you invented ponies. God, he hasn’t smiled this much since Jon Walker was born.”

That absolutely made no sense. Not one single part of that made any sense at all. Spencer shakes his head and says, “Whatever,” then reaches for his cell on the bedside table. He’s got one voicemail and six texts; four from Brendon – in escalating excitement; the last one is basically just a bunch of exclamation points – and two from Frank, calling him an asshole.

“Is there a reason you’re in my closet?” Spencer asks Brendon, tossing his phone aside after texting Frank: mikey fucking way

“Not a very good one.”

Spencer nods. “Okay.”

When he finally drags himself out of bed, Brendon’s crawling out of the closet with a huge grin and the pink rainbow tee Frank had given him when he’d finally decided he liked boys just as much as girls, because Frank’s a little shit. Brendon holds it up and says, “It’s like a little ray of sunshine.”

Spencer pulls a face. “No.”

“Spence, Spencer,” Brendon drops the shirt and bounces into a hug. He’s kind of vibrating all over. Spencer’s not much of a hugger, but he tentatively pats Brendon’s back. Gerard likes to hug everything that moves, but that’s Gerard, and Brendon’s just this weird kid he’s known for a little over three weeks.

“Wow, so you kind of suck at hugs,” Brendon says into his shoulder, voice muffled.

“Hey.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Ryan’s pretty bad too, only it’s more ‘cause he’s so bony. Sometimes,” Brendon says, pulling back to look up at Spencer’s face, “hugs are the only answer.”

“Brendon.” Spencer grabs Brendon’s arms, shakes him lightly. “Why are you here?”

Brendon grins brighter. “We’re gonna go visit Jon Walker. Are you ready?”

Spencer doesn’t know if he’s asking if he’s physically ready or, like, mentally prepared to meet the legendary Jon Walker, but either way Spencer needs some pants. “I need some pants,” Spencer says.

“Pants are always a good option.” Brendon nods. “But Jon Walker never judges.”

Of course Jon Walker doesn’t judge. Over the past three weeks, since Jon is a very favorite subject of Brendon’s, Spencer’s learned that Jon Walker is awesome, and that his smile makes the world fall in love – Spencer isn’t exaggerating; those are the exact words that had come out of Brendon’s mouth.

He’s learned that Jon Walker’s a senior who’s perfected the art of hugging, is friends with almost everyone, has a cat that plays fetch, takes the most perfect photos ever, plays truly spectacular guitar for a shitty band, and now, the latest, that he probably wouldn’t care at all if Spencer decided he no longer wanted to wear pants. Good to know.

Spencer kicks the pink shirt aside and tugs on a black Automatic Zombie Fall tee and a comfortable pair of jeans that have holes worn through over the knees, one thigh covered in ballpoint - Frank’s name paired with Jamia’s in fifty different ways, a stick figure of Dr. Sloat getting stabbed to death by a raccoon, Gerard gives good head running along the seam - because Frank got bored.

Brendon talks almost nonstop. Spencer’s learned to block most of it out by now, so it’s mainly just white noise through the bathroom door as he pisses and brushes his teeth. He stares at himself in the mirror, thinks about pulling a Mikey Way and tugging on a knit cap, but it’s, like, ninety degrees outside, so he’s pretty sure he’d pass out. Instead, he dunks his head under the sink faucet and runs his fingers through his hair, so it hangs in thick wet strands past his jaw line.

When Spencer opens the door, Brendon’s standing right there, talking about this guy named Bill, and Spencer pokes him in the chest and says, “You’re buying me coffee.”

Brendon nods agreeably. “Sure, we’ll swing by and see Greta before picking up Ryan, or maybe we should pick up Ryan first and we’ll all get coffee and Ryan can, like, do this hilarious flirting thing he does with Greta, oh man, just wait ‘til you see it, and we can bring some hot beverage goodness for Jon, even—”

“Wait, Ryan’s coming?”

“Of course,” Brendon says, then he frowns and reaches out and starts playing with the hair falling over Spencer’s face and Spencer slaps his hands away.

This day is going to be just great, Spencer can tell.

*

Ryan’s waiting on the curb when they roll up in Brendon’s purple minivan. He’s got a neckerchief the size of Texas around his neck and skinny corduroys on and Spencer really wonders what goes through his head when he gets dressed in the morning.

“You’re like live-action Woody,” Brendon says as Ryan climbs into the back.

Ryan says, “Fuck off,” but he doesn’t seem upset.

Spencer swings a look over his shoulder and says, “Hey,” as Ryan settles into a seat.

“Spencer,” Ryan says and makes big eyes at him and Brendon cracks up.

“No, no,” Brendon says, adjusting his rearview mirror. “No, no, seriously, that’s awesome. Ryan, you’re. You’re awesome, I just forgot for a minute. Don’t flirt with Spencer.”

“That’s flirting?” Spencer asks, mouth twitching, and he maybe doesn’t mean to ask that, but Brendon’s hilarity is kind of catching.

“I’m not flirting,” Ryan says flatly. “Oh my god, shut the fuck up, Brendon.”

“Ryan gets mancrushes,” Brendon tells Spencer, ignoring Ryan’s indignant squawk. “He’s, like, almost worse than Pete, except Pete takes his mancrushes to that next level, right.”

“Next level,” Spencer echoes. He’s not sure he actually wants to know.

“Brendon, I fucking swear—”

“Pete will make out with you. Pete will totally make out with you, but he won’t touch your dick.”

Spencer blinks. “Um. Okay.”

Brendon nods. “Dicks freak him out.”

Ryan makes what Spencer thinks is a little defeated noise, but he doesn’t turn around to check his expression.

“So Pete’s a tease, but Ryan’s just false advertising.” Brendon says this like it makes absolute sense. Spencer has no idea who Pete even is, though, so it’s not like he cares about the conversation.

“Seriously, I can’t even hear you, are you still talking?” Ryan deadpans. It’s weird, because Spencer doesn’t feel very familiar with this Ryan, but some things he remembers without even trying. Like the way he can tell Ryan’s amused, even though he’s not showing a single fucking clue.

Brendon seems to know this, too, because he just flips him off and keeps on grinning.

They turn into a strip mall that’s half shabby, half mid-scale, with an abandoned DSW on one side and an Italian deli bumped up next to a Starbucks on the other. Brendon parks in front of the deli and Spencer almost trips in his haste to get out of the car and into some caffeine. Sweet caffeine, nectar of the fucking gods. He’s not a zombie without it, but he functions much, much better after he’s had at least one huge cup.

Ryan slides open the back door and hops out, and his pace as he rounds the front of the van reminds Spencer a little of Mikey, only not as disaffected. Mikey just doesn’t care and you can tell, but Ryan looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s almost like a more reserved and slightly smaller Gabe, the way he uses the entire length of his limbs to walk. Gabe does it because he wants everyone to get all tangled up in him, Spencer knows, but he thinks maybe Ryan does it to keep everyone just that little bit further away.

He tightens it up when he reaches Brendon, reins in enough to bump his shoulder, automatically shortening his strides to match, and Brendon just throws an arm around Ryan’s waist and tugs him up the sidewalk, and Spencer isn’t sure how that makes him feel.

He brings up the rear of their little group, and when he makes it inside Brendon and Ryan are already at the counter, talking to a blonde girl with plump cheeks and a plump smile and even if he didn’t already know she worked there, Spencer would have recognized Greta. She looks almost exactly the same.

Greta says, “Spencer Smith,” while he’s lurking behind Brendon. “I remember when you were small.”

Spencer says, “You’re still a shrimp,” because, god, Greta had been the teeniest girl in their class and oh so sensitive about it.

Her smile just turns slightly wry, though, and then Ryan spends the entire fifteen minutes they’re in the shop staring at Greta and leaning a hip up against the bar and laughing whenever Greta laughs and Brendon widens his eyes at Spencer and mouths, see? and how funny is this shit? and it’s pretty damn funny.

When they’re leaving, Brendon hooks his arm through Spencer’s and stage-whispers, “They dated for, like, a minute freshman year, it was so cute.”

Ryan smacks the back of Brendon’s head. “Asshole.”

Brendon makes kissy faces over his shoulder and draws out, “So cute,” and tells Spencer, “Greta’s mom drove them and it was a disaster, Ryan got so nervous he threw up all over her shoes.”

Spencer says, “You didn’t.”

Ryan narrows his eyes. “What—”

“You. You pulled a Chris Faller, dude,” Spencer says, grinning, because that’s—seriously, that’s classic.

“So, hey, that’s great, thanks,” Ryan says, and he doesn’t sound like it’s great at all, voice practically monotone, and it’s like riding a bicycle, here, because Ryan always had these hilariously tiny facial ticks, and before he’d moved back to Vegas Spencer probably couldn’t tell you about a single one of them, but now. Now, it’s all coming back to him, and Ryan isn’t pissed yet, but he’s getting there.

Spencer can’t stop smiling when they pile back into the minivan and take off. It’s sort of novel.

Spencer isn’t exactly sure what he’d been expecting – a big bear of a guy, maybe, with a jolly laugh and, yeah, Spencer’s aware he’s picturing a teenage version of Santa Claus, but Brendon’s even said he smells like Christmas, so, really, it’s not Spencer’s fault – but Brendon pulls into a parking spot in front of the little comic book store Spencer had been in the day before, and he gets a sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach. Jon Walker is apparently the Jon he accidentally flirted with the other day. Awesome.

Inside, it takes a second for Spencer to recognize him, because Jon’s traded in the preppy button-down for a cream and orange track suit, Blue Blockers pushed up on top of his head.

Spencer sticks his hands in his pockets and hangs back with Ryan as Brendon crowds the front counter.

“Brendon, little dude, what’s up?” Jon asks, bumping his fist.

“I,” Brendon says, “have brought you Spencer.”

Jon arches an eyebrow at Spencer over Brendon’s shoulder. “Yeah?”

Spencer nods. “Hey.” He is so cool. Seriously, he’s playing this awesomely cool. He shakes his hair out of his face and digs his teeth into his lower lip, and his face doesn’t flush at all.

Jon leans his elbows on the counter. “So you’re the guy Brendon’s adopted.”

“For my very own,” Brendon says, earnest.

Spencer says, “That’s great,” and Ryan says, “He’s not a puppy, Brendon, Christ,” rolling his eyes.

Ryan and Jon do some sort of complicated handshake thing that Frank would’ve pissed himself laughing over, and then spent the rest of the day figuring out how to emulate.

“Ross,” Jon says.

Ryan nods. “Walker.”

“Ryan Rossy.” A tall, gangly guy with glasses slipped down to the edge of his nose steps out of the back room. He purses his lips and says, “You’ve been to see Greta. You’ve got that just-seen-Greta bloom to your cheeks. I hope nothing untoward happened with my particular lady friend.”

“Bill—”

“And who’s this eager young man?” Bill asks, gaze sharpening on Spencer. Or, okay, it’s not exactly sharp. Nothing about this Bill guy is sharp, unless you count his elbows.

Jon grins at him. “This is Spencer. Spencer, this is Bill. He’s not actually a gentleman.”

“That’s a scandalous untruth and you know it, Jonny Walker. Spencer.” Bill’s eyes narrow. “I have no idea what’s going on with your pants. I have an extra bandana if you’d like?”

“Um.” Somehow, Spencer thinks he’s being insulted.

“It’s red. It’ll match the, uh, are those zombies on your shirt? Nice aesthetic. Very pleasing.”

Ryan stiffens, crosses his arms over his chest and shifts to stand more directly in the path between Spencer and Bill, and Spencer finds that a little hilarious. Spencer relaxes, though, settles a small, bemused smile on his lips, and waits to see what’ll happen.

Bill says, “I mean that with my whole heart, Ross, don’t think I don’t,” and Ryan just stands there, silent, the line of his back still radiating pissed-off.

“Hey, so,” Jon says. “No coffee for me?”

“We’re going to share. Share with me, Jon Walker, for this caffeine has proven too much for my tiny, tiny body.” Brendon nudges his cup across the counter.

Jon says, “You forgot.”

“Yes,” Brendon says solemnly. “Yes, I did.”

“Did Greta send a love note for me?” Bill asks. He moves so he’s half draped over Ryan, though, and a corner of Ryan’s mouth is tugged up when he turns around. “A missive proclaiming her sweet, sweet love?”

“No,” Ryan says.

Bill pokes him in the ribs. “She has. She has, and you’ve kept it all to yourself, because you’re a dirty, rotten Greta-hog.”

Bill, Spencer thinks, is sort of ridiculous.

“You’re an ass,” Ryan says, but his face is doing that thing that it does when he’s laughing on the inside, and it’s so stupid and endearing that Spencer’s glad when his cell buzzes, because he doesn’t want to find Ryan stupid and endearing. Ryan hasn’t even talked to him yet.

Spencer pulls out his phone and it’s a text from Frank, of course, but it only reads, fucking gabe, which could mean so many things.

He wanders down an aisle and dials Frank’s number and Frank says, “Fucking Gabe, dude, he hitched a ride with Chaz.”

Spencer grins. “Cool.”

“Cool, right, yeah, except the fucker wouldn’t let me come with, so.”

Frankie coming to Vegas would’ve been awesome, but Spencer’s getting Gabe and that’s. Well, that’s not even remotely as good, because Gabe’s creepy as all get out, but it’s a little slice of home, right? And Spencer doesn’t know Michelle all that well, but Frank had some sort of undisclosed moment with her years and years ago, and he’s been in her pocket ever since. He’s the only one – other than Gabe, who always does just as he damn well pleases - that can get away with calling her Chaz, for whatever fucking reason. Spencer seriously has no idea.

“Christmas,” Spencer says. “Thanksgiving, if I can swing it.” He kind of feels like a giant hormonal girl, because the only thing he wants right then is Frank hanging off his neck like a monkey and he has to wait over three fucking months for it.

“Yeah, whatever, motherfucker. I’ll see you when I see you.” Spencer can hear his grin. “Ciao, Smithereen,” Frank says, and then all he’s got is dead air.

When he looks up, Ryan’s staring at him with his creepy, big eyes. He’s slouched at the end of the aisle and Spencer says, “What?”

Ryan shrugs a little. “Bill’s off. He wants ice cream.”

Spencer isn’t going to say no to ice cream.

*

Panama jolts Spencer out of sleep early as fuck Thursday morning, because he forgot to set his cell on vibrate. He gropes for it without opening his eyes and mumbles, “Fuck off, Frankie,” and then ducks back under the covers to sleep for a hundred more hours.

The next time Spencer wakes up, he wakes up to Brendon again, and for a moment he’s not actually sure Brendon ever even left. They’d watched Dawn of the Dead the night before, because Brendon had never even seen the original – and Gerard might be picky, but the remake scares the shit out of Spencer; it’s fucking awesome – and he’d thought at some point they’d all left, took off for their respective homes, Bill and Ryan arguing over the merits of shopping malls in the event of a zombie-apocalypse.

So either Brendon’s getting there early enough for Spencer’s mom to let him in before work, or he’s found their extra house key.

Spencer struggles up and yawns and scrubs a hand over his jaw. Brendon’s sitting cross-legged on the foot of the bed, eating cereal and watching cartoons.

“Don’t you have your own house?” Spencer asks.

Brendon makes a face over his shoulder at him. “Ryan leaves for work early. It’s boring, Spence, and I don’t have to be at the Smoothie Hut ‘til four today.”

“Wait. Wait, you live with Ryan?”

“Practically.” Brendon nods. “Almost.” He beams and sets his bowl aside and scrambles up so he’s close to Spencer and says, “Hi, hi, your hair is doing ridiculous things,” and then buries his fingers in whatever mess sleep made of Spencer’s head.

Spencer lets him play, but it’s just because he isn’t really awake yet. His eyes fall closed and he leans forward, forehead tipping onto Brendon’s shoulder. It’s, like, way too early to even function.

Brendon hmmms and finger-combs his hair and rests his palms on the back of Spencer’s neck.

“Time’s it?” Spencer asks.

“Nearly noon,” Brendon says. He drums his fingers lightly on the top of Spencer’s spine, just under the collar of his t-shirt. “The witching hour.”

Spencer snorts. “That’s midnight.”

“Or it’s noon, and they trick you into thinking it’s midnight so you’ll be caught unawares.”

Spencer thinks Brendon’s brain is kind of a scary place. “Okay,” he says, then moves back, and Brendon’s hands slip down his shoulders and land curled in his lap. “Okay, so what are we doing today?” He gives up and gives in, because he figures he’s never ever going to actually get rid of Brendon, and forcing him to leave would be like kicking a fucking puppy to the curb. Spencer’s a little soft around puppies.

“Cartoons,” Brendon says. He says this very seriously, brow wrinkled, so Spencer knows he’s not actually all that serious at all.

“Cartoons, check.” Spencer nods.

“Lunch.”

Spencer slants a glance at the empty bowl perched precariously on the edge of the mattress. “You already had cereal.”

“That’s nothing.” Brendon waves a hand. “Cereal’s a snack, Spence, we need actual sustenance. Like soup or pizza or milkshakes.”

“I could go for a milkshake.”

“I like your style,” Brendon says, rolling off the side of the bed. “Milkshakes are my very favorite, and I happen to be a pro at blending. You’re looking at a top smoothie maker of the month, here.”

Spencer scratches his belly. “Milkshakes are kind of hard to get wrong.”

“Only a person who cannot properly make milkshakes would ever say that.” Brendon holds out his arms. “Take me to your blender.”

Spencer stares at Brendon’s hands and Brendon makes grabby motions with his fingers and Spencer shakes his head, tosses the covers aside and gets out of bed on his own steam. It kind of weirds him out a little, this seemingly constant need of Brendon’s to be touching someone.

“I’m getting a shower,” Spencer says, and Brendon huffs.

“Fine,” Brendon says, “I’ll just go through your cabinets.”

“Go for it.” Spencer digs out a pair of probably-clean underwear. It’s folded, but that doesn’t really mean anything, since his mom occasionally whirls through his room and neatens and dusts, but Spencer has a tendency to stuff everything into random open drawers instead of dropping them on the floor.

“Hey, hey, you have ice cream, right?” Brendon’s hovering in the doorway, fingers twisting together.

“Maybe,” Spencer says. He’s pretty sure they do.

Brendon nods. “Okay. Okay, so I’ll just, um, wait downstairs.”

“You can. Or you can wait here, Bren. I’ll be, like, five minutes,” Spencer says, because Brendon’s acting kind of odd.

Brendon bobs his head again but stays where he is, not in and not out, radiating antsy indecision, and Spencer rolls his eyes and stalks into his bathroom with a t-shirt and jeans.

Spencer shucks his shirt and boxers and runs the water and he maybe takes longer than five minutes, but no more than ten. Or, okay, fifteen, but it’s steamy hot and Spencer has a lot of hair, and it’s actually kind of nice to take a shower without Frank banging on the door or coming in to piss or hopping up on the counter to chat about how Gerard needs someone to tackle him into a bath or something and accusing Spencer of jerking off to his voice, because he’s an ass. So maybe Spencer’s enjoying his privacy.

Brendon’s not in the room when he finally gets out. By the sound of it, he’s rattling around his kitchen.

There’s a voicemail from an unfamiliar number on his cell, but he just texts Frank and stuffs it into his back pocket before braving whatever mess Brendon’s making downstairs. He hangs in the doorway, watches Brendon rifle through the freezer, humming a little to himself.

“Vanilla.” Brendon shoots him a smile. “Chocolate’s better, but this’ll work.”

“Pretty sure we’ve got syrup,” Spencer says.

“This is why I keep you around,” Brendon says, bumping the freezer closed and going for the fridge. “Always thinking.”

Spencer’s cell vibrates, but it’s not Frank.

Gerard’s sent him, gimme muse, and Brendon’s doing something to his mom’s blender – “Correct attachments are key, Spencer!” - so he snaps a few pics and sends them back to him.

Frank calls two minutes later, and Spencer thinks he really needs to change his ringtone, but Brendon always ends up singing Van Halen for hours and, okay, Spencer kind of enjoys that. Brendon’s got a pretty decent voice.

“Frank,” Spencer says, thumbing on his cell after watching Brendon shake his ass for a few seconds.

“Gee says he’s hot. In an objective, non-gay way.”

“Stop saying that, asshole,” Spencer hears Gerard yell in the background. “You don’t have to tack on a fucking disclaimer. I’m totally within my rights to find any human being attractive, even if I don’t want to make out with them!”

“Gee says he wants to make out with him,” Frank says, giggling.

“Awesome,” Spencer says blandly, and Frank says, “Oh fuck, you want to make out with him. How fucking precious is that? Gee, Gee—”

“I don’t—Frank, shut the fuck up.” Spencer scowls, keeps on scowling even as Brendon sends him a questioning look.

“It’s cute, man, is he wearing fucking capris?”

“I’m not even going to ask how you know what they’re called. And no.” He’s pretty sure Brendon just has his jeans rolled up. Which isn’t much better, but whatever. Frank can go fuck himself.

“Alicia, dude, she’s corrupting us, you’re missing out. Look, look, I’m emailing you details about tomorrow night. It’ll be the perfect first date for you two.”

“Seriously, Iero, I’ll get Bob to kill you.”

“Bob loves me too much,” Frank says, like he’s trying not to laugh, but not trying very hard. “Bob composes sonnets to my eyebrows. Bob wishes on stars every night for my eternal—”

“Bob’s gonna break both your legs,” Bob says, really, really close to phone, and then there’s a click and dead air.

Spencer really fucking misses his friends.

“Spencer, hey, do you have whipped cream?”

*

Brendon is, like, epically excited. He’s a little ball of tense energy beside Spencer, and it’s kind of adorable, fuck. Spencer’s losing his mind in this place.

“Calm the fuck down,” Spencer tells him, clamping a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you sure we can get in?” Brendon asks, fingers tangling in the hem of his this-is-totally-hardcore-Spence! t-shirt. It’s light yellow with a kitten iron-on plastered over the chest. It’s holding a tiny machine gun in its little kitten paws, so that’s something.

“We can get in.” Spencer’s sure they can get in if they’d just get up to the fucking door, because even if he’s not on the list, Michelle is there to vouch for him, and if not Michelle, then definitely Gabe.

The bar is just as shitty as Frank said it was probably going to be in his email. It’s seriously a dump, but a crowded dump, because She Said’s got somewhat of a diverse following, mainly because of the last drunken set they do that’s just hardcore Neil Diamond covers. It’d started because Jesse Lacey is kind of a moron when he’s obliterated. It’d stuck because apparently every-fucking-body has a weakness for Sweet Caroline, and Spencer doesn’t think there’s anything as fucking hysterical as Nolan and Lacey dueting You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.

The guy at the door gives Brendon a once-over and a snort, but Spencer’s on the list, apparently, which he’s only slightly surprised about – Frank’s been known to forget the important stuff, even when he gets all the little details right - and they barely get inside before Spencer’s attacked by long, grabby arms and hefted off his feet.

Gabe staggers and says, “Fuck, Smith, you’re heavy,” and Spencer elbows him in the gut. Gabe drops him with an oof and Spencer follows up the elbow jab with an arm punch.

“Saporta,” Spencer says. “Hey.” Gabe’s the only guy Spencer knows who can sport a backwards baseball cap without looking like a total douche. Gabe’s defaulted cool, because he used to be normal. Relatively normal, at least, but then he discovered shades of fluorescent and the entire clusterfuck that was the 80s and never looked back.

“Smithy, Jesus,” Gabe says, grinning. “Tell Frank he’s missing some fucking awesome shit.”

“He’s going to kill you for taking off without him.”

“Yeah, like his mom would’ve even let him come,” Gabe says, which is a good point. Mama Iero might let Frank go crazy with the ink, but school starts Monday, and Mama Iero hates Gabe. Like really, hilariously hates him.

Spencer grins back. “He’s still pissed.”

Gabe asks, “You brave this melee alone, Smithy?” and that’s when Spencer realizes he’s lost Brendon. Literal minutes after they’d arrived; he should have put a leash on him.

“Shit.” He spins around, but Brendon isn’t any fucking where, and he could have spotted something shiny and wandered off or he could have been accosted, but Spencer’s sure Ryan would be pissed either way if he came home without him. “You don’t happen to see a little dude in pastels around, do you?” Gabe’s sort of ten feet tall. He’s good to have around in crowded rooms.

Gabe scans the bar, then grins a little evilly. “I think he found the band.”

“Please tell me you mean Nolan,” Spencer says, craning his neck to see.

“I could. I could indeed, Spence, but then we’d both know it was a lie.” Gabe starts pushing his way towards the stage, and Spencer makes good use of his wake.

Jesse Lacey is a sleaze. He’s kind of a bitter sleaze when he’s high or drunk, and Spencer thinks he’s an okay guy in a vague, that-dude’s-okay kind of way. He knows him even less than Michelle. He doesn’t really trust him with Brendon.

Lacey’s draped all over Brendon, and he smirks when Spencer arches an eyebrow. Seriously, complete fucking sleaze. Spencer presses his lips together and scowls. “Lacey,” he says.

“Smith,” Lacey says, nodding.

“Spencer, Spence, hi, I got lost,” Brendon says, grinning up him.

Of course, Gabe’s sleazy in an entirely different way than Lacey, so he immediately scoops Brendon away from Lacey and presses him up against his side and says, “You’re like a tiny precious doll. I’d like to keep you in my basement.”

Brendon blinks. “Uh.”

“We’re gonna have fun,” Gabe says. “Fucking awesome fun, kid, come with me.”

“Gabe,” Spencer says warningly. He crosses his arms over his chest to show he means business, but he cocks his hip by accident and Gabe’s often vocal viewpoint on Spencer’s hip-cock is that it’s too adorable for words, so Gabe ends up extending his other arm to tug Spencer close, too, and then he’s got both of them in half-hugs.

Gabe says, “You’d think the desert sun would give you a little color, Smithy, but you’re still a perfect porcelain. Tell me, has this little fellow—”

“Brendon,” Brendon puts in, looking fascinated, and Spencer rolls his eyes.

“Has Brendon seen that unfortunate beffie tattoo you’re sporting on your upper back? You know, the friends forever fiery skull Gerard fashioned for you and Frank on your sweet sixteenth?” Gabe asks, waggling his brows in a scary, scary leer.

If Spencer was as freakishly tall as Gabe, he’d fucking stab his eyes out.

“You have a tattoo, Spence?” Brendon asks, eyes huge.

Spencer had thought long and hard about getting a tattoo – mainly because his mom had made him think long and hard about getting a tattoo, and Spencer appreciates that more now than he had before - and Gerard’s an amazing artist, so he even likes his tattoo, but Gabe thinks it’s the funniest thing ever, and he knows exactly how to piss Spencer off about it. It’s a kick-ass tattoo, and so the fuck what if it matches one of Frank’s? They’re not even the same, Gabe’s just a complete asshole.

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “I have one.”

“Can I see it?”

Spencer frowns. “No.”

“Awww, let him see, Smithy,” Gabe says, tugging at the hem of Spencer’s shirt.

“Fuck off, Gabe.” Spencer slaps his hand away, but Brendon looks so disappointed that Spencer tells him, “Maybe later, okay,” and hopes that he just forgets about it. He’s not ashamed of it or anything, but he really doesn’t want to strip for Brendon, either. It would be a little weird.

Luckily, Gabe gets distracted by Michelle – “Chazzy, darling, I think you should buy me a drink, maybe several” – and wanders off, and by that time the first band is ready to go on.

The first band, by dint of being first, kind of sucks.

Which is an unfair generalization to really awesome opening bands, except this one actually truly sucks. Spencer’s a little embarrassed, like it’s somehow his fault, but Brendon’s just bobbing his head and he yells, “They suck,” when he catches Spencer watching him, and, “This is awesome!” grinning this big stupid grin and shooting him a thumbs-up.

She Said rocks, of course, and Gabe and Michelle both come out for Deadly Saints Under Missions From God and Spencer half expects to turn and see Frank and Mikey next to him, but he’s strangely not all that disappointed to just see Brendon still there, completely spazzing out, really, and that’s all kinds of awesome and hilarious.

Brendon falls asleep on his shoulder on the way home, obviously tuckered.

Spencer has no idea where Brendon lives, or where Ryan lives, so he takes him home, jostling him awake when he parks out in front of his house.

“We’re here, kiddo,” he says.

Brendon yawns in his face. He says, “Awesome,” and doesn’t seem surprised that they’re at Spencer’s – just slumps sleepily onto the living room couch when they get inside.

Spencer checks his phone, sees Frank’s number on the recent calls list and a new voicemail flashing. It isn’t until he’s hit send that he remembers the message from the day before, and it’s Ryan’s voice that says, “Hey,” and, “Um, Brendon gave me your number,” and, “I hope you don’t, like, mind or anything. Just calling to see what’s up.”

Spencer erases it and scrolls back through the missed calls and saves the unfamiliar number under Ryan.

part two