fic: Do Not Skip Ahead
Title Do Not Skip Ahead
Author adellyna
Pairing(s) Ryan/Brent, Ryan/Brendon, Ryan/Spencer, Spencer/Brendon, Spencer/Jon
Rating PG-13
Word Count 2300
Summary There is no way Ryan is letting Brendon in this band. He can’t be that good on guitar.
And he’s not. But then he sings, and there is no way that Ryan can keep Brendon out of this band.
Disclaimer So totally fake, if you're a member of Panic! at the Disco, dude, I'm so sorry.
Author's Notes So there's this picture and I saw it and thought: hmmmmmmm. And then this happened. Thanks to my one true love, maleyka for the hand holding and beta!
It happens like this:
Brent brings the new kid to practice one day, and they happen to push the garage door open and walk in right in the middle of Spencer drumming. Light floods in, a wide stripe of it that hits Spencer’s kit dead on, shines on his flying hair, makes his skin even paler, more perfect, and Ryan can practically hear Brendon’s jaw hit the floor.
He says, “You must be Brendon,” and Brendon says, “You must be Spencer,” and Ryan says, “No,” and Brendon looks confused.
“But,” he says, tearing his eyes away from Spencer’s flying limbs long enough to shoot Brent a baffled look. “You said?”
Brent turns a color that advertises exactly what he said, or Ryan gets the gist of it at least, and he’s flattered that Brent would call him the hot one, he is, but he doesn’t think that’s going to be nearly as much of a problem as the way Brendon is looking at Spencer.
There is no way Ryan is letting Brendon in this band. He can’t be that good on guitar.
And he’s not. But then he sings, and there is no way that Ryan can keep Brendon out of this band.
Brendon is obvious and infatuated, and Spencer is either indifferent or oblivious, and it’s fine for a while. Ryan still has Spencer, Spencer on his shoulder on the couch and Spencer on his arm when they go out and Spencer on the other side of the bed as many nights as he can manage, but he sees the itch in Brendon’s fingertips and the wantwantwant in Brendon’s eyes and he knows, yeah, it’s only a matter of time.
Time, until Jesus stops telling Brendon it’s wrong wrong wrong, or time until Brendon gets up the nerve, or time until Spencer either notices or takes pity. Pity, Ryan’s sure, is what it would be, because he can’t imagine Spencer wanting Brendon. If Spencer wants skinny, awkward limbs and existential angst, all he has to do is roll over three nights a week.
He watches Brendon make his move two months later, with his head on Brent’s shoulder and his fingers still humming from playing the same song over and over.
“Spencer,” Brendon says, edging in, pressing his hips to Spencer’s back, leaning over him to look at the kit. “Show me that thing. Show me that thing you did, right before the chorus.”
Brent drives Ryan home because Brendon says, “I’m just gonna stay here, if it’s cool, I haven’t been on drums in a while,” and Spencer says, “I’ll take him home. Call you later, Ryan,” and Brent says, “We can stop for burgers,” because he knows Ryan’s house almost never has food in it, and Ryan doesn’t say anything at all.
They probably kiss. They probably kiss for hours, but Spencer picks Ryan up for school the next morning and the only thing he says is, “Do we have time for McDonalds?” and at practice on Friday, Brendon is still sitting on the couch in the garage when Spencer rattles his keys and says, “Brendon? We’re all leaving now. Unless you wanted to walk home.”
So Spencer takes Ryan home more days than not, and the days he doesn’t, mostly, Ryan sleeps over, and everything is fine except for Brendon’s shoulders arched back toward Spencer when he sings, and huge chunks of Spencer-time missing from Ryan’s day. Like black-outs, except he remembers every painfully not-his-business minute of them.
And then they fuck. It’s not up for question, not like the kissing, because Brendon walks around strutting, smug every second he’s not looking at Spencer. When he’s looking at Spencer, he just looks awestruck; Spencer keeps making faces at Brendon, wincing, shifting gingerly on his drum kit, and Ryan - who’s been nursing a clear picture of Spencer holding Brendon down with one hand splayed between Brendon’s shoulder blades, panting into him - has to stop and think: Oh. Really? Huh.
After that, Ryan has his head on Brent’s shoulder on the couch, and Brent on his arm when they go out, and Spencer on the other side of the bed just as many nights, but not until a half hour later, after Spencer gets off the phone with Brendon. And Spencer still rolls over at night, still settles his hand on Ryan’s back when he has nightmares-
(It’s not until after Ryan sees Spencer put his hand in that same spot on Brendon’s back, pushing him behind a pinball machine at the theater to kiss him, slow, steady, while Brent pounds the side of the machine and Ryan tries not to stare, it’s not until after then that Ryan realizes why he thought that’s where Spencer’s hand would be, when he fucked someone. Brendon. Or just. Someone.)
-and saves Ryan the flavored milk from his cereal in the morning, and keeps Ryan’s shampoo under his sink. It’s different, but it’s ok, because he still has Spencer, and he definitely has Brent.
And then they fuck. Not Spencer and Brendon. Or, well, probably Spencer and Brendon, but Ryan’s not there for those times. He’s there for himself and Brent though, definitely there, on the roof of some crappy motel on the outskirts of the city, spread out on the sun-warmed gravel, on his back, with Brent above him whispering, “Is this ok?” like a benediction.
It is. Ok is a pretty good word for it, actually. It’s not great, and there’s gravel in his hair, and he can still feel the bumps when he runs his fingertips over his back later, but it’s ok.
This is how it happens:
They make it big. Ryan hangs all of his shit out on the line, and then he waves the line around like a flag, and Pete Wentz charges at it like a bull after blood, and they make it big. They’ve never played a show, but they’re out of the garage and into a studio; Brendon has a shitty job and a shittier apartment, and he has Spencer, but Ryan has Brent and he has Pete Wentz on speed dial and he has notebooks full of songs, and he gets to yell at Brendon in the studio, scream at him and tell him he’s not good enough, that he’s fucking it all up, can’t he just get it right. So that’s something.
There are songs, and there are shows, and there are photoshoots, and Ryan watches Brendon sing and pose and twirl Spencer around the room, crowing, “I’m singing backup on the Fall Out Boy album!” And Ryan thinks: Hmmm.
He gets the proofs back a couple of weeks later. Or no, scratch that, Spencer gets the proofs back a couple of weeks later, and he marks the ones that work, the ones he’s going to ok, and Ryan looks at them, and he thinks, again: Hmmm. “We look good together, right?” he asks Brent, when he passes them over. “Brendon and I. We look good. We match.”
Brent doesn’t say anything. But then, there’s not much to say. They do, they do look good together. That night he listens to Brendon and Spencer fuck on the other side of paper-thin walls, and he jerks off, listening intently, trying to work Brendon’s pitch into the music in his head.
There are more shows, and less Brent. He shows up ten minutes before they go on one night, and a guitar tech comes over and shoves his bass at him and says, “Here, Trent,” and Ryan blinks, because if their techs don’t know their names, maybe they have a problem. The tech says, “Have a good show, Ryan,” and claps Spencer on the back, and bumps hips with Brendon, and Ryan thinks: Oh.
Ryan calls a band meeting, and Brent doesn’t show up. They have a show, and Brent doesn’t show up. They have a photoshoot, and Brent doesn’t show up.
Ryan calls another band meeting. Brent doesn’t show up, because he wasn’t invited.
“You can make the call, right Ryan?” Brendon asks, tracing petals on a cheap motel comforter. “I mean. You guys are close. He might like to hear it from you.”
“You’re only in this band because of Brent,” Ryan snaps back. “He’d probably like to hear it from you.”
“I don’t think he wants to hear it from anyone,” Spencer says quietly. He’s already got his phone out, he’s already pressing buttons, and Ryan can read the set of his shoulders. He’s furious with both of them. Spencer doesn’t volunteer, he just does it. Ryan and Brendon sit there, with averted eyes and shallow breath, and when it’s done, Spencer leaves the room and doesn’t come back.
Brendon puts his head in Ryan’s lap and says, “Do you think he’s mad at me?”
Ryan puts his hand in Brendon’s hair and says, “It doesn’t matter, he won’t be here anymore.”
Brendon says, “I meant Spencer,” and Ryan says, “Oh.”
This is how it happens:
Jon Walker comes on tour with them, and Spencer falls in love.
Ryan’s been in love for what feels like forever, but he’s not even sure who with anymore. Brent’s gone, and the pillow he left behind smells more like Ryan and less like Brent every night. Spencer’s still there, and he’s still Spencer, and he’s still Ryan’s in the way he’s always been, but not in the ways he’s Brendon’s, and Ryan’s not even sure he wants to change that, not anymore. And then there’s Brendon, who has Ryan’s words in his mouth every night, and Ryan’s eyes on him every day.
So Brendon gets drunk, and when he comes back to the bus, Ryan presses him against the wall and kisses him. “You’re not-” Brendon says, shaking his head like Ryan’s a mirage, some sort of hallucination. “Spencer.”
“He’s with Jon,” Ryan murmurs, into Brendon’s ear, like Brendon is asking where Spencer is, not telling Ryan who he isn’t. “I think they’re still out.”
After that, it’s easy. He hears Brendon the next day, apologizing, “I was drunk, Spence, I’m so sorry, I don’t even know,” and he hears Spencer’s voice, thick with relief, soothing, “It’s ok, Bren. I always knew it would be you and Ryan,” and Ryan knows Spencer didn’t know anything of the sort, but Spencer’s smart. He always has been. He knows an open door when he sees one.
After that, it’s even easier. It’s Brendon in his bunk at night, pressed close, and Brendon on stage at night, pressed close, and Brendon next to him at the table in the morning, pressed close. And sometimes still, though not as often as when they were kids, it’s Spencer’s head on the pillow next to him. It’s usually Spencer’s fingers laced through his when they walk into arenas for the first time. Spencer’s fingers he squeezes into open air that echoes with promise, with possibility.
He watches Spencer and Jon smile at each other, watches Jon learn the ins and outs, the whens and whys, until there’s not a single story Ryan can tell that Jon doesn’t know the end of, and he watches Jon be careful with Brendon, all quiet apology, even though Ryan knows there‘s nothing to apologize for. He knows, the night he fucked Brendon, pressed him up against the bus window for everyone to see, he knows where Jon was. And he knows where Spencer was. He’s counted the distance between them in his head a dozen times, two dozen, and if it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty yards, well. He doesn’t say anything. He got what he wanted.
Or, he got what someone wanted, anyway.
Nothing happens. And when nothing happens, it happens like this:
They fly back to Las Vegas and Jon flies to Chicago, and there aren’t any kisses at the airport, but then, there aren’t any kisses anywhere there are cameras, so that’s nothing new. And then, long, busy, packed days later, Ryan is on his back in a bed that is Spencer’s but doesn’t feel like Spencer. It doesn’t have Spencer memories, and Ryan thinks they should make some. “I miss the old days,” he mumbles, staring at a Spencer-ceiling that doesn’t have Spencer-cracks or Spencer-stars.
“I’m not old enough for old days,” Spencer says.
Ryan thinks maybe he finally knows what he wants, so he rolls over to claim it. Rolls his awkward, bony limbs and existential angst right onto Spencer and presses a kiss to Spencer’s cheek, to his jaw, to the pulse at the base of his neck, and Spencer says, “Ryan.”
“Jon’s in Chicago,” Ryan says, kissing Spencer’s collarbone because it asks him to.
“I know where Jon is.” Spencer sounds amused, but his hands are on Ryan’s shoulders, holding him back. Spencer’s mouth is asking to be kissed, too, but Ryan can’t reach. Spencer’s hands are interfering.
Ryan makes a grumbling noise, disgruntled, and hates pointing out the obvious, hates being obvious, but. “So what’s the problem?”
“You’re glossing over the details,” Spencer says, gently, letting Ryan press close and then kissing him on the temple, soft. “You always do.”
“I want you.” He says it, and he’s said it before, but this maybe the first time he hasn’t tacked a mental question mark on the end of it, so he says it again. “I want you.”
“You have me,” Spencer answers, and if there were pity in it, Ryan would leave, but there’s not. There’s something, but it’s not pity. “Just not like this. For this, you have Brendon.”
“I want you.”
Spencer’s hands go to the balls of his shoulders, his elbows, squeeze. “You and Brendon. You’re good together.”
No, Ryan thinks, we just look good together, but he doesn’t say anything, he rolls silently off and stares at Spencer’s ceiling and wonders what Brent is doing.
Author adellyna
Pairing(s) Ryan/Brent, Ryan/Brendon, Ryan/Spencer, Spencer/Brendon, Spencer/Jon
Rating PG-13
Word Count 2300
Summary There is no way Ryan is letting Brendon in this band. He can’t be that good on guitar.
And he’s not. But then he sings, and there is no way that Ryan can keep Brendon out of this band.
Disclaimer So totally fake, if you're a member of Panic! at the Disco, dude, I'm so sorry.
Author's Notes So there's this picture and I saw it and thought: hmmmmmmm. And then this happened. Thanks to my one true love, maleyka for the hand holding and beta!
It happens like this:
Brent brings the new kid to practice one day, and they happen to push the garage door open and walk in right in the middle of Spencer drumming. Light floods in, a wide stripe of it that hits Spencer’s kit dead on, shines on his flying hair, makes his skin even paler, more perfect, and Ryan can practically hear Brendon’s jaw hit the floor.
He says, “You must be Brendon,” and Brendon says, “You must be Spencer,” and Ryan says, “No,” and Brendon looks confused.
“But,” he says, tearing his eyes away from Spencer’s flying limbs long enough to shoot Brent a baffled look. “You said?”
Brent turns a color that advertises exactly what he said, or Ryan gets the gist of it at least, and he’s flattered that Brent would call him the hot one, he is, but he doesn’t think that’s going to be nearly as much of a problem as the way Brendon is looking at Spencer.
There is no way Ryan is letting Brendon in this band. He can’t be that good on guitar.
And he’s not. But then he sings, and there is no way that Ryan can keep Brendon out of this band.
Brendon is obvious and infatuated, and Spencer is either indifferent or oblivious, and it’s fine for a while. Ryan still has Spencer, Spencer on his shoulder on the couch and Spencer on his arm when they go out and Spencer on the other side of the bed as many nights as he can manage, but he sees the itch in Brendon’s fingertips and the wantwantwant in Brendon’s eyes and he knows, yeah, it’s only a matter of time.
Time, until Jesus stops telling Brendon it’s wrong wrong wrong, or time until Brendon gets up the nerve, or time until Spencer either notices or takes pity. Pity, Ryan’s sure, is what it would be, because he can’t imagine Spencer wanting Brendon. If Spencer wants skinny, awkward limbs and existential angst, all he has to do is roll over three nights a week.
He watches Brendon make his move two months later, with his head on Brent’s shoulder and his fingers still humming from playing the same song over and over.
“Spencer,” Brendon says, edging in, pressing his hips to Spencer’s back, leaning over him to look at the kit. “Show me that thing. Show me that thing you did, right before the chorus.”
Brent drives Ryan home because Brendon says, “I’m just gonna stay here, if it’s cool, I haven’t been on drums in a while,” and Spencer says, “I’ll take him home. Call you later, Ryan,” and Brent says, “We can stop for burgers,” because he knows Ryan’s house almost never has food in it, and Ryan doesn’t say anything at all.
They probably kiss. They probably kiss for hours, but Spencer picks Ryan up for school the next morning and the only thing he says is, “Do we have time for McDonalds?” and at practice on Friday, Brendon is still sitting on the couch in the garage when Spencer rattles his keys and says, “Brendon? We’re all leaving now. Unless you wanted to walk home.”
So Spencer takes Ryan home more days than not, and the days he doesn’t, mostly, Ryan sleeps over, and everything is fine except for Brendon’s shoulders arched back toward Spencer when he sings, and huge chunks of Spencer-time missing from Ryan’s day. Like black-outs, except he remembers every painfully not-his-business minute of them.
And then they fuck. It’s not up for question, not like the kissing, because Brendon walks around strutting, smug every second he’s not looking at Spencer. When he’s looking at Spencer, he just looks awestruck; Spencer keeps making faces at Brendon, wincing, shifting gingerly on his drum kit, and Ryan - who’s been nursing a clear picture of Spencer holding Brendon down with one hand splayed between Brendon’s shoulder blades, panting into him - has to stop and think: Oh. Really? Huh.
After that, Ryan has his head on Brent’s shoulder on the couch, and Brent on his arm when they go out, and Spencer on the other side of the bed just as many nights, but not until a half hour later, after Spencer gets off the phone with Brendon. And Spencer still rolls over at night, still settles his hand on Ryan’s back when he has nightmares-
(It’s not until after Ryan sees Spencer put his hand in that same spot on Brendon’s back, pushing him behind a pinball machine at the theater to kiss him, slow, steady, while Brent pounds the side of the machine and Ryan tries not to stare, it’s not until after then that Ryan realizes why he thought that’s where Spencer’s hand would be, when he fucked someone. Brendon. Or just. Someone.)
-and saves Ryan the flavored milk from his cereal in the morning, and keeps Ryan’s shampoo under his sink. It’s different, but it’s ok, because he still has Spencer, and he definitely has Brent.
And then they fuck. Not Spencer and Brendon. Or, well, probably Spencer and Brendon, but Ryan’s not there for those times. He’s there for himself and Brent though, definitely there, on the roof of some crappy motel on the outskirts of the city, spread out on the sun-warmed gravel, on his back, with Brent above him whispering, “Is this ok?” like a benediction.
It is. Ok is a pretty good word for it, actually. It’s not great, and there’s gravel in his hair, and he can still feel the bumps when he runs his fingertips over his back later, but it’s ok.
This is how it happens:
They make it big. Ryan hangs all of his shit out on the line, and then he waves the line around like a flag, and Pete Wentz charges at it like a bull after blood, and they make it big. They’ve never played a show, but they’re out of the garage and into a studio; Brendon has a shitty job and a shittier apartment, and he has Spencer, but Ryan has Brent and he has Pete Wentz on speed dial and he has notebooks full of songs, and he gets to yell at Brendon in the studio, scream at him and tell him he’s not good enough, that he’s fucking it all up, can’t he just get it right. So that’s something.
There are songs, and there are shows, and there are photoshoots, and Ryan watches Brendon sing and pose and twirl Spencer around the room, crowing, “I’m singing backup on the Fall Out Boy album!” And Ryan thinks: Hmmm.
He gets the proofs back a couple of weeks later. Or no, scratch that, Spencer gets the proofs back a couple of weeks later, and he marks the ones that work, the ones he’s going to ok, and Ryan looks at them, and he thinks, again: Hmmm. “We look good together, right?” he asks Brent, when he passes them over. “Brendon and I. We look good. We match.”
Brent doesn’t say anything. But then, there’s not much to say. They do, they do look good together. That night he listens to Brendon and Spencer fuck on the other side of paper-thin walls, and he jerks off, listening intently, trying to work Brendon’s pitch into the music in his head.
There are more shows, and less Brent. He shows up ten minutes before they go on one night, and a guitar tech comes over and shoves his bass at him and says, “Here, Trent,” and Ryan blinks, because if their techs don’t know their names, maybe they have a problem. The tech says, “Have a good show, Ryan,” and claps Spencer on the back, and bumps hips with Brendon, and Ryan thinks: Oh.
Ryan calls a band meeting, and Brent doesn’t show up. They have a show, and Brent doesn’t show up. They have a photoshoot, and Brent doesn’t show up.
Ryan calls another band meeting. Brent doesn’t show up, because he wasn’t invited.
“You can make the call, right Ryan?” Brendon asks, tracing petals on a cheap motel comforter. “I mean. You guys are close. He might like to hear it from you.”
“You’re only in this band because of Brent,” Ryan snaps back. “He’d probably like to hear it from you.”
“I don’t think he wants to hear it from anyone,” Spencer says quietly. He’s already got his phone out, he’s already pressing buttons, and Ryan can read the set of his shoulders. He’s furious with both of them. Spencer doesn’t volunteer, he just does it. Ryan and Brendon sit there, with averted eyes and shallow breath, and when it’s done, Spencer leaves the room and doesn’t come back.
Brendon puts his head in Ryan’s lap and says, “Do you think he’s mad at me?”
Ryan puts his hand in Brendon’s hair and says, “It doesn’t matter, he won’t be here anymore.”
Brendon says, “I meant Spencer,” and Ryan says, “Oh.”
This is how it happens:
Jon Walker comes on tour with them, and Spencer falls in love.
Ryan’s been in love for what feels like forever, but he’s not even sure who with anymore. Brent’s gone, and the pillow he left behind smells more like Ryan and less like Brent every night. Spencer’s still there, and he’s still Spencer, and he’s still Ryan’s in the way he’s always been, but not in the ways he’s Brendon’s, and Ryan’s not even sure he wants to change that, not anymore. And then there’s Brendon, who has Ryan’s words in his mouth every night, and Ryan’s eyes on him every day.
So Brendon gets drunk, and when he comes back to the bus, Ryan presses him against the wall and kisses him. “You’re not-” Brendon says, shaking his head like Ryan’s a mirage, some sort of hallucination. “Spencer.”
“He’s with Jon,” Ryan murmurs, into Brendon’s ear, like Brendon is asking where Spencer is, not telling Ryan who he isn’t. “I think they’re still out.”
After that, it’s easy. He hears Brendon the next day, apologizing, “I was drunk, Spence, I’m so sorry, I don’t even know,” and he hears Spencer’s voice, thick with relief, soothing, “It’s ok, Bren. I always knew it would be you and Ryan,” and Ryan knows Spencer didn’t know anything of the sort, but Spencer’s smart. He always has been. He knows an open door when he sees one.
After that, it’s even easier. It’s Brendon in his bunk at night, pressed close, and Brendon on stage at night, pressed close, and Brendon next to him at the table in the morning, pressed close. And sometimes still, though not as often as when they were kids, it’s Spencer’s head on the pillow next to him. It’s usually Spencer’s fingers laced through his when they walk into arenas for the first time. Spencer’s fingers he squeezes into open air that echoes with promise, with possibility.
He watches Spencer and Jon smile at each other, watches Jon learn the ins and outs, the whens and whys, until there’s not a single story Ryan can tell that Jon doesn’t know the end of, and he watches Jon be careful with Brendon, all quiet apology, even though Ryan knows there‘s nothing to apologize for. He knows, the night he fucked Brendon, pressed him up against the bus window for everyone to see, he knows where Jon was. And he knows where Spencer was. He’s counted the distance between them in his head a dozen times, two dozen, and if it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty yards, well. He doesn’t say anything. He got what he wanted.
Or, he got what someone wanted, anyway.
Nothing happens. And when nothing happens, it happens like this:
They fly back to Las Vegas and Jon flies to Chicago, and there aren’t any kisses at the airport, but then, there aren’t any kisses anywhere there are cameras, so that’s nothing new. And then, long, busy, packed days later, Ryan is on his back in a bed that is Spencer’s but doesn’t feel like Spencer. It doesn’t have Spencer memories, and Ryan thinks they should make some. “I miss the old days,” he mumbles, staring at a Spencer-ceiling that doesn’t have Spencer-cracks or Spencer-stars.
“I’m not old enough for old days,” Spencer says.
Ryan thinks maybe he finally knows what he wants, so he rolls over to claim it. Rolls his awkward, bony limbs and existential angst right onto Spencer and presses a kiss to Spencer’s cheek, to his jaw, to the pulse at the base of his neck, and Spencer says, “Ryan.”
“Jon’s in Chicago,” Ryan says, kissing Spencer’s collarbone because it asks him to.
“I know where Jon is.” Spencer sounds amused, but his hands are on Ryan’s shoulders, holding him back. Spencer’s mouth is asking to be kissed, too, but Ryan can’t reach. Spencer’s hands are interfering.
Ryan makes a grumbling noise, disgruntled, and hates pointing out the obvious, hates being obvious, but. “So what’s the problem?”
“You’re glossing over the details,” Spencer says, gently, letting Ryan press close and then kissing him on the temple, soft. “You always do.”
“I want you.” He says it, and he’s said it before, but this maybe the first time he hasn’t tacked a mental question mark on the end of it, so he says it again. “I want you.”
“You have me,” Spencer answers, and if there were pity in it, Ryan would leave, but there’s not. There’s something, but it’s not pity. “Just not like this. For this, you have Brendon.”
“I want you.”
Spencer’s hands go to the balls of his shoulders, his elbows, squeeze. “You and Brendon. You’re good together.”
No, Ryan thinks, we just look good together, but he doesn’t say anything, he rolls silently off and stares at Spencer’s ceiling and wonders what Brent is doing.