Jonquil 2/3
Jonquil (2/3)
delete_entry
Jon/Spencer, Brendon/Ryan, Tom/Greta
NC-17
17495 words
Hawley, Massachusetts has a population of roughly 336 people. It has a rural appeal that causes people to possibly pass by, take a few pictures of cows shitting in a pasture, but no one considers living there that wasn’t born there. The truth is there just isn’t much there. There’s a local doctor’s office, a church, three schools (elementary, junior high, and high school), and basically one main street that the entire town branches off from. There’s a small, local grocery shop, a hair salon, a pet shop, and a few other personal businesses that most people in Hawley fiercely put their faith into.
His mother was one of those people.
notes: Once more, I have an inability to write quick, sweet stories, so here you have 40 pages of flower shop/small town AU! I have a thing for Massachusetts, so when I googled "small towns in Massachusetts", Hawley was the first thing that came up. Apparently I'm not creative enough to think of a town name. So, with that being said, this is a real place, however I have no idea if this is what Hawley is like. I've never been there, and I mean no offense to anyone that could possibly live there and read this. As always, thank you to my fantastic beta
ivebeenburgledfor all her encouragement and, well, fantasticness. Comments/criticism are very much appreciated, per usual.
IMPORTANT: The flowers' meanings in this story are important a majority of the time, so, instead of making you people scroll, I've provided this entry for you to keep open as you read. (Right right click, and press either "open in new window" or "open in new tab".) That way things can actually make some sense ^^ Enjoy!
Spencer is surprised that when he walks out onto the front porch, Tom is sitting on the bench swing there, lazily smoking a cigarette. Spencer just awkwardly hovers until Tom gives a laugh, patting the empty seat beside him and pulling out another cigarette.
Spencer likes him already.
“So you’re Greta’s husband?” Spencer says, and then mentally slaps himself in the head. He takes the cigarette from Tom and fishes out his own lighter, lighting the cigarette and playing with it, just to do something with his hands.
Tom just laughs. “That’s actually my birth given name. My friends call me Tom, Tom Conrad.” He sticks out his hand and Spencer takes it, giving it a firm shake as well as a laugh. Something about Tom brings a calm air to Spencer, and when he takes his second drag, it seems so much better then his first.
“How’d you know my mom?” Spencer asks, and Tom raises an eyebrow and looks to Spencer.
“I came here ten or so years ago with Jon, and she helped us get a place and stuff. She was probably one of the most remarkable women I’ve ever met, save for Greta. I’m going to miss her.” Spencer lets out a sharp laugh, his head going back against the bench, taking another deep drag of his cigarette.
“Aren’t we all?” Spencer asks, and it comes out a bit snippier then he had intended. Tom gives a smile Spencer can’t read, cigarette between his lips.
“I like you, Spencer.”
“I like you, too, Tom.”
*
“Everything’s so much smaller then I remember,” Spencer says, staring up at the night sky, swaying slightly on his childhood tire swing. Ryan lifts his head from Brendon’s chest, watching Spencer’s knees as they rocked to and fro before placing the shell of his ear over the steady beat of his husband’s heart.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been here,” Greta comments, her fingers softly skimming through Tom’s hair, his head pillowed in her lap as she leans against the trunk of the tree. Spencer nods his head silently, jumping a bit in surprise as hands push him gently forward on the swing. He looks over his shoulder to see Jon staring up at the moon, a cigarette in one hand and his other out to gently push Spencer. He’s surprised, more so because it’s Jon, but he doesn’t comment, just turning his head to look down to the grass.
“Remember how she would always sing?” Lisa says quietly, sitting cross-legged on the grass, staring up at the sky as well.
“I remember the first time I met her, she was singing in the flower shop.” Tom says quietly, and Spencer looks to him as Jon pushes him forward with a careful hand.
“What did she used to sing to us to get us sleepy when we were little and didn’t want to come in at night from playing?” Brendon asks, and Spencer closes his eyes, tilting his face up to the milky glow of the moon. He makes a small humming noise within his throat, just to clear his voice, before softly singing.
“Tripping eyes and flooded lungs, the northern downpour sends its love,” Spencer jumps faintly as the first person that joins in is Jon. Jon stops the swing with both hands on the tire, leaning down to softly sing along in Spencer’s ear. “Hey moon, please forget to fall down.” Spencer is so surprise that he forgets to sing, listening to the rough silk of Jon’s voice.
“Hey moon, don’t you go down.” Ryan and Brendon are singing along now, in that strange, perfect harmony you can only achieve with knowing someone better then yourself.
“Sugar cane in the easy morning, weather vane my, one and lonely,” Spencer watches as all of his family sings, the soft chorus of Tom and Greta, and sweet harmony of Brendon and Ryan. He can hear the distant singing of Lisa, attempting so hard not to sound like the same woman they were commemorating and failing miserably.
“The ink is running towards the page, it’s chasing off the days. Look back at both feet and that winding knee.”
Spencer can feel tears in his eyes and his heart in his throat, and he can feel all six pairs of eyes on him. He leans back into Jon for support, who is far, far closer then he had realized. He takes a deep breath and sings softly into Jon’s neck, “I missed your skin when you were east. You clicked your heels and wished for me.”
Jon’s hands go to his shoulder now, a steady weight to support him as all seven souls sing together. “Through playful lips made of yarn, that fragile Capricorn. Unravel words like moths upon old scarves. I know the world’s a broken bone, but melt your headaches, call it home.”
*
When Spencer wakes up the next morning, the first thing he does is shower, change, and then he’s out the door. He goes to Ryan and Brendon’s house first, and upon no one answering, he moves to Greta and Tom. The large Victorian house holds no one, so Spencer doubles back to his own home to check if Lisa was there. He even checks outside. She isn’t.
Spencer isn’t surprised when he hears a rustling in Ryan’s-Jon’s back yard, not really. He just sorta accepts his fate, walking towards the three boards in the fence he knew opened up to make a secret door Ryan and himself had created at age seven.
Jon is putting around within a rather beautiful garden. There’s a fountain in the center of the yard, and everything is just purely flowers, save for some coble stone walk ways that lead in a circle around the fountain, and then off to the base of a blossom tree. There are even some benches, four surrounding the fountain and one in the shade of the blossom tree.
Every single flower looks exotic and well bred, the colors meshing together so well, ranging from deep violet to pure white. There were clearly defined sections for different colors of flowers that, if you looked to the reds from the whites, you would notice. However, the line between the red and white flowers was dotted with a variety of pink flowers, ranging from light more towards the white, to dark more towards the reds. It was so well planned. Jon himself looks right at home-the sun beating down on his golden arms and back, dressed in a pair of frayed jeans and gardening gloves.
When Jon looks up, he looks surprised to see Spencer.
“What are you doing here?” he calls out and it sounds unkind and unapproachable. For a second, Spencer thinks he’s stepped into something sacred, and then he looks down to his feet and notes that he’s standing on a patch of white carnations.
“Oh, fuck,” Spencer stutters out, jumping and only successfully landing on a bush of flowers-one he easily recognizes as white roses from the pain that shoots up from his ankle. He notes the flowers surrounding him are white, and to his left are pink and to his right are baby blue. Spencer swears and carefully steps onto a cobble stone path, sweating just slightly. “I’m sorry.”
Jon narrows his eyes, standing up from a patch of daffodils, looking to Spencer. “Did you come here to destroy my garden or did you want something else?”
Spencer is taken aback. Granted, they didn’t get off to a good start, but after last night Spencer had thought they had made some type of connection. “How the hell do you have everyone here convinced that you’re such a nice guy?” Spencer snaps now, and Jon just laughs almost bitterly, moving back to his flower patch.
“Because most of the people don’t know me personally. They just know what they hear.” Spencer moves to sit on one of the benches surrounding the fountain, watching beads of sweat roll down the line of Jon’s back into the waistband of his jeans.
“Mr. Popular, huh?” It comes out harsher then he felt.
Jon looks over his shoulder to Spencer. “You know who I am, too. Everyone knows who I am.”
Spencer leans back, resting his elbows along the back of the bench, giving a disbelieving snort. “Oh, really?”
Jon sits back, turning around to face Spencer for a moment. “Of course. You grew up wanting to be me, remember?” Spencer knows that Jon isn’t Bon Jovi or anyone else incredibly famous. The only other person he remembers ever being in awe over he had never met… which meant…
Holy shit.
“You’re James and Sylvia’s kid?” Spencer asks, and he doesn’t need an answer because Jon just lets out a snort and continues to work with the flowers, pulling up a few dead leaves and tossing them into a wicker basket, picking the basket up into his lap to move the mass of dead leaves there. “You were in New York, why’d you move here?”
Jon slams the basket down sharply enough to grab Spencer’s attention. “Why would you leave?”
“I had nothing here.”
Jon growls and whips around, and Spencer tries not to notice the dirt smudged along his shoulders. “You had everything here! You had a mother that loved you, a sister that would do anything for you, friends who wanted nothing but the best for you!” Jon shakes his head, looking to Spencer under sweaty bangs, “But no, you had to be the selfish, ungrateful bitch that moved away and broke everyone’s hearts.”
Spencer sits still, staring a bit wide-eyed at Jon. He had never met James and Sylvia’s son-he knew that the boy had had problems and needed to live with relatives in New York. Back then, the first part didn’t really matter. What Spencer had focused on was New York. He focused on the thought that someone had actually gotten out of Hawley alive. He had ignored the dark look in James’s eye every time he asked about his son, or the way that Sylvia would stutter and make up an excuse to leave the room.
Spencer can’t find anything to say, not right now. He saves his thoughts for another time, when the Jon before him is the man that sung softly into his ear the previous night, because for some reason Spencer knows that that man was there, somewhere. So, instead, he looks around and says, “She helped you create this garden, didn’t she?”
Jon’s shoulders slump slightly and he turns around, beginning to weed through a patch of marigolds. “Yeah. She said I should channel my emotion into a positive outlet.”
Spencer smiles slightly, now seeing all the signs of his mother within the garden. “You know, I have friends in California.”
Jon gives a sharp bark of laughter. “Fuck friends.”
“I have work,” Spencer continues.
“Fuck work,” Jon replies, standing up with the basket of weeds, moving to a large trashcan on the porch to empty them.
“I have an apartment with an expensive television and a pool.”
Jon lets the basket drop to the ground, shaking his head with another laugh. “Fuck the apartment. Fuck the television. Fuck the pool.”
“I have a life.” Spencer likes this game now. He likes the way that Jon throws down the gloves, walking slowly over to Spencer, his muscles dancing with every movement. Spencer doesn’t back up when Jon crouches in front of him, their eyes level and their noses so close that Spencer can feel the warm air against his lips.
“Fuck life,” Jon whispers harshly, and Spencer’s arms automatically wind around his shoulders, crashing their lips together. Jon kisses him back for only a moment before he’s standing up and walking back into the house, but that moment is enough for Spencer’s knees to be weak and for him to have trouble walking back to his side of the fence.
*
It takes Spencer until one in the afternoon to realize that Lisa doesn’t live in this house. And he doesn’t even know what she does for a living.
He’s tempted to ask Jon, but he figures they should probably keep it to one dramatic encounter a day, sans people. So, instead, he walks around aimlessly for what seems like hours. It’s only a Wednesday, all the children are at school and all the people at work. There is the elderly, picking up groceries and such, and the occasional person on an errand for work, or just getting out for lunch.
As he walks down the street, people poke their heads out of their stores just to say hello to him. They smile and wave, and afterwards they turn their head to quietly whisper about how he only was back because his mother died. Spencer pays no mind to this, simply because, well, it’s true.
There are signs of Rebecca everywhere. In every store or shop there is a sign, in some way, shape, or form commemorating Rebecca. Flowers were splashed along the streets, all different shades of the rainbow, and for some reason he just assumes that Jon didn’t hand them out because they don’t quite have the meaning behind them, as they should. Houses held cardboard signs, or perhaps the better wooden ones, saying things like, “ALWAYS IN OUR HEARTS, REBECCA” or “YOU WERE THE SUNSHINE IN HAWLEY.” The local church has their sign reading, “In God we trust you with, Rebecca.”
As much as he tries not to, he can see himself everywhere. He passes the barbershop-a generic, green painted building that was between a small diner and a dress shop. He stops to peer inside the window, watching his fifteen-year-old self grumble as he sweeps up trimmings of hair, the older gentleman in the chair giving him tips and telling him kids don’t appreciate much these days.
Spencer shakes his head to clear the image and finds that the way of Hawley has taken its course. Instead of Joe Gamache, a bald, portly man who was a magician with a razor and a pair of scissors, his son, Jimmy, is standing there, trimming a little girl’s hair with certain hands. Jimmy looks up, with the same blue eyes that Joe had, and waves happily at Spencer. Spencer returns it weakly before moving on.
He sees the same affect everywhere. Vivian Marsdon now stands inside of the dry cleaners instead of her mother, Ashley. Vivian holds the same poses, talks to the customers with the same warm smile her mother held, and removes the stains with the same force and skill as her mother did.
Hawley made people insignificant. If you had children, you had children only to take your place. When you died, there was no reason to mourn or miss you. Your heir would take over the family business, marry the person that worked next door, and your family would survive. It was a never-ending chain that leads most of the stores to be called “Mason’s Magic Cleaners” or “Swallen’s Pet Land”. Growing up in the family business gave the name security. There would always been a Mason drawing smiley faces on your receipt when you just wanted to buy some Kaboom for that stubborn shower grime, and there would always be a Swallen pushing the white parakeet on you, even though you had three at home. There was no need for first names, no need for personality, because you wouldn’t be remembered. Your family would.
Hawley made life insignificant. Hawley was like flowers.
Flowers were never remembered for their individual achievements. A single flower given is always less expensive then a bunch and always less valuable. A single flower is never picked out for any reason while within a bunch. A person never walks up to a bucket with roses in them, pausing to deliberate just exactly which one spoken to him. He just said, “Give me a rose,” and the person complied. It was always the daises, never that daisy.
Spencer pauses in front of the glass window, staring at the wisterias he had helped paint at age thirteen. He sees his own name scribbled at the bottom, along with Brendon, Greta, Ryan, and Lisa. The flower boxes hold dahlias and they speak to Spencer about elegance and dignity.
When Spencer looks through the window, he isn’t surprised when he sees Jon moving around, watering the multitude of flowers within the store. They had put skylights in the store a while ago and now he finally understands the power of them. The delicate light reflecting off every single flower-it drew the people in with a certain power that no one working there ever could.
Jon looks up and catches Spencer’s eye and Spencer slowly backs away. He looks up to the sign above the window, his fingers running through his hair quickly as he reads, “Rebecca’s Garden” and walks away.
*
“You ever think that maybe we grew up too quick?” Brendon asks, winding his golf club back and swinging it with impressive strength to hit the ball. Spencer raises his brows, watching as the small ball sails through the air and into the field. They used to do this all the time-randomly get dressed up in pastels and tight, white pants and shoot golf balls.
Spencer takes a long drag from his cigarette, resting a majority of his weight on his own club. “I think we didn’t grow up at all,” Spencer says, tossing his cigarette to the ground and positioning himself, swinging the club hard enough to send the ball over the road on the opposite side of the field.
Brendon raises his eyebrows, giving a soft whistle. “Someone’s game has improved.” Spencer tosses his head back and laughs, and Brendon just snorts. “Well, I know we grew up here,” he says, looking to Spencer silently for a moment, “We all had to.”
Spencer nods his head, setting up another ball. “Of course you guys did. You guys had to grow up so you could take the spot of your parents,” Spencer says, swinging the club over his shoulder before back down again, sending another ball sailing through the dusk sky. Spencer continues to stare out, waiting to hear the rustling of Brendon setting up beside him. When he doesn’t hear it, he looks to Brendon, just to find him staring at Spencer.
“We didn’t grow up to replace our parents,” Brendon says quietly, looking to Spencer in such a sad manner that Spencer almost aches. “We grew up in hopes that we could be like our parents or exactly as we thought our parents should have been.” Spencer nods his head, scratching at the back of his neck as Brendon continues. “You know, Ryan took Rebecca’s death hard. Harder then any of us, I think. I miss her, too, Spen. So much. But I’m trying to be strong for him.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” Spencer says quietly, and since Brendon won’t, he sets up another ball. Spencer looks to the car traveling slowly along the road, aims carefully, and swings at the ball. Both him and Brendon wait patiently, Brendon even jumping up and down a little bit, until they hear the sickening crash of the ball successfully going through the glass of a window.
They both cheer, Spencer throwing the club up into the air, his arms in the air in victory. Brendon laughs, coming over to Spencer and they hug. For a second, Spencer feels like his sixteen-year-old self, hugging a shorter, dorkier Brendon after just hitting a car.
The car comes to a screeching halt, the driver visibly getting out of the car, and beginning to yell loudly. They pull away from each other sharply, looking to the car before bolting down the hill, all laughter and a friendship that hadn’t quite matured.
*
Spencer learns that Lisa lives only two streets down from here, in a quaint, green house. She’s the local doctor, which surprises Spencer greatly, but he says nothing. He almost asks what about the flower shop but then he remembers Jon. She tells Spencer to not worry so much and to take a look around the house.
For some reason, Spencer can’t bring himself to sleep in his old room again. He can’t bring himself to look through the house. So he moves all the furniture in the living room to the sides of the room, lights a fire, and sets a sheet down. It isn’t comfortable and it isn’t classy, but it’s what Spencer feels like he needs.
It’s raining out, the soft pitter-patter so familiar to Spencer’s ears as he lies down on the sheet, watching the television blankly. He feels young again, so very young, and for a second he thinks that maybe he got it wrong. Maybe he’s the one that’s yet to mature and everyone else around him has grown and changed.
There’s a knock at the door and Spencer actually considers not getting up and answering it. However, it’s raining, so Spencer assumes the person actually wants to see him. He stands up, pulling down his sleep shirt as he went.
He’s a bit surprised when it’s Jon who’s standing in the rain.
“Lisa isn’t here,” Spencer automatically says. Jon is soaking wet, hair plastered to his face, and Spencer can’t help but notice he’s freshly shaved. In his hand is a bouquet of yellow carnations. Spencer narrows his eyes.
“I’m taking it these are for me.” Jon nods his head, his eyes dark. Spencer just places his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “Alright then, explain yourself.”
“I expected you to come here and cure everything,” Jon says, and for the first time Spencer can hear true, raw emotion in his voice. “I just want my life back to the way it was. With everyone happy and healthy. I don’t want to see everyone so broken and hurt.”
Spencer growls quietly, snatching the flowers away from Jon and tossing them back into the living room in one, angry motion. “I’m not her, Jon!” he snaps, and Jon just stands there, on his porch, drenched from head to foot, staring at him. Spencer expects him to respond, expects him to hit him, yell at him, anything. So when Jon doesn’t, Spencer reaches out, grabbing him by the front of the shirt and sharply tugging him forward for a kiss.
If Spencer ever thought that Jon was the devil, he takes it back now, because the things this man could do with his lips and tongue were truly heavenly. Spencer was never one for kissing, but he could and would get used to it if it was anything like kissing Jon. Jon, who is pulling his hair and biting onto his lips, smelling like a strange mix of dirt and pure man.
Even though Spencer’s mind screams cliché as Jon lays him down onto the sheet, his body is far beyond caring. He arches into every touch Jon lays to his skin, his fingers rough, strong, capable as they trace over the line of his ribs, the bump of his hipbones.
They kiss like they’re drowning and are going down with a fight.
Spencer is just as soaked as Jon by now, but clothes are coming off quickly, landing with wet noises on the hardwood floor. Jon takes a break only to slide Spencer’s shirt over his head, pausing just to look at the golden glaze to Spencer’s skin in the firelight. Spencer can see his chest expand with a deep breath. He has no time for admiration, so he sits up a bit, moving match Jon’s position-resting on his knees on the thin sheet.
Spencer’s hands start at Jon’s hips, moving up slowly over his skin, enjoying the warm feeling under his fingertips. He can feel Jon’s eyes, dark and heavy, on his face, and he slowly lifts his arms up to allow Spencer to take off the shift completely. It’s tender and intimate, and Spencer takes his time, looking from the waistband of Jon’s jeans all the way up his torso to his eyes.
Jon slides his knuckles down the line of Spencer’s chest-from collarbones to hipbones-before his hand curves around Spencer’s waist to press against the small of his back. It’s a soft pressure that brings Spencer against Jon and a soft kiss to realigns their lips once more.
He can’t read Jon and he’s beginning to just think he never will. Instead of saying something or doing something he’d regret, Spencer just falls down onto his back once again, using Jon’s hips to bring him back down against him. Jon hooks his fingers in the waistband of his boxers, peeling the wet material down and over his thighs, while meeting every kiss and lick and bite Spencer had to offer him.
Spencer vaguely wonders where his insecurities went.
Jon just keeps kissing Spencer, deep and leisurely, even bringing him up a bit as Jon sits back to get his jeans off. As soon as Spencer is on his back again, his legs wind around Jon’s waist, keeping him effectively pinned there.
Jon doesn’t do much in the ways of preparation, but Spencer doesn’t really mind, because just as soon as Jon has two fingers inside him, twisting and stretching, he wants more. “Jon,” he chokes out, hips arching up, muscles tight, and he realizes that that was the first time either of them had spoken throughout this entire thing. It almost seems to snap Jon out of whatever daze he was in, looking down to Spencer with those same, unreadable dark eyes.
The fingers are gone, and one hand on the floor beside Spencer’s head for Jon to brace some of his weight on as the other moves directly to Spencer’s hip. Spencer doesn’t even have to ask again, Jon shifts his hips in a tantalizing manner before pressing into Spencer in a way that makes him keen and burn. Spencer doesn’t ask but Jon knows not to pause inside of him, not to let him adjust. Instead he just leans down, bites onto Spencer’s lip hard, and begins a raw, sharp rhythm that has Spencer sliding up with every thrust.
“Fuck, fuck,” Spencer chants quietly, both hands going up over his head to grab on to something, anything. His hand connects with a flower first and he grips it tightly, looking into Jon’s eyes as he ripped the petals from the stem. Jon grins, leaning down and pressing a hard kiss to Spencer’s lips. Spencer arms go around Jon’s neck, the petals spilling down his back and gathering at where Spencer’s legs are wrapped around Jon’s waist.
Jon continually keeps Spencer guessing. At one moment, Jon will sharply snap his hips forward, causing Spencer to hiss and moan and scratch at his biceps. Then as soon as Spencer finds his rhythm, Jon is shallowly thrusting into him, just teasing him, occasionally plunging deeply within Spencer.
Despite the fact he’s twenty-eight, Spencer can’t take too much of this. In all fairness, he does tell Jon this, parting his lips in a silky manner against Jon’s and breathing into his mouth, “I’m not going to last.”
Jon just shrugs, as though Spencer told him the weather instead of his stamina, continuing to kiss Spencer in that hard, desperate way that has Spencer’s lips bruised. After a few more teasing thrusts, Spencer tightens up, and as soon as that hard one snaps him forward, Spencer is shamelessly writhing and coming over his own stomach in several lengthy spurts, moaning loudly enough for it to echo within Jon’s mouth.
Jon doesn’t relent. He just continues to slam into Spencer now with the same desperation he had been kissing him with. Spencer’s body is sensitive-too sensitive-and he’s at the line in which pain and pleasure melds together when he feels Jon release inside of him, his hips gradually slowing from the brutal pace they had held before.
As soon as Jon stills, he lets out a soft pant, the air brushing over Spencer’s too hot skin. Spencer groans loudly, his legs like jello as they slide from around Jon’s waist, dropping boneless and painfully onto the floor. Spencer grunts and Jon laughs. It’s the first time Spencer’s ever heard him laugh. He musters up enough energy to open an eye and sees Jon looking young, happy, staring down at Spencer with a soft sort of look.
Spencer reaches a hand up with much effort, blissfully boneless from possibly the best sex he’s ever had. “How old are you?” he asks quietly, and Jon looks surprised for a moment, but then leans down and pressing a kiss to the sweat gathering at Spencer’s throat.
“Thirty-two.”
Spencer nods, and then Jon lets out another laugh, and Spencer doesn’t care if he’s laughing at him. Jon just slides out of him as delicately as possible, both of them wincing slightly, before Jon wraps them burrito style within the sheet. Spencer tangles their legs and Jon leans down to kiss Spencer’s bruised lips.
Spencer reaches his hand out again, grabbing another carnation and holding onto it this time, curling his fingers around the stem as he kisses Jon back with everything he has tonight.
*
When Spencer wakes up, he isn’t surprised that he’s alone. He’s even more unsurprised when he shifts and a dull ache spreads from his ass all the way up to his shoulders. Nor is he surprised when he looks in the mirror after his morning piss to see his neck and shoulders covered in dark marks, roughly the size of Jon’s mouth.
What does surprise him is the bouquet of flowers on the kitchen table that he finds while padding into the room naked and hungry.
No card is needed. Spencer immediately recognizes the flowers. White tulips and stock. Spencer smiles, reaching out to run his fingertips down one of the silky petals of the tulips. He feels as though these flowers, right here, were a secret language that only he and Jon knew and understood because such a skillful teacher had taught them both.
He takes the flowers, adding a bit more water to the vase before settling them in the sun, looking out of the window on the same sight he had seen for eighteen years. He’s not sure why but today it looks so much better. Maybe the phenomenal sex cleared his head but he isn’t sure.
It takes him a half an hour to get changed and find exactly the flowers he wants from Jon’s garden. (He shamelessly went in there and stole a few. He figured Jon owed him considering he was bruised and very, very sore.) However, as soon as those things are accomplished, Spencer is out the door, bounding across the street to Ryan’s place.
He knocks once more and receives no answer, which… is still odd, but Spencer doesn’t really question it. So he just opens the door, because nearly twenty-eight years of friendship apparently meant he could freely break into said friends’ house without abandonment.
Spencer knows the outline of the house, so he bypasses the living room and heads directly towards the kitchen. Probably the last thing he expects to find is what he actually does-Ryan, sitting alone in the kitchen, absently staring out the window as tears roll down his face.
Spencer doesn’t ask why he’s crying and Ryan doesn’t ask why he’s there. Ryan actually doesn’t even look at him, not even when Spencer takes a seat beside him in the kitchen chair. They sit there in silence, until Ryan eventually stops cry, giving a sharp sniff and wiping at his face with shaky hands.
“Irises?” Ryan asks quietly, looking to Spencer’s hands. Spencer gently places the flowers on the table, nodding a bit. Ryan gives a small smile. “You gave these to me when my dad died.”
“Yes, I did,” Spencer says quietly, wrapping an arm around Ryan, letting the other man sink heavily into him. They both stared at the purple flowers, Spencer reaching for Ryan’s hand and lacing their fingers gently.
“What do they mean again?” Ryan presses his face into Spencer’s neck and Spencer can’t help but notice that he’s crying again. It’s soft and silent and it doesn’t make Spencer cry, just makes his chest ache horribly.
“Your friendship means so much to me,” Spencer replies, his fingers squeezing Ryan’s gently. “Faith, hope, wisdom and valor.” Ryan nods against Spencer’s neck, and Spencer can’t really do anything but be there for him.
“I miss her so much, Spencer,” he says, mumbling into the collar of Spencer’s shirt. Spencer really wishes he showered before he came over. Spencer looks to the far wall of the kitchen, narrowing his eyes to the bouquet of irises hanging over the window before giving a soft smile.
“I know, babe, I know,” Spencer says, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Ryan’s head. Spencer reaches down, taking off Ryan’s glasses and continuing to hug him close. They stay like that until Brendon comes home, bounding into the kitchen with a massive smile, the children in tow. As soon as he sees Ryan, he very quietly tells the children to go play in the living room, and that Daddy is fine and he just needs time.
Spencer’s chest twists and aches as Brendon comes over to them, simply scooping Ryan up bridal style. Ryan willingly melts into him, clinging to his husband’s shoulders, and Spencer can’t help but think he looks so much like a broken doll-his body limp and submissive with grief. Brendon offers Spencer an appreciative smile before kissing Ryan’s lips and walking out of the kitchen.
Spencer is gone before Brendon walks downstairs again.
Next Part >>
delete_entry
Jon/Spencer, Brendon/Ryan, Tom/Greta
NC-17
17495 words
Hawley, Massachusetts has a population of roughly 336 people. It has a rural appeal that causes people to possibly pass by, take a few pictures of cows shitting in a pasture, but no one considers living there that wasn’t born there. The truth is there just isn’t much there. There’s a local doctor’s office, a church, three schools (elementary, junior high, and high school), and basically one main street that the entire town branches off from. There’s a small, local grocery shop, a hair salon, a pet shop, and a few other personal businesses that most people in Hawley fiercely put their faith into.
His mother was one of those people.
notes: Once more, I have an inability to write quick, sweet stories, so here you have 40 pages of flower shop/small town AU! I have a thing for Massachusetts, so when I googled "small towns in Massachusetts", Hawley was the first thing that came up. Apparently I'm not creative enough to think of a town name. So, with that being said, this is a real place, however I have no idea if this is what Hawley is like. I've never been there, and I mean no offense to anyone that could possibly live there and read this. As always, thank you to my fantastic beta
ivebeenburgledfor all her encouragement and, well, fantasticness. Comments/criticism are very much appreciated, per usual.
IMPORTANT: The flowers' meanings in this story are important a majority of the time, so, instead of making you people scroll, I've provided this entry for you to keep open as you read. (Right right click, and press either "open in new window" or "open in new tab".) That way things can actually make some sense ^^ Enjoy!
Spencer is surprised that when he walks out onto the front porch, Tom is sitting on the bench swing there, lazily smoking a cigarette. Spencer just awkwardly hovers until Tom gives a laugh, patting the empty seat beside him and pulling out another cigarette.
Spencer likes him already.
“So you’re Greta’s husband?” Spencer says, and then mentally slaps himself in the head. He takes the cigarette from Tom and fishes out his own lighter, lighting the cigarette and playing with it, just to do something with his hands.
Tom just laughs. “That’s actually my birth given name. My friends call me Tom, Tom Conrad.” He sticks out his hand and Spencer takes it, giving it a firm shake as well as a laugh. Something about Tom brings a calm air to Spencer, and when he takes his second drag, it seems so much better then his first.
“How’d you know my mom?” Spencer asks, and Tom raises an eyebrow and looks to Spencer.
“I came here ten or so years ago with Jon, and she helped us get a place and stuff. She was probably one of the most remarkable women I’ve ever met, save for Greta. I’m going to miss her.” Spencer lets out a sharp laugh, his head going back against the bench, taking another deep drag of his cigarette.
“Aren’t we all?” Spencer asks, and it comes out a bit snippier then he had intended. Tom gives a smile Spencer can’t read, cigarette between his lips.
“I like you, Spencer.”
“I like you, too, Tom.”
*
“Everything’s so much smaller then I remember,” Spencer says, staring up at the night sky, swaying slightly on his childhood tire swing. Ryan lifts his head from Brendon’s chest, watching Spencer’s knees as they rocked to and fro before placing the shell of his ear over the steady beat of his husband’s heart.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been here,” Greta comments, her fingers softly skimming through Tom’s hair, his head pillowed in her lap as she leans against the trunk of the tree. Spencer nods his head silently, jumping a bit in surprise as hands push him gently forward on the swing. He looks over his shoulder to see Jon staring up at the moon, a cigarette in one hand and his other out to gently push Spencer. He’s surprised, more so because it’s Jon, but he doesn’t comment, just turning his head to look down to the grass.
“Remember how she would always sing?” Lisa says quietly, sitting cross-legged on the grass, staring up at the sky as well.
“I remember the first time I met her, she was singing in the flower shop.” Tom says quietly, and Spencer looks to him as Jon pushes him forward with a careful hand.
“What did she used to sing to us to get us sleepy when we were little and didn’t want to come in at night from playing?” Brendon asks, and Spencer closes his eyes, tilting his face up to the milky glow of the moon. He makes a small humming noise within his throat, just to clear his voice, before softly singing.
“Tripping eyes and flooded lungs, the northern downpour sends its love,” Spencer jumps faintly as the first person that joins in is Jon. Jon stops the swing with both hands on the tire, leaning down to softly sing along in Spencer’s ear. “Hey moon, please forget to fall down.” Spencer is so surprise that he forgets to sing, listening to the rough silk of Jon’s voice.
“Hey moon, don’t you go down.” Ryan and Brendon are singing along now, in that strange, perfect harmony you can only achieve with knowing someone better then yourself.
“Sugar cane in the easy morning, weather vane my, one and lonely,” Spencer watches as all of his family sings, the soft chorus of Tom and Greta, and sweet harmony of Brendon and Ryan. He can hear the distant singing of Lisa, attempting so hard not to sound like the same woman they were commemorating and failing miserably.
“The ink is running towards the page, it’s chasing off the days. Look back at both feet and that winding knee.”
Spencer can feel tears in his eyes and his heart in his throat, and he can feel all six pairs of eyes on him. He leans back into Jon for support, who is far, far closer then he had realized. He takes a deep breath and sings softly into Jon’s neck, “I missed your skin when you were east. You clicked your heels and wished for me.”
Jon’s hands go to his shoulder now, a steady weight to support him as all seven souls sing together. “Through playful lips made of yarn, that fragile Capricorn. Unravel words like moths upon old scarves. I know the world’s a broken bone, but melt your headaches, call it home.”
*
When Spencer wakes up the next morning, the first thing he does is shower, change, and then he’s out the door. He goes to Ryan and Brendon’s house first, and upon no one answering, he moves to Greta and Tom. The large Victorian house holds no one, so Spencer doubles back to his own home to check if Lisa was there. He even checks outside. She isn’t.
Spencer isn’t surprised when he hears a rustling in Ryan’s-Jon’s back yard, not really. He just sorta accepts his fate, walking towards the three boards in the fence he knew opened up to make a secret door Ryan and himself had created at age seven.
Jon is putting around within a rather beautiful garden. There’s a fountain in the center of the yard, and everything is just purely flowers, save for some coble stone walk ways that lead in a circle around the fountain, and then off to the base of a blossom tree. There are even some benches, four surrounding the fountain and one in the shade of the blossom tree.
Every single flower looks exotic and well bred, the colors meshing together so well, ranging from deep violet to pure white. There were clearly defined sections for different colors of flowers that, if you looked to the reds from the whites, you would notice. However, the line between the red and white flowers was dotted with a variety of pink flowers, ranging from light more towards the white, to dark more towards the reds. It was so well planned. Jon himself looks right at home-the sun beating down on his golden arms and back, dressed in a pair of frayed jeans and gardening gloves.
When Jon looks up, he looks surprised to see Spencer.
“What are you doing here?” he calls out and it sounds unkind and unapproachable. For a second, Spencer thinks he’s stepped into something sacred, and then he looks down to his feet and notes that he’s standing on a patch of white carnations.
“Oh, fuck,” Spencer stutters out, jumping and only successfully landing on a bush of flowers-one he easily recognizes as white roses from the pain that shoots up from his ankle. He notes the flowers surrounding him are white, and to his left are pink and to his right are baby blue. Spencer swears and carefully steps onto a cobble stone path, sweating just slightly. “I’m sorry.”
Jon narrows his eyes, standing up from a patch of daffodils, looking to Spencer. “Did you come here to destroy my garden or did you want something else?”
Spencer is taken aback. Granted, they didn’t get off to a good start, but after last night Spencer had thought they had made some type of connection. “How the hell do you have everyone here convinced that you’re such a nice guy?” Spencer snaps now, and Jon just laughs almost bitterly, moving back to his flower patch.
“Because most of the people don’t know me personally. They just know what they hear.” Spencer moves to sit on one of the benches surrounding the fountain, watching beads of sweat roll down the line of Jon’s back into the waistband of his jeans.
“Mr. Popular, huh?” It comes out harsher then he felt.
Jon looks over his shoulder to Spencer. “You know who I am, too. Everyone knows who I am.”
Spencer leans back, resting his elbows along the back of the bench, giving a disbelieving snort. “Oh, really?”
Jon sits back, turning around to face Spencer for a moment. “Of course. You grew up wanting to be me, remember?” Spencer knows that Jon isn’t Bon Jovi or anyone else incredibly famous. The only other person he remembers ever being in awe over he had never met… which meant…
Holy shit.
“You’re James and Sylvia’s kid?” Spencer asks, and he doesn’t need an answer because Jon just lets out a snort and continues to work with the flowers, pulling up a few dead leaves and tossing them into a wicker basket, picking the basket up into his lap to move the mass of dead leaves there. “You were in New York, why’d you move here?”
Jon slams the basket down sharply enough to grab Spencer’s attention. “Why would you leave?”
“I had nothing here.”
Jon growls and whips around, and Spencer tries not to notice the dirt smudged along his shoulders. “You had everything here! You had a mother that loved you, a sister that would do anything for you, friends who wanted nothing but the best for you!” Jon shakes his head, looking to Spencer under sweaty bangs, “But no, you had to be the selfish, ungrateful bitch that moved away and broke everyone’s hearts.”
Spencer sits still, staring a bit wide-eyed at Jon. He had never met James and Sylvia’s son-he knew that the boy had had problems and needed to live with relatives in New York. Back then, the first part didn’t really matter. What Spencer had focused on was New York. He focused on the thought that someone had actually gotten out of Hawley alive. He had ignored the dark look in James’s eye every time he asked about his son, or the way that Sylvia would stutter and make up an excuse to leave the room.
Spencer can’t find anything to say, not right now. He saves his thoughts for another time, when the Jon before him is the man that sung softly into his ear the previous night, because for some reason Spencer knows that that man was there, somewhere. So, instead, he looks around and says, “She helped you create this garden, didn’t she?”
Jon’s shoulders slump slightly and he turns around, beginning to weed through a patch of marigolds. “Yeah. She said I should channel my emotion into a positive outlet.”
Spencer smiles slightly, now seeing all the signs of his mother within the garden. “You know, I have friends in California.”
Jon gives a sharp bark of laughter. “Fuck friends.”
“I have work,” Spencer continues.
“Fuck work,” Jon replies, standing up with the basket of weeds, moving to a large trashcan on the porch to empty them.
“I have an apartment with an expensive television and a pool.”
Jon lets the basket drop to the ground, shaking his head with another laugh. “Fuck the apartment. Fuck the television. Fuck the pool.”
“I have a life.” Spencer likes this game now. He likes the way that Jon throws down the gloves, walking slowly over to Spencer, his muscles dancing with every movement. Spencer doesn’t back up when Jon crouches in front of him, their eyes level and their noses so close that Spencer can feel the warm air against his lips.
“Fuck life,” Jon whispers harshly, and Spencer’s arms automatically wind around his shoulders, crashing their lips together. Jon kisses him back for only a moment before he’s standing up and walking back into the house, but that moment is enough for Spencer’s knees to be weak and for him to have trouble walking back to his side of the fence.
*
It takes Spencer until one in the afternoon to realize that Lisa doesn’t live in this house. And he doesn’t even know what she does for a living.
He’s tempted to ask Jon, but he figures they should probably keep it to one dramatic encounter a day, sans people. So, instead, he walks around aimlessly for what seems like hours. It’s only a Wednesday, all the children are at school and all the people at work. There is the elderly, picking up groceries and such, and the occasional person on an errand for work, or just getting out for lunch.
As he walks down the street, people poke their heads out of their stores just to say hello to him. They smile and wave, and afterwards they turn their head to quietly whisper about how he only was back because his mother died. Spencer pays no mind to this, simply because, well, it’s true.
There are signs of Rebecca everywhere. In every store or shop there is a sign, in some way, shape, or form commemorating Rebecca. Flowers were splashed along the streets, all different shades of the rainbow, and for some reason he just assumes that Jon didn’t hand them out because they don’t quite have the meaning behind them, as they should. Houses held cardboard signs, or perhaps the better wooden ones, saying things like, “ALWAYS IN OUR HEARTS, REBECCA” or “YOU WERE THE SUNSHINE IN HAWLEY.” The local church has their sign reading, “In God we trust you with, Rebecca.”
As much as he tries not to, he can see himself everywhere. He passes the barbershop-a generic, green painted building that was between a small diner and a dress shop. He stops to peer inside the window, watching his fifteen-year-old self grumble as he sweeps up trimmings of hair, the older gentleman in the chair giving him tips and telling him kids don’t appreciate much these days.
Spencer shakes his head to clear the image and finds that the way of Hawley has taken its course. Instead of Joe Gamache, a bald, portly man who was a magician with a razor and a pair of scissors, his son, Jimmy, is standing there, trimming a little girl’s hair with certain hands. Jimmy looks up, with the same blue eyes that Joe had, and waves happily at Spencer. Spencer returns it weakly before moving on.
He sees the same affect everywhere. Vivian Marsdon now stands inside of the dry cleaners instead of her mother, Ashley. Vivian holds the same poses, talks to the customers with the same warm smile her mother held, and removes the stains with the same force and skill as her mother did.
Hawley made people insignificant. If you had children, you had children only to take your place. When you died, there was no reason to mourn or miss you. Your heir would take over the family business, marry the person that worked next door, and your family would survive. It was a never-ending chain that leads most of the stores to be called “Mason’s Magic Cleaners” or “Swallen’s Pet Land”. Growing up in the family business gave the name security. There would always been a Mason drawing smiley faces on your receipt when you just wanted to buy some Kaboom for that stubborn shower grime, and there would always be a Swallen pushing the white parakeet on you, even though you had three at home. There was no need for first names, no need for personality, because you wouldn’t be remembered. Your family would.
Hawley made life insignificant. Hawley was like flowers.
Flowers were never remembered for their individual achievements. A single flower given is always less expensive then a bunch and always less valuable. A single flower is never picked out for any reason while within a bunch. A person never walks up to a bucket with roses in them, pausing to deliberate just exactly which one spoken to him. He just said, “Give me a rose,” and the person complied. It was always the daises, never that daisy.
Spencer pauses in front of the glass window, staring at the wisterias he had helped paint at age thirteen. He sees his own name scribbled at the bottom, along with Brendon, Greta, Ryan, and Lisa. The flower boxes hold dahlias and they speak to Spencer about elegance and dignity.
When Spencer looks through the window, he isn’t surprised when he sees Jon moving around, watering the multitude of flowers within the store. They had put skylights in the store a while ago and now he finally understands the power of them. The delicate light reflecting off every single flower-it drew the people in with a certain power that no one working there ever could.
Jon looks up and catches Spencer’s eye and Spencer slowly backs away. He looks up to the sign above the window, his fingers running through his hair quickly as he reads, “Rebecca’s Garden” and walks away.
*
“You ever think that maybe we grew up too quick?” Brendon asks, winding his golf club back and swinging it with impressive strength to hit the ball. Spencer raises his brows, watching as the small ball sails through the air and into the field. They used to do this all the time-randomly get dressed up in pastels and tight, white pants and shoot golf balls.
Spencer takes a long drag from his cigarette, resting a majority of his weight on his own club. “I think we didn’t grow up at all,” Spencer says, tossing his cigarette to the ground and positioning himself, swinging the club hard enough to send the ball over the road on the opposite side of the field.
Brendon raises his eyebrows, giving a soft whistle. “Someone’s game has improved.” Spencer tosses his head back and laughs, and Brendon just snorts. “Well, I know we grew up here,” he says, looking to Spencer silently for a moment, “We all had to.”
Spencer nods his head, setting up another ball. “Of course you guys did. You guys had to grow up so you could take the spot of your parents,” Spencer says, swinging the club over his shoulder before back down again, sending another ball sailing through the dusk sky. Spencer continues to stare out, waiting to hear the rustling of Brendon setting up beside him. When he doesn’t hear it, he looks to Brendon, just to find him staring at Spencer.
“We didn’t grow up to replace our parents,” Brendon says quietly, looking to Spencer in such a sad manner that Spencer almost aches. “We grew up in hopes that we could be like our parents or exactly as we thought our parents should have been.” Spencer nods his head, scratching at the back of his neck as Brendon continues. “You know, Ryan took Rebecca’s death hard. Harder then any of us, I think. I miss her, too, Spen. So much. But I’m trying to be strong for him.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” Spencer says quietly, and since Brendon won’t, he sets up another ball. Spencer looks to the car traveling slowly along the road, aims carefully, and swings at the ball. Both him and Brendon wait patiently, Brendon even jumping up and down a little bit, until they hear the sickening crash of the ball successfully going through the glass of a window.
They both cheer, Spencer throwing the club up into the air, his arms in the air in victory. Brendon laughs, coming over to Spencer and they hug. For a second, Spencer feels like his sixteen-year-old self, hugging a shorter, dorkier Brendon after just hitting a car.
The car comes to a screeching halt, the driver visibly getting out of the car, and beginning to yell loudly. They pull away from each other sharply, looking to the car before bolting down the hill, all laughter and a friendship that hadn’t quite matured.
*
Spencer learns that Lisa lives only two streets down from here, in a quaint, green house. She’s the local doctor, which surprises Spencer greatly, but he says nothing. He almost asks what about the flower shop but then he remembers Jon. She tells Spencer to not worry so much and to take a look around the house.
For some reason, Spencer can’t bring himself to sleep in his old room again. He can’t bring himself to look through the house. So he moves all the furniture in the living room to the sides of the room, lights a fire, and sets a sheet down. It isn’t comfortable and it isn’t classy, but it’s what Spencer feels like he needs.
It’s raining out, the soft pitter-patter so familiar to Spencer’s ears as he lies down on the sheet, watching the television blankly. He feels young again, so very young, and for a second he thinks that maybe he got it wrong. Maybe he’s the one that’s yet to mature and everyone else around him has grown and changed.
There’s a knock at the door and Spencer actually considers not getting up and answering it. However, it’s raining, so Spencer assumes the person actually wants to see him. He stands up, pulling down his sleep shirt as he went.
He’s a bit surprised when it’s Jon who’s standing in the rain.
“Lisa isn’t here,” Spencer automatically says. Jon is soaking wet, hair plastered to his face, and Spencer can’t help but notice he’s freshly shaved. In his hand is a bouquet of yellow carnations. Spencer narrows his eyes.
“I’m taking it these are for me.” Jon nods his head, his eyes dark. Spencer just places his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “Alright then, explain yourself.”
“I expected you to come here and cure everything,” Jon says, and for the first time Spencer can hear true, raw emotion in his voice. “I just want my life back to the way it was. With everyone happy and healthy. I don’t want to see everyone so broken and hurt.”
Spencer growls quietly, snatching the flowers away from Jon and tossing them back into the living room in one, angry motion. “I’m not her, Jon!” he snaps, and Jon just stands there, on his porch, drenched from head to foot, staring at him. Spencer expects him to respond, expects him to hit him, yell at him, anything. So when Jon doesn’t, Spencer reaches out, grabbing him by the front of the shirt and sharply tugging him forward for a kiss.
If Spencer ever thought that Jon was the devil, he takes it back now, because the things this man could do with his lips and tongue were truly heavenly. Spencer was never one for kissing, but he could and would get used to it if it was anything like kissing Jon. Jon, who is pulling his hair and biting onto his lips, smelling like a strange mix of dirt and pure man.
Even though Spencer’s mind screams cliché as Jon lays him down onto the sheet, his body is far beyond caring. He arches into every touch Jon lays to his skin, his fingers rough, strong, capable as they trace over the line of his ribs, the bump of his hipbones.
They kiss like they’re drowning and are going down with a fight.
Spencer is just as soaked as Jon by now, but clothes are coming off quickly, landing with wet noises on the hardwood floor. Jon takes a break only to slide Spencer’s shirt over his head, pausing just to look at the golden glaze to Spencer’s skin in the firelight. Spencer can see his chest expand with a deep breath. He has no time for admiration, so he sits up a bit, moving match Jon’s position-resting on his knees on the thin sheet.
Spencer’s hands start at Jon’s hips, moving up slowly over his skin, enjoying the warm feeling under his fingertips. He can feel Jon’s eyes, dark and heavy, on his face, and he slowly lifts his arms up to allow Spencer to take off the shift completely. It’s tender and intimate, and Spencer takes his time, looking from the waistband of Jon’s jeans all the way up his torso to his eyes.
Jon slides his knuckles down the line of Spencer’s chest-from collarbones to hipbones-before his hand curves around Spencer’s waist to press against the small of his back. It’s a soft pressure that brings Spencer against Jon and a soft kiss to realigns their lips once more.
He can’t read Jon and he’s beginning to just think he never will. Instead of saying something or doing something he’d regret, Spencer just falls down onto his back once again, using Jon’s hips to bring him back down against him. Jon hooks his fingers in the waistband of his boxers, peeling the wet material down and over his thighs, while meeting every kiss and lick and bite Spencer had to offer him.
Spencer vaguely wonders where his insecurities went.
Jon just keeps kissing Spencer, deep and leisurely, even bringing him up a bit as Jon sits back to get his jeans off. As soon as Spencer is on his back again, his legs wind around Jon’s waist, keeping him effectively pinned there.
Jon doesn’t do much in the ways of preparation, but Spencer doesn’t really mind, because just as soon as Jon has two fingers inside him, twisting and stretching, he wants more. “Jon,” he chokes out, hips arching up, muscles tight, and he realizes that that was the first time either of them had spoken throughout this entire thing. It almost seems to snap Jon out of whatever daze he was in, looking down to Spencer with those same, unreadable dark eyes.
The fingers are gone, and one hand on the floor beside Spencer’s head for Jon to brace some of his weight on as the other moves directly to Spencer’s hip. Spencer doesn’t even have to ask again, Jon shifts his hips in a tantalizing manner before pressing into Spencer in a way that makes him keen and burn. Spencer doesn’t ask but Jon knows not to pause inside of him, not to let him adjust. Instead he just leans down, bites onto Spencer’s lip hard, and begins a raw, sharp rhythm that has Spencer sliding up with every thrust.
“Fuck, fuck,” Spencer chants quietly, both hands going up over his head to grab on to something, anything. His hand connects with a flower first and he grips it tightly, looking into Jon’s eyes as he ripped the petals from the stem. Jon grins, leaning down and pressing a hard kiss to Spencer’s lips. Spencer arms go around Jon’s neck, the petals spilling down his back and gathering at where Spencer’s legs are wrapped around Jon’s waist.
Jon continually keeps Spencer guessing. At one moment, Jon will sharply snap his hips forward, causing Spencer to hiss and moan and scratch at his biceps. Then as soon as Spencer finds his rhythm, Jon is shallowly thrusting into him, just teasing him, occasionally plunging deeply within Spencer.
Despite the fact he’s twenty-eight, Spencer can’t take too much of this. In all fairness, he does tell Jon this, parting his lips in a silky manner against Jon’s and breathing into his mouth, “I’m not going to last.”
Jon just shrugs, as though Spencer told him the weather instead of his stamina, continuing to kiss Spencer in that hard, desperate way that has Spencer’s lips bruised. After a few more teasing thrusts, Spencer tightens up, and as soon as that hard one snaps him forward, Spencer is shamelessly writhing and coming over his own stomach in several lengthy spurts, moaning loudly enough for it to echo within Jon’s mouth.
Jon doesn’t relent. He just continues to slam into Spencer now with the same desperation he had been kissing him with. Spencer’s body is sensitive-too sensitive-and he’s at the line in which pain and pleasure melds together when he feels Jon release inside of him, his hips gradually slowing from the brutal pace they had held before.
As soon as Jon stills, he lets out a soft pant, the air brushing over Spencer’s too hot skin. Spencer groans loudly, his legs like jello as they slide from around Jon’s waist, dropping boneless and painfully onto the floor. Spencer grunts and Jon laughs. It’s the first time Spencer’s ever heard him laugh. He musters up enough energy to open an eye and sees Jon looking young, happy, staring down at Spencer with a soft sort of look.
Spencer reaches a hand up with much effort, blissfully boneless from possibly the best sex he’s ever had. “How old are you?” he asks quietly, and Jon looks surprised for a moment, but then leans down and pressing a kiss to the sweat gathering at Spencer’s throat.
“Thirty-two.”
Spencer nods, and then Jon lets out another laugh, and Spencer doesn’t care if he’s laughing at him. Jon just slides out of him as delicately as possible, both of them wincing slightly, before Jon wraps them burrito style within the sheet. Spencer tangles their legs and Jon leans down to kiss Spencer’s bruised lips.
Spencer reaches his hand out again, grabbing another carnation and holding onto it this time, curling his fingers around the stem as he kisses Jon back with everything he has tonight.
*
When Spencer wakes up, he isn’t surprised that he’s alone. He’s even more unsurprised when he shifts and a dull ache spreads from his ass all the way up to his shoulders. Nor is he surprised when he looks in the mirror after his morning piss to see his neck and shoulders covered in dark marks, roughly the size of Jon’s mouth.
What does surprise him is the bouquet of flowers on the kitchen table that he finds while padding into the room naked and hungry.
No card is needed. Spencer immediately recognizes the flowers. White tulips and stock. Spencer smiles, reaching out to run his fingertips down one of the silky petals of the tulips. He feels as though these flowers, right here, were a secret language that only he and Jon knew and understood because such a skillful teacher had taught them both.
He takes the flowers, adding a bit more water to the vase before settling them in the sun, looking out of the window on the same sight he had seen for eighteen years. He’s not sure why but today it looks so much better. Maybe the phenomenal sex cleared his head but he isn’t sure.
It takes him a half an hour to get changed and find exactly the flowers he wants from Jon’s garden. (He shamelessly went in there and stole a few. He figured Jon owed him considering he was bruised and very, very sore.) However, as soon as those things are accomplished, Spencer is out the door, bounding across the street to Ryan’s place.
He knocks once more and receives no answer, which… is still odd, but Spencer doesn’t really question it. So he just opens the door, because nearly twenty-eight years of friendship apparently meant he could freely break into said friends’ house without abandonment.
Spencer knows the outline of the house, so he bypasses the living room and heads directly towards the kitchen. Probably the last thing he expects to find is what he actually does-Ryan, sitting alone in the kitchen, absently staring out the window as tears roll down his face.
Spencer doesn’t ask why he’s crying and Ryan doesn’t ask why he’s there. Ryan actually doesn’t even look at him, not even when Spencer takes a seat beside him in the kitchen chair. They sit there in silence, until Ryan eventually stops cry, giving a sharp sniff and wiping at his face with shaky hands.
“Irises?” Ryan asks quietly, looking to Spencer’s hands. Spencer gently places the flowers on the table, nodding a bit. Ryan gives a small smile. “You gave these to me when my dad died.”
“Yes, I did,” Spencer says quietly, wrapping an arm around Ryan, letting the other man sink heavily into him. They both stared at the purple flowers, Spencer reaching for Ryan’s hand and lacing their fingers gently.
“What do they mean again?” Ryan presses his face into Spencer’s neck and Spencer can’t help but notice that he’s crying again. It’s soft and silent and it doesn’t make Spencer cry, just makes his chest ache horribly.
“Your friendship means so much to me,” Spencer replies, his fingers squeezing Ryan’s gently. “Faith, hope, wisdom and valor.” Ryan nods against Spencer’s neck, and Spencer can’t really do anything but be there for him.
“I miss her so much, Spencer,” he says, mumbling into the collar of Spencer’s shirt. Spencer really wishes he showered before he came over. Spencer looks to the far wall of the kitchen, narrowing his eyes to the bouquet of irises hanging over the window before giving a soft smile.
“I know, babe, I know,” Spencer says, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Ryan’s head. Spencer reaches down, taking off Ryan’s glasses and continuing to hug him close. They stay like that until Brendon comes home, bounding into the kitchen with a massive smile, the children in tow. As soon as he sees Ryan, he very quietly tells the children to go play in the living room, and that Daddy is fine and he just needs time.
Spencer’s chest twists and aches as Brendon comes over to them, simply scooping Ryan up bridal style. Ryan willingly melts into him, clinging to his husband’s shoulders, and Spencer can’t help but think he looks so much like a broken doll-his body limp and submissive with grief. Brendon offers Spencer an appreciative smile before kissing Ryan’s lips and walking out of the kitchen.
Spencer is gone before Brendon walks downstairs again.
Next Part >>