[smythmalion; jon walker/spencer smith, 7000 words]
Title: Smythmalion (i'd put a statue of myself upon the shelf)
Author: blindmadness
Word Count: 7000
Pairing: Jon Walker/Spencer Smith
Rating: Probably about PG-13 for cursing and mentions of sex
Fandom/'Verse: Bandom; Pygmalion and Galatea AU
Summary: Every single person in the world who's ever created the perfect man, even in their minds, and wished he could be real, Spencer thinks darkly, is seriously lucky that no one exists to grant their wishes. Boy sculpts statue, statue comes to life, boy develops crush on statue-turned-boy, boy freaks the fuck out about how awkward his life is.
Notes: As always, much thanks and love to e5chat for being the crazy amazing enablers that they are (<33333); also many thanks to lessthangreat and peridium for betaing. :D ♥ This fic (being the first real bandom fic I ever started, omg) has fueled a new desire for me to fuse my dorkiness about Greek mythology and my love for bandom, so definitely look for more like this once I think of what to do next. \o/
Smythmalion (i'd put a statue of myself upon the shelf)
It starts when Brent starts missing rehearsals for no good reason and as it happens more and more frequently, well, Spencer would like to see someone try to blame him for needing stress relief.
He stumbles onto the sculpting thing by complete accident. His fingers just tend to need something to do while he's sitting still, so he ends up folding one of those stupid little paper cranes out of the first loose sheet he comes in contact with -- just something to occupy them. Brendon's delighted and tells him it's adorable, though, and it was oddly soothing to make, after all, so Spencer starts to think.
He likes the challenge of creating things, but he thinks he'd like something firmer and less flimsy than paper. Clay as a medium also ends up being an accident; he simply happens to find it in some corner of the house and soon he's making a small, simple, but surprisingly realistic cat. He's pleased with the final product, but even more so with the effort that went into it, how calming it is to feel the things he imagines take shape beneath his fingers. It's like making music, shaping a medium into what he wants it to be, but this gives him physical, visual evidence of his work, and there's something far too satisfying about that. Just looking at the cat makes him feel better about the Brent situation.
Spencer orders as much clay as he can afford by the quickest possible mail the next day. He has a feeling he'll need it.
After a few weeks, Spencer notices a pattern. The more Brent misses out on his responsibilities, the more rehearsals he skips, the bigger his sculptures get. He makes Ryan a paperweight (in the shape of a guitar) that's bigger than his actual desk; Ryan points this out to him (Spencer says "you're welcome"), but he notes that Ryan keeps it in his room anyway. (It's a damn nice guitar, if he says so himself.)
The night after he tells Brent he's out of the band, Spencer starts on a shipment of clay bigger than he is. He doesn't come out of his room all night.
He quickly becomes obsessed with this sculpture, more so than anything else he's ever done. He's not even sure what he's making until he notices that the bottom looks a lot like a pair of jeans.
That, and the fact that the clay really would be about a few inches taller than he is if he stood it upright, gets Spencer thinking.
He fixes up the area around the statue's shins, then focuses on the feet. He tries to sculpt shoes for a good few days, focusing on that area alone, but nothing seems right. For a while, he's sure that it's just a creative block brought about by focusing on something in specific rather than just letting the art flow; then he decides to try putting the feet in flip-flops, and suddenly progress is rapid and gratifying.
Spencer puts more time, more energy, and more of himself into this than into any other sculpture he's ever done. Maybe it's because it's so big, and maybe it's because most of the time, he barely feels like it's him working -- it's like he's possessed by a muse or a spirit or whatever creative ghost it is that sometimes takes over him on stage, too, when he's in that zone where drumming comes more easily than breathing and hours pass by like seconds. Whatever it is, it's making him work better than ever before, with more skill and focus, and he knows that even if he's only been sculpting for a few months and he has his entire life ahead of him, this is going to be his masterpiece.
Once he finishes the legs and moves up to the body, Spencer thinks that he might need a model. He asks Ryan, because he doesn't have enough faith in Brendon to stay still for the amount of time it's going to take him and Ryan's expressions don't change too often anyway. He makes the sculpture itself bigger than Ryan is, because he doesn't want it to snap when he sets it upright, but not really bulky. They work for hours and Ryan never complains, which Spencer is grateful for.
Maybe it's because Ryan is modeling, but it seems only natural to sculpt his creation holding a guitar.
It's a bass, Spencer knows once he gets past the vague outlines of it, and he's not sure why, he just knows. He makes Ryan come in even when he's just working on the guitar and he asks Ryan to hold his own even if it's not the same, because it's the fingers on the instrument he's interested in and for some reason, he has to keep that in mind even when it's just the instrument he's making. Maybe the bassist is in the middle of a song, and once that thought is in Spencer's head, he can't stop trying to decide which of their songs he's playing, because it has to be one of their songs. He just knows that, too.
"What are you even making?" Ryan asks one day, as Spencer finishes setting the strings as wire and dismisses him from his modeling duties. "The perfect bassist?"
It's said wryly, of course, but Spencer takes the question seriously, taking a step back to study the sculpture that's finally starting to look human -- or at least, up to the shoulders -- and tucks in the corner of a wire. "Maybe," he finally says.
Ryan arches an eyebrow dubiously, but doesn't say anything. This is his idea of being supportive.
Brendon stops by a few days later to check up on the project. "Wow," he exclaims, more obviously impressed than Ryan was, which is gratifying. "He's really good. Really lifelike. Why doesn't he have a face?" he adds after a moment's thoughtful contemplation of the sculpture.
"Haven't gotten there yet," Spencer replies shortly, and Brendon seems to accept this answer.
The truth is, Spencer's had nothing but time to make the face for three days now, and he's simply stuck. Every time he tries to so much as visualize how he wants the face to look, his brain practically freezes up. He doesn't dare start on the face until he has something perfect in mind; the rest of the statue's gone so well, looks so good, that he can't stand the thought of the face, the most important part (or so it seems now that it's all that's lacking), somehow ruining the rest of it.
He's trying -- he really is. He spends a day literally just sitting in front of the statue and staring at it, trying to visualize how the face should look. He tries focusing on other things, like their music, but it's difficult when knowing they're going on tour soon and they still don't have a bassist. He even resorts to trying to sketch different faces out, using magazines and the internet, and he knows that he's getting desperate because he can't draw for shit and so they all end up looking terrible, even when he tries to just stick to one specific feature and mix and match.
Nothing is right -- no, that's not it. Spencer's not about to lie to himself, not about this. He knows that he could put a face on it and it might be right -- it might not be quite right, something might be a little off, but that could make it even more human, even more realistic. The truth is, nothing is perfect. And this has come to mean so much to him that he just can't settle for anything less.
Unfortunately, the time until he can find this perfect face is driving him a little bit insane. The only thing keeping him committed is the thought of how much it would drive him insane if he got his one chance at a real masterpiece wrong.
He thinks maybe he's getting too involved in this sculpture. The only thing keeping him committed to that is knowing that Ryan would say the same.
One night, maybe a week after he finished everything but the face, Spencer has a dream. He's not sure what it was about -- he can't even remember a single detail about it right after waking up -- but whatever it is, he's sure it was something important. Because he gets up out of bed right as he wakes up, in the middle of the night, and by the light of a single lamp, sculpts the face of the statue before going back to sleep.
When he wakes up again in the morning, he's half convinced he dreamt even creating the face. Then he looks at the other end of his room where his sculpture is standing -- completed -- and he actually feels a surprisingly strong tug of emotion somewhere near his heart. This is it. That's the face. It's done, and it's perfect.
Spencer thinks, for a moment, that he might actually cry.
"Wow," Brendon says again, this time with even more of an emphasis on the word, upon seeing the finished product, face practically lighting up. "This is -- this is really -- wow, Spence. It's amazing."
Ryan doesn't say anything, but he studies it long and hard and gives a little nod, and Spencer catches him sneaking an extra look as he's leaving the room. He knows that this means that Ryan likes it despite himself, and knowing how stubborn Ryan is, his liking something despite himself is one of the best compliments Spencer could have gotten.
Overall, he's really damn pleased with himself. The only problem, he thinks in satisfaction, is how he's going to fill all of his free time from now on.
Rehearsal the next day seems to go better than ever, at least for Spencer, because for once he isn't completely preoccupied by another project and his mind isn't busily fixated on solving a particular problem. Sometimes the drums feel like stress relief, but this time it's more like a celebration. He'd never give less than all of what he had to music, but now he simply has much more to give.
And give he does, with everything in him. He's a little bit sweaty, which only comes from the best practices, and practically glowing from the intensity of the session as he all but skips down the hall to his room. There's the fact that they're lacking a bassist, but he's sure that they sound incredible despite that. At least, they did to Spencer's ears.
When Spencer gets to his room, he notices the door half-shut, where he could have sworn he'd left it open all the way. He shakes his head, pushes it open the rest of the way, and steps inside, looking forward to getting some rest and enjoying the feeling of having nothing to do for once.
Seated on the small stool Spencer keeps in the corner of his room is a man, maybe a couple of years older than he is, leaning back a little, head bent to the bass guitar in his hand; he's strumming notes absently and looking completely comfortable and at peace where he is. Even Spencer's arrival doesn't make him look up -- one flip-flop-clad foot skids forward a few inches and his dark hair flops into his eyes just a little bit.
Spencer's eyes linger at his face for a moment, then at the flip-flops, then at the corner of the room where his sculpture should be. His eyes travel across an empty space for a moment, then back to the young man's face.
Which happens to be upturned, now looking at Spencer, meeting his eyes, and something that's either excitement or a chill runs down Spencer's spine. They stay like that for the briefest of moments, simply looking at one another, and then the other smiles slightly. "I'm Jon Walker," he says, inclining his head a little towards Spencer.
Spencer faints.
When he comes to, he's pretty sure he's dreamt it. Or even imagined it. Or, at the very least, blew it out of proportion. After all, there has to be a better explanation -- any explanation -- apart from what seemed the obvious and unbelievable.
That's it, Spencer thinks as he sits up, eyes still closed. He's exaggerating, thinking about it the wrong way, making a mistake. Things like this just don't happen. There's absolutely no way that the man who was just in his room was actually his statue that unexpectedly and impossibly came to life. There is a rational explanation for it.
But the flip-flops had the exact same simple squiggle design on them that Spencer remembers sculpting with ease and relief, the jeans were the same fit he had shaped himself, the sweater curled over the collar the same way, the bass in his hands the exact model Spencer remembers taking shape beneath his fingers. And all of that would be understandable, could be explained away, but then there's also the face, and that can't be. Spencer spent weeks thinking about every feature of that face, sculpted it in a half-asleep daze by the light of one lamp, but he'd know every feature of it anywhere, let alone looking him in the eye, and that was it, he knows. That was it.
If anyone had asked before, Spencer would have said that if he'd had a chance to think about it, he would have sculpted unusual-looking people. Not unattractive, but strange, unique, with some sort of flaw that stopped them from being stunning but were oddly appealing anyway, giving people a new look at beauty and the human form. No one had thought to ask, of course, but Spencer spends a lot of time thinking of answers to these sorts of questions anyway.
And anyway, it's not like he ever had time to truly think about his statue in terms of attractiveness or not -- he supposes it was good-looking enough and left it at that, too euphoric over finishing it to contemplate, and it was clay, for fuck's sake -- but looking at it in human form, seeing those features set in flesh, living and breathing and alive -- well. Damned if his statue isn't one of the most gorgeous men he's ever seen. And there's probably something really fucking creepy in that, but Spencer would dare anyone to contradict him right now.
And then it hits Spencer again, past the vague embarrassment of finding his statue attractive -- his statue's alive, breathing, talking, playing the fucking bass, and he sort of feels like fainting again.
The feeling doesn't go away anytime in the near future, because Jon is in Spencer's life more than he was when Spencer was still creating him and he still hasn't even had a chance to process that he's real.
Brendon and Ryan know the truth about him, of course (Spencer has the feeling that they're actually taking it better than he did), but to everyone else, Jon tells easy facts about a life he never had. He has a place he's from, a place he's grown up, experience, places he's played -- everything lined up. He even has an age and a birthday, not to mention a name (Spencer still has no idea where he got that); it all seems to click into place a little too well. It's like his history existed already, just waiting for him to step in and live it; his mind and personality are fully formed and without any explanation, he acts like an average laid-back, wryly witty twenty-year-old, as if this mind was plucked from someone else and transplanted into his head.
Spencer really doesn't know how he managed to sculpt a brain underneath the head of his statue, let alone an obviously fully functioning one.
The weirdest part -- weirder still than the history Jon is spouting off, weirder than the entire premise of this insanity -- might be how well Jon is getting along with everyone. Brendon and Ryan both take this into stride -- one more of the challenges facing the band -- and once they hear Jon play the bass, they're interested in letting him into the band. Spencer protests vehemently (out of Jon's earshot) that having his statue alive and walking around is weird enough, but being in the same band as something that was unmoving clay of his own creation just a couple of weeks ago is further up on the weird scale than he ever wants to go. Ryan shuts him up by asking if he has any other capable bassists that get along with everyone in the band hiding in his closet or even in his sculptures; Spencer then grudgingly accepts that there's really no alternative and he'll have to get over himself.
Because there's the fact that Jon's downright perfect for the band. Along with the brain, life, name, and personality he seemed to acquire out of nowhere, there's also a significant more amount of talent than their previous bassist (Spencer doesn't want to be catty, but he also believes in honesty). He seems to pick up all of their songs with unusual speed; Spencer doesn't really want to think about this, but he suspects it might be because he sculpted him while thinking that he was playing one of those songs, and somehow the melodies in his head went into the statue's -- Jon's. And even apart from the technical mastery and unusual knowledge of the music, there's the fact that both Brendon and Ryan like him. Spencer would have expected Brendon to, of course -- it's almost impossible for Brendon not to find something to like about someone and he has his own brand of charm -- but Ryan is a surprise. Still, before Spencer knows it, Ryan and Jon are discussing music, practicing lines, and he suspects they've even spent some time smoking pot, and either way they're friends, all of them, and this is officially the strangest thing that has ever happened in Spencer's life.
There are, of course, problems -- as if this whole thing doesn't feel like one giant problem to Spencer. When he says that they're all friends, he really means that Brendon, Ryan, and Jon are friends. Spencer himself has been going out of his way to avoid Jon without making it really obvious that this is what he's doing. He's not quite sure how well this is working out -- or, he's not sure if Brendon knows, but if the knowing, exasperated looks Ryan shoots him every time he makes an excuse to leave upon seeing Jon or comes back in after Jon's left are any indication, his best friend definitely does. What he really means is, he doesn't know if Jon knows or not.
Spencer thinks that maybe it would be different had Jon not seemed to insert himself so seamlessly into everyone's lives, but that could also just be his trying to avoid the blame for it. The truth is, it's bad enough that no one else seems to be weirded out by the fact that Spencer sculpted Jon Walker and now he is alive, bad enough that he can't avoid this strange reality because Jon Walker seems to be everywhere he turns, bad enough that no one can even begin to offer him a rational explanation of what happened -- all of this is bad enough, more than, without the infinitely worse, painfully awkward addition of finding himself attracted to Jon Walker as well.
It's hardly as if he can help it, he tells himself every time it comes about; Jon's strikingly attractive by any standards, in a way that snuck up on one even more than was obvious upon first sight. That alone would have been more than enough for Spencer, but there's, of course, more; there's the fact that he knows exactly how every inch of Jon's body looks, due to having created it himself, and he can almost predict each shift in his expression as if he's sculpting it again. And there are times when he turns and sees Jon, sees those shifts in expression for himself, and wants to draw his fingers across his face as if sculpting again but simply feeling now, tracing what's already there rather than creating more, knowing that he couldn't possibly improve on what's already there even if he spent another few weeks on the face --
And that's when he has to stop, to look away, to make an excuse to leave the room without looking back, because it's too fucking strange to even contemplate. He still can't even fully accept that Jon is his statue come to life, and he thinks maybe that's because once he does, it'll officially turn this attraction into something wrong, something off, something that never should have happened -- it's practically masturbation in a way, definitely strange, maybe even a little sick -- and he can't quite give up on it even as he's refusing to let himself act on it either. All he knows is that every time he feels his heart start to speed up a little in Jon's presence, every time he feels that slightly-too-sharp pang of longing, every time his fingers itch with the desire to touch his hair or his jaw or even just his shirt, it feels like it shouldn't be happening, it feels like he's doing something wrong just by feeling it, and he can't take that for too long.
Every single person in the world who's ever created the perfect man, even in their minds, and wished he could be real, Spencer thinks darkly, is seriously lucky that no one exists to grant their wishes. He's living the reality and it's far from perfect.
But, honestly, it's not unbearable. It's far from it, actually, despite the constant agonizing, confusion, and regretting that he can't let go of the first two and simply enjoy Jon's company like he so desperately wants to. That's uncomfortable and it's awkward and he hates it, but he could live with that, with all of it, for as long as possible if he had to.
But there are times when he walks into a room and Jon's there, or Jon enters before he notices him coming, Jon's tuning his bass or Spencer's reading, and more often than not other people are there, and Jon looks up or Spencer glances over at him without thinking, and their eyes meet. That's all that happens; they don't speak or move and no one speaks to them or moves them or breaks it otherwise. They just look at one another, and there's nothing special or significant about a look like that, but Spencer swears he can feel it in his bones anyway. It's stupid and painfully clichéd, but in that instant when their eyes lock, he feels like Jon could look at him, all of him, see him for what he's been, what he is, what he could or will be, like he could open his mouth and every single secret Spencer's even kept would come out. And in the face of knowledge like that, his feelings seem like simple trivialities, so Spencer knows that Jon knows that Spencer's been avoiding him, and he also knows that Jon knows that he knows that, and that's the worst thing of all, that's what makes everything unbearable, because Spencer can't find the words to explain the truth to him.
Exactly two months after Jon comes to life (he remembers the exact day, because it isn't the sort of thing that he's even capable of forgetting), Spencer has a dream.
That's not exactly unusual in and of itself -- he has fairly vivid dreams relatively often, even a good handful he's known are dreams the entire time -- but this one's different than any he's had before. He's standing on a beach with pure white sand, strange-looking trees growing on one side and the other stretching out as far as he can see, sky a perfect, cloudless blue, water the clearest shade of turquoise he's ever seen. The air's light, warm and breezy, and if he tries, he can even smell the salt in the air, something that never happens in his dreams.
Standing across from him, a few feet away, is the most beautiful woman Spencer's ever seen in his life. He's pretty sure she's more beautiful than every other attractive woman he's ever seen in his life put together; she practically radiates true, stunning beauty in a way he's never seen before, like the word "gorgeous" had no meaning until mankind first laid eyes on her. Her figure is absolutely perfect, just the right combination of curves and slender limbs; she's barefoot and most of her creamy skin is revealed by the short tunic she's wearing, the same shade as her eyes, which are the exact colour of the sea, rimmed by long lashes. Her hair is golden, falling to her waist in flawless ringlets that curl perfectly around her heart-shaped face, framing almost painfully exquisite features. She's so striking, so impossibly lovely that it almost hurts to look at her too long; something (though it's nothing he could explain, maybe something in her posture) about her, Spencer thinks distantly, reminds him vaguely of Victoria Asher.
This vision is currently looking him right in the eye, expression level and unmovable. Her arms cross over her chest and in a voice that's like birds singing and waves crashing and the melting of the most delicious chocolate in the world says, "Spencer James Smith the fifth, what do you think you're doing?"
Spencer doesn't reply; he feels as if he's actually been struck speechless just from hearing his name spoken in that voice. He might actually even be gaping at her a little, though she doesn't seem to have noticed. Indeed, she doesn't seem to require Spencer's input in the conversation at all just yet.
"Or what you're not doing, I suppose it is," she continues, eyes rolling upward for a moment, even that motion seeming classic and graceful and stunning. "Technicalities. The point is, you're being an enormous idiot and that's not something I can stand for, even in men as cute as you happen to be. Especially not then, in fact, idiocy is so much easier to bear in the plain ones. Then they can be ignored altogether rather than simply bearing one flaw it's difficult to overlook."
It takes Spencer a moment to realize she was done speaking, as he's still busy staring at her -- even as affected as he is by Jon, he can't be unmoved by her appearance. A rather impatient, sharp "Well?" snaps him out of it; he blinks, shakes his head, and looks again. Her hands are now on her hips, and he returns her expectant look with a rather blank one of his own.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" she prompts him again, deliberately patient in the way that only people who have already lost their patience are, and when Spencer finally finds his voice, all he can manage is a confused, rather stupid-sounding, "What?"
The woman rolls her eyes, more openly exasperated now, and mutters something that sounds like "mortals". She takes a step closer to Spencer (which throws him off-balance all over again) and speaks more deliberately, her words edged. "I have no idea what you're waiting for. I've done you a great service, haven't I? Saw the potential in your little project, helped you along, and even made him real for you. I gave the man of your dreams life and what have you done for me? Not even a bottle of wine sacrificed in my name and I suppose you wouldn't dream of offering some quality meat. Well apart from your own benefit, what sort of thanks do I get?"
She sounds almost petulant now. "Thank you" escapes Spencer's lips before he's even fully realized he had the intention of speaking.
She blinks, obviously startled, then looks a little more mollified. "Well, that's a start. At least you're polite, even if you have no idea what I'm talking about." She arches an eyebrow at him; Spencer feels himself flush faintly, guiltily. "Anyway, we aren't talking about me, we're talking about you and the horrible mistake you're making. He wants you too, you know. Your mind as well as your body. And you know that, and anyone could tell how you feel, I couldn't possibly make that something between you two more obvious, so what exactly is it that's holding you back from sleeping with him right now?"
Still not entirely sure what's going on, Spencer decides to attempt a reply despite how overwhelmed he feels. "I -- I don't -- he's -- " he tries and retries, then simply closes his mouth again, well aware that nothing he says could possibly make him sound like anything but an idiot.
Fortunately, the woman now looks amused rather than offended. "Right. I know how this goes." She flutters her eyelashes -- even mockingly, the gesture's more appealing than it has any right to be -- and says dramatically, "You're not used to this. It's strange. It's out of the ordinary. It's unexpected, and you can't get over that. It might be easier to get over, of course, if you just wanted him physically, but the attraction's emotional too. He's smart, he's funny, he's easy to be around, and you want to talk to him and laugh at his jokes and just spend time with him, which is impossible when you can't get past how disturbing the whole situation is and how hard you're fighting the feelings for him."
Spencer isn't quite sure what it says about one's emotional complexity if the agonizing, painful, confusing feelings one spent two months wrestling with can be summed up within a few sentences by a (stunning, admittedly) woman in a toga. Whatever statement it actually does make, he's reduced to simply gaping at her again, wondering blankly if he's really quite that obvious to everyone.
"No," the woman says, and Spencer's jaw drops a little further as she laughs, the sound unspeakably exquisite. "Trust me, I just -- well, I know these things." She smiles at him, the smallest, subtlest upward curve of her perfectly shaped mouth, and her expression's a little gentler as she takes a step closer to him.
"Spencer," she says, and dazed as he is by hearing his voice in those tones again, he listens, because he can tell this is important. "This is for you. There's no catch, no obligation, no return date. You've had time to let go of your reservations, but now, he wants you. He's waiting for you. All you need to do is go to him."
She leans in to kiss his cheek, the softest and sweetest brush of lips, and his mind goes blank, the scene dissolving.
When Spencer wakes up, he doesn't remember the dream at all.
Something in the air -- or maybe a leftover from his subconscious -- seems to have had a lingering effect on him, though, because for some reason Spencer finds himself perfectly content to simply sit near a window the next afternoon, watching the relatively simple scenery outside. And when he hears someone else enter the room, he can't think of a reason to feel any anxiety at all, no reason to turn and see who it is.
That's why he's caught so off-guard -- though really, he thinks, he shouldn't be, it's just so typical -- by hearing the other person clear their throat, a low, awkward sound, and upon turning, catching sight of Jon Walker's oddly serious expression.
For a moment, neither of them say anything, even if the eye contact's almost painfully loaded, even if every unsaid word seems to practically hang in the air between them. Or so Spencer imagines it, with his own words -- he can't even begin to imagine what Jon would say or want to say. And when Jon finally speaks, a soft "Can we talk?" emerging into the air, Spencer throws weeks of carefully constructed avoidance and agonized nerves out the window with a single nod.
By some sort of unspoken agreement, the room they're in is deemed inappropriate; Spencer stands and Jon turns at the same time and soon, they end up in Spencer's room. He half-closes the door, then closes it further, almost all the way. Jon stands in the center of the room a little awkwardly and Spencer thinks of offering him a seat, but the options are either the bed -- unthinkable -- or a chair and a stool. He thinks, maybe nonsensically, that they should stand, that they should be at the same level for this conversation.
"You've been avoiding me," Jon says without preamble, after a brief, awkward silence, and Spencer wasn't expecting something quite that forward, but it doesn't stop him from replying with a single, unflinching nod.
Jon looks a little startled, maybe not expecting outright honesty either, but Spencer's forcing himself to handle this right. There's another, longer silence as Jon watches him, expression unchanging but obviously expectant, and Spencer knows he's waiting for an explanation just as he knows he can't give it unless he's thought it through, unless he knows exactly what to say because this is his one chance to get everything right.
"You're -- you're my statue." And, okay, maybe it's not the dazzlingly articulate speech that would perfectly explain everything he was thinking that he'd vaguely thought he might make, because really, he knows he doesn't have that sort of thing in him (even if he might sometimes like to), but it gets the point across, gets to the heart of the matter more swiftly and accurately than any lengthy speech could, and that was really what he wanted.
And maybe it's a little bit stupid of Spencer, since seriously, it's a statement of fact, but he's still taken by surprise when Jon nods and quietly replies, "Yeah, I am." It's not like he was really outright expecting a denial, since it's true, but it seems kind of strange to him that Jon seems to be so all right with bluntly accepting his -- statue-ness. Ex-statue-ness, Spencer supposes; there really aren't words made for this situation, for some truly bizarre reason. Probably someone actually realistic never thought it would happen.
"It's weird, though," and okay, Spencer definitely doesn't think he's stupid for being surprised by hearing Jon expand on his ex-statue-ness. "It's like -- " He hesitates, raising both hands as if trying to gesture but not sure which could depict what he wants to say best; Spencer's hit by a surprisingly overwhelming rush to take either one or both hands and firmly suppresses it. "Just -- fucking weird. Like, one day there's nothing, no light and no sound and nothing, and then the next day there's..." A slow half-circle of Jon's left hand seems to indicate the entire world and Spencer nods, suddenly feeling sympathetic. He's never really imagined how strange it must be for Jon, to be thrust into the world as the very first thing one knows, without even the grace period of childhood.
"And it's not like I can really talk to anyone about it," Jon adds, with a self-deprecating half-shrug that speaks the unsaid half of that statement more eloquently than words ever could: who would believe me? "Except you," he adds and even though it's said neutrally, Spencer feels kind of ashamed of himself -- he's never thought about this, either. "Though -- I know it must be weird for you too," Jon says fairly; Spencer nods weakly in acknowledgment. "I mean -- yeah. But at the same time it's, like." He hesitates, looking awkward, and Spencer's flooded with the extremely unproductive urge to give him a hug. "You've been avoiding me and not talking to me and everything and it's sort of like -- not that you don't want me here, because yeah, you obviously don't, you didn't ask for this, but -- like you're not happy with me, I guess? That I didn't turn out like you wanted?" Jon shrugs again, studying his feet now. "This is such a fucking weird conversation. But -- yeah. That's it, pretty much."
Of all the directions that Spencer would have imagined this conversation going -- and, okay, he hasn't seriously entertained even the possibility of this conversation, let alone its outcome, for very long at all -- that's certainly not it, and it makes the knot of guilt in his chest grow even more. Fuck, Jon actually thought he might not be happy with him? That he didn't turn out like Spencer wanted? The entire problem is that he turned out exactly like Spencer wanted -- like Spencer wanted, wants, way too much.
"It's not that," Spencer finally manages, more than a little awkwardly. "It's not that -- you didn't turn out like I wanted. Well," he corrects, tilting his head to one side, "I didn't really want you alive. Not -- that it's totally a bad thing -- or a bad thing at all," he stumbles across the phrases, knowing he's just digging himself deeper and deeper and being completely unable to stop. "Or -- fuck, it might be, I have no idea, but it doesn't really -- that's not -- it's not the point, not exactly."
Jon now looks completely bewildered. Spencer kind of wants to slap himself.
"The point is that -- that -- you're fine," he finally manages around unusual inarticulacy. "It's not -- anything about you. Well, it sort of is, but -- it's me, too." Well, that makes sense, Spencer thinks despairingly, and decides to just talk without thinking and to hell with his stupid brain. "It's that -- I really wish you were stupid or that you had no sense of humour or you were racist or -- I don't know, hated Brendon, or even that you couldn't play the damn bass at all even though you were made with one -- and I'd even settle for something having knocked your fucking nose off-center so that you looked seriously disfigured, anything, anything at all like that," and maybe this talking without thinking ideas wasn't such a good one, because when Spencer forces himself to break off, he really has no idea what the fuck he's just said.
Jon still looks a little blank, but for some reason almost understanding at the same time. "So," he says slowly. "The problem is that -- I'm smart, I have a sense of humour, I'm not racist, I like Brendon, I can play the bass, and -- I'm good-looking?"
Spencer lets his breath out in a long, defeated whoosh, leaning back against the closest wall and covering his eyes with a hand. "It sounds so stupid when you put it that way," he groans, vaguely horrified with himself.
"For the record," Jon murmurs wryly, and Spencer can practically feel his eyes on him even without knowing for sure that they're there, "it didn't sound too smart when you were saying it, either."
Spencer sighs, long and shaky, wondering briefly if whatever power brought Jon to life could see about turning him into a statue right now to spare him. With no imminent success there, he opens his eyes to see that Jon's taken a few steps closer without his noticing. "I can explain, probably," he tries feebly, "if you give me a minute -- "
Jon's grin is a little mocking, maybe, but that doesn't stop it from being affectionate, and Spencer can feel a faint flush rising just at the sight of it. "No," he says, shaking his head and taking another step closer. "I think you've definitely talked enough for now." And before Spencer can protest (or, more likely, agree), Jon's stepping closer in order to kiss him, and Spencer definitely has no interest in talking anymore.
In fact, he has very little ability to do anything, though the interest is definitely there -- taken by surprise so much as he is (which, he thinks maybe he shouldn't be, but really, most things are coming as a surprise in the current situation), all he can really do is lean into the kiss, let his lips part just barely, try to process what exactly is going on. And before long, what exactly is going on involves Jon pulling back, quirking an eyebrow once Spencer orients himself enough to open his eyes.
"I didn't think I was that bad at it," Jon says, "even if this is my first time doing it," and though his tone's casual enough there's a clear question in his eyes.
Spencer lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding; this is Jon's first kiss, he realizes, and the thought that it was his gives him an odd sort of thrill. He forces that particular pleasure out of his mind, stands a little straighter, and opens his mouth to try to explain his confusion and inability to react -- and the next thing he knows, his mouth is kissing Jon Walker without having consulted the rest of him, and then he's thinking maybe his mouth's got the right idea.
It takes him some time to force rational thought through the very obvious distraction -- Jon's tongue brushing past his own, the light pressure of Jon's body holding him against the wall, his own hand fisted loosely in Jon's shirt -- but he finally manages to gather the will to pull back just barely, taking a moment to catch his breath before saying, somewhat raggedly, "This doesn't really -- solve anything. It's still -- "
"Pretty fucked up," Jon finishes for him, voice low and a little husky. "But -- " He trails off, trying to find the right words to describe whatever he wants to say (Spencer thinks maybe he shouldn't, because he's pretty sure he understands), and finally returns with, "But we can handle it together."
Spencer feels a faint but confident grin spread over his features, slowly relaxing from his previous, seemingly endless tension as he looks at Jon. "We can," he replies firmly, and this time his mouth's acting in full accord with the rest of him when it finds Jon's again.
Author: blindmadness
Word Count: 7000
Pairing: Jon Walker/Spencer Smith
Rating: Probably about PG-13 for cursing and mentions of sex
Fandom/'Verse: Bandom; Pygmalion and Galatea AU
Summary: Every single person in the world who's ever created the perfect man, even in their minds, and wished he could be real, Spencer thinks darkly, is seriously lucky that no one exists to grant their wishes. Boy sculpts statue, statue comes to life, boy develops crush on statue-turned-boy, boy freaks the fuck out about how awkward his life is.
Notes: As always, much thanks and love to e5chat for being the crazy amazing enablers that they are (<33333); also many thanks to lessthangreat and peridium for betaing. :D ♥ This fic (being the first real bandom fic I ever started, omg) has fueled a new desire for me to fuse my dorkiness about Greek mythology and my love for bandom, so definitely look for more like this once I think of what to do next. \o/
Smythmalion (i'd put a statue of myself upon the shelf)
It starts when Brent starts missing rehearsals for no good reason and as it happens more and more frequently, well, Spencer would like to see someone try to blame him for needing stress relief.
He stumbles onto the sculpting thing by complete accident. His fingers just tend to need something to do while he's sitting still, so he ends up folding one of those stupid little paper cranes out of the first loose sheet he comes in contact with -- just something to occupy them. Brendon's delighted and tells him it's adorable, though, and it was oddly soothing to make, after all, so Spencer starts to think.
He likes the challenge of creating things, but he thinks he'd like something firmer and less flimsy than paper. Clay as a medium also ends up being an accident; he simply happens to find it in some corner of the house and soon he's making a small, simple, but surprisingly realistic cat. He's pleased with the final product, but even more so with the effort that went into it, how calming it is to feel the things he imagines take shape beneath his fingers. It's like making music, shaping a medium into what he wants it to be, but this gives him physical, visual evidence of his work, and there's something far too satisfying about that. Just looking at the cat makes him feel better about the Brent situation.
Spencer orders as much clay as he can afford by the quickest possible mail the next day. He has a feeling he'll need it.
After a few weeks, Spencer notices a pattern. The more Brent misses out on his responsibilities, the more rehearsals he skips, the bigger his sculptures get. He makes Ryan a paperweight (in the shape of a guitar) that's bigger than his actual desk; Ryan points this out to him (Spencer says "you're welcome"), but he notes that Ryan keeps it in his room anyway. (It's a damn nice guitar, if he says so himself.)
The night after he tells Brent he's out of the band, Spencer starts on a shipment of clay bigger than he is. He doesn't come out of his room all night.
He quickly becomes obsessed with this sculpture, more so than anything else he's ever done. He's not even sure what he's making until he notices that the bottom looks a lot like a pair of jeans.
That, and the fact that the clay really would be about a few inches taller than he is if he stood it upright, gets Spencer thinking.
He fixes up the area around the statue's shins, then focuses on the feet. He tries to sculpt shoes for a good few days, focusing on that area alone, but nothing seems right. For a while, he's sure that it's just a creative block brought about by focusing on something in specific rather than just letting the art flow; then he decides to try putting the feet in flip-flops, and suddenly progress is rapid and gratifying.
Spencer puts more time, more energy, and more of himself into this than into any other sculpture he's ever done. Maybe it's because it's so big, and maybe it's because most of the time, he barely feels like it's him working -- it's like he's possessed by a muse or a spirit or whatever creative ghost it is that sometimes takes over him on stage, too, when he's in that zone where drumming comes more easily than breathing and hours pass by like seconds. Whatever it is, it's making him work better than ever before, with more skill and focus, and he knows that even if he's only been sculpting for a few months and he has his entire life ahead of him, this is going to be his masterpiece.
Once he finishes the legs and moves up to the body, Spencer thinks that he might need a model. He asks Ryan, because he doesn't have enough faith in Brendon to stay still for the amount of time it's going to take him and Ryan's expressions don't change too often anyway. He makes the sculpture itself bigger than Ryan is, because he doesn't want it to snap when he sets it upright, but not really bulky. They work for hours and Ryan never complains, which Spencer is grateful for.
Maybe it's because Ryan is modeling, but it seems only natural to sculpt his creation holding a guitar.
It's a bass, Spencer knows once he gets past the vague outlines of it, and he's not sure why, he just knows. He makes Ryan come in even when he's just working on the guitar and he asks Ryan to hold his own even if it's not the same, because it's the fingers on the instrument he's interested in and for some reason, he has to keep that in mind even when it's just the instrument he's making. Maybe the bassist is in the middle of a song, and once that thought is in Spencer's head, he can't stop trying to decide which of their songs he's playing, because it has to be one of their songs. He just knows that, too.
"What are you even making?" Ryan asks one day, as Spencer finishes setting the strings as wire and dismisses him from his modeling duties. "The perfect bassist?"
It's said wryly, of course, but Spencer takes the question seriously, taking a step back to study the sculpture that's finally starting to look human -- or at least, up to the shoulders -- and tucks in the corner of a wire. "Maybe," he finally says.
Ryan arches an eyebrow dubiously, but doesn't say anything. This is his idea of being supportive.
Brendon stops by a few days later to check up on the project. "Wow," he exclaims, more obviously impressed than Ryan was, which is gratifying. "He's really good. Really lifelike. Why doesn't he have a face?" he adds after a moment's thoughtful contemplation of the sculpture.
"Haven't gotten there yet," Spencer replies shortly, and Brendon seems to accept this answer.
The truth is, Spencer's had nothing but time to make the face for three days now, and he's simply stuck. Every time he tries to so much as visualize how he wants the face to look, his brain practically freezes up. He doesn't dare start on the face until he has something perfect in mind; the rest of the statue's gone so well, looks so good, that he can't stand the thought of the face, the most important part (or so it seems now that it's all that's lacking), somehow ruining the rest of it.
He's trying -- he really is. He spends a day literally just sitting in front of the statue and staring at it, trying to visualize how the face should look. He tries focusing on other things, like their music, but it's difficult when knowing they're going on tour soon and they still don't have a bassist. He even resorts to trying to sketch different faces out, using magazines and the internet, and he knows that he's getting desperate because he can't draw for shit and so they all end up looking terrible, even when he tries to just stick to one specific feature and mix and match.
Nothing is right -- no, that's not it. Spencer's not about to lie to himself, not about this. He knows that he could put a face on it and it might be right -- it might not be quite right, something might be a little off, but that could make it even more human, even more realistic. The truth is, nothing is perfect. And this has come to mean so much to him that he just can't settle for anything less.
Unfortunately, the time until he can find this perfect face is driving him a little bit insane. The only thing keeping him committed is the thought of how much it would drive him insane if he got his one chance at a real masterpiece wrong.
He thinks maybe he's getting too involved in this sculpture. The only thing keeping him committed to that is knowing that Ryan would say the same.
One night, maybe a week after he finished everything but the face, Spencer has a dream. He's not sure what it was about -- he can't even remember a single detail about it right after waking up -- but whatever it is, he's sure it was something important. Because he gets up out of bed right as he wakes up, in the middle of the night, and by the light of a single lamp, sculpts the face of the statue before going back to sleep.
When he wakes up again in the morning, he's half convinced he dreamt even creating the face. Then he looks at the other end of his room where his sculpture is standing -- completed -- and he actually feels a surprisingly strong tug of emotion somewhere near his heart. This is it. That's the face. It's done, and it's perfect.
Spencer thinks, for a moment, that he might actually cry.
"Wow," Brendon says again, this time with even more of an emphasis on the word, upon seeing the finished product, face practically lighting up. "This is -- this is really -- wow, Spence. It's amazing."
Ryan doesn't say anything, but he studies it long and hard and gives a little nod, and Spencer catches him sneaking an extra look as he's leaving the room. He knows that this means that Ryan likes it despite himself, and knowing how stubborn Ryan is, his liking something despite himself is one of the best compliments Spencer could have gotten.
Overall, he's really damn pleased with himself. The only problem, he thinks in satisfaction, is how he's going to fill all of his free time from now on.
Rehearsal the next day seems to go better than ever, at least for Spencer, because for once he isn't completely preoccupied by another project and his mind isn't busily fixated on solving a particular problem. Sometimes the drums feel like stress relief, but this time it's more like a celebration. He'd never give less than all of what he had to music, but now he simply has much more to give.
And give he does, with everything in him. He's a little bit sweaty, which only comes from the best practices, and practically glowing from the intensity of the session as he all but skips down the hall to his room. There's the fact that they're lacking a bassist, but he's sure that they sound incredible despite that. At least, they did to Spencer's ears.
When Spencer gets to his room, he notices the door half-shut, where he could have sworn he'd left it open all the way. He shakes his head, pushes it open the rest of the way, and steps inside, looking forward to getting some rest and enjoying the feeling of having nothing to do for once.
Seated on the small stool Spencer keeps in the corner of his room is a man, maybe a couple of years older than he is, leaning back a little, head bent to the bass guitar in his hand; he's strumming notes absently and looking completely comfortable and at peace where he is. Even Spencer's arrival doesn't make him look up -- one flip-flop-clad foot skids forward a few inches and his dark hair flops into his eyes just a little bit.
Spencer's eyes linger at his face for a moment, then at the flip-flops, then at the corner of the room where his sculpture should be. His eyes travel across an empty space for a moment, then back to the young man's face.
Which happens to be upturned, now looking at Spencer, meeting his eyes, and something that's either excitement or a chill runs down Spencer's spine. They stay like that for the briefest of moments, simply looking at one another, and then the other smiles slightly. "I'm Jon Walker," he says, inclining his head a little towards Spencer.
Spencer faints.
When he comes to, he's pretty sure he's dreamt it. Or even imagined it. Or, at the very least, blew it out of proportion. After all, there has to be a better explanation -- any explanation -- apart from what seemed the obvious and unbelievable.
That's it, Spencer thinks as he sits up, eyes still closed. He's exaggerating, thinking about it the wrong way, making a mistake. Things like this just don't happen. There's absolutely no way that the man who was just in his room was actually his statue that unexpectedly and impossibly came to life. There is a rational explanation for it.
But the flip-flops had the exact same simple squiggle design on them that Spencer remembers sculpting with ease and relief, the jeans were the same fit he had shaped himself, the sweater curled over the collar the same way, the bass in his hands the exact model Spencer remembers taking shape beneath his fingers. And all of that would be understandable, could be explained away, but then there's also the face, and that can't be. Spencer spent weeks thinking about every feature of that face, sculpted it in a half-asleep daze by the light of one lamp, but he'd know every feature of it anywhere, let alone looking him in the eye, and that was it, he knows. That was it.
If anyone had asked before, Spencer would have said that if he'd had a chance to think about it, he would have sculpted unusual-looking people. Not unattractive, but strange, unique, with some sort of flaw that stopped them from being stunning but were oddly appealing anyway, giving people a new look at beauty and the human form. No one had thought to ask, of course, but Spencer spends a lot of time thinking of answers to these sorts of questions anyway.
And anyway, it's not like he ever had time to truly think about his statue in terms of attractiveness or not -- he supposes it was good-looking enough and left it at that, too euphoric over finishing it to contemplate, and it was clay, for fuck's sake -- but looking at it in human form, seeing those features set in flesh, living and breathing and alive -- well. Damned if his statue isn't one of the most gorgeous men he's ever seen. And there's probably something really fucking creepy in that, but Spencer would dare anyone to contradict him right now.
And then it hits Spencer again, past the vague embarrassment of finding his statue attractive -- his statue's alive, breathing, talking, playing the fucking bass, and he sort of feels like fainting again.
The feeling doesn't go away anytime in the near future, because Jon is in Spencer's life more than he was when Spencer was still creating him and he still hasn't even had a chance to process that he's real.
Brendon and Ryan know the truth about him, of course (Spencer has the feeling that they're actually taking it better than he did), but to everyone else, Jon tells easy facts about a life he never had. He has a place he's from, a place he's grown up, experience, places he's played -- everything lined up. He even has an age and a birthday, not to mention a name (Spencer still has no idea where he got that); it all seems to click into place a little too well. It's like his history existed already, just waiting for him to step in and live it; his mind and personality are fully formed and without any explanation, he acts like an average laid-back, wryly witty twenty-year-old, as if this mind was plucked from someone else and transplanted into his head.
Spencer really doesn't know how he managed to sculpt a brain underneath the head of his statue, let alone an obviously fully functioning one.
The weirdest part -- weirder still than the history Jon is spouting off, weirder than the entire premise of this insanity -- might be how well Jon is getting along with everyone. Brendon and Ryan both take this into stride -- one more of the challenges facing the band -- and once they hear Jon play the bass, they're interested in letting him into the band. Spencer protests vehemently (out of Jon's earshot) that having his statue alive and walking around is weird enough, but being in the same band as something that was unmoving clay of his own creation just a couple of weeks ago is further up on the weird scale than he ever wants to go. Ryan shuts him up by asking if he has any other capable bassists that get along with everyone in the band hiding in his closet or even in his sculptures; Spencer then grudgingly accepts that there's really no alternative and he'll have to get over himself.
Because there's the fact that Jon's downright perfect for the band. Along with the brain, life, name, and personality he seemed to acquire out of nowhere, there's also a significant more amount of talent than their previous bassist (Spencer doesn't want to be catty, but he also believes in honesty). He seems to pick up all of their songs with unusual speed; Spencer doesn't really want to think about this, but he suspects it might be because he sculpted him while thinking that he was playing one of those songs, and somehow the melodies in his head went into the statue's -- Jon's. And even apart from the technical mastery and unusual knowledge of the music, there's the fact that both Brendon and Ryan like him. Spencer would have expected Brendon to, of course -- it's almost impossible for Brendon not to find something to like about someone and he has his own brand of charm -- but Ryan is a surprise. Still, before Spencer knows it, Ryan and Jon are discussing music, practicing lines, and he suspects they've even spent some time smoking pot, and either way they're friends, all of them, and this is officially the strangest thing that has ever happened in Spencer's life.
There are, of course, problems -- as if this whole thing doesn't feel like one giant problem to Spencer. When he says that they're all friends, he really means that Brendon, Ryan, and Jon are friends. Spencer himself has been going out of his way to avoid Jon without making it really obvious that this is what he's doing. He's not quite sure how well this is working out -- or, he's not sure if Brendon knows, but if the knowing, exasperated looks Ryan shoots him every time he makes an excuse to leave upon seeing Jon or comes back in after Jon's left are any indication, his best friend definitely does. What he really means is, he doesn't know if Jon knows or not.
Spencer thinks that maybe it would be different had Jon not seemed to insert himself so seamlessly into everyone's lives, but that could also just be his trying to avoid the blame for it. The truth is, it's bad enough that no one else seems to be weirded out by the fact that Spencer sculpted Jon Walker and now he is alive, bad enough that he can't avoid this strange reality because Jon Walker seems to be everywhere he turns, bad enough that no one can even begin to offer him a rational explanation of what happened -- all of this is bad enough, more than, without the infinitely worse, painfully awkward addition of finding himself attracted to Jon Walker as well.
It's hardly as if he can help it, he tells himself every time it comes about; Jon's strikingly attractive by any standards, in a way that snuck up on one even more than was obvious upon first sight. That alone would have been more than enough for Spencer, but there's, of course, more; there's the fact that he knows exactly how every inch of Jon's body looks, due to having created it himself, and he can almost predict each shift in his expression as if he's sculpting it again. And there are times when he turns and sees Jon, sees those shifts in expression for himself, and wants to draw his fingers across his face as if sculpting again but simply feeling now, tracing what's already there rather than creating more, knowing that he couldn't possibly improve on what's already there even if he spent another few weeks on the face --
And that's when he has to stop, to look away, to make an excuse to leave the room without looking back, because it's too fucking strange to even contemplate. He still can't even fully accept that Jon is his statue come to life, and he thinks maybe that's because once he does, it'll officially turn this attraction into something wrong, something off, something that never should have happened -- it's practically masturbation in a way, definitely strange, maybe even a little sick -- and he can't quite give up on it even as he's refusing to let himself act on it either. All he knows is that every time he feels his heart start to speed up a little in Jon's presence, every time he feels that slightly-too-sharp pang of longing, every time his fingers itch with the desire to touch his hair or his jaw or even just his shirt, it feels like it shouldn't be happening, it feels like he's doing something wrong just by feeling it, and he can't take that for too long.
Every single person in the world who's ever created the perfect man, even in their minds, and wished he could be real, Spencer thinks darkly, is seriously lucky that no one exists to grant their wishes. He's living the reality and it's far from perfect.
But, honestly, it's not unbearable. It's far from it, actually, despite the constant agonizing, confusion, and regretting that he can't let go of the first two and simply enjoy Jon's company like he so desperately wants to. That's uncomfortable and it's awkward and he hates it, but he could live with that, with all of it, for as long as possible if he had to.
But there are times when he walks into a room and Jon's there, or Jon enters before he notices him coming, Jon's tuning his bass or Spencer's reading, and more often than not other people are there, and Jon looks up or Spencer glances over at him without thinking, and their eyes meet. That's all that happens; they don't speak or move and no one speaks to them or moves them or breaks it otherwise. They just look at one another, and there's nothing special or significant about a look like that, but Spencer swears he can feel it in his bones anyway. It's stupid and painfully clichéd, but in that instant when their eyes lock, he feels like Jon could look at him, all of him, see him for what he's been, what he is, what he could or will be, like he could open his mouth and every single secret Spencer's even kept would come out. And in the face of knowledge like that, his feelings seem like simple trivialities, so Spencer knows that Jon knows that Spencer's been avoiding him, and he also knows that Jon knows that he knows that, and that's the worst thing of all, that's what makes everything unbearable, because Spencer can't find the words to explain the truth to him.
Exactly two months after Jon comes to life (he remembers the exact day, because it isn't the sort of thing that he's even capable of forgetting), Spencer has a dream.
That's not exactly unusual in and of itself -- he has fairly vivid dreams relatively often, even a good handful he's known are dreams the entire time -- but this one's different than any he's had before. He's standing on a beach with pure white sand, strange-looking trees growing on one side and the other stretching out as far as he can see, sky a perfect, cloudless blue, water the clearest shade of turquoise he's ever seen. The air's light, warm and breezy, and if he tries, he can even smell the salt in the air, something that never happens in his dreams.
Standing across from him, a few feet away, is the most beautiful woman Spencer's ever seen in his life. He's pretty sure she's more beautiful than every other attractive woman he's ever seen in his life put together; she practically radiates true, stunning beauty in a way he's never seen before, like the word "gorgeous" had no meaning until mankind first laid eyes on her. Her figure is absolutely perfect, just the right combination of curves and slender limbs; she's barefoot and most of her creamy skin is revealed by the short tunic she's wearing, the same shade as her eyes, which are the exact colour of the sea, rimmed by long lashes. Her hair is golden, falling to her waist in flawless ringlets that curl perfectly around her heart-shaped face, framing almost painfully exquisite features. She's so striking, so impossibly lovely that it almost hurts to look at her too long; something (though it's nothing he could explain, maybe something in her posture) about her, Spencer thinks distantly, reminds him vaguely of Victoria Asher.
This vision is currently looking him right in the eye, expression level and unmovable. Her arms cross over her chest and in a voice that's like birds singing and waves crashing and the melting of the most delicious chocolate in the world says, "Spencer James Smith the fifth, what do you think you're doing?"
Spencer doesn't reply; he feels as if he's actually been struck speechless just from hearing his name spoken in that voice. He might actually even be gaping at her a little, though she doesn't seem to have noticed. Indeed, she doesn't seem to require Spencer's input in the conversation at all just yet.
"Or what you're not doing, I suppose it is," she continues, eyes rolling upward for a moment, even that motion seeming classic and graceful and stunning. "Technicalities. The point is, you're being an enormous idiot and that's not something I can stand for, even in men as cute as you happen to be. Especially not then, in fact, idiocy is so much easier to bear in the plain ones. Then they can be ignored altogether rather than simply bearing one flaw it's difficult to overlook."
It takes Spencer a moment to realize she was done speaking, as he's still busy staring at her -- even as affected as he is by Jon, he can't be unmoved by her appearance. A rather impatient, sharp "Well?" snaps him out of it; he blinks, shakes his head, and looks again. Her hands are now on her hips, and he returns her expectant look with a rather blank one of his own.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" she prompts him again, deliberately patient in the way that only people who have already lost their patience are, and when Spencer finally finds his voice, all he can manage is a confused, rather stupid-sounding, "What?"
The woman rolls her eyes, more openly exasperated now, and mutters something that sounds like "mortals". She takes a step closer to Spencer (which throws him off-balance all over again) and speaks more deliberately, her words edged. "I have no idea what you're waiting for. I've done you a great service, haven't I? Saw the potential in your little project, helped you along, and even made him real for you. I gave the man of your dreams life and what have you done for me? Not even a bottle of wine sacrificed in my name and I suppose you wouldn't dream of offering some quality meat. Well apart from your own benefit, what sort of thanks do I get?"
She sounds almost petulant now. "Thank you" escapes Spencer's lips before he's even fully realized he had the intention of speaking.
She blinks, obviously startled, then looks a little more mollified. "Well, that's a start. At least you're polite, even if you have no idea what I'm talking about." She arches an eyebrow at him; Spencer feels himself flush faintly, guiltily. "Anyway, we aren't talking about me, we're talking about you and the horrible mistake you're making. He wants you too, you know. Your mind as well as your body. And you know that, and anyone could tell how you feel, I couldn't possibly make that something between you two more obvious, so what exactly is it that's holding you back from sleeping with him right now?"
Still not entirely sure what's going on, Spencer decides to attempt a reply despite how overwhelmed he feels. "I -- I don't -- he's -- " he tries and retries, then simply closes his mouth again, well aware that nothing he says could possibly make him sound like anything but an idiot.
Fortunately, the woman now looks amused rather than offended. "Right. I know how this goes." She flutters her eyelashes -- even mockingly, the gesture's more appealing than it has any right to be -- and says dramatically, "You're not used to this. It's strange. It's out of the ordinary. It's unexpected, and you can't get over that. It might be easier to get over, of course, if you just wanted him physically, but the attraction's emotional too. He's smart, he's funny, he's easy to be around, and you want to talk to him and laugh at his jokes and just spend time with him, which is impossible when you can't get past how disturbing the whole situation is and how hard you're fighting the feelings for him."
Spencer isn't quite sure what it says about one's emotional complexity if the agonizing, painful, confusing feelings one spent two months wrestling with can be summed up within a few sentences by a (stunning, admittedly) woman in a toga. Whatever statement it actually does make, he's reduced to simply gaping at her again, wondering blankly if he's really quite that obvious to everyone.
"No," the woman says, and Spencer's jaw drops a little further as she laughs, the sound unspeakably exquisite. "Trust me, I just -- well, I know these things." She smiles at him, the smallest, subtlest upward curve of her perfectly shaped mouth, and her expression's a little gentler as she takes a step closer to him.
"Spencer," she says, and dazed as he is by hearing his voice in those tones again, he listens, because he can tell this is important. "This is for you. There's no catch, no obligation, no return date. You've had time to let go of your reservations, but now, he wants you. He's waiting for you. All you need to do is go to him."
She leans in to kiss his cheek, the softest and sweetest brush of lips, and his mind goes blank, the scene dissolving.
When Spencer wakes up, he doesn't remember the dream at all.
Something in the air -- or maybe a leftover from his subconscious -- seems to have had a lingering effect on him, though, because for some reason Spencer finds himself perfectly content to simply sit near a window the next afternoon, watching the relatively simple scenery outside. And when he hears someone else enter the room, he can't think of a reason to feel any anxiety at all, no reason to turn and see who it is.
That's why he's caught so off-guard -- though really, he thinks, he shouldn't be, it's just so typical -- by hearing the other person clear their throat, a low, awkward sound, and upon turning, catching sight of Jon Walker's oddly serious expression.
For a moment, neither of them say anything, even if the eye contact's almost painfully loaded, even if every unsaid word seems to practically hang in the air between them. Or so Spencer imagines it, with his own words -- he can't even begin to imagine what Jon would say or want to say. And when Jon finally speaks, a soft "Can we talk?" emerging into the air, Spencer throws weeks of carefully constructed avoidance and agonized nerves out the window with a single nod.
By some sort of unspoken agreement, the room they're in is deemed inappropriate; Spencer stands and Jon turns at the same time and soon, they end up in Spencer's room. He half-closes the door, then closes it further, almost all the way. Jon stands in the center of the room a little awkwardly and Spencer thinks of offering him a seat, but the options are either the bed -- unthinkable -- or a chair and a stool. He thinks, maybe nonsensically, that they should stand, that they should be at the same level for this conversation.
"You've been avoiding me," Jon says without preamble, after a brief, awkward silence, and Spencer wasn't expecting something quite that forward, but it doesn't stop him from replying with a single, unflinching nod.
Jon looks a little startled, maybe not expecting outright honesty either, but Spencer's forcing himself to handle this right. There's another, longer silence as Jon watches him, expression unchanging but obviously expectant, and Spencer knows he's waiting for an explanation just as he knows he can't give it unless he's thought it through, unless he knows exactly what to say because this is his one chance to get everything right.
"You're -- you're my statue." And, okay, maybe it's not the dazzlingly articulate speech that would perfectly explain everything he was thinking that he'd vaguely thought he might make, because really, he knows he doesn't have that sort of thing in him (even if he might sometimes like to), but it gets the point across, gets to the heart of the matter more swiftly and accurately than any lengthy speech could, and that was really what he wanted.
And maybe it's a little bit stupid of Spencer, since seriously, it's a statement of fact, but he's still taken by surprise when Jon nods and quietly replies, "Yeah, I am." It's not like he was really outright expecting a denial, since it's true, but it seems kind of strange to him that Jon seems to be so all right with bluntly accepting his -- statue-ness. Ex-statue-ness, Spencer supposes; there really aren't words made for this situation, for some truly bizarre reason. Probably someone actually realistic never thought it would happen.
"It's weird, though," and okay, Spencer definitely doesn't think he's stupid for being surprised by hearing Jon expand on his ex-statue-ness. "It's like -- " He hesitates, raising both hands as if trying to gesture but not sure which could depict what he wants to say best; Spencer's hit by a surprisingly overwhelming rush to take either one or both hands and firmly suppresses it. "Just -- fucking weird. Like, one day there's nothing, no light and no sound and nothing, and then the next day there's..." A slow half-circle of Jon's left hand seems to indicate the entire world and Spencer nods, suddenly feeling sympathetic. He's never really imagined how strange it must be for Jon, to be thrust into the world as the very first thing one knows, without even the grace period of childhood.
"And it's not like I can really talk to anyone about it," Jon adds, with a self-deprecating half-shrug that speaks the unsaid half of that statement more eloquently than words ever could: who would believe me? "Except you," he adds and even though it's said neutrally, Spencer feels kind of ashamed of himself -- he's never thought about this, either. "Though -- I know it must be weird for you too," Jon says fairly; Spencer nods weakly in acknowledgment. "I mean -- yeah. But at the same time it's, like." He hesitates, looking awkward, and Spencer's flooded with the extremely unproductive urge to give him a hug. "You've been avoiding me and not talking to me and everything and it's sort of like -- not that you don't want me here, because yeah, you obviously don't, you didn't ask for this, but -- like you're not happy with me, I guess? That I didn't turn out like you wanted?" Jon shrugs again, studying his feet now. "This is such a fucking weird conversation. But -- yeah. That's it, pretty much."
Of all the directions that Spencer would have imagined this conversation going -- and, okay, he hasn't seriously entertained even the possibility of this conversation, let alone its outcome, for very long at all -- that's certainly not it, and it makes the knot of guilt in his chest grow even more. Fuck, Jon actually thought he might not be happy with him? That he didn't turn out like Spencer wanted? The entire problem is that he turned out exactly like Spencer wanted -- like Spencer wanted, wants, way too much.
"It's not that," Spencer finally manages, more than a little awkwardly. "It's not that -- you didn't turn out like I wanted. Well," he corrects, tilting his head to one side, "I didn't really want you alive. Not -- that it's totally a bad thing -- or a bad thing at all," he stumbles across the phrases, knowing he's just digging himself deeper and deeper and being completely unable to stop. "Or -- fuck, it might be, I have no idea, but it doesn't really -- that's not -- it's not the point, not exactly."
Jon now looks completely bewildered. Spencer kind of wants to slap himself.
"The point is that -- that -- you're fine," he finally manages around unusual inarticulacy. "It's not -- anything about you. Well, it sort of is, but -- it's me, too." Well, that makes sense, Spencer thinks despairingly, and decides to just talk without thinking and to hell with his stupid brain. "It's that -- I really wish you were stupid or that you had no sense of humour or you were racist or -- I don't know, hated Brendon, or even that you couldn't play the damn bass at all even though you were made with one -- and I'd even settle for something having knocked your fucking nose off-center so that you looked seriously disfigured, anything, anything at all like that," and maybe this talking without thinking ideas wasn't such a good one, because when Spencer forces himself to break off, he really has no idea what the fuck he's just said.
Jon still looks a little blank, but for some reason almost understanding at the same time. "So," he says slowly. "The problem is that -- I'm smart, I have a sense of humour, I'm not racist, I like Brendon, I can play the bass, and -- I'm good-looking?"
Spencer lets his breath out in a long, defeated whoosh, leaning back against the closest wall and covering his eyes with a hand. "It sounds so stupid when you put it that way," he groans, vaguely horrified with himself.
"For the record," Jon murmurs wryly, and Spencer can practically feel his eyes on him even without knowing for sure that they're there, "it didn't sound too smart when you were saying it, either."
Spencer sighs, long and shaky, wondering briefly if whatever power brought Jon to life could see about turning him into a statue right now to spare him. With no imminent success there, he opens his eyes to see that Jon's taken a few steps closer without his noticing. "I can explain, probably," he tries feebly, "if you give me a minute -- "
Jon's grin is a little mocking, maybe, but that doesn't stop it from being affectionate, and Spencer can feel a faint flush rising just at the sight of it. "No," he says, shaking his head and taking another step closer. "I think you've definitely talked enough for now." And before Spencer can protest (or, more likely, agree), Jon's stepping closer in order to kiss him, and Spencer definitely has no interest in talking anymore.
In fact, he has very little ability to do anything, though the interest is definitely there -- taken by surprise so much as he is (which, he thinks maybe he shouldn't be, but really, most things are coming as a surprise in the current situation), all he can really do is lean into the kiss, let his lips part just barely, try to process what exactly is going on. And before long, what exactly is going on involves Jon pulling back, quirking an eyebrow once Spencer orients himself enough to open his eyes.
"I didn't think I was that bad at it," Jon says, "even if this is my first time doing it," and though his tone's casual enough there's a clear question in his eyes.
Spencer lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding; this is Jon's first kiss, he realizes, and the thought that it was his gives him an odd sort of thrill. He forces that particular pleasure out of his mind, stands a little straighter, and opens his mouth to try to explain his confusion and inability to react -- and the next thing he knows, his mouth is kissing Jon Walker without having consulted the rest of him, and then he's thinking maybe his mouth's got the right idea.
It takes him some time to force rational thought through the very obvious distraction -- Jon's tongue brushing past his own, the light pressure of Jon's body holding him against the wall, his own hand fisted loosely in Jon's shirt -- but he finally manages to gather the will to pull back just barely, taking a moment to catch his breath before saying, somewhat raggedly, "This doesn't really -- solve anything. It's still -- "
"Pretty fucked up," Jon finishes for him, voice low and a little husky. "But -- " He trails off, trying to find the right words to describe whatever he wants to say (Spencer thinks maybe he shouldn't, because he's pretty sure he understands), and finally returns with, "But we can handle it together."
Spencer feels a faint but confident grin spread over his features, slowly relaxing from his previous, seemingly endless tension as he looks at Jon. "We can," he replies firmly, and this time his mouth's acting in full accord with the rest of him when it finds Jon's again.