Bandslash ficlets
On my regular LJ, iamtheenemy, I took requests for bandslash ficlets. I haven't made my way through all the requests, but here are the first four.
800 words, Spencer/Patrick, singalong. For onmycrew
"Back to the street where we began..."
Spencer raised his eyebrows at Patrick who shrugged and took another sip of his beer. "It's in my head. Pete's been playing it nonstop."
Look, Spencer would only admit it to Ryan, and even then only late at night when it was just the two of them, shoulders brushing in the dark, but Patrick Stump humming his song? Really fucking awesome.
Ryan would understand because, despite his new neo-hippie-zen lifestyle, he used to be the world's biggest fanboy. Forget Pete Wentz. When they first met Gerard Way, Ryan had made a sound like he swallowed his tongue and then did his best to seem unconcerned and flippant instead of incapable of human speech for the next twenty minutes.
"I've heard it a few times myself," Spencer said. He bit his lip and played with the ice in his screwdriver. Brendon was standing behind Patrick and watching their conversation curiously and with an eye for any humiliating slip-ups that he could tease Spencer about forever.
Spencer's crush on Patrick Stump was an epic, sprawling thing that spanned across two years and five continents. It wasn't like Brendon didn't already have enough material to choose from.
As it was, he drew a heart in the air behind Patrick's head and mouthed dreamy with a flutter of his eyelashes. Spencer tried to project all the ways that he was plotting to kill Brendon through a single, furtive, sideways glance.
In front of him, Patrick continued their conversation, ignorant of Spencer's assassination plans. "But have you heard Pete singing it - in the shower - at seven-thirty in the morning - in Russia?" he asked.
"That's a lot of specifications," Spencer said, ignoring Brendon's mouthed sexy. "How about: Jon, in pink boxers, while stoned and trying to make chocolate chip pancakes?"
"Pink boxers?" Patrick asked.
"It's possible they started out white," Spencer admitted.
"Ah," Patrick said, and then, "It's a good song."
Spencer ducked his head, but he must not have been successful at hiding his pleased grin. He could tell because when he looked up again, Brendon was silently snickering. When he met Spencer's gaze, he placed both hands over his heart and pretended to swoon. Spencer felt himself redden.
"Thanks," he said. The smart thing would have been to make a hasty retreat to the other end of the room where Joe and Jon were holding court, but. He hadn't seen Patrick in almost a month. He was wearing a dark green polo shirt and tight black jeans and a fedora and he cut his hair, ok, so there was a lot Spencer was willing to deal with in order to hold his attention just a little bit longer.
"Brendon sounds really good on it," Patrick said, and Spencer grimaced as Brendon's eyebrows bounced up and down suggestively.
"Brendon's a moron," Spencer said pointedly, feeling vindicated by Brendon giving him the finger, even if it was followed by some ridiculous tongue wagging. God, he hoped it was loud enough and packed enough in Pete's living room that no one noticed Brendon being an asshole. Spencer was going to kill him in so many different ways.
"That's true," Patrick mused, and Spencer got he satisfaction of seeing Brendon's expression become comically indignant. "I mean, he hasn't even noticed that the turned off TV in front of me is letting me see everything he's doing right now."
Spencer's whole body burned with embarrassment, made all the worse by Brendon shrugging and looking not at all chastened when Patrick turned to face him.
"Kill you in so many ways," Spencer promised, making Brendon laugh.
"You wouldn't hurt a hair on my head, Spencer. I'm your meal ticket, ok? The talent. Also, if you did, Jon would be forced to avenge me, and that would mean a world of pain for you."
Before Spencer could respond back to that - seriously, in what universe did Jon Walker like Brendon more than Spencer? - Patrick leaned forward, placing a hand on his elbow and effectively clearing every thought out of his head. "I'm staying in one of the guest rooms. Want to go there to finish our conversation?"
Spencer's heart thudded hard in his chest, making him feel kind of dizzy. "Um. Yeah, sure."
"Cool," Patrick said with a small smile. "It's this way."
Spencer's heart tripped a beat in its staccato rhythm as he put his drink down on an end table and hurried to follow Patrick.
"Spence," Brendon hissed, just audible over the music playing.
When Spencer looked back, Brendon made a finger-in-the-hole gesture and pointed at Patrick's retreating back. Spencer rolled his eyes. Then he made sure there were no reflective surfaces anywhere near Patrick before shooting off a thumbs up sign, low by his hip.
Brendon's laughter followed him up the stairs.
1100 words, Spencer/Brendon, coffee. For sateenmusta.
"You're just..." Ryan shook his head and jammed his sunglasses on his face.
"What?" Brendon asked. "I'm what?"
"A blind fuck," Ryan said. He punched Brendon's arm for good measure.
"Ow! Ryan, ow! What the hell?" Brendon cried, clutching his arm. "Why are you mad at me?"
"Everyone here knows except you. Jon knows," Ryan said.
Brendon looked over at Jon for confirmation.
He nodded and said, "It's true, I do know."
"Well, then, care to let me in on the big secret? You can't punch someone without explaining what they did wrong. That's just mean."
Ryan gave Brendon a measuring look before sitting down on the couch and saying, "Spencer."
Brendon blanched and took a step back. "I don't want to talk about him."
"Of course not," Ryan said, smirking. "Because you're an idiot."
Brendon crossed his arms over his chest and took another step closer to the door that would take him out of the lounge and away from this conversation that he suddenly really, really did not want to have.
"Fuck you. Fuck you, Ryan. What do you even...no, I'm not. Fuck you. I'm not listening to this."
"Ryan..." Jon said.
Ryan's expression softened somewhat, and Brendon could feel his anger melt away with it. He just felt tired.
"He's dating some...I don't know. One of the Phantom Planet techs. I saw them, okay? I saw them." Brendon scrubbed his hand over his face and through his hair.
"You remember how last week we were in Iowa?" Ryan asked.
Brendon resisted the urge to roll his eyes and hoped that this line of questioning would lead somewhere useful instead of turning into one of Ryan's long, winding metaphors about, like, cornfields and love and sex and cows or something.
"Remember?" Ryan asked again, when Brendon failed to answer.
"Yeah, I remember," he said. "Why?"
"And you were bitching all day, remember? About how you wanted a white mocha latte from Starbucks? I need one, Ryan, or I won't be able to play. I'll die of coffee deprivation. I'll just dieeee."
"I don't sound like that," Brendon said.
Jon snorted from the couch and Ryan said, "That's an argument for a different time. But do you remember?"
"Yeah, yeah. And before you ask, yes, I remember that Spencer eventually got me one. But I don't see what point you're trying to prove." He failed to mention that when it happened, you could have probably seen two cartoon hearts where his eyes should have been. It wasn't Brendon's affections that were being questioned here.
"You're so..." Ryan said again, words trailing off into an explosive sigh.
"Do you know how far it was from the venue to the nearest Starbucks?" Jon asked, taking up when Ryan obviously couldn't go on.
"Well, let me just take out my map of Iowa," Brendon said sarcastically.
Jon ignored that comment and said, "Half an hour. By car. I guess we were kind of in the middle of nowhere."
Brendon stared at him, not making the connection.
"Brendon!" Ryan cried. "He had to find the Starbucks, then he had to convince one of the guys who worked at the venue to loan Spencer his car by promising to fill up his gas tank and get him some coffee."
Ryan and Jon looked at him expectantly. Brendon felt something flutter in his stomach and up his throat, making it hard to speak. "Why...um. Why didn't he just ask someone to get it for him?"
"Because it was a gesture, you idiot!" Ryan said. "He was trying to show you how much he likes you. Seriously, how are you this stupid?"
"He..." Brendon took another step, his back hitting the door. "He likes me? I mean, but what about the guy I saw him with?"
"You ignored him, Brendon! For the last week! He was pissed off and his feelings were hurt," Ryan said.
Brendon looked down at the floor, miserable and guilty. "I didn't mean to hurt his feelings. He brought me coffee, Ryan. It was so...great. He's so...great. I felt like my big, stupid crush would be too obvious."
"It was a gesture!" Ryan said.
"I didn't know!" Brendon replied. "I'm sorry that my knowledge of Iowa's Starbucks locations isn't where it should be, but I didn't realize!"
"Both of you, I swear to god," Ryan muttered. "If I wanted to tour with a bunch of women, I would have joined the Spice Girls."
Jon frowned. "The Spice Girls? Really? You don’t think that reference is kind of dated?"
"They're doing that reunion tour," Ryan argued.
Jon shrugged. "Still, the comparison isn't really the best..."
"It's a group full of girls, Jon. How does that not work with what I was trying to say?"
"Okay, I'm leaving," Brendon said, turning the door handle with numb fingers. "You two feel free to keep bickering."
He slipped out of the lounge with the intention of taking some time to digest this new information and then tracking down Spencer and having a very long, probably very awkward, talk with him.
Instead, he found himself face to face with the man himself on the other side of the door.
"Shit!" Brendon yelled, a hand coming up to cover his heart.
"Um, sorry," Spencer said, looking embarrassed.
"Were you...were you listening?" Brendon asked.
"Yes?" Spencer said sheepishly. "I was in my bunk taking a nap, and I heard you guys talking, so..."
Brendon licked his lips. "Before, what Ryan said. Did you…" he began, taking a breath and gathering his courage. "Was it a gesture?"
Spencer stuffed his hands in his pockets, and Brendon was reminded, abruptly, that Spencer was younger than him. It was always so easy to forget. "Yeah. Kind of stupid. I guess since I didn't explain it, it didn't make much sense."
"Not really," Brendon admitted. "But there were still..." he pointed to his eyes, "cartoon hearts."
Spencer's mouth turned up at the corner, like he understood what that meant. Like he understood Brendon. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Brendon said. He was surprised to find himself standing very close to Spencer. Close enough that the backs of their hands brushed and Brendon had to look up to meet Spencer's eyes.
"Not because of the coffee?" Spencer asked.
Brendon laughed and shook his head. "No. Well, that wasn't the only reason."
There was a thump against the door that made them both jump, and then Ryan shouted, "GIRLS!"
"Did you know Spencer was here the whole time, Ryan Ross?" Brendon demanded.
"GIRLS!" was Ryan's only response, punctuated by Jon's sputtering laughter.
"Yenta!" Spencer yelled back. Brendon was about to ask what that meant when Spencer cupped the back of Brendon's neck and brought their lips together, and then it didn't matter anymore.
650 words, Gerard/Frank, crushing and kisses. For atorable.
"Cigarette for your thoughts?" Frank said, crouching down to sit next to Gerard on the grass.
Gerard looked at his half full pack of Marlboro Lights and grabbed one of Frankie's anyway. Being on tour was like being in prison, in that cigarettes were a highly valued commodity and always in short supply.
"Thanks." He lit the cherry and inhaled deeply, letting the smoky, slightly unfamiliar taste of Frank's Parliaments calm his post-show jitters. "I'm not thinking about anything."
"Bullshit," Frank said simply. "Mikey sent me out here to check on you."
Fuck Mikey and his psychic brother act anyway. "I'm fine, I don't know. Good show tonight." It had been a good show. Frank, especially, had been on the whole night, throwing his body around the stage, rubbing against Gerard and sending the kids into a fucking frenzy. Gerard hadn't even needed to be there.
"Mmhmm," Frank agreed. "Good crowd."
"Yeah," Gerard said.
Frank wrapped his arms around his knees and gave a shiver. "Cold out."
"Go back in the bus, you'll get sick," Gerard advised, taking in Frank's thin t-shirt and holey jeans. It was the end of June, but the nights in the Midwest were still cold.
"Thanks, Mom," Frank said, taking a quick drag of his cigarette before curling his arm around his knee again.
"Hey, with our fucking luck, you wouldn't get a cold. It would be whooping cough or walking pneumonia or some shit," Gerard said.
"I'm fine," Frank said.
"Here," Gerard said, handing his half finished cigarette to Frank. "At least take this if you're going to stay." He pulled his black hoodie over his head and handed it over.
"You'll be cold," Frank said, but he gave Gerard back his cigarette, flicked his own onto the pavement and slid his arms inside.
"I've got a long-sleeved shirt on," Gerard said. "And I also weigh more than ninety pounds."
"Fuck off, I'm at least one-fifteen," Frank said. He burrowed into the hoodie, both hands and half of his face disappearing. "This smells like ass."
"You're welcome, motherfucker," Gerard said.
In response, Frank wiggled against his side until Gerard was forced to put his arm around Frank's shoulders. He brought his near dead cigarette up to Frank's mouth to give him the last drag, then he tossed it to join Frank's on the cement and fished out another one from his pack.
"So what did Mikey want you to tell me?" Frank asked.
Gerard shrugged, looking up at the thin sliver of moon visible in the sky and away from Frank's curious face. "I don't know. Nothing."
"Oh," Frank said. They sat there quietly for a few more seconds. Gerard offered Frank another drag. "I have something to tell you, then," Frank said, after he angled his face away from Gerard and exhaled.
"What?" Gerard asked, and started when cold fingertips pressed against his jaw. "Frankie?" he asked, meeting Frank's dark gaze and feeling his breath stutter-step out of him.
Frank stared at him seriously for a moment. Then he kissed him, his fingers moving from Gerard's jaw to wrap around the back of his neck.
"Frank," Gerard said in between kisses. He discarded his cigarette to bring both hands up to either side of Frank's head and hold him there. Frank smiled into the kiss.
When they finally pulled apart minutes later, their warm, panting breaths mingling together in the cool night air, Gerard sighed and tightened his hold on Frank's hair.
"It's been a good day," he said.
"It has been," Frank agreed, grinning slyly, "and it's about to get better."
670 words, Spencer/Bob, discovery and grocery shopping. For averillovessev and shutyourface.
Bob didn’t let things bother him. He never lost sleep worrying about a test, or put a lot of thought into where his next paycheck would come from. It always came, eventually, and things always worked out in the end.
When he was in seventh grade, his guidance counselor, Mrs. Davis, had described him as someone who "let things roll off his back." Bob liked that turn of phrase, liked the image that it created in his head.
His lead singer wanted him to wear white make up and dress like a member of the Bram Stoker High School marching band? He let it roll off his back. His rhythm guitarist wanted to climb him like a tree and teeter precariously on his drum set mid-song? He let it roll off his back. Some asshole wanted to talk shit about him or his band? Unless it became personal, he let it roll off his back.
As a matter of fact, when there wasn't a fucking camera being shoved in his fucking face, he was a pretty chill guy.
Bob discovered, though. He discovered that with Spencer Smith, he lost all traces of calm and rational thought. Normal shit, shit that he wouldn't even blink about with anyone else sent him into a blind, frothing rage when it was Spencer.
"No, no," Bob was saying now. "Strawberry jelly is going nowhere near my kitchen. I'm sorry, but it's not happening." It was the strangest thing, simultaneously recognizing how fucking crazy he sounded, and being unable to stop the flow of words, the diatribe that he could feel coming on, as earnest and passionate as any ten of Gerard's anti-sexism rants. Except that this one was about jelly.
"I like strawberry," Spencer argued. He had his hip cocked, the jut of it peaking out from beneath his black button down, and he was wearing his stupid rock star sunglasses in the middle of the store, in the middle of the night. Who even did that, besides Gerard?
"Look, I don't know how you kids do it in Vegas, but in Chicago there’s grape jelly or there’s nothing." Jesus christ.
Spencer raised an eyebrow and waved the jar of ill-sweetened preserves in Bob's face. "Here I am, in Chicago, and I'm standing in front of, like, an entire shelf full of strawberry jelly."
Bob stepped forward, Spencer's mild tone and small smirk spurring him on. "I don't like it, okay? It's fucking red, for one thing. Jelly is supposed to be purple." A Jewel employee gave him the stink eye across the aisle, but Bob ignored it.
Spencer looked down at the jar in his hand speculatively and then back up at Bob, challenge evident in the jut of his hips and the angle of his chin. "I bet you $20 that I can convince you of its...merits."
Well, that took care of the snooping employee, at least. He zoomed out of their aisle so quickly that Bob swore he could see the smoke.
Bob crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at Spencer, who didn't even do him the courtesy of pretending to be intimidated. "Don't try to sex your way out of this, Smith. It's serious."
"Jelly is serious?" Spencer asked.
"It's the principle of the thing," Bob said. And look, if he was honest with himself - and Bob tried his best to do that as little as possible, just to avoid the headache - he'd admit that there was probably a reason why he was so quick to fight with Spencer.
"The principle of jelly?" Spencer asked again, sounding amused.
"Also, you're a rock star now,” Bob continued. “Why are you still making $20 bets?"
"I was going easy on you," Spencer replied. "Fine. $500 says that by midnight you'll be begging me for strawberry jelly."
Bob's cock gave an anxious jerk in his pants, and he had to smooth his damp palms down jean-covered thighs before holding one out for Spencer to shake. "Deal."
800 words, Spencer/Patrick, singalong. For onmycrew
"Back to the street where we began..."
Spencer raised his eyebrows at Patrick who shrugged and took another sip of his beer. "It's in my head. Pete's been playing it nonstop."
Look, Spencer would only admit it to Ryan, and even then only late at night when it was just the two of them, shoulders brushing in the dark, but Patrick Stump humming his song? Really fucking awesome.
Ryan would understand because, despite his new neo-hippie-zen lifestyle, he used to be the world's biggest fanboy. Forget Pete Wentz. When they first met Gerard Way, Ryan had made a sound like he swallowed his tongue and then did his best to seem unconcerned and flippant instead of incapable of human speech for the next twenty minutes.
"I've heard it a few times myself," Spencer said. He bit his lip and played with the ice in his screwdriver. Brendon was standing behind Patrick and watching their conversation curiously and with an eye for any humiliating slip-ups that he could tease Spencer about forever.
Spencer's crush on Patrick Stump was an epic, sprawling thing that spanned across two years and five continents. It wasn't like Brendon didn't already have enough material to choose from.
As it was, he drew a heart in the air behind Patrick's head and mouthed dreamy with a flutter of his eyelashes. Spencer tried to project all the ways that he was plotting to kill Brendon through a single, furtive, sideways glance.
In front of him, Patrick continued their conversation, ignorant of Spencer's assassination plans. "But have you heard Pete singing it - in the shower - at seven-thirty in the morning - in Russia?" he asked.
"That's a lot of specifications," Spencer said, ignoring Brendon's mouthed sexy. "How about: Jon, in pink boxers, while stoned and trying to make chocolate chip pancakes?"
"Pink boxers?" Patrick asked.
"It's possible they started out white," Spencer admitted.
"Ah," Patrick said, and then, "It's a good song."
Spencer ducked his head, but he must not have been successful at hiding his pleased grin. He could tell because when he looked up again, Brendon was silently snickering. When he met Spencer's gaze, he placed both hands over his heart and pretended to swoon. Spencer felt himself redden.
"Thanks," he said. The smart thing would have been to make a hasty retreat to the other end of the room where Joe and Jon were holding court, but. He hadn't seen Patrick in almost a month. He was wearing a dark green polo shirt and tight black jeans and a fedora and he cut his hair, ok, so there was a lot Spencer was willing to deal with in order to hold his attention just a little bit longer.
"Brendon sounds really good on it," Patrick said, and Spencer grimaced as Brendon's eyebrows bounced up and down suggestively.
"Brendon's a moron," Spencer said pointedly, feeling vindicated by Brendon giving him the finger, even if it was followed by some ridiculous tongue wagging. God, he hoped it was loud enough and packed enough in Pete's living room that no one noticed Brendon being an asshole. Spencer was going to kill him in so many different ways.
"That's true," Patrick mused, and Spencer got he satisfaction of seeing Brendon's expression become comically indignant. "I mean, he hasn't even noticed that the turned off TV in front of me is letting me see everything he's doing right now."
Spencer's whole body burned with embarrassment, made all the worse by Brendon shrugging and looking not at all chastened when Patrick turned to face him.
"Kill you in so many ways," Spencer promised, making Brendon laugh.
"You wouldn't hurt a hair on my head, Spencer. I'm your meal ticket, ok? The talent. Also, if you did, Jon would be forced to avenge me, and that would mean a world of pain for you."
Before Spencer could respond back to that - seriously, in what universe did Jon Walker like Brendon more than Spencer? - Patrick leaned forward, placing a hand on his elbow and effectively clearing every thought out of his head. "I'm staying in one of the guest rooms. Want to go there to finish our conversation?"
Spencer's heart thudded hard in his chest, making him feel kind of dizzy. "Um. Yeah, sure."
"Cool," Patrick said with a small smile. "It's this way."
Spencer's heart tripped a beat in its staccato rhythm as he put his drink down on an end table and hurried to follow Patrick.
"Spence," Brendon hissed, just audible over the music playing.
When Spencer looked back, Brendon made a finger-in-the-hole gesture and pointed at Patrick's retreating back. Spencer rolled his eyes. Then he made sure there were no reflective surfaces anywhere near Patrick before shooting off a thumbs up sign, low by his hip.
Brendon's laughter followed him up the stairs.
1100 words, Spencer/Brendon, coffee. For sateenmusta.
"You're just..." Ryan shook his head and jammed his sunglasses on his face.
"What?" Brendon asked. "I'm what?"
"A blind fuck," Ryan said. He punched Brendon's arm for good measure.
"Ow! Ryan, ow! What the hell?" Brendon cried, clutching his arm. "Why are you mad at me?"
"Everyone here knows except you. Jon knows," Ryan said.
Brendon looked over at Jon for confirmation.
He nodded and said, "It's true, I do know."
"Well, then, care to let me in on the big secret? You can't punch someone without explaining what they did wrong. That's just mean."
Ryan gave Brendon a measuring look before sitting down on the couch and saying, "Spencer."
Brendon blanched and took a step back. "I don't want to talk about him."
"Of course not," Ryan said, smirking. "Because you're an idiot."
Brendon crossed his arms over his chest and took another step closer to the door that would take him out of the lounge and away from this conversation that he suddenly really, really did not want to have.
"Fuck you. Fuck you, Ryan. What do you even...no, I'm not. Fuck you. I'm not listening to this."
"Ryan..." Jon said.
Ryan's expression softened somewhat, and Brendon could feel his anger melt away with it. He just felt tired.
"He's dating some...I don't know. One of the Phantom Planet techs. I saw them, okay? I saw them." Brendon scrubbed his hand over his face and through his hair.
"You remember how last week we were in Iowa?" Ryan asked.
Brendon resisted the urge to roll his eyes and hoped that this line of questioning would lead somewhere useful instead of turning into one of Ryan's long, winding metaphors about, like, cornfields and love and sex and cows or something.
"Remember?" Ryan asked again, when Brendon failed to answer.
"Yeah, I remember," he said. "Why?"
"And you were bitching all day, remember? About how you wanted a white mocha latte from Starbucks? I need one, Ryan, or I won't be able to play. I'll die of coffee deprivation. I'll just dieeee."
"I don't sound like that," Brendon said.
Jon snorted from the couch and Ryan said, "That's an argument for a different time. But do you remember?"
"Yeah, yeah. And before you ask, yes, I remember that Spencer eventually got me one. But I don't see what point you're trying to prove." He failed to mention that when it happened, you could have probably seen two cartoon hearts where his eyes should have been. It wasn't Brendon's affections that were being questioned here.
"You're so..." Ryan said again, words trailing off into an explosive sigh.
"Do you know how far it was from the venue to the nearest Starbucks?" Jon asked, taking up when Ryan obviously couldn't go on.
"Well, let me just take out my map of Iowa," Brendon said sarcastically.
Jon ignored that comment and said, "Half an hour. By car. I guess we were kind of in the middle of nowhere."
Brendon stared at him, not making the connection.
"Brendon!" Ryan cried. "He had to find the Starbucks, then he had to convince one of the guys who worked at the venue to loan Spencer his car by promising to fill up his gas tank and get him some coffee."
Ryan and Jon looked at him expectantly. Brendon felt something flutter in his stomach and up his throat, making it hard to speak. "Why...um. Why didn't he just ask someone to get it for him?"
"Because it was a gesture, you idiot!" Ryan said. "He was trying to show you how much he likes you. Seriously, how are you this stupid?"
"He..." Brendon took another step, his back hitting the door. "He likes me? I mean, but what about the guy I saw him with?"
"You ignored him, Brendon! For the last week! He was pissed off and his feelings were hurt," Ryan said.
Brendon looked down at the floor, miserable and guilty. "I didn't mean to hurt his feelings. He brought me coffee, Ryan. It was so...great. He's so...great. I felt like my big, stupid crush would be too obvious."
"It was a gesture!" Ryan said.
"I didn't know!" Brendon replied. "I'm sorry that my knowledge of Iowa's Starbucks locations isn't where it should be, but I didn't realize!"
"Both of you, I swear to god," Ryan muttered. "If I wanted to tour with a bunch of women, I would have joined the Spice Girls."
Jon frowned. "The Spice Girls? Really? You don’t think that reference is kind of dated?"
"They're doing that reunion tour," Ryan argued.
Jon shrugged. "Still, the comparison isn't really the best..."
"It's a group full of girls, Jon. How does that not work with what I was trying to say?"
"Okay, I'm leaving," Brendon said, turning the door handle with numb fingers. "You two feel free to keep bickering."
He slipped out of the lounge with the intention of taking some time to digest this new information and then tracking down Spencer and having a very long, probably very awkward, talk with him.
Instead, he found himself face to face with the man himself on the other side of the door.
"Shit!" Brendon yelled, a hand coming up to cover his heart.
"Um, sorry," Spencer said, looking embarrassed.
"Were you...were you listening?" Brendon asked.
"Yes?" Spencer said sheepishly. "I was in my bunk taking a nap, and I heard you guys talking, so..."
Brendon licked his lips. "Before, what Ryan said. Did you…" he began, taking a breath and gathering his courage. "Was it a gesture?"
Spencer stuffed his hands in his pockets, and Brendon was reminded, abruptly, that Spencer was younger than him. It was always so easy to forget. "Yeah. Kind of stupid. I guess since I didn't explain it, it didn't make much sense."
"Not really," Brendon admitted. "But there were still..." he pointed to his eyes, "cartoon hearts."
Spencer's mouth turned up at the corner, like he understood what that meant. Like he understood Brendon. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Brendon said. He was surprised to find himself standing very close to Spencer. Close enough that the backs of their hands brushed and Brendon had to look up to meet Spencer's eyes.
"Not because of the coffee?" Spencer asked.
Brendon laughed and shook his head. "No. Well, that wasn't the only reason."
There was a thump against the door that made them both jump, and then Ryan shouted, "GIRLS!"
"Did you know Spencer was here the whole time, Ryan Ross?" Brendon demanded.
"GIRLS!" was Ryan's only response, punctuated by Jon's sputtering laughter.
"Yenta!" Spencer yelled back. Brendon was about to ask what that meant when Spencer cupped the back of Brendon's neck and brought their lips together, and then it didn't matter anymore.
650 words, Gerard/Frank, crushing and kisses. For atorable.
"Cigarette for your thoughts?" Frank said, crouching down to sit next to Gerard on the grass.
Gerard looked at his half full pack of Marlboro Lights and grabbed one of Frankie's anyway. Being on tour was like being in prison, in that cigarettes were a highly valued commodity and always in short supply.
"Thanks." He lit the cherry and inhaled deeply, letting the smoky, slightly unfamiliar taste of Frank's Parliaments calm his post-show jitters. "I'm not thinking about anything."
"Bullshit," Frank said simply. "Mikey sent me out here to check on you."
Fuck Mikey and his psychic brother act anyway. "I'm fine, I don't know. Good show tonight." It had been a good show. Frank, especially, had been on the whole night, throwing his body around the stage, rubbing against Gerard and sending the kids into a fucking frenzy. Gerard hadn't even needed to be there.
"Mmhmm," Frank agreed. "Good crowd."
"Yeah," Gerard said.
Frank wrapped his arms around his knees and gave a shiver. "Cold out."
"Go back in the bus, you'll get sick," Gerard advised, taking in Frank's thin t-shirt and holey jeans. It was the end of June, but the nights in the Midwest were still cold.
"Thanks, Mom," Frank said, taking a quick drag of his cigarette before curling his arm around his knee again.
"Hey, with our fucking luck, you wouldn't get a cold. It would be whooping cough or walking pneumonia or some shit," Gerard said.
"I'm fine," Frank said.
"Here," Gerard said, handing his half finished cigarette to Frank. "At least take this if you're going to stay." He pulled his black hoodie over his head and handed it over.
"You'll be cold," Frank said, but he gave Gerard back his cigarette, flicked his own onto the pavement and slid his arms inside.
"I've got a long-sleeved shirt on," Gerard said. "And I also weigh more than ninety pounds."
"Fuck off, I'm at least one-fifteen," Frank said. He burrowed into the hoodie, both hands and half of his face disappearing. "This smells like ass."
"You're welcome, motherfucker," Gerard said.
In response, Frank wiggled against his side until Gerard was forced to put his arm around Frank's shoulders. He brought his near dead cigarette up to Frank's mouth to give him the last drag, then he tossed it to join Frank's on the cement and fished out another one from his pack.
"So what did Mikey want you to tell me?" Frank asked.
Gerard shrugged, looking up at the thin sliver of moon visible in the sky and away from Frank's curious face. "I don't know. Nothing."
"Oh," Frank said. They sat there quietly for a few more seconds. Gerard offered Frank another drag. "I have something to tell you, then," Frank said, after he angled his face away from Gerard and exhaled.
"What?" Gerard asked, and started when cold fingertips pressed against his jaw. "Frankie?" he asked, meeting Frank's dark gaze and feeling his breath stutter-step out of him.
Frank stared at him seriously for a moment. Then he kissed him, his fingers moving from Gerard's jaw to wrap around the back of his neck.
"Frank," Gerard said in between kisses. He discarded his cigarette to bring both hands up to either side of Frank's head and hold him there. Frank smiled into the kiss.
When they finally pulled apart minutes later, their warm, panting breaths mingling together in the cool night air, Gerard sighed and tightened his hold on Frank's hair.
"It's been a good day," he said.
"It has been," Frank agreed, grinning slyly, "and it's about to get better."
670 words, Spencer/Bob, discovery and grocery shopping. For averillovessev and shutyourface.
Bob didn’t let things bother him. He never lost sleep worrying about a test, or put a lot of thought into where his next paycheck would come from. It always came, eventually, and things always worked out in the end.
When he was in seventh grade, his guidance counselor, Mrs. Davis, had described him as someone who "let things roll off his back." Bob liked that turn of phrase, liked the image that it created in his head.
His lead singer wanted him to wear white make up and dress like a member of the Bram Stoker High School marching band? He let it roll off his back. His rhythm guitarist wanted to climb him like a tree and teeter precariously on his drum set mid-song? He let it roll off his back. Some asshole wanted to talk shit about him or his band? Unless it became personal, he let it roll off his back.
As a matter of fact, when there wasn't a fucking camera being shoved in his fucking face, he was a pretty chill guy.
Bob discovered, though. He discovered that with Spencer Smith, he lost all traces of calm and rational thought. Normal shit, shit that he wouldn't even blink about with anyone else sent him into a blind, frothing rage when it was Spencer.
"No, no," Bob was saying now. "Strawberry jelly is going nowhere near my kitchen. I'm sorry, but it's not happening." It was the strangest thing, simultaneously recognizing how fucking crazy he sounded, and being unable to stop the flow of words, the diatribe that he could feel coming on, as earnest and passionate as any ten of Gerard's anti-sexism rants. Except that this one was about jelly.
"I like strawberry," Spencer argued. He had his hip cocked, the jut of it peaking out from beneath his black button down, and he was wearing his stupid rock star sunglasses in the middle of the store, in the middle of the night. Who even did that, besides Gerard?
"Look, I don't know how you kids do it in Vegas, but in Chicago there’s grape jelly or there’s nothing." Jesus christ.
Spencer raised an eyebrow and waved the jar of ill-sweetened preserves in Bob's face. "Here I am, in Chicago, and I'm standing in front of, like, an entire shelf full of strawberry jelly."
Bob stepped forward, Spencer's mild tone and small smirk spurring him on. "I don't like it, okay? It's fucking red, for one thing. Jelly is supposed to be purple." A Jewel employee gave him the stink eye across the aisle, but Bob ignored it.
Spencer looked down at the jar in his hand speculatively and then back up at Bob, challenge evident in the jut of his hips and the angle of his chin. "I bet you $20 that I can convince you of its...merits."
Well, that took care of the snooping employee, at least. He zoomed out of their aisle so quickly that Bob swore he could see the smoke.
Bob crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at Spencer, who didn't even do him the courtesy of pretending to be intimidated. "Don't try to sex your way out of this, Smith. It's serious."
"Jelly is serious?" Spencer asked.
"It's the principle of the thing," Bob said. And look, if he was honest with himself - and Bob tried his best to do that as little as possible, just to avoid the headache - he'd admit that there was probably a reason why he was so quick to fight with Spencer.
"The principle of jelly?" Spencer asked again, sounding amused.
"Also, you're a rock star now,” Bob continued. “Why are you still making $20 bets?"
"I was going easy on you," Spencer replied. "Fine. $500 says that by midnight you'll be begging me for strawberry jelly."
Bob's cock gave an anxious jerk in his pants, and he had to smooth his damp palms down jean-covered thighs before holding one out for Spencer to shake. "Deal."