as lovers can; spencer/ryan; nc-17 (1/2)
|As Lovers Can|Spencer/Ryan|NC-17|13,200 words|
sinuous_curve & flickerofyou
In the morning there are scones and coffee, a note on the pillow next to Ryan in Spencer's ridiculous doctor's handwriting, and his laptop on his lap, whirring happily and plugged into the wall. These are all things Spencer would have done on a regular morning, but it feels different now, weighted by something else.
Betaed by the lovely pepino21786
The running joke among their friends is that Ryan is Spencer's kept boy. Which isn't true in the slightest, of course; Spencer just happens to work twelve hour shifts that coincide perfectly with Ryan working none (he's a writer, for Christ's sake, what kind of respectable author works nine to five? It's not natural).
Most of the time they meet in the middle, in the city, eating with their hands laced inconspicuously across the table, then go home and fuck on every available surface until Spencer ends up braced on the piano bench in the living room, panting that there's no possible way they're not going to end up sprawled everywhere without breaking something vital.
Ryan kisses hard enough to leave Spencer's lips bright red and spit slicked, cants his hips in just the right way, and words die away to babbles and moans, a litany of more.
Then, of course, there are the days when Ryan's patience fails him and he ends up sitting in one of the exam rooms in a tee shirt and fingerless gloves against the Boston cold, scarves looped around his neck. It's cheating, a little, batting his eyes at William the secretary, but Ryan has never had illusions of deep morality and, after four years, it's almost an expectation.
Spencer comes in with a wry smile playing across his lips. "And what can I do for you today?"
"Doctor," Ryan says, voice as flat as ever as he looks at Spencer over the frames of his glasses. "Doctor, I think I sprained something. Oh, it hurts. It hurts something fierce."
His cords are already unbuttoned, because it's impossible to live with Spencer for as long as he has without some of his practicality rubbing off, and the longer it takes, the higher the chances of Gabe waltzing in. And Gabe, unlike any other normal human being, won't back away blushing, he'll whip out his camera phone and make threats about youporn submissions.
"One of these days," Spencer says, getting on his knees where he looks so damn pretty, "William is going to stop letting you in the back during working hours."
Ryan braces himself on the table edge and laces his fingers in Spencer's hair. It's soft against his calluses and Ryan tugs experimentally, just hard enough to feel resistance the moment when Spencer's body starts to thrum with tension. "I doubt that. The longer the patients are in the waiting room, the longer William has to try and seduce them."
Spencer eases the zipper down and shimmies Ryan's pants and boxers off, blowing out against his pelvis in hot little bursts of air that have Ryan shivering, despite the relative warmth of the room.
There aren't many benefits Ryan will cop to that come from having been with someone old enough to be out of college for almost ten years, but an almost too intimate knowledge of Ryan's body ticks ranks high on that short list. Spencer nips at his hipbones (he's always had a thing for sharp objects) and pulls back long enough to make a point of licking his lips.
"Tease," Ryan exhales.
Spencer smiles, settles his hands on the dip of Ryan's side and opens his mouth.
They've been doing this long enough that Ryan knows all of Spencer's tricks; or at least he thinks he does. He leans back against the exam table, palms pressed against the cool metal, and it's a lot of sensation, Spencer's hot, hot mouth and the coolness of the metal.
Ryan can't complain.
"Shift your hips a little," Spencer mumbles, pulling off Ryan's dick for just a second. Ryan has no shame, it's something that got him through college and most of his twenties, something he's pretty sure actually got him Spencer in the first place.
Ryan has no shame, so when he whines, low in his throat, at the loss of Spencer's heat from around him, all it does is earn him a flick to the thigh and a chuckle against his skin.
"D'you think you could -- " Spencer's breaths come fast, Ryan can feel them getting shallower and shallower, he grinds his hips down a little, and it's a cheap shot, he knows it is, but he'll pretty much do anything to get Spencer's eyes like that, all pupil, completely blown. "Do you think you could balance your feet against the stool?" A laugh that Ryan hadn't been expecting bursts from his throat, but he nods, because yeah, yeah he can. It'll be a strain, but he can do it.
Spencer grins at him, and there's something about it, something about the way he looks predatory that makes Ryan's pulse flutter.
"Yeah," Ryan grits the word out, and his feet are propped around Spencer, settling on either side of the metal stool.
Spencer grins at him again, mouth curved up in something just this side of mischievous and sucks a finger into his mouth. Ryan doesn't really think about it, because Spencer sticking anything in his mouth is the hottest fucking thing ever.
He says, "Can you hoist yourself up?" Ryan blinks, but he nods, because Spencer's mouth is really close to his dick again, and he may be pushing thirty-three, but Spencer's head-giving skills have aged like cheese or fine wine, they've gotten so, so much better with age.
Spencer smirks up at him, pressing his mouth against Ryan's thigh, flicking his tongue out. When Ryan throws his head back and barely holds in a moan, he can feel Spencer's grin against his skin. When Spencer's tongue swirls around the head, Ryan is practically mindless and they've barely even started. He bucks up, balancing himself on his palms and the very tips of toes on the stool and then the tip of a finger Ryan hadn't even realized Spencer had slid back there starts to press against his ass.
Ryan bucks against Spencer's mouth, and practically comes everywhere.
Spencer swallows most of it.
"What," Ryan mumbles breathlessly, wiping at his own mouth. "What the hell was that, Spencer." He should make it a question, it's only fair, but he doesn't, and Jesus, Spencer's moved his mouth away, Spencer's licking his lips, still shiny with Ryan's fucking come, but he hasn't moved his finger.
"Did you like it?" Spencer's surging up, pressing the pad of his finger against the pucker to Ryan's ass, quick and harsh, before it's gone, and he's crushing their mouths together.
Ryan can taste himself on Spencer's mouth.
"I don't like dick," he says, and if Spencer's lips quirk down just slightly, well, Ryan can pretend he didn't notice. It's been serving him pretty well for the past seven years.
"That wasn't dick," Spencer mumbles, leaning against his mouth for just a second more before he's straightening his coat and pulling away. "That was a finger."
Ryan rolls his eyes and tries not to stare at Spencer's mouth, lip bitten and red, red, red. He drags Ryan up, bats his hands away when Ryan tries to fasten his own pants and kisses him again once they're standing like he can't help it.
"You taste good," Ryan mumbles before he can stop himself, and Spencer snorts. "I taste like you," he mutters, and he doesn't sound disgruntled, exactly, he sounds resigned.
Ryan doesn't pause to think about what that means, and then they're out into the hallway, all cool champagne colored rugs, pale walls and an assistant who's leaning against the information desk like he's attached to it.
"Spencer," Gabe says, eying him appraisingly. Ryan would be jealous, shit, Ryan is, but he's sated and boneless and it doesn't really matter if Gabe's staring at Ryan's boyfriend like he's something tasty and delicious, because at the end of the day, Spencer's coming home to him. "Or should I call you Dr. Smith?"
"You should get behind the desk and finish checking people in," Spencer says, and he sounds so composed. Ryan's really glad he doesn't have to talk.
Gabe rolls his eyes, making a kissy face in Spencer's direction, and that would have Ryan growling if he weren't trying not to giggle.
"What," Spencer asks, conspiratorially, out of the corner of his mouth, looking like a caricature of himself. Ryan wants to kiss him, and would, if there weren't so many people around. "Do I have something on my face?"
He turns to face Ryan full, and all Ryan sees is his eyes, his smile, his messy hair. His chin is shining a little more than usual, a bright spot on it, and Ryan is completely past blushing, but if he were so inclined, his cheeks would be the color of tomatoes.
"You, uh. There's." He flails a hand around, but he's pretty sure Spencer doesn't follow. "You have come on your chin," he whispers, and tries his hardest not to boggle when Spencer just runs his fingers over the spot Ryan had been pointing to and sucks them into his mouth.
"Tasty," he says, smirking.
Ryan is really lucky his boyfriend is a physician. If he ever blacks out, at least he'll be in the right place.
*
Ryan could take the subway home, but he chooses to walk, hands shoved down deep in his pockets. It's only September and the last remnants of summer are still clinging stubbornly to the city, so he's not quite cold once he gets moving. He could afford a car if he wanted, but Ryan barely managed to pass his driver's test in the suburbs of Las Vegas, the old roads of Boston are less than ideal and hell if he's going to die in the process of taking out the front wall of some historical monument.
Spencer offered once, only half joking, to try and fit a driver into their budget, but Ryan suspects that would require firing the lady who cleans their apartment three times a week and moving into a sketchy neighborhood. Ryan can walk, thank you.
He's just begun to shiver when he reaches their building, waving at the doorman as he slides through the door and heads to the elevator. It's old and creaky and breaks down more than is reasonable, given what they fork over monthly for their seventh floor place, but it's thankfully working and Ryan leans against the wall for the ride up.
His thoughts drift over to Spencer, not that there's anything all that unusual in that, but they end up circling around Spencer's fingers and Ryan's not going to have any of that.
The elevator dings at precisely the right time and Ryan shuffles into the hallway. The only downside of actually managing to make his career as an author is that his imagination, never on the flat side, has a tendency to become entirely too fucking active over shit that is not a word doc on his computer. It's not a big deal if he doesn't make it a big deal and he's not going to make it a big deal, so there is no big deal.
It might not be the soundest of logic, but it works as Ryan hunts through his pockets for his keys. Unnecessarily, it turns out, because the door is already unlocked; Ryan pushes it open and is entirely unsurprised to find Brendon sprawled out on their couch with a bottle of wine and a pair of long stemmed glasses on the coffee table, staring at the TV.
"What are you doing here?"
Brendon looks up and his eyes are still focused, which is always a bonus. "Hey. I fucking hate Pete and I needed somewhere to go."
Ryan rolls his eyes.
Brendon has been dating Pete on and off, extreme emphasis on the on and the off, since before Spencer and Ryan got together. Ryan doesn't understand their relationship, he doubts they understand their relationship, but it involves never ending, constantly repeating cycles of hot periods where they can't keep their hands off each other, domestic periods where they buy curtains and sheets ad nauseam and look at houses, and cold periods where they can't be in the same room for ten minutes without trying to kill each other.
During most cold periods, Brendon ends up on their couch, complaining to Ryan while they drink a bottle of wine and watch old black and white movies.
Ryan peels off his gloves and tosses them on top of the entertainment center, then crosses the living room and flops down next to Brendon. "What did he do this time?"
Brendon refills his glass and pours into Ryan's, hands it over and sinks back down with a long and tragically defeated sigh. "Pete Wentz is an asshole and an idiot and I don't know why I have wasted so many years of my precious youth on his lame self."
"Your life is a constant trial," Ryan says in a deadpan.
"You are an asshole too, Ryan Ross," Brendon counters without heat.
"Yeah." Ryan hunts through the cushions to find the remote. "Are you sleeping on the couch tonight?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to watch Casablanca or Babes in Arms?"
"Casablanca."
They watch in companionable silence until Spencer gets home and end up switching over to some prime time medical drama, because watching Spencer scoff and yell at the actors for utter medical incompetence will never stop being funny.
Spencer curls his fingers around Ryan's neck and he doesn't think about it.
*
Brendon falls asleep in the middle of the first musical number in Babes in Arms, with Judy Garland's eyes huge and luminous, staring straight out of them.
"He looks really young like that," Spencer says, and it's what Spencer always says, and they've had this routine for as long as Ryan can remember, probably longer than that.
"He's older than you, Spence."
Spencer makes a noise low in his throat and mumbles something like, "He needs more taking care of than I do," and Ryan blinks, because sometimes, Spencer is really, unapologetically sweet, and it makes something warm course through Ryan's chest.
He's really close to grinning at Spencer stupidly, and he'd never hear the end of that, so he tries and tramps it down, says instead, "So what was that, today?"
They're getting ready for bed, Spencer in the wife beater he always wears under his collared shirts and a soft pair of black sweatpants, hair mussed. He raises a brow, and Ryan's glad they don't have central lighting in their bedroom. The lamp is casting a yellow glow over everything, and if Spencer's grinning, at least Ryan can pretend he doesn't see it.
"What was what?" Spencer asks, and Ryan wants to roll his eyes, but Spencer would just pretend he hadn't seen. Ryan huffs, watching as Spencer slides into bed, waiting a moment and turning out the lamp before sliding in alongside him.
"You," Spencer, typically, sleeps flat on his back with Ryan sprawled against his chest, listening to his heart beat, and while before him, Ryan hadn't been much for cuddling, he can't sleep any other way now. Ryan tries to speak again, tries to air his grievances, but Spencer's running his fingers through the shorthairs at Ryan's nape, and all that comes out when he opens his mouth are tiny little gasps.
"I, what, Ry?" Spencer is smirking. Their room is dark, but Ryan isn't new to this game. Ryan knows all of Spencer's quirks, Ryan knows when Spencer is laughing at him, dammit.
"I don't like dick." Ryan mutters, and he should move away, this conversation would be so much more effective if weren't touching, if the lights were on and they were staring into each other's eyes, and Ryan could repeat the words he's been saying to Spencer since their first date.
"You're telling me this like I don't know," He sounds sleepy, which makes sense, since he's been up since five, yesterday morning, but this conversation is important, and Ryan's aversion to dick has never bothered Spencer before.
"You just. It doesn't bug me okay, and it's not like it felt good -- "
Spencer snorts. "If you say so."
"It didn't."
Spencer leans down, contorts himself in some way that allows him to press his lips to the top of Ryan's head while not dislodging Ryan from his chest.
Ryan is pretty sure that Spencer is magic.
*
Ryan's alone in bed when he wakes up, but the crooned tribute to Queen filtering through the open bedroom door from the kitchen sure as hell isn't Spencer. He stifles a yawn and rolls out of bed, mentally sacrificing a day of working on the exposition dump chapter in his latest novel to Brendon's continued mental health and well-being.
Brendon's standing at the kitchen counter in his boxers and one of Spencer's tee shirts. "I made coffee and bagels, but Spencer ate yours."
Rolling his eyes (Spencer is seriously the worst fucking food thief and one of these days Ryan's going to lace all the leftovers with Ex-Lax and then see how he likes it then) and slides onto one of the counter stools. Brendon presses a mug into his hand, a chipped thing he's owned since college, and Ryan inhales with a contented little sigh. Brendon might have the interpersonal relationship skills of a toddler, but he makes really good coffee.
"So, dear," Brendon chirps, leaning over and batting his eyelashes. "How did my muffin sleep?"
Ryan rolls his eyes. "Just swell, honeypot."
Brendon laughs and a rakes a hand through his hair. "Awesome. So, you're totally up to sneaking over to Pete's place with me and commandeering my shit, right?"
Ryan groans. "Brendon, I'm asking you, as a friend, give it a week to see if you've made up before you make me haul that fucking pull out couch down three flights of stairs. I could barely do it when it was twenty and it's not getting any easier."
"Fine, fine," Brendon sighs dramatically. "Fuck. I bet he's fucking someone on my couch right now."
"Right, because in the past ten years Pete's slept with anyone other than you." Ryan knows. Pete, for some inexplicable reason, thinks it's a good idea to call Ryan when he needs to commiserate about how irrational Brendon is. Which sure, Ryan more than anyone knows, but he doesn’t want to hear about it coming from Pete. Ryan had no desire to ever know that much about their sexual practices.
"My ass is just that fabulous."
It's an almost too perfect segue.
Ryan circles his hands around his mug and stares into the drink, chewing on the corner of his lip. Brendon's back to singing, rinsing out his cup to the strains of Fat Bottomed Girls.
"So," Ryan says, casually as he can. "You bottom, right?"
Brendon drops the mug with a clatter in the stainless steel sink. "I. I. What?"
"You bottom, right?" Ryan repeats, feeling heat spread across his cheeks. Now he's stuck at twelve where sex is something to blush and stammer over. He's fucking sexually liberated and shit, it's just Brendon.
"I do," Brendon says with an inadvertent nervous giggle.
Ryan drums his fingers on the side of the mug. There's no good way to ask about taking it up the ass without inviting all kinds of irritating questions about his issues with sexuality and masculinity and all that bull. Issues he doesn't particularly have, for the record. He just tried it once, found it that it fucking hurt, and decided that fucking was the way to go.
"Why?" Ryan asks, cocking his head to the side. "Why bottom?"
"I don't know." Brendon rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Because it'd be a waste of an awesome ass if I didn't?"
"Bren, seriously. I'm curious."
Brendon huffs out a laugh and starts playing with the short hairs on the back of his neck. "Jesus, Ryan, I don't know. It feels good? Which, I've always been told is the point of sex. I like having Pe-- someone inside me. Being open for them? Full. It's nice."
The explanation comes with more hand waving and demonstrative gestures than Ryan thinks is entirely necessary (if Pete is actually that big around, Ryan's going to hide cameras in their bedroom and market the tapes as porn under King Kong Dong).
Ryan shakes his head. "I don't get it."
Brendon laughs and ruffles his hair, which Ryan only allows because it's before noon and he hasn't had much success yet at drinking his coffee. "Lucky for you Spencer does."
Right.
Ryan chugs his mug.
*
On Monday, Spencer loses a patient.
He says it's not a big deal, but Ryan doesn't believe him. He says -- well, actually all he says is, "I'm going to bed, Ry. I'll talk to you in the morning."
Ryan's not particularly good at comfort, but he logs off his computer, shucks his pants and tee shirt, and climbs into bed with Spencer, even though little spurts of light are peeking in through where the curtains don't precisely meet in the middle.
"What," Spencer says deadpan, "Is it morning already?" Ryan's relieved to see that he isn't crying. He's not sure how he could have handled that.
"Just wanted to check on you," Ryan mutters, tucking his face against Spencer's neck, sliding his fingers down to the bare skin of Spencer's hip and squeezing.
"Aw," Spencer said, and his going for sarcasm, but his actions fail even though his words don't, and he drags Ryan closer, pressing his lips to Ryan's temple. "Ryan Ross, you love me."
Ryan snorts. "It's possible." He doesn't move, enjoying the warm heat of Spencer spread around him. That's when Spencer starts to shake, shoulders heaving, and he's not crying, he's not, but he holds on tightly, and Ryan lets him.
They won't talk about it tomorrow, but Ryan can feel Spencer's tears against his neck, can feel how Spencer hasn't stopped shaking, not even a little, and he moves back, just a little, just to kiss at the crease between his brows, the ridge of his cheek bone.
"Shouldn't have okayed him for surgery," Spencer whispers, voice cutting through their little cocoon. Ryan hadn't forgotten, not really, but it hadn't been at the forefront of his mind, taking care of Spencer was.
"You're a good doctor, Spence," he whispers, and Spencer tries to chuckle, but it's too watery by half. He leans forward, balancing on his palms, and presses their mouths together.
Spencer's mouth is slack at first, but Ryan doesn't know how else to comfort him, so he keeps going, keeps pushing, licking inside his mouth.
He moans, just slightly, high in his throat and Ryan pulls back a little to nip at the skin there. "You're beautiful," he whispers, and Spencer does chuckle then, but his eyes are glazed over, and he moans again when Ryan presses his thumbs against his hips.
"Ryan, I want," he says, flexing his hips up, and his eyes are wild, skin flushed pink.
Ryan doesn't need to be told twice.
*
Spencer spreads out on his back against the tangle of sheets on the bed that were never made from the night before. Ryan settles on his hips, knees tucked in close against Spencer's sides. He's lovely like this, though Ryan would never use that particular word aloud, with his eyes closed and hectic red flush spreading down his neck across his shoulders and chest.
Ryan rolls his hips, just a little, and Spencer makes a noise deep in the back of his throat, fingers clenching into fists around the blankets.
They've known each other for more years than Ryan cares to think about, and in that time Spencer has only ever asked for what he wants, much less admitted what he needs, a handful of times. It's fine, really, Ryan has learned to read between the lines and, the thing is, Ryan likes taking care of him.
It sounds almost creepy when he says it out loud, which is why he doesn't, but the sentiment remains true.
"Love you," Ryan says, dragging blunted nails across Spencer's chest and smiling at the shudder. "Spencer."
Spencer's eyes open a fraction and he smiles, only the littlest bit shattered at the corners. "Love you too, Ry."
Ryan fucks Spencer, easy and loose, with Spencer's legs hooked over his shoulders.
Back when they were in college and still awed that they were allowed to touch each other at all, they tended to be frantic and filthy, on the kitchen table and in bathroom stalls, needing the touch of each others' skin almost constantly. Now they're older, much as Ryan hates to admit it, and more settled in their bones. The awe isn't gone, but it now comes with an ease.
Spencer isn't going anywhere.
It took Ryan a long time to believe that.
Afterward, Spencer gathers Ryan close (he always gets just a little more clingy after a bad day) and Ryan certainly isn't going to complain about getting to lay with his head on Spencer's chest, legs tangled together. Spencer threads his fingers in Ryan's hair. "Thank you," he says.
Ryan huffs out a laugh. "Not like it was a chore, dumbass."
"For putting up my with my bullshit." Spencer's voice has taken on the low quality it gets right before he falls asleep.
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
*
Ryan wakes up the next morning with a note on his pillow from Spencer complete with a smiley face and a daisy. His boyfriend is such a fucking doofus.
Brendon's not in the kitchen when he gets there, which isn't that surprising, considering Brendon doesn't actually live with them.
He's left a note, but it's less sloppy than Spencer's was. It's funny, how it's not what Ryan would have expected, Brendon's matter-of-fact words and Spencer's sloping, loopy scrawl.
The phone in the kitchen rings, and Spencer was the one who'd insisted they install a landline, even though landlines were for adults and yuppies. Ryan tries really hard not to think of himself as an adult or a yuppie.
Most of the time he's successful.
"Yeah," he says, by way of answering, because he's not going to be polite on a land line.
"RYAN ROSS!" Ryan blinks down at the phone. Brendon's exuberance is kind of intimidating in the morning. Ryan couldn't manage to be that happy on a really good day.
"Hey, Bren. Where are you? I made coffee."
"I have coffee at home, Ryan Ross." Ryan blinks, because he gets it, Brendon is back at home, which means Brendon is back with Pete.
Ryan likes Pete, he does, but for the shocking amount of times he and Brendon have broken up, there has to be some basis for Brendon's panic.
"Right, well." Ryan swallows, throat tight. "That's awesome, Bren."
"I know, right?"
Ryan hangs up and slides across the breakfast bar, firing up his laptop.
Tonight is a late night for Spencer and with Brendon gone, the apartment is huge and lonely. He forgets, sometimes, that writing is a solitary business, when even the characters in his head won't come out and talk to him.
Out loud, he mutters, "Fuck," wincing before realizing there's no one around to admonish him. "Fuck," he says again.
*
It takes the better part of four hours, six cups of coffee, and two cigarette breaks on the balcony before Ryan manages to go tripping into the mindset of his newest novel, but he does. It's different from his other works, this post apocalyptic thing about the survivors of a plague. His editor keeps smiling frantically, but Ryan personally thinks it's his best work yet.
He doesn't hear the front door unlock and open and Spencer's arms sliding around his shoulders have him jumping so high he almost dumps his laptop on the floor. "Jesus motherfucking Christ almighty."
Spencer chuckles in his ear. "Spence is good."
Were Ryan slightly less wrung out and had the day been a little less lonely, he would probably somehow twist his arm into cuffing Spencer on the back of the head. As it is, he somehow finds his head tipped back onto Spencer's shoulder. "Asshole."
"How was your day, dear?"
"Peachy keen." Ryan glances at the clock and probably isn't as surprised as he should be to see that it's after eleven. He's been writing for the better part of six hours and his back is letting him know that loud and clear. "Brendon made up with Pete."
Spencer folds himself down onto the couch, Ryan settled in the bracket of his thighs. "Was there ever really any question?"
"One of these days they're going to actually, literally fucking break up and Brendon will move into our living room and what will we do then?"
"Love him." Spencer kisses Ryan's temple. "And squish him." His cheek. "And call him our own."
"I never wanted a pet," Ryan groans and Spencer nips at his earlobe. "And you're in a remarkably good mood, considering."
Spencer chuckles again, the same low sound that vibrates through Ryan's back and down his nerves. He gets a hand around Ryan's laptop and shifts it over the coffee table and Ryan distantly hopes he remembered to hit save or he's going to have to recreate two fairly nice paragraphs. Spencer sucks a kiss to the juncture of his neck and Ryan decides he really doesn't care.
"I've been thinking." Spencer skims his palms over Ryan's chest, heat radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt to his skin.
"Mm." Ryan really, really fucking loves his boyfriend. "'Bout what?"
Spencer's mouth curves into a smile that Ryan can feel against his neck, hands sliding along the curve of his waist, down the outside of his thighs and up the inside. "Things."
"Thank you for that. Really."
"Welcome."
Spencer trails the tips of his fingers along the waistband, nuzzling his face into Ryan's neck. Once upon a time, Ryan was totally fucking stone against something as simple as pointed touch. Then he met Spencer and Spencer has some kind of freaky fucking mind control. Though, really, Ryan's not complaining. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"That day in the exam room."
The funny thing is, Ryan can call up at least half a dozen different memorable incidents in the exam room without trying hard.
"Which one?"
A kiss turns into a bite and Ryan shudders. "The most recent one."
Tension floods back into Ryan's shoulders and Spencer stops. "Why?"
There's a long moment of Spencer's breath brushing against the heated skin of Ryan's neck, hands caught easily on his waist. "I was thinking about a repeat performance." His voice is carefully modulated and, were he talking to anyone but Ryan, he'd probably be able to get away with that as normal.
"I pass," Ryan says, sliding away from Spencer's hands, up off the couch and into the bathroom.
He is, in fact, the worst fucking boyfriend in the world.
*
Spencer doesn't try to talk to him about it. Spencer doesn't sulk, he doesn't throw things. When Ryan finally drags his ass out of the bathroom, with freshly brushed teeth and a clear face, the door to their bedroom isn't even locked, not that he'd honestly expected it to be.
It's dark, when he pushes in, trying his hardest to be quiet, but failing sort of miserably. Their door creaks, something they've always said they were going to fix, but never really got around it. It's not exactly conducive to letting him sneak into bed.
"I'm awake, you know," The room is dark, the reading lamp isn't even on, which means Spencer's just been sitting there, as long as Ryan was in the bathroom, just sitting and waiting for him to come and deal with their issues.
Ryan's pretty sure all of 'their' issues? Are his issues. Shit.
"You know, this is kind of creepy," he mutters, trying to make a joke. He's rewarded with the snort he can hear Spencer try to stifle, and he almost smiles. It's not like Spencer can see him anyway.
"Ryan Ross," he says. "Did you really expect me to make you sleep out on the couch?" Ryan hadn't. Ryan knows Spencer.
"You should've," he mumbles, dropping his sweats into a pile at his feet, pulling back the blanket and dropping onto the bed beside Spencer. "I suck sometimes," he mumbles, rolling until he can mash his face against Spencer's shoulder.
Spencer snorts. "Only when it's my dick," and then, "Close your eyes and go to sleep, Ross. I shouldn't have pushed you."
Ryan's warm now that he's surrounded by Spencer's heat, and he'd been drifting, slowly, but he snaps his eyes open and he's not drifting anymore.
"Spence," he says, and he starts to pull away, or tries to, but Spencer's arms have a vice grip around his sides now that he's in the bed, and no matter how much Ryan wriggles, Spencer's not letting him go. It would be awesome, it is awesome, except for how it isn't. "Spence, it wasn't your fault."
Spencer lets him go.
"I pushed you. I didn't mean to push you, Ryan." He sounds so earnest, and even though Ryan can't see him, he can tell what his eyes look like, big and wide, pleading with Ryan to understand.
Ryan understands. That's the problem.
"Spence, I'm not." He stops, because he has to, because he doesn't want what Spencer is offering, he doesn't, but Spencer isn't wrong to want it. It's not his fault he got involved with Ryan. It's not his fault he has a really nice, perfectly serviceable dick. It makes sense that he'd want to use it once in a while. "You should. I mean. Your dick is really pretty."
Ryan can feel Spencer blink.
He flicks the light on.
*
"Pretty?"
Ryan blushes hard, heat spreading from his cheeks onto his neck and shoulders. "Yes. No."
Spencer, leaning against the pillows piled against the headboard, skin of his chest cast in a golden glow from the light of the lamp, stares. Ryan's eyes roam over his face, finally settling on the corner of his mouth. The twitching corner of his mouth.
"You're laughing at me." Ryan grabs a stray pillow tucked between them and throws it at Spencer's face as hard as he can, rolling on his side and yanking his knees up to his chin. Spencer, for all that he is probably something pretty close to the love of Ryan's life (if he believed in something so cliched and Hallmark) can sometimes be an asshole.
"Hey." Spencer shifts over and curls a hand around Ryan's shoulder. "You said my dick is pretty, what was I supposed to do? Stop pouting and fucking talk to me, Ross."
Reluctantly, Ryan rolls onto his back and shoots Spencer a glare. He doesn't seem all that phased, settling with one elbow on either side of Ryan, chests pressed together. Ryan lets out a highly unintentional soft sound of contentment. Spencer is warm.
Spencer leans down and brushes his nose against the hollow of Ryan's throat. "You're like a cat sometimes, I swear."
"Meow."
"Very funny." Spencer presses a kiss to Ryan's collarbone and settled back. "So, are you going to tell me what the hell's going on in your head? I'm pretty good at reading you Ry, but we've ventured into some obscure dialect of you I never picked up."
"It's nothing." Ryan tries to roll his shoulders in a shrug and ends up only squirming. "It's fine. Just. Whatever. Your fingers."
Spencer waggles said appendages, brushing the tips against Ryan's ribs. His chest hitches in a bark of laughter. "Stop that."
"Sorry. What about my fingers? And, I'm assuming, by extension my pretty dick."
Ryan thinks it's funny, in the worst way possible, that the published and lauded author of their relationship would be the one resorting to awkward hand gesture and inarticulate noises. Fucking Spencer and his stupid fingers and his dick (which is pretty, fuck anyone who thinks differently) and, most of all, fuck himself being an idiot with issues.
"I don't bottom," Ryan says.
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
"Shut up. I don't bottom. You do. That's worked really well for the entirety of our relationship." It has. It's worked so brilliantly.
"But?"
Ryan shifts against the sheets and wishes like hell that Spencer's eyes didn't look so bright blue and earnest, that his fingers weren't so stupidly long, that his motherfucking dick wasn't so pretty. Ryan likes the status quo, there's a comfort in that, and routine has always worked for him. Even so, even so.
"Your dick is pretty and your stupid fingers." Ryan gropes for the words. They don't come. "Fuck it."
Spencer, of course, chuckles again, leans down and kisses him. "You're an idiot."
It's funny that it sounds like I love you.
PART TWO.
sinuous_curve & flickerofyou
In the morning there are scones and coffee, a note on the pillow next to Ryan in Spencer's ridiculous doctor's handwriting, and his laptop on his lap, whirring happily and plugged into the wall. These are all things Spencer would have done on a regular morning, but it feels different now, weighted by something else.
Betaed by the lovely pepino21786
The running joke among their friends is that Ryan is Spencer's kept boy. Which isn't true in the slightest, of course; Spencer just happens to work twelve hour shifts that coincide perfectly with Ryan working none (he's a writer, for Christ's sake, what kind of respectable author works nine to five? It's not natural).
Most of the time they meet in the middle, in the city, eating with their hands laced inconspicuously across the table, then go home and fuck on every available surface until Spencer ends up braced on the piano bench in the living room, panting that there's no possible way they're not going to end up sprawled everywhere without breaking something vital.
Ryan kisses hard enough to leave Spencer's lips bright red and spit slicked, cants his hips in just the right way, and words die away to babbles and moans, a litany of more.
Then, of course, there are the days when Ryan's patience fails him and he ends up sitting in one of the exam rooms in a tee shirt and fingerless gloves against the Boston cold, scarves looped around his neck. It's cheating, a little, batting his eyes at William the secretary, but Ryan has never had illusions of deep morality and, after four years, it's almost an expectation.
Spencer comes in with a wry smile playing across his lips. "And what can I do for you today?"
"Doctor," Ryan says, voice as flat as ever as he looks at Spencer over the frames of his glasses. "Doctor, I think I sprained something. Oh, it hurts. It hurts something fierce."
His cords are already unbuttoned, because it's impossible to live with Spencer for as long as he has without some of his practicality rubbing off, and the longer it takes, the higher the chances of Gabe waltzing in. And Gabe, unlike any other normal human being, won't back away blushing, he'll whip out his camera phone and make threats about youporn submissions.
"One of these days," Spencer says, getting on his knees where he looks so damn pretty, "William is going to stop letting you in the back during working hours."
Ryan braces himself on the table edge and laces his fingers in Spencer's hair. It's soft against his calluses and Ryan tugs experimentally, just hard enough to feel resistance the moment when Spencer's body starts to thrum with tension. "I doubt that. The longer the patients are in the waiting room, the longer William has to try and seduce them."
Spencer eases the zipper down and shimmies Ryan's pants and boxers off, blowing out against his pelvis in hot little bursts of air that have Ryan shivering, despite the relative warmth of the room.
There aren't many benefits Ryan will cop to that come from having been with someone old enough to be out of college for almost ten years, but an almost too intimate knowledge of Ryan's body ticks ranks high on that short list. Spencer nips at his hipbones (he's always had a thing for sharp objects) and pulls back long enough to make a point of licking his lips.
"Tease," Ryan exhales.
Spencer smiles, settles his hands on the dip of Ryan's side and opens his mouth.
They've been doing this long enough that Ryan knows all of Spencer's tricks; or at least he thinks he does. He leans back against the exam table, palms pressed against the cool metal, and it's a lot of sensation, Spencer's hot, hot mouth and the coolness of the metal.
Ryan can't complain.
"Shift your hips a little," Spencer mumbles, pulling off Ryan's dick for just a second. Ryan has no shame, it's something that got him through college and most of his twenties, something he's pretty sure actually got him Spencer in the first place.
Ryan has no shame, so when he whines, low in his throat, at the loss of Spencer's heat from around him, all it does is earn him a flick to the thigh and a chuckle against his skin.
"D'you think you could -- " Spencer's breaths come fast, Ryan can feel them getting shallower and shallower, he grinds his hips down a little, and it's a cheap shot, he knows it is, but he'll pretty much do anything to get Spencer's eyes like that, all pupil, completely blown. "Do you think you could balance your feet against the stool?" A laugh that Ryan hadn't been expecting bursts from his throat, but he nods, because yeah, yeah he can. It'll be a strain, but he can do it.
Spencer grins at him, and there's something about it, something about the way he looks predatory that makes Ryan's pulse flutter.
"Yeah," Ryan grits the word out, and his feet are propped around Spencer, settling on either side of the metal stool.
Spencer grins at him again, mouth curved up in something just this side of mischievous and sucks a finger into his mouth. Ryan doesn't really think about it, because Spencer sticking anything in his mouth is the hottest fucking thing ever.
He says, "Can you hoist yourself up?" Ryan blinks, but he nods, because Spencer's mouth is really close to his dick again, and he may be pushing thirty-three, but Spencer's head-giving skills have aged like cheese or fine wine, they've gotten so, so much better with age.
Spencer smirks up at him, pressing his mouth against Ryan's thigh, flicking his tongue out. When Ryan throws his head back and barely holds in a moan, he can feel Spencer's grin against his skin. When Spencer's tongue swirls around the head, Ryan is practically mindless and they've barely even started. He bucks up, balancing himself on his palms and the very tips of toes on the stool and then the tip of a finger Ryan hadn't even realized Spencer had slid back there starts to press against his ass.
Ryan bucks against Spencer's mouth, and practically comes everywhere.
Spencer swallows most of it.
"What," Ryan mumbles breathlessly, wiping at his own mouth. "What the hell was that, Spencer." He should make it a question, it's only fair, but he doesn't, and Jesus, Spencer's moved his mouth away, Spencer's licking his lips, still shiny with Ryan's fucking come, but he hasn't moved his finger.
"Did you like it?" Spencer's surging up, pressing the pad of his finger against the pucker to Ryan's ass, quick and harsh, before it's gone, and he's crushing their mouths together.
Ryan can taste himself on Spencer's mouth.
"I don't like dick," he says, and if Spencer's lips quirk down just slightly, well, Ryan can pretend he didn't notice. It's been serving him pretty well for the past seven years.
"That wasn't dick," Spencer mumbles, leaning against his mouth for just a second more before he's straightening his coat and pulling away. "That was a finger."
Ryan rolls his eyes and tries not to stare at Spencer's mouth, lip bitten and red, red, red. He drags Ryan up, bats his hands away when Ryan tries to fasten his own pants and kisses him again once they're standing like he can't help it.
"You taste good," Ryan mumbles before he can stop himself, and Spencer snorts. "I taste like you," he mutters, and he doesn't sound disgruntled, exactly, he sounds resigned.
Ryan doesn't pause to think about what that means, and then they're out into the hallway, all cool champagne colored rugs, pale walls and an assistant who's leaning against the information desk like he's attached to it.
"Spencer," Gabe says, eying him appraisingly. Ryan would be jealous, shit, Ryan is, but he's sated and boneless and it doesn't really matter if Gabe's staring at Ryan's boyfriend like he's something tasty and delicious, because at the end of the day, Spencer's coming home to him. "Or should I call you Dr. Smith?"
"You should get behind the desk and finish checking people in," Spencer says, and he sounds so composed. Ryan's really glad he doesn't have to talk.
Gabe rolls his eyes, making a kissy face in Spencer's direction, and that would have Ryan growling if he weren't trying not to giggle.
"What," Spencer asks, conspiratorially, out of the corner of his mouth, looking like a caricature of himself. Ryan wants to kiss him, and would, if there weren't so many people around. "Do I have something on my face?"
He turns to face Ryan full, and all Ryan sees is his eyes, his smile, his messy hair. His chin is shining a little more than usual, a bright spot on it, and Ryan is completely past blushing, but if he were so inclined, his cheeks would be the color of tomatoes.
"You, uh. There's." He flails a hand around, but he's pretty sure Spencer doesn't follow. "You have come on your chin," he whispers, and tries his hardest not to boggle when Spencer just runs his fingers over the spot Ryan had been pointing to and sucks them into his mouth.
"Tasty," he says, smirking.
Ryan is really lucky his boyfriend is a physician. If he ever blacks out, at least he'll be in the right place.
*
Ryan could take the subway home, but he chooses to walk, hands shoved down deep in his pockets. It's only September and the last remnants of summer are still clinging stubbornly to the city, so he's not quite cold once he gets moving. He could afford a car if he wanted, but Ryan barely managed to pass his driver's test in the suburbs of Las Vegas, the old roads of Boston are less than ideal and hell if he's going to die in the process of taking out the front wall of some historical monument.
Spencer offered once, only half joking, to try and fit a driver into their budget, but Ryan suspects that would require firing the lady who cleans their apartment three times a week and moving into a sketchy neighborhood. Ryan can walk, thank you.
He's just begun to shiver when he reaches their building, waving at the doorman as he slides through the door and heads to the elevator. It's old and creaky and breaks down more than is reasonable, given what they fork over monthly for their seventh floor place, but it's thankfully working and Ryan leans against the wall for the ride up.
His thoughts drift over to Spencer, not that there's anything all that unusual in that, but they end up circling around Spencer's fingers and Ryan's not going to have any of that.
The elevator dings at precisely the right time and Ryan shuffles into the hallway. The only downside of actually managing to make his career as an author is that his imagination, never on the flat side, has a tendency to become entirely too fucking active over shit that is not a word doc on his computer. It's not a big deal if he doesn't make it a big deal and he's not going to make it a big deal, so there is no big deal.
It might not be the soundest of logic, but it works as Ryan hunts through his pockets for his keys. Unnecessarily, it turns out, because the door is already unlocked; Ryan pushes it open and is entirely unsurprised to find Brendon sprawled out on their couch with a bottle of wine and a pair of long stemmed glasses on the coffee table, staring at the TV.
"What are you doing here?"
Brendon looks up and his eyes are still focused, which is always a bonus. "Hey. I fucking hate Pete and I needed somewhere to go."
Ryan rolls his eyes.
Brendon has been dating Pete on and off, extreme emphasis on the on and the off, since before Spencer and Ryan got together. Ryan doesn't understand their relationship, he doubts they understand their relationship, but it involves never ending, constantly repeating cycles of hot periods where they can't keep their hands off each other, domestic periods where they buy curtains and sheets ad nauseam and look at houses, and cold periods where they can't be in the same room for ten minutes without trying to kill each other.
During most cold periods, Brendon ends up on their couch, complaining to Ryan while they drink a bottle of wine and watch old black and white movies.
Ryan peels off his gloves and tosses them on top of the entertainment center, then crosses the living room and flops down next to Brendon. "What did he do this time?"
Brendon refills his glass and pours into Ryan's, hands it over and sinks back down with a long and tragically defeated sigh. "Pete Wentz is an asshole and an idiot and I don't know why I have wasted so many years of my precious youth on his lame self."
"Your life is a constant trial," Ryan says in a deadpan.
"You are an asshole too, Ryan Ross," Brendon counters without heat.
"Yeah." Ryan hunts through the cushions to find the remote. "Are you sleeping on the couch tonight?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to watch Casablanca or Babes in Arms?"
"Casablanca."
They watch in companionable silence until Spencer gets home and end up switching over to some prime time medical drama, because watching Spencer scoff and yell at the actors for utter medical incompetence will never stop being funny.
Spencer curls his fingers around Ryan's neck and he doesn't think about it.
*
Brendon falls asleep in the middle of the first musical number in Babes in Arms, with Judy Garland's eyes huge and luminous, staring straight out of them.
"He looks really young like that," Spencer says, and it's what Spencer always says, and they've had this routine for as long as Ryan can remember, probably longer than that.
"He's older than you, Spence."
Spencer makes a noise low in his throat and mumbles something like, "He needs more taking care of than I do," and Ryan blinks, because sometimes, Spencer is really, unapologetically sweet, and it makes something warm course through Ryan's chest.
He's really close to grinning at Spencer stupidly, and he'd never hear the end of that, so he tries and tramps it down, says instead, "So what was that, today?"
They're getting ready for bed, Spencer in the wife beater he always wears under his collared shirts and a soft pair of black sweatpants, hair mussed. He raises a brow, and Ryan's glad they don't have central lighting in their bedroom. The lamp is casting a yellow glow over everything, and if Spencer's grinning, at least Ryan can pretend he doesn't see it.
"What was what?" Spencer asks, and Ryan wants to roll his eyes, but Spencer would just pretend he hadn't seen. Ryan huffs, watching as Spencer slides into bed, waiting a moment and turning out the lamp before sliding in alongside him.
"You," Spencer, typically, sleeps flat on his back with Ryan sprawled against his chest, listening to his heart beat, and while before him, Ryan hadn't been much for cuddling, he can't sleep any other way now. Ryan tries to speak again, tries to air his grievances, but Spencer's running his fingers through the shorthairs at Ryan's nape, and all that comes out when he opens his mouth are tiny little gasps.
"I, what, Ry?" Spencer is smirking. Their room is dark, but Ryan isn't new to this game. Ryan knows all of Spencer's quirks, Ryan knows when Spencer is laughing at him, dammit.
"I don't like dick." Ryan mutters, and he should move away, this conversation would be so much more effective if weren't touching, if the lights were on and they were staring into each other's eyes, and Ryan could repeat the words he's been saying to Spencer since their first date.
"You're telling me this like I don't know," He sounds sleepy, which makes sense, since he's been up since five, yesterday morning, but this conversation is important, and Ryan's aversion to dick has never bothered Spencer before.
"You just. It doesn't bug me okay, and it's not like it felt good -- "
Spencer snorts. "If you say so."
"It didn't."
Spencer leans down, contorts himself in some way that allows him to press his lips to the top of Ryan's head while not dislodging Ryan from his chest.
Ryan is pretty sure that Spencer is magic.
*
Ryan's alone in bed when he wakes up, but the crooned tribute to Queen filtering through the open bedroom door from the kitchen sure as hell isn't Spencer. He stifles a yawn and rolls out of bed, mentally sacrificing a day of working on the exposition dump chapter in his latest novel to Brendon's continued mental health and well-being.
Brendon's standing at the kitchen counter in his boxers and one of Spencer's tee shirts. "I made coffee and bagels, but Spencer ate yours."
Rolling his eyes (Spencer is seriously the worst fucking food thief and one of these days Ryan's going to lace all the leftovers with Ex-Lax and then see how he likes it then) and slides onto one of the counter stools. Brendon presses a mug into his hand, a chipped thing he's owned since college, and Ryan inhales with a contented little sigh. Brendon might have the interpersonal relationship skills of a toddler, but he makes really good coffee.
"So, dear," Brendon chirps, leaning over and batting his eyelashes. "How did my muffin sleep?"
Ryan rolls his eyes. "Just swell, honeypot."
Brendon laughs and a rakes a hand through his hair. "Awesome. So, you're totally up to sneaking over to Pete's place with me and commandeering my shit, right?"
Ryan groans. "Brendon, I'm asking you, as a friend, give it a week to see if you've made up before you make me haul that fucking pull out couch down three flights of stairs. I could barely do it when it was twenty and it's not getting any easier."
"Fine, fine," Brendon sighs dramatically. "Fuck. I bet he's fucking someone on my couch right now."
"Right, because in the past ten years Pete's slept with anyone other than you." Ryan knows. Pete, for some inexplicable reason, thinks it's a good idea to call Ryan when he needs to commiserate about how irrational Brendon is. Which sure, Ryan more than anyone knows, but he doesn’t want to hear about it coming from Pete. Ryan had no desire to ever know that much about their sexual practices.
"My ass is just that fabulous."
It's an almost too perfect segue.
Ryan circles his hands around his mug and stares into the drink, chewing on the corner of his lip. Brendon's back to singing, rinsing out his cup to the strains of Fat Bottomed Girls.
"So," Ryan says, casually as he can. "You bottom, right?"
Brendon drops the mug with a clatter in the stainless steel sink. "I. I. What?"
"You bottom, right?" Ryan repeats, feeling heat spread across his cheeks. Now he's stuck at twelve where sex is something to blush and stammer over. He's fucking sexually liberated and shit, it's just Brendon.
"I do," Brendon says with an inadvertent nervous giggle.
Ryan drums his fingers on the side of the mug. There's no good way to ask about taking it up the ass without inviting all kinds of irritating questions about his issues with sexuality and masculinity and all that bull. Issues he doesn't particularly have, for the record. He just tried it once, found it that it fucking hurt, and decided that fucking was the way to go.
"Why?" Ryan asks, cocking his head to the side. "Why bottom?"
"I don't know." Brendon rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Because it'd be a waste of an awesome ass if I didn't?"
"Bren, seriously. I'm curious."
Brendon huffs out a laugh and starts playing with the short hairs on the back of his neck. "Jesus, Ryan, I don't know. It feels good? Which, I've always been told is the point of sex. I like having Pe-- someone inside me. Being open for them? Full. It's nice."
The explanation comes with more hand waving and demonstrative gestures than Ryan thinks is entirely necessary (if Pete is actually that big around, Ryan's going to hide cameras in their bedroom and market the tapes as porn under King Kong Dong).
Ryan shakes his head. "I don't get it."
Brendon laughs and ruffles his hair, which Ryan only allows because it's before noon and he hasn't had much success yet at drinking his coffee. "Lucky for you Spencer does."
Right.
Ryan chugs his mug.
*
On Monday, Spencer loses a patient.
He says it's not a big deal, but Ryan doesn't believe him. He says -- well, actually all he says is, "I'm going to bed, Ry. I'll talk to you in the morning."
Ryan's not particularly good at comfort, but he logs off his computer, shucks his pants and tee shirt, and climbs into bed with Spencer, even though little spurts of light are peeking in through where the curtains don't precisely meet in the middle.
"What," Spencer says deadpan, "Is it morning already?" Ryan's relieved to see that he isn't crying. He's not sure how he could have handled that.
"Just wanted to check on you," Ryan mutters, tucking his face against Spencer's neck, sliding his fingers down to the bare skin of Spencer's hip and squeezing.
"Aw," Spencer said, and his going for sarcasm, but his actions fail even though his words don't, and he drags Ryan closer, pressing his lips to Ryan's temple. "Ryan Ross, you love me."
Ryan snorts. "It's possible." He doesn't move, enjoying the warm heat of Spencer spread around him. That's when Spencer starts to shake, shoulders heaving, and he's not crying, he's not, but he holds on tightly, and Ryan lets him.
They won't talk about it tomorrow, but Ryan can feel Spencer's tears against his neck, can feel how Spencer hasn't stopped shaking, not even a little, and he moves back, just a little, just to kiss at the crease between his brows, the ridge of his cheek bone.
"Shouldn't have okayed him for surgery," Spencer whispers, voice cutting through their little cocoon. Ryan hadn't forgotten, not really, but it hadn't been at the forefront of his mind, taking care of Spencer was.
"You're a good doctor, Spence," he whispers, and Spencer tries to chuckle, but it's too watery by half. He leans forward, balancing on his palms, and presses their mouths together.
Spencer's mouth is slack at first, but Ryan doesn't know how else to comfort him, so he keeps going, keeps pushing, licking inside his mouth.
He moans, just slightly, high in his throat and Ryan pulls back a little to nip at the skin there. "You're beautiful," he whispers, and Spencer does chuckle then, but his eyes are glazed over, and he moans again when Ryan presses his thumbs against his hips.
"Ryan, I want," he says, flexing his hips up, and his eyes are wild, skin flushed pink.
Ryan doesn't need to be told twice.
*
Spencer spreads out on his back against the tangle of sheets on the bed that were never made from the night before. Ryan settles on his hips, knees tucked in close against Spencer's sides. He's lovely like this, though Ryan would never use that particular word aloud, with his eyes closed and hectic red flush spreading down his neck across his shoulders and chest.
Ryan rolls his hips, just a little, and Spencer makes a noise deep in the back of his throat, fingers clenching into fists around the blankets.
They've known each other for more years than Ryan cares to think about, and in that time Spencer has only ever asked for what he wants, much less admitted what he needs, a handful of times. It's fine, really, Ryan has learned to read between the lines and, the thing is, Ryan likes taking care of him.
It sounds almost creepy when he says it out loud, which is why he doesn't, but the sentiment remains true.
"Love you," Ryan says, dragging blunted nails across Spencer's chest and smiling at the shudder. "Spencer."
Spencer's eyes open a fraction and he smiles, only the littlest bit shattered at the corners. "Love you too, Ry."
Ryan fucks Spencer, easy and loose, with Spencer's legs hooked over his shoulders.
Back when they were in college and still awed that they were allowed to touch each other at all, they tended to be frantic and filthy, on the kitchen table and in bathroom stalls, needing the touch of each others' skin almost constantly. Now they're older, much as Ryan hates to admit it, and more settled in their bones. The awe isn't gone, but it now comes with an ease.
Spencer isn't going anywhere.
It took Ryan a long time to believe that.
Afterward, Spencer gathers Ryan close (he always gets just a little more clingy after a bad day) and Ryan certainly isn't going to complain about getting to lay with his head on Spencer's chest, legs tangled together. Spencer threads his fingers in Ryan's hair. "Thank you," he says.
Ryan huffs out a laugh. "Not like it was a chore, dumbass."
"For putting up my with my bullshit." Spencer's voice has taken on the low quality it gets right before he falls asleep.
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
*
Ryan wakes up the next morning with a note on his pillow from Spencer complete with a smiley face and a daisy. His boyfriend is such a fucking doofus.
Brendon's not in the kitchen when he gets there, which isn't that surprising, considering Brendon doesn't actually live with them.
He's left a note, but it's less sloppy than Spencer's was. It's funny, how it's not what Ryan would have expected, Brendon's matter-of-fact words and Spencer's sloping, loopy scrawl.
The phone in the kitchen rings, and Spencer was the one who'd insisted they install a landline, even though landlines were for adults and yuppies. Ryan tries really hard not to think of himself as an adult or a yuppie.
Most of the time he's successful.
"Yeah," he says, by way of answering, because he's not going to be polite on a land line.
"RYAN ROSS!" Ryan blinks down at the phone. Brendon's exuberance is kind of intimidating in the morning. Ryan couldn't manage to be that happy on a really good day.
"Hey, Bren. Where are you? I made coffee."
"I have coffee at home, Ryan Ross." Ryan blinks, because he gets it, Brendon is back at home, which means Brendon is back with Pete.
Ryan likes Pete, he does, but for the shocking amount of times he and Brendon have broken up, there has to be some basis for Brendon's panic.
"Right, well." Ryan swallows, throat tight. "That's awesome, Bren."
"I know, right?"
Ryan hangs up and slides across the breakfast bar, firing up his laptop.
Tonight is a late night for Spencer and with Brendon gone, the apartment is huge and lonely. He forgets, sometimes, that writing is a solitary business, when even the characters in his head won't come out and talk to him.
Out loud, he mutters, "Fuck," wincing before realizing there's no one around to admonish him. "Fuck," he says again.
*
It takes the better part of four hours, six cups of coffee, and two cigarette breaks on the balcony before Ryan manages to go tripping into the mindset of his newest novel, but he does. It's different from his other works, this post apocalyptic thing about the survivors of a plague. His editor keeps smiling frantically, but Ryan personally thinks it's his best work yet.
He doesn't hear the front door unlock and open and Spencer's arms sliding around his shoulders have him jumping so high he almost dumps his laptop on the floor. "Jesus motherfucking Christ almighty."
Spencer chuckles in his ear. "Spence is good."
Were Ryan slightly less wrung out and had the day been a little less lonely, he would probably somehow twist his arm into cuffing Spencer on the back of the head. As it is, he somehow finds his head tipped back onto Spencer's shoulder. "Asshole."
"How was your day, dear?"
"Peachy keen." Ryan glances at the clock and probably isn't as surprised as he should be to see that it's after eleven. He's been writing for the better part of six hours and his back is letting him know that loud and clear. "Brendon made up with Pete."
Spencer folds himself down onto the couch, Ryan settled in the bracket of his thighs. "Was there ever really any question?"
"One of these days they're going to actually, literally fucking break up and Brendon will move into our living room and what will we do then?"
"Love him." Spencer kisses Ryan's temple. "And squish him." His cheek. "And call him our own."
"I never wanted a pet," Ryan groans and Spencer nips at his earlobe. "And you're in a remarkably good mood, considering."
Spencer chuckles again, the same low sound that vibrates through Ryan's back and down his nerves. He gets a hand around Ryan's laptop and shifts it over the coffee table and Ryan distantly hopes he remembered to hit save or he's going to have to recreate two fairly nice paragraphs. Spencer sucks a kiss to the juncture of his neck and Ryan decides he really doesn't care.
"I've been thinking." Spencer skims his palms over Ryan's chest, heat radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt to his skin.
"Mm." Ryan really, really fucking loves his boyfriend. "'Bout what?"
Spencer's mouth curves into a smile that Ryan can feel against his neck, hands sliding along the curve of his waist, down the outside of his thighs and up the inside. "Things."
"Thank you for that. Really."
"Welcome."
Spencer trails the tips of his fingers along the waistband, nuzzling his face into Ryan's neck. Once upon a time, Ryan was totally fucking stone against something as simple as pointed touch. Then he met Spencer and Spencer has some kind of freaky fucking mind control. Though, really, Ryan's not complaining. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"That day in the exam room."
The funny thing is, Ryan can call up at least half a dozen different memorable incidents in the exam room without trying hard.
"Which one?"
A kiss turns into a bite and Ryan shudders. "The most recent one."
Tension floods back into Ryan's shoulders and Spencer stops. "Why?"
There's a long moment of Spencer's breath brushing against the heated skin of Ryan's neck, hands caught easily on his waist. "I was thinking about a repeat performance." His voice is carefully modulated and, were he talking to anyone but Ryan, he'd probably be able to get away with that as normal.
"I pass," Ryan says, sliding away from Spencer's hands, up off the couch and into the bathroom.
He is, in fact, the worst fucking boyfriend in the world.
*
Spencer doesn't try to talk to him about it. Spencer doesn't sulk, he doesn't throw things. When Ryan finally drags his ass out of the bathroom, with freshly brushed teeth and a clear face, the door to their bedroom isn't even locked, not that he'd honestly expected it to be.
It's dark, when he pushes in, trying his hardest to be quiet, but failing sort of miserably. Their door creaks, something they've always said they were going to fix, but never really got around it. It's not exactly conducive to letting him sneak into bed.
"I'm awake, you know," The room is dark, the reading lamp isn't even on, which means Spencer's just been sitting there, as long as Ryan was in the bathroom, just sitting and waiting for him to come and deal with their issues.
Ryan's pretty sure all of 'their' issues? Are his issues. Shit.
"You know, this is kind of creepy," he mutters, trying to make a joke. He's rewarded with the snort he can hear Spencer try to stifle, and he almost smiles. It's not like Spencer can see him anyway.
"Ryan Ross," he says. "Did you really expect me to make you sleep out on the couch?" Ryan hadn't. Ryan knows Spencer.
"You should've," he mumbles, dropping his sweats into a pile at his feet, pulling back the blanket and dropping onto the bed beside Spencer. "I suck sometimes," he mumbles, rolling until he can mash his face against Spencer's shoulder.
Spencer snorts. "Only when it's my dick," and then, "Close your eyes and go to sleep, Ross. I shouldn't have pushed you."
Ryan's warm now that he's surrounded by Spencer's heat, and he'd been drifting, slowly, but he snaps his eyes open and he's not drifting anymore.
"Spence," he says, and he starts to pull away, or tries to, but Spencer's arms have a vice grip around his sides now that he's in the bed, and no matter how much Ryan wriggles, Spencer's not letting him go. It would be awesome, it is awesome, except for how it isn't. "Spence, it wasn't your fault."
Spencer lets him go.
"I pushed you. I didn't mean to push you, Ryan." He sounds so earnest, and even though Ryan can't see him, he can tell what his eyes look like, big and wide, pleading with Ryan to understand.
Ryan understands. That's the problem.
"Spence, I'm not." He stops, because he has to, because he doesn't want what Spencer is offering, he doesn't, but Spencer isn't wrong to want it. It's not his fault he got involved with Ryan. It's not his fault he has a really nice, perfectly serviceable dick. It makes sense that he'd want to use it once in a while. "You should. I mean. Your dick is really pretty."
Ryan can feel Spencer blink.
He flicks the light on.
*
"Pretty?"
Ryan blushes hard, heat spreading from his cheeks onto his neck and shoulders. "Yes. No."
Spencer, leaning against the pillows piled against the headboard, skin of his chest cast in a golden glow from the light of the lamp, stares. Ryan's eyes roam over his face, finally settling on the corner of his mouth. The twitching corner of his mouth.
"You're laughing at me." Ryan grabs a stray pillow tucked between them and throws it at Spencer's face as hard as he can, rolling on his side and yanking his knees up to his chin. Spencer, for all that he is probably something pretty close to the love of Ryan's life (if he believed in something so cliched and Hallmark) can sometimes be an asshole.
"Hey." Spencer shifts over and curls a hand around Ryan's shoulder. "You said my dick is pretty, what was I supposed to do? Stop pouting and fucking talk to me, Ross."
Reluctantly, Ryan rolls onto his back and shoots Spencer a glare. He doesn't seem all that phased, settling with one elbow on either side of Ryan, chests pressed together. Ryan lets out a highly unintentional soft sound of contentment. Spencer is warm.
Spencer leans down and brushes his nose against the hollow of Ryan's throat. "You're like a cat sometimes, I swear."
"Meow."
"Very funny." Spencer presses a kiss to Ryan's collarbone and settled back. "So, are you going to tell me what the hell's going on in your head? I'm pretty good at reading you Ry, but we've ventured into some obscure dialect of you I never picked up."
"It's nothing." Ryan tries to roll his shoulders in a shrug and ends up only squirming. "It's fine. Just. Whatever. Your fingers."
Spencer waggles said appendages, brushing the tips against Ryan's ribs. His chest hitches in a bark of laughter. "Stop that."
"Sorry. What about my fingers? And, I'm assuming, by extension my pretty dick."
Ryan thinks it's funny, in the worst way possible, that the published and lauded author of their relationship would be the one resorting to awkward hand gesture and inarticulate noises. Fucking Spencer and his stupid fingers and his dick (which is pretty, fuck anyone who thinks differently) and, most of all, fuck himself being an idiot with issues.
"I don't bottom," Ryan says.
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
"Shut up. I don't bottom. You do. That's worked really well for the entirety of our relationship." It has. It's worked so brilliantly.
"But?"
Ryan shifts against the sheets and wishes like hell that Spencer's eyes didn't look so bright blue and earnest, that his fingers weren't so stupidly long, that his motherfucking dick wasn't so pretty. Ryan likes the status quo, there's a comfort in that, and routine has always worked for him. Even so, even so.
"Your dick is pretty and your stupid fingers." Ryan gropes for the words. They don't come. "Fuck it."
Spencer, of course, chuckles again, leans down and kisses him. "You're an idiot."
It's funny that it sounds like I love you.
PART TWO.