august & everything after: 2/4
part one.
//november.
November starts off with the All Souls' Day mass up in the gym. It's the second day in November, and it's usually when the weather takes a hint and starts cooling down.
Frank has a hard time adjusting -- one day he was driving around with the air conditioner on, and now he's starting to actually wear sweaters. Of course, it's Nevada, so it's maybe 65 on the coldest days, and there are more warm days than cool ones. Still, he keeps thinking, Last week it was 94 degrees before noon.
November is also when Frank develops a generous sense of sympathy for the difficulty of Gerard's job. They're still the cautious sort of roommates, keeping meticulous tabs over who used what and when. When Frank gets back to the apartment (can't think of it as "home" just yet), he sees Gerard puzzling over massive stacks of paperwork.
"Holy shit," he says.
"College app season," Gerard says tiredly. "Next few weeks are going to be awesome."
"I thought -- "
"Yeah, the schools start taking them a lot sooner, but procrastination, not masturbation or copulation, is the driving urge of the average American teenager."
Frank blinks. "I'll order some takeout."
"Yes, I think you'd best."
November is one of the busiest months at the school, which isn't helped by the fact that it's somewhat short, owing to the long Thanksgiving weekend. The first half of the month is entirely consumed with a huge fundraising effort. Each first-period classroom is given a list of food they must procure, enough for a full Thanksgiving meal. Student participation is closely watched, and anyone who doesn't participate at all won't have their grades released at the end of the semester.
Then there are college applications, the Homecoming game and dance, and the boutique fundraiser. It doesn't sound like a lot on paper to Frank, but Spencer tells him to be very, very afraid.
"No, seriously," he says. Frank doesn't believe him. Spencer opens his mouth to tell Frank exactly what kind of fresh hell they're about to encounter, and then his phone buzzes.
Frank tilts his head to the side, tries to sort of sneakily catch a glance of Spencer's screen, but no such luck.
"See you later," Spencer says, heads out the door with a broad grin painting his face.
When he makes it up to the north building, around to Jon's shed, he can't help but chance looking around for anyone watching. Which is absurd, all the students are eating either in the cafeteria or the amphitheatre and the teachers are sequestered in their classrooms, enjoying the peace.
"Hey," Jon says brightly as Spencer ducks into the shed.
"Hi," Spencer says.
"Dinner tonight," Jon says, wiggling his eyebrows.
"You're ridiculous," Spencer tells him, but he allows himself to be kissed all the same. "You're gonna get me all sweaty and gross."
"If you insist," Jon says contemplatively, then kisses him again, biting at his bottom lip.
"I insist, yeah, when I'm more naked," Spencer says, breaking away. Jon snorts and moves to suck at his throat. "Oh my God, you asshole, don't give me a hickey."
Jon chuckles and moves away. "Anyway. I just wanted to check that we're still on for dinner. I'm in a sushi kind of mood."
"Tasty raw fish. Awesome."
"Don't be a pussy," Jon says.
Spencer smacks the palm of his hand to his forehead. "Shit, Jon, I can't -- can't do dinner tonight."
Jon doesn't say anything, just tilts his head to the side and waits for Spencer to explain.
"See, Brendon does this stupid movie night, just, like, once a month. It's a big deal, he and Ryan pick out the movie and then they bombard us all with trivia and historical crap and it's themed and just. Really lame. But I can't skip it."
"Okay," Jon says. Spencer can't read his face.
"So, um," Spencer says. "Tonight's movie is. I have no idea, to be honest. Something weird, inevitably. You up for a night of ridiculousness?"
"Oh -- you. You want me to come?" Jon asks, brow furrowed.
"Well, yeah, if you -- I mean. If you want," Spencer says.
"I think I'm less interested in a night of pretentious movie-viewing than you are in raw fish," Jon says with a laugh, pulls Spencer in for another kiss.
Spencer takes a moment to appreciate it, open his mouth to Jon's and feel his tongue sweeping in, sucks on it lightly. Jon's hands knead at his shoulders, work their way to the small of his back and grip his hips.
"Hey," Spencer says, breaking away. "Is that a yes or a no?"
Jon kisses him again, tightens fingers in his hair. "How about dinner tomorrow night instead? I'll cook for you, come to my place."
"Sure," Spencer says breathlessly, tilts his head away enough for Jon to press his mouth to the curve of Spencer's neck.
"You should probably get to class, Smith," Jon murmurs, and Spencer smirks, saunters to his classroom before the bell rings.
He gets in there early, though, and has a bit of time to think. Ryan texts him -- Don't be late tonight -- and Spencer sits there and puzzles for a minute.
It's probably nothing, he thinks.
When the bell rings, the students file in and Spencer starts brandishing the Thanksgiving list at his students.
"It's that time again," he says warningly. "Two turkeys. Two hams. A bunch of canned vegetables. Stuffing mix. You know the drill. I don't want to deal with it. You're big kids now, so, you know. Take care of it."
He manages to get through the rest of the day without too much slowdown, but it's nagging at him, Jon not wanting to come to the movie night. Which, yeah, it's stupid and Jon's barely on first-name basis with Brendon and Ryan, and they're still kind of feeling their way around each other but still. It unsettles Spencer a little. He likes knowing where he stands with people.
The past few weeks, Spencer's been stopping off by Jon's shed on the days he works. Usually they'll kick the door shut and make out against the inside wall for a bit, Jon's fingertips teasing at the waistband of Spencer's pants, never anything more. Just teasing slow kisses; or sometimes a bit more, more needful almost. Spencer doesn't usually think of Jon as the type to be needful, so it's strangely satisfying when Jon presses into him with more force and breathes harder, puffs of hot air gusting across the skin of Spencer's throat.
Spencer doesn't stop by Jon's shed on his way to his car today, though. Which is probably a good idea, because Ryan and Brendon are doing something -- who knows what -- to their house and it means that the stupid fucking movie night has to be held at Spencer's apartment, which doesn't even make any sense, because his apartment is tiny, and bringing all the food to Spencer's is gonna be a pain in the ass, and they probably should've just canceled the damn movie night, or put it off, or something.
He shakes his head as he heads down the drive, stops by Zack on his way out.
"You know the movie night's at my place, yeah?" he asks after rolling down the window.
"Yeah, Brendon's coming to my place after he's done here, I'm driving. He'll navigate. We might be a little late."
"Brendon wouldn't be late to his own party," Spencer says with a short barking laugh.
Zack smirks. "Yeah, that's fair."
Spencer grins and reminds Zack that the whole stupid thing starts at seven-thirty. He's really hoping the movie isn't long. Spencer kind of feels like curling up and watching something that doesn’t require his higher mental faculties, because he's got a ton of quizzes to grade by second period tomorrow, and they've all got to be done by the time he gets to the school in the morning, because he sure as hell won't have time to do them during first period.
He sighs and reaches for his phone, calls Ryan. "Hey, asshole."
"What?" Ryan asks. "Dude, you cannot cancel. Uncool."
"I have a ton of quizzes," Spencer tries.
"Nuh-uh," Ryan says. "You had, like, forever. Tons of notice. I put the fucking reminder in your phone for you. No excuses."
"Seriously," Spencer says.
"I believe you, but it's really your own fault," Ryan tells him. "Look, I'm at home and I'm cooking and I'll be at your place in, like, an hour, tops. I'll help you get set up and I'll make Brendon stay late after so we can help you clean. Just. Don't fuck with Brendon's thing, all right? This is important to him."
"You, too," Spencer says morosely.
"Yes, I like this thing, too, but it's a good thing, a nice thing, and that's why I like it, so just suck it up and deal," Ryan says.
"I'm hanging up now, and I'd like it on the record that I hate your annoying guts," Spencer informs him.
"So noted," Ryan allows, and that's kind of that, no getting out of it now.
Movie night isn't all that special, really -- usually it's Brendon and Ryan, of course, and Spencer, and Spencer's old roommate Brent, some friends from college or St. Catherine's, and three guys known collectively as The Alexes, whom Brendon usually refers to fondly as "Alexis", just to piss them off. Zack comes along sometimes, more frequently in recent months than when Ryan and Brendon first got together. It's just something they always do, on the second Tuesday of each month. Tuesday is normally date night for Brendon and Ryan, Spencer knows. Brendon goes out of his way to make sure they're doing something coupley every single Tuesday, and while it doesn't make any sense at all to him, he gets that it's a routine and it's important and they're his friends and even if he's just not in the mood, whatever, he should shut the fuck up and stop worrying about whatever is up with Jon.
To be entirely fair, Spencer thinks as he kicks his way around the debris in his apartment, if he were Jon, and he were presented with the idea of a movie viewing night with Brendon and Ryan, he'd turn it down, too, probably. They're kind of intense, and Jon's not very close with them, so it makes sense.
The movie is something Spencer can absolutely never get into: 28 Days Later. He doesn't like apocalypse stories or anything dystopian, but luckily everybody else is more into the bloodshed and the gore than anything else, and Brendon spends most of the evening quoting horror movie trivia while Ryan talks about the philosophy of zombies and what they've signified in pop culture through the ages. Pretty much everyone ignores them both. Spencer manages to get his mind shut off and ends up grateful for it.
"See," Ryan says when he and Brendon are on their way out.
"See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil," Brendon intones, and then completely spoils the effect by bursting into laughter.
"God, you're weird," Spencer tells him. He doesn't bother showering before he drifts off to sleep. Today has broken his
Brendon stays up late that night getting notes together for the next play.
"There's totally not enough time to do another show before Christmas," Ryan says. "Just give up now."
Brendon sighs. "I guess. I was thinking we could do a one-act, but I really don't want to stress the kids out more than they already are. Finals, and all."
"Just better to not," Ryan advises.
"There's money left over in this semester's budget," Brendon says hopefully. It's a rare occurrence, and surprising now, since everything the Stagecraft class spends is taken out of the theatre department's funding.
"So roll it over to next semester," Ryan says reasonably.
"Stop talking sense," Brendon says. "It's not nice. Actually, stop talking at all. This is Tuesday night, why are you wearing clothes?"
"A thousand apologies," Ryan says dryly. Brendon smirks and kisses his shoulder, nips lightly through the fabric.
Ryan pins Brendon down to the bed, holds his wrists up over his head and dips down for a kiss.
"Kinky," Brendon says with a smirk, squirming a little. Ryan grinds down harder, listens to the sudden sharp intake of Brendon's breath. Brendon arches up a bit, captures Ryan's mouth in a kiss. Ryan lets his eyes slip shut and sucks at Brendon's bottom lip before letting Brendon roll them over so he's on his back.
Brendon drifts down his body, almost lazily, pushing his shirt up to his armpits before kissing Ryan's belly. He's so utterly unhurried in his ministrations, something Ryan has always liked about him. Ryan wrestles his way out of his shirt and settles back, lets Brendon work his jeans open and off, mouth at his cock through his boxers.
Ryan's breathing hitches a bit when Brendon gets his boxers off and licks at his cock, just teasingly. Ryan bites his lip, and Brendon wraps his hand around the base, squeezing gently before he opens his mouth and takes Ryan in, wet and careful and such a fucking wonder.
Brendon's fingertips are trailing at his hipbones, and Ryan shifts a bit, tangles his hands in Brendon's hair, tugs gently. Brendon curls on his side against Ryan, still suckling softly, and Ryan revels in it, the slow soothing rhythm of Brendon's mouth on him.
If they were smarter, they'd sleep, because they'll be tired in the morning, it's late; but if they were smarter they'd probably be something other than teachers at a private school where there's no tenure and salaries are lower.
They're not smarter: they're young and impulsive and pulled along by the undertow of what's between them. Ryan plans to savour it, savour the way Brendon's making gentle little noises around his cock, tiny grunts of pleasure. Ryan can hear himself at the edge of his consciousness, hear the desperate little gasps as Brendon takes him deeper, deeper, until he's completely inside, until he can feel Brendon's throat tighten around him. He groans and tugs more sharply at Brendon's hair until Brendon slides away and wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand.
"Lube?" Brendon asks, voice raspy. Ryan nods and rolls over, fumbles at the little nightstand while Brendon pulls his clothes off, curls up on his side next to Ryan, just spoons up behind him.
Ryan pours some lube into his hands and slicks Brendon's fingers, feeling their hands slide loosely together. It's strangely breathtaking, and Ryan wishes briefly, fervently for more than moonlight. He doesn't need it, though, they've done this enough times that even without looking behind him, even with shadow decorating every move they make, he can still see Brendon's expression clearly in his mind, can read the line of his hip and the curve of his spine. It says want, plainly, and Ryan guides Brendon's hand down to his ass.
Brendon pushes two in at once, a bit too quickly, and Ryan winces but doesn't say anything, doesn't make a sound. They've lingered enough -- this is what he wants now, and Brendon's going to give it to him. Brendon takes a moment to slick his cock up and then he's pressing the head to Ryan's ass, sliding along the crack as though daring Ryan to say something, to beg out loud.
Ryan sighs when Brendon starts pushing in, small thrusts that drive him inside almost jarringly. It's not been that long since they've decided to do without condoms, and so fucking without one is still new and exciting to them both. Ryan shifts a bit on his side, accommodating. Brendon's curled up tightly behind him, one hand braced on his hip with another resting on the pillow below them both, and Ryan drops his chin to his chest, feels Brendon breathe harsh and loud against against the back of his neck.
"Good, yeah," Brendon groans, working his hips harder, and Ryan kind of agrees. He arches back into Brendon's thrusts, sharper and more forceful now, goes with the rolling motion of Brendon's hips, and makes what would probably be considered in most circles to be a rather humiliating noise, but Brendon just grunts, as though he likes it and gets his hand around Ryan's cock, stroking in time. Ryan grinds back hard against Brendon, tries to get him to come first.
He's more or less successful -- it's sort of tough to tell who lets go first. They're coming more or less together, something which is still a marvel to Ryan, that they've managed to line up so well.
They lie like that for a moment until Brendon pulls out, pads over to the bathroom for a towel to wipe up the wet spot where Ryan came. He swipes the fabric over Ryan's ass too, then bends and pulls his cheeks apart, kisses between them briefly. Ryan shivers until Brendon crawls under the covers with him, wraps his body wholly around Ryan's.
"Good movie night," Brendon says decisively. He won't be asleep for some time yet. Ryan always drifts off before Brendon does.
"Nothing like zombies to get me in the mood," Ryan says sleepily.
"Figure out the plural of apocalypse in your dreams and I'll suck you off in the shower tomorrow," Brendon murmurs in his ear.
Thanksgiving break comes up up more quickly than they're ready for, and like every year they've been together, Brendon and Ryan manage to do nothing more exciting than wear pajamas all day with their usual movie night crowd. This time, Frank comes over to join them because he knows precisely three people in Nevada who don't work at St. Catherine's, and they're all at Gerard and Mikey's parents' house.
Frank doesn't go because he doesn’t want to force his company on Gerard any more than he has to -- they work together, they live together, it's easy to get sick of someone. Frank doesn't want to have to look for another place, so he ends up at Brendon and Ryan's, interrogating Spencer with the rest of them.
"So, Jon," Brendon says pointedly.
"Jon," Spencer says, face carefully blank.
"Spill the fucking beans," one of the Alexes says, and Ryan throws a dinner roll at him.
"I don't know," Spencer says. "Whatever. It's weird."
"You should try talking to him," Frank says.
"Nobody talks to Jon Walker," Ryan says. "He's a mythical being who communicates in hand gestures and notes couriered by students."
"Is couriered even a fucking word?" Sisky asks and Brendon snorts.
"The English language is malleable," Ryan says indignantly, and luckily for Spencer, everyone is so much more interested in making fun of Ryan that they leave him alone.
The long weekend is nice, food and leftovers and football that nobody watches, but it makes going back to school on Monday that much worse.
"I swear to God, this was easier when I was a teenager," William groans from behind his desk. McLynn arches a brow at him.
"You probably weren't in the habit of showing up hungover when you were a teenager," he points out.
"No, no, I was," William says. "I'm just, you know. Going lame in my old age."
"Yes, you're ancient," McLynn agrees.
"I am going to start a countdown to Christmas break," William calls out to him as he heads out the door.
"You do that," McLynn tells him, and busts a sophomore for wearing a skirt a few inches too short as he reaches his office.
"Sorry," she says sheepishly. "The hem, I mean, I stapled it, I can fix it in just a minute, promise."
"Sure," McLynn says, lets her get away with it because with Thanksgiving out of the way, it's officially Almost Christmas. And. Well, he's not made out of stone.
//december.
"You're avoiding me," Jon says. Spencer glances up from the study sheet he's checking over to see him standing in the doorway.
"Am not," he says dismissively.
"You are so avoiding me," Jon says. Spencer sighs. It's his lunch break, for Christ's sake. It's not long, and he really needs it. The kids are already freaking out about finals. He needs to get this stupid study sheet done. He can't use the same study sheets year after year; students just save them up and pass them along so they can copy the answers, and that won't do the little idiots any good at all.
Sometimes Spencer hates caring so much. Jon walks inside his classroom, closes the door behind him and sits in the chair beside Spencer's desk.
"Look, I'm busy. And you should probably get back to work," he says irritably.
"Spencer," Jon says, voice gentle. "It's Tuesday. I don't work here today."
Spencer looks back up. "Jon -- "
"I don't know what I did to piss you off, but I'd really like it if you could tell me as opposed to just moping," Jon says reasonably.
"Just -- it's stupid," Spencer says.
"I bet it isn't," Jon counters. "Come on. Try me."
"Fine," Spencer says sharply. "I wanted you to want to come with me to that stupid movie night. And you didn't, whatever. That's it."
"Okay," Jon says. "That's not stupid."
"It kind of is," Spencer mutters.
"No, it's my fault," Jon says.
"Whatever," Spencer says. "I can see why you wouldn't want to. Brendon and Ryan are kind of crazy."
"That's not why," Jon says.
"Yeah, I'm kind of crazy, too," Spencer says.
"That's not it, either," Jon says patiently. "Will you give me a chance to talk?"
Spencer shuts up.
"I don't want to be that guy," Jon says. "The one who changes someone, you know, when people get together, you know? I don't want to be the reason things change. I just didn't want to fuck with your tradition, Spence, that's it."
"I invited you," Spencer says stubbornly.
"You felt like you had to," Jon points out.
"No, I didn't," Spencer says on automatic.
"Yeah, you kind of did, because you canceled on me last-minute," Jon says, and Spencer sighs, agrees.
Jon bends forward and kisses his cheek. "Now, come on. I'm taking you out for dinner tonight to make it up to you."
"I'd rather you cooked for me. Like you were going to," Spencer says before he can stop himself. Jon chuckles and nips at Spencer's throat.
"Demanding," he murmurs.
"Take it or leave it," Spencer says.
"Easy choice," Jon says, then stands. "I'm gonna head on home, stop molesting you in your neat little Catholic classroom."
"All right," Spencer says.
"See you, six-ish," Jon says. "Don't expect anything stunning."
Spencer quirks and eyebrow, and Jon laughs.
December in Nevada is a lot like November in Nevada: some days it'll be reasonably and enjoyably cold all day, some days will start off in the 30s and wind up in the 80s by lunch, and some days will just be warm all day. Most days are warm.
Frank kind of misses the cold. He's got a whole closet full of hoodies he's not wearing, because it is too damn hot all the time. And Gerard is sleeping with an electric blanket, which just. Does not make any sense.
"Seriously," Frank says over coffee one morning, eyeing Gerard shivering in flannel pajamas and slippers. "It's not even that cold. You have the heat on, weirdo."
"Your icy Jersey blood can go fuck itself," Gerard chatters.
Frank contemplates this. "Would that kind of be like blood doping? You know, when my blood inevitably gets pregnant and gives birth?"
"Not if your icy Jersey blood is smart and uses protection," Gerard tells him.
"What would a blood cell use for a condom, I wonder," Frank mumbles.
Gerard snorts. "Are you going back to Jersey for Christmas?"
"Nah," Frank says. "Too cheap. I'll stay here. Um, if that's cool with you."
"Totally fine," Gerard says.
"What are you doing?"
"I think we're gonna do Christmas Eve at my mom's and then I'll probably just sleep the day of," Gerard says.
"I'm planning on sleeping for all of Christmas break," Frank says fervently.
"Good luck with that," Gerard says. "Sometimes it feels like the only times in the year I don't have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn for work are the only times it's actually possible for me to get out of bed."
"I can't believe it's even December," Frank grouses. "What is it, like fifty-five degrees out? Ridiculous."
"It's cold," Gerard insists. Frank snickers.
"Hey, I was thinking something," Frank says, and Gerard sits back in his chair.
"Yeah?"
"It's...kind of stupid for us to be taking two cars to the school," Frank says carefully. "We leave at the same time to get there, and why bother, right?"
"I usually stay later than you, though," Gerard points out.
"Yeah, but I was thinking we could alternate, you know, one of us drives one week, the other, the next and I could just stay late in my classroom and grade papers or whatever," Frank says.
"Makes sense," Gerard says.
"So, your week first?" Frank asks cheekily. Gerard cocks his head skeptically, and Frank grins. "Flat tire. I'll deal with it later."
Gerard laughs.
It takes a while for people to notice that Gerard and Frank are showing up to work together, and, unsurprisingly enough, it's Brendon who's the first one to say something about it.
"You're like an old married couple," he tells Frank during lunch in the teacher's lounge one day. The whole school is looking festive as hell, and the Christmas toy drive is coming along nicely. There's a prize offered to the homeroom that finishes first and Frank's reasonably confident his classroom is gonna beat 'em all.
"Are not," he says automatically.
"You kind of are," Spencer says. He's not looking up from a sheaf of math papers. "Fuck. I hate finals season."
"It's getting crazy," Brendon agrees. His classes have a tendency to freak out slightly less than, say, Spencer's AP Calculus students. He doesn't have too many crazy honours kids in his classes, which makes the prep period that much easier.
"Christmas plans?" Frank asks, and Brendon shrugs.
"Ehh, whatever," he says, noncommittally.
"Really?" Frank asks. "I'd have pegged you for a total Christmas freak."
"Not really," Brendon says.
"Huh," Frank says.
"I mean, I don't know. It's a pajama day for me and Ross, we just sort of laze around. I like Christmas songs. Like, the classics, the old-old classics. O Holy Night, that stuff. So I play the music a lot, but it's not really a big deal," he says.
"I'm sensing a trend," Frank says.
"Yeah," Brendon says, shrugs. "I mean, Zack comes over, sometimes, but that's it."
"No family?" Frank asks. Brendon barks out a brief laugh.
"Nah, Ryan and I are pretty isolated," he says. "Spencer's a slave to his family, though, he doesn't get to partake of the pajama day. Instead he has to go to Christmas Eve mass with his family to watch his nieces and nephews in the pageant."
"It's hell on earth," Spencer mutters.
"Sounds cute," Frank says. "You know, little kids. All that."
"Kids are only cute in a finite sense," Brendon says. "Trust me. Just. I like kids, really. But, small doses and no public performances."
"A theatre teacher not wanting kids to perform," Frank says with some skepticism.
"Dude, they can perform all they want, just don't make me watch it," Brendon says, and Frank laughs, because it really is kind of hilarious.
The toy drive is likewise a big deal, coming right on the heels of the Thanksgiving food drive. Each homeroom is given four kids and their wish lists. There's two boys and two girls per room, and usually they're of varying ages. These are kids from a local group home, and they don't have much, so the school takes the Christmas toy drive very seriously.
The first classroom to get all their gifts together gets free dress for the three days of finals, and the teacher gets exempted from chaperon duties for the rest of the year. It's hard to predict who'll win, because the teachers have different methods. Spencer almost always just tells his students to deal with it -- he's done his charity with St. Catherine's, thanks. Gabe's more involved, urging his students on, trying to get them organized. If his class says everyone should donate ten dollars to the cause, he'll tell them to do fifteen. If his class gets together almost everything on the lists, he'll urge them to get just a few more things.
"I really wouldn't have figured you for the Christmas type," Frank says, confused. Gabe's class has won this year, and he's preening already.
"What's not to love?" Gabe asks, wide-eyed. "Food, family, presents, an excuse to wear funny hats and antlers on your head. Presents. Plus I get to dress up as Santa."
"I really can't wait to see that," Frank says.
"It's a sight to behold," William tells him, leaning over the counter. "Here, have a picture."
He hands Frank a picture of Gabe decked out as Santa Claus, big red suit and hat as well as a huge fake beard. He's grinning so widely, Frank can see it under the beard, and holding Brendon in his arms. Brendon is likewise smiling like a moron.
"Hey, so," Frank says. "Is there gonna be anything really embarrassing like an office Christmas party or something?"
"Nah," William says mournfully.
"I keep trying to get McLynn dressed up as an elf, but no luck," Gabe says with a sigh, glancing appraisingly at Frank.
"Don't even think about it," Frank says.
"You're, like, the perfect size," Gabe says.
"No fucking way," Frank says, and that's that.
The month gets colder, grayer, and the boxes for the toy drive fill up steadily.
"Good year," Zack says to Jon, sitting behind the shed with him one afternoon.
"It has been, yeah," Jon says with a quiet smile.
"You and Spencer, huh?" Zack asks.
"Seems like it," Jon says. "We're kind of playing it by ear."
"Good plan," Zack says.
"I was thinking about going home to Chicago for Christmas," Jon says.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah, it's kind of a big deal for my mom," Jon says. "But, I don't know. I kind of like it here."
"It's a good place," Zack allows.
"I might stick around for the holidays. Brendon and Ryan are doing that New Year's party thing."
"I'm planning on staying home and drinking a lot," Zack says plainly.
"A truly healthy way to ring in the new year," Jon says.
"You do what you can," Zack says, and falls silent.
"I don't know what to get Spencer for Christmas," Jon says with a sigh.
"Sucks," Zack says.
"I mean. It's not like we've really, like, been together all that long, you know? So I don't know if a bunch of prints that he said he liked would be a good plan, like, too cheap or too easy or whatever. I -- fuck. Secret Santa makes life so much easier."
"Secret Santa is a fucking cop-out," Zack says.
Jon blows out an explosive breath, fumbles at his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
"No smoking on school property," Zack tells him.
"My shed, my rules," Jon says. "Besides, the little kidlets are all in class right now."
"All right," Zack says. Jon flicks his lighter on, inhales deeply.
"What about you? Girlfriend?" Jon asks.
"Nah," Zack says. "All on my lonesome."
"Yeah? Sucks," Jon says.
"Not really," Zack says. "I think I'm kind of done with relationships now."
"Just in it for the sex, I get you," Jon says with a grin. He tilts his head slightly so as to not blow smoke in Zack's face.
"Here," Zack says, holds his hand out. Jon hands him a cigarette, lights it for him. Zack sighs on the exhale.
"I don't know. I suck at boyfriend gifts," Jon says.
"Yeah, don't ask me for advice," Zack says.
"Just commiserating," Jon says.
"Sure," Zack says.
Jon has no idea why he thought talking to Zack about anything Christmas or Spencer-related was a good idea. He and Zack get along reasonably well, probably because they both exist in the weird grey area of being authority figures but not actual teachers. Students are often unsure of how to treat them, and it's something they can identify with.
Still, their interactions are always more enjoyable when they keep it superficial. Which was probably why that whole conversation was a fucking mess.
December's a weird month because although it's busy busy busy with the toy drive and finals, it's also the point at which the school year starts slowing down: the seniors start realizing that they're really almost done with high school, almost done with being children. They stop studying so much, stop pretending to care about uniforms. There's a sort of willful defiance in the seniors; they're proud of how they're little pseudo-adults, but at the same time they reject responsibility with a vehemence, they deny that in a year's time, most of them will be living independently. It's a stressful time for everyone, whether they're going home or not.
This year it seems like almost nobody is. Spencer usually leaves the last day of finals for his parents' house and stays until the thirty-first, but this year, he's just going for Christmas Eve. He and Jon have plans. Kind of.
"You really should cook for me on Christmas morning, since I'm going to all the trouble of escaping from my family on Christmas Eve," Spencer tells Jon one night while they're curled up in front of a movie. Neither of them have no idea what the movie is. Something with Christmas lights and bad modern versions of old carols.
"You say that like I can actually cook," Jon tells him, tightening his arm round Spencer's shoulders.
"You can," Spencer insists.
"Nothing interesting," Jon says.
"I don't care," Spencer says. "I hate cooking, you do it."
"Okay," Jon says, kisses his temple.
"Fuck, I'm beat," Spencer says. "Final review starts tomorrow."
"I thought you've been reviewing all month?" Jon asks.
"Yeah, well, it's math. This is the final final review."
"Your life, so hard," Jon says. Spencer grunts and curls in a little closer.
It's a little strange, Jon thinks, because Spencer's taller than he is. He's not quite as slender as Spencer, but he's not a big guy. Still, they're most comfortable like this, with Jon wrapped around him on the couch or on a bed. They usually end up at Jon's place because his stereo is nicer and it's closer to the school, so if they oversleep, it's less of a problem. They've gotten close surprisingly quickly, and Jon's trying to not think about it too much, just appreciate it. They click.
Spencer's breathing is starting to even out, and Jon contemplates moving to the bed. There's no point, though, really. There's a fire here in the living room, the windows are closed and the heat is on. They're just wearing sweatpants, buried under a thick blanket, and there's an alarm set on both of their cell phones, sitting on the coffee table. Spencer has a change of clothes. There's really no reason, no reason at all to bother getting up.
So they don't, and they oversleep in the morning, but it's all right. Jon drives Spencer to the school and spends his day shopping around before picking him up at four.
"I feel like a kid," Spencer grouses. "You know. One of the freshmen getting picked up by their mom."
Jon chuckles, low and smooth. "I'm not your mom," he tells Spencer.
"Yeah, I know," Spencer says with a smirk, and trails his fingertips at Jon's knee.
There's only four more days of school, Jon thinks with fervent hope. One more day for review, then three days of finals and then Spencer's free for two and a half weeks.
He still hasn't figured out what to get Spencer for Christmas, though. He gives up and decides to ask Ryan for ideas.
"What are you getting Brendon?" he asks Ryan.
"We're gonna go to LA for a weekend and see some bands play," Ryan says. "Kind of a joint gift."
"That's so lame, dude. So lame," Jon says. "You have to open something on Christmas."
"Brendon'll probably be opening a new thing of lube on Christmas," Ryan says contemplatively.
"Romantic," Jon says dryly.
"Stop trying to force it," Ryan says. "It's lame and kind of sad to watch."
"I'm not that obvious," Jon insists.
"Yes, you totally are," Ryan says.
Jon sighs.
"Seriously. Just. Get him something non-generic," Ryan says. "That's it, I swear."
Jon ends up doing exactly what he figured he would right from the start: he takes some sneaky photos of Brendon, Ryan, Spencer, and a few of the school, places he knows Spencer likes, and frames them in nice plain black frames. It's not the most original gift -- kind of cliché, really, photographs from a photography geek, but Spencer likes his photographs, generally -- so Jon takes his time with the shots. He tries to not rush them, and thinks they come out pretty nicely.
There's one of Brendon sitting on the edge of the stage, swinging his feet carelessly with his head tipped back and the smooth column of his throat exposed. He's grinning, of course, eyes crinkled almost-shut and teeth bared in gleeful abandon.
There's one of Ryan hunched over his desk, marking notes in a copy of Antigone, jaw clenched as tightly as the pen in his grip. The veins stand out on the back of his hands, and his jawline catches the harsh florescent light just perfectly.
There's a bunch of the school, taken very early in the morning and late at night, when it's only him and a few security guards wandering the campus.
Jon's favourite, though, is one he took of Spencer writing on his blackboard in preparation for the day. He's so quiet in the shot, light from the windows flooding in and glowing over his skin, the flecks of his stubble. His hair looks soft and he's biting his bottom lip with chalk pinched between his fingertips. He usually wears the chalk down until it's a useless little nub and his fingerprints always have a bit of the yellow-white dust caught in them. Jon can practically taste it sometimes when they kiss.
"Merry Christmas," he says when he hands the box over to Spencer and can't help but to feel obscenely proud when Spencer's eyes go wide.
It's been a good year, all in all.
//january.
The thing about working at a school, Ryan thinks, is that New Year's just...doesn't feel like the start of a whole new year anymore. He doesn't teach any one-semester classes: when he goes back to work in a few days, he'll have the exact same schedule with the exact same students. It feels like a break, like an excuse to get drunk and party and say some things that you wouldn't normally say, and, yeah, it's a chance to get everyone together, and Ryan always likes that, so that's nice, but it still feels vaguely like cheating.
Brendon is a huge fan of New Year's, though, and Ryan wishes they had a really big house so they could have a truly extravagant party. Instead they just go out to a restaurant with a banquet room and camp out until three in the morning or later.
Karaoke has been banned by the management, thank God, because Gabe usually comes to the New Year's party and is prone to dragging along various and sundry members of his weirdo amoeba-like gang of friends. They're known for partying, and are great people and lots of fun but they have a general inability to sing on-key.
Ryan doesn't usually judge people by their singing skills. He's a pretty terrible singer himself, although Brendon spends most of his time trying to get him to sing for reasons outside the realm of Ryan's comprehension. Brendon's got a pretty decent voice, which kind of makes it harder for Ryan to sing around him. Whatever, he figures, they're different people, they have different strengths. Still, the way Ryan sees it, he doesn't force his shitty singing on the rest of the world. His official stance is that other people should follow suit.
The place they go to for New Year's is a tiny family-owned Mexican place called, plainly enough, Sergio's. They serve pretty authentic Mexican food and let Brendon order from the cheaper kids' menu. For whatever reason, Brendon absolutely hates spending money on food and will buy generic sodas or gross flavors of chips just because they're on sale. Sergio's is inexpensive, though, and Brendon and Ryan end up eating there at least once a week.
It has occurred to Ryan that one of the primary pleasures of being a real grown-up is being an actual regular at a restaurant, to the point that the servers just bring food to them without asking: Brendon always gets a kid's cheese enchilada with rice and beans, extra cheese, and Ryan gets a California burrito, which is steak, cheese, sour cream, guacamole, and french fries. It's a fucking huge burrito and he usually can't finish it. He eats the leftovers the next morning at school and watches Spencer's disgusted glare with no small amount of relish. Spencer says putting fries into a burrito, or, in fact, any kind of Mexican food, is horrific blasphemy and that Ryan's going to burn in hell for it.
Ryan is entirely unconcerned.
For New Year's, they get the restaurant set up with beer, margaritas, tequila shots, and a ton of food. It's kind of buffet-style, but nobody eats steadily anyway. Dress code is whatever the hell you want. The Alexes usually show up in suits, which amuses Brendon almost endlessly. Brendon and Ryan go pretty casually, like most of the guests, just jeans and thermal shirt.
Gabe has an alarming tendency to dress up as the baby New Year. Ryan has no idea how he manages to not freeze to death. Each year, he also brings along cast-iron pots and wooden spoons and insists that they all beat them at midnight.
"Happy New Year," Brendon says softly, lifting up on his tiptoes to kiss the back of Ryan's neck.
"Buenas noches," Gabe shouts out, banging the door open. Brendon's phone goes off and he steps aside to answer it.
"Pants this year," Ryan says dryly. "What a nice change." Gabe shrugs.
He's early, as usual, here at seven o'clock already, though the party's not due to start 'til eight. Brendon and Ryan have only just arrived.
"Zack called," Brendon says. "He says he's not coming."
"Mmm," Ryan says noncommittally.
"I'm gonna go to his place, see what's up," Brendon says. Ryan glances at him out of the corner of his eye.
"He probably just feels like being alone and drunk," Gabe says, striding over to the bar and stealing a Corona. "Fuck, you have shit taste in beer, Urie."
"Eat me," Brendon says easily. Gabe licks his lips, and they both ignore him. "I won't be long, kay?" He presses his lips to Ryan's cheekbone quickly, dips his hand into Ryan's pocket and grabs the keys to his car. Ryan sighs and watches him go.
"Don't start moping," Gabe warns him. "Unfuckingcool."
"I'm not moping," Ryan says, voice sharp. "Just. If Zack's not in the mood for a party, it's his business."
"Ryan," Gabe says gently.
"I know," Ryan says.
"Let it go," Gabe advises, takes a swig of beer. "We all know who owns him, Ross."
"That's an alarmingly disturbing way to refer to a relationship," Ryan says, sounding distant.
"You know what I mean," Gabe says, waving his bottle about. "Don't be that jealous asshole. Zack doesn't deserve that shit, and neither does Brendon."
"Yeah," Ryan sighs, and is saved, blessedly, by Jon and Spencer waltzing in, hands in each others' back pockets.
"You're like -- a real couple and everything," Gabe tells them with pronounced disgust.
Spencer responds by leaning over to Jon and kissing him slowly, wet and loud.
"Now that is just gross," Gabe says. "God. Ryan, kiss me."
"Not happening," Ryan says, and wanders off in search of shrimp tacos.
Zack eventually shows up, Brendon slung over his shoulders, kicking and laughing. Ryan bites his lip and manages to grin at Zack, smack Brendon's ass, and pull a squawk from him before Zack finally lets him down. When he does, Brendon wraps his arms around Ryan's shoulders and kisses him thoroughly, drawing hoots of encouragement from the crowd.
"Dude, why is it cool when they kiss?" Jon asks Gabe, prodding him with an empty skewer.
"Brendon's ass is better than yours," Gabe explains. "And, seriously, like. Look at his mouth. Look at their mouths." Spencer rolls his eyes.
"Did you figure out what was up with Zack?" Ryan asks quietly. Brendon shrugs.
"He said not to worry about it," Brendon says. Ryan really wishes he could.
The party's not particularly wild -- the general level of inebriation is pretty high, yeah, but mostly it's just fucking around and enjoying each others' company. Gerard arrives with Frank, Mikey, and Alicia. A few of their friends bring more friends, and Ryan spazzes out, wondering if there's enough food. Luckily, they bring some with them, lasagna and garlic bread.
"Pussy," Frank slurs when Gerard gets another virgin strawberry margarita. Mikey throws him a glance.
"Arm-wrestling," Pete, one of the guys Mikey's brought, says suddenly. "I mean it, dude, Frank? Arm-wrestle me, man, I'll kick your fucking ass. It's gonna be awesome." He's short and dark-haired, still taller than Frank, and uses his leverage to vicious advantage.
"Cheating fucker," Frank says morosely, after Pete has easily beat him for the fifth time.
"Don't arm-wrestle when you're drunk, then," Pete says, good-naturedly. "Am I right, Mikey?"
"You're always right, Pete," Mikey says with a teasing little grin. His fiancée throws an arm around Pete's shoulders and makes a face at him.
"The fuck do you want?" he asks her cheerfully.
"Your eternal soul," she says, her eyes widening.
"Don't joke like that around the Catholics," Pete says, smirking, and Gerard rolls his eyes.
Frank proceeds to get blindingly drunk, and it's not long before Gerard makes a quick decision and herds him out to the car (Frank's, this time).
"Gonna head home now," Gerard says regretfully to Brendon. His face falls.
"Yeah, you need to get Frank home," Brendon says with a sigh. "Too bad. I like him. You guys are good together."
Gerard quirks an eyebrow.
"As excellently platonic roommates," Brendon clarifies. Gerard shakes his head at Brendon and hten bids goodbye to the rest of the guests.
Frank is a remarkably quiet drunk, thankfully; he curls up in the backseat and snarfles occasionally but is otherwise docile. Gerard can't help but glance at him in the rearview mirror when he's stopped at red lights and stop signs, try to discern his features through the haze of the shadows cast by the seats.
They get back to the apartment, and Gerard doesn't have too rough of a time getting Frank upstairs, making him drink some water and take some aspirin. Frank shuffles off to the bathroom, and Gerard stands guard just outside, in case he falls. He stumbles on his way out, and Gerard catches him, frog-marches him towards his bedroom.
"Couch," Frank mumbles, and Gerard sighs, maneuvers him over to the couch instead. Frank stretches out; his shirt rides up, and his tattoos are really actually very pretty. Kind of like Frank, Gerard thinks, watching him settle in.
The tattoos -- and Frank -- are probably not pretty by the most common definition. Gerard has never liked the idea of a body covered with ink; he likes skin and sweat and humanity. Frank's tattoos are different, though, there's a deliberate sense to the design. They're not all one thing or another. Some of the tattoos are color, some are black and white, and there's an interesting blend of words and images. They all flow nicely together. Gerard has asked Frank about some of the specific tattoos, but not enough of them. He wants to know more.
He's surprised by the sudden movement of Frank reaching up and grabbing the collar of his shirt, though, and even with that clumsy warning, Gerard doesn't manage to figure out what's coming next, is wholly unprepared for the press of Frank's mouth against his.
There is utterly no finesse to the kiss, not with Frank so sloppy, and Gerard can't puzzle out why he doesn't pull away, jump to his feet and go running to his bedroom. He slides over Frank, instead, doesn't break contact, just kisses him back. It's just slow and kind of languid.
Jon and Spencer sneak out shortly before eleven when they're both just a little giggly and don't make it to Jon's bed. Jon bends Spencer over the couch and tugs his jeans down, leaves his shirt on and spreads his cheeks open, darts his tongue out, teasing.
"Fuck," Spencer gasps, and Jon flicks his tongue a bit more firmly. Spencer squirms, and Jon grips his hips hard, presses his mouth to Spencer's hole and pushes his tongue in swiftly. Spencer whimpers and pushes back into it, feels Jon licking quick and skillful.
Jon draws back to wet his fingers, and Spencer shudders when Jon works him open, tongue sliding in between his fingertips, grips at the couch cushions when Jon rubs at his prostate, tongue still teasing along the rim of his hole.
"Want -- " he gasps out, and Jon pulls away, stumbles to the bedroom for lube and a condom. He doesn't waste much time, gets his cock slicked up over the condom and pushes in almost too quickly.
Which is fine, Spencer wants it, and he shoves his hips back into Jon's thrusts, taking what Jon has to give almost easily -- can't actually be easily, not with how hard Jon's fucking him.
The slam of Jon's hips against his ass is nice, too, the grip of his hands at Spencer's body, one at his belly and the other squeezing his shoulder. He's not sure if there'll be marks in the morning; as a rule Spencer doesn't bruise easily.
It doesn't stop Jon from trying.
The rhythm of it is rough, nerves dulled by the burning of tequila lighting up their veins. Spencer can taste the tequila in the air when Jon breathes heavily over his shoulder. He dips his head in and sucks hard at Spencer's neck, biting fiercely as he comes, deep inside, almost growling, "Finish yourself, now."
It's intense, blinding and Spencer's left shuddering when Jon pulls out, ties the condom off and leads him to the bathroom. Jon runs the shower as hot as it'll go. The water's scorching enough to flush their skin quickly, and Jon's kind of captivated by the way Spencer's wet hair, plastered to his forehead, frames his eyes, bright and eager.
Jon pins him to the tiled wall and kisses him, hard, insistent; Spencer goes with it, rests his hands over Jon's chest and scrapes fingernails over his nipples.
They make it to the bed. Jon, clever and coordinated, has left a bottle of red wine on the nightstand with a pair of glasses and pours some for them both. Spencer's not usually a fan of red wine, but the taste of it in Jon's mouth is dark and heady, seductive. He doesn't drink much, but Jon does, and they're both blurry in their movements, blurry and wanting and, all in all, it's a nice way to start a year.
This year is Ryan's turn to play designated driver, so he hangs back and watches the general loosening up of tongues and moods, dutifully kisses Brendon at midnight, and helps Juan and the other waiters clean up once everyone else has gone home for the night. Brendon's curled up in a booth, languid and pliant with drink, and when they get back home at nearly five in the morning, Ryan sucks him off slow and dirty beneath the covers of their bed. Brendon tangles his fingers in Ryan's hair and is maybe a bit careless with the way he pulls.
Ryan doesn't mind. When Brendon comes, it's sudden and sharp, but he swallows easily. Brendon fumbles for him, rolls over and grinds Ryan into the mattress, and rocks his hips clumsily until the friction's enough for Ryan to tip his head back and go with the awkward pleasure of it, let go and come. They fall asleep, tangled, sweaty, sticky.
School starts up again on the fourth, and it's hard for all of them to drag their way back to class. January passes in a hazy grey blur, with fewer warm days.
William starts knitting a scarf for nobody at all for no reason in particular, and everyone's a little surprised when they look up and it's time to change the calendar again.
part three.
