Slow Dancing In A Burning Room (3/5)
Brendon shifts slightly so that the rusted metal presses into a less soft spot on his back. He picks at a fraying thread at Ryan’s knee.
“Few months you’ll be able to get a real apartment,” Ryan says, long line of his throat glowing in the yellow light of the streetlamp as he leans back on the railing of the fire escape.
“Nah, I won’t need one. We’ll be on a tour bus,” Brendon says, grinning. The spring air is warm and dry and for the first time, he can see an end to the ramen dinners and the broken faucet and the fucking futon. It still isn’t real, the idea of a record.
“Tarah’s gonna hear her song on the radio,” Ryan smirks, no real venom left when he says her name. Brendon just rolls his eyes.
“Thanks,” he says softly. It’s been stewing inside him for months now and he doesn’t know anything better to say than that one stupid word. He hopes Ryan knows what he means.
“It’s all you,” Ryan tells the sky, and Brendon can see his throat work. “It never would’ve happened without you. You…I mean. You never needed me. Your voice, you would’ve made it with anyone.”
“Wouldn’t want to make it with anyone,” Brendon mumbles, and he looks to his lap and scratches his ear but god, is it the truth.
“We should go inside,” Ryan says, and Brendon can hear his smile. He stands up just as Ryan leans past him to open the window, and they’re close enough that he can feel the heat of Ryan’s skin.
It’s been months and Brendon usually doesn’t miss it. It was good while it lasted, fumbling through their questions on Brendon’s futon, heartbeats close in the oppressive darkness of the apartment. And when Ryan decided that was all it was to him, experimentation, Brendon nodded and shrugged and came out to the rest of the band and put the crush behind him. It’s over, now, and he usually doesn’t miss it.
But it’s Ryan who slides one hand onto Brendon’s hip, calluses scraping over one hipbone, and leans in close. It’s Ryan who kisses him, soft and sweet, and Brendon understands. For them, this is easier than words, always has been. And when Ryan pulls away and smiles, Brendon smiles back and steps through the window and lets it go.
. . .
Ryan raises a hand in greeting when Brendon stumbles into the kitchen the next morning. Spencer isn't there, and the bottom drops out of Brendon's stomach. He's not sure whether it's relief or disappointment.
"Spencer's out getting groceries. I thought maybe we could work on some songs?" Ryan says hopefully. Brendon smiles and nods. He wants to show Ryan the quick little melody he came up with the other day. They settle in the living room after breakfast.
"I wrote something the other day," Brendon volunteers as Ryan tunes up. He plays, watching Ryan's face instead of his own fingers, sees the quick surge of - what is it? anger? - before Ryan calms his features again, back into the old blank mask. Brendon finishes and waits.
"It's- good," Ryan says, with what's probably meant to be an encouraging smile. Brendon smiles cautiously back.
Okay. That was weird.
"How about you? You and Jon were working on some stuff, right?"
Ryan launches into a weird, jangly little tune, complete with bizarre metaphorical lyrics. He waits expectantly when he's done.
"Uh- cool. It's different," Brendon volunteers. He wants to roll his eyes and make some crack about Ryan forgetting who their singer is, but it feels too soon, somehow. Like it's imperative that they stay calm, fight the mess that's been threatening to break them apart since Ryan moved in. "Maybe we could fiddle with the vocal melody a little?"
"I thought maybe I could sing this one, but if you want to, sure," Ryan says.
When they wrote Pretty.Odd, Brendon had to spend a week convincing (cajoling, yelling at, threatening, begging) Ryan to sing even the smallest bit of Mad As Rabbits. He loosened up as they wrote the rest of the songs, yeah, but. But.
Not to mention the part where normally, they'd be yelling at each other by now. In Maryland it was an hourly occurrence, Brendon pushing and Ryan pushing right back, bickering happily over a note or a word, until it ended in laughter and a damn good song. Now, it's too fucking polite. And yet Brendon's sure it would be worse, a thousand times worse, if they yelled.
"Ryan, I got your stupid frilly cookies," Spencer calls from the hallway. Brendon feels guilty that the slam of the door is such a relief.
"Ooh," Ryan says, hilariously perky, and bolts for the kitchen.
Spencer, having apparently handed off the shopping bag, is twisting his hands together as he sits down next to Brendon. "What's up?" he says quietly. Brendon shivers, remembering the feel of those hands.
"We tried to write. It was weird. Polite," Brendon mutters. He can see the faintest edge of a bruise under Spencer's collar. There's a too-long silence.
"I guess things are gonna be weird for a little while," Spencer says.
"Not between-" Brendon blurts.
"No, not- no. Sorry. Not what I meant." Spencer's smile looks genuine, but Brendon feels too wrong-footed to be sure.
"No, good. I mean, we can't-" Brendon trails off. He doesn't know if he wants to finish that sentence. Spencer's shaking his head when Ryan comes around the corner and plops down between them.
"Mmmm," he says happily, and holds out the cookie tin to Brendon. Spencer's smirking. Brendon can't help but meet his eye and laugh.
They take the dogs to the park for the afternoon. It's nice, nearly normal, watching Ryan wrinkle his nose fussily as he cleans up after Hobo while Spencer teases Brendon for fitting right in with the five-year-olds. Brendon doesn't think his outfit merits that much ridicule, but he goes with it.
He wonders what he would've said if he'd finished his sentence. We can't right now, not with things the way they are. Or, we can't fuck up our friendship. Or, we can't pretend like things are normal because I can't stop thinking about you. Probably not the latter. It could've been the moonlight, the fact that they were fucking naked, plain old horniness. Come to think of it, he's pretty sure Spencer hadn't gotten laid since he broke up with Haley, so.
He decides not to think about it too much.
They grill burgers out on the porch and watch a couple old episodes of Entourage before Ryan decides to go to sleep.
"We calling it in too?" Brendon asks Spencer sleepily.
"Yeah, think so. Had some trouble sleeping last night," Spencer deadpans. Brendon blushes.
"The dogs were barking really late, it sounded like there was something in the pool," Ryan says, clueless, and yawns before heading for the guest room. Behind him, Spencer smirks at Brendon and Brendon looks at his feet.
"I'll just, uh-" Brendon says, and goes to the TV to get out the DVD.
When he turns around, Spencer's eyes are locked unashamedly on his ass.
"Stop teasing me," he says when he looks back up at Brendon, and there's the vaguest hint of a smile there.
"But- I- We- I thought-" Brendon stutters. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Seriously.
Spencer chews at his lip for a second. "Just because we can't...I can't help it," he says matter-of-factly. "But, you know. Ryan."
Brendon is maybe very tired and very distracted; Spencer's still worrying at his bottom lip, and Brendon wants it to be his teeth there instead, and fuck is he confused.
"Right, okay," he says, staring.
"I mean, you know I-" Spencer trails off, shakes his head abruptly. "Bedtime. 'Night, Bren."
. . .
There's nothing of his crush on Ryan when Audrey sidles up to him and smiles. He's not weak in the knees and he's not instantly hard when she hooks a finger in his belt loop, but something about her catches his attention, the perfect white of her skin against the turquoise in her hair, the sparkle of her giggle as she presses a kiss to his cheek. Before he knows it she's spread out beneath him in the back lounge, whimpering and salty-sweet under his tongue.
"Harder," she pants, and Brendon tries, he really does, but it's dark and she's a girl and everything's slippery and too close together and he really has no idea what he's doing, if he's being honest with himself. He slides two fingers into her and her thighs are trembling, and okay, that sounded good.
"I- did you- are you okay?" he asks shyly, and she's giggling breathlessly and pushing him onto his back, sucking him down in one long movement, and it's been so long, not since Ryan, and Brendon's gone before she's even gotten a hand around the base.
She spits into his shirt before he recovers enough to tell her not to.
"What time is it?" she says idly, casting around for her shirt on the ground.
"Uh," is all Brendon can manage.
"Late. I gotta go."
"You could- you could stay?" he suggests, because it doesn't feel right to send her away. She turns and looks at him, really looks, maybe for the first time that night.
"You're sweet," she says, like it's a surprise. He shrugs. Is he not supposed to be?
"Sorry," he ends up saying. She smiles, bright and not-quite-mocking.
"I'll call you," she promises, and then she's hopping into her miniskirt and finger-combing her hair.
"Let me walk you out?" Brendon says. She just shrugs and sweeps out the door ahead of him. He catches up while he's still buttoning his jeans, flushing as he realizes Spencer's in the front, eating a bowl of cereal and determinedly not looking at either of them.
He kisses her on the cheek outside the bus and she laughs again and waves over her shoulder. He thinks he'll call her.
Spencer doesn't look up when Brendon sits down next to him.
"You woke me up," he explains a little sheepishly, and Brendon notices how red his ears are. He opens his mouth to apologize. "I thought you were gay," Spencer says, and Brendon shuts his mouth again.
"I guess-" Brendon pauses for a second. He doesn't quite know what to say. "She's- Well. I'm not coming out for a few years at least. And-" He doesn't know how to put it. "I like looking at her." Spencer raises one very expressive eyebrow. He looks vaguely pissed off. Brendon just shrugs.
"Okay," Spencer says coolly.
"I don't- I don't really know what I'm doing with her," Brendon confesses. "I mean. It's not like a dick." Spencer stares disbelievingly for a second before laughing. Brendon punches him. "No, seriously," he whines. "What the fuck are you supposed to do? I put my fingers," he makes a stupid little gesture, blushing crimson because he can't figure out what word to use, and Spencer snorts. "Help," Brendon finishes pathetically.
"I- uh," Spencer mumbles, and now he's the one blushing. "I've never. Uh."
"Really?" Brendon squawks. Spencer wrinkles his nose and flicks his spoon so sugary milk from the cereal end up on Brendon's forehead. Brendon flips him off. "No, seriously though, what the fuck?"
"They were never really interested after they met Ryan," Spencer says dully. "I- yeah. Who wants the fat friend, right?" There's a decade of embarrassment in it.
"I, uh-" he clears his throat. "Spence, you're-" He can't say it. "Just shut up. Anyway, I bet I've had way worse luck with girls that you have."
"Yeah, I bet you have," Spencer grins.
"I mean, I've never- only to-" he stops short. He never figured out if Ryan told Spencer.
"I know," Spencer says softly, and Brendon might be imagining the bitterness. He decides to ignore it, leaning against Spencer's side, breathing in the flowery smell of the shampoo he uses even though his sisters don't buy it for him anymore. It's comfortable. He's maybe a little glad Spencer has the extra padding, though he'd never admit it. He wonders why being with Audrey can't be this easy.
"Ugh, girls. So do I call her, or wait for her to call me?"
"Beats me," Spencer says. He strokes Brendon's hair gently and sighs.
. . .
The next few days are...weird. There are moments where everything feels like it used to, flicking Cheetos at each other as they watch Star Wars, playing fetch with the dogs. But other times it's noticeably strained. Ryan ducks into his room whenever Greenwald calls. He's twitchy when they stay in, staring darkly at the clock and jiggling one foot like he wishes he were somewhere else. He goes out with Pete one night and comes back looking unsettled, uneasy. Brendon doesn't know what to say to him.
Spencer... Spencer's something else altogether. It's not awkward between them, not at all. If anything, there's a new dimension to their friendship - although dimension maybe isn't the right word. Tension so thick it makes Brendon want to jump out of his skin is probably better. They don't talk about what happened, but it's there in every moment they're together, in every sly little smile Spencer shoots him and every bump of their hips when they're cooking together. Spencer stares at him shamelessly, eyes fixed on Brendon's ass whenever he bends down or his lips whenever they're talking, all with this knowing little smile that drives Brendon crazy.
Brendon wants like he's never wanted anyone before. Spencer scrubs a hand through his hair and Brendon wants to pull it, force his head back and expose his throat and nip into that pale soft skin. Spencer wanders into the kitchen in the morning, pajama pants hanging low on his hips, and Brendon wants to yank them down the rest of the way and beg Spencer to fuck his mouth. One day, Spencer's bossily informing Ryan that Hobo is his dog and therefore his mess, voice snapping and hips cocked, and Brendon's dizzy with how fast he's hard, imagining Spencer pinning his wrists above his head and whispering in that same self-assured voice.
It's torture. No other way to put it. He knows it's unavoidable, it's not a maybe, it's a someday. But Brendon wants now. It's almost like Spencer's enjoying himself. One day, when Ryan's sleeping in, Spencer corners Brendon in the kitchen, pressing close so that they're barely an inch apart, dark, hungry eyes staring at Brendon's mouth, and then he reaches one hand over Brendon's head to grab a coffee mug. Brendon isn't proud to admit that he whimpers when Spencer pulls away, smiling wickedly. And how, how the hell did this happen? This is Spencer. And yet...that's not really a good argument, even in Brendon's head.
Even with all that, the part Brendon dreads is writing. He and Ryan have decided to try for an hour every day, whether in the living room or the music room, and it hasn't gotten better since they first tried. They're just missing each other somewhere along the line. It's not that they disagree about the songs, exactly. But maybe that's the problem. They're too polite. It feels jangly and wrong, a thin veneer barely covering the dissent they used to be so comfortable with.
They record a few rough demos on Garage Band and send them to Jon. He calls the next day, and Ryan puts him on speakerphone and calls Spencer into the kitchen.
"What up, homeslice," he drawls. Brendon can practically smell the smoke from where he's sitting.
"We're good," Ryan grins back. "How's Chicago?"
"Not as fun as your mom. I liked the songs."
"Yeah? Which ones? You should add some bass maybe and send them back," Spencer says.
"Yup. Uh, I think it was called Ryan Wishes He Was British. Nice title, by the way. We should call it that on the album."
"Thanks," Brendon smiles, but his stomach is sinking. That was his least favorite of all of them, some weird Kooks-y ripoff that sounds nothing like anything they've written before.
"Wha- oh. Fuck off, Tommy, go suck a dick, maybe that'll shut you up," Jon's saying in the background. Brendon hears someone else yell something. "Sorry, I gotta go, peace out," Jon laughs into the phone, and then he's gone.
"Cool," Ryan says smugly as he hangs up.
"So are we going out to that movie? We should get going," Spencer reminds them.
"Be out in a few, bathroom," Ryan says, and Brendon and Spencer head for the car.
"I hate that song," Spencer says under his breath, and jerks the key in the ignition a little harder than necessary.
"Me too," Brendon confesses. They exchange a worried glance, and then Ryan's hurrying down the front steps.
Brendon and Spencer manage to get accosted in the snack line for autographs, and by the time they've finished signing a girl's Hello Kitty purse, Ryan's back with the tickets.
"Isn't the box office that way?" Spencer asks bemusedly, jerking a thumb at the line. Brendon looks where Ryan came from and just sees the bathrooms.
"I, uh. Snuck around you. Didn't feel like signing shit," Ryan mutters, and hands them their tickets. "Let's go, it started five minutes ago."
"Aww, fuck, we missed trailers," Spencer pouts.
Much to Spencer's delight, there are still a couple trailers left by the time they find seats. Brendon slurps at his cherry Slushie and settles back happily to wait for the explosions.
Halfway through, Ryan gets up to go to the bathroom. Spencer leans over and whispers, "I can't stop staring at your mouth." Brendon blushes. He turns his head to look at Spencer, but his eyes are on the screen again, a tiny smirk illuminated in the flickering light. Even when Ryan comes back and starts jiggling his foot so hard Brendon's chair shakes, he can't focus on anything. He keeps hearing Spencer's low, throaty voice in his ear.
What. The actual. Fuck.
They go for pizza after the movie, Brendon and Spencer dissecting the plot with all the enthusiasm of former comic geeks.
“No, I didn't really think the giant blue dick was necessary, though. I'll have a veggie, please."
"Brendon thinks a dick is unnecessary? Wow. Pepperoni, thanks," Spencer snarks. "Ry?"
"Not hungry," Ryan says absently. "I'll grab us a table."
Brendon goes with him and watches as Ryan methodically shreds a paper napkin. "What'd you think?" he asks eventually, since Ryan seems wholly absorbed in his task.
"Movie? It was good, special effects were awesome, I thought the character development was a little weak though," Ryan rattles off, still staring at his hands.
"Dude, are you okay?" Brendon asks. Ryan looks flushed.
"I think I'm coming down with something," Ryan says, and then Brendon's distracted by the arrival of Spencer with his pizza.
. . .
"Ross, what the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?" Brendon says, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Ryan seems to be wrestling with Brendon's mixer, the one his mom bought him as a well-intentioned housewarming gift and that Brendon's never touched.
"Cookies," Ryan pants, and gives a mighty pull. The bowl snaps into place. He pumps a fist in the air victoriously, and Brendon is reminded yet again what an immense failboat Ryan Ross can be. Still, Ryan seems more like his old self than he has in ages. Brendon's willing to do just about anything to humor him.
"You. Are trying to make homemade cookies?" Brendon states.
"I made the cookies," Ryan says defensively, and gestures toward a tray of unbaked cookies. There's also a Pillsbury wrapper sitting nearby, so Brendon's mollified, assured that all is in fact right with the universe, until Ryan says, "Now I just need frosting."
"Okay," Brendon says slowly.
"Where do you keep your food coloring?" Ryan huffs, now fighting with the mixing attachment.
"Pantry. If I have any? I might, actually. Twist, you idiot."
They end up making the icing side by side, Brendon figuring it's as good a breakfast as any. It's a fairly epic effort. Ryan's determined to make the cookie-decorating into some sort of art project, apparently, because he insists on six different colors of frosting.
"I think the purple needs a little more red in it," he muses, staring into the bowl.
"Your mom needs a little more red in her," Brendon mutters. Ryan, quick as a flash, dips one long finger into the green bowl and swipes it down Brendon's cheek. Brendon splutters for a second, but he can't help smiling. This finally feels like progress, rebuilding, a return to the friendship he and Ryan used to have.
"S'what you get," Ryan sing-songs, when Brendon whaps him on the arm with a dishtowel.
"Oh, it is on," Brendon promises, and smears a handful of pink icing down the front of Ryan's...apron. For fuck's sake, Ryan is wearing an apron. Ryan retaliates by grabbing the blue bowl and retreating behind a chair to fling gobs of icing at Brendon's head, while he tries to shelter behind the towel and shakes the bottle of sprinkles menacingly in Ryan's direction.
"Hah," Ryan shouts, and a handful of icing hits Brendon square in the mouth.
"Nice aim," Spencer says dryly from the doorway.
"Spence! Help!" Brendon says, and darts behind him.
"Hell no."
"He's vicious!" Brendon pleads, cackling, and before he can say "I told you so," a dollop of yellow lands right on Spencer's bare chest. Brendon can't breathe from laughing.
"Hell no," Spencer says again, rasing one deadly eyebrow, and then he's grabbing the bowls of red and orange and dumping them both simultaneously on Ryan's head. Brendon's literally rolling on the floor. "You look good enough to eat," Spencer smirks, topping off his work with a bottle of sprinkles. Ryan, out of ammo, surrenders with a disbelieving look in the reflective front of the microwave.
"You ass," he mutters, and combs the worst out with his hands.
"Good icing though," Brendon giggles, licking one of his fingers.
"I have to go shower again," Ryan says mournfully, and stalks off muttering something about revenge. Brendon stands up and looks around at his kitchen. There are vibrant splashes of sugar everywhere. Whatever. So, so worth the cleanup.
"So very mature," Spencer chuckles. Brendon shrugs and beams at Spencer, and Spencer grins back. Brendon knows he's thinking the same thing, that maybe things with Ryan will be okay.
"You've got a-" he smiles, pointing at Spencer's chest. Spencer grabs his wrist and lifts it to his lips, and Brendon's words die in his throat as Spencer licks slowly up one finger.
"You look good enough to eat, too," Spencer grins, catlike, and sucks Brendon's pinky into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the first knuckle.
"I kind of hate you right now," Brendon breathes. He's trying with every bit of willpower he possesses not to let his imagination run wild, but, hello. Spencer grins, sucks once at Brendon's finger, and lets it go with a wet, obscene noise. He turns to go without another word and Brendon's left standing in his kitchen, covered in icing and unbearably hard.
. . .
They all convene by the pool when they're cleaned up, Brendon having jerked off unceremoniously before swiping himself down with an old towel. Brendon leaves the kitchen for later and brings his cereal out to the porch, settling down on the chaises with Ryan and trying not to watch too closely as Spencer swims a couple laps.
"Dude, it's fucking hot, get off," Ryan grimaces, and deposits Hobo back on the ground.
"Why don't you go in the pool, then, dumbass."
"Don't feel like it." Ryan settles back and opens a book. Between the bug-eyed sunglasses and the glass of lemonade, he looks like your average Hollywood starlet, except a hell of a lot paler. Brendon giggles to himself at the thought. Ryan's more of a diva than any of them, he'd bet. He realizes he's staring fondly, too happy to care, when Ryan peers down over the rims of his sunglasses and asks, "What? Do I still have icing in my hair?"
"Nah," Brendon grins. "I'm just glad you're better."
He realizes, when Ryan's lips go thin and dangerous, that it maybe wasn't the most tactful way to say it. "Better?" Ryan monotones.
"Y'know-" Brendon waves his hand around awkwardly. "You're you again. Not all weird about Keltie. Well, not-"
"I was always me, what are you talking about," Ryan says acidly.
"I dunno, you were upset, I was worried, forget it," Brendon mutters, and reaches for his Marlboros.
"I don't need you worrying about me," Ryan hisses.
"That's not it," he says feebly.
"Whatever. I'm not a kid, I can deal with it myself," Ryan snarls, and settles his book in his lap again with an air of finality.
"Sorry," Brendon whispers. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and clenches his jaw.
Fuck.
“It's hot,” Ryan repeats after a long silence, and looks down at the pool, considering.
Brendon finishes smoking and pads down to the water, settling himself on a raft and watching Spencer play fetch with Hobo. It's almost too hot, barely even spring now and he's already sweating in the sun. Fucking L.A. Ryan gives in and joins them, rolling his pants up so he can swing his feet in the water. Brendon smiles at him cautiously.
"I love her tail," Spencer laughs, holding Hobo stationary as she tries to swim to safety. Her tail's bobbing frantically back and forth like a rudder.
"Let her go," Brendon says, smacking Spencer lightly on the shoulder from his spot on the raft. "Bully." Spencer rolls his eyes and Hobo paddles to the steps, shaking herself off prissily in a manner reminiscent of her owner.
"Ryan, come in, the water's perfect," Spencer calls to the side. Ryan lets out a curl of smoke from his Camel Light and shakes his head. Brendon and Spencer exchange a glance.
They circle around casually, slowly, so Ryan doesn't notice until they're each grabbing a leg. His eyes widen comically, long limbs flailing out, and then he lands in the pool with a resounding splash, while Spencer and Brendon high-five over his submerged head.
"Assholes," Ryan splutters when he emerges, and it's more vehement than Brendon had expected. He darts away, waiting for revenge, but Ryan just wades toward the steps. Spencer mutters something that sounds like "little bitch." Brendon stares at Ryan's ribs, highlighted by the wet cling of his t-shirt.
"I'm gonna go change," Ryan calls angrily, wringing water from his shirt and stalking away.
It's just Brendon and Spencer in the pool now, and Brendon's vibrantly aware of what happened last time they were here together. Spencer's watching him like he's remembering too, lips curled up, predatory and dangerous. Brendon's breath catches in his throat.
"I, uh- beer," he says shakily, and practically runs out of the pool.
He goes to the bathroom first, then figures he'll ask if Ryan wants a beer too, as a conciliatory gesture. He knocks once and doesn't bother waiting for an answer before barging in.
"Ryan, you want-" he starts, and stops short.
Ryan's leaning over the dresser, shirtless, wet pants dripping onto the carpet. In front of him are two messy lines of white powder. The rolled-up bill is lifted halfway, and his eyes are big, shocked moons. Brendon can't breathe.
"What-" he gasps. "What the-"
"Don't start again," Ryan says, bored almost, and his face is expertly blank again. He sets down the dollar bill and turns to face Brendon with his arms crossed.
"I thought-" Brendon says numbly.
"You don't get to fucking lecture me, it's nothing you haven't done," Ryan says, with that same eerie calm.
"At parties, Ryan, not in private, not alone." Brendon can see himself in the mirror, pale and determined-looking. He's proud of himself for not letting his voice shake. His stomach is swooping, head spinning. The past week... he thought... he remembers: bathroom breaks, the flushed cheeks, the lack of appetite, Jesus, was Brendon blind? A cold. He'd believed it was a cold.
"Bren, where-" he hears, and Spencer's peering through the door behind him. Brendon closes his eyes.
No. Nonononono.
"What the fuck," Spencer's saying, flat and disbelieving. Ryan is silent.
"Ryan, I thought-" Brendon says. He doesn't know what to think. He's not thinking.
"It's none of your business," Ryan mumbles, and if he tries, Brendon can almost hear what would be shame in anyone else. He opens his eyes and Ryan's got his back against the dresser, drops of water still trailing down his too-thin chest, bumping down the mountains and valleys of his ribcage. His arms are limp at his sides, palms facing Brendon and Spencer, the closest to a plea Brendon knows he'll get.
"It is," he whispers. "It is our business. We care about you."
"Leave me the fuck alone, I'm a fucking grownup. I can make my own fucking choices," Ryan spits.
"No, not like this, Ryan, you- I can't-" Spencer says thinly.
"Fuck you."
"Ryan, you always said-"
"What? What did I always say?" His voice is hushed, but venomous. Brendon wants to rewind, wants to tell Spencer no, don't, because he knows what's coming.
"You said you would never be like him," Spencer says. It's barely there, quiet and shocked from bloodless lips. Brendon braces himself.
"Fuck you, I'm nothing like him," Ryan snarls, fists bunched at his sides, eyes dead.
"You are, you keep pushing us away, and- Look at yourself," Spencer says shakily. "It's- I don't recognize you any more. What happened?"
Brendon wants to close his eyes again, but can't. He can see something crumbling right in front of him, years of friendship falling to little shattered pieces and going up in flames, and this can't be happening.
"Spencer, I don't need you to take care of me any more." Spencer physically flinches, recoils. Ryan might as well have punched him. He continues, voice as flat as ever, "This is me. This is how it's gonna be, and you don't have to like it. But you can't do this without me. We need to write an album, and then I'll move back to my house and you won't have to deal with me any more."
Brendon can see the glassiness in Spencer's eyes, and no, this isn't okay.
"Ryan," Spencer chokes, "We're not dealing with you, we fucking love you. Family, remember? I can't- you're right, we can't do this without you, but we need you, c'mon, you can't just-"
"Fucking- Stop telling me what I can't! Jesus, you have such a fucking God complex. For as long as I can remember you've been telling me what to do, just fucking stop it!" Ryan's screaming, full-out screaming, face red. "God, I don't fucking- I know, okay, I know you fucking blamed me for what happened with Keltie, don't fucking pretend! I see the way you look at me like- like I'm some kind of- like you pity me, and just- I don't need you, I don't need your fucking advice!"
"Ryan, we-" Brendon stutters. Ryan rounds on him, bare chest heaving.
"And don't you start. We. We think this, we think that, fuck you both, I know you talk about me," he spits. "And Brendon, you're even worse of a fuck-up than I am, don't even pretend. Can't keep a relationship to save your life, biggest closet case I've ever met, you've done just as many drugs as I have, and if it wasn't for me you'd probably be on your mission right about now, so-"
"Leave him the fuck alone," Spencer cuts in sharply. Ryan opens his mouth as if to argue, but Spencer says again, "Leave him alone." He's shaking, Brendon can see it, but his voice is strong.
"No. You guys say you're my friends but I see you, I see the way you watch me and talk about me and I don't need it, I don't fucking need it, I have other friends, I have people who won't fucking judge me, Alex didn't bitch me out for the Keltie thing-"
"We're not judging you, Ryan, for fuck's sake, we care, we want to know why you did it, Greenwald-" Spencer trails off, shrugging helplessly.
"He never heard you talk about your dad, the way you used to promise you'd never drink and you'd never cheat and- and you'd be different, and...what happened?" Brendon asks, pleads, softly. He can see Ryan's face crumple, moving for the first time into something beyond blind rage, something shocked and vulnerable and terrified.
And then it's gone. "Fuck you. Nothing happened. People change," Ryan says flatly. He whips around, picks up the rolled bill from the dresser and, before Brendon can move to stop him, snorts the two lines that are still lying there, back stiff. He turns around, wiping his nose defiantly, and says, "I'm going out and I need to change. Do you mind?"
Brendon minds. He wants to fix this, and yet he can't find any more words, can't begin to imagine how this could ever be fixed. Spencer moves robotically toward the hall and Brendon follows without thinking. Ryan closes the door behind them.
"What-" he starts.
"I don't-" Spencer stutters. They stare at each other, lost for words, and Brendon can feel his heart thudding along, slow and heavy. It's only a few seconds before the door opens behind them again and Ryan stalks past them without a backwards glance. Spencer winces as the front door slams.
"Fuck, Spence, I can't-" Brendon's chin is wobbling and he doesn't know what to do and what is there to do and Spencer, Spencer's looking younger than Brendon's ever seen him, lost and shell-shocked and shaking and Brendon doesn't know what to do.
"I-" Spencer gasps, and he shudders, spins around, and walks stiffly to the bathroom. Brendon stares and, after a second, follows.
The door is locked when he tries it. He knocks, but there's no answer, just a sob, quickly silenced.
"Spence?" he calls. No answer. He slumps down to rest his back against the door, and he waits.
He's never seen Spencer cry. He can hear it now, little bitten-off gasps that make his chest ache.
"It'll be okay, y'know," Brendon says, just so Spencer knows he's there. "It'll be okay. Every band has rough patches, right? And...he'll be fine. This is his dream, this is- this is what he wants more than anything. He won't mess it up. He's just a little...confused. It'll be okay." It sounds feeble even to his own ears. He presses on. "We'll call Pete. I mean, Ryan's not the only one who's allowed to talk to Pete." He forces a laugh. "He'll know what to do. He...Ryan will listen to him. Remember Ryan's little Fall Out Boy shirt? He worships the ground Pete walks on. Pete can convince him, it- it'll be okay."
He remembers the first week in his apartment, huddled by himself against the wall, hugging himself for protection against the suffocating silence. He used to repeat it like a mantra: I'm okay. He'd whisper it into the dark sometimes, fierce and stubborn, and when Mrs. Smith asked him how it was, if he needed anything, he said it again with the brightest smile he could muster.
He told William, maybe the second week of Truckstops and Statelines. He closed his eyes and leaned into William's hand in his hair and confessed it all, how scared he'd been, how many times he wanted to crawl back home.
"You're pretty amazing," William had whispered, half-asleep. "Not many people can hold themselves together like that."
He's never felt amazing. Sometimes he thinks it's blind optimism, sometimes he thinks it's stubborn bravery. Right now, it just feels like lying.
He takes a deep breath and tries harder.
"We'll get him into rehab," he says, and he tilts his head back against the door and closes his eyes. "We'll finish the album and then he'll go to rehab. He needs help, but- but, I mean, every band goes through this, right? Look at Gabe, he's still going strong. Keith Richards. It's just- we can make it through. It'll be okay."
There's no response from the other side of the door, other than a barely-there, muffled whimper.
Brendon remembers how jealous he used to be. Or...not jealous, maybe. Something deeper. He played his guitar and they just looked at each other, amber on blue, and Spencer quirked his eyebrow and Ryan half-smiled, and they told him he was in. He wasn't in, not exactly, not for a while. Not like they were. Brendon wanted, more than anything, to have someone who could read his thoughts like that.
"I'm here, y'know," he says softly. "I'm here. Forever. Promise. Whatever happens, whatever Ryan- whatever happens. You've still got me. And I know- I know I'm not him, we didn't share crayons in Kindergarten, but I- I'm here."
He can feel his heart pounding. There's something cold gripping his chest.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he says. "Can you hear me? Spencer, please, I- you didn't do anything wrong. It's- it's not your fault, none of this is your fault. I don't know- you're incredible, we never would have made it this far without you, me or Ryan, god, you just- I wish you knew. You're the most generous person I know. You give- god. Everything. And I can't-"
He falls backward as the door opens without warning, but Spencer's there, grabbing his hands and pulling him up till they're chest to chest. Spencer's wrecked, eyes red-rimmed and wild, tears still wet on his cheeks, and he's gripping Brendon's biceps like he'll fall down if he doesn't. He takes a deep, shivery breath, rests their foreheads together. "Thank you."
Brendon leans forward and brushes his lips gently, ever so gently, against Spencer's neck. He takes a deep breath and lets the tears fall and hugs Spencer as tightly as he can, bone-crushing and desperate, and together, they breathe.
. . .
Brendon stares at the marks, the red lips, the way Ryan won't quite look him in the eye.
“What about-” he starts, and Ryan cuts him off with a snap.
“Don't. Please. Don't.”
Brendon shouldn't talk. He's spent the past few months getting head from most of the crew and a different girl at every venue. He's single, though. It's different.
“Jon's here, I was just about to get popcorn,” Brendon says softly, and jerks his thumb toward the back lounge. Ryan nods stiffly.
Spencer's on the Academy bus, escaping from the stress-fest that is Panic these days, and Brent's in his bunk. It's only the two of them when Brendon heads back into the lounge: Ryan and Jon are both cross-legged, knee to knee.
“S'okay. You've got to forgive yourself, though. People get lonely on tour. It's not nice, but it happens,” Jon is saying, and Brendon can see Ryan smile.
“Thanks,” Ryan whispers, and turns to the door. “Hey, Bren. Sorry I yelled.”
“No problem,” Brendon grins, relieved. There's been enough tension on the bus lately. He and Jon arrange themselves on the couch with Ryan between them and they watch Cruel Intentions.
Later, when they've both climbed into their bunks, Ryan whispers across the aisle. “Don't tell Spence, okay?”
“He'll love you anyway,” Brendon replies. He doesn't get an answer.
. . .
They use the living room phone, to call Jon. Brendon's almost hoping for voicemail. If he doesn't have to say it out loud, if they ignore it and close their eyes and bury their heads in the sand, maybe this whole thing will go away.
"Hey," Jon picks up on the second ring.
"Hi. Are you- how's it going?" Spencer asks, trying for casual and sounding funereal.
"Fine? What's up?"
"Ryan," Spencer sighs. "It- Jon, he was doing coke. In the house. Not a party, nothing, just- there." There's a long silence on the other end. "So Brendon sees him, and there- we had this huge fight, I don't even know, he was just lashing out, said it was his decision, and- Jon, I honestly don't know what's going through his head right now."
"Shit," Jon says succinctly.
"Yeah, well. Yeah. He left. Says we're still going to do the album, but. We- we want him to go to rehab after. Will you talk to him? I don't know, he just won't listen to us right now. He listens to you," Spencer pleads.
"Yeah, I'll try," Jon says softly. "Rehab, huh?"
"Can't think of anything else."
"I- yeah. I guess. I mean, it's not affecting his writing, though, right? The stuff he played me was great."
Brendon and Spencer exchange a surprised glance. "Really?" Brendon pipes up.
"Well, yeah. You didn't like it?" Jon sounds shocked.
"It's not really my thing. But. Okay. I kind of just want us to make it through," Brendon confesses.
"Yeah. We will," Jon says reassuringly. Brendon smiles shakily.
"Thanks," Spencer says.
"Of course. It- was it really that bad? You guys sound pretty shaken up."
"Jon, I told him he was exactly like his father," Spencer says. He looks stricken. Brendon laces their fingers together and squeezes.
"Whoa. I mean. Isn't that a bit harsh? Everyone- I mean. It's not like you guys haven't experimented with stuff. We all have," Jon muses.
"No," Spencer says firmly. "Ryan- Ryan never wanted anything to do with it. He always said. This, it's against everything he used to want to be."
Jon's silent for a while. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, I didn't really know him then. And maybe it's just that I've kind of seen it before, I've had a lot of friends do this. Carden's been addicted to painkillers for, what, like two years now? And they're doing fine. It's- it's not necessarily as big as it seems. People change."
"Yeah, that's what he said," Brendon mutters.
"Hey, look, Ryan's house is ready in what, like a week? So he'll go back to his place, we can all take a breather, and I'm staying with him for a while. And I promise, I'll see if I can talk to him. Or at least I'll be able to keep an eye on him," Jon assures him. "Listen, I've gotta go. You guys should call Pete, though, Ryan'll listen to him, too."
"Yeah, that's a good idea," says Spencer dully. "Bye. Thanks."
"Bye, guys," Jon says, and hangs up.
Brendon sighs and buries his face in Spencer's shoulder. Spencer strokes his hair slowly.
"I don't think he gets it," Spencer says softly.
"How could he?" Brendon asks, muffled.
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess. He was right though, we should call Pete."
"Go for it."
Spencer doesn't move for a second. He squeezes Brendon's hand and strokes his hair with the other hand, and he sighs before tapping out the number.
"'Lo?" Pete answers.
"It's Spencer. And Brendon."
"Hi," Brendon pipes up, turning so he can talk into the phone. He keeps his head on Spencer's shoulder, though.
"Hey, what's up?" Pete says. He sounds vaguely surprised, and Brendon doesn't blame him; it's usually Ryan who calls.
"Ryan. He's- stuff's been going on with him lately."
"So am I your friend or your boss right now?" Pete says lightly.
"I-" Spencer looks to Brendon for confirmation. "Friend, I think. Trusted advisor, maybe?"
"I can do that. Shoot. Down, Hemmy! Sorry. Fucking madhouse here, Ash's out."
"So. I guess. He's been staying here. We're at Brendon's. And he's been doing a lot of stuff. Drugs. Drinking," Spencer explains.
"Are we talking, like, crazy cabin shit, or the bad stuff?" Pete asks shrewdly.
"Bad stuff is a good way to put it," Brendon puts in. "Coke. We thought it was just when he went out, but- it's not. And we just had a fight with him about it. It- it didn't go well, he's not really. Well. He left. He screamed. He didn't say he was going to stop."
"Well, shit. Huh. I wondered why I wasn't hearing from him," Pete says.
"Why- I mean. How does that make sense?" Spencer wonders.
"Ryan, he- he calls me to talk about lyrics, or emo, or girls, or, like, a cloud that looks like a fish. He- well. He doesn't like feeling ashamed of himself. If he's done something stupid, I'm the last one to hear about it."
Brendon's reminded, yet again, why it's not smart to underestimate Pete. He may be loud and occasionally obnoxious and often badly-dressed, but he's the most perceptive person Brendon knows. Spencer's looking at the phone, looking just as taken aback as Brendon feels.
"So you think he knows he's being..." Spencer says slowly. "And he just doesn't want to talk to us cause he doesn't want to deal with himself?"
"Yeah. Pretty much. He knows, all right," Pete mutters. "Little shithead. Let me guess, you guys want me to talk to him?"
"Could you?" Brendon sighs.
"We just- we don't know why he's doing it," Spencer says, chewing at his thumbnail.
"Yeah," Pete muses. "I'll see what I can do. Everything else okay?"
"There really isn't much else." Spencer's hand tightens on Brendon's again. It's all too true. It feels like the world has shrunk to the three of them.
"I get it. No worries, okay? And if you ever need to get out, come on over. I think Travie's coming to stay for a while, we'll all hang out."
"Will do. Let us know how it goes?" Brendon asks.
"Yeah. All my love," Pete says, and they hear him yelling at Hemingway before the line goes dead.
They put in a movie, but Brendon doesn't see it. He checks his phone every few minutes to see if Pete's texted or called, even though he has the ringer set to loud. The clock reads 6:17. That doesn't seem right.
"We should eat dinner," Spencer mutters, once the credits are rolling.
"I'm not really hungry," Brendon says. He thinks he'd puke if he tried to eat anything.
"Me neither, but."
"Yeah."
Cooking is a distraction, at least. They turn on the radio and soundly abuse Sean Kingston for a while.
"We should go surfing," Brendon remarks.
"We?" Spencer says skeptically.
"I'll teach you. I'm a good teacher," Brendon answers, with an attempt at a smile.
"Yeah, you would be," Spencer nods, and his eyes are warm. Brendon blushes and turns hastily back to his carrots.
They pick at their food. Spencer forces down a couple bites, but Brendon just can't. He texts Pete instead: howd it go?
Pete's response comes as they're clearing the table. not picking up. assface. dont worry tho.
Brendon shows Spencer, who rolls his eyes and tightens his lips. "Let's go outside."
They play fetch with the dogs for a while, until it's dark, and then watch another movie, killing time, glancing repeatedly at the door.
"Honestly, I just want this day to be over," Brendon mumbles, and Spencer nods heavily.
"Bed?" he asks. They head for the hallway.
"Can I- I mean." Spencer gestures awkwardly at Brendon's door.
"Yeah, I don't really want to be alone either," Brendon says softly. They strip off their jeans and settle close, Spencer pressed lightly against Brendon's back, his hand curled over Brendon's hip.
. . .
He thinks he won't be able to sleep, but he must, at some point, because he wakes up later to the sound of the door slamming. He can feel Spencer twitch like he's going to get up. Brendon grasps his wrist gently and whispers, "Don't. He won't- not yet." He hates himself a little for it, but Spencer nods and settles back into the pillow.
He wakes up again and Spencer's gone. Without thinking, he slips out of bed and pads to the hallway. The bathroom's dark. Brendon tiptoes into the kitchen. There's milk dripping over the edge of the counter, the glass still on its side, but Spencer's just standing there with a rag in one hand, hands braced against the counter, bare shoulders shaking.
Brendon can feel the silent sobs when he wraps his arms around Spencer's waist from the back. He presses his cheek against cool skin and holds on.
"You know what they say about crying over spilled milk," he mumbles, and Spencer chokes on a laugh. He smooths a thumb over Brendon's wristbone and Brendon can feel the muscles in his back loosen. He wonders how long Spencer's been out here.
"Thanks," Spencer whispers.
"You don't have to run away whenever you cry, y'know," Brendon says. He can feel Spencer stiffen again, then sigh.
"I know. I'm not- I don't cry."
Brendon doesn't bother pointing out that he clearly does.
"I know. But...you take care of me often enough. My turn," he mutters instead, and Spencer squeezes his hand.
"Thanks."
. . .
"So have you thought about, y'know, if you and Ryan are still going to write?" Spencer says the next morning (afternoon, really) when Brendon pours himself a generous mug of coffee and sits down at the table.
"I guess we have to," Brendon mumbles, and really, he hasn't been awake long enough to think about that.
He takes the dogs out for their walk. Spencer's reading a drumming magazine on the couch when he comes back in, but he's barely hung up the leash by the door when he hears something that makes both of them freeze.
"For fuck's sake, of course I know that!" It must be a shout, if they can hear it from here. "Pete, this is what I've wanted my entire life. No, it's not- I know what I want, okay?" The last few words get louder, and Ryan comes into view just as he's hanging up. He glares at the two of them and spits, "So now you're getting my boss to police me, too?" and then he's stomping out the door.
"I guess you're not gonna get any writing done today," Spencer says guiltily. Brendon's phone buzzes.
"there are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it."
be a little more cryptic Brendon texts back, while Spencer reads over his shoulder.
"It's Oscar Wilde," Spencer says.
"Still cryptic," Brendon retorts. His phone buzzes again.
he might have to work this one out on his own. he's a little fucked in the head. give him some space, i think he'll come around eventually.
"Well, fuck," Brendon mutters. so what do we do in the meantime?
play video games? idk dude, whatever you always do.
Brendon looks to Spencer and shrugs. thx.
ttyl.
"So what now?" Spencer says softly.
"We could write, I guess."
Brendon feels guilty, almost, for how easy it is without Ryan. It shouldn't be. It should be like writing without one of his fingers. But... it's not. Spencer likes the same chord progressions as he does; clean, easy, easy-sounding. None of the twisty, spiky melodies Ryan's been so fond of lately. They spend the entire afternoon and most of the night in the music room, refining some of the things Brendon's been fiddling with, writing what could possibly be an entire song.
Afterward, they curl up on the couch with a movie, and Brendon thinks guiltily about what Ryan will think.
“I think I'm gonna go to sleep,” Spencer says, rubbing his eyes, and starts to get up. Brendon hesitates for a second.
“No, hey," Brendon says heavily, and catches Spencer by the sleeve. "Stay with me again tonight?"
Spencer nods. "Lemme go change," he says, and by the time he comes back to Brendon's room, Brendon's under the covers in boxers and an old shirt.
"Nice sweatpants," Brendon smiles. They're ones Spencer hasn't worn in ages, blue with "Juicy" written across the butt in sloppy Sharpie, courtesy of Jon and Tom and a lot of weed.
"Nice shirt," Spencer retorts as he wiggles under the covers, and Brendon realizes it's his.
"Oops."
"Oops, my ass. 'Night, Bren."
Part 4