The Dangerous Li[v]es of Altar Boys 3/3
Previous Part
The first thing Tom does when he gets home is pick up his acoustic and tune it. It's a familiar process, one that requires him to focus on the sounds his fingers produce. He could do it on autopilot, but he feels like everything he does is on autopilot these days and it's the last thing he wants. He wants to feel connected to his music again.
He strums softly at first, ignoring the blinking light of his answering machine. His parents know he's home but he doesn't want to see anyone right. Correction, he doesn't want to see just anyone right now. He wants to maybe see Jon, Spencer, even Brendon and Ryan. They were fun. They knew that he was more than just the sum of his parts.
Unfortunately, they're winding their way around the country again, another tour for Jon to take pictures on. He's looking at it as an opportunity only while it's there. Once it's over, Jon will be back in school, finishing his degree.
Tom quickly scribbles down a chord progression that he likes the sound of. It's got almost a haunting sound to it and it's been in his head since before he got home. He didn't dare try it out on the bus, not while everyone else was writing and doing their own bit for the next album. It was odd, the lack of pressure he felt at home. There was no Bill or Mike telling him not to play a part that way, and then playing it for him to demonstrate.
For the first time since joining with Academy, Tom feels free to write whatever he wants. He can try out a riff and if it doesn't fit with the sound Mike and Bill have in their heads, it's okay. Grabbing himself a beer, he decides to continue working on it.
The days pass like that, empty 24-packs building around him. Every so often he'll leave. There are still groceries to contend with, but for the most part Tom stays home and receives few visitors. The only person he'd like to see, he isn't allowing himself to think about.
The month runs out and Bill starts making noise about getting back together to rehearse and look over the stuff they've written. When Tom gets the first message, he looks down at the sheets of music that surround him. He's not ready to give these up, to have them torn apart by Bill and Mike. Siska and Butcher have picked their sides and it isn't Tom's.
Tom completely skips the first band meeting, too involved in working out the finer points of his latest creation. When Mike stops by later, Tom pretends he doesn't hear the buzzer.
It's not healthy, is what Butcher tries to tell him when he stops by the next day. Butcher's beard is gone and somehow he thinks that qualifies him to give Tom real advice that should be taken seriously.
"Have you even left since we got back?" Butcher looks at the piles of clothes, dishes, everything.
"It's not like food brings itself here, Butcher." Tom looks around and wonders when he got to living like this.
"Are you sure about that?" Butcher nudges a pizza box with his toe and Tom half-wonders if something's going to come crawling out of there. "Come on, just come out with us tonight, show us what you've got and just. Stop staying in, man, everyone misses you. I get texts from the guys when they're out and they say it isn't the same."
"Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but I'm not staying home for a reason, okay? I just haven't felt like going out." Tom shakes his head and looks back down at the pizza box.
Butcher looks like he's going to speak for a moment and Tom can hear the words before they're formed. You need to get over Mike. I thought you were over Mike. You were doing so much better. Have you even talked to Spencer? Why did you stop talking to Spencer? Wanting to cut these questions off before they're spoken, Tom says, "I'll come out tonight, fine. Jeez. It's like you missed my pretty face or something."
"Or something," Butcher agrees. "Now go shower, you smell like you rolled around in sewage. I'll be here smoking."
Butcher is as good as his word. As soon as Tom steps out of the shower, he can smell Butcher's cigarettes. "I hope you opened a window, asshole," Tom shouts down the hallway.
"Least of your concerns, good buddy. Wear that grey shirt you have. Bring the ladies to the table," Butcher calls back.
"With that cocktail wiener you have between your legs, it wouldn't matter what I wore." Tom enjoys the good-natured ribbing that he and Butcher have always shared. It distracts him momentarily from the fact that he's going to be sharing a table with Bill and Mike. They're never obvious about what's going on between them, but it's always obvious to those who know them.
"It's not the size of the ship, Tombo, it's the motion of the ocean." Tom knows that right now Butcher is doing an obscene dance in front of his window and he really should care more about what the neighbors are seeing, but he doesn't.
"Okay, do I look hot enough to bring ladies to the table?" Tom enters the living room and he's uncomfortably aware of how he looks. In all honesty, he looks like he's trying too hard, but Butcher gives his thumbs up. Butcher is wearing plaid pants, so he might not be the most qualified judge. It's the first time Tom's worn something that doesn't have a stain in over a month.
"You look like the sexiest asshole this side of Bob Barker." Butcher blows Tom a kiss before ashing out his cigarette. Tom just laughs and reaches for his jacket.
"Sometimes I don't even know about you."
*
The bar turns out to be the worst idea they've ever had. Siska barely gets let in; using his brother's ID is never a good idea. It would go a lot better if Siska weighed more than a pre-pubescent girl.
Bill insists on Porn Star shots for the table, something that earns a groan from everyone but Butcher. By the end of the fourth round, Tom is ready to settle in with a beer and listen to the goings on around him.
After a while, Butcher starts chatting up people he knows, and Siska is still looking around nervously at his surroundings. "I think I'm going to head out, guys. I'll take the El home," Siska says while gathering his jacket in his arms. Bill just nods, fingers of one hand wrapped around the neck of a beer, and fingers of the other under the table on Mike's knee.
"So how come you skipped out?" Bill's voice is a little louder than it needs to be, words slurring just slightly.
"Just slipped my mind, man. Sorry. I've been doing a lot around the apartment." Tom doesn't know how much Butcher told them about what his place is like, but they accept his words at face value.
"Well, you gotta come next time, we want to see what you've got for the new record." Mike looks up and meets Tom's eyes. For the first time all night, Tom flinches and looks away. He doesn't want to be involved in this.
He stands abruptly from the table, making some excuse about the bathroom. Instead, he wanders to the bar, settles his tab and sneaks out. He'd been right all along, going out with them was a bad idea.
*
The band meeting that Tom attends isn't anything like he thought it would be. Though he has all the composed music in a messenger bag, Bill and Mike essentially tell him how the next album is going to sound, what his guitar parts will be like.
Tom just nods through the conversation and feels the weight of his bag. They didn't want his contribution, they never did. They just need someone to fill out the sound, the same way the soundboard fills out Bill's voice from time to time.
"This stuff looks good to you?" Mike leans over a piece of sheet music with Tom, their shoulders brushing.
"Yeah, it's fine. I just don't know why you told us to take some time and work out stuff we liked if you were just going to tell us what to play anyway." Tom knows he's crossing a line, going into something he can't get out of.
"Hey, we're just trying to make this sound tight. Make people forget what they saw on Warped and the last tour." Mike's voice is a little too tight for Tom to be comfortable, so he backs off.
"Fine, fine. It's cool. I'll take this home and run through it. Saturday, right?" Tom looks up and meets Mike's eyes. Mike nods only once and Tom packs the music in with his own, in need of air that isn't so full of asshole.
*
Saturday comes and Saturday goes with Tom still in his apartment, more drunk than he's ever been in his life. He hasn't sobered up in more than a week, sleeping and waking drunk. There's a knock on his door and without even thinking to check who it is, he opens it.
Mike, Bill, Siska, and Butcher are all there. Tom just has to snort, thinking that it looks like it's so serious, whatever reason they have to be here. Tom is about to tell them they should've called first, but he remembers that sometime the previous week, his phone died. He hasn't bothered charging it since, not wanting to hear from anyone.
No one looks at ease, which puts Tom on edge. They're here to deliver some sort of bad news. Tom offers everyone a seat and he's grateful the place looks better than the last time Butcher was here. The cases of empties line the hall to his room and the laundry has been done. All this doesn't change Tom's level of sobriety and he finds himself wishing it did.
When the small talk runs out, when the circular talk about drinking runs out, when even Bill looks at a loss for something to say, Butcher speaks up. "Fuck it. Tom, I don't think you should be in the band anymore."
For Tom, the moment freezes and he looks between everyone. No one will meet his eyes except Butcher. Tom almost wants to smile at that. The only one who had the guts to say what they were all thinking and the only one who will look him in the eyes after.
"You're not happy. Not even just not happy, you're miserable. And you're still our friend. All of us. We want you to be happy and I don't know if everyone agrees on this part, but you're developing a problem. I don't think being in this band is the best way to deal with that problem and I think being out of it will make you happier." When Butcher says this, it isn't unkind, which is perhaps why it hits Tom harder than if anyone else had said it.
"Fuck you guys. A problem? I have a problem because I like a drink to unwind?" Tom can't believe the audacity of Bill, telling him that he has a drinking problem. Tom can't even count the number of times he had to hide Bill's drunken ass from his parents. Same goes for Mike. Siska looks just as uncomfortable as Butcher during this, but even so, Tom knows that he's no saint when it comes to drinking.
"Tom, we're not trying to judge you, we're just trying to help you. And I'm sorry, but we agreed that you being out of the band is the best way to do that. For you and for us." Butcher looks down at the ground, as if he finally realizes exactly what he's doing.
"Fine, I'm out of the band, but you guys are out of my apartment." Tom stands, not wanting to hear the rest of this discussion and how his friends just want to help him. If that were really the case, someone would've been there when Mike tore his heart out. They would've listened when he had new ideas to throw at them. They would've even made a conscious effort to not have booze on the bus at all times. Fuck them and their sanctimonious little ways.
As Tom ushers them out of the small apartment, he knows that Butcher wants to stop and say something to him but Tom just holds up his hand. "Just get out. I don't want to hear it." Butcher nods and puts his head down as he leaves.
*
Tom sobers up the next day. He wasn't in the mood to drink after his bandmates (ex-bandmates, the voice inside his head likes to remind him), left. It feels awful, the awareness creeping back into his brain. It hits him that he no longer has a job, or a band, or even four of his closest friends. In the afternoon, he gets the shakes so badly that he can't even light a cigarette.
On his couch, he curls up in a ball and tries to hum to himself. He hums everything from a lullaby he used to know when he was younger to the songs he's been composing for himself. When he charges his phone, there are a dozen messages from his ex-bandmates from the previous week. They get more irate as they come in. They want to know why he isn't answering, why he isn't showing up anywhere.
Tom goes into the voicemail and forces himself to listen to each one on speakerphone. For some reason, it's Siska's that hits him the hardest.
"Hey Tombo, we're uh. We're at my place. It's me, Sisky, we're having a meeting and you really should be here for this. I miss you, buddy."
Siska. He was Bill's best friend, even though the age difference was significant when they were both in high school. Bill collects people like Siska, ones who admire him and who think he can do no wrong. It makes Tom sick, thinking that he could ever be like that. Tom shudders and looks at a crack in the ceiling. He deletes the message and hangs up his phone. He doesn't want to be in this apartment right now. Not with the way the walls are closing in on him.
He does the first thing he can think of to keep himself from throwing up. Tom calls Jon.
Tom has his own suspicions about Jon having heard the news already, but he doesn't call him on them. Just says, "I can't even be in Chicago right now, but I don't know where I'm going to go."
"Don't be an idiot, you're going to come and see me. We both know that." Jon sounds like he can't even fathom any other course of action on Tom's behalf.
"You guys are on a new tour. This is the last thing you need." Tom thinks of being in the way, thinks of seeing Spencer with someone new, someone who understands what he needs.
"What are you even saying? I think this might actually be my finest idea. You can come out here, spend a week taking pictures of me, and it'll give you something to jerk off over when you're home." Jon sounds way too amused with himself for his own good.
"How does everyone else feel about that?" Tom doesn't want to rub anyone the wrong way, especially after the way the last tour with Panic ended.
"I think they're going to be pretty okay with it, you know? Brendon says he misses having someone with him who has an ass almost as big as his." Jon's laughter is dopey, slow.
"You know, you joined the weirdest band ever. Okay. When should I be out there?" Tom wants the details hammered out before he goes to tell his parents what's happened. They're going to be worried, he knows, but he's going to tell them not to listen to anything they hear about it.
"I'll email you the dates and stuff." Jon sounds distracted now and Tom can hear other voices in the room.
"Hey, look. Is um. Is Spencer going to care that I'm there?" Tom doesn't want to ask it, but he needs to know. If Spencer doesn't want him there or is going to make some sort of big deal about why he's there, Tom is out.
"Lemme check." And like that, Tom remembers why he hates Jon. True, Jon is his brother from another mother, but he's also the least complicated guy Tom knows. Give him a dime bag and a skin mag and he can entertain himself for hours. He also doesn't believe in letting Tom wallow in his own bullshit and he was never one for talking around an issue. "He says he doesn't care what you do, also that I shouldn't stick my nose where it doesn't belong. Not really sure why he said that, since you're my friend and this is clearly where my nose belongs."
"Idiot, he's still salty. Forget it, I won't come out there. I'll just harass Nick or something." Tom looks around the room and tries to imagine an eternity here. Maybe he'll die and no one will notice because no one is expecting him to be anywhere.
"No, because if you stay home you're just going to stay in your apartment until it becomes a cesspool and your body becomes a leaker and then I'm going to be out a best friend and Nick will kill me and I don't really want to die from Nick killing me. It's always been my biggest fear. Hey, you won't tell him I told you that, right?" Jon suddenly sounds like he's extremely paranoid.
"No, no, I won't mention it to him." Tom stores the information away for future blackmail, but only in the event of an emergency. Like Jon being a complete dick.
"If you mention it, I'm going to stick my dick in your mouth while you sleep and take pictures." Jon tries to sound threatening, but mostly he sounds high.
"That just makes you look like a creep because it's your dick on film and I'm clearly passed out." Tom looks around his room and tries to determine what he needs to be packing.
"What can I say, the Captain likes exploring new places. And maybe your mouth isn't completely uncharted territory, but it's certainly unfamiliar."
"You know, one day I'm going to record a conversation with you and let Cassie hear it. She needs to know what kind of man she shares a bed with." Tom just shakes his head and cradles his phone between his ear and his shoulder. "And it won't be my fault when she runs screaming in the opposite direction."
"Man, you wish you could hear the conversations we have when I'm home." Jon burps loudly into the receiver. "Anyway, are you going to quit being a pussy about coming out here or do I have to fly out there and smack you myself?"
"Okay, I'll come out. Just give me some dates and I'll let you know my flight information." Tom clicks off the call, knowing Jon will email him everything he needs to know in order to make his arrangements.
He's halfway through picking up the garbage that's been littering his floor since he got home from tour when he feels the email buzz through. The dates don't give him much time to make any plans, but he's fairly certain he can find a good deal on one of those cheapie websites. It's not like he's going to have to pay change fees or anything.
Once the email to Jon has been sent, Tom sits down on his kitchen counter and breathes a little easier. He's getting out of Chicago and that's the most important thing right now. He can deal with seeing Spencer as long as he doesn't have to think about his own band and his "friends."
At least, that's what Tom tells himself while he's packing and discarding shirt after shirt because he thinks Spencer will think he looks like an idiot.
*
Jon's waiting in the airport with a large security guard hovering nearby. Tom wants to laugh because he never thought Jon would be in a band that needed security the way these Panic boys apparently did now.
"What's with the guard?" Tom whispers into Jon's ear when they hug hello.
"He has a name, Tom. It's Zack, and he has protected me and my harem." Jon throws an arm around Tom's shoulder, even though he's taller, and squeezes. "My bevy of beauties must be protected at all times lest they go missing."
"Jesus, are you high already?" Tom has just noticed the faint pot smell clinging to Jon and rolls his eyes.
Jon crooks a finger to Tom, motioning him to come closer. In a whisper that speaks of extreme secrecy, Jon says, "It makes the make-up easier to deal with."
*
It's as easy as Tom thought it would be to avoid Spencer because Spencer spends the vast majority of his time avoiding him. Even though Jon has become Spencer's favourite, he never seems to be in the room with Jon when Tom enters. It's some sort of extra sense he seems to have, exiting a room as Tom enters it.
"Or it could be that when you're drunk you sound like a herd of elephants stampeding." Jon just shrugs as he looks up from his laptop. They're splitting a bottle of wine because sometime after joining the Panic pile, Jon decided he was classy. Tom has enough photographic evidence disputing this that he's not concerned about it.
"Your mom sounds like a stampeding elephant," Tom mutters in return, flipping through pictures on his own laptop.
Jon just nods absently in return as he types. Tom is pretty sure he's chatting with Cassie at the moment and he's also pretty sure that he doesn't want to read whatever's going on in that chat window.
"No, but seriously, you're not hard to avoid. Especially if someone wants to avoid you." Nine months earlier and that sentence would've sounded like Jon was talking about Mike. Nine months earlier and that's what Tom would've heard. Present tense and with half a bottle of Pinot Noir running through his veins and all Tom can think about is Spencer and the way he'd looked at the end of the last tour.
"Fuck it, I don't want to fight with him anymore, you know? He was-"
"Please don't talk about your rebound sex with my bandmate? Hearing you and Mike was bad enough. I don't know why you think hotel walls are thicker in England than they are in the states, but they're not. Future reference." Jon cuts Tom off and reaches for his glass of wine, draining the last of it in one gulp.
"Future reference? I don't want to hear you and Cass having sex on my couch at the next house party. Just saying." Tom tries to deflect it, like he doesn't want to talk about Spencer anymore. He knows he could count on Brendon if he really wanted to talk about Spencer.
For reasons unknown to Tom, Brendon loves talking about Spencer's love life and which male celebrity Spencer would be best with. His personal opinion is that Kevin Spacey and Spencer would make the best couple. Tom tries to argue that two bottoms wouldn't work, but Brendon doesn't seem magnificently concerned with the mechanics of gay sex as he's saving himself for Prince Eric. He's also not magnificently concerned that his life is not Who Framed Roger Rabbit and he can't actually interact with cartoon characters.
*
"So, no, think about it, Spencer showing up at a red carpet with Kevin Spacey? His hips tilting toward Kevin's? It'd look so perfect." Brendon lets out an audible sigh and Tom has to fight to keep from rolling his eyes.
"No, I don't want him with Kevin Spacey! I want him to show up at a red carpet with me, tilting his hips at me!" Tom thinks he's made this point before but after the fourth or fifth Corona, it's kind of hard to be sure.
"But you don't look anything like Kevin Spacey! How would that even work?" Brendon doesn't think this is as good a plan as Tom thinks it is and Tom kind of wants to shake Brendon until he agrees that it is a good plan and that Spencer's tilty, tilty hips should be tilted at him. He looks at Brendon to see him resting his eyes and leaning back against the pillows in the hotel bed
Tom shakes his head and reaches for his beer, draining it in a few long pulls. Spencer, he needs to find Spencer and apologize. That would be a start. Rather than use his phone, the number to which Spencer has and recognizes, Tom takes Brendon's phone from his hand and scrolls through the contacts. Most are entered as "that guy from Kinkos with the bangin' ass." Spencer is listed under his own name, thank goodness. Tom doesn't think he's sober enough to remember Spencer's number from memory.
That should've been his first clue. That should've been what told him this was a bad idea. Instead, he looks over at Brendon and decides that the bathroom will offer more privacy. Jon isn't in the room yet. He's down in the hotel bar with everyone else, probably wishing Cassie was nearby so he could do something disgusting with her.
Jon is really disgusting, Tom decides as he locks the door to the bathroom, holding the ringing phone to his ear. When Spencer answers, he sounds tired. He sounds like he could use another two hours of sleep before he even considers waking up for a phone call from Brendon. He sounds like he hasn't even gotten to bed yet.
"Brendon, I don't care if you're too drunk to remember calling your parents is a bad idea. It is and you know it is, so go the fuck to bed."
Tom snorts because Spencer kind of sounded like a girl at the end of that sentence. "You're so pissed off right now, aren't you?"
"Tom?" Spencer's voice takes on a strange quality that Tom doesn't know how to interpret. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, nodding until he remembers that Spencer can't hear a nod. He looks at himself in the mirror and grimaces. Was there always that man in the mirror? Did he always look like that?
"Tom? If you're just calling to tell me I'm pissed off, then I'm really not interested in this conversation." That tone is one Tom recognizes. Spencer's cool, frosty tone is one that Tom is now intimately familiar with. Whenever Tom hasn't been able to avoid them, when Jon has insisted that Tom and Spencer are in the same room because he's a meddling bastard, that's the tone Spencer uses with everyone until he's permitted to leave.
"Jon is a meddling bastard," Tom announces this to Spencer like it's news, like Spencer hasn't spent the past few months getting to know that on the road.
"Okay, if you're calling to tell me that, I'm hanging up." Spencer's voice sounds like it's getting further away from the mouthpiece of his phone.
"Wait!" Tom just got up the guts to call Spencer. It can't be over this quickly.
"What, Tom?" The voice on the other end of the signal sounds is too open to interpretation. Tom can't figure out what this one means. He looks over at the mirror again and decides that it either needs to be smashed, or he does.
After a moment, Tom answers. "Come outside for a cigarette with me?" It's where everything started, it might as well be what helps everything come together, right?
"Tom, you're drunk. There's absolutely no way that I'm coming downstairs to go out for a cigarette with you so just go to bed." Spencer's voice is unreadable, something Tom hates. Spencer and Ryan have that uncanny ability to go monotone whenever they have something important that needs to be kept close to their chest.
"Spence, I'm drunk and I need to talk to you."
"Pardon me for not giving a flying fuck about what you need while you're drunk, you're always drunk when you come to me," Spencer says dryly. "I need to sleep and you need to do the same." Tom doesn't have a chance to say anything else before Spencer clicks off the call.
Tom looks at Brendon's phone, glaring when he realizes Spencer isn't on the other end any longer. He shakes his head and sets the phone down on the bathroom counter. His pack of cigarettes is in the other room, so he can't actually just smoke in here, but he does decide to sit in there and think.
He's drunk. Spencer thinks he's always drunk. Spencer thinks he's always a douchebag. Is he drunk because he's a douchebag or is he a douchebag because he's drunk? Is Spencer even right? Tom looks in the mirror again and nods; Spencer is right.
Once Tom has reached that conclusion, he realizes that he needs to come up with some sort of plan. But a plan much better than his previous plans, because every plan he's had when it comes to Spencer has been complete shit. Spencer deserves more than that, especially after putting up with what Tom put him through.
That's the thought that has Tom leaning over the toilet to vomit up the beer churning in his stomach.
*
In the morning, with the light streaming into the window, Tom wants to die. He doesn't think he's ever been so hungover from so few beers in his life. Of course, he'd been drinking before he came to Brendon's room and the beer probably hadn't helped, but still. Tom Conrad wants to die. He has a vague memory of calling Spencer but has no idea what the conversation could have been about.
It takes half an hour of mentally prepping himself before Tom is ready to get off the floor of the bathroom and face the world. Unfortunately, the face in the mirror isn't ready to greet the world. Tom is a pale green color, lips a stark red in contrast. Just the thought of leaving this tiny room has him ready to bend over the toilet again. A pounding on the door stops him. "Tom, if you're dead, I'm moving you because I need to use the bathroom. You can puke in the sink."
Tom groans. Brendon's room. Of course that's where he'd pick to pass out. They were talking the previous evening about Kevin Spacey. How had he gone from Kevin Spacey to calling Spencer? Oh, God. Did he tell Spencer not to date Kevin Spacey?
Tom hits the redial button on Brendon's phone and steps out of the bathroom, gesturing for Brendon to go on in. There's a balcony attached to the room, so Tom goes out onto it. Patting his pockets produces a pack of half-crushed cigarettes. He rolls one back into shape and places it between his lips, waiting for Spencer to answer.
It goes straight to voicemail and the cigarette drops from Tom's lips to the pavement below. He sputters out "Spencer" before disconnecting the call. Not trusting himself not to drop the phone, Tom pockets it.
He's only got another day here, another day where he has to face Spencer and not shake him and ask him what he has to do to fix this. He has some pride. Except for the times where he doesn't actually have any. Like today's bus ride, which he spends practically staring at Spencer while Spencer watches episodes of C.S.I. on the television with unwavering focus. He doesn't even answer his phone, probably because he might take his attention away from the episode and accidentally make eye contact with Tom.
"Tom, you're staring," Jon tries to mutter casually. Only it comes out in the same voice Jon uses for everything.
Brendon and Ryan start snickering to each other and look at Spencer, watching him turn red. "Okay, come on." Jon hauls Tom to the back lounge and closes the door. "Okay, you have to stop staring. Ryan is probably messaging me right now to ask if you're actually retarded. I keep having to tell him that you're not."
"I'm not retarded." This distracts Tom long enough for him to look up at Jon, just in time to get slapped in the face.
"Then stop mooning like a teenage girl about him! I swear to God, I feel like I'm going to look over at you writing Mrs. Tom Smith in the front cover of your purple unicorn notebook. Pull yourself together before I have to slap you with my dick."
"It's not that bad." Tom really doesn't think he's been staring like that. Maybe he let his eyes linger, but it wasn't like he was about to sigh and burst into songs about the two of them being made for each other.
"Tom, I love you, you're my best friend in the entire world. Right now, you're being a total idiot. If you want him, you tell him and you do whatever it takes to get him. If that means that you have to grovel, you grovel."
"Wait a minute, if I'm your best friend in the entire world, why aren't you yelling at him to treat me better?" Tom catches the discrepancy in Jon's words.
"Okay, hold on, I'm going to message Ryan and back and tell him I was wrong." Jon rolls his eyes and opens the door to the back lounge. "He's not the one who screwed this up, Tom. You and I both know that."
*
That night in the hotel room after the show, Jon's laughter is loose and easy, flowing at the same rate the wine is. "I'm gonna miss you, you know. It's not the same. I have my tiny, tiny boys, but I don't have the men."
"Do you miss it, though?" Tom tries to think of any time he hasn't seen Jon completely happy on this tour.
"I'd be lying if I said I really missed it. I have my own techs now. Maybe I would've finished school, maybe not, but this chance. Tom, that's one thing you have to learn to do. You have to take chances. That's the Tom I became friends with." Jon is just drunk enough to be soft around the edges he'd usually cover up with comments about his dick.
"I take chances," Tom starts to protest.
"Not anymore, man. Not really. I don't know what Mike did but it fucked you up. If you ever need to tell someone, you know I'm here for you and I'll listen but it really... Anyway, it fucked you up royally and turned you into this," Jon gestures up and down with his free hand before taking a sip of wine. "You don't take risks anymore, Tom. And that really sucks. Because when you bet big, yeah, you can lose big but you also at least have a chance to win big."
"If you tell me to put it all on black, you won't wake up with the Captain still attached to you," Tom's too drunk to actually have a serious conversation where he gets told what to do with his life and his emotions.
"If you cut off the Captain, Cass'll have words for you and I promise they won't be of the 'Oh, Tom, that shirt looks good on you' variety," Jon drains his wine glass and stretches before slipping off his jeans. Jon moves to turn down the covers on the large bed they were sharing for the evening. "Okay, come on, you have a flight to catch. I'll be the big spoon and I won't even try to stick it in and swish it around."
"I'm never coming to visit you on a tour again." He looks at Jon, shaking his head before climbing into the bed with him.
"That's a lie, Tom, and we both know it," Jon mutters before his breathing evens out and sleep overtakes the room.
*
The flight home is mercifully short and Tom sleeps through most of it. He remembers the seatbelt sign turning off, because that's his everything's okay sign, and then he remembers feeling the plane touch down at O'Hare. There's no one to get him and Tom doesn't feel like blowing money on a cab, so he hauls his bags through the transit system of his beloved city, and walks the last few blocks to his front door.
For the first time in months, Tom doesn't want to be drunk. He thinks about the empty bottles in his apartment, the dregs of which are probably fermenting to create a super-alcohol. He doesn't want that in his system.
Unfortunately, he doesn't know any other way to be at the moment. Tomorrow, he'll figure that out tomorrow, because right now, all he wants is to forget the way Spencer said goodbye to him.
"Well, it's a shame to see you go, Tom." Insincere bastard couldn't even sound like he meant it. Ryan was definitely on Tom's shit list. He's had more than enough of Ryan's opinions swaying Spencer, pretending he was a perfect saint himself.
"Yeah, but you'll get over it," Tom shrugged. He wanted to say goodbye to Jon in peace. Even Brendon, not normally a thorn in Tom's side, was grating and far too chipper.
When Jon hugged Tom, he muttered, "just hug him. This is how he shows he's actually going to miss you, fuckwad."
Tom took Jon's advice and was surprised at the tight grip Brendon had on him and the way he took a moment longer than he should have to let go. "Don't be a stranger, you're welcome on my doorstep any time, Tom."
Then Tom turned to Spencer, who was busy tapping out messages on his cell phone to some unknown recipient. "Guys, we should get going. We're running off schedule." When he noticed Tom's shoulders slumped, he pocketed his phone. "Travel safe," he finally said before turning and heading back over to the door of the airport.
Jon squeezed Tom's shoulder and tried to manage a smile. "Figure it out, dude. That's all I got for you. I'll see you when I get home."
Tom doesn't want to think about Spencer's goodbye, so he focuses on what Jon had said. Jon had told him twice to figure it out. Tom knows this is his fault. That has never been in question. He knows that his reactions in the days after sleeping with Spencer were not the best reactions to have.
He looks at himself in the mirror and rubs at his jaw. The conversation from the bathroom of the hotel comes back to him. Drinking. Tom looks at his cases of bottles and shakes his head. Those have to go.
*
A few days later, Jon calls Tom. "Holy shit, you're never going to guess where we're going after the New Year. Just guess. You won't, but you're going to have to anyway or I won't tell you."
"You're going to Barbados," Tom throws out the first location that pops into his head.
"I wish!" Tom recognizes the tone Jon uses, the one that says Jon is about to forget the point of his initial story and tell Tom about the many and varied things his dick could do in Barbados. Tom decides immediately to nip that in the bud.
"So where are you off to, then?"
"We're going to a cabin in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere to write the next album." Jon says it like it's the most incredible thing in the world, like he's actually really excited. Tom tries to muster up the same level of enthusiasm.
"Are you sure they aren't taking you out there to kill you and dispose of the body?"
"No, but what a way to go. If I don't get cell phone reception, I'll try to figure out how to get a telegraph to you that says I'm in danger." Tom smiles at Jon's words. "But the point is, I want you to come visit for a week or so. Get your head out of Chicago."
Jon apparently knows without needing to be told that Tom is still hiding out in his apartment as if all of Chicago, not just his ex-bandmates, consider him persona non grata. "I don't know, I've got a lot going on here."
It isn't a lie, not really. Tom has things that are going on. They just don't involve what used to go on for him.
"You've got time to think about it, okay? I just." Jon cuts himself off, not letting himself say he's worried about Tom. The thought weighs more than the action to Tom. That's when he decides Jon deserves to know what's really going on.
"It's just, I've got these meetings. And they're. I don't know, they seem like they're helping." Tom knows this part, he knows that he needs to admit to Jon he has a problem, but it almost doesn't seem like the conversation for it, miles and wires keeping them apart.
"So, you admitted you had a problem?" Jon asks the question as casually as he would ask what Tom had for breakfast that morning.
This draws another smile across Tom's face. He nods, even though Jon can't see it, before continuing. "Yeah, I admitted I have a problem." He's careful to use present tense, because if there's one thing he knows, it's that it's on-going and that a few meetings don't just fix it, no matter how much he'd like it to be that simple.
"Generally this results in a huge spiritual awakening, Tombo, am I going to come home to a bible salesman for a best friend?" And just like that, Tom knows Jon is okay with it. He won't joke about something he doesn't feel comfortable about.
"Yeah, you are. I'm going to drag your heathen ass to church and make you and the Captain repent of all your sins."
"Hey, man is responsible for his own sins and not for the fall of Siska. I'm not responsible for the Captain's indulgences, as many and varied as they are. Should've paid better attention when you were studying to be an altar boy."
"Fuck you! I was never an altar boy," Tom's voice gets shrill when he thinks about having to wear those robes and have to participate in mass. His knees ache just thinking about the hard wooden floors of his church.
"Mmmm, right. Well, look, I'm being called away, but keep me up to date on this stuff, okay? I don't like feeling this out of the loop," Jon goes for indignant but it doesn't come out quite right.
"You're the one who picked the harem over the stables, Jonny, just remember that." Tom disconnects the call before having to hear another comment about Jon's perception of religion. When he looks in the mirror, he notices that the smile is still there, even when his eyes travel down to the St. Christopher medal, hanging around his neck as heavy as a millstone.
*
When Tom decides to go to the cabin, it's because Jon thinks he might kill his bandmates otherwise. "I'm too pretty for prison, Tom. Even you said you'd sell me for cigarettes!"
"I would, your ass would fetch a pretty penny," Tom clamps the phone between his ear and his shoulders as he tries to figure out how many pairs of underwear is too many. He hasn't packed for tour in forever and it's enough to have made him forget that the idea is to pack light. He knows he can just steal clothes from Jon if it comes down to it, but there's something comforting in packing clothes and removing them. It gives him a chance to forget about his nerves over seeing Spencer for the first time since starting his meetings.
"So, I'm not supposed to say anything because I'm sworn to secrecy in the order of Panic, but it's come to my attention that a certain boy has been asking about when you'll be here."
Tom drops his phone at the statement. Dropping a pair of socks and tripping as he scrambles for the phone, Tom manages to sputter, "What?"
"Someone has been asking when you were getting here," Jon laughs and it sounds genuine.
"No shit. Swear you're not yanking my chain." Tom sits on the floor and tries to think about how he can possibly convince Spencer that he isn't a person with diminished mental capacities. He needs to make that better impression.
"Tom, of all the things to yank on you, your chain would be the last thing I'd pick. Brendon's been asking when your fine ass is coming." Jon apparently has no concept of what it means to cup the phone so the person on the other hand doesn't have to listen to him shout, "I'll be right there, Brendon! No, I'm coming, I'm just on the phone!"
"The harem calls?"
"Bitchy little harem girl wants to play Guitar Hero because he hasn't kicked my ass enough at it this week," Jon huffs and Tom guess it's time to let him go. "Call me when you get to the airport and I'll come get you. By myself, even."
"Harems don't need protection in the woods?"
"If they want them, they're welcome to them. Did you know Ryan started doing calisthenics at ass o'clock this morning? And then tried to make us join in with him! I don't even know, man. It's too weird here some days. Anyway, I'll talk to you later." Like that, Jon hangs up.
The train ride to the airport isn't so bad, not really. It's not as familiar as it once was, but it's by no means terrible. People leave him alone and he boards his flight without thinking about whether or not they'll serve alcohol. His bank account is thanking him for the meetings, for the way it doesn't get drained to the bottom any longer.
The flight seems shorter than it is as Tom flips through photos on his laptop, carefully edits some of them. It's only a few minutes, or so it seems, before the captain announces their decent and the local temperature.
As promised, Jon is waiting at the airport for him with a sign that says "TOM!!!" and has a few stickers. "Brendon had shit leftover from when he went to go see his nephews. Said it would make you feel more welcome than just me," Jon explains when they've parted.
"Well, it worked. Just you? Pfft, give me a sign with Spongebob on it." Tom hefts his bags and follows Jon to the rental car.
"We also have to do a grocery run. We're completely out of Cheetos and Funyons. I don't even know who eats the Funyons." Jon is babbling a little nervously, so Tom knows something's up.
"What happened? Did someone use someone else's last pair of clean socks?" Tom doesn't particularly want to walk into the middle of one of those fights. They're almost always about something bigger. Even if they aren't about anything bigger, they still get fucking vicious when you're cramped together in a small space.
"It's just, I know you're doing really awesome with the meetings and stuff and there's. Well, there's drinking at the cabin." Jon keeps his hands at ten and two as he navigates the roads leading out of the airport.
Tom laughs for a moment before he realizes that Jon is truly ill at ease. "Jon, I don't give two shits if you guys drink. It's really okay with me. It's not like I'll always be in situations where there isn't booze. This is real life."
"Yeah, I know, I just don't want you to feel uncomfortable or that there's pressure to drink or anything. And if you want me to stay sober with you, I will."
"Jesus, no. No way, this is your time to do whatever you need to do to write this next album. It's not like any of you guys are waking up in puddles of your own puke or blacking out and not remembering long sections of a day." Tom is inadvertently admitting to Jon what happened to him.
"No, it's not like that. It's usually just a couple of beers while we watch a movie. I don't know. We go green more than anything else."
"And that's something I can get on board with." Tom punches Jon's shoulder as lightly as he can. "Hope you remembered how to get back, because I'm not hitchhiking to the gas station when you run out and insist you can't be the hitchhiker because sexual predators would pick you up and I'd never hear from you again."
"A valid concern when you look as good as I do. And now, we pick up food," Jon pulls into a convenience store parking lot and pulls his hood up.
*
The days at the cabin don't pass as quickly as the days on tour. There's no place to go when things get tense but up on the roof. That's where Tom ends up running Spencer most often. At first, Spencer just smokes his joint in silence while Tom puffs away on his own cigarette. The fourth time it happens, Spencer offers his joint to Tom and looks shocked when he turns it down.
"Sorry, I'm trying to…"
"Yeah, Jon explained it. Sort of." Spencer's voice sounds strained as he holds the smoke in. "I'm guessing that's why you don't drink any of the beer."
"Well, that and the beer is Corona. If I'm going to get drunk, you better believe it'll be off something slightly better than that." Tom makes a face at the thought of the beer, thinking instead of the beer from Sam's, the place down the street from his apartment.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry our beer isn't up to your refined palate." Spencer's smiling when he says it, so he knows it isn't meant to be mean.
"It's okay, you can't be perfect." It slips out without Tom meaning it to. The silence it causes is louder than anything Tom has ever heard. "I mean."
"Don't worry about it," Spencer cuts Tom off.
"I just meant, you guys, not you in particular," Tom stammers, rubbing at the back of his neck. He looks around at the surrounding woods.
"Are we still not talking about that?"
Tom freezes with the cigarette halfway to his lips. In all the months that had passed since their last real conversation, Tom had never guessed that Spencer had anything to say he hadn't already said. "I didn't realize there was anything left you wanted to say to me."
"You never really asked." Spencer ashes carefully into the lid of a jam jar.
"Oh. Well, is there anything left you wanted to say to me?" Tom looks at Spencer from the corner of his eye.
"Yes. No. Yes." Spencer looks like he's considering things, judging by the emotions that pass over his face. "What you did really sucked, you know that. You do know that, right?" The tone isn't chastising, it's curious.
"I know that." Tom does know. It's in his journal. There are things he needs to make amends for. The sad part is, Spencer is fairly low on that list.
"I just don't really understand why you were such a d-bag. You never tried to explain anything to me. I know that part of it was Mike. I don't know what he did that fucked you up so bad, and I don't expect you to tell me. I guess I just want to know if that was what was keeping you back." Spencer doesn't make eye contact the entire time he's speaking.
"Yes. No. Yes." Tom tries to remember everything he's spent the last few months sorting through. "I. I have problems. I've acknowledged them, but they're still problems."
"I really wish you hadn't dragged me into the middle of them," Spencer mutters.
"I wasn't trying to. Well, I was at first. But then I realized some shit and I realized I didn't want to drag you into it. And I," Tom takes a deep breath. He can't believe he's admitting this. "I was trying to protect myself."
"Protect yourself?"
"If you don't let anyone in, they can't hurt you."
"It's a lonely life though." Spencer shifts over on the roof, reaching for Tom's cigarettes, lighting one for himself. "I've seen other people do that, Tom."
"I know it's lonely. I was just trying to keep myself safe, the same way you were trying to." Tom's mouth quirks up at the thought of that conversation.
"The difference there is that I wasn't hurting someone else to keep you safe. There wasn't really a reason for self-defense, to hurt me."
"I know that now. Believe me, I know that." The breeze has turned cold outside and Tom wishes for the other half of Jon's bed, where the covers can be pulled up and the monsters can't get him. It worked when he was little, it should work now.
"Maybe it's time to take that knowledge and turn it into action." Again, the words aren't condescending.
It's the closest thing that he's had to an invitation from Spencer for a year, at least, and Tom doesn't intend to waste it. "Come visit me in Chicago."
"Pardon me?"
"I'm taking my knowledge, making it action. Come visit me in Chicago. You can see everything you haven't seen yet." Tom knows Spencer can take that however he wants to and he's praying as hard as he ever has in his life for Spencer to say yes. The only things he's ever prayed for as hard as this was getting out of his parents' house, was for his bands to make it. Those prayers weren't half as important as this one.
"No, Tom." Spencer stands, not before pressing his cigarette into the jam jar lid. He doesn't waste a moment before climbing back into the window and leaving it open. Tom knows that he won't be in the room when he climbs back in, so he finishes the rest of his cigarette, trying to keep from putting it out on his palm to feel something.
*
The rest of the days at the cabin are quite without incident. Ryan breaks Brendon's lucky bong; Jon beats Tom at Guitar Hero; Spencer plays the acoustic guitar one night and Tom recognizes the chords of Kumbaya.
The final night at the cabin, Jon decides to barbecue in honor of Tom's visit. There are beers passed around, and as usual Tom waves his off. It's more interesting to watch the dynamic of the group the more alcohol is introduced.
"You're not impressing anyone, you know." Ryan has had enough pot to come over and seat himself next to Tom, stealing one of his potato wedges.
"I'm not doing this to impress anyone. If that's what you think I'm doing this for, you're sorely mistaken." Tom is a little crabby, he can admit that. He didn't get enough sleep the night before and now he's wishing he could just be in bed, given his early flight out.
"Oh, I didn't mean the sobriety. I meant this brooding artist shit you're pulling right now. You're. Well. To be honest, you're not fooling me. You're sure as hell not fooling Spencer." Ryan leans in, stealing another potato wedge. "He'll get over you, everyone does."
"Ryan, I know you're trying to look out for your best friend right now. I respect that, I really do, I asked around about you guys when you wanted Jon for your own. Ultimately though, the decision was his. I would do the same thing if Jon decided to dump Cassie and date someone else. But ultimately, you need to remember that this decision isn't yours." Tom is trying as hard as he can not to drive a fist right through Ryan Ross' smirk.
"If he does make the wrong decision and you do hurt him again, I'll kill you and they'll never find the body, Tom. Just remember that." Ryan claps Tom on the shoulder and stands up, leaving Tom to ponder whether he'd really just heard Ryan threaten him with bodily harm.
Toward the end of the evening, it dwindles down to Jon and Tom passing a joint back and forth. "I'm thinking you got shit done while you were out here, right?"
"Is that what you were hoping would happen?"
"Fuck no, I just missed your ugly face." Jon shrugs and exhales a slow series of smoke rings. "Are we getting deep? If so, I'm going to need another joint."
"No, we're not going to get deep. I got some shit figured out, so I guess we'll see. It's not like I'm not going to text you, whatever I do decide to do." Tom reaches for his cigarettes, anxious to get the taste of pot out of his mouth.
"You better. I think you know what'll happen if you don't text me as soon as you get past security. I'm needy, Tom, I don't think you know." Jon throws an arm around Tom's shoulder and squeezes.
Tom laughs and leans into Jon briefly. "You're like a phone that vibrates for no reason."
"I'm an NRB, Tombo, no reason for me to be there, but I demand attention. Don't you forget it. But seriously, you figured your shit out with Spencer, right? He didn't look like he wanted to murder your ass." Jon steals Tom's cigarette, placing it between his own lips.
"I guess you could say we figured it out," Tom thinks that's the right way to phrase their conversation.
"Hey, don't worry so much, okay? He'll come around. He always does when it's something worth fighting for."
*
Tom returns to his apartment, phone pressed to his ear. "No, Sean, trust me, that's not the chord progression you want. No, we'll talk about it when you're done work. You have coffee to be serving."
Without waiting for a response from his new bandmate, Tom hangs up his sidekick and tries to place what's off about his apartment. It seems warmer than it did when he left. It isn't that unusual during the spring. He has great windows but the place cooks on sunny days.
Ordinarily he's good about closing the curtains, but in the two weeks he's had Jon back in Chicago with him, little things like that have been slipping. He's been attending his meetings, going to work, writing songs. He's been keeping busy so he doesn't have to think about exactly what is missing in his life.
Spencer hadn't returned with Jon, nor had he called Tom since he'd been back. At this point, there was nothing Tom wanted more than to be able to write Spencer off as a lost cause, but he still couldn't let go of the memory of waking up next to him in the weak light of morning in a hotel room.
Jon has done his best to keep Tom's mind off it, offering endless videogame championships. It isn't the same as falling asleep next to a warm body, but it's close enough. Companionship during the day is enough.
Tom sets his bag on the kitchen floor and sets the kettle up to boil. Hot tea will calm him down and it'll help him sleep tonight when his thoughts start to drift.
It occurs to him that there's a slight rustling coming from his bedroom and he prays he didn't just walk into a home invasion in progress. He doesn't even know what they would get. Then it occurs to him that his cameras are in there. Grabbing a baseball bat from the front entry, Tom begins to creep toward his bedroom.
When he kicks open the unlatched door, bat raised high above his head, he nearly screams at what he sees.
Spencer.
Spencer stretched across his bed. His eyes are closed but the noise of the bat clattering to the floor opens them at once. He sits up, his hair flying in different directions. "Huh?"
"Spencer?" Tom isn't sure this isn't a dream. If he's relapsed and is hallucinating from drinking too much, he'll take this hallucination.
"Hi, Tom," Spencer sits up and looks down at the duvet cover on Tom's bed.
"You. You're here."
"Jon let me in, I hope that's okay. When you left, I started thinking. And I realized that was really putting yourself on the line. Since I made you take action, the least I could do was at least try to meet you half-way." Spencer smiles and Tom realizes he'll stop breathing if he doesn't start kissing him right now.
It takes Tom a few attempts at separating from him before he finally manages to tip his forehead against Spencer's and murmur, "best thing he's ever brought into this apartment, and you can tell him that includes himself."
The first thing Tom does when he gets home is pick up his acoustic and tune it. It's a familiar process, one that requires him to focus on the sounds his fingers produce. He could do it on autopilot, but he feels like everything he does is on autopilot these days and it's the last thing he wants. He wants to feel connected to his music again.
He strums softly at first, ignoring the blinking light of his answering machine. His parents know he's home but he doesn't want to see anyone right. Correction, he doesn't want to see just anyone right now. He wants to maybe see Jon, Spencer, even Brendon and Ryan. They were fun. They knew that he was more than just the sum of his parts.
Unfortunately, they're winding their way around the country again, another tour for Jon to take pictures on. He's looking at it as an opportunity only while it's there. Once it's over, Jon will be back in school, finishing his degree.
Tom quickly scribbles down a chord progression that he likes the sound of. It's got almost a haunting sound to it and it's been in his head since before he got home. He didn't dare try it out on the bus, not while everyone else was writing and doing their own bit for the next album. It was odd, the lack of pressure he felt at home. There was no Bill or Mike telling him not to play a part that way, and then playing it for him to demonstrate.
For the first time since joining with Academy, Tom feels free to write whatever he wants. He can try out a riff and if it doesn't fit with the sound Mike and Bill have in their heads, it's okay. Grabbing himself a beer, he decides to continue working on it.
The days pass like that, empty 24-packs building around him. Every so often he'll leave. There are still groceries to contend with, but for the most part Tom stays home and receives few visitors. The only person he'd like to see, he isn't allowing himself to think about.
The month runs out and Bill starts making noise about getting back together to rehearse and look over the stuff they've written. When Tom gets the first message, he looks down at the sheets of music that surround him. He's not ready to give these up, to have them torn apart by Bill and Mike. Siska and Butcher have picked their sides and it isn't Tom's.
Tom completely skips the first band meeting, too involved in working out the finer points of his latest creation. When Mike stops by later, Tom pretends he doesn't hear the buzzer.
It's not healthy, is what Butcher tries to tell him when he stops by the next day. Butcher's beard is gone and somehow he thinks that qualifies him to give Tom real advice that should be taken seriously.
"Have you even left since we got back?" Butcher looks at the piles of clothes, dishes, everything.
"It's not like food brings itself here, Butcher." Tom looks around and wonders when he got to living like this.
"Are you sure about that?" Butcher nudges a pizza box with his toe and Tom half-wonders if something's going to come crawling out of there. "Come on, just come out with us tonight, show us what you've got and just. Stop staying in, man, everyone misses you. I get texts from the guys when they're out and they say it isn't the same."
"Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but I'm not staying home for a reason, okay? I just haven't felt like going out." Tom shakes his head and looks back down at the pizza box.
Butcher looks like he's going to speak for a moment and Tom can hear the words before they're formed. You need to get over Mike. I thought you were over Mike. You were doing so much better. Have you even talked to Spencer? Why did you stop talking to Spencer? Wanting to cut these questions off before they're spoken, Tom says, "I'll come out tonight, fine. Jeez. It's like you missed my pretty face or something."
"Or something," Butcher agrees. "Now go shower, you smell like you rolled around in sewage. I'll be here smoking."
Butcher is as good as his word. As soon as Tom steps out of the shower, he can smell Butcher's cigarettes. "I hope you opened a window, asshole," Tom shouts down the hallway.
"Least of your concerns, good buddy. Wear that grey shirt you have. Bring the ladies to the table," Butcher calls back.
"With that cocktail wiener you have between your legs, it wouldn't matter what I wore." Tom enjoys the good-natured ribbing that he and Butcher have always shared. It distracts him momentarily from the fact that he's going to be sharing a table with Bill and Mike. They're never obvious about what's going on between them, but it's always obvious to those who know them.
"It's not the size of the ship, Tombo, it's the motion of the ocean." Tom knows that right now Butcher is doing an obscene dance in front of his window and he really should care more about what the neighbors are seeing, but he doesn't.
"Okay, do I look hot enough to bring ladies to the table?" Tom enters the living room and he's uncomfortably aware of how he looks. In all honesty, he looks like he's trying too hard, but Butcher gives his thumbs up. Butcher is wearing plaid pants, so he might not be the most qualified judge. It's the first time Tom's worn something that doesn't have a stain in over a month.
"You look like the sexiest asshole this side of Bob Barker." Butcher blows Tom a kiss before ashing out his cigarette. Tom just laughs and reaches for his jacket.
"Sometimes I don't even know about you."
*
The bar turns out to be the worst idea they've ever had. Siska barely gets let in; using his brother's ID is never a good idea. It would go a lot better if Siska weighed more than a pre-pubescent girl.
Bill insists on Porn Star shots for the table, something that earns a groan from everyone but Butcher. By the end of the fourth round, Tom is ready to settle in with a beer and listen to the goings on around him.
After a while, Butcher starts chatting up people he knows, and Siska is still looking around nervously at his surroundings. "I think I'm going to head out, guys. I'll take the El home," Siska says while gathering his jacket in his arms. Bill just nods, fingers of one hand wrapped around the neck of a beer, and fingers of the other under the table on Mike's knee.
"So how come you skipped out?" Bill's voice is a little louder than it needs to be, words slurring just slightly.
"Just slipped my mind, man. Sorry. I've been doing a lot around the apartment." Tom doesn't know how much Butcher told them about what his place is like, but they accept his words at face value.
"Well, you gotta come next time, we want to see what you've got for the new record." Mike looks up and meets Tom's eyes. For the first time all night, Tom flinches and looks away. He doesn't want to be involved in this.
He stands abruptly from the table, making some excuse about the bathroom. Instead, he wanders to the bar, settles his tab and sneaks out. He'd been right all along, going out with them was a bad idea.
*
The band meeting that Tom attends isn't anything like he thought it would be. Though he has all the composed music in a messenger bag, Bill and Mike essentially tell him how the next album is going to sound, what his guitar parts will be like.
Tom just nods through the conversation and feels the weight of his bag. They didn't want his contribution, they never did. They just need someone to fill out the sound, the same way the soundboard fills out Bill's voice from time to time.
"This stuff looks good to you?" Mike leans over a piece of sheet music with Tom, their shoulders brushing.
"Yeah, it's fine. I just don't know why you told us to take some time and work out stuff we liked if you were just going to tell us what to play anyway." Tom knows he's crossing a line, going into something he can't get out of.
"Hey, we're just trying to make this sound tight. Make people forget what they saw on Warped and the last tour." Mike's voice is a little too tight for Tom to be comfortable, so he backs off.
"Fine, fine. It's cool. I'll take this home and run through it. Saturday, right?" Tom looks up and meets Mike's eyes. Mike nods only once and Tom packs the music in with his own, in need of air that isn't so full of asshole.
*
Saturday comes and Saturday goes with Tom still in his apartment, more drunk than he's ever been in his life. He hasn't sobered up in more than a week, sleeping and waking drunk. There's a knock on his door and without even thinking to check who it is, he opens it.
Mike, Bill, Siska, and Butcher are all there. Tom just has to snort, thinking that it looks like it's so serious, whatever reason they have to be here. Tom is about to tell them they should've called first, but he remembers that sometime the previous week, his phone died. He hasn't bothered charging it since, not wanting to hear from anyone.
No one looks at ease, which puts Tom on edge. They're here to deliver some sort of bad news. Tom offers everyone a seat and he's grateful the place looks better than the last time Butcher was here. The cases of empties line the hall to his room and the laundry has been done. All this doesn't change Tom's level of sobriety and he finds himself wishing it did.
When the small talk runs out, when the circular talk about drinking runs out, when even Bill looks at a loss for something to say, Butcher speaks up. "Fuck it. Tom, I don't think you should be in the band anymore."
For Tom, the moment freezes and he looks between everyone. No one will meet his eyes except Butcher. Tom almost wants to smile at that. The only one who had the guts to say what they were all thinking and the only one who will look him in the eyes after.
"You're not happy. Not even just not happy, you're miserable. And you're still our friend. All of us. We want you to be happy and I don't know if everyone agrees on this part, but you're developing a problem. I don't think being in this band is the best way to deal with that problem and I think being out of it will make you happier." When Butcher says this, it isn't unkind, which is perhaps why it hits Tom harder than if anyone else had said it.
"Fuck you guys. A problem? I have a problem because I like a drink to unwind?" Tom can't believe the audacity of Bill, telling him that he has a drinking problem. Tom can't even count the number of times he had to hide Bill's drunken ass from his parents. Same goes for Mike. Siska looks just as uncomfortable as Butcher during this, but even so, Tom knows that he's no saint when it comes to drinking.
"Tom, we're not trying to judge you, we're just trying to help you. And I'm sorry, but we agreed that you being out of the band is the best way to do that. For you and for us." Butcher looks down at the ground, as if he finally realizes exactly what he's doing.
"Fine, I'm out of the band, but you guys are out of my apartment." Tom stands, not wanting to hear the rest of this discussion and how his friends just want to help him. If that were really the case, someone would've been there when Mike tore his heart out. They would've listened when he had new ideas to throw at them. They would've even made a conscious effort to not have booze on the bus at all times. Fuck them and their sanctimonious little ways.
As Tom ushers them out of the small apartment, he knows that Butcher wants to stop and say something to him but Tom just holds up his hand. "Just get out. I don't want to hear it." Butcher nods and puts his head down as he leaves.
*
Tom sobers up the next day. He wasn't in the mood to drink after his bandmates (ex-bandmates, the voice inside his head likes to remind him), left. It feels awful, the awareness creeping back into his brain. It hits him that he no longer has a job, or a band, or even four of his closest friends. In the afternoon, he gets the shakes so badly that he can't even light a cigarette.
On his couch, he curls up in a ball and tries to hum to himself. He hums everything from a lullaby he used to know when he was younger to the songs he's been composing for himself. When he charges his phone, there are a dozen messages from his ex-bandmates from the previous week. They get more irate as they come in. They want to know why he isn't answering, why he isn't showing up anywhere.
Tom goes into the voicemail and forces himself to listen to each one on speakerphone. For some reason, it's Siska's that hits him the hardest.
"Hey Tombo, we're uh. We're at my place. It's me, Sisky, we're having a meeting and you really should be here for this. I miss you, buddy."
Siska. He was Bill's best friend, even though the age difference was significant when they were both in high school. Bill collects people like Siska, ones who admire him and who think he can do no wrong. It makes Tom sick, thinking that he could ever be like that. Tom shudders and looks at a crack in the ceiling. He deletes the message and hangs up his phone. He doesn't want to be in this apartment right now. Not with the way the walls are closing in on him.
He does the first thing he can think of to keep himself from throwing up. Tom calls Jon.
Tom has his own suspicions about Jon having heard the news already, but he doesn't call him on them. Just says, "I can't even be in Chicago right now, but I don't know where I'm going to go."
"Don't be an idiot, you're going to come and see me. We both know that." Jon sounds like he can't even fathom any other course of action on Tom's behalf.
"You guys are on a new tour. This is the last thing you need." Tom thinks of being in the way, thinks of seeing Spencer with someone new, someone who understands what he needs.
"What are you even saying? I think this might actually be my finest idea. You can come out here, spend a week taking pictures of me, and it'll give you something to jerk off over when you're home." Jon sounds way too amused with himself for his own good.
"How does everyone else feel about that?" Tom doesn't want to rub anyone the wrong way, especially after the way the last tour with Panic ended.
"I think they're going to be pretty okay with it, you know? Brendon says he misses having someone with him who has an ass almost as big as his." Jon's laughter is dopey, slow.
"You know, you joined the weirdest band ever. Okay. When should I be out there?" Tom wants the details hammered out before he goes to tell his parents what's happened. They're going to be worried, he knows, but he's going to tell them not to listen to anything they hear about it.
"I'll email you the dates and stuff." Jon sounds distracted now and Tom can hear other voices in the room.
"Hey, look. Is um. Is Spencer going to care that I'm there?" Tom doesn't want to ask it, but he needs to know. If Spencer doesn't want him there or is going to make some sort of big deal about why he's there, Tom is out.
"Lemme check." And like that, Tom remembers why he hates Jon. True, Jon is his brother from another mother, but he's also the least complicated guy Tom knows. Give him a dime bag and a skin mag and he can entertain himself for hours. He also doesn't believe in letting Tom wallow in his own bullshit and he was never one for talking around an issue. "He says he doesn't care what you do, also that I shouldn't stick my nose where it doesn't belong. Not really sure why he said that, since you're my friend and this is clearly where my nose belongs."
"Idiot, he's still salty. Forget it, I won't come out there. I'll just harass Nick or something." Tom looks around the room and tries to imagine an eternity here. Maybe he'll die and no one will notice because no one is expecting him to be anywhere.
"No, because if you stay home you're just going to stay in your apartment until it becomes a cesspool and your body becomes a leaker and then I'm going to be out a best friend and Nick will kill me and I don't really want to die from Nick killing me. It's always been my biggest fear. Hey, you won't tell him I told you that, right?" Jon suddenly sounds like he's extremely paranoid.
"No, no, I won't mention it to him." Tom stores the information away for future blackmail, but only in the event of an emergency. Like Jon being a complete dick.
"If you mention it, I'm going to stick my dick in your mouth while you sleep and take pictures." Jon tries to sound threatening, but mostly he sounds high.
"That just makes you look like a creep because it's your dick on film and I'm clearly passed out." Tom looks around his room and tries to determine what he needs to be packing.
"What can I say, the Captain likes exploring new places. And maybe your mouth isn't completely uncharted territory, but it's certainly unfamiliar."
"You know, one day I'm going to record a conversation with you and let Cassie hear it. She needs to know what kind of man she shares a bed with." Tom just shakes his head and cradles his phone between his ear and his shoulder. "And it won't be my fault when she runs screaming in the opposite direction."
"Man, you wish you could hear the conversations we have when I'm home." Jon burps loudly into the receiver. "Anyway, are you going to quit being a pussy about coming out here or do I have to fly out there and smack you myself?"
"Okay, I'll come out. Just give me some dates and I'll let you know my flight information." Tom clicks off the call, knowing Jon will email him everything he needs to know in order to make his arrangements.
He's halfway through picking up the garbage that's been littering his floor since he got home from tour when he feels the email buzz through. The dates don't give him much time to make any plans, but he's fairly certain he can find a good deal on one of those cheapie websites. It's not like he's going to have to pay change fees or anything.
Once the email to Jon has been sent, Tom sits down on his kitchen counter and breathes a little easier. He's getting out of Chicago and that's the most important thing right now. He can deal with seeing Spencer as long as he doesn't have to think about his own band and his "friends."
At least, that's what Tom tells himself while he's packing and discarding shirt after shirt because he thinks Spencer will think he looks like an idiot.
*
Jon's waiting in the airport with a large security guard hovering nearby. Tom wants to laugh because he never thought Jon would be in a band that needed security the way these Panic boys apparently did now.
"What's with the guard?" Tom whispers into Jon's ear when they hug hello.
"He has a name, Tom. It's Zack, and he has protected me and my harem." Jon throws an arm around Tom's shoulder, even though he's taller, and squeezes. "My bevy of beauties must be protected at all times lest they go missing."
"Jesus, are you high already?" Tom has just noticed the faint pot smell clinging to Jon and rolls his eyes.
Jon crooks a finger to Tom, motioning him to come closer. In a whisper that speaks of extreme secrecy, Jon says, "It makes the make-up easier to deal with."
*
It's as easy as Tom thought it would be to avoid Spencer because Spencer spends the vast majority of his time avoiding him. Even though Jon has become Spencer's favourite, he never seems to be in the room with Jon when Tom enters. It's some sort of extra sense he seems to have, exiting a room as Tom enters it.
"Or it could be that when you're drunk you sound like a herd of elephants stampeding." Jon just shrugs as he looks up from his laptop. They're splitting a bottle of wine because sometime after joining the Panic pile, Jon decided he was classy. Tom has enough photographic evidence disputing this that he's not concerned about it.
"Your mom sounds like a stampeding elephant," Tom mutters in return, flipping through pictures on his own laptop.
Jon just nods absently in return as he types. Tom is pretty sure he's chatting with Cassie at the moment and he's also pretty sure that he doesn't want to read whatever's going on in that chat window.
"No, but seriously, you're not hard to avoid. Especially if someone wants to avoid you." Nine months earlier and that sentence would've sounded like Jon was talking about Mike. Nine months earlier and that's what Tom would've heard. Present tense and with half a bottle of Pinot Noir running through his veins and all Tom can think about is Spencer and the way he'd looked at the end of the last tour.
"Fuck it, I don't want to fight with him anymore, you know? He was-"
"Please don't talk about your rebound sex with my bandmate? Hearing you and Mike was bad enough. I don't know why you think hotel walls are thicker in England than they are in the states, but they're not. Future reference." Jon cuts Tom off and reaches for his glass of wine, draining the last of it in one gulp.
"Future reference? I don't want to hear you and Cass having sex on my couch at the next house party. Just saying." Tom tries to deflect it, like he doesn't want to talk about Spencer anymore. He knows he could count on Brendon if he really wanted to talk about Spencer.
For reasons unknown to Tom, Brendon loves talking about Spencer's love life and which male celebrity Spencer would be best with. His personal opinion is that Kevin Spacey and Spencer would make the best couple. Tom tries to argue that two bottoms wouldn't work, but Brendon doesn't seem magnificently concerned with the mechanics of gay sex as he's saving himself for Prince Eric. He's also not magnificently concerned that his life is not Who Framed Roger Rabbit and he can't actually interact with cartoon characters.
*
"So, no, think about it, Spencer showing up at a red carpet with Kevin Spacey? His hips tilting toward Kevin's? It'd look so perfect." Brendon lets out an audible sigh and Tom has to fight to keep from rolling his eyes.
"No, I don't want him with Kevin Spacey! I want him to show up at a red carpet with me, tilting his hips at me!" Tom thinks he's made this point before but after the fourth or fifth Corona, it's kind of hard to be sure.
"But you don't look anything like Kevin Spacey! How would that even work?" Brendon doesn't think this is as good a plan as Tom thinks it is and Tom kind of wants to shake Brendon until he agrees that it is a good plan and that Spencer's tilty, tilty hips should be tilted at him. He looks at Brendon to see him resting his eyes and leaning back against the pillows in the hotel bed
Tom shakes his head and reaches for his beer, draining it in a few long pulls. Spencer, he needs to find Spencer and apologize. That would be a start. Rather than use his phone, the number to which Spencer has and recognizes, Tom takes Brendon's phone from his hand and scrolls through the contacts. Most are entered as "that guy from Kinkos with the bangin' ass." Spencer is listed under his own name, thank goodness. Tom doesn't think he's sober enough to remember Spencer's number from memory.
That should've been his first clue. That should've been what told him this was a bad idea. Instead, he looks over at Brendon and decides that the bathroom will offer more privacy. Jon isn't in the room yet. He's down in the hotel bar with everyone else, probably wishing Cassie was nearby so he could do something disgusting with her.
Jon is really disgusting, Tom decides as he locks the door to the bathroom, holding the ringing phone to his ear. When Spencer answers, he sounds tired. He sounds like he could use another two hours of sleep before he even considers waking up for a phone call from Brendon. He sounds like he hasn't even gotten to bed yet.
"Brendon, I don't care if you're too drunk to remember calling your parents is a bad idea. It is and you know it is, so go the fuck to bed."
Tom snorts because Spencer kind of sounded like a girl at the end of that sentence. "You're so pissed off right now, aren't you?"
"Tom?" Spencer's voice takes on a strange quality that Tom doesn't know how to interpret. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, nodding until he remembers that Spencer can't hear a nod. He looks at himself in the mirror and grimaces. Was there always that man in the mirror? Did he always look like that?
"Tom? If you're just calling to tell me I'm pissed off, then I'm really not interested in this conversation." That tone is one Tom recognizes. Spencer's cool, frosty tone is one that Tom is now intimately familiar with. Whenever Tom hasn't been able to avoid them, when Jon has insisted that Tom and Spencer are in the same room because he's a meddling bastard, that's the tone Spencer uses with everyone until he's permitted to leave.
"Jon is a meddling bastard," Tom announces this to Spencer like it's news, like Spencer hasn't spent the past few months getting to know that on the road.
"Okay, if you're calling to tell me that, I'm hanging up." Spencer's voice sounds like it's getting further away from the mouthpiece of his phone.
"Wait!" Tom just got up the guts to call Spencer. It can't be over this quickly.
"What, Tom?" The voice on the other end of the signal sounds is too open to interpretation. Tom can't figure out what this one means. He looks over at the mirror again and decides that it either needs to be smashed, or he does.
After a moment, Tom answers. "Come outside for a cigarette with me?" It's where everything started, it might as well be what helps everything come together, right?
"Tom, you're drunk. There's absolutely no way that I'm coming downstairs to go out for a cigarette with you so just go to bed." Spencer's voice is unreadable, something Tom hates. Spencer and Ryan have that uncanny ability to go monotone whenever they have something important that needs to be kept close to their chest.
"Spence, I'm drunk and I need to talk to you."
"Pardon me for not giving a flying fuck about what you need while you're drunk, you're always drunk when you come to me," Spencer says dryly. "I need to sleep and you need to do the same." Tom doesn't have a chance to say anything else before Spencer clicks off the call.
Tom looks at Brendon's phone, glaring when he realizes Spencer isn't on the other end any longer. He shakes his head and sets the phone down on the bathroom counter. His pack of cigarettes is in the other room, so he can't actually just smoke in here, but he does decide to sit in there and think.
He's drunk. Spencer thinks he's always drunk. Spencer thinks he's always a douchebag. Is he drunk because he's a douchebag or is he a douchebag because he's drunk? Is Spencer even right? Tom looks in the mirror again and nods; Spencer is right.
Once Tom has reached that conclusion, he realizes that he needs to come up with some sort of plan. But a plan much better than his previous plans, because every plan he's had when it comes to Spencer has been complete shit. Spencer deserves more than that, especially after putting up with what Tom put him through.
That's the thought that has Tom leaning over the toilet to vomit up the beer churning in his stomach.
*
In the morning, with the light streaming into the window, Tom wants to die. He doesn't think he's ever been so hungover from so few beers in his life. Of course, he'd been drinking before he came to Brendon's room and the beer probably hadn't helped, but still. Tom Conrad wants to die. He has a vague memory of calling Spencer but has no idea what the conversation could have been about.
It takes half an hour of mentally prepping himself before Tom is ready to get off the floor of the bathroom and face the world. Unfortunately, the face in the mirror isn't ready to greet the world. Tom is a pale green color, lips a stark red in contrast. Just the thought of leaving this tiny room has him ready to bend over the toilet again. A pounding on the door stops him. "Tom, if you're dead, I'm moving you because I need to use the bathroom. You can puke in the sink."
Tom groans. Brendon's room. Of course that's where he'd pick to pass out. They were talking the previous evening about Kevin Spacey. How had he gone from Kevin Spacey to calling Spencer? Oh, God. Did he tell Spencer not to date Kevin Spacey?
Tom hits the redial button on Brendon's phone and steps out of the bathroom, gesturing for Brendon to go on in. There's a balcony attached to the room, so Tom goes out onto it. Patting his pockets produces a pack of half-crushed cigarettes. He rolls one back into shape and places it between his lips, waiting for Spencer to answer.
It goes straight to voicemail and the cigarette drops from Tom's lips to the pavement below. He sputters out "Spencer" before disconnecting the call. Not trusting himself not to drop the phone, Tom pockets it.
He's only got another day here, another day where he has to face Spencer and not shake him and ask him what he has to do to fix this. He has some pride. Except for the times where he doesn't actually have any. Like today's bus ride, which he spends practically staring at Spencer while Spencer watches episodes of C.S.I. on the television with unwavering focus. He doesn't even answer his phone, probably because he might take his attention away from the episode and accidentally make eye contact with Tom.
"Tom, you're staring," Jon tries to mutter casually. Only it comes out in the same voice Jon uses for everything.
Brendon and Ryan start snickering to each other and look at Spencer, watching him turn red. "Okay, come on." Jon hauls Tom to the back lounge and closes the door. "Okay, you have to stop staring. Ryan is probably messaging me right now to ask if you're actually retarded. I keep having to tell him that you're not."
"I'm not retarded." This distracts Tom long enough for him to look up at Jon, just in time to get slapped in the face.
"Then stop mooning like a teenage girl about him! I swear to God, I feel like I'm going to look over at you writing Mrs. Tom Smith in the front cover of your purple unicorn notebook. Pull yourself together before I have to slap you with my dick."
"It's not that bad." Tom really doesn't think he's been staring like that. Maybe he let his eyes linger, but it wasn't like he was about to sigh and burst into songs about the two of them being made for each other.
"Tom, I love you, you're my best friend in the entire world. Right now, you're being a total idiot. If you want him, you tell him and you do whatever it takes to get him. If that means that you have to grovel, you grovel."
"Wait a minute, if I'm your best friend in the entire world, why aren't you yelling at him to treat me better?" Tom catches the discrepancy in Jon's words.
"Okay, hold on, I'm going to message Ryan and back and tell him I was wrong." Jon rolls his eyes and opens the door to the back lounge. "He's not the one who screwed this up, Tom. You and I both know that."
*
That night in the hotel room after the show, Jon's laughter is loose and easy, flowing at the same rate the wine is. "I'm gonna miss you, you know. It's not the same. I have my tiny, tiny boys, but I don't have the men."
"Do you miss it, though?" Tom tries to think of any time he hasn't seen Jon completely happy on this tour.
"I'd be lying if I said I really missed it. I have my own techs now. Maybe I would've finished school, maybe not, but this chance. Tom, that's one thing you have to learn to do. You have to take chances. That's the Tom I became friends with." Jon is just drunk enough to be soft around the edges he'd usually cover up with comments about his dick.
"I take chances," Tom starts to protest.
"Not anymore, man. Not really. I don't know what Mike did but it fucked you up. If you ever need to tell someone, you know I'm here for you and I'll listen but it really... Anyway, it fucked you up royally and turned you into this," Jon gestures up and down with his free hand before taking a sip of wine. "You don't take risks anymore, Tom. And that really sucks. Because when you bet big, yeah, you can lose big but you also at least have a chance to win big."
"If you tell me to put it all on black, you won't wake up with the Captain still attached to you," Tom's too drunk to actually have a serious conversation where he gets told what to do with his life and his emotions.
"If you cut off the Captain, Cass'll have words for you and I promise they won't be of the 'Oh, Tom, that shirt looks good on you' variety," Jon drains his wine glass and stretches before slipping off his jeans. Jon moves to turn down the covers on the large bed they were sharing for the evening. "Okay, come on, you have a flight to catch. I'll be the big spoon and I won't even try to stick it in and swish it around."
"I'm never coming to visit you on a tour again." He looks at Jon, shaking his head before climbing into the bed with him.
"That's a lie, Tom, and we both know it," Jon mutters before his breathing evens out and sleep overtakes the room.
*
The flight home is mercifully short and Tom sleeps through most of it. He remembers the seatbelt sign turning off, because that's his everything's okay sign, and then he remembers feeling the plane touch down at O'Hare. There's no one to get him and Tom doesn't feel like blowing money on a cab, so he hauls his bags through the transit system of his beloved city, and walks the last few blocks to his front door.
For the first time in months, Tom doesn't want to be drunk. He thinks about the empty bottles in his apartment, the dregs of which are probably fermenting to create a super-alcohol. He doesn't want that in his system.
Unfortunately, he doesn't know any other way to be at the moment. Tomorrow, he'll figure that out tomorrow, because right now, all he wants is to forget the way Spencer said goodbye to him.
"Well, it's a shame to see you go, Tom." Insincere bastard couldn't even sound like he meant it. Ryan was definitely on Tom's shit list. He's had more than enough of Ryan's opinions swaying Spencer, pretending he was a perfect saint himself.
"Yeah, but you'll get over it," Tom shrugged. He wanted to say goodbye to Jon in peace. Even Brendon, not normally a thorn in Tom's side, was grating and far too chipper.
When Jon hugged Tom, he muttered, "just hug him. This is how he shows he's actually going to miss you, fuckwad."
Tom took Jon's advice and was surprised at the tight grip Brendon had on him and the way he took a moment longer than he should have to let go. "Don't be a stranger, you're welcome on my doorstep any time, Tom."
Then Tom turned to Spencer, who was busy tapping out messages on his cell phone to some unknown recipient. "Guys, we should get going. We're running off schedule." When he noticed Tom's shoulders slumped, he pocketed his phone. "Travel safe," he finally said before turning and heading back over to the door of the airport.
Jon squeezed Tom's shoulder and tried to manage a smile. "Figure it out, dude. That's all I got for you. I'll see you when I get home."
Tom doesn't want to think about Spencer's goodbye, so he focuses on what Jon had said. Jon had told him twice to figure it out. Tom knows this is his fault. That has never been in question. He knows that his reactions in the days after sleeping with Spencer were not the best reactions to have.
He looks at himself in the mirror and rubs at his jaw. The conversation from the bathroom of the hotel comes back to him. Drinking. Tom looks at his cases of bottles and shakes his head. Those have to go.
*
A few days later, Jon calls Tom. "Holy shit, you're never going to guess where we're going after the New Year. Just guess. You won't, but you're going to have to anyway or I won't tell you."
"You're going to Barbados," Tom throws out the first location that pops into his head.
"I wish!" Tom recognizes the tone Jon uses, the one that says Jon is about to forget the point of his initial story and tell Tom about the many and varied things his dick could do in Barbados. Tom decides immediately to nip that in the bud.
"So where are you off to, then?"
"We're going to a cabin in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere to write the next album." Jon says it like it's the most incredible thing in the world, like he's actually really excited. Tom tries to muster up the same level of enthusiasm.
"Are you sure they aren't taking you out there to kill you and dispose of the body?"
"No, but what a way to go. If I don't get cell phone reception, I'll try to figure out how to get a telegraph to you that says I'm in danger." Tom smiles at Jon's words. "But the point is, I want you to come visit for a week or so. Get your head out of Chicago."
Jon apparently knows without needing to be told that Tom is still hiding out in his apartment as if all of Chicago, not just his ex-bandmates, consider him persona non grata. "I don't know, I've got a lot going on here."
It isn't a lie, not really. Tom has things that are going on. They just don't involve what used to go on for him.
"You've got time to think about it, okay? I just." Jon cuts himself off, not letting himself say he's worried about Tom. The thought weighs more than the action to Tom. That's when he decides Jon deserves to know what's really going on.
"It's just, I've got these meetings. And they're. I don't know, they seem like they're helping." Tom knows this part, he knows that he needs to admit to Jon he has a problem, but it almost doesn't seem like the conversation for it, miles and wires keeping them apart.
"So, you admitted you had a problem?" Jon asks the question as casually as he would ask what Tom had for breakfast that morning.
This draws another smile across Tom's face. He nods, even though Jon can't see it, before continuing. "Yeah, I admitted I have a problem." He's careful to use present tense, because if there's one thing he knows, it's that it's on-going and that a few meetings don't just fix it, no matter how much he'd like it to be that simple.
"Generally this results in a huge spiritual awakening, Tombo, am I going to come home to a bible salesman for a best friend?" And just like that, Tom knows Jon is okay with it. He won't joke about something he doesn't feel comfortable about.
"Yeah, you are. I'm going to drag your heathen ass to church and make you and the Captain repent of all your sins."
"Hey, man is responsible for his own sins and not for the fall of Siska. I'm not responsible for the Captain's indulgences, as many and varied as they are. Should've paid better attention when you were studying to be an altar boy."
"Fuck you! I was never an altar boy," Tom's voice gets shrill when he thinks about having to wear those robes and have to participate in mass. His knees ache just thinking about the hard wooden floors of his church.
"Mmmm, right. Well, look, I'm being called away, but keep me up to date on this stuff, okay? I don't like feeling this out of the loop," Jon goes for indignant but it doesn't come out quite right.
"You're the one who picked the harem over the stables, Jonny, just remember that." Tom disconnects the call before having to hear another comment about Jon's perception of religion. When he looks in the mirror, he notices that the smile is still there, even when his eyes travel down to the St. Christopher medal, hanging around his neck as heavy as a millstone.
*
When Tom decides to go to the cabin, it's because Jon thinks he might kill his bandmates otherwise. "I'm too pretty for prison, Tom. Even you said you'd sell me for cigarettes!"
"I would, your ass would fetch a pretty penny," Tom clamps the phone between his ear and his shoulders as he tries to figure out how many pairs of underwear is too many. He hasn't packed for tour in forever and it's enough to have made him forget that the idea is to pack light. He knows he can just steal clothes from Jon if it comes down to it, but there's something comforting in packing clothes and removing them. It gives him a chance to forget about his nerves over seeing Spencer for the first time since starting his meetings.
"So, I'm not supposed to say anything because I'm sworn to secrecy in the order of Panic, but it's come to my attention that a certain boy has been asking about when you'll be here."
Tom drops his phone at the statement. Dropping a pair of socks and tripping as he scrambles for the phone, Tom manages to sputter, "What?"
"Someone has been asking when you were getting here," Jon laughs and it sounds genuine.
"No shit. Swear you're not yanking my chain." Tom sits on the floor and tries to think about how he can possibly convince Spencer that he isn't a person with diminished mental capacities. He needs to make that better impression.
"Tom, of all the things to yank on you, your chain would be the last thing I'd pick. Brendon's been asking when your fine ass is coming." Jon apparently has no concept of what it means to cup the phone so the person on the other hand doesn't have to listen to him shout, "I'll be right there, Brendon! No, I'm coming, I'm just on the phone!"
"The harem calls?"
"Bitchy little harem girl wants to play Guitar Hero because he hasn't kicked my ass enough at it this week," Jon huffs and Tom guess it's time to let him go. "Call me when you get to the airport and I'll come get you. By myself, even."
"Harems don't need protection in the woods?"
"If they want them, they're welcome to them. Did you know Ryan started doing calisthenics at ass o'clock this morning? And then tried to make us join in with him! I don't even know, man. It's too weird here some days. Anyway, I'll talk to you later." Like that, Jon hangs up.
The train ride to the airport isn't so bad, not really. It's not as familiar as it once was, but it's by no means terrible. People leave him alone and he boards his flight without thinking about whether or not they'll serve alcohol. His bank account is thanking him for the meetings, for the way it doesn't get drained to the bottom any longer.
The flight seems shorter than it is as Tom flips through photos on his laptop, carefully edits some of them. It's only a few minutes, or so it seems, before the captain announces their decent and the local temperature.
As promised, Jon is waiting at the airport for him with a sign that says "TOM!!!" and has a few stickers. "Brendon had shit leftover from when he went to go see his nephews. Said it would make you feel more welcome than just me," Jon explains when they've parted.
"Well, it worked. Just you? Pfft, give me a sign with Spongebob on it." Tom hefts his bags and follows Jon to the rental car.
"We also have to do a grocery run. We're completely out of Cheetos and Funyons. I don't even know who eats the Funyons." Jon is babbling a little nervously, so Tom knows something's up.
"What happened? Did someone use someone else's last pair of clean socks?" Tom doesn't particularly want to walk into the middle of one of those fights. They're almost always about something bigger. Even if they aren't about anything bigger, they still get fucking vicious when you're cramped together in a small space.
"It's just, I know you're doing really awesome with the meetings and stuff and there's. Well, there's drinking at the cabin." Jon keeps his hands at ten and two as he navigates the roads leading out of the airport.
Tom laughs for a moment before he realizes that Jon is truly ill at ease. "Jon, I don't give two shits if you guys drink. It's really okay with me. It's not like I'll always be in situations where there isn't booze. This is real life."
"Yeah, I know, I just don't want you to feel uncomfortable or that there's pressure to drink or anything. And if you want me to stay sober with you, I will."
"Jesus, no. No way, this is your time to do whatever you need to do to write this next album. It's not like any of you guys are waking up in puddles of your own puke or blacking out and not remembering long sections of a day." Tom is inadvertently admitting to Jon what happened to him.
"No, it's not like that. It's usually just a couple of beers while we watch a movie. I don't know. We go green more than anything else."
"And that's something I can get on board with." Tom punches Jon's shoulder as lightly as he can. "Hope you remembered how to get back, because I'm not hitchhiking to the gas station when you run out and insist you can't be the hitchhiker because sexual predators would pick you up and I'd never hear from you again."
"A valid concern when you look as good as I do. And now, we pick up food," Jon pulls into a convenience store parking lot and pulls his hood up.
*
The days at the cabin don't pass as quickly as the days on tour. There's no place to go when things get tense but up on the roof. That's where Tom ends up running Spencer most often. At first, Spencer just smokes his joint in silence while Tom puffs away on his own cigarette. The fourth time it happens, Spencer offers his joint to Tom and looks shocked when he turns it down.
"Sorry, I'm trying to…"
"Yeah, Jon explained it. Sort of." Spencer's voice sounds strained as he holds the smoke in. "I'm guessing that's why you don't drink any of the beer."
"Well, that and the beer is Corona. If I'm going to get drunk, you better believe it'll be off something slightly better than that." Tom makes a face at the thought of the beer, thinking instead of the beer from Sam's, the place down the street from his apartment.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry our beer isn't up to your refined palate." Spencer's smiling when he says it, so he knows it isn't meant to be mean.
"It's okay, you can't be perfect." It slips out without Tom meaning it to. The silence it causes is louder than anything Tom has ever heard. "I mean."
"Don't worry about it," Spencer cuts Tom off.
"I just meant, you guys, not you in particular," Tom stammers, rubbing at the back of his neck. He looks around at the surrounding woods.
"Are we still not talking about that?"
Tom freezes with the cigarette halfway to his lips. In all the months that had passed since their last real conversation, Tom had never guessed that Spencer had anything to say he hadn't already said. "I didn't realize there was anything left you wanted to say to me."
"You never really asked." Spencer ashes carefully into the lid of a jam jar.
"Oh. Well, is there anything left you wanted to say to me?" Tom looks at Spencer from the corner of his eye.
"Yes. No. Yes." Spencer looks like he's considering things, judging by the emotions that pass over his face. "What you did really sucked, you know that. You do know that, right?" The tone isn't chastising, it's curious.
"I know that." Tom does know. It's in his journal. There are things he needs to make amends for. The sad part is, Spencer is fairly low on that list.
"I just don't really understand why you were such a d-bag. You never tried to explain anything to me. I know that part of it was Mike. I don't know what he did that fucked you up so bad, and I don't expect you to tell me. I guess I just want to know if that was what was keeping you back." Spencer doesn't make eye contact the entire time he's speaking.
"Yes. No. Yes." Tom tries to remember everything he's spent the last few months sorting through. "I. I have problems. I've acknowledged them, but they're still problems."
"I really wish you hadn't dragged me into the middle of them," Spencer mutters.
"I wasn't trying to. Well, I was at first. But then I realized some shit and I realized I didn't want to drag you into it. And I," Tom takes a deep breath. He can't believe he's admitting this. "I was trying to protect myself."
"Protect yourself?"
"If you don't let anyone in, they can't hurt you."
"It's a lonely life though." Spencer shifts over on the roof, reaching for Tom's cigarettes, lighting one for himself. "I've seen other people do that, Tom."
"I know it's lonely. I was just trying to keep myself safe, the same way you were trying to." Tom's mouth quirks up at the thought of that conversation.
"The difference there is that I wasn't hurting someone else to keep you safe. There wasn't really a reason for self-defense, to hurt me."
"I know that now. Believe me, I know that." The breeze has turned cold outside and Tom wishes for the other half of Jon's bed, where the covers can be pulled up and the monsters can't get him. It worked when he was little, it should work now.
"Maybe it's time to take that knowledge and turn it into action." Again, the words aren't condescending.
It's the closest thing that he's had to an invitation from Spencer for a year, at least, and Tom doesn't intend to waste it. "Come visit me in Chicago."
"Pardon me?"
"I'm taking my knowledge, making it action. Come visit me in Chicago. You can see everything you haven't seen yet." Tom knows Spencer can take that however he wants to and he's praying as hard as he ever has in his life for Spencer to say yes. The only things he's ever prayed for as hard as this was getting out of his parents' house, was for his bands to make it. Those prayers weren't half as important as this one.
"No, Tom." Spencer stands, not before pressing his cigarette into the jam jar lid. He doesn't waste a moment before climbing back into the window and leaving it open. Tom knows that he won't be in the room when he climbs back in, so he finishes the rest of his cigarette, trying to keep from putting it out on his palm to feel something.
*
The rest of the days at the cabin are quite without incident. Ryan breaks Brendon's lucky bong; Jon beats Tom at Guitar Hero; Spencer plays the acoustic guitar one night and Tom recognizes the chords of Kumbaya.
The final night at the cabin, Jon decides to barbecue in honor of Tom's visit. There are beers passed around, and as usual Tom waves his off. It's more interesting to watch the dynamic of the group the more alcohol is introduced.
"You're not impressing anyone, you know." Ryan has had enough pot to come over and seat himself next to Tom, stealing one of his potato wedges.
"I'm not doing this to impress anyone. If that's what you think I'm doing this for, you're sorely mistaken." Tom is a little crabby, he can admit that. He didn't get enough sleep the night before and now he's wishing he could just be in bed, given his early flight out.
"Oh, I didn't mean the sobriety. I meant this brooding artist shit you're pulling right now. You're. Well. To be honest, you're not fooling me. You're sure as hell not fooling Spencer." Ryan leans in, stealing another potato wedge. "He'll get over you, everyone does."
"Ryan, I know you're trying to look out for your best friend right now. I respect that, I really do, I asked around about you guys when you wanted Jon for your own. Ultimately though, the decision was his. I would do the same thing if Jon decided to dump Cassie and date someone else. But ultimately, you need to remember that this decision isn't yours." Tom is trying as hard as he can not to drive a fist right through Ryan Ross' smirk.
"If he does make the wrong decision and you do hurt him again, I'll kill you and they'll never find the body, Tom. Just remember that." Ryan claps Tom on the shoulder and stands up, leaving Tom to ponder whether he'd really just heard Ryan threaten him with bodily harm.
Toward the end of the evening, it dwindles down to Jon and Tom passing a joint back and forth. "I'm thinking you got shit done while you were out here, right?"
"Is that what you were hoping would happen?"
"Fuck no, I just missed your ugly face." Jon shrugs and exhales a slow series of smoke rings. "Are we getting deep? If so, I'm going to need another joint."
"No, we're not going to get deep. I got some shit figured out, so I guess we'll see. It's not like I'm not going to text you, whatever I do decide to do." Tom reaches for his cigarettes, anxious to get the taste of pot out of his mouth.
"You better. I think you know what'll happen if you don't text me as soon as you get past security. I'm needy, Tom, I don't think you know." Jon throws an arm around Tom's shoulder and squeezes.
Tom laughs and leans into Jon briefly. "You're like a phone that vibrates for no reason."
"I'm an NRB, Tombo, no reason for me to be there, but I demand attention. Don't you forget it. But seriously, you figured your shit out with Spencer, right? He didn't look like he wanted to murder your ass." Jon steals Tom's cigarette, placing it between his own lips.
"I guess you could say we figured it out," Tom thinks that's the right way to phrase their conversation.
"Hey, don't worry so much, okay? He'll come around. He always does when it's something worth fighting for."
*
Tom returns to his apartment, phone pressed to his ear. "No, Sean, trust me, that's not the chord progression you want. No, we'll talk about it when you're done work. You have coffee to be serving."
Without waiting for a response from his new bandmate, Tom hangs up his sidekick and tries to place what's off about his apartment. It seems warmer than it did when he left. It isn't that unusual during the spring. He has great windows but the place cooks on sunny days.
Ordinarily he's good about closing the curtains, but in the two weeks he's had Jon back in Chicago with him, little things like that have been slipping. He's been attending his meetings, going to work, writing songs. He's been keeping busy so he doesn't have to think about exactly what is missing in his life.
Spencer hadn't returned with Jon, nor had he called Tom since he'd been back. At this point, there was nothing Tom wanted more than to be able to write Spencer off as a lost cause, but he still couldn't let go of the memory of waking up next to him in the weak light of morning in a hotel room.
Jon has done his best to keep Tom's mind off it, offering endless videogame championships. It isn't the same as falling asleep next to a warm body, but it's close enough. Companionship during the day is enough.
Tom sets his bag on the kitchen floor and sets the kettle up to boil. Hot tea will calm him down and it'll help him sleep tonight when his thoughts start to drift.
It occurs to him that there's a slight rustling coming from his bedroom and he prays he didn't just walk into a home invasion in progress. He doesn't even know what they would get. Then it occurs to him that his cameras are in there. Grabbing a baseball bat from the front entry, Tom begins to creep toward his bedroom.
When he kicks open the unlatched door, bat raised high above his head, he nearly screams at what he sees.
Spencer.
Spencer stretched across his bed. His eyes are closed but the noise of the bat clattering to the floor opens them at once. He sits up, his hair flying in different directions. "Huh?"
"Spencer?" Tom isn't sure this isn't a dream. If he's relapsed and is hallucinating from drinking too much, he'll take this hallucination.
"Hi, Tom," Spencer sits up and looks down at the duvet cover on Tom's bed.
"You. You're here."
"Jon let me in, I hope that's okay. When you left, I started thinking. And I realized that was really putting yourself on the line. Since I made you take action, the least I could do was at least try to meet you half-way." Spencer smiles and Tom realizes he'll stop breathing if he doesn't start kissing him right now.
It takes Tom a few attempts at separating from him before he finally manages to tip his forehead against Spencer's and murmur, "best thing he's ever brought into this apartment, and you can tell him that includes himself."