Into the Woods Prologue

[manipulant]

Once upon a time

They're in a moderately large city somewhere on the East Coast, but fucked if Brendon can remember which one it is, outside of "one of the ones that's big enough for an Apple store but not big enough for an IKEA." He's deep enough into the tour to have given up on remembering insignificant details, like what day of the week it is and where he is and, occasionally, whether or not he's wearing pants.

Brendon shivers and curls his fingers tighter around the styrofoam coffee cup in his hand, and waits for Spencer to catch up to where he's waiting at the crosswalk. "Thanks for waiting, dickbag," Spencer grumbles as he shuffles up with his own cup, hunching down into the collar of his coat a little against the cold.

"Fuck you," Brendon replies, amiably enough. "I shouldn't have to stand around like a tool in a coffee shop just because you have to try every single thing at their condiment bar."

"They had creme brulee creamer stuff," Spencer says primly, taking a sip from his cup.

"Your face has creme brulee," Brendon mutters automatically. He frowns at Spencer's raised eyebrow, and quickly follows up with, "in that I want to take a blowtorch to it."

Spencer tilts his head, and grabs Brendon's elbow to tug him across the street as the light changes. "Yeah," he says, when they're safe on the other side, "I'm gonna give you a 5.3 for the clumsy dismount. Really not your best performance."

"But I stuck the landing," Brendon points out. "And c'mon, creativity. Blowtorch to the face? Come on."

"I did take that into consideration."

Brendon glances over to scowl at Spencer, who's looking directly at a woman trying to hail a taxi while balancing a tray of coffee cups, three shopping bags, a purse, and a screaming two-year-old. "Fucking Russian judge," he grumbles underneath his breath, not even bothering to protest when Spencer heads that way.

He follows behind dutifully, and automatically takes Spencer's coffee cup when Spencer passes it back to him a few seconds later. Brendon sighs, resigned, and makes faces at the kid to distract him while Spencer takes the woman's cups and bags and flags down a cab.

The kid's name is Jacob, and his mother is pink with delight by the time everything's in the cab with her. Brendon's feeling a little bit better about the world (for a two-year-old, Jacob's pretty cool - he stopped and clapped his hands and crowed when Brendon held his baby fist and pretended to punch himself with it), and then the mom - when she's done thanking Spence for, like, the fifteenth time - looks over at Brendon from inside of the taxi, and winks at him.

"Hang onto this one," she advises Brendon, grinning at him as Brendon starts to blush. And then she gives him an A-OK sign as the taxi pulls off.

Brendon really doesn't know what to do with that except keep blushing like an idiot. "Take your fucking coffee, Lancelot," Brendon grumbles, wrongfooted by the lady's reaction and how hot his face has gone. He rolls his eyes, but can't help snorting a little as Spence makes grabby hands and takes his coffee back.

"I missed you," Spencer tells the cup tenderly, taking a long, slurping sip from the top as they start back down the street again. "I don't ever want us to be apart again."

"Lies," Brendon says, grabbing for Spencer's elbow to haul him down a crosswalk, just in time before the traffic starts going. "I've seen the way you treat girls like her. Use 'em up til they're empty, and then just throw them away."

"What we have is special," Spencer says loftily, holding the cup to his chest protectively. "I'm sorry you can't see that."

Brendon sighs, and steers Spencer around a group of tourists. "Yeah, okay. What I can see is that we have an hour and a half, max, to find a place for you to buy your very special shoes and get back to the venue before Zack straight-up murders us. So stop molesting your coffee and focus on walking, Smith. And finding you some shoes."

Spencer sighs wearily. "Fine," he drawls, but he does take another prolonged slurp of his coffee, smirking at Brendon behind the cup.

That's how they spend the next four blocks: Brendon guiltily relishing the novelty of being the responsible one, and Spencer window-shopping and judging the appearance of everyone who passes them under his breath, so only Brendon can hear. That is, until Brendon freezes in the middle of the sidewalk. His mouth falls open.

"Dude," he breathes, almost reverent. He almost runs into a couple of people as he walks up closer to the store window they're in front of, tugging his arm out of Spencer's light hold. "Dude, Spence, look."

Spencer rolls his eyes, but comes to stand beside him and look in on the intricate display - there's a huge collection of children's book figurines, set up inside an ancient-looking miniature carnival. "Hey, cool."

The figures are real glass and wood, and none of them are Disney princesses; they're creepy, Brendon is delighted to find. All the characters look either half-dead or half-crazy; the Bremen town musicians all have goofy expressions, and there's a huge wolf skulking at the outskirts of the carnival, his eyes glowing red. "Dude," Brendon says again. "We're totally going in." Beside him, Spencer doesn't even attempt to argue about schedules and sound checks. He just nods, still staring at the display.

"I have to finish my coffee," he says distantly, to Brendon's despair. In the next second, however, Spence takes the top off of his coffee cup and starts gulping it, so Brendon only has to wait about half a minute before Spencer finishes and finds a trash can and they can finally, finally go inside.

A bell above the door jangles cheerfully, but otherwise the shop is eerily still. There are shelves looming above them almost to the ceiling, all the walls covered with them. A few old leatherbound books are open and proudly displayed behind glass, and there's absolutely nobody around. "Hello?" Brendon calls, shrugging off his coat, getting distracted by a basket full of old songbooks.

"Bren," Spencer calls from an aisle down. Brendon grabs for an old Rodgers & Hammerstein playbook and ventures further into the store, finding Spence and coming to look at the book in his hands. "Look at the illustrations," Spence says, thumbing through the yellowed pages, stopping at the colorplates.

"Damn," Brendon murmurs, nudging Spencer's arm up so he can see the spine of the book. "Little Women?" he asks.

The laugh in his voice is obvious, he guesses, because Spencer shoots him a vaguely annoyed look. "It's Crystal's favorite. I was thinking, y'know, birthday present or Christmas or something."

Brendon can't help it; he snickers. "You know your sister's favorite book?" he asks incredulously.

"Blow me," Spencer says loftily, thumbing through the pages.

"No, hey, that's sweet. Do you know when she's on her period, too? Are your cycles synced?"

Spencer glances up at him, raises an eyebrow. "She got the movie for Christmas one year, and wore through the tape. And she made us act out her favorite scenes. Also, fuck you, my relationship with my sisters is perfectly healthy."

"Yeah, no, totally. Perfectly healthy," Brendon nods, picking up the closest book and riffling the pages for a few seconds, long enough that Spencer closes his own book and looks up warily. "So which sister were you? Were you Kirsten Dunst or were you the one who died?"

Spencer sighs, huffs a little laugh and rubs a hand over his eyes. "I was the oldest one. With the missing glove."

"Dude, I don't even remember that one."

"Yeah."

Brendon thinks about this for an aisle and a half. "You would have been a good Kirsten Dunst."

"Thanks, man." Spencer says solemnly, tucking the book under his arm. "I really appreciate that."

They split up for the next ten minutes, wandering down parallel aisles at similar paces. Brendon gravitates towards fiction and music, as ever, and for once doesn't grumble over Spencer's new non-fiction and DIY enthusiasm. He doesn't want another spiel about how Spence doesn't want to read about things that never happened to people who don't even exist. Then he stumbles across almost an entire fucking row of old, dusty sheet music, and that's at least the next twenty minutes of his life, instantly lost. Brendon sighs, almost regretful at his sudden amazing luck, and he gingerly picks up the first stack of paper and begins to go over the faded titles and time signatures.

Half an hour later, Spencer finds him sitting on the floor in the same aisle, sifting through the last of the sheet music, dividing into piles around him ("have to buy this right now", "already have it" and "maybe - ask Spencer"). "Oh my god," Spencer huffs, breaking into quiet laughter. "It's like walking into A Beautiful Mind, seriously."

"Jennifer Connelly's hot," Brendon supplies absentmindedly, biting his thumbnail as he squints at the key signature for another song. "Do I already have Rhapsody in Blue?"

Spencer pauses, and shifts the stack of books he's holding in his hands, holding it more securely against his chest as he thinks. "I don't...maybe? I think you only bought the clarinet part because you wanted to try to work it into the Sinatra song."

"Oh." Brendon sets the music he's looking at down in the first pile. "That's the piano version."

"Cool," Spencer says after a few seconds. "Found a couple of things for Mom and the girls."

"Matching copies of Sisters of the Traveling Pants?" Brendon asks cheerfully, actually setting down the fourth copy of "The Entertainer" he's run across, into the second pile. "You can all read it out to each other over the phone and cry."

"Fuck you," Spencer retorts just as cheerfully. He reaches into the stack against his chest and finally pulls out a coffee table book of Dorothea Lange photos. "For Jackie."

"Awesome," Brendon nods. He holds up the sheaf of papers he was thumbing through, and gives Spence a guilty smile. "Ragtime." He reaches a hand up to grab the nearest bookshelf, and hauls himself up onto his feet, groaning at how his hips protest. Obviously he's been sitting too long.

"Your kryptonite," Spencer sighs, balancing the books gingerly against his chest as he uses one hand to push his hair out of his face. "What're you - "

"Help you boys find something?" comes a paper-dry voice from behind both of them. They each jump a little, startled half out of their skin. Brendon whirls around, his jacket whipping around his waist as he comes face-to-face with a tiny old man who seems to have more wrinkles than actual unlined skin on his face. Behind him, Spencer bobbles the copy of Little Women that's still on top of his pile of books and nearly drops it, clutching it tight to his chest before it can slip out of his reach.

"Um, hi," Brendon says weakly, giving the old man a nervous smile. "You scared the crap out of us."

The old man blinks slowly.

"We're just looking," Spencer supplies, wincing as he tries to flatten a page in the book that got creased when he nearly dropped it.

Still the old guy just looks at them for a long moment, taking in the way Brendon starts to fidget and Spencer tries (unsuccessfully) to hide behind him, angling the book to where he hopes nobody can see how he's trying to fix the page. "Looking, huh?"

"Yeah, um," Brendon says, biting his lip for a moment, glancing around the store, anywhere but at the wrinkled enigma in front of him. "But we - we'll let you know if we need any help?"

The old guy rolls his eyes, and darts a gnarled, spidery hand underneath Brendon's folded arms, easily plucking the book out of Spencer's grasp behind him. "You're not going to get the page flat like that," he wheezes, his voice still dry and crackly. He gestures for them to follow, and starts towards the sprawling, ancient desk in the center of the store. "Two minutes."

"Sorry," Spencer mutters, and Brendon doesn't have to look back to just know that Spence is going red. He ducks down to grab his stack of music, and try to shove the other stacks back onto a shelf haphazardly, before he scurries after the old man.

"It's not too creased," the old guy says, not even registering that they weren't behind him for half a minute, pulling out a couple of heavy-looking old books from behind his desk. "It'll be right as rain in a minute." He peers at the page, and then closes Little Women and sets it down gingerly on top of the dusty old cover of one of the books he just dragged out. Then he grabs the other, and drops it with a huge THUD onto the top of the novel. Brendon jumps, and he could swear he hears a tiny protesting whimper coming from behind him.

"Dude," Brendon mutters. "Does that actually work?" he can't help asking, interested despite himself.

"Always has before," the old man says, shrugging a painfully thin shoulder. "Been doing it sixty-odd years."

"This is your store, then."

The old man reaches into the inside pocket of his vest and pulls out a pair of bifocals, fixing them on the bridge of his nose before he gives them both a small smile. "Wouldn't presume to call it mine, at this point, but that's my name on the front window." He holds his hand out for Brendon and then Spencer to shake, not noticing how they handle him sort of gingerly, like one of his books. "Whitt Clemency, Antiquarian Bookseller and Purveyor of Literary Oddities since 1959."

"Hi," Brendon says, utterly charmed, as he shakes the man's hand. "Brendon Urie. Wandering minstrel, part-time bard."

"Aha," the old man breathes, one side of his mouth quirking up into a smile. For a brief, fleeting second, Brendon thinks Ryan before the man composes himself and the uneven smile vanishes. "And your friend?" He glances over at Spencer expectantly.

"Spencer Smith," he mumbles, back and shoulders stiff. "I play drums." Brendon sort of wants to turn around and glare, but he knows it wouldn't help, not when Spencer's worked himself into this kind of recalcitrant silence.

Mr. Clemency (Brendon resolves to just call him Mr. C in his head) gives Spencer a cool look, then nods slightly. "You break it, you bought it, son," he says, almost regretful, as he nods his head towards the copy of Little Women, still sandwiched between the two huge books.

"I was going to," Spencer mumbles, abashed. Brendon turns to give him a smirk, but tempers the look by reaching out to cup his hand around Spencer's elbow for a second or two. Spencer shuffles forward, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, his hair falling down into his eyes as he looks through slots for the right card.

"No rush, no rush," Mr. C assures him, waving away his wallet and reaching to help Spencer tilt the stack of books onto the solid oak of the countertop. He picks up the first three books and reads the spines, raising an eyebrow at the juxtaposition of a Lord Peter Wimsey omnibus and Russia in the Age of Peter the Great and Medical Terminology for Dummies. "There's a better compilation of the Lord Peter stories on the top row of Mysteries, actually," he says, mostly to himself, though he glances up at Spencer and raises a white eyebrow.

"Oh?" Spencer says, nonplussed, before he glances over at Brendon and shrugs a shoulder. "Well, um. Awesome, thanks." He turns around, and grins sheepishly when he has to ask Mr. C to point him in the right direction, and Brendon watches fondly as Spence disappears into the aisles of books again, his footsteps turning into little more than an echo.

"Still looking, son?" Mr. Clemency asks kindly, knocking Brendon out of his little trance. Brendon blinks, and gives him a guilty-looking grin.

"No, I'd better stop while I still have some money left," he admits, pushing the stack of music towards the old man.

"All right, we'll get you taken care of, while he looks," Mr. C nods, bustling around the register a little, stacking a few piles of papers neatly before he reaches his hand out for Brendon's carefully arranged stack of music.

"Thanks," Brendon says gratefully, pushing it over, watching interestedly as the old-fashioned register makes a series of noises and different price tags pop up every time Mr. C punches in a SKU code. On the fourth set of papers, though, the old man loses his patience the third time he enters in the code, and swipes it against the bottom of the register. From somewhere in the bowels of the register, there's the familiar beep of a scanner reading the barcode, and then the price button pops up again. Brendon squeaks and glances up, gaping as Mr. C gives him a small smirk and a wink.

"Got to keep up appearances," the old man shrugs, reaching for the next book.

By the time Spencer comes back, thumbing through the pages of his new book, looking pleased with it, Brendon's just taking his card back from Mr. C and taking up a pen to sign the receipt. "Hey," he beams, signing the receipt with a flourish, handing it over to Mr. C who deposits it with great solemnity into the register. "Did you find it?"

"Yeah," Spencer says absently, looking over at the next page before he shakes himself and closes the book, setting it on top of his pile at the counter. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Mr. C orders, reaching to start at the top of the pile, beginning the painstaking process of entering in each ISBN code from the back of each cover. "Best place to get lost is a book," he says, with a small, secret smile on his face.

Brendon and Spencer exchange quick are you kidding me with this? grins, and then Spencer gets sucked into the fascination of the cash register. Brendon watches Spencer watching Mr. C punch numbers in, and knows he's smiling stupidly at the whole process, but he can't seem to make himself stop - Spencer's eyes light up every time the book price jumps up at the top of the register, and it's hilarious.

Finally, finally, they're at the last book - Crystal's Little Women, freshly prised from in between the two huge books and all the pages nicely flat again. Brendon leans against the counter, looking over the edge of it, watching Mr. C's spindly fingers fly over the buttons as he enters in the code on the back. He pushes the last one, and -

Nothing.

All three of them blink, glancing around at each other. Mr. C huffs and starts again, punching in the numbers a bit more slowly, til he reaches the end and again - nothing.

Brendon bites his lip as Mr. C starts to curse under his breath, and he leans back towards Spencer. "Dude, watch this, it's got a fucking scanner on the bottom, swear to God."

"Seriously?" Spencer breathes, his eyes bright and delighted as he watches Mr. C finish punching the numbers in one more time and again, nothing happens.

"Goddamn it," Mr. C grumbles, as he swipes the book along the bottom of the register, ostensibly where the sensors are. Brendon waits for the beep, but nothing happens, and he watches with growing concern as Mr. C continues muttering obscenities at the register, swiping the book back and forth across the hidden scanner.

Finally, long after Spencer's hidden his mouth behind his hand to keep from snickering outright, a weird bonnnng chimes from somewhere in the register. Brendon glances up, and blinks at a red NO SALE sign sticking up out of the top of the cash register. "Huh."

Mr. C apparently hasn't noticed - he's still swiping away, muttering imprecations all the while.

"Um." Brendon swallows a laugh. "Mr. Clemency, it's saying no sale."

Mr. C pauses halfway through one pass, and glances up, his mouth falling open a little as he sees the little red tab sticking up. "...Oh, my."

"Does this mean I can't have my books?" Spencer asks, a plaintive strain in his voice as he gazes mournfully at his two stacks of books, meticulously chosen.

"No, it's." Mr. C brings a hand up to his mouth, pressing his fingertips against his lips for a second before he actually looks over at them. His eyes are suspiciously bright, and his hand is shaking a tiny bit. "Oh, my boys."

"Um." Brendon takes a step back from the counter, suddenly alarmed.

"I haven't seen that tab in thirty years," Mr. C says, gazing at it almost fondly. "To think, I never once imagined it could - well, the times, they are a-changing." His eyes slide over, moving slowly over Brendon in a speculative look that makes him shiver.

"Huh, yeah, funny how that happens," Spencer says quickly, taking a step to his left, insinuating himself between Brendon and the cash register, giving the old man a benign smile (which, whatever, Brendon and Spencer have had enough discussions about Spencer's watchdog tendencies that he should know better, but if Spencer's determined to be the Kevin Costner to his Whitney Houston, well, Brendon certainly isn't about to stop him now). "Well, um. Sorry about your cash register, I guess we'll just be going, didn't realize how late it was - "

"Oh, for - I'm not going to kill you, stop looking so traumatized," Mr. C snaps, losing the tremble in his hands as he comes back to himself a little bit. "I'm an old man, I'm allowed a few moments of nostalgia."

"Sure," Spencer says dubiously, still staying between Brendon and the counter. Brendon rolls his eyes and thumps Spencer's shoulder lightly, wishing Spencer weren't so fucking tall all the time. Especially on the rare occasions he actually stands up straight, like now. God.

Mr. C stares at the two of them (Brendon's just managing to peer at him over Spencer's shoulder), and shakes his head. "Got no poetry in your souls, that's what it is," he mutters to himself, frustrated, before he ducks down behind the desk and starts opening and slamming shut various compartments, by the sound of things. "Whole goddamn generation obsessed with...with robots and computers and tiny music players."

"And that rock and roll," Spencer mutters, mostly for Brendon's benefit. Brendon snickers dutifully, but apparently Spence wasn't as quiet as he thought, because from behind the desk, Mr. C scoffs audibly.

"Rock and roll, my ass. Kids these days don't know rock and roll, Chuck Berry had poetry coming out of his ears."

"Fuck yeah he did," Brendon immediately agrees, hitting his hand on the counter for emphasis. "Promised Land? Hell yes."

"And Maybellene," Spencer cuts in.

There's a small pause, and then the sound of something big and heavy hitting the tile floors, behind the desk. "Knew there was a reason I thought you two were all right," Mr. C wheezes just before he pops back into view, struggling to drag an old hard-bound book up onto the countertop. He finally manages, and the book lands with another loud THUD, sending up small eddies and whorls of dust, making Spencer cough quietly behind his hand.

Brendon and Spencer exchange quick looks, unsure about what they should be doing next. "...Neat," Brendon finally manages, confusion evident in his voice.

"Yeah, that's." Spencer visibly flounders for a second, before he manages to continue. "That's certainly a book." Brendon rolls his eyes, and shoots Spencer an incredulous glare.

"Your vote of confidence is overwhelming," Mr. C says, dry as parchment, before he runs a hand over the front cover, removing enough of the dust that all three of them can read the title: Fairy Tales for All Ages. On the front, there's a vaguely sinister watercolor of a boy and a girl smiling a bit too wide and holding hands, skipping through a field of daisies. Above them, a rainbow is arcing over the 1950s font of the title. The whole thing reminds Brendon forcefully of the old Little Golden Books his mom used to read to him at bedtime.

"Uh," Spencer says.

"Cool," Brendon adds, a beat too late. "Fairy tales, awesome."

"Don't patronize me, I'm not going senile," Mr. C grumbles, restacking Spencer's books on top of the big fairy tale one. It's not that the book is thick, so much as it is just...long and unwieldy. It's got almost the same dimensions as a newspaper page. "And yes, you still get your books," he tells Spencer, before Spencer's little frown can grow any more longing and pathetic. "Actually, won't even charge you, but only if you promise on your lives to listen to the rules for the fairy tales."

"Fairy tales have rules?" Brendon asks, just before Spencer steps lightly on his toes.

"Deal," Spence says quickly, not one to ever pass up an opportunity for free shit. "What're the rules? No spine-breaking and no writing in the margins?" he grins.

Mr. C gives him an unamused smirk, and finishes shoving the books into two big bags. "Ah, no. And remember, you promised to follow them." He drags the bags around the counter, so Spencer can trot over and grab them, hoisting them up and shuffling back to where Brendon and the old man are waiting. "The first rule," Mr. C says, looking oddly solemn, waiting til Spencer and Brendon have stopped grinning so wide and are starting to fidget, "is wait til you're home to open the book."

"But we're not - " Brendon starts, before Mr. Clemency cuts him off with a raised hand.

"Yeah, I figure you're from out of town. But I mean it. Just...stow it away and don't think about it, until you're back home."

"Okay, we will," Spencer assures him, folding his arms and looking sort of serious as he gazes evenly at the old man, getting into the whole ridiculous aura of danger and intrigue surrounding a book of fairy tales. Brendon has to remember to make fun of him for it, later. "What else?"

"Only open it together," Mr. C tells him, shooting Brendon a quick look, and an even quicker slice of a smile. For some reason, Brendon feels himself starting to blush, and immediately stares down at his feet, squeaking his shoes on the tile. "And once you have started it, look out for each other and don't stop until you reach the end."

"Sort of like a Project Runway marathon," Spencer murmurs. Brendon glances up quickly enough to exchange small smiles with him, but they're both kind of subdued - it's amazing how well Mr. Clemency's managed to turn on the creepy-scary vibe latent in all used bookstores.

"Promise me, boys," Mr. C demands, giving them both a grandfatherly, anxious look. "I'm serious."

"Promise," Spencer says quickly, holding his hand up like Mr. C's swearing him in before a judge.

"Yeah, promise," Brendon echoes, looking down at his shoes and at Spencer's bags and at his own bag. And then he twists his wrist, glances down at his watch and winces - fuck, Zack is going to lose his shit at them when they get back. He reaches over to grab the edge of Spencer's sleeve, give it a light tug. "We do actually have to get going."

Spencer cringes, and immediately dives into his jeans pocket for his phone, pressing it on and groaning when he sees the time. "Oh, fuck." They both exchange horrified looks, and then turn to give twin blank looks to Mr. Clemency, who's watching them with an almost amused look on his face.

"Um, thanks for the free books?" Brendon offers, sort of timid as he reaches his hand over the counter, relieved when Mr. C catches it up in a firm shake. "Your store is amazing."

"Thank you," Mr. C says politely, returning Brendon's hand to him and taking Spencer's up for an equally firm shake. "Come back and see me, if you're in this neck of the woods again. We'll swap stories."

He's smiling that odd, private smile again, and Brendon's left feeling unsettled as he gives Mr. C a lopsided smile and tugs Spencer towards the door. "We will," he says, reaching for the door, hauling it open.

"Bye," Spencer manages, just before Brendon pulls him out the door and onto the sidewalk, the two of them blinking in the bright afternoon sun. They stand there for a minute, stunned by the light, before the crowds absorb them back up and they drift back the way they came.

After a few minutes of walking, Spencer complains that the bags of books are too fucking heavy to carry all the way back and Zack's going to kill them if they're that late for soundcheck, so they grab a taxi back to the venue. On the way, they collaborate on an elaborate excuse for their lateness, involving a fangirl horde, a baby carriage, and a lost kitten.

It doesn't work. Zack yells a lot. They find out afterward that he sneakily managed to track the GPS on Spencer's phone the entire time they were gone, and nearly sent a search party to the bookstore, after them.

After Zack's shouted himself hoarse about them obviously wanting to get themselves killed or kidnapped, Brendon and Spencer steal back to the bus for long enough to throw their bags in their bunks and run for the stage. One of the techs has a new tattoo, an alarmingly accurate depiction of the dick-riding-the-bomb drawing from Superbad. Naturally, everyone's talking about that, so Brendon and Spencer forget to tell everyone about their weird adventure at the creepy bookstore, until it's too late to be relevant.

The bags of books and music stay in their bunks, shuffled around and shoved out of the way until Spencer's finally slide down the cracks at the headboard and slip under the mattress itself. Brendon's music falls onto the floor, kicked underneath by one of them in a hurry to get ready, and they both quickly forget about that afternoon in the bookstore, in a haze of laughter and shitty beer and fucking amazing crowds and music and life.

In a land far, far away

They've been back from tour for three days before either Brendon or Spencer manage to stay awake long enough to actually shower, get dressed, eat, and still have the energy to deal with unpacking. Brendon doesn't even remember getting back home. He suspects that Zack carried the two of them in with their luggage (not so much luggage at that point, more a collection of clothes and belongings stuffed into trash bags), dumped them on their beds, and left.

Brendon stumbles downstairs on the fourth day, and proceeds to eat the biggest bowl of cereal known to mankind, before he ventures out of the kitchen and into the horror of the living room and its growing Tour Blob. He stares at it in dismay for a few minutes before he sighs and just sits down on the floor. He starts to go through everything, one thing at a time.

Spencer's even less of a morning person than he is, and doesn't show up downstairs for another four hours, by which point Brendon's almost managed to sort through the big pile of shit in the middle of their living room floor. He's divided it into three piles: his, Spencer's, and trash. Bogart's snoring gently on the sofa, having helped by barking at Brendon as he ripped open the garbage bags full of shit, and barking at Brendon as he started sorting through things, and making Brendon run after him after Bogart snagged Spencer's favorite ragged Nigel Tufnel t-shirt he found in Toronto that one time.

Brendon really missed his dog.

"It's alive!" he crows predictably, as Spencer lumbers down the stairs. Spence flips him off, and Brendon laughs, shoving the last bite of his toast into his mouth and hurling one of Spencer's t-shirts (one that's reached levels of toxicity probably requiring a hazmat suit to handle) at his face.

Spencer splutters, and tosses the shirt back onto the floor. "Fuck you," he growls, stumbling into the kitchen. Brendon can hear him clanging around in there for a few minutes before Spence reappears, with a mug of coffee in one hand and potato chips in the other. He slumps over to the sofa, sinking down onto it with a groan, taking a long sip of coffee.

"Better?" Brendon asks, amused. Spencer nods his head, and Brendon knows not to expect more of a response than that, at least not until the coffee is halfway gone. He goes back to sifting through the junk on the floor, tossing clothes and magazines and shoes into one pile or the other, until he gets to two barely-familiar shopping bags. He blinks, and turns the nearest one over, reading the writing on the side. It takes him a minute, but then his eyes light up. "Oh hey, the books! Spence, the books! From the freaky place, the ones you got for free, remember?"

Spencer grunts, and grudgingly opens one eye to look down at him. "What."

"The used bookstore with the old guy who ran it. You remember, come on," Brendon chides him, reaching over to smack his leg. "It was in...um, Richmond? Maybe?" He punches Spencer's shin again, just for good measure.

Spencer grumbles and slides his leg away, and rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Ngh, fuck. Yeah?" he yawns, stretching his back, making both of them wince as it pops in half a dozen different places. "I mean, I guess I remember. The one with the top secret fairy tales, right?"

Brendon nods, and waves the bag full of music at him. "I found the shit we bought. ...Well," he amends, suddenly a little annoyed as the memories come flooding back, "the shit I bought, since you were too goddamn special to have to pay for your books."

"Don't hate the player," Spencer tells him loftily, his voice half-cracking on another yawn. "I can't help being awesome."

"Awesome people pay for their books, Spencer Smith," Brendon informs him, turning his nose up. "Pay for their books and then don't forget about them."

"You forgot about them too," Spencer replies evenly, tilting his head back to finish off his coffee. It takes a couple of minutes, but he does start to look more alert and passably human, so Brendon starts poking him again, until Spencer reaches down to smack him, and then joins him on the floor to sort through their things.

It's another three hours before they get everything back into their rooms and into something resembling order. The pile of dirty clothes they've made in front of the washing machine is so incredible that Brendon has to take a couple of pictures of it. He winds up getting into an argument with Spencer over whether or not to post the pics to Twitter, but Spencer eventually wins, and Brendon sulks and sends the pictures to Pete, instead.

It works. Pete posts them. Brendon's a fucking genius.

After the mess in the living room is gone, Spencer is sweaty and gross and cranky again, so Brendon elects to take Bogart on a long walk around the neighborhood, giving Spence a chance to use up all the hot water in the shower and jerk off in relative peace. (Brendon is the best housemate ever.) It seems to work - when he and Boges get back, Spencer's cleaner and shiny-haired and looking more relaxed than Brendon's seen him in a while. He grabs a new bowl of water for Bogart while Brendon complains about how hot it is outside already, and then Brendon heads toward the shower as well.

They're three and a half hours into a Law & Order marathon before Brendon thinks to bring it up again, and that's only because he notices the bag of books still on the landing of the stairs. "Oh, hey," he says, tilting his head up in Spence's lap, so he can see his face. Spence raises his eyebrows, and stills the hand that's been messing with Brendon's hair, twisting it into spikes. "Top secret fairy tales."

Spencer makes a face. "Really?" he groans, pulling his hand away to stretch a little, reaching his arms over his head.

"Come on, you're totally interested," Brendon wheedles, reaching up to poke Spencer in the cheek, just to annoy him. "What could be more exciting than spending a Wednesday afternoon looking at a book of kids' stories? Nothing, that's what."

Spencer grabs at Brendon's hand, squeezing his fingers to the point of pain for a couple of seconds, as he seems to actually consider the question. "I could take a stapler and staple things to my head. Or try to teach Bogart Spanish. Or remove all my teeth with pliers."

"We don't have a stapler or pliers, and you don't know Spanish," Brendon scoffs, tugging his hand away and rubbing the knuckles gingerly. "Come onnnnn. You'll love it. I'll do all the voices."

Spencer hems and haws, but Brendon can tell it's just for show - Spencer's already starting to smile a little bit, a glint of interest in his eyes. "God, fine," he sighs, finally. "Top secret fairy tales."

Brendon beams up at him and stretches lazily, then moves to sit up. "Up, Bogart," he says, reaching for the dog still stretched out on his stomach, picking him up and setting him down on the floor. Bogart gives him a betrayed look, but flops over and closes his eyes again, and Brendon manages to pull himself up and off of the sofa in one fluid movement, stretching his arms behind his back until they pop. "Don't let him take my spot," Brendon warns Spence, as he makes a beeline for the landing, where the books are.

"He's a vicious killer, he does what he wants," Spencer protests halfheartedly. "I'm powerless to stop him." Brendon can tell he's gone back to watching Law & Order, but can't really fault Spence for it - D'Onofrio is a motherfucking badass. So he just grabs the bag and heads back over the sofa, flopping down on it, intentionally sitting halfway in Spencer's lap.

"Personal bubble," Spencer warns automatically, squawking when Brendon grabs the remote and turns the tv off. "They were just about to say who killed the homeless guy!"

"You've seen that one like four times already," Brendon reminds him, completely unsympathetic. "It's family time now," he says, taking the mature, grown-up high road and ignoring the amused snort Spencer gives.

Spencer rolls his eyes too, but otherwise doesn't protest, as Brendon rummages around in the bag for a few seconds before pulling out the big book of fairy tales. "Dude, that front cover looks like the 'For the Recently Deceased' book from Beetlejuice," Spencer grumbles, shifting so that Brendon isn't elbowing him in the side anymore (oops). He fidgets, and manages to get the arm that was pinned between them up and out and across the back of the sofa, and just like that, the two of them sink down into the sofa together, comfortably.

"Kinda does," Brendon agrees, leaning back against him. "Boges, hey," he calls, singsonging the words a little til Bogart pokes his head up and looks semi-interested in what's going on. "Come on, come on back up," Brendon wheedles, patting the sofa beside him.

Eventually, Bogart takes him up on it, and when they've all settled back down again, Brendon shifts the book fully onto his lap and skritches Bogart's head and tries not to dwell on the sweet ache of contentment, how it's threatening to push out of his chest, start down his arms and legs until it consumes him whole.

Spencer exhales quietly, and presses his cheek to Brendon's shoulder. "Can you see?" Brendon asks him, halfway turning his head until he can see Spencer nod. "Okay," he says, settling back, letting his head loll back until he can feel Spencer's hair tickling his ear, "Fairy Tales for All Ages," he reads, before opening the front cover and turning past the flyleaf and table of contents, til he hits the first page.

"Once," he begins, "there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess. Only a real one would do."

"Like in dogbreeding," Spencer interjects unhelpfully, grinning when Brendon cranes around to glare at him for messing up the experience. "What?"

"Could you stop having strong opinions on everything for, like, two seconds, and let Bogart enjoy this?"

Spencer blinks. "Brendon. Bogart is a dog. A dog who is asleep."

"Yeah, well," Brendon huffs, fidgeting a little before he settles back down. It's weird, his fingers have gone sort of tingly - sometimes they do that when he's cold or when he's been sleeping on top of them, but not normally out of the blue. "Whatever. Wait, everything okay? Should we check in?"

"Present and accounted for," Spencer tells him, looking sort of sheepish for marring Brendon's literature high - as he should. "You okay? Marco?"

"Polo," Brendon responds easily, running his fingertip against the edge of the page. "Okay, don't interrupt this time."

"Promise," Spencer murmurs, and Brendon can feel a slight pressure against his shoulders, a brush against his arm as Spence lets the arm across the back of the sofa dangle down, curling around him a little.

"So," Brendon starts again, letting himself be lulled into an easy cadence with the words as he continues, "he traveled through all the world to find her, and everywhere things went wrong. There were Princesses aplenty, but how was he to know whether they were real Princesses?"

He pauses, and looks up from the page, blinking to clear the haze away from his eyes. Everything has started to go blurry, white around the periphery of his vision, as if the edges of the room are fading away. "There was something not quite right about them all."

And without Brendon or Spencer even noticing, the white encroaches as Brendon reads, until it finally curls up around them like a blanket and pops them out of sight.

One