Happy Holidays, disarm_d!
To: disarm_d
From: provetheworst
Title: took my kindness for weakness
Rating: R
Characters: Ryan/Spencer, some Spencer/Brendon
Word Count: 8075
Warnings: Relatively nongraphic sex, a little violence.
Disclaimer: there is a stunning lack of truth in this.
Summary: When it comes right down to it, Spencer's pretty hardcore. AU!
Notes: If you don't recognize a name, it's probably an original character. Thanks to my beta for realizing that "tomg" is not a word.
Spencer has a brand new suit. It's a dull color somewhere near burnt sienna, made of dyed cotton, with imprecise chalk-white pinstripes and the edges artfully frayed. The elbows pre-worn just enough to look trendy, not enough to look unprofessional. The shirt he's wearing underneath is the color of a road that hasn't been resurfaced in three years. He and Ryan picked the whole thing out at Macy's two weeks ago, and Spencer made Ryan buy new shoes, and they both spent way too much money.
Spencer wakes up in the morning and the first thing he does is shave, dry, at the dresser in his bedroom. The second thing he does is roll on some Old Spice, reaches around to do a single spritz of cologne at the nape of his neck. Then he puts on his new suit.
Spencer stares at himself in the mirror. He tugs at the skin under his eyes, tilts his head side to side, sticks his tongue out. Goes, "Aaaah." Flares his nostrils. Squints his eyes.
Spencer goes to work.
-
Ryan gets him his morning coffee, but first he says, "Spence. You have to brush your teeth."
"Oh, yeah."
"Seriously. Coffee's just going to make it worse."
"No, I got it. Wasn't thinking this morning," Spencer says, and disappears to the employee bathroom for a while.
Once he's back, Ryan says, "Nice outfit, though."
Spencer smooths down his lapels. He looks down; he wishes he'd worn a tie, so he could adjust it. Instead he just does up the top button of his shirt. Buttons his jacket all the way.
Ryan says, "I've got a vendor coming in, like, twenty minutes. I haven't cleared off my desk in three days. Shit." He rubs at his eyes, and Spencer stares at him. Ryan says, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, no, I'm fine," Spencer says. "Just, you know. It's busy."
"Yeah."
"Yeah," Spencer says.
Ryan shuffles his feet a little, shifting his weight as he says, "I'm going to go see if I can't throw away half the catalogs sitting on my desk. Or file them, or some shit."
"Give them to me, if you have to," Spencer says. "I've been keeping up okay. I can file yours."
"Oh, hey, thanks."
"Yeah," Spencer says.
-
Spencer plays with a hardcore band these days. He thinks the guitarist might be a skinhead, but he doesn't really pry. He doesn't want to know, because knowing would mean he'd have to give a shit. He just likes the smell of sweat and sometimes-blood from the crowd; never beer, their band is edge and the crew that always shows up is militant, and everyone in the scene's learned better. New people learn quick.
Spencer likes to close his eyes as he attacks his drumset, limbs flying fast and vicious. Playing like this used to leave his arms sore for days. He'd wake up exhausted. It's taken a while, but now he's just got broader shoulders and stronger arms and he hardly feels any of it anymore.
Their singer, Warren, always laughs and says, "You could really fuck shit up, man, be like totally unstoppable. Man, it'd be hilarious seeing you fuck with some drunken assholes. I don't even know how many people's shit you'd wreck."
Spencer says, "I'm not really into that. I'm just here to play. I mean, it's not my fault what other people do, you know?"
"Right, yeah, sure."
-
So he's got a show after work. Only, Ryan says, "Hey, what are you doing after work tonight? Me and some of the stockroom guys were going to go catch a show tonight. You want to come?"
"No, sorry," Spencer says.
"Okay, it's cool."
"I'm busy," Spencer says.
"Alright, see you tomorrow."
"If I wasn't busy I would."
"Okay." Ryan says, "Later, dude."
-
What Spencer likes about playing drums is, it borders on anonymous. The lights barely hit him, and he can sit in the back in a black t-shirt and black jeans and become almost invisible. He's reduced to his basic parts, to his arms and his ducked head, the press of his chin almost to the center dip of his clavicle. Sometimes he forgets that he's not all soft-edged anymore.
He's breath, measured and conscious, and motion, with the snap of his wrists, and he's the shuddering vibration of heavy drumbeats that rattle through him, getting muted somewhere in bone, damped by marrow. It replaces exhaustion, fills in the hollows under his eyes, chokes out the frustration and impatience. The rest of the band, they fill in the rest of the gaps.
All he has to do is keep it together.
Tonight, of all nights, after the show he's hanging around talking to a friend, this guy Frank, and someone calls them a pair of fucking cocksucking faggots, and --
-
Ryan says, "Dude, what happened? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, some guy tried to steal my wallet after dinner last night," Spencer says. He rubs at the dark spot under his eye; it feels smooth, softer than the rest of his skin. "It's cool, though. One of my friends had just run inside, forgot his cell phone? He came out and saved my ass." Spencer laughs.
"That sucks, wow," Ryan says. He's staring, and if it weren't for the black eye Spencer would think Ryan was trying to avoid meeting his eyes. "There was a fight at the show I went to last night, I heard. Like, right after Rolodex got off."
"Oh yeah? That's too bad. Yeah, I just went out with some friends I hadn't seen for a while, you know how it is."
"Yeah, yeah," Ryan says. "We need to play the catch-up game soon too, though."
"Of course," Spencer says. "I'm not doing anything tomorrow, if you want."
"That's when," Ryan says, then catches himself. "Oh, no, I'm free. That's cool. Want to just come to my place? I just got an SNES again. I have Duck Hunt."
"Man, with that fucking dog? I haven't played that in forever."
-
"Come on, Spencer, where's the love? Unity's what makes the scene go 'round," Warren says. Warren is tall, taller than Spencer, but wiry, with a gap between his two front teeth and tattoos down his arms. "These guys are practically our brothers, man."
"We've played three shows with them, total," Spencer says. "In three years."
"Yeah, but they always come out for us. You're the only one who doesn't return the favor." Warren says, "Seriously, you're good, but where's your loyalty?"
Spencer says, "I haven't said I'm not going to this show, have I?"
"Not yet."
"That's because I'm going this time. I'm just always busy. My job's got shitty hours," Spencer says. "They keep dicking me over."
Warren says, "Alright, alright, whatever, man. Hey, Dave, can you tune my guitar?"
"Sure, man."
Spencer leaves his kit set up. They've got dedicated practice space in this old warehouse, all of them chipping in for the rent. Sometimes Spencer will pretend not to have quite enough money to pay his share, because there's always someone short. He doesn't want to cover for it every time. So he pretends he can't. Doesn't want to look like the responsible one here.
At the show, Spencer tries to stick to the edge of the pit, stands towards the back, but Warren wades through the crowd and pulls him in. Spencer feels the pull. The music's grinding inside his skull and he turns with it, lets it burrow in and guide his elbows, his fists, guide his legs and the swing of his heavy boots through air. Lets it define every connection.
He's getting pushed towards the edge of the pit, and someone slams him into one of the guys at the last line of defense between the mosh pit and the little kids pogoing and the one or two guys who are holding on tight to their girls, the few who were crazy enough to bring girls here at all.
Spencer stumbles. He clamps his teeth down so he won't bite his tongue. He throws his arm back, and someone catches an elbow in the stomach but doesn't go down, only. Spencer sort of looks. Spencer sort of notices. It's some skinny hipster guy in a bandanna and vest, and. Spencer turns away before recognition can kick in on either end. Hopefully.
-
Spencer says, "Wow, this is the best couch I've sat on in ... ever."
"Thanks," Ryan says, dryly. "I'm glad you like it. I don't know what I'd do with myself if you didn't."
"Can I live here forever?"
"If you play nice and don't chew on my slippers," Ryan says.
"Shut up," Spencer says, burying his face in a throw pillow. He flops around a bit until he's got his legs up on the couch, across Ryan's lap. He's lying there face down. "Mmph."
"I hope you don't shed," Ryan says, with an audible roll of his eyes.
"No, it's winter. I get scruffier when it's cold. Such is the way of Mother Nature."
Spencer twists his head sideways, so he can at least get fresh air when he breathes, rather than recycling the pocket of stale air that's formed between the pillow, his shoulder, and the back of the couch. "Shedding's for summer."
"Makes sense," Ryan says.
"You're lucky you missed that time when I thought a beard was a good idea, though," Spencer says. "Shit."
"You had a beard?" Ryan says. "You? Seriously?"
"It was terrible. I thought it was the best thing ever. I don't know." Spencer says, "Pretty sure it's why my ex broke up with me."
Ryan laughs. "For want of a clean-shaven face, the kingdom was lost?"
"Pretty much," Spencer says. "Chris was kind of an asshole sometimes anyway, I guess."
"Was she at least hot?"
"Uhm," Spencer says.
"Oh, Spencer," Ryan says, shaking his head. "Don't lower your standards. Come on. Long as you don't grow another beard, you can do just fine."
"Uhm," Spencer says again. "I guess Chris was pretty hot, actually."
"Well," Ryan says. "Whatever, if she was shallow enough she broke up with you over a beard and didn't even, like, just tell you to fucking shave or whatever."
"Yeah, no, that wasn't all it was about," Spencer says. "And, uh. The night we broke up. He did. Tell me I looked like a jackass, I mean."
"Oh," Ryan says.
-
Spencer gets a haircut from one of Warren's friends, this crazy little ex-Mormon vegan activist straightedge kid. Spencer feels like if he made up labels, the kid would claim them and make up the philosophy behind them just to fit in with something. Just to have another group to align himself with.
"Here, take a look," the kid says, giving him this rough-edged square of mirror with electrical tape on two sides. Spencer holds it at angles, twists his head around to check it out. He brings a hand to the back of his head, rubbing against the grain. He tilts his head up, rubbing his thumb against the back of his neck, then lets his head lower and his eyes close.
"Fucking sweet," Spencer says, looking up again and nodding his approval.
-
Things are okay. Spencer's life is going well; he's putting money into savings, not spending too much. He's on track for retirement. His apartment's in a decent part of town, and he's got well-assembled Ikea furniture. He's got a pet cat and a cactus and a couple of flowers, and a few generic art prints on the walls. His boss likes his new haircut, and so does his band.
Things are okay, only the band is gearing up for a short tour and he's not sure how to couch it to the people at work. He's pretty sure he's got vacation time available. He's never even taken a day off in the three years he's worked here, just left early a few times, that's it. He hasn't even taken a sick day. So.
The only person to ask where he's going is Ryan.
Spencer stares at him, an animal startled by accidentally-triggered security lights. He wants to bolt. "Uh."
Ryan says, "Are you just taking some time off, or what?"
"Uh, no," Spencer says. "Yeah, sort of. Roadtrip. With some guys I know."
"Huh," Ryan says. "Cool, cool. Yeah, I did a few of those back in college."
"I didn't," Spencer says. "So."
"Nice to take some time to be irresponsible, huh?"
"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, definitely." He looks down, forgetting that, with his hair this short, it's hard to do that thing where he hides under his bangs to talk. "Hey, look," he says, and he's really just looking up at Ryan through his eyelashes, not hiding at all. "So I'll see you in a couple weeks, okay." He smiles, anyway, reaches out to squeeze Ryan's shoulder.
Ryan tilts his head around, looking down at Spencer's hand on his shoulder, and pulls Spencer into a hug. "Yeah, I'll see you."
Spencer rests his cheek against Ryan's shoulder before pulling back.
-
The tour is phenomenal. They're opening up for We Are the Pale Horse, whose van is five years older but still somehow ten times nicer than theirs. The tour's only about two weeks long, but. They start out at a community center in Los Angeles, head up to a real venue in Seattle, then all the way over to Madison and Ann Arbor, two huge shows in Chicago and Champaign-Urbana -- Pale Horse's lead singer's from the area, apparently, so it's bordering on a hometown show for them -- then looping back around to hit St. Louis and Kansas City, playing to five kids at the VFW in Salt Lake, then at least forty kids each in Santa Fe and Phoenix, and then two nights -- one sold out, the other not -- back home in Vegas.
No one showers, no one gets enough sleep, and Spencer loves it.
Spencer already misses the back of the van. He's breaking down his kit for the last time, and all he can think of is being curled up on the cold metal floor, with Warren asleep next to him and Beto snoring in the back seat, and the barely-audible sound of whatever classic rock station Dave's got on the radio up front.
He's already wondering how many nights it's going to be before he's used to having a bed again.
He's already wondering if he can force himself to go back to his office job.
They finish loading up the van, and Pale Horse are still on, so even though Beto's planning on taking the van back home now, Spencer just waves, says he'll get a cab.
He's going to make this last as long as he can. He thought two weeks and he'd be tired of it, be ready to go back to his normal, boring life, but. He's really not.
He tries to pretend it's not almost over, except the guys from Pale Horse keep talking about how excited they've been for this tour, how glad they are it's finally over, how they can't wait to see everybody again next tour.
Spencer doesn't pay attention to that. The crowd is tight-packed up front, and he works his way up there, lets the crowd carry him. He doesn't even have to move to pogo, there's enough energy and motion. He does, though, doesn't feel like cheating. He's exhausted and he's more wired than he's ever been.
An over-intentional hand on his shoulder has him looking over between songs, and Ryan's grinning at him. And Ryan's got a hand looped through his arm, to keep from losing him. And Ryan's got bony hips and long, long fingers, and Ryan drags him out of the pit eventually, says, "Hey, hey, you listen to We Are the Pale Horse too?"
"I was here for Rolodex Propaganda." And Spencer says, "But Pale Horse are awesome. They're good guys."
Ryan says, "I really like them; did you ever listen to their singer's old band?"
"No." He says, "I only met these guys like a month ago."
"Oh, well, they were really good," Ryan says. "You know them?"
"Sweet," Spencer says, nodding. "Well, yeah."
Ryan says, "So can you," and Spencer pushes him back against the wall and kisses him. Ryan's pupils are huge.
Spencer says, "I can introduce you later. Maybe."
And Spencer drags Ryan into the men's bathroom, and Ryan's the one who locks the stall door behind them, the one who shoves his knee in between Spencer's legs and bites at his lower lip.
Spencer's the one with his eyes still open as he pulls the zip down on Ryan's jeans, and Ryan's the one who's still harsh and demanding as they kiss.
Spencer's the one who drops to his knees, looking up at Ryan through his eyelashes. Spencer's the one who can't hide under his bangs anymore. Ryan's the one with his head tilted back and his hands fisted in Spencer's hair.
Spencer's the one who makes a desperate little sound in the back of his throat, who just takes it when Ryan's hips jerk forward. Ryan's the one breathing hard and trying to keep quiet, the one with a foot braced against the toilet as he tries to stay standing. Spencer's the one still looking up at Ryan the whole time, one hand working the base of Ryan's cock and the other shoved into his own pants.
The metal wall creaks, shudders a little. They're being quiet, and the music's still loud even through the door, but Spencer can still just barely hear the slight brush of denim around ankles as Ryan shifts, the not-quite scraping noise of fingernails-on-metal as Ryan tries to find purchase for more balance on the toilet paper holder.
The light is yellow and flickering and doesn't reach back quite far enough. Ryan takes in this snuffling, shuddering breath, says, "Hey, Spencer. Spence."
Ryan's got his head ducked down, is now biting on the hand not in Spencer's hair, having given up on balance.
Spencer's knees are sort of damp, and he tries not to think about it, just licks off the precome leaking from Ryan's cock. In those last few moments, he closes his eyes and then swallows, hard.
The bathroom's dirty enough; whoever works here doesn't need anything else to deal with.
-
Spencer goes home to his apartment and he's amazed that someone lives here. He looks around and tries to imagine the kind of person who would live here. He presses his thumbs against his eyelids and reminds himself.
That there's enough air here to breathe, he finds that hard to believe. There's too much space, surely, particles stretched thin. The dust motes feel electrically charged as they sift down in front of the light that drifts though the closed and dirty window.
Spencer doesn't get to sleep.
-
At work on Monday, Ryan nudges Spencer with his shoulder, giving him this coy little smirk. "Hey, Spencer, what's up? Have a good weekend?"
"Yeah." Spencer's changing the filter on the coffee maker and doesn't look up. "It was pretty nice, I guess."
"It was good seeing you. I didn't know you even went to shows anymore."
"What?" Spencer says.
"Uhm," Ryan says. "At the show."
"I wasn't at a show," Spencer says. "I was basically passed out all weekend, dude."
Ryan frowns.
Spencer shrugs. "I watched a bunch of Home Shopping Network, I don't even know. I kind of wish I had gone to a show. That was a shitty way to end a vacation."
Ryan, he stands there with his hands in his pockets, his expression not quite blank.
"It's been for-fucking-ever," Spencer says.
"Yeah, well," Ryan says.
Spencer says, "So what are you doing after work?"
"I don't know," Ryan says, voice careful and measured and somehow even more monotone than usual. "You want to go out for a drink or anything?"
"Oh, I don't drink," Spencer says.
"Seriously? Not even, like, just one? Come on, we can hang out or whatever."
"No," Spencer says. "I, uh. Recovering alcoholic. You know."
"What the fuck," Ryan says. "Wow, okay."
"Yeah."
"No, that's," Ryan says. "Okay. No worries."
"I kind of want to get new shoes, though," Spencer says. "If you wanted to go to the mall."
"Uh, sure," Ryan says. "Sure. Cool."
"Awesome," Spencer says.
Then Ryan says, "Seriously, did I just -- imagine you -- you went to see We Are the Pale Horse a couple nights ago, right?"
"Who?"
"Fuck," Ryan says.
"Seriously, what?"
"Nothing," Ryan says. "I just, wow. I must be more tired than I thought, lately."
"Get some sleep," Spencer says. "Like, take the day off early and get some sleep or something."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."
"Yeah," Spencer says.
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"Right," Ryan says. "I'm going to go. Leave now."
"Later," Spencer says. "But let me know if you want to go to the mall sometime, anyway."
"Right," Ryan says. "Maybe once I wake up, if it's not too late."
Ryan doesn't wake up early enough for the mall, but IHOP's open 24 hours, as Spencer points out. He's gone there too many times with his band, mostly knows the waitstaff.
They go to IHOP, and a girl Spencer knows is working and gives them free coffee. He gives her a look, and she gives him this knowing grin and, as she's coming back from the kitchen with their coffee she winks at him. Spencer ducks his head down. Under the table, Ryan nudges at Spencer's foot, and Spencer nudges back, and they sit there and eat pancakes at 3AM with their ankles pressed together.
"Work's going to suck tomorrow," Ryan says.
"You can always go back to sleep once you get home."
"Maybe," Ryan says. "For a while."
"At least a couple of hours," Spencer says. "Plus, I can always fake illness or something. If you need a reason to be late, you can say you had to take me to the hospital."
Ryan laughs. "No, I think I'll be good."
"Okay."
"You're not going to be too tired, yourself?" Ryan says.
"Nah," Spencer says. "I just got back from vacation. I'm fine."
Ryan gives him this sleepy smile, lazily tapping his fork against his plate, the huge piece of blueberry pancake he's been gnawing at muffling any potential sound. He lifts it up, gnaws at it a bit more. "Sorry for waking you up."
"It's fine," Spencer says. "Just like old times."
"Yeah," Ryan says.
On the way out of the door, there's this step Spencer doesn't notice until he's tripping over it; Ryan puts a steady hand on his lower back, says, "You okay, there?"
"Yeah, yeah," Spencer says. "Aren't I supposed to be asking you that?"
"Hmm."
-
The tiny ex-Mormon kid with all the labels, his name is Brendon. He says, "Don't worry, I won't tell anybody."
The band's taking a little while off after that tour, they don't have any gigs scheduled for over a month, and Spencer's sort of going stir-crazy. He's used to being able to split his time, and now he's in work mode all the time, and.
So he calls up Warren and claims he needs another haircut, and Warren laughs at him and gives him the little ex-Mormon's number, and Spencer goes over to his place, and.
Spencer says, "It's not like it's got to be a secret, just."
Brendon says, "No, I know. I wouldn't just tell people I'm hooking up with some dude, like, not that that's a problem, but I wouldn't just broadcast it, it's not their business." He says, "That's not what I'm saying, though. That wasn't what I was talking about."
"Okay," Spencer says, and brushes his thumb against one of Brendon's tattoos. He's got this weird mix of words and patterns and imagery, and all Spencer can think is how much money all this must have cost. He presses his nose against the X over Brendon's heart, wonders if Brendon'd be willing to go again. He almost says as much, but can't quite bring himself to ask.
Brendon squints his eyes at him. "I work at Kinko's."
"Okay."
"Right across from Longford Plaza." He grins, says, "It took me, like, two years to figure out it was you though."
Spencer draws in a long hissing breath.
Brendon drops his voice to a whisper, still smiling. "Don't worry. Like I said. I won't tell."
Spencer pulls his clothes back on. "I had a good time."
"Yeah, me too."
"I'll see you later."
Spencer's honestly not sure how old Brendon is, but his smile sometimes makes him look older.
-
Ryan calls three times in the middle of practice, and finally Spencer gets tired of feeling his phone buzz against his thigh. He says, "Guys, someone keeps calling, hold up."
He gets up and heads outside, sticking close to the door, leaning one shoulder against the wall as he actually picks up. "Hello?"
"Hey. Hey, Spencer, Spencer. We forgot to have somebody be designated driver."
"Fuck," Spencer says. "Fuck, are you okay?"
"What?"
Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, putting a little pressure on his eyes as well. "You didn't get in an accident, at least, right?"
"No!" Ryan says, "No, Spencer. I'm smarter than that. I just need a ride. Because I can't drive."
Spencer says, "Well, you should have fucking thought of that ahead of time."
"Come on, Spence," Ryan says. "Spence. You owe me."
"I'm in the middle of something," Spencer says.
"I can wait."
"Fuck," Spencer says. "Okay, whatever, fuck it. Where are you?"
-
Spencer stays at practice another half hour, but he's distracted, ends up apologizing -- "Fuck, I'm sorry, guys, some asshole kid I know got his ass drunk. I have to go save the day."
"Always how it fucking is, huh," Warren says. He pitches his voice high and reedy, "Ooh, Warren, you don't drink! You can be my personal taxi cab, for free, then I'll awkwardly hit on you! It'll be great! You're the best!" He snorts, shaking his head.
"I've known this dude since I was like five," Spencer says. He's got a headache, and rubs at his temples.
Dave laughs and says, "Just go, dude. We'll just play with the drum machine or something."
"I thought we got Spencer so we wouldn't have to play with the drum machine," Beto says, faux-plaintive. "He's a, like, key part of the Rolodex Propaganda experience."
"Oh hey, there's our next album title," Spencer says.
Warren says, "That'd be the shittiest title, wow. Pretty sure we'll have to go with it."
"Yeah, you see?" Spencer says.
Dave says, "Shoo, Spencer. Go exert a positive influence on your inebriated brethren."
Beto says, "Yeah, go save the city from the forces of evil."
Spencer bites the inside of his lip, trying not to grin too big. "Alright, alright. I'll ... Warren, I'll call you, see if you guys are still around or whatever, once I've got this dude home."
Warren says, "Yeah, sure. Okay, hey, Beto, so what were you saying about the guitar part for the new song?"
"Oh, yeah," Beto says, picking up his guitar and scooting over the rickety stool he's been sitting on to sit next to Warren. "Well, see."
Spencer close the door carefully behind him, muting out the noise of ragged-edged guitar chords.
-
There's a parking space open right in front of the door to Ryan's building, and Spencer pulls the car smoothly into it. He says, "Hey, Ryan, wake up. You're home, asshole."
"Mmph."
Spencer pokes him in the side.
"Ow, what?" Ryan says.
"Wake up, little Susie," Spencer says. "Time to sneak in and hope your parents don't ground you."
"'mnot living with my parents," Ryan says.
"Yeah, yeah," Spencer says. "Look, are you even going to be able to get up the stairs?"
"Yes," Ryan says. "Maybe. I can do it with your help. With your blessed assistance."
When Spencer walks around to Ryan's side of the car, Ryan grabs onto his wrists to pull himself to his feet. He looks spindly, awkward and sort of giraffe-like. His shoulder is bony where it's pressed up against Spencer's chest. The way he's leaning is sort of awkward, and Spencer pushes him to his feet.
"O-kay," Spencer says. "C'mon. Up, boy."
Ryan says, "Tomorrow's going to suck, but today's alright."
Ryan can't quite walk straight. At the stairs, he says, "Spencer, carry me. It's the only way I'll make it."
"No. You're an adult, come the fuck on."
"You're being mean."
"You're being drunk."
Ryan laughs.
Ryan manages to get up the stairs on his own with a minimum of assistance and without being carried at all. "I made it, no thanks to you," he says once he's reached the top and is standing in front of his apartment door. "You can at least ... unlock the door for me. Come on."
Spencer rolls his eyes but holds his hand out, palm up, for Ryan's key. Ryan digs around in his pocket until he finds it, then presses it carefully into Spencer's hand, pushing his fingers closed around it. "There, it's yours."
As he's unlocking the door, Spencer says, "What?"
"You're the most reliable person I know," Ryan says. "It's like life's this puzzle, and everybody's pieces got mixed up at the factory and we're just trying to put them back together the right way, you know? We have to do what we can, even with all these weird pieces that aren't even the right sizes, they're all these different things."
"Oh, okay," Spencer says, pushing the door open. "There you go."
"No, hey, come in for a little bit," Ryan says. "We can have coffee. But I mean, seriously, it's like -- I don't know, it's like you're the only person I know who has the right pieces, and it's like you're. I don't know. Like you've got this puzzle of a, a ... lighthouse, and maybe you started out with some of the wrong pieces but you traded for the right ones or something, I don't know, and so you've actually got a picture of something." Ryan pauses, giggling. "At least you got rid of the pieces with the beard."
"Wow," Spencer says. "Are you sure you're not high, too?"
"No, sorry," Ryan says. He sinks down into his couch, and looks up at Spencer. "Not tonight."
"No, it's okay," Spencer says. He stands just inside the door, holding it open with his foot. "Feel free not to be stoned whenever you want."
"Thank you," Ryan says. He threads his fingers together, looking down at them critically. "But no. I mean it. And it's like, I've got these pieces, it's like I stuck together a walrus and a carnival and a mandolin, and like, the whole time I thought it was just this picture of this cat, but it's really not. I don't know if I even have any of the right pieces for that anymore. I thought I had it, but I don't."
"Okay," Spencer says. "So why don't you just take it apart?"
"I can't," Ryan says. "What if when I try putting it back together, it's even worse?"
"Yeah, but if you find the right pieces," Spencer says. "And you don't have anywhere to put them because you've got this other shit jammed on. What are you going to do then?"
Ryan says, "Fuck."
Spencer says, "Okay, can I go now? I seriously was doing something."
"You never do anything," Ryan says. "You don't go to shows. You don't go out drinking. You just go to work and watch television and then you somehow go on roadtrips with friends, and I don't know how you even do it, okay."
Spencer says, "Hey. Hey, Ryan." He closes the door behind him, stepping into the room. "It's just. What I've gotta do."
"Yeah, well," Ryan says.
Spencer sits down next to Ryan, pulls him into an awkward hug.
Ryan mumbles against his shoulder. "I met this girl freshman year, dude. And we were. We were something amazing, okay, and we lasted five years, and I don't know what I'm doing."
Spencer says, "Oh, okay."
"Sorry," Ryan says. "Sorry. I just. I thought I'd come home, only. Everything's all weird, and."
"You should probably go to bed."
"Yeah."
"But drink some water first."
"Okay."
Ryan says, "So I think I might throw up."
Spencer says, "Jesus Christ, Ryan, you're not in college anymore. Why did you even drink so much?"
"I know, I know," Ryan says. "I just."
He gets up, then spends the next twenty minutes crouched in front of the toilet, hair hanging down in front of his eyes. He looks miserable and off-balance, breathing a little too heavy.
Spencer sits on the edge of the bathtub next to him, and eventually ends up pulling his iPod out of his pocket. "You want to listen to anything?"
Ryan shakes his head, huffing out something next to a laugh.
Spencer listens to something quiet and slow, sung in German. He doesn't understand a word, but he closes his eyes and puts it on loop.
When Ryan finally does throw up, Spencer leans in to hold his bangs out of his eyes. Ryan retches a few more times, then just leans forward, resting his head against the toilet seat, arms around it.
Spencer says, "Washcloths?"
"Under the sink."
So Spencer gets a washcloth and wipes Ryan's forehead off, and Ryan says, "No, it's okay, I've got it," and takes the washcloth, sits back up to wipe his face down. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Spencer says.
Spencer stays the night, sleeping in a mess of blankets on the floor of Ryan's bedroom. "Just like old times, huh," Ryan says, a bit warily. He's lying on his side when Spencer looks up at Ryan, where he's curled up on the bed. Ryan's face is pale and wan, his eyes glassy.
Spencer sits up, leans over to neaten Ryan's hair a little. "Hey. I've got one request. There's one thing you can do for me."
"Yeah?"
"Don't choke on your own vomit and die," Spencer says. "Please."
"Okay," Ryan says.
-
For work, Spencer borrows a t-shirt from Ryan. None of Ryan's button-downs come close to fitting right, but there's just enough stretch in the t-shirt. The problem is that Spencer's body isn't a jumbled-up collection of twigs and bones; he's got actual fat and muscle on him. The fact that he's a little taller doesn't help.
So Spencer ends up in a t-shirt and jacket that only half fits, and he's got three separate meetings with vendors.
Halfway through the day, his boss calls him into her office. "We don't have casual Mondays here, Spencer." She folds her hands and rests her elbows on the table, leaning forward. "It seems like you've been really out of it lately."
"My sales are up," Spencer says. He rubs at his eyes again, even though he's been doing that too much. The veins in his eyes are sometimes broken, little red spiderwebs curving around their surfaces. "I'm not behind or anything."
"Are you alright, Spencer?" she says. "It seems like you didn't even get any rest on your time off."
"No, no, I'm fine," Spencer says. "It's okay. Things are just a little weird right now, you know."
"Well," she says. "Well. Alright. Spencer, if you ever need to talk to anyone, I'm here. I'm just worried about you."
"I'll go to bed early tonight," Spencer says. "You know, make a good dinner and get some more rest."
"That sounds like a good idea."
-
Spencer's too tired to fall asleep.
-
Spencer spends all of Tuesday working harder, getting his desk entirely cleared off post-vacation. He'd been letting things build up again, and he gets everything sorted and filed away, returns most of the e-mails sitting in his inbox, and is out of the office by a quarter after five.
Ryan comes over for a while, and they watch old movies together. "I need some more Tony Curtis in my life," Ryan says with a shrug, by way of explanation when he pulls out the first movie. "This is a classic movie, alright?"
Partway through, Ryan leans against Spencer, still looking straight ahead at the screen. Spencer doesn't move and doesn't look at him.
He gets up and makes popcorn before switching movies and comes back to sit pressed thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder with Ryan. He rubs his thumb over the jut of bone at Ryan's wrist for a little while before letting his hand fall to rest.
By the third movie, Ryan's falling asleep. Spencer says, "Hey, you want me to get you a blanket or anything?"
Ryan says, "No, no. I'll go home in a minute."
"You can crash here, if you want."
Ryan says, "Thanks. It's okay, though. I don't want to impose or anything. I'll see you at work."
"Later, then," Spencer says, and holds on a few seconds longer than he should when Ryan hugs him.
-
Wednesday night, Spencer has practice.
Warren stops them ten minutes in. "Dude, Spencer, are you okay?"
"What? Yeah."
"You keep fucking up."
"Oh," Spencer says, looking down at his hands, down at his kit. "Really?"
"Yeah," Warren says. "No, look, it's cool, we'll just. I was thinking we could debut that new song on Friday night, but we can just do it later. Whenever we book our next show."
"Sorry, no," Spencer says. "I'll. Try to pay more attention, it's fine. Let's get this right."
Spencer tries.
Beto says, "I don't know, I think I'm done."
Dave says, "Yeah, it'll be fine. I'm tired as shit; let's go get some food or something."
"IHOP?" Beto says, grinning.
"We're actually getting somewhere," Warren says. "Motherfuckers."
"No, come on," Beto says. "Tell me you don't want some blueberry pancakes, seriously. Blueberry pancakes, Warren. With fucking strawberries on top, too. You know, get a nice big cup of coffee, eat some pancakes."
"Shit," Dave says. "That's not even what I was gonna get, but that sounds fucking fabulous right about now."
Warren says, "I. Not in the middle of practice. Guys."
"Well, if we end practice," Dave says. "Spencer, come on, back me up on this."
"I could go for some french toast," Spencer says.
"See?" Dave says. "Look. Even Spencer wants breakfast food in the middle of the night, man."
Warren laughs derisively, shaking his head, and the two of them argue back and forth for a while longer while Beto starts unpplugging equipment and straightening up the space.
Spencer sits back and watches, and when they're finally leaving Beto nods at him, and Dave holds a hand out to bump fists with him, and Spencer is sort of terrified to imagine what life would be like without his band.
-
When Ryan calls at sometime around eleven, Spencer's in bed staring at the ceiling. He feels. Alright, maybe. Dinner was good. Practice ended too soon, but he wasn't really up for it anyway, so.
So Ryan calls, and Spencer reaches to the nightstand and slides his phone across the surface, eventually actually picking up.
"Hey, 'sup," Spencer says, tired.
Ryan says, "You're awake, right?"
"Yes. That's how I'm talking to you."
Ryan says, "So I'm going to this show Friday night, and you said you hadn't been to one in a while, so I wondered if you'd want to come, maybe."
"Who is it?" Spencer says. There's this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wonders, if he got in his car right now and started driving, how far he'd be able to go before running out of gas.
Ryan takes a while to answer. "Rolodex Propaganda. They're playing third; there's a few other bands, too. Like, Set Phasers to Stun and Relatives Got Nerves and shit. Doors are at six, but nobody's playing until seven, I think. Rolodex should be on by like eight thirty."
Spencer takes a breath, and he means to say, sorry, I'm busy but it comes out as, "I'll think about it."
"Oh, oh cool," Ryan says. "So do you want to meet up before the show or anything?"
"No, I'm busy before that. But I'll try to come, if I can. Maybe I'll see you there."
"Yeah, sure," Ryan says. "I hope you can come out, it'll be a good night."
-
Spencer feels out of place, like he doesn't belong with these kids he's known for years. He hangs by Ryan's side all through the first two bands, and for a little while as the second band is breaking down. Then he says, "I, uhm. Have to go."
Ryan says, "What? Dude, what? Why?" His eyes are bright and he's practically jittering with energy, and the look he gives Spencer is just clear, open-eyed confusion.
Spencer says, "I'm just going to -- I'll see you after the set is over, okay."
Ryan grabs onto his lower arm, and says, "No, hey, where are you going? Come on. If you want to leave or anything, that's cool."
Spencer breaks away. He says, "Just, look. Okay. I'll see you after this set is over."
-
After the show, Spencer finds Ryan waiting in line at the merch table talking to Brendon. Spencer thinks about telling Brendon to just give him the merch for free, but he just hangs back a ways, waiting until Ryan notices him again.
Ryan says, "So."
"So," Spencer repeats.
"So what the fuck?"
Spencer shrugs. He says, "Wanna go to Starbucks?"
The barista is frowning over Spencer's drink as she makes it, and finally looks up. "You had the grande nonfat extra-whip mocha?"
"With a shot of vanilla," Spencer says.
"A shot," she repeats.
"Yes."
"Like, do you want one pump, or the normal --"
Spencer cuts her off, frowning. "A shot."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Like a shot of espresso," Spencer says. "But with vanilla. Not espresso."
"You still want the espresso in your drink, though, right?"
"Yes."
"And an entire shot of vanilla."
"Yes."
"Okay," she says. She finishes up, puts a little cardboard sleeve on, and calls -- rolling her eyes as she does -- "Grande shot-of-vanilla nonfat extra-whip mocha."
Then she's saying, "Sir, you do know straws are not recommended for use in hot beverages, right?"
"Yeah."
Ryan says, "Wow, uhm." He's been standing watching the whole debacle while sipping at his chai latte. "So hey, what the fuck."
They sit at a table in a corner by a window, and Spencer nudges at Ryan's ankle with his foot. Ryan draws his foot back.
Spencer says, "Okay."
"I don't even -- like, I don't even know. What the fuck is so secret about being in a band that you've got to lie to me?"
Spencer's staring straight at him, but Ryan won't meet his eyes.
Ryan sighs, slumping forward in his chair. "You know what. Just. Whatever."
Spencer sits there, sipping his still-hot mocha through the thin plastic straw.
Ryan stands up and says, "So I'm just going to go now."
Spencer says, "I just can't fucking deal with that job, okay."
"The fuck," Ryan says, yet again. "Dude, you're awesome at your job. The store's been doing fucking amazing because of you. You get your shit done on time, so what's up?"
Spencer says, "Yeah, I know."
Ryan says, "And what does that have to do with being in a band and lying for no good reason? One does not preclude the other. Do you just have fun lying, or what?"
"I just," Spencer says. "Don't really feel like talking about this, okay, can you just forget about it?"
"Fuck."
-
Spencer doesn't learn that Ryan's moving away again until this girl at the office tells him to bring something to the going-away party tomorrow.
He calls in sick, instead.
-
Spencer's the one who writes the Myspace bulletin announcing Rolodex Propaganda's European headline tour, and the month and a half long nationwide tour where they're sharing top billing We Are the Pale Horse ("who knows who'll play first - we're probably gonna switch it up so make sure to come early and catch everything. stick around after and say hi, too! our merch guy's pretty much converted dave to being vegan, so bring him something tasty if you're feeling generous. :)")
"You've been doing a really incredible job here, Spencer," his boss tells him. "Is there anything we can do that would convince you to stay with us, at least until we've got orders squared away for the Christmas season?"
Spencer says, "No. Probably not. I'll stick out my two weeks, but I've got something coming up right after."
-
Rolodex does another national tour in support of their fourth album, once they finish recording. They drive out to a studio in Vegas to do the whole thing, all four of them living in this stupidly cramped condo for the month and a half it takes to lay everything down. Being able to dedicate almost all of their time to recording helps speed things along, compared to their first three albums. They've already got a European label willing to distribute them, thanks to an A&R guy who saw them in Nuremburg; it takes a while, but playing coy long enough gets an American label to give them a good deal and sign them too.
Spencer's been going out to shows a lot more, giving his own input on the creative process a lot more. When the lease is up on his apartment, he moves in with Warren and Dave and is apparently the only motherfucker in the place who gives a shit about cleaning the damn bathtub every now and then.
At their New York date, Spencer hangs out at the side of the stage, and it's only as they're setting up that he notices -- and it takes him a second to figure out who the hipster standing around in the back corner is -- Ryan, leaning up against a wall, watching the stage intently as he sips disdainfully from a large bottle of water. Spencer schools his mouth into something smile-like, and raises his hand in a wave.
He can't tell if Ryan's expression changes, because Ryan turns around to talk to someone else.
After the show, the band's hanging around talking to one of the other bands and to some kids who came to the show ("Hey, thanks for playing," and "No, thank you for coming out"s are exchanged more than once).
Spencer's handed one of his own drumsticks, and he looks up to see Ryan giving him this half-cocked smile. "Hey, you dropped this. Want to sign it for me?"
"Yeah, sure," Spencer says, looking at Ryan the whole time he does.
"New album's pretty good."
"Uh. Thanks."
Warren beams, stepping in. "Yeah, we worked pretty hard on it. We were really lucky with our producer, he's mostly been doing hip-hop stuff these days, but it turned out pretty sweet."
"Definitely, definitely," Ryan says. "I mean, it's a little polished, but the songs are good enough to make up for it."
Spencer ducks his head down. He can't quite make himself look at Ryan. "I'm going to go see if there's any pizza left in the dressing room, or if Beto ate it all."
Warren says, "Shit, there was pizza?"
"Yeah, dude," Spencer says. "C'mon, let's go."
Warren's already halfway in the venue, but Ryan stops Spencer. "Hey."
"Hi." Spencer says, "So I quit my job."
"I figured." Ryan says, "It was that or maternity leave."
"Yeah, and no," Spencer says. "I don't have a uterus."
"Cool, I don't either."
"Awesome," Spencer says. "We were pretty much meant to be, then, huh? Damn."
Ryan looks at him with this bemused expression, like he knows something Spencer doesn't.
Spencer says, "You wanna, uh. Come see if there's any pizza left? Or are you watching your figure?"
Ryan says, "Not enough that I can't afford stealing your food."
After that, Spencer hugs Ryan maybe a little too long.
Ryan rubs at his back, and says, "Hey, let's go. Wouldn't want to miss out on the free food."
"Right."
From: provetheworst
Title: took my kindness for weakness
Rating: R
Characters: Ryan/Spencer, some Spencer/Brendon
Word Count: 8075
Warnings: Relatively nongraphic sex, a little violence.
Disclaimer: there is a stunning lack of truth in this.
Summary: When it comes right down to it, Spencer's pretty hardcore. AU!
Notes: If you don't recognize a name, it's probably an original character. Thanks to my beta for realizing that "tomg" is not a word.
Spencer has a brand new suit. It's a dull color somewhere near burnt sienna, made of dyed cotton, with imprecise chalk-white pinstripes and the edges artfully frayed. The elbows pre-worn just enough to look trendy, not enough to look unprofessional. The shirt he's wearing underneath is the color of a road that hasn't been resurfaced in three years. He and Ryan picked the whole thing out at Macy's two weeks ago, and Spencer made Ryan buy new shoes, and they both spent way too much money.
Spencer wakes up in the morning and the first thing he does is shave, dry, at the dresser in his bedroom. The second thing he does is roll on some Old Spice, reaches around to do a single spritz of cologne at the nape of his neck. Then he puts on his new suit.
Spencer stares at himself in the mirror. He tugs at the skin under his eyes, tilts his head side to side, sticks his tongue out. Goes, "Aaaah." Flares his nostrils. Squints his eyes.
Spencer goes to work.
-
Ryan gets him his morning coffee, but first he says, "Spence. You have to brush your teeth."
"Oh, yeah."
"Seriously. Coffee's just going to make it worse."
"No, I got it. Wasn't thinking this morning," Spencer says, and disappears to the employee bathroom for a while.
Once he's back, Ryan says, "Nice outfit, though."
Spencer smooths down his lapels. He looks down; he wishes he'd worn a tie, so he could adjust it. Instead he just does up the top button of his shirt. Buttons his jacket all the way.
Ryan says, "I've got a vendor coming in, like, twenty minutes. I haven't cleared off my desk in three days. Shit." He rubs at his eyes, and Spencer stares at him. Ryan says, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, no, I'm fine," Spencer says. "Just, you know. It's busy."
"Yeah."
"Yeah," Spencer says.
Ryan shuffles his feet a little, shifting his weight as he says, "I'm going to go see if I can't throw away half the catalogs sitting on my desk. Or file them, or some shit."
"Give them to me, if you have to," Spencer says. "I've been keeping up okay. I can file yours."
"Oh, hey, thanks."
"Yeah," Spencer says.
-
Spencer plays with a hardcore band these days. He thinks the guitarist might be a skinhead, but he doesn't really pry. He doesn't want to know, because knowing would mean he'd have to give a shit. He just likes the smell of sweat and sometimes-blood from the crowd; never beer, their band is edge and the crew that always shows up is militant, and everyone in the scene's learned better. New people learn quick.
Spencer likes to close his eyes as he attacks his drumset, limbs flying fast and vicious. Playing like this used to leave his arms sore for days. He'd wake up exhausted. It's taken a while, but now he's just got broader shoulders and stronger arms and he hardly feels any of it anymore.
Their singer, Warren, always laughs and says, "You could really fuck shit up, man, be like totally unstoppable. Man, it'd be hilarious seeing you fuck with some drunken assholes. I don't even know how many people's shit you'd wreck."
Spencer says, "I'm not really into that. I'm just here to play. I mean, it's not my fault what other people do, you know?"
"Right, yeah, sure."
-
So he's got a show after work. Only, Ryan says, "Hey, what are you doing after work tonight? Me and some of the stockroom guys were going to go catch a show tonight. You want to come?"
"No, sorry," Spencer says.
"Okay, it's cool."
"I'm busy," Spencer says.
"Alright, see you tomorrow."
"If I wasn't busy I would."
"Okay." Ryan says, "Later, dude."
-
What Spencer likes about playing drums is, it borders on anonymous. The lights barely hit him, and he can sit in the back in a black t-shirt and black jeans and become almost invisible. He's reduced to his basic parts, to his arms and his ducked head, the press of his chin almost to the center dip of his clavicle. Sometimes he forgets that he's not all soft-edged anymore.
He's breath, measured and conscious, and motion, with the snap of his wrists, and he's the shuddering vibration of heavy drumbeats that rattle through him, getting muted somewhere in bone, damped by marrow. It replaces exhaustion, fills in the hollows under his eyes, chokes out the frustration and impatience. The rest of the band, they fill in the rest of the gaps.
All he has to do is keep it together.
Tonight, of all nights, after the show he's hanging around talking to a friend, this guy Frank, and someone calls them a pair of fucking cocksucking faggots, and --
-
Ryan says, "Dude, what happened? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, some guy tried to steal my wallet after dinner last night," Spencer says. He rubs at the dark spot under his eye; it feels smooth, softer than the rest of his skin. "It's cool, though. One of my friends had just run inside, forgot his cell phone? He came out and saved my ass." Spencer laughs.
"That sucks, wow," Ryan says. He's staring, and if it weren't for the black eye Spencer would think Ryan was trying to avoid meeting his eyes. "There was a fight at the show I went to last night, I heard. Like, right after Rolodex got off."
"Oh yeah? That's too bad. Yeah, I just went out with some friends I hadn't seen for a while, you know how it is."
"Yeah, yeah," Ryan says. "We need to play the catch-up game soon too, though."
"Of course," Spencer says. "I'm not doing anything tomorrow, if you want."
"That's when," Ryan says, then catches himself. "Oh, no, I'm free. That's cool. Want to just come to my place? I just got an SNES again. I have Duck Hunt."
"Man, with that fucking dog? I haven't played that in forever."
-
"Come on, Spencer, where's the love? Unity's what makes the scene go 'round," Warren says. Warren is tall, taller than Spencer, but wiry, with a gap between his two front teeth and tattoos down his arms. "These guys are practically our brothers, man."
"We've played three shows with them, total," Spencer says. "In three years."
"Yeah, but they always come out for us. You're the only one who doesn't return the favor." Warren says, "Seriously, you're good, but where's your loyalty?"
Spencer says, "I haven't said I'm not going to this show, have I?"
"Not yet."
"That's because I'm going this time. I'm just always busy. My job's got shitty hours," Spencer says. "They keep dicking me over."
Warren says, "Alright, alright, whatever, man. Hey, Dave, can you tune my guitar?"
"Sure, man."
Spencer leaves his kit set up. They've got dedicated practice space in this old warehouse, all of them chipping in for the rent. Sometimes Spencer will pretend not to have quite enough money to pay his share, because there's always someone short. He doesn't want to cover for it every time. So he pretends he can't. Doesn't want to look like the responsible one here.
At the show, Spencer tries to stick to the edge of the pit, stands towards the back, but Warren wades through the crowd and pulls him in. Spencer feels the pull. The music's grinding inside his skull and he turns with it, lets it burrow in and guide his elbows, his fists, guide his legs and the swing of his heavy boots through air. Lets it define every connection.
He's getting pushed towards the edge of the pit, and someone slams him into one of the guys at the last line of defense between the mosh pit and the little kids pogoing and the one or two guys who are holding on tight to their girls, the few who were crazy enough to bring girls here at all.
Spencer stumbles. He clamps his teeth down so he won't bite his tongue. He throws his arm back, and someone catches an elbow in the stomach but doesn't go down, only. Spencer sort of looks. Spencer sort of notices. It's some skinny hipster guy in a bandanna and vest, and. Spencer turns away before recognition can kick in on either end. Hopefully.
-
Spencer says, "Wow, this is the best couch I've sat on in ... ever."
"Thanks," Ryan says, dryly. "I'm glad you like it. I don't know what I'd do with myself if you didn't."
"Can I live here forever?"
"If you play nice and don't chew on my slippers," Ryan says.
"Shut up," Spencer says, burying his face in a throw pillow. He flops around a bit until he's got his legs up on the couch, across Ryan's lap. He's lying there face down. "Mmph."
"I hope you don't shed," Ryan says, with an audible roll of his eyes.
"No, it's winter. I get scruffier when it's cold. Such is the way of Mother Nature."
Spencer twists his head sideways, so he can at least get fresh air when he breathes, rather than recycling the pocket of stale air that's formed between the pillow, his shoulder, and the back of the couch. "Shedding's for summer."
"Makes sense," Ryan says.
"You're lucky you missed that time when I thought a beard was a good idea, though," Spencer says. "Shit."
"You had a beard?" Ryan says. "You? Seriously?"
"It was terrible. I thought it was the best thing ever. I don't know." Spencer says, "Pretty sure it's why my ex broke up with me."
Ryan laughs. "For want of a clean-shaven face, the kingdom was lost?"
"Pretty much," Spencer says. "Chris was kind of an asshole sometimes anyway, I guess."
"Was she at least hot?"
"Uhm," Spencer says.
"Oh, Spencer," Ryan says, shaking his head. "Don't lower your standards. Come on. Long as you don't grow another beard, you can do just fine."
"Uhm," Spencer says again. "I guess Chris was pretty hot, actually."
"Well," Ryan says. "Whatever, if she was shallow enough she broke up with you over a beard and didn't even, like, just tell you to fucking shave or whatever."
"Yeah, no, that wasn't all it was about," Spencer says. "And, uh. The night we broke up. He did. Tell me I looked like a jackass, I mean."
"Oh," Ryan says.
-
Spencer gets a haircut from one of Warren's friends, this crazy little ex-Mormon vegan activist straightedge kid. Spencer feels like if he made up labels, the kid would claim them and make up the philosophy behind them just to fit in with something. Just to have another group to align himself with.
"Here, take a look," the kid says, giving him this rough-edged square of mirror with electrical tape on two sides. Spencer holds it at angles, twists his head around to check it out. He brings a hand to the back of his head, rubbing against the grain. He tilts his head up, rubbing his thumb against the back of his neck, then lets his head lower and his eyes close.
"Fucking sweet," Spencer says, looking up again and nodding his approval.
-
Things are okay. Spencer's life is going well; he's putting money into savings, not spending too much. He's on track for retirement. His apartment's in a decent part of town, and he's got well-assembled Ikea furniture. He's got a pet cat and a cactus and a couple of flowers, and a few generic art prints on the walls. His boss likes his new haircut, and so does his band.
Things are okay, only the band is gearing up for a short tour and he's not sure how to couch it to the people at work. He's pretty sure he's got vacation time available. He's never even taken a day off in the three years he's worked here, just left early a few times, that's it. He hasn't even taken a sick day. So.
The only person to ask where he's going is Ryan.
Spencer stares at him, an animal startled by accidentally-triggered security lights. He wants to bolt. "Uh."
Ryan says, "Are you just taking some time off, or what?"
"Uh, no," Spencer says. "Yeah, sort of. Roadtrip. With some guys I know."
"Huh," Ryan says. "Cool, cool. Yeah, I did a few of those back in college."
"I didn't," Spencer says. "So."
"Nice to take some time to be irresponsible, huh?"
"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, definitely." He looks down, forgetting that, with his hair this short, it's hard to do that thing where he hides under his bangs to talk. "Hey, look," he says, and he's really just looking up at Ryan through his eyelashes, not hiding at all. "So I'll see you in a couple weeks, okay." He smiles, anyway, reaches out to squeeze Ryan's shoulder.
Ryan tilts his head around, looking down at Spencer's hand on his shoulder, and pulls Spencer into a hug. "Yeah, I'll see you."
Spencer rests his cheek against Ryan's shoulder before pulling back.
-
The tour is phenomenal. They're opening up for We Are the Pale Horse, whose van is five years older but still somehow ten times nicer than theirs. The tour's only about two weeks long, but. They start out at a community center in Los Angeles, head up to a real venue in Seattle, then all the way over to Madison and Ann Arbor, two huge shows in Chicago and Champaign-Urbana -- Pale Horse's lead singer's from the area, apparently, so it's bordering on a hometown show for them -- then looping back around to hit St. Louis and Kansas City, playing to five kids at the VFW in Salt Lake, then at least forty kids each in Santa Fe and Phoenix, and then two nights -- one sold out, the other not -- back home in Vegas.
No one showers, no one gets enough sleep, and Spencer loves it.
Spencer already misses the back of the van. He's breaking down his kit for the last time, and all he can think of is being curled up on the cold metal floor, with Warren asleep next to him and Beto snoring in the back seat, and the barely-audible sound of whatever classic rock station Dave's got on the radio up front.
He's already wondering how many nights it's going to be before he's used to having a bed again.
He's already wondering if he can force himself to go back to his office job.
They finish loading up the van, and Pale Horse are still on, so even though Beto's planning on taking the van back home now, Spencer just waves, says he'll get a cab.
He's going to make this last as long as he can. He thought two weeks and he'd be tired of it, be ready to go back to his normal, boring life, but. He's really not.
He tries to pretend it's not almost over, except the guys from Pale Horse keep talking about how excited they've been for this tour, how glad they are it's finally over, how they can't wait to see everybody again next tour.
Spencer doesn't pay attention to that. The crowd is tight-packed up front, and he works his way up there, lets the crowd carry him. He doesn't even have to move to pogo, there's enough energy and motion. He does, though, doesn't feel like cheating. He's exhausted and he's more wired than he's ever been.
An over-intentional hand on his shoulder has him looking over between songs, and Ryan's grinning at him. And Ryan's got a hand looped through his arm, to keep from losing him. And Ryan's got bony hips and long, long fingers, and Ryan drags him out of the pit eventually, says, "Hey, hey, you listen to We Are the Pale Horse too?"
"I was here for Rolodex Propaganda." And Spencer says, "But Pale Horse are awesome. They're good guys."
Ryan says, "I really like them; did you ever listen to their singer's old band?"
"No." He says, "I only met these guys like a month ago."
"Oh, well, they were really good," Ryan says. "You know them?"
"Sweet," Spencer says, nodding. "Well, yeah."
Ryan says, "So can you," and Spencer pushes him back against the wall and kisses him. Ryan's pupils are huge.
Spencer says, "I can introduce you later. Maybe."
And Spencer drags Ryan into the men's bathroom, and Ryan's the one who locks the stall door behind them, the one who shoves his knee in between Spencer's legs and bites at his lower lip.
Spencer's the one with his eyes still open as he pulls the zip down on Ryan's jeans, and Ryan's the one who's still harsh and demanding as they kiss.
Spencer's the one who drops to his knees, looking up at Ryan through his eyelashes. Spencer's the one who can't hide under his bangs anymore. Ryan's the one with his head tilted back and his hands fisted in Spencer's hair.
Spencer's the one who makes a desperate little sound in the back of his throat, who just takes it when Ryan's hips jerk forward. Ryan's the one breathing hard and trying to keep quiet, the one with a foot braced against the toilet as he tries to stay standing. Spencer's the one still looking up at Ryan the whole time, one hand working the base of Ryan's cock and the other shoved into his own pants.
The metal wall creaks, shudders a little. They're being quiet, and the music's still loud even through the door, but Spencer can still just barely hear the slight brush of denim around ankles as Ryan shifts, the not-quite scraping noise of fingernails-on-metal as Ryan tries to find purchase for more balance on the toilet paper holder.
The light is yellow and flickering and doesn't reach back quite far enough. Ryan takes in this snuffling, shuddering breath, says, "Hey, Spencer. Spence."
Ryan's got his head ducked down, is now biting on the hand not in Spencer's hair, having given up on balance.
Spencer's knees are sort of damp, and he tries not to think about it, just licks off the precome leaking from Ryan's cock. In those last few moments, he closes his eyes and then swallows, hard.
The bathroom's dirty enough; whoever works here doesn't need anything else to deal with.
-
Spencer goes home to his apartment and he's amazed that someone lives here. He looks around and tries to imagine the kind of person who would live here. He presses his thumbs against his eyelids and reminds himself.
That there's enough air here to breathe, he finds that hard to believe. There's too much space, surely, particles stretched thin. The dust motes feel electrically charged as they sift down in front of the light that drifts though the closed and dirty window.
Spencer doesn't get to sleep.
-
At work on Monday, Ryan nudges Spencer with his shoulder, giving him this coy little smirk. "Hey, Spencer, what's up? Have a good weekend?"
"Yeah." Spencer's changing the filter on the coffee maker and doesn't look up. "It was pretty nice, I guess."
"It was good seeing you. I didn't know you even went to shows anymore."
"What?" Spencer says.
"Uhm," Ryan says. "At the show."
"I wasn't at a show," Spencer says. "I was basically passed out all weekend, dude."
Ryan frowns.
Spencer shrugs. "I watched a bunch of Home Shopping Network, I don't even know. I kind of wish I had gone to a show. That was a shitty way to end a vacation."
Ryan, he stands there with his hands in his pockets, his expression not quite blank.
"It's been for-fucking-ever," Spencer says.
"Yeah, well," Ryan says.
Spencer says, "So what are you doing after work?"
"I don't know," Ryan says, voice careful and measured and somehow even more monotone than usual. "You want to go out for a drink or anything?"
"Oh, I don't drink," Spencer says.
"Seriously? Not even, like, just one? Come on, we can hang out or whatever."
"No," Spencer says. "I, uh. Recovering alcoholic. You know."
"What the fuck," Ryan says. "Wow, okay."
"Yeah."
"No, that's," Ryan says. "Okay. No worries."
"I kind of want to get new shoes, though," Spencer says. "If you wanted to go to the mall."
"Uh, sure," Ryan says. "Sure. Cool."
"Awesome," Spencer says.
Then Ryan says, "Seriously, did I just -- imagine you -- you went to see We Are the Pale Horse a couple nights ago, right?"
"Who?"
"Fuck," Ryan says.
"Seriously, what?"
"Nothing," Ryan says. "I just, wow. I must be more tired than I thought, lately."
"Get some sleep," Spencer says. "Like, take the day off early and get some sleep or something."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."
"Yeah," Spencer says.
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"Right," Ryan says. "I'm going to go. Leave now."
"Later," Spencer says. "But let me know if you want to go to the mall sometime, anyway."
"Right," Ryan says. "Maybe once I wake up, if it's not too late."
Ryan doesn't wake up early enough for the mall, but IHOP's open 24 hours, as Spencer points out. He's gone there too many times with his band, mostly knows the waitstaff.
They go to IHOP, and a girl Spencer knows is working and gives them free coffee. He gives her a look, and she gives him this knowing grin and, as she's coming back from the kitchen with their coffee she winks at him. Spencer ducks his head down. Under the table, Ryan nudges at Spencer's foot, and Spencer nudges back, and they sit there and eat pancakes at 3AM with their ankles pressed together.
"Work's going to suck tomorrow," Ryan says.
"You can always go back to sleep once you get home."
"Maybe," Ryan says. "For a while."
"At least a couple of hours," Spencer says. "Plus, I can always fake illness or something. If you need a reason to be late, you can say you had to take me to the hospital."
Ryan laughs. "No, I think I'll be good."
"Okay."
"You're not going to be too tired, yourself?" Ryan says.
"Nah," Spencer says. "I just got back from vacation. I'm fine."
Ryan gives him this sleepy smile, lazily tapping his fork against his plate, the huge piece of blueberry pancake he's been gnawing at muffling any potential sound. He lifts it up, gnaws at it a bit more. "Sorry for waking you up."
"It's fine," Spencer says. "Just like old times."
"Yeah," Ryan says.
On the way out of the door, there's this step Spencer doesn't notice until he's tripping over it; Ryan puts a steady hand on his lower back, says, "You okay, there?"
"Yeah, yeah," Spencer says. "Aren't I supposed to be asking you that?"
"Hmm."
-
The tiny ex-Mormon kid with all the labels, his name is Brendon. He says, "Don't worry, I won't tell anybody."
The band's taking a little while off after that tour, they don't have any gigs scheduled for over a month, and Spencer's sort of going stir-crazy. He's used to being able to split his time, and now he's in work mode all the time, and.
So he calls up Warren and claims he needs another haircut, and Warren laughs at him and gives him the little ex-Mormon's number, and Spencer goes over to his place, and.
Spencer says, "It's not like it's got to be a secret, just."
Brendon says, "No, I know. I wouldn't just tell people I'm hooking up with some dude, like, not that that's a problem, but I wouldn't just broadcast it, it's not their business." He says, "That's not what I'm saying, though. That wasn't what I was talking about."
"Okay," Spencer says, and brushes his thumb against one of Brendon's tattoos. He's got this weird mix of words and patterns and imagery, and all Spencer can think is how much money all this must have cost. He presses his nose against the X over Brendon's heart, wonders if Brendon'd be willing to go again. He almost says as much, but can't quite bring himself to ask.
Brendon squints his eyes at him. "I work at Kinko's."
"Okay."
"Right across from Longford Plaza." He grins, says, "It took me, like, two years to figure out it was you though."
Spencer draws in a long hissing breath.
Brendon drops his voice to a whisper, still smiling. "Don't worry. Like I said. I won't tell."
Spencer pulls his clothes back on. "I had a good time."
"Yeah, me too."
"I'll see you later."
Spencer's honestly not sure how old Brendon is, but his smile sometimes makes him look older.
-
Ryan calls three times in the middle of practice, and finally Spencer gets tired of feeling his phone buzz against his thigh. He says, "Guys, someone keeps calling, hold up."
He gets up and heads outside, sticking close to the door, leaning one shoulder against the wall as he actually picks up. "Hello?"
"Hey. Hey, Spencer, Spencer. We forgot to have somebody be designated driver."
"Fuck," Spencer says. "Fuck, are you okay?"
"What?"
Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, putting a little pressure on his eyes as well. "You didn't get in an accident, at least, right?"
"No!" Ryan says, "No, Spencer. I'm smarter than that. I just need a ride. Because I can't drive."
Spencer says, "Well, you should have fucking thought of that ahead of time."
"Come on, Spence," Ryan says. "Spence. You owe me."
"I'm in the middle of something," Spencer says.
"I can wait."
"Fuck," Spencer says. "Okay, whatever, fuck it. Where are you?"
-
Spencer stays at practice another half hour, but he's distracted, ends up apologizing -- "Fuck, I'm sorry, guys, some asshole kid I know got his ass drunk. I have to go save the day."
"Always how it fucking is, huh," Warren says. He pitches his voice high and reedy, "Ooh, Warren, you don't drink! You can be my personal taxi cab, for free, then I'll awkwardly hit on you! It'll be great! You're the best!" He snorts, shaking his head.
"I've known this dude since I was like five," Spencer says. He's got a headache, and rubs at his temples.
Dave laughs and says, "Just go, dude. We'll just play with the drum machine or something."
"I thought we got Spencer so we wouldn't have to play with the drum machine," Beto says, faux-plaintive. "He's a, like, key part of the Rolodex Propaganda experience."
"Oh hey, there's our next album title," Spencer says.
Warren says, "That'd be the shittiest title, wow. Pretty sure we'll have to go with it."
"Yeah, you see?" Spencer says.
Dave says, "Shoo, Spencer. Go exert a positive influence on your inebriated brethren."
Beto says, "Yeah, go save the city from the forces of evil."
Spencer bites the inside of his lip, trying not to grin too big. "Alright, alright. I'll ... Warren, I'll call you, see if you guys are still around or whatever, once I've got this dude home."
Warren says, "Yeah, sure. Okay, hey, Beto, so what were you saying about the guitar part for the new song?"
"Oh, yeah," Beto says, picking up his guitar and scooting over the rickety stool he's been sitting on to sit next to Warren. "Well, see."
Spencer close the door carefully behind him, muting out the noise of ragged-edged guitar chords.
-
There's a parking space open right in front of the door to Ryan's building, and Spencer pulls the car smoothly into it. He says, "Hey, Ryan, wake up. You're home, asshole."
"Mmph."
Spencer pokes him in the side.
"Ow, what?" Ryan says.
"Wake up, little Susie," Spencer says. "Time to sneak in and hope your parents don't ground you."
"'mnot living with my parents," Ryan says.
"Yeah, yeah," Spencer says. "Look, are you even going to be able to get up the stairs?"
"Yes," Ryan says. "Maybe. I can do it with your help. With your blessed assistance."
When Spencer walks around to Ryan's side of the car, Ryan grabs onto his wrists to pull himself to his feet. He looks spindly, awkward and sort of giraffe-like. His shoulder is bony where it's pressed up against Spencer's chest. The way he's leaning is sort of awkward, and Spencer pushes him to his feet.
"O-kay," Spencer says. "C'mon. Up, boy."
Ryan says, "Tomorrow's going to suck, but today's alright."
Ryan can't quite walk straight. At the stairs, he says, "Spencer, carry me. It's the only way I'll make it."
"No. You're an adult, come the fuck on."
"You're being mean."
"You're being drunk."
Ryan laughs.
Ryan manages to get up the stairs on his own with a minimum of assistance and without being carried at all. "I made it, no thanks to you," he says once he's reached the top and is standing in front of his apartment door. "You can at least ... unlock the door for me. Come on."
Spencer rolls his eyes but holds his hand out, palm up, for Ryan's key. Ryan digs around in his pocket until he finds it, then presses it carefully into Spencer's hand, pushing his fingers closed around it. "There, it's yours."
As he's unlocking the door, Spencer says, "What?"
"You're the most reliable person I know," Ryan says. "It's like life's this puzzle, and everybody's pieces got mixed up at the factory and we're just trying to put them back together the right way, you know? We have to do what we can, even with all these weird pieces that aren't even the right sizes, they're all these different things."
"Oh, okay," Spencer says, pushing the door open. "There you go."
"No, hey, come in for a little bit," Ryan says. "We can have coffee. But I mean, seriously, it's like -- I don't know, it's like you're the only person I know who has the right pieces, and it's like you're. I don't know. Like you've got this puzzle of a, a ... lighthouse, and maybe you started out with some of the wrong pieces but you traded for the right ones or something, I don't know, and so you've actually got a picture of something." Ryan pauses, giggling. "At least you got rid of the pieces with the beard."
"Wow," Spencer says. "Are you sure you're not high, too?"
"No, sorry," Ryan says. He sinks down into his couch, and looks up at Spencer. "Not tonight."
"No, it's okay," Spencer says. He stands just inside the door, holding it open with his foot. "Feel free not to be stoned whenever you want."
"Thank you," Ryan says. He threads his fingers together, looking down at them critically. "But no. I mean it. And it's like, I've got these pieces, it's like I stuck together a walrus and a carnival and a mandolin, and like, the whole time I thought it was just this picture of this cat, but it's really not. I don't know if I even have any of the right pieces for that anymore. I thought I had it, but I don't."
"Okay," Spencer says. "So why don't you just take it apart?"
"I can't," Ryan says. "What if when I try putting it back together, it's even worse?"
"Yeah, but if you find the right pieces," Spencer says. "And you don't have anywhere to put them because you've got this other shit jammed on. What are you going to do then?"
Ryan says, "Fuck."
Spencer says, "Okay, can I go now? I seriously was doing something."
"You never do anything," Ryan says. "You don't go to shows. You don't go out drinking. You just go to work and watch television and then you somehow go on roadtrips with friends, and I don't know how you even do it, okay."
Spencer says, "Hey. Hey, Ryan." He closes the door behind him, stepping into the room. "It's just. What I've gotta do."
"Yeah, well," Ryan says.
Spencer sits down next to Ryan, pulls him into an awkward hug.
Ryan mumbles against his shoulder. "I met this girl freshman year, dude. And we were. We were something amazing, okay, and we lasted five years, and I don't know what I'm doing."
Spencer says, "Oh, okay."
"Sorry," Ryan says. "Sorry. I just. I thought I'd come home, only. Everything's all weird, and."
"You should probably go to bed."
"Yeah."
"But drink some water first."
"Okay."
Ryan says, "So I think I might throw up."
Spencer says, "Jesus Christ, Ryan, you're not in college anymore. Why did you even drink so much?"
"I know, I know," Ryan says. "I just."
He gets up, then spends the next twenty minutes crouched in front of the toilet, hair hanging down in front of his eyes. He looks miserable and off-balance, breathing a little too heavy.
Spencer sits on the edge of the bathtub next to him, and eventually ends up pulling his iPod out of his pocket. "You want to listen to anything?"
Ryan shakes his head, huffing out something next to a laugh.
Spencer listens to something quiet and slow, sung in German. He doesn't understand a word, but he closes his eyes and puts it on loop.
When Ryan finally does throw up, Spencer leans in to hold his bangs out of his eyes. Ryan retches a few more times, then just leans forward, resting his head against the toilet seat, arms around it.
Spencer says, "Washcloths?"
"Under the sink."
So Spencer gets a washcloth and wipes Ryan's forehead off, and Ryan says, "No, it's okay, I've got it," and takes the washcloth, sits back up to wipe his face down. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Spencer says.
Spencer stays the night, sleeping in a mess of blankets on the floor of Ryan's bedroom. "Just like old times, huh," Ryan says, a bit warily. He's lying on his side when Spencer looks up at Ryan, where he's curled up on the bed. Ryan's face is pale and wan, his eyes glassy.
Spencer sits up, leans over to neaten Ryan's hair a little. "Hey. I've got one request. There's one thing you can do for me."
"Yeah?"
"Don't choke on your own vomit and die," Spencer says. "Please."
"Okay," Ryan says.
-
For work, Spencer borrows a t-shirt from Ryan. None of Ryan's button-downs come close to fitting right, but there's just enough stretch in the t-shirt. The problem is that Spencer's body isn't a jumbled-up collection of twigs and bones; he's got actual fat and muscle on him. The fact that he's a little taller doesn't help.
So Spencer ends up in a t-shirt and jacket that only half fits, and he's got three separate meetings with vendors.
Halfway through the day, his boss calls him into her office. "We don't have casual Mondays here, Spencer." She folds her hands and rests her elbows on the table, leaning forward. "It seems like you've been really out of it lately."
"My sales are up," Spencer says. He rubs at his eyes again, even though he's been doing that too much. The veins in his eyes are sometimes broken, little red spiderwebs curving around their surfaces. "I'm not behind or anything."
"Are you alright, Spencer?" she says. "It seems like you didn't even get any rest on your time off."
"No, no, I'm fine," Spencer says. "It's okay. Things are just a little weird right now, you know."
"Well," she says. "Well. Alright. Spencer, if you ever need to talk to anyone, I'm here. I'm just worried about you."
"I'll go to bed early tonight," Spencer says. "You know, make a good dinner and get some more rest."
"That sounds like a good idea."
-
Spencer's too tired to fall asleep.
-
Spencer spends all of Tuesday working harder, getting his desk entirely cleared off post-vacation. He'd been letting things build up again, and he gets everything sorted and filed away, returns most of the e-mails sitting in his inbox, and is out of the office by a quarter after five.
Ryan comes over for a while, and they watch old movies together. "I need some more Tony Curtis in my life," Ryan says with a shrug, by way of explanation when he pulls out the first movie. "This is a classic movie, alright?"
Partway through, Ryan leans against Spencer, still looking straight ahead at the screen. Spencer doesn't move and doesn't look at him.
He gets up and makes popcorn before switching movies and comes back to sit pressed thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder with Ryan. He rubs his thumb over the jut of bone at Ryan's wrist for a little while before letting his hand fall to rest.
By the third movie, Ryan's falling asleep. Spencer says, "Hey, you want me to get you a blanket or anything?"
Ryan says, "No, no. I'll go home in a minute."
"You can crash here, if you want."
Ryan says, "Thanks. It's okay, though. I don't want to impose or anything. I'll see you at work."
"Later, then," Spencer says, and holds on a few seconds longer than he should when Ryan hugs him.
-
Wednesday night, Spencer has practice.
Warren stops them ten minutes in. "Dude, Spencer, are you okay?"
"What? Yeah."
"You keep fucking up."
"Oh," Spencer says, looking down at his hands, down at his kit. "Really?"
"Yeah," Warren says. "No, look, it's cool, we'll just. I was thinking we could debut that new song on Friday night, but we can just do it later. Whenever we book our next show."
"Sorry, no," Spencer says. "I'll. Try to pay more attention, it's fine. Let's get this right."
Spencer tries.
Beto says, "I don't know, I think I'm done."
Dave says, "Yeah, it'll be fine. I'm tired as shit; let's go get some food or something."
"IHOP?" Beto says, grinning.
"We're actually getting somewhere," Warren says. "Motherfuckers."
"No, come on," Beto says. "Tell me you don't want some blueberry pancakes, seriously. Blueberry pancakes, Warren. With fucking strawberries on top, too. You know, get a nice big cup of coffee, eat some pancakes."
"Shit," Dave says. "That's not even what I was gonna get, but that sounds fucking fabulous right about now."
Warren says, "I. Not in the middle of practice. Guys."
"Well, if we end practice," Dave says. "Spencer, come on, back me up on this."
"I could go for some french toast," Spencer says.
"See?" Dave says. "Look. Even Spencer wants breakfast food in the middle of the night, man."
Warren laughs derisively, shaking his head, and the two of them argue back and forth for a while longer while Beto starts unpplugging equipment and straightening up the space.
Spencer sits back and watches, and when they're finally leaving Beto nods at him, and Dave holds a hand out to bump fists with him, and Spencer is sort of terrified to imagine what life would be like without his band.
-
When Ryan calls at sometime around eleven, Spencer's in bed staring at the ceiling. He feels. Alright, maybe. Dinner was good. Practice ended too soon, but he wasn't really up for it anyway, so.
So Ryan calls, and Spencer reaches to the nightstand and slides his phone across the surface, eventually actually picking up.
"Hey, 'sup," Spencer says, tired.
Ryan says, "You're awake, right?"
"Yes. That's how I'm talking to you."
Ryan says, "So I'm going to this show Friday night, and you said you hadn't been to one in a while, so I wondered if you'd want to come, maybe."
"Who is it?" Spencer says. There's this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wonders, if he got in his car right now and started driving, how far he'd be able to go before running out of gas.
Ryan takes a while to answer. "Rolodex Propaganda. They're playing third; there's a few other bands, too. Like, Set Phasers to Stun and Relatives Got Nerves and shit. Doors are at six, but nobody's playing until seven, I think. Rolodex should be on by like eight thirty."
Spencer takes a breath, and he means to say, sorry, I'm busy but it comes out as, "I'll think about it."
"Oh, oh cool," Ryan says. "So do you want to meet up before the show or anything?"
"No, I'm busy before that. But I'll try to come, if I can. Maybe I'll see you there."
"Yeah, sure," Ryan says. "I hope you can come out, it'll be a good night."
-
Spencer feels out of place, like he doesn't belong with these kids he's known for years. He hangs by Ryan's side all through the first two bands, and for a little while as the second band is breaking down. Then he says, "I, uhm. Have to go."
Ryan says, "What? Dude, what? Why?" His eyes are bright and he's practically jittering with energy, and the look he gives Spencer is just clear, open-eyed confusion.
Spencer says, "I'm just going to -- I'll see you after the set is over, okay."
Ryan grabs onto his lower arm, and says, "No, hey, where are you going? Come on. If you want to leave or anything, that's cool."
Spencer breaks away. He says, "Just, look. Okay. I'll see you after this set is over."
-
After the show, Spencer finds Ryan waiting in line at the merch table talking to Brendon. Spencer thinks about telling Brendon to just give him the merch for free, but he just hangs back a ways, waiting until Ryan notices him again.
Ryan says, "So."
"So," Spencer repeats.
"So what the fuck?"
Spencer shrugs. He says, "Wanna go to Starbucks?"
The barista is frowning over Spencer's drink as she makes it, and finally looks up. "You had the grande nonfat extra-whip mocha?"
"With a shot of vanilla," Spencer says.
"A shot," she repeats.
"Yes."
"Like, do you want one pump, or the normal --"
Spencer cuts her off, frowning. "A shot."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Like a shot of espresso," Spencer says. "But with vanilla. Not espresso."
"You still want the espresso in your drink, though, right?"
"Yes."
"And an entire shot of vanilla."
"Yes."
"Okay," she says. She finishes up, puts a little cardboard sleeve on, and calls -- rolling her eyes as she does -- "Grande shot-of-vanilla nonfat extra-whip mocha."
Then she's saying, "Sir, you do know straws are not recommended for use in hot beverages, right?"
"Yeah."
Ryan says, "Wow, uhm." He's been standing watching the whole debacle while sipping at his chai latte. "So hey, what the fuck."
They sit at a table in a corner by a window, and Spencer nudges at Ryan's ankle with his foot. Ryan draws his foot back.
Spencer says, "Okay."
"I don't even -- like, I don't even know. What the fuck is so secret about being in a band that you've got to lie to me?"
Spencer's staring straight at him, but Ryan won't meet his eyes.
Ryan sighs, slumping forward in his chair. "You know what. Just. Whatever."
Spencer sits there, sipping his still-hot mocha through the thin plastic straw.
Ryan stands up and says, "So I'm just going to go now."
Spencer says, "I just can't fucking deal with that job, okay."
"The fuck," Ryan says, yet again. "Dude, you're awesome at your job. The store's been doing fucking amazing because of you. You get your shit done on time, so what's up?"
Spencer says, "Yeah, I know."
Ryan says, "And what does that have to do with being in a band and lying for no good reason? One does not preclude the other. Do you just have fun lying, or what?"
"I just," Spencer says. "Don't really feel like talking about this, okay, can you just forget about it?"
"Fuck."
-
Spencer doesn't learn that Ryan's moving away again until this girl at the office tells him to bring something to the going-away party tomorrow.
He calls in sick, instead.
-
Spencer's the one who writes the Myspace bulletin announcing Rolodex Propaganda's European headline tour, and the month and a half long nationwide tour where they're sharing top billing We Are the Pale Horse ("who knows who'll play first - we're probably gonna switch it up so make sure to come early and catch everything. stick around after and say hi, too! our merch guy's pretty much converted dave to being vegan, so bring him something tasty if you're feeling generous. :)")
"You've been doing a really incredible job here, Spencer," his boss tells him. "Is there anything we can do that would convince you to stay with us, at least until we've got orders squared away for the Christmas season?"
Spencer says, "No. Probably not. I'll stick out my two weeks, but I've got something coming up right after."
-
Rolodex does another national tour in support of their fourth album, once they finish recording. They drive out to a studio in Vegas to do the whole thing, all four of them living in this stupidly cramped condo for the month and a half it takes to lay everything down. Being able to dedicate almost all of their time to recording helps speed things along, compared to their first three albums. They've already got a European label willing to distribute them, thanks to an A&R guy who saw them in Nuremburg; it takes a while, but playing coy long enough gets an American label to give them a good deal and sign them too.
Spencer's been going out to shows a lot more, giving his own input on the creative process a lot more. When the lease is up on his apartment, he moves in with Warren and Dave and is apparently the only motherfucker in the place who gives a shit about cleaning the damn bathtub every now and then.
At their New York date, Spencer hangs out at the side of the stage, and it's only as they're setting up that he notices -- and it takes him a second to figure out who the hipster standing around in the back corner is -- Ryan, leaning up against a wall, watching the stage intently as he sips disdainfully from a large bottle of water. Spencer schools his mouth into something smile-like, and raises his hand in a wave.
He can't tell if Ryan's expression changes, because Ryan turns around to talk to someone else.
After the show, the band's hanging around talking to one of the other bands and to some kids who came to the show ("Hey, thanks for playing," and "No, thank you for coming out"s are exchanged more than once).
Spencer's handed one of his own drumsticks, and he looks up to see Ryan giving him this half-cocked smile. "Hey, you dropped this. Want to sign it for me?"
"Yeah, sure," Spencer says, looking at Ryan the whole time he does.
"New album's pretty good."
"Uh. Thanks."
Warren beams, stepping in. "Yeah, we worked pretty hard on it. We were really lucky with our producer, he's mostly been doing hip-hop stuff these days, but it turned out pretty sweet."
"Definitely, definitely," Ryan says. "I mean, it's a little polished, but the songs are good enough to make up for it."
Spencer ducks his head down. He can't quite make himself look at Ryan. "I'm going to go see if there's any pizza left in the dressing room, or if Beto ate it all."
Warren says, "Shit, there was pizza?"
"Yeah, dude," Spencer says. "C'mon, let's go."
Warren's already halfway in the venue, but Ryan stops Spencer. "Hey."
"Hi." Spencer says, "So I quit my job."
"I figured." Ryan says, "It was that or maternity leave."
"Yeah, and no," Spencer says. "I don't have a uterus."
"Cool, I don't either."
"Awesome," Spencer says. "We were pretty much meant to be, then, huh? Damn."
Ryan looks at him with this bemused expression, like he knows something Spencer doesn't.
Spencer says, "You wanna, uh. Come see if there's any pizza left? Or are you watching your figure?"
Ryan says, "Not enough that I can't afford stealing your food."
After that, Spencer hugs Ryan maybe a little too long.
Ryan rubs at his back, and says, "Hey, let's go. Wouldn't want to miss out on the free food."
"Right."