this year's love (Ryan/Spencer)

[jae_w]

Recipient: fictionalaspect
Author: allegedlykyle
Title: this year’s love
Pairing: Ryan/Spencer
Rating: R
Word Count: ~7400
Summary: Ryan leaves for college and then comes back. Spencer is Spencer about it. Title taken from David Gray’s song of the same name.
Warnings/Disclaimer: There are no quotation marks for dialogue. Pretty plot-less. Unbetaed; mistakes are my own and very much regretted!

Note to recipient!: I wanted to be able to develop the relationship a bit more but there was insufficient time ): I hope you like the boys being dense and all the UST (and the RST) anyway!

Prompt: Anything with a lot of UST and pining (as long as someone gets laid at the end). I like characters that are human and imperfect, and I love when authors take chances with characterization. I'll read almost anything, from early days fic to AU's.


I.
It comes as a surprise when Ryan sees Spencer rushing towards him at the airport. He stares, a little disbelievingly as Spencer pushes through the lounging masses of people, all impatient at their watches or exchanging teary goodbyes like leaving is the end of the world.

Spencer, Ryan’s mouth opens soundlessly on the word as Spencer brakes shakily to a stop in front of him, eyes bruised like someone smudged kohl all over. Ryan stares. Don’t you have school now? What are you doing here? he asks, because Spencer’s mom is going to kill both of them, and she wouldn’t let a minor detail like Ryan being three states away stop her.

Spencer doesn’t reply, and Ryan’s stomach does a nasty flip. Is something wrong? Did anything happen to your parents? Ryan says; that’s the only thing he can think of that’ll have Spencer so distressed. He holds Spencer firmly by the shoulders, and Spencer leans into him like a fallen tree.

It doesn’t even seem like Spencer hears him; his hands come up to grip the lapels of Ryan’s shirt, and Ryan doesn’t even care that creases will form because he’s never seen Spencer look this spooked.

Ryan continues, Spencer, you’re scaring me. He exerts enough pressure on Spencer’s shoulders that Spencer looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading.

When the words come, they tip out of Spencer’s mouth like tumbleweed, fast and violent, or they pry out of Spencer as though it hurt; Ryan can’t decide which captures the desperation spilling from him better. Ryan. Ryan, you can’t leave, please don’t.

Hey. Hey, Spencer, Ryan shushes. This isn’t a sudden departure; Spencer knew he was leaving, weeks and months, heck, even a year in advance, when Ryan sent off his applications and none of the university addresses were local, or even a state away, and Ryan’s dreams are always about a city far, far away from Nevada. Maybe as far as the world, although Ryan knows enough to start small.

Ryan means to ask, are you okay, why are you freaking out now, I thought you were fine. Spencer cuts him off by pushing up to touch his lips against Ryan’s dry, surprised ones, and incongruously, Ryan’s glad that he applied lip balm right after breakfast; while his mouth opens in shock, Spencer pushes his tongue in and kisses Ryan thoroughly, his hands holding Ryan still by his collar. When his tongue touches Ryan’s, it’s a sudden shock of heat and pressure and Ryan finds that his world maybe loses its balance and falls over an axis, because suddenly Spencer-his-best-friend suddenly became Spencer-the-boy-I’m-kissing, and he gasps a little; Spencer matches it, a small, wrecked noise.

Eventually, Ryan regains the presence of mind to tear his mouth away from Spencer’s, a wet, slick sound, although it’s later than he’d like to admit. Spencer’s eyes are blatant on Ryan’s lips, swollen and sensitive, and Ryan looks involuntarily down at Spencer’s shiny mouth, catching the fluorescent lights from the airport ceiling, before he realizes he’s staring. A moment or an hour later, Ryan hears the disembodied voice over the PA announcing the imminent departure of his flight, the closing of the gate, and Ryan says hoarsely, that’s my plane, Spencer. He doesn’t recognize his voice, but he continues determinedly, because Spencer’s still staring at him and if Ryan talks, he can’t lean back down and close the distance between them and kiss Spencer until he’s breathless. It’s something he never knew he needed to do until now.

I need to go now, Ryan says dumbly. I’ll call you every week and I’ll destroy your phone bill and your mom will hate me and it’ll be just like I’m there.

I love you, Spencer says, looking young and scared and like he’s fucking twelve; his eyes catch Ryan’s entirely by accident. Through the white noise that set in after Spencer’s words, Ryan registers the fact that Spencer’s shaking, his hands not entirely steady against Ryan’s chest. It reminds Ryan of nights when he calls Spencer up at two, maybe three am in the morning to ask if he could go over, and Spencer always says yes, yes of course and it’s not until Ryan hangs up the phone and makes his way over to Spencer’s room and bed and his bleary, concerned eyes that Ryan realizes he’s shaking.

He’s fairly sure Spencer doesn’t know he’s shaking either, and he says back, I know, yes, of course, I love you too, but his words feel different from Spencer’s, his lips shaping them oddly.

Spencer doesn’t let go, and Ryan keeps staring like he’s never seen Spencer before, but he supposes another way of looking at it is that he’s staring at Spencer enough for the next few months.

I really have to go, Spencer, he says helplessly. I’ll write you, I promise; his hands around Spencer’s wrists squeezes, once, twice, and his fingers are long enough that they circle Spencer’s wrists comfortably and that gives Ryan a hot rush of awareness that’s maybe five years too late or a year early, depending on how Ryan looks at it.

When Ryan tugs Spencer’s hands off his shirt, now wrinkly and crumpled, and releases them, white marks in the shape of Ryan’s fingers bloom briefly before settling in the dun of Spencer’s skin. Spencer stares back at Ryan, his heart faltering visibly on his sleeve and he’s only a year younger, but right now Ryan feels all of that three hundred odd days.

He picks up his luggage; they’re heavy in his hands, and his grip keeps slipping on the handles. I’m sorry, Spencer, I’ll be back before you know it, I promise, and Ryan knows it’s the second time he’s used that phrase, and normally he’ll be appalled but Spencer doesn’t even reply. I’ll call you the moment I’m there, before I even unpack, and I wouldn’t even talk to my roommate at all until I hear your voice, okay? It’ll be exactly like you are at college with me.

Okay, Spencer whispers but he doesn’t look like he means it. The voice calls for final boarding for Ryan’s plane, and this will have to do, this hasty, inadequate goodbye with Spencer’s face still tight and unhappy and Ryan’s lips still tingling from the kiss that he doesn’t know what to do about. He feels Spencer’s eyes on him all the way through the departure terminal, but when he turns to wave a final goodbye, there’s something about the way Spencer stands on the opposite side of the glass, hands forlorn in his pockets, that has Ryan swallowing hard.

II.
Ryan doesn’t forget. He smses Spencer the moment he lands in LA, plane engines still humming and the seatbelt sign decidedly not safely off, and he says, did you know that flying is a hundred times safer than driving, before agonizing briefly over the next one. I miss you already; hope you feel better, even though he doesn’t know what he means exactly by better, and if Spencer is here, he’ll be scoffing, better than what, exactly, and then laughing at Ryan for using semi-colons in a text message, but he thinks it’s something that bears saying anyway.

Spencer doesn’t reply them, nor the next fifteen, varying in tone from casual to worried to pissed, nor the three phone calls Ryan made, but he sends an email three days later asking Ryan about enrollment and his courses and his roommate and then a small P.S. at the bottom says casually that his mom made him promise to keep his phone bill reasonable even with Ryan so far away, and Ryan takes the hint, even though the postscript stings.

He tells himself it’s more than reasonable, though, and doesn’t think that what stings more than the postscript is the entire letter itself, polite and friendly and distant, and Ryan thinks back to the day he left, Spencer‘s clinging hands and the soft of his lips, and decides he‘s glad Spencer got over whatever it was, because it would have been unbearably messy otherwise. Ryan already misses Spencer something fierce, he admits, and better for it to be him than Spencer, so it really isn’t that Ryan wants Spencer to be miserable, but he’d have liked his departure to have some kind of discernable effect, at the very least.

This obviously means Ryan is a terrible friend, which he knows, and is also trying to change, so he replies to Spencer in an entirely cordial manner, and tells him little chunks of information carefully culled from his life, enough that it doesn’t seem like he’s losing interest in Spencer but not so lengthy that Spencer will lose interest in him.

It’s a delicate balance, and manages to take up a lot of time, and it turns out that university is nothing like high school at all, and Ryan actually has to work at his core requirements, which means tackling subjects like Statistics and Biology 101 without Spencer’s meticulous notes, so all in all, when the intervals between their correspondence stretched from a week to two to a month, Ryan doesn’t really notice.

III.
Ryan comes back on a weekend, catching the late flight on Friday in time to be at Spencer’s house before breakfast the next morning, and he’s waiting at the airport because Spencer’s parents insisted on picking him up.

Looking up from an internal debate about the merits and demerits of unlocking his luggage for a new book, he sees a guy his age walking towards him, strides purposeful and long, and he lets himself look a little longer, since the man’s far away enough that it shouldn’t be obvious. Ryan’s set many of his inhibitions free in college; the man’s tall, and nicely built, and his shoulders are seriously hardcore, muscles corded but lean, and Ryan nearly stands up, thinks about going up and introducing himself; he’s wearing his best pair of black jeans today, anyway, and somehow, people always find his scarves intriguing, like it’s really covering a couple of hickeys.

The man waves at someone behind Ryan, and Ryan remembers that he shouldn’t, because he doesn’t want Spencer’s family’s to catch him flirting shamelessly with a random stranger in the airport. It doesn’t stop him from looking, however, and Ryan idly wonders if he plays the drums, because he looks like he could, the same way he could pin Ryan against the wall with little to no effort at all.

Then Spencer walks into view and Ryan blinks and wonders if he managed to fall and trip and hit his head without realizing, because.

Hey, Spencer says when he’s just a few steps away. The silence that ensues is mostly Ryan gaping at him, trying to connect the person he was checking out with Spencer, and Spencer shifts awkwardly. It’s me, Spencer, or did you forget? His voice is deprecating, somehow lower than Ryan remembers, and Ryan looks at Spencer’s mouth like that’ll help explain why.

Of course, that, and the airport, and the very inappropriate fact that he just practically ogled the best friend he hasn’t seen in a year, reminds Ryan instantly of how Spencer kissed him before, gasping and straining against his mouth, and it’s something Ryan has tried very, very hard not to think about the past year.

Hey, yourself, Ryan replies eventually. I know you! Your last name - it alliterates, right? Wait, what is it? Spencer Stewart? Spencer Sanders? Spencer Steve? He grins to cover the awkwardness that pulls between them, the momentary pause of observation and reorientation when one meets someone for the first time in a long while.

Fuck you, Steve isn’t even a last name. Spencer is grinning now too, faintly. I’m Spencer Smithsonian, Smith S-O-N-I-A-N, but you can call me Spencer Smith.

Why don’t I just call you my bitch, Ryan asks. Take my luggage, he orders, and Spencer rolls his eyes. He’s already leaning down to grab the larger of Ryan’s suitcase, the one with orange penguins dancing along the sides. He pauses tellingly before picking it up.

What, Ryan asks. It’s for easy identification.

Like your girl pants? And your scarf? And your cap? Spencer could go on, he really could.

Exactly. You wish you could pull this off, Ryan says, pulling the handle out of the other one - green and purple stripes, more staid, comparatively speaking - and following after Spencer.

No, I really don’t, Spencer laughs, and it’s like a perfectly normal conversation, the ribbing scarily typical, and if Ryan isn’t walking behind Spencer, can’t see the play of his muscles beneath his shirt, how Spencer’s hair has grown to brush his collar, and Ryan can imagine how easy a grip it’ll make for questing fingers, he’ll wonder at how it seems like time froze the past year, that he’s never really left the airport between leaving and returning.

The only difference is that he walks with a new awareness of Spencer sitting sharp and itchy behind his eyes and deep in his throat and under his skin all along his limbs, so he has to clench his fingers tight around the vivid (Spencer would call it ugly, an average person on the street will call it ugly but what do they know about that awkward child, fashion) purple handle of his luggage when Spencer turns around to flash Ryan a smirk that’s all familiar smile and new attitude, just to keep from reaching out and tracing it with his fingers, licking it off Spencer’s mouth.

There’s something right on the very tip of his tongue but enough years of living with himself has taught him when to recognize a dangerous impulse, even when he doesn’t quite know what it is he wants to say.

*

It hits him, like a punch in the solar plexus, and Ryan maybe just thinks this for that phrase, the celestial images it evinces, but the real point of the thought is that Ryan is thinking desperately at Spencer, sitting obliviously next to him in the backseat, when, at which specific point, which particular moment, did you turn this hot, exactly?

He could write essays on this particular question, long, epic, rambling theses where a sentence and a paragraph could refer to the same thing, but mostly he settles for sitting securely on his hands and keeping that thought from being verbalized and calculating the physics of the car ride precisely so he never makes accidental contact with Spencer, not even if the car jerks or swerves.

He starts to think, he wouldn’t mind doing extensive research on it either, and then blows the whistle on that metaphorical train right there; even he has some sense of self-preservation, after all. Spencer sends him odd looks at periodic intervals on the way home, but Spencer’s mom says Ryan must be tired after the flight, and Spencer replies, it’s a three-hour flight and Ryan probably finished two books during it and wrote the introduction of a critical analysis on one, but he lets it go.

The ride passes in relative normality, meaning Ryan does not once succumb to the steadily growing temptation of pushing Spencer into the leather backseat and kissing the cold Nevada air from his mouth right behind his parents, a definite plus. On the minus side, his hands are numb and insensate when he steps out of the car, and when he take a moment longer to steady himself, Spencer bumps up against his back, surprisingly solid.

Spencer laughs unexpectedly. Sorry, Ryan. A warm hand presses briefly to his lower back, and Ryan twitches, scrambles forward, stubbing his big toe against the slightly elevated pavement. Watch your step, Spencer says, too late.

I’m sorry, Ryan says, his face burning, tiny furnaces in the wintry cold. They don’t have streets in LA, he jokes. All big roads and highways. Spencer laughs again.

He thinks, I’m not. If Spencer hadn’t moved back immediately, Ryan would have leaned back, leaned into Spencer, and this vignette right here, this little exchange, this frozen moment, is like a fucking prophecy for the rest of the break, Ryan’s willing to bet.

*

I told mom there was no need, but she still went ahead and borrowed this off a colleague, Spencer says wryly, gesturing to the cot bed squeezed in between Spencer’s bed and his study table. He’s halfway bent inside his cupboard, rifling through, and Ryan takes a moment to look around at the room. There are enough things in it he recognizes to put this as Spencer’s room in Ryan’s mind, and enough that he doesn’t to underscore his absence, but there’s still something about it that’s undeniably Spencer that makes the room Spencer’s room, in the shifting frames of identity that annoys philosophers so much. It could be the poster of Blink-182 on the wall behind Spencer’s bed or the messy pile of books on his desk or the bed covers printed with trucks Ryan recognizes from their childhood.

Or, Ryan thinks, it could be Spencer himself standing in the room. When Ryan finishes, Spencer has cleared out half of his cupboard space, the clothes thrown in a heap that Spencer’s holding, and Ryan begins, you don’t need to.

Spencer cuts him off. I don’t wear these clothes anymore, and you can’t live five weeks out of a suitcase. Besides, I do not want those hideous things in my room longer than necessary.

Ryan lifts an eyebrow. I could burn them later in the backyard if it makes you happy.

Be my guest, Spencer invites, still holding what looks like three year’s worth of clothes in his arms. They’ll give me nightmares. Get the door for me? he asks, and Ryan complies, stepping closer.

When he says, with all your drumming, I’m surprised you still need someone to open the door for you like a lady, it’s mostly to distract himself - or Spencer, Ryan doesn’t know - from the way his fingers are tingly and heavily inclined to tracing around the edge of Spencer’s sleeves, where they stretch casually over Spencer’s bunched muscles, and Ryan wonders how many hours of training that is.

Just giving you the chance to act like a gentleman, since with the kind of girls you hang out with, you probably don’t get many, Spencer calls over his shoulder as he walks down the stairs, body angled diagonally to see the steps over the pile of clothing.

Fuck you, Ryan says, and then looks around guiltily for Spencer’s mom. It feels curiously domestic, the entire affair; he watches Spencer leave the clothes in a cardboard box in the laundry room, and then helps Spencer with setting the table, hands instinctively going for the first drawer on the left of the sink, and of course his hand brushes Spencer’s, who decides to get the utensils the exact moment Ryan does.

Spencer shrugs and lets Ryan take care of the forks and knives, going instead for the porcelain, the cabinet above Ryan’s head, and Ryan turns just in time to see Spencer’s collar slant off a shoulder, enough skin and collarbone to tighten his grip on the stainless steel ware, where his arm is stretching above his head. There’s the sound of plates clicking and shifting, and Spencer’s taking what seems an inordinately long time to collect four plates and bowls, maybe some cups, although they should be on the rack by the sink, and it isn’t even like Spencer’s caging him against the kitchen counter. That’ll be suspicious, and Ryan’ll drop the forks and the knives dangerously and demand to know what Spencer’s doing.

Instead, Spencer’s just retrieving tableware and Ryan turned into him, not the other way around, and if Ryan has any sense or presence of mind, he’ll turn back the other way and walk to the table instead of staying where he is, nearly curled into the small angle Spencer’s body makes with the counter, saying, you’re taking a long time. Is there something at the back you can’t quite reach, I could get you a kitchen stool.

Spencer doesn’t respond for a moment, concentrating fully, it seems, on getting the dishes. He sets them down on the counter gently and faces Ryan, bringing his free hand around on Ryan’s other side in a move that can only be accurately called caging. Ryan looks up at the sudden movement and the little smirk that accompanied his remarks falls off his lips when he finds Spencer right in front of him, looking down at Ryan a little because Ryan’s slouching.

Hey, Spencer says, sounding curious. Isn’t it funny how from where I’m standing, it seems like I’m taller than you are? Ryan doesn’t know because he’s busy staring at a stray thread unfurling from Spencer’s collar and shrinking back as far as he can from Spencer’s body to compensate for how much he wants to do just the opposite.

It’s like a mantra Ryan’s brain chants to keep him sane: no body contact! no body contact! It flashes yellow and black, universal warning colours.

Then Spencer drops his hands to Ryan’s hips, Ryan’s hips, his large, competent hands wrapping around them casually, fingers pressing near his inseam, like best friends do this all the time, which they maybe do,
but only if one of them isn’t harbouring a sudden, ridiculously intense bout of attraction for the other. Ryan’s still, tense, and the idea that he might not be able to move anyway even if he wanted to sends his heart beating overtime.

Stand up straight, Spencer murmurs.

When Ryan doesn’t move, Spencer sighs faintly and Ryan isn’t moving because he wants to eat that sigh out of Spencer’s mouth like an overripe peach, and hoists Ryan up, pushing him against the counter for balance; he’s supporting Ryan’s entire weight for an overwhelming second, body pressing against Ryan’s instinctively for leverage, and Ryan’s world up-ends itself into a mess of nerves and friction and arousal for a very hot, very exhilarating second.

Um, Ryan says, finding himself inexplicably short of breath by the time his world rights itself and his vision clears. He’s also hard, a point that bears mentioning, as much as Ryan is hoping denying it relentlessly will cause it to cease to be true. Is this what you’re into now, manhandling?

Instantly, Ryan kicks himself, because he’s been doing so well not letting sexual innuendo enter his words; not to mention, that question is just a tad hypocritical coming from him, who has it on excellent authority (though not one admissible as a reliable source in any academically respected paper) that he is, apparently, into manhandling. He’s sure it’s written all over his face in the flush and the wide eyes and the slight part of his lips when he meets Spencer’s eyes, but Spencer just looks back, smiling pleasantly. What was that you were saying about me needing a stool?

It takes a while for Ryan to realize that Spencer’s smile isn’t a yes I just fucked with your mind smile, but more of the guess who finally grew that extra inch kind and he says reflexively, no fucking way.

Spencer’s smile widens, in counterpoint to his loosening grip on Ryan’s hips, and it’s fucking distracting, that tease of pressure.

There’s no way you grew an inch in the year I was gone, Ryan says adamantly, because there isn’t.

Nope, Spencer agrees. An inch and a half. Mom measured last week, and I was waiting to share it with you just for this very special occasion. He’s smug enough that Ryan’s temper flares briefly. In what turns out to be a spectacularly unwise move, Ryan arches an eyebrow the way he knows Spencer wishes he could, and straightens completely, squaring his shoulders and going toe-to-toe with Spencer, all but insinuating himself in Spencer’s personal bubble.

The very tips of their noses brush, and Ryan’s brain is screaming abort abort abort! rapidly at him but not backing down becomes a matter of pride. Ryan pushes, waits until Spencer’s eyes flick unconsciously upward, following the movement before he counts it as a win and backs down quickly, ruffling Spencer’s hair mockingly before the urge to throw himself at Spencer intensify.

That’s fantastic! he says. You might even grow another half-inch next year, and then you might almost be as tall as I am, he allows magnanimously, dislodging Spencer’s hands with a casual calm he does not feel. Ryan steps hastily out of what essentially amounts to Spencer’s embrace, even though there are clear differences in intent and context and moves to the dining table; he needs to put down the knives and forks immediately before he stabs himself by accident.

Spencer narrows his eyes at Ryan right before he pulls away, but he lets Ryan go and doesn’t even manage to send an adequately snide remark back before Spencer’s parents come in; Spencer stops midway through what sounds like an awesome comeback when he hears his mom’s voice in the hallway, and snaps his mouth shut quickly.

*

Ryan’s spent enough hours in Spencer’s house that he doesn’t feel awkward sitting down on the couch and turning the TV on to a ridiculous esoteric documentary about the evolutionary insights of the nautilus, and Spencer doesn’t really think twice before he darts upstairs and back down in his drumming attire in the afternoon while Ryan’s entranced by the nautilus’ feeding habits. I’m going to the garage, he says. Be back in a few hours, and automatically, Ryan turns the volume of the program up, but he listens to the annoyingly loud narrator with the British accent for five minutes before he realizes the complete absence of drumming whatsoever.

He switches the TV off and heads down to the garage leisurely. The first thing he thinks is that Spencer’s dad must have had given up finally and installed sound dampeners or soundproofing sometime over the last year, since there are new doorframes around the connector between the lounge and the garage.

The second, considerably more mindblowing one is the fact that Spencer apparently practises topless, and it takes Ryan a while to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth and to click his jaws shut properly.

He isn’t being invasive, he thinks, when he stands there and stares at the line of Spencer’s back as it curves and arches when he plays. Invasive is walking over to stand behind Spencer and flattening his palms against his sweaty back, sliding his tongue hotly down the indentation of his spine, maybe a hint of teeth if Spencer leans back; Ryan’s just looking.

Standing and looking and feeling his heart pound loudly in his ears, indistinguishable from the heavy beat Spencer’s hitting out - the rhythm crowds up against him in the enclosed room and Ryan swallows twice before his mouth feels anywhere near normal.

Spencer, he tries, but it’s immediately drowned out. Spencer, Spencer, he yells.

Abruptly the room clears. What? Spencer turns around, chest rising and falling rapidly, drumsticks held loosely in one hand. He frowns. What are you doing here? He fumbles around for his shirt and starts pulling it on. Ryan squashes the flicker of disappointment ruthlessly.

I wanted to watch you practice. Ryan tries for a leer, and then drops it, feeling even more unsteady talking to Spencer, because Spencer is facing him, topless, and they’re boys, Ryan’s seen Spencer half-naked more times than he cared to remember, but never with the reckless impulse to push him up against the wall and just touch, stroking all over until Spencer’s a writhing mess under his hands. That’s all new.

Was it as good for you as it was for me, Spencer deadpans, rolling his eyes, but his fingers twitch, like he’s waiting for something.

You sound good, he says honestly, because they might rag on each other about everything else but music is something both of them take seriously. Really good.

Thanks. Spencer ducks his head in a gesture Ryan recognizes from all the sessions they’ve had, and it’s a mindfuck, seeing the exact same action and feeling something entirely different clawing up his chest, because Spencer hasn’t changed at all, except for all the parts where he did, and Ryan has no business feeling all these sudden bouts of insane attraction for him. The school band’s having a concert next week, so I thought I’d put in some extra hours on my own.

You‘re using a solo piece to practise? Ryan’s not a natural drummer the way Spencer is - okay, he’s not a drummer at all, no one wants him behind a kit - but he knows enough to tell a rhythm written for a solo and for an ensemble. Also, since when do you need to put in extra hours to keep up with the rest of the drummers in the school band?

It’s a pleasure watching the flush skim over Spencer’s cheeks, because he’s never been as much an exhibitionist as Ryan, and sometimes Ryan is exasperated over how much Spencer undersells himself.

Okay, I have a solo. Are you happy? Spencer grumbles, arms folding in front of him. Seriously.

Deliriously so, Ryan says and grins. He walks over when he’s sure he can withstand personal contact without wanting to push Spencer against the nearest available surface. Want to play something together for old times’ sake?

If you can keep up with me, Spencer says carelessly, but he hands Ryan a guitar off the rack easily enough, like he’s just been waiting for Ryan to ask, and he’s smiling under his hair; Ryan knows that even without looking over because he is too, grinning madly down at his fingers as he strums a couple of chords.

Then the music starts and a couple of hours are lost, just like that, the two of them filling the basement up with notes and clefs and time signatures like wallpaper with musical notation, and it’s fucking fantastic, adrenaline and the sheer elation of playing spooling from their instruments; it feels like all of that coalesced into a bare, nearly tangible moment when Ryan looks up sometime to catch Spencer’s eyes, dark and blown, and their shared laughter’s like a wild spark that seems to turn the volume up almost louder than Ryan can bear.

*

That was great, Spencer says; his breaths are still coming heavy and Ryan usually feels loose after a performance like that, all lethargic and prone to slumping over the nearest available support, usually Spencer but this is different. Everything’s been different so far, so Ryan wonders why he expected this to be the same. He’s wound up tight, images of a clockwork mouse running through his head, and Ryan imagines the way the mouse will whizz around the room, buzzing madly, slamming into all the obstacles in his path. It’s a unpleasant thought, and Ryan just nods at Spencer, takes deep breaths, which might help.

Or not, but at least Ryan feels like he’s being proactive in dealing with the tension. Oddly enough, that does ease the strain somewhat, tamping his breathing more regular, and Ryan turns, intending to tell Spencer that he calls first shower and then preferably run away as fast as he can before he implodes.

Naturally, because it’s turning to be a sort of habit, being thrown off guard by Spencer’s sneaky movements, Ryan turns and all but trips over his surprise to bump into Spencer when he sees Spencer right in front of him, half a room closer than he expected.

Uh, hi, Ryan says awkwardly. He doesn’t do well under pressure; it’s an established fact based on years of mediocre exam grades. The one question nearly falling off his tongue at the moment is: why are you standing so closer to me, Spencer?

Hi, Spencer breathes. You’re an idiot.

I know, Ryan admits. Wait. Was that for anything in particular or just a general statement?

Spencer huffs but he’s laughing at Ryan secretly, Ryan can tell from the smiling eyes and the way Spencer’s hands have come up to curl lightly around Ryan’s hips again. Were you freaking out just now? Spencer asks.

No, Ryan denies, even though Spencer knows every sign of an impending freakout. No, he reiterates, but Spencer just keeps looking at him, and then his thumbs start moving in circles on Ryan’s hipbones, and Ryan might have a sort of thing about hipbones, and Spencer, and Spencer rubbing them, and opposable thumbs are all very convenient and handy but Spencer should not get to use them for nefarious purposes like fucking with Ryan’s mind, so his breath catches and his mind stops responding to stimuli and Ryan just snaps.

He pushes Spencer off and takes a large step back. Don’t, he says when Spencer moves closer. Spencer ignores him. Stop doing - stop doing that!

Doing what? Spencer’s voice is still mild, but he hasn’t checked his advance, and it’s just a decoy, a lure to distract Ryan, and Ryan’s not going to fall for it.

That! This! This! Ryan gestures expansively. Stop doing whatever it is you’re doing! The prowling! The stalking! Panic makes his words come out in short, exclamatory bursts.

Spencer actually pauses, like he’s considering Ryan’s words. No, he decides. I don’t think I want to, and Ryan categorically doesn’t squeak embarrassingly when Spencer closes the distance with a few steps and pins Ryan smoothly against the wall, but he makes a startled sound of disapproval, and Spencer’s teeth flashes for a few terrifying hot seconds. Ryan stares up at Spencer, and he’s never realized how blue Spencer’s eyes are, how clearly they are a sign of childhood psychopathy specifically directed Ryan, and Ryan’s going to hell for finding this situation as unbearably arousing as it apparently is.

Um, Ryan says. His wrists are securely held down against his sides by Spencer’s hands, and the pressure, flirting around the outskirts of pain, distract Ryan so much he doesn’t realize Spencer’s pressing himself up against Ryan until he tries to resist and finds out that well, Spencer’s pressed up against Ryan, and it’s all heat and pressure and Ryan moans, just the slightest parting of his lips. He tries to trap it in his throat, because it’ll send the entirely misleading impression that Ryan’s all for this sudden show of dominance or whatever fucked up game Spencer is playing.

But Spencer hears it and his eyes darken and he leans closer. The tongue he flicks out carefully to lick the sound off Ryan’s lips is sorchingly hot and Ryan jerks, mouth opening fully; it tickles a bit, but mostly the desire it sends coursing through him overwhelms that, and Ryan lets his head fall back against the wall, and Spencer follows, all insistent, licking into Ryan’s mouth like a cat sipping milk daintily from its favourite saucer, and Ryan knows Spencer’s going to kill Ryan for ever comparing him to a feline. Then Spencer makes a small, pained noise in his throat that could be fuck or Ryan or please kiss me back and fits his mouth properly over Ryan’s, kissing the air from his lungs in long swipes of tongue and occasional, sly nibbles of his teeth on Ryan’s bottom lip, and Ryan stops thinking about cats or descriptive similes.

Ryan can only follow Spencer’s lead, kissing back as well as he can with his entire body straining into Spencer’s hold, and when he starts shifting restlessly against Spencer, entire body aching for something more than Spencer’s mouth, Spencer groans against Ryan’s mouth and releases Ryan’s hands to move Ryan’s hips, and Ryan spares a moment to think that yes both of them apparently have a kink for manhandling before their hips line up flawlessly and the glorious friction that ensues whites out Ryan’s mind momentarily as pleasure cunningly disguised as fireworks burst wantonly behind his eyelids.

When he opens his eyes, eyes he doesn’t even remember closing, and temporary amnesia is a sign of possible brain damage, Ryan thinks vaguely, Spencer’s looking at him, eyes prettily blown and mouth red and swollen, and Ryan licks his own absentmindedly, wishing he could do it to Spencer’s instead, before remembering that Spencer pushed him up against the wall and took shameless advantage of his tension. That translates to Ryan having carte blanche to do whatever he wants, and he takes it, tiptoeing slightly to swipe his tongue gleefully over Spencer’s lips, and then back and forth again a couple more times when he can’t seem to get enough of the taste.

It segues into a deep, openmouthed kiss midway, and when Ryan finally pulls back, there’s an obscene wet noise that trips all of Ryan’s frazzled nerve endings. He derives immense satisfaction from the glazed look on Spencer’s face though.

Then he blinks, and realizes that the aforementioned tension is all but gone, his shoulders loose-limbered the way it should be, and it’s possible the accumulated strain of the entire holiday has dissipated somewhat.

Oh, he whispers, before looking up at Spencer, who doesn’t look quite blasé. This is apparently what he needed all along. I feel fucking awesome.

Yeah, that’s great for you, Spencer pants, words coming out tightly. Ryan’s maybe a little slow in noticing that Spencer hasn’t stilled, and his hips are still shifting restlessly up against Ryan. Could you maybe, I don’t know, Spencer begins before breaking into a harsh noise that doesn’t resemble a word at all when Ryan fumbles his hand over to Spencer’s zipper.

Spencer has his head buried into the crook of Ryan’s neck, and his moan is loud and long and vibrates against Ryan’s shoulder when Ryan deftly unzips Spencer and slips his hand down to wrap tentative fingers around Spencer’s dick. Spencer pushes his hips involuntarily into Ryan’s hand, and most of his weight’s on Ryan’s now, and it’s like payback for what Spencer has been doing to him the entire day, except Spencer pants in time with Ryan’s strokes and when he flicks his thumb around the head and smears the wetness around Spencer opens his mouth blindly against Ryan’s shirt and then he bites down, and Ryan makes a choked noise and starts moving his hand in earnest, relishing the stutters of Spencer’s hips against his own, the weight of Spencer’s dick in his hands.

Fuck, fuck, Spencer curses and comes all over Ryan’s hands. Ryan removes his hands and discreetly wipes them against Spencer’s shirt - he justifies it by reasoning that Spencer’s the one who lives here; Ryan’s the one with a limited change of clothes - and then circles his arms around Spencer’s waist loosely.

So did you lure me here merely to have your wicked way with me? Ryan asks. There’s something oddly reminiscent of happiness tightening in his chest.

What? Spencer’s voice is lazy and satiated and muffled from being said into Ryan’s chest.

Because you can say it, you know, Ryan allows generously. I tend to have that effect on people. In Spencer’s garage, Ryan realizes, are all the answers to the life’s biggest questions, and he watches a spider in the corner of the ceiling spin its little web idly, uncaring of the world. His hands stroke up and down Spencer’s back the way he wanted to since he saw Spencer earlier.

Exactly how many people have you let take advantage of you? Spencer ‘s eyes narrow before he agrees, in a way that makes it clear he means the exact opposite, Of course. That was why I seduced you shamelessly. The words are joking, but Spencer isn’t, and Ryan pushes Spencer up a little to stare at his face.

Wait, what?

Ryan watches Spencer’s gaze flick to the side and back to his again. The avoidance reminds Ryan of another confrontation, and Ryan thinks it’s a year later now, and he may have been immeasurably dense about the entire affair.

Spencer fidgets. I was joking.

It’s physically impossible for you to lie to me, Ryan says. We tested it in fifth grade, remember?

Spencer shrugs, and when Ryan prods him insistently, he snaps, Fucking what, Ryan. Seriously, what did you think I was doing? If you’re going to pretend this is all casual, at least have the decency to do it at the very beginning.

Um. You mean earlier? Or before the - Ryan gestures at their rumpled, sweaty states. What are you talking about?

No. Spencer makes a frustrated noise; it’s painful to hear, like the screeching of tyres that precedes a crash. Not this. The year before. At the airport, he clarifies.

I thought, I thought it was just. Ryan thought it was just an anomaly, a strange depression that hit Spencer the day Ryan left itself, the way Ryan moped around oddly on the plane and snapped at the stewardess twice before actually watching a romantic comedy with a plot like a florid bodice ripper and more holes in the timeline than a slice of cheese. You sounded fine after that, and you didn’t even answer my calls. You told me to email you instead. If that isn’t the virtual equivalent of giving someone the cheek after a date, Ryan doesn’t know what is.

What did you want me to say? Come back now, I miss you, please, stay with me, Spencer says, and all of these words hit Ryan hard, sentiments expressed a year late, long enough that Spencer’s words aren’t bitter anymore, but Ryan hears what’s underneath, and the realization creeps up on him steadily and subtly the way the colours shift across the sky in the evening until the afternoon is completely gone, leaving a fresh night in its place and the exact transition unknown, and Ryan abandons the half-hearted analogy in favor of saying, I signed off, love, Ryan, all the time, Spencer.

His heart pounds nervously as he continues quickly, because Spencer’s face is closing off. It means that the burden of declaration is on you. I’ve already taken a huge, courageous step forward in spite of the grave potential danger of having my heart callously ripped into pieces, Ryan declares and tightens his hold on Spencer so he doesn’t try to slip away, because given their collective propensities for stupidity, it might very well be another year before they manage to sort things out.

Melodrama does not become you, Spencer says with narrowed eyes but he relaxes, and that’s Ryan’s intended effect; he’s incredibly sneaky like that. Besides, I told you I loved you at the airport. That makes it even.

Ryan can’t help the grin that invades and takes over his mouth without permission. He drawls, so, I take it to mean that you were seducing me, after all?

Dude, Spencer says scowling. Only because you were checking me out at the airport, and yes, I saw that. You’ve never been subtle, Ryan, he says when Ryan attempts to protests. But you insisted on being oblivious and stupid after that. Do you think I always practice half-naked? My parents could walk in on me.

If the seduced doesn’t know he’s being seduced, that means you’re doing it all wrong, Ryan informs Spencer haughtily, but his lips are twitching; he shifts closer into Spencer, who is maybe sweaty and dirty but has at least the advantages of being warmer and more attractive than the wall.

It still worked, didn’t it? Spencer can’t expect Ryan to answer questions when he’s got a corner of Ryan’s shirt hitched up and is tracing geometric shapes on Ryan’s stomach.

Yes, it did, Ryan admits, and then flinches away, cursing - or laughing, it’s unclear - when Spencer grins and goes for the ticklish spot below his ribs without warning. Oh, fuck you, Ryan says, doubled over in helpless laughter, and that’s been the closing remark to more of their conversations that is probably typical of a normal relationship, but now Spencer’s eyes darken, and he shoots back, maybe later, and it’s a statement and a promise and a reassurance all at once. Ryan’s glad to be back.