Winter Days and TV Trays [1 of 5]
Title: Winter Days and TV Trays
Author: santixcore
Rating: R
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Summary: Joncer roommate AU!
“Spencer? You mean the guy with the celery sticks?” Jon asks. “I only met him once, Ry. And he kept staring at my feet like they were leprous or something.”
Disclaimer: Not real, trust me.
Author Notes: At the end. :D
“I found you a new roommate.”
Brendon’s in the doorway, smiling at Spencer, like, even more than he normally does, and Spencer cocks and eyebrow at him from behind the latest issue of Better Homes and Gardens, flipping through tips on how to make the perfect casserole and how to sew your own curtains. “I didn’t know I was looking for one. And as far as I know, I’m living with you, Brendon.”
“Yeah, I knoww,” Brendon huffs. “But, hey. You know Ryan? The one who lives, like, two floors above us?”
“You mean the one you’ve been dating for two weeks and who eats my celery sticks and animal crackers when I’m not home?”
“Exactly,” Brendon beams, plopping down next to Spencer on the sofa and snatching Spencer’s magazine from between his thumb and index fingers.
“Dude!” Spencer grabs for it, because the article he was reading about formal napkin folding was really fucking informative, but isn’t fast enough to rescue the glossy pages before they’re crushed underneath Brendon’s abnormally sized butt.
“No, Spen, listen!” Brendon continues, smile still as wide as when he first brought the subject matter up. “So you know Ryan, and uh, he and I are planning on moving in together. And you know his roommate Jon?”
“You mean the guy with the flip-flops?”
“Yeah, him.”
“And you’re going to tell me that you magically concluded I’m going to live with this guy, are you?” Spencer asks, irritated, counting the amount of cat hairs on his socks.
“Pretty much, yeah. Because Ryan’s moving in, because we’re in love and stuff, and Ryan didn’t want to leave Jon alone because he’s sort of, really bizarre, and Jon can’t move in too because our apartment can’t hold four, let alone three, so we decided that you’ll move in with Jon because you both sort of need someone to be weird with-because dude, you’re a fucking lunatic sometimes too-and then Ryan can live here with me and it’ll all be cool, y’know?” When Brendon finishes, he’s grinning with enthusiasm like he just presented Spencer with a cash prize, and Spencer’s glaring at him like he’s just been involved with illegal drugs.
“You’re looking at me like I have no say in this.” Spencer loses track of how many cat hairs he’s counted as he says this, and he curses under his breath before starting over.
“You sort of don’t. Because it’s two against one and Ryan’s moving in tomorrow.”
“What about all of my shit? And my decorating…” Spencer trails off in despair, eyeing the perfect fireplace display contrasted against olive walls bearing perfect picture frames and wall sconces.
Brendon offers, “Ryan’s apartment is like, empty. You can start from scratch. You need a new project occupy your time anyway. Seriously, stop counting shit, it’s weird. Besides, the key is always under the door if you ever want to come back. But knock first, you know.”
“I’ve only met this Jon guy once, Bren. And that was last week and it was snowing and he was running around in a winter coat and flip-flops. How do you expect me to live with him?” Spencer exhales spitefully and concludes there are at least twenty-two cat hairs on his left sock, compared to nineteen on his right.
Brendon sighs, “I don’t know, Spen. Pretend it’s like summer camp. Remember how we went to camp when we were kids and you had to share a cabin with someone new?”
“Yeah. The kid that drooled over the side of the top bunk and had a tendency to rearrange my CDs on the dresser. I fucking hated him,” and Spencer almost laughs, almost.
Brendon tosses out, “But you survived. C’mon, Spen. You know I love you, and I love living with you, but it’s time for a change.”
Spencer mutters submissively into the back of the couch, “It’s because I alphabetized your socks, isn’t it?”
*
“That’s mine!”
Jon robs the bottle of vitamin water from Ryan’s hands before he can even twist the cap.
“See this?” Jon flips the bottle over, exposing J-O-N written in black sharpie letters on the base, thrice-underlined because Jon is really protective of his vitamin waters, especially.
“I see,” Ryan mutters unenthusiastically, settling for an unmarked water bottle on the refrigerator door and curling up on the sofa.
“What’s up?” Jon asks. “I can tell you’re distracted. Because you’re staring at the TV and it’s not even on.”
Ryan says carefully, “I need to talk to you.”
Jon’s heart sinks, and he considers turning around and walking away before Ryan can say anything that might ruin his day, or year, but Ryan has already stood up and is pulling Jon to sit down with him.
“You remember Brendon, don’t you? And how he and I are dating?” Ryan asks gently.
“If you tell me you’re pregnant, Ryan Ross, I swear I will punch you in the fucking stomach.”
“Is that even, like, possible?” Ryan asks, creasing his eyebrows together. “But no, Jon. I’m not pregnant. Listen, he and I were thinking about moving in together, into his apartment.”
“Okay..?” Jon draws out.
“And we were thinking his roommate, Spencer, could move in with you so you two can keep each other company, because Brendon’s apartment isn’t big enough for all four of us and I’d hate to see you living alone.”
“Spencer? You mean the guy with the celery sticks?” Jon asks. “I only met him once, Ry. And he kept staring at my feet like they were leprous or something.”
“-Well it is January and you do wear flip-flops everywhere you go," Ryan admits. "But come on, Jon. I really like Brendon and, no offense, but living with you sometimes makes me want to shoot myself. Plus, you’ll have a lot in common with Spencer, trust me."
"I don't know--"
"Please? Give it a try?" Ryan's eyes are borderline get-on-your-knees-pleading and he's scooped Jon's hands up in his, giving them a reassuring squeeze and gazing into Jon’s eyes a few bright-eyed blinks. "If it doesn't work out, I'm just two floors away. It'll be an easy transition back."
"I still don't know, Ryan--"
"Well, you don't have much of a choice. It's two against one. Majority rules in this household," Ryan's tone is more firm and less begging this time, like he’s finished with dancing around the subject and is pretty much ready to tango with Jon if he’s going to continue to further object.
"We never said anything about a majority ruling," Jon whines, feeling Ryan’s rough hands in his soft palms and almost offering him some hand lotion, but instead he blurts out loud, “No. You can’t have one drop of my mango-pomegranate. You can use Brendon’s fucking hand lotion.”
Ryan raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nevermind.” Jon tosses his head back onto the sofa cushions in embarrassment.
“So you’re cool with this, then?” Ryan says, more confirming than asking, and Jon knows if he tries to protest, he’s going to lose.
“Whatever,” Jon says, and then, “Ryan?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you wearing my flip-flops?”
*
Brendon spends the rest of the evening helping a reluctant Spencer pack his things up in grocery bags and brown boxes, and it’s not like he’s getting the job done any faster by helping, because every time he would box something away, Spencer would re-open the box and alphabetize and color code every single item, all the way down to the decorative scented candles and tubes of tooth paste.
“Spencer, seriously, it’s not like they’re going to be in there very long,” Brendon would nag, and Spencer would get all touchy about it as he tries to figure out if Crest or Colgate comes first in the alphabet.
And Spencer would say, “But when I unpack, I’d rather not have to re-organize everything over again. Do you realize how irrational that sounds?”
But Brendon would just shake his head with a soft laugh and wipe some dust on Spencer’s nose, who would hastily smear it off and whip Brendon in the face with a sock or whatever else he had within an arm’s length.
As soon as everything in the whole fucking apartment all of Spencer’s necessities are piled up near the front door, Brendon throws himself onto the couch, picks up the magazine Spencer was reading earlier, flips to the casserole Spencer’s been raving about and points to it. “Hey.” He says. “Wanna make this?”
*
Ten minutes later and they’re strolling the isles of the local supermarket, Brendon pushing the cart and regurgitating the list of ingredients while Spencer decides which packages look the least tampered with and arranging them neatly into the cart.
*
Brendon never cooks. It’s basically an unwritten duty of Spencer’s to be the one who touches the stove. The only thing Brendon really ever makes for himself are Lean Cuisines and bowls of Easy Mac, so when Spencer tells Brendon to grate a few carrots, Brendon stares bleakly at Spencer with a whole carrot in one hand and the box grater in the other, weighing them with his hands like he’s not exactly sure how the two exactly go together.
“Actually,” Spencer takes the carrots and grater from Brendon’s hands and replaces them with a wooden spoon covered in cheddar cheese and sour cream. “I’ll grate the carrots. You just go over there and stir. A lot.”
And Brendon still manages to coat himself up to his elbows with sour cream.
*
The rest of the evening is spent watching movies curled up on the sofa with blankets and Spencer’s favorite Haagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream eaten out of pint-sized cartons.
Brendon says, “I’m going to miss movie nights with you, Spen.”
“You can have movie nights with Ryan,” Spencer suggests impassively.
“It won’t be the same,” Brendon mutters into the remnants of his ice cream carton, stabbing aimlessly at the bottom with his spoon. “It’ll be more like make-out-nights-in-front-of-Fight-Club.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Bren,” Spencer mutters.
“Tell me you’ll come back every Thursday at 7:30 to watch a movie with me.”
“I’ll come back every Thursday at 7:30 to watch a movie with you,” Spencer mimics before curling his back into the couch cushions and closing his eyes to find a place in sleep.
*
The early morning light bleeds orange through the blinds and soaks Spencer’s face with a carroty glow as he tosses uncomfortably on the sofa he shared with Brendon’s ice cream carton and one of Brendon’s cats.
Brendon’s in the shower while Ryan’s in the fridge, waving his booty indecisively from behind the door as he decides between orange juice or pepsi, settling with both and pouring half of each into a glass.
Spencer’s almost awake enough to function by the time Ryan roams over to the chair near the couch and sips loudly at his concoction.
“-The fuck, Ryan?” Spencer mutters through morning breath and fatigue. “That’s fucking disgusting man, what the fuck is that?”
“What does it look like?” Ryan snaps with the TV remote in his hands.
“Like you just vomited in one of my crystal wine glasses.”
“Fuck you.”
“Why are you here so early, anyway?” Spencer asks. “It’s like, six.”
“Try nine-thirty,” Ryan says. “And Brendon asked me to help you move your shit upstairs. So up and at ‘em, sunshine. It’s moving day.”
Spencer presents Ryan with a middle finger before rolling over onto the cat and going back to sleep.
*
Spencer’s boxes have gone from being stacked around he and Brendon’s front door to being stacked around Ryan and Jon’s front door in a matter of an hour and a half and a few breaks to pass out on the trash-clad stairs, since the elevator has been broken forever for a few days.
Ryan’s belongings are still in he and Jon’s living room, and he bitches and complains when Brendon suggests they carry those down while they’re at it.
"I can wear your clothes and eat Spencer’s food and I don’t want to carry another box as long as I live,” Ryan whines into Brendon’s shoulder.
“Whatever Ry, we’ll get them in the morning,” Brendon says. “Where’s Jon?”
“I think he’s like, sleeping or something. He has really weird sleeping patterns,” Ryan explains. "I’ll get him.”
Two minutes later and Ryan is escorting a sleepy-eyed Jon by his t-shirt sleeve into the box-littered living room. “Jon, this is Spencer. Spencer, this is Jon.”
Jon mutters a drowsy “hi” and gives him a weak smile and Spencer wants to hold his hand out or something in a sort of peace-offering, but handshakes are sort of formal and awkward, and although this exchange is awkward, it’s far from formal and he settles on waving in Jon’s direction like a dorky little girl instead.
“Okay, so, I guess we’re leaving now,” Ryan announces as he takes Brendon by the hand.
”Spen?” Brendon turns around.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be a stranger.”
*
A/N: Here you go, loves. Finally something new and coherent. :) I've had a lot of time to kill during this break from school. I hope you all have a lovely Thanksgiving weekend.
Comments are lovely and greatly appreciated. ♥
Author: santixcore
Rating: R
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Summary: Joncer roommate AU!
“Spencer? You mean the guy with the celery sticks?” Jon asks. “I only met him once, Ry. And he kept staring at my feet like they were leprous or something.”
Disclaimer: Not real, trust me.
Author Notes: At the end. :D
“I found you a new roommate.”
Brendon’s in the doorway, smiling at Spencer, like, even more than he normally does, and Spencer cocks and eyebrow at him from behind the latest issue of Better Homes and Gardens, flipping through tips on how to make the perfect casserole and how to sew your own curtains. “I didn’t know I was looking for one. And as far as I know, I’m living with you, Brendon.”
“Yeah, I knoww,” Brendon huffs. “But, hey. You know Ryan? The one who lives, like, two floors above us?”
“You mean the one you’ve been dating for two weeks and who eats my celery sticks and animal crackers when I’m not home?”
“Exactly,” Brendon beams, plopping down next to Spencer on the sofa and snatching Spencer’s magazine from between his thumb and index fingers.
“Dude!” Spencer grabs for it, because the article he was reading about formal napkin folding was really fucking informative, but isn’t fast enough to rescue the glossy pages before they’re crushed underneath Brendon’s abnormally sized butt.
“No, Spen, listen!” Brendon continues, smile still as wide as when he first brought the subject matter up. “So you know Ryan, and uh, he and I are planning on moving in together. And you know his roommate Jon?”
“You mean the guy with the flip-flops?”
“Yeah, him.”
“And you’re going to tell me that you magically concluded I’m going to live with this guy, are you?” Spencer asks, irritated, counting the amount of cat hairs on his socks.
“Pretty much, yeah. Because Ryan’s moving in, because we’re in love and stuff, and Ryan didn’t want to leave Jon alone because he’s sort of, really bizarre, and Jon can’t move in too because our apartment can’t hold four, let alone three, so we decided that you’ll move in with Jon because you both sort of need someone to be weird with-because dude, you’re a fucking lunatic sometimes too-and then Ryan can live here with me and it’ll all be cool, y’know?” When Brendon finishes, he’s grinning with enthusiasm like he just presented Spencer with a cash prize, and Spencer’s glaring at him like he’s just been involved with illegal drugs.
“You’re looking at me like I have no say in this.” Spencer loses track of how many cat hairs he’s counted as he says this, and he curses under his breath before starting over.
“You sort of don’t. Because it’s two against one and Ryan’s moving in tomorrow.”
“What about all of my shit? And my decorating…” Spencer trails off in despair, eyeing the perfect fireplace display contrasted against olive walls bearing perfect picture frames and wall sconces.
Brendon offers, “Ryan’s apartment is like, empty. You can start from scratch. You need a new project occupy your time anyway. Seriously, stop counting shit, it’s weird. Besides, the key is always under the door if you ever want to come back. But knock first, you know.”
“I’ve only met this Jon guy once, Bren. And that was last week and it was snowing and he was running around in a winter coat and flip-flops. How do you expect me to live with him?” Spencer exhales spitefully and concludes there are at least twenty-two cat hairs on his left sock, compared to nineteen on his right.
Brendon sighs, “I don’t know, Spen. Pretend it’s like summer camp. Remember how we went to camp when we were kids and you had to share a cabin with someone new?”
“Yeah. The kid that drooled over the side of the top bunk and had a tendency to rearrange my CDs on the dresser. I fucking hated him,” and Spencer almost laughs, almost.
Brendon tosses out, “But you survived. C’mon, Spen. You know I love you, and I love living with you, but it’s time for a change.”
Spencer mutters submissively into the back of the couch, “It’s because I alphabetized your socks, isn’t it?”
*
“That’s mine!”
Jon robs the bottle of vitamin water from Ryan’s hands before he can even twist the cap.
“See this?” Jon flips the bottle over, exposing J-O-N written in black sharpie letters on the base, thrice-underlined because Jon is really protective of his vitamin waters, especially.
“I see,” Ryan mutters unenthusiastically, settling for an unmarked water bottle on the refrigerator door and curling up on the sofa.
“What’s up?” Jon asks. “I can tell you’re distracted. Because you’re staring at the TV and it’s not even on.”
Ryan says carefully, “I need to talk to you.”
Jon’s heart sinks, and he considers turning around and walking away before Ryan can say anything that might ruin his day, or year, but Ryan has already stood up and is pulling Jon to sit down with him.
“You remember Brendon, don’t you? And how he and I are dating?” Ryan asks gently.
“If you tell me you’re pregnant, Ryan Ross, I swear I will punch you in the fucking stomach.”
“Is that even, like, possible?” Ryan asks, creasing his eyebrows together. “But no, Jon. I’m not pregnant. Listen, he and I were thinking about moving in together, into his apartment.”
“Okay..?” Jon draws out.
“And we were thinking his roommate, Spencer, could move in with you so you two can keep each other company, because Brendon’s apartment isn’t big enough for all four of us and I’d hate to see you living alone.”
“Spencer? You mean the guy with the celery sticks?” Jon asks. “I only met him once, Ry. And he kept staring at my feet like they were leprous or something.”
“-Well it is January and you do wear flip-flops everywhere you go," Ryan admits. "But come on, Jon. I really like Brendon and, no offense, but living with you sometimes makes me want to shoot myself. Plus, you’ll have a lot in common with Spencer, trust me."
"I don't know--"
"Please? Give it a try?" Ryan's eyes are borderline get-on-your-knees-pleading and he's scooped Jon's hands up in his, giving them a reassuring squeeze and gazing into Jon’s eyes a few bright-eyed blinks. "If it doesn't work out, I'm just two floors away. It'll be an easy transition back."
"I still don't know, Ryan--"
"Well, you don't have much of a choice. It's two against one. Majority rules in this household," Ryan's tone is more firm and less begging this time, like he’s finished with dancing around the subject and is pretty much ready to tango with Jon if he’s going to continue to further object.
"We never said anything about a majority ruling," Jon whines, feeling Ryan’s rough hands in his soft palms and almost offering him some hand lotion, but instead he blurts out loud, “No. You can’t have one drop of my mango-pomegranate. You can use Brendon’s fucking hand lotion.”
Ryan raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nevermind.” Jon tosses his head back onto the sofa cushions in embarrassment.
“So you’re cool with this, then?” Ryan says, more confirming than asking, and Jon knows if he tries to protest, he’s going to lose.
“Whatever,” Jon says, and then, “Ryan?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you wearing my flip-flops?”
*
Brendon spends the rest of the evening helping a reluctant Spencer pack his things up in grocery bags and brown boxes, and it’s not like he’s getting the job done any faster by helping, because every time he would box something away, Spencer would re-open the box and alphabetize and color code every single item, all the way down to the decorative scented candles and tubes of tooth paste.
“Spencer, seriously, it’s not like they’re going to be in there very long,” Brendon would nag, and Spencer would get all touchy about it as he tries to figure out if Crest or Colgate comes first in the alphabet.
And Spencer would say, “But when I unpack, I’d rather not have to re-organize everything over again. Do you realize how irrational that sounds?”
But Brendon would just shake his head with a soft laugh and wipe some dust on Spencer’s nose, who would hastily smear it off and whip Brendon in the face with a sock or whatever else he had within an arm’s length.
As soon as everything in the whole fucking apartment all of Spencer’s necessities are piled up near the front door, Brendon throws himself onto the couch, picks up the magazine Spencer was reading earlier, flips to the casserole Spencer’s been raving about and points to it. “Hey.” He says. “Wanna make this?”
*
Ten minutes later and they’re strolling the isles of the local supermarket, Brendon pushing the cart and regurgitating the list of ingredients while Spencer decides which packages look the least tampered with and arranging them neatly into the cart.
*
Brendon never cooks. It’s basically an unwritten duty of Spencer’s to be the one who touches the stove. The only thing Brendon really ever makes for himself are Lean Cuisines and bowls of Easy Mac, so when Spencer tells Brendon to grate a few carrots, Brendon stares bleakly at Spencer with a whole carrot in one hand and the box grater in the other, weighing them with his hands like he’s not exactly sure how the two exactly go together.
“Actually,” Spencer takes the carrots and grater from Brendon’s hands and replaces them with a wooden spoon covered in cheddar cheese and sour cream. “I’ll grate the carrots. You just go over there and stir. A lot.”
And Brendon still manages to coat himself up to his elbows with sour cream.
*
The rest of the evening is spent watching movies curled up on the sofa with blankets and Spencer’s favorite Haagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream eaten out of pint-sized cartons.
Brendon says, “I’m going to miss movie nights with you, Spen.”
“You can have movie nights with Ryan,” Spencer suggests impassively.
“It won’t be the same,” Brendon mutters into the remnants of his ice cream carton, stabbing aimlessly at the bottom with his spoon. “It’ll be more like make-out-nights-in-front-of-Fight-Club.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Bren,” Spencer mutters.
“Tell me you’ll come back every Thursday at 7:30 to watch a movie with me.”
“I’ll come back every Thursday at 7:30 to watch a movie with you,” Spencer mimics before curling his back into the couch cushions and closing his eyes to find a place in sleep.
*
The early morning light bleeds orange through the blinds and soaks Spencer’s face with a carroty glow as he tosses uncomfortably on the sofa he shared with Brendon’s ice cream carton and one of Brendon’s cats.
Brendon’s in the shower while Ryan’s in the fridge, waving his booty indecisively from behind the door as he decides between orange juice or pepsi, settling with both and pouring half of each into a glass.
Spencer’s almost awake enough to function by the time Ryan roams over to the chair near the couch and sips loudly at his concoction.
“-The fuck, Ryan?” Spencer mutters through morning breath and fatigue. “That’s fucking disgusting man, what the fuck is that?”
“What does it look like?” Ryan snaps with the TV remote in his hands.
“Like you just vomited in one of my crystal wine glasses.”
“Fuck you.”
“Why are you here so early, anyway?” Spencer asks. “It’s like, six.”
“Try nine-thirty,” Ryan says. “And Brendon asked me to help you move your shit upstairs. So up and at ‘em, sunshine. It’s moving day.”
Spencer presents Ryan with a middle finger before rolling over onto the cat and going back to sleep.
*
Spencer’s boxes have gone from being stacked around he and Brendon’s front door to being stacked around Ryan and Jon’s front door in a matter of an hour and a half and a few breaks to pass out on the trash-clad stairs, since the elevator has been broken forever for a few days.
Ryan’s belongings are still in he and Jon’s living room, and he bitches and complains when Brendon suggests they carry those down while they’re at it.
"I can wear your clothes and eat Spencer’s food and I don’t want to carry another box as long as I live,” Ryan whines into Brendon’s shoulder.
“Whatever Ry, we’ll get them in the morning,” Brendon says. “Where’s Jon?”
“I think he’s like, sleeping or something. He has really weird sleeping patterns,” Ryan explains. "I’ll get him.”
Two minutes later and Ryan is escorting a sleepy-eyed Jon by his t-shirt sleeve into the box-littered living room. “Jon, this is Spencer. Spencer, this is Jon.”
Jon mutters a drowsy “hi” and gives him a weak smile and Spencer wants to hold his hand out or something in a sort of peace-offering, but handshakes are sort of formal and awkward, and although this exchange is awkward, it’s far from formal and he settles on waving in Jon’s direction like a dorky little girl instead.
“Okay, so, I guess we’re leaving now,” Ryan announces as he takes Brendon by the hand.
”Spen?” Brendon turns around.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be a stranger.”
*
A/N: Here you go, loves. Finally something new and coherent. :) I've had a lot of time to kill during this break from school. I hope you all have a lovely Thanksgiving weekend.
Comments are lovely and greatly appreciated. ♥