Panic! Fic--"We're After the Same Rainbow's End"
Author: shadow_shimmer
Title: “We’re After the Same Rainbow's End”
Pairing: Jon/Spencer, Jon/Spencer/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Thanks: To horizon_greene for the amazing beta. Tense agreement is for the weak. ;)
Disclaimer: The people are real, this isn’t.
Word Count: 4800
Warnings: This is just pure crack. Also, Kink!fic. So, you're warned. Mild drug use, fisting, breath play, threesome.
Summary: They’ve decided to strangle me in my sleep, he thinks, disappointed. If Panic! are anything, they’re creative, innovative. They think outside the bun. This--being strangled in his bunk--is so mundane. If it’s a plot on Brendon’s part, then it should be slow. Poisoning. Arsenic, maybe. Blue nails, and slowly getting weaker. Very tragic. If it’s up to Ryan? Something on a grand scale. Impalement. Death by mascara wand. Black lines and bloody faces.
We’re After the Same Rainbow's End
Touring almost constantly hones Spencer’s body and his nerves to a razor’s edge. He’s never been easy going. He’s never been especially nice, even, and after months of attempting to keep up with Ryan’s diva act and Brendon’s boundless energy--first apart and then, God help them all--together, he’s a few shaky breaths away from his breaking point.
This has all happened too fast, and Spencer sometimes worries that like, you know who, he’s going to get left behind.
It doesn’t help at all that Jon is so constantly serene. Like, Brendon and Ryan have each other and The Music. Jon has inner fucking peace and what does Spencer have? Shoes? Shit. Not good enough.
Fall is when Spencer used to be in school, and he’s not used to not doing that yet because he’s not in college either, or working nine to five. He feels like he’s skipped something somewhere and it makes him feel incomplete--parted out, sold off--and mean.
At the VMAs, Spencer hisses to Pete that he’s overexposed and unoriginal and that the monkey is appalling.
A few weeks later, Brendon gives Ryan a bouquet of russet colored roses--partially wilted because they come from an organic florist, but Brendon wants Ryan to wear them in his hair (Ryan blushes when Brendon clarifies, “not on stage”), and Ryan gives one to Jon and to Spencer too.
Spencer eats his.
The final straw comes when he picks a fight with Jon, who won’t fight back. Spencer starts with Jon’s weight (if Spencer can lose it--hate it right off of himself--why can‘t Jon? Soft, huggable fucker). Then, when he gets nothing but an eye roll, he moves on to Jon’s photography. “It’s pretentious and lacks perspective,” he tells Jon, working up to an attack on Jon’s choice in footwear (holy shit, brown flip flops? One step away from Birkenstocks, man. Are they gonna tour with Dave Matthews next?)
Jon stops him with a hand on his head and asks him if there’s anything wrong, if he wants to talk, blah blah blah sensitive shit.
Spencer bites him.
He sees the three of them: Ryan and Jon and Brendon talking later and looking at him out of the corner of their eyes and over their shoulders while he writes vicious haikus in his notebook about Birkenstocks and basses and boys with soft bellies.
*
That night, Spencer wakes up and he can’t breathe.
There’s an arm around his throat and a body pressed against his back.
They’ve decided to strangle me in my sleep, he thinks, disappointed. If Panic! are anything, they’re creative, innovative. They think outside the bun. This--being strangled in his bunk--is so mundane. If it’s a plot on Brendon’s part, then it should be slow. Poisoning. Arsenic, maybe. Blue nails, and slowly getting weaker. Very tragic. If it’s up to Ryan? Something on a grand scale. Impalement. Death by mascara wand. Black lines and bloody faces.
Jon is a back alley killer. He maybe doesn’t know it yet.
Spencer opens his mouth to protest a boring death and a premature one, when Jon, murmuring into the back of his head, says, “Shh. Be good. Everyone’s asleep. Don’t wanna wake them up.”
Spencer hushes. Of course he doesn’t want to wake them up. That would be awkward. Especially if this isn’t a plan to assassinate him.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he asks, quiet, being good, because his sleepy and slightly oxygen-deprived brain thinks that sounds interesting.
“No. Might hurt you, though,” Jon says into his hair. Spencer almost doesn’t hear it, has to play it back a few times and decide if that’s what he wants to hear.
It is. Maybe, with the way the words settle deep in his stomach and flutter around, he’s been waiting to hear it.
“ ‘k,” he whispers back.
“Lift,” Jon tells him as he begins working Spencer’s boxers off and hey! Jon’s not wearing much either. “Open this,” he says, a second later, handing Spencer a bottle of lube which he opens, glad to help. Jon has one arm occupied with cutting off Spencer’s airways, after all.
“The rules,” Jon says, slipping a finger inside Spencer, “are pretty easy. No loud noises; no bitching; only speak when spoken to unless you want to stop. Right?”
“ ‘s” Spencer says, wiggling his hips a little, trying to get comfortable. It’s not that this is totally new--he’s done it to himself a couple times, and there was that one time with Ryan back before . . . everything. But this is Jon and usually, before, Spencer could breathe.
Spencer likes foreplay. He likes kissing and touching and rubbing and licking and everything getting faster and wetter and hotter, eyes stinging and hearts skipping. Jon‘s either not really into that or he‘s just not into it tonight, because now he‘s pressing into Spencer--kissing the back of Spencer head--and there‘s stretching and burning and blood pounding slow and heavy and hard in Spencer‘s wrists.
He’s careful to muffle a grunt on Jon’s arm.
“Want something you can say to make me stop?” Jon asks, moving a little, not like he’s serious about it, not fucking, just finding a spot he likes and then going still.
“Safeword?” Spencer half-laughs, half-chokes, quietly. He lifts his head, feeling teeth on the tendon where it’s drawn tight, straining.
“Whatever.”
“Purple Rain. Won’t need it, though,” Spencer says, making it up as he goes. Is he imagining Jon’s arm getting tighter?
“We’ll see,” Jon says.
*
Spencer’s seeing stars. Little white explosions in his head as he tries to breathe. He wants to concentrate on that, on getting air, because that’s logical, a matter of survival. But Jon’s kissing the shell of his ear and telling him to be good again, and stop his flailing and give into it, and that it’ll be easier next time (next time?). And there’s also his cock, which Jon’s working in long, slow strokes.
“Spencer, Spencer,” Jon says. “It’s okay. You can come.”
Jon comforting him and hurting him at the same time is confusing in the best possible way, except maybe for the part of his brain that’s still functioning and won’t shut up about how this is definitely not okay, and how much of a pervert is he really that he can just wake up in the middle of the night and let this shit go down without a fight?
“Let go.”
Oh, Spencer thinks, finally not able to breathe at all. That’s why. And he comes as everything greys out.
*
Jon relaxes his chokehold, leaving his arm loose over Spencer’s collarbones, and Spencer coughs softly into his pillow as he gets his air back.
“Here,” Jon’s holding his hand to Spencer’s mouth, and it takes Spencer a second to get it together and realize what Jon wants. His tongue feels weird--too big, awkward--when he starts to lick Jon’s hand, and he wonders if they‘re finished. Jon is still inside him and still hard and still not moving.
“It’ll be easier this time,” Jon says when Spencer’s done.
And Spencer says, “Not done?”
“Not for a while,” Jon answers.
*
Right now, after just once, Spencer feels pretty good--relaxed and almost peaceful. Connected to something. Which, yeah, Jon’s still in him, so that’s logical. Although, Spencer’s managed, on occasion to feel pretty disconnected during sex. He supposes the whole almost choking brings a sense of immediacy to the whole experience. Also, Spencer wishes he could turn off the thing in his brain that makes him analyze shit until it loses all appeal.
That voice, the bitchy inner monologue, fuzzes out a little as he concentrates on Jon telling him--in between kisses to the back of Spencer’s neck and shoulders--that he should get hard again soon, that he should want to get hard again soon, and that this time he’s going to be good and ask Jon to do things to him, isn’t he?
“Yes,” he tells Jon. And he can feel the tension in his thighs and belly building already--partly from Jon talking and partly from Jon moving in him.
It hurts when Jon plays with him right after he‘s come, but he doesn’t pull away. It’s like the thrill of picking at an open wound, almost.
When Jon tightens his grip around Spencer’s neck again, it’s after Spencer whispers “Please,” and Jon’s palmed Spencer’s balls flat against his body, making him gasp too loudly.
This time, every liquid breath comes with rolling tremors through his muscles. He twitches everywhere, tingles, sees the ceiling of his bunk through a green and silver veil and every time he shifts his eyes, tracers follow, lighting up his peripheral vision like multicolored contrails.
“Please,” he says. Let me breathe. Let me go. Let me come. He’s drowning, so he isn’t sure he can speak. But then he’s coming and coughing and crying a little.
*
When Jon pulls out of him, he’s still seeing stars: little pink spots that split and merge and dance even when he closes his eyes.
“Okay?” Jon asks, rearranging them so that he can rub at Spencer’s shoulders and Spencer can curl up his knees a little--automatic, protecting himself.
“I’m good,” Spencer says. Lying. He’s better than good, and worse. His throat’s bruised and his lungs feel like he’s been running for his life. His brain refuses to function properly, misfiring on things like hurt, shame and don’t let it be over, can’t be over, not enough.
“Done? Spencer,” Jon asks. “Done?”
“Yes,” Spencer says, then pushes himself back against Jon. “No.”
“You’re fucked up, kid. You know that?” Jon asks, and Spencer hears him messing with the lube.
Finger again, then, and Jon talking. “I was sleeping with this girl, on and off, for a while, um, a year ago? Anyway. She couldn’t get off on my dick, right?”
So fucking calm. Spencer could fall asleep like this: Jon talking and fingering him. Maybe he could market it. It would be bigger than Ambien and safer. None of that sleep eating shit. Jon would strangle you if you tried to get up in the night for a snack that didn’t involve him.
“--so had to get creative.”
Holy shit, Spencer jerks away from Jon. There are three fingers in him now and Jon’s teasing him with his thumb too. And Spencer feels a little crazy. He’s heard about this, but only in a very abstract way. Not in, like, the Jon Walker is about to do some very twisted shit to me in my bunk tonight kind of way.
Only, “You want it,” Jon says. No doubt.
“No--I. Fuck, yeah.”
“Freak.”
“Please.”
Jon twists his wrist, hard, up and around, and Spencer has to clap both hands to his face to stop the pain-grunt.
“No.” Jon sounds like he’s smiling.
Spencer keeps his hands where they are to stifle his sob of frustration and relief.
Jon kisses the row of Spencer’s knuckles where his hands are still covering his face as Jon pulls his hand out and says, “Be good, Spencer and roll over.”
*
It’s two, no, three days later when Ryan finally asks about the bruises on Spencer’s neck. He says he’s worried; Spencer hasn’t been mean to anyone in, like, a good forty-eight hours.
“Ask Jon,” Spencer says.
And Ryan does. But he waits until Jon’s drunk, Spencer notices, and more likely to say awkward things. “What’s your secret, Jon,” Ryan asks. “I’ve known him, like, forever, and he’s always been a bitch.”
“Sex,” Jon says.
“No.” Ryan stares at Spencer.
“Yeah,” Jon nods.
“But I’ve had sex with him and he’s managed to be a bitch during.”
Jon shuts his eyes and rubs at the bridge of his nose. Spencer begins to get worried.
“C’mere, Ryan.”
Ryan goes and sits next to, or well, more kind of on Jon. Like a fucked up version of a little kid asking Santa for something really special for Christmas. Spencer heads for the kitchen. He needs something with sugar. Something that crunches. Like Brendon’s stash of Skittles.
So Spencer’s tasting the rainbow, getting his sugar rush on, thinking he’s going to avoid hearing Jon’s Version Of Events. Not quite though. The kitchen’s not far enough away, and a drunk Jon isn’t a discreet Jon. Spencer can hear him, slurring and mumbling to a giggling and then increasingly quiet Ryan.
“Couple hours,” Jon says. “Like this.” And then Spencer’s back in the lounge where Jon has Ryan in a loose headlock.
He goes to his knees in front of them, still working on a handful of Skittles.
“Then what?” Ryan asks Spencer.
Spencer has a second of indecision: to play or not to play? Throw the Skittles and have a temper tantrum or, bond, somehow?
He feeds Ryan a Skittle and makes up his mind. “He made me ask for it,” he says. “Ask to breathe and ask to--y‘know,” Spencer says, picking at the carpet beneath him, looking for a wayward candy. “Twice.”
“And?” Ryan’s breathing hard, eyes bright.
“He almost--” Spencer can’t say it. His teeth hurt from the sugar.
“What?”
Spencer takes Ryan’s hand and measures the tiny wrist with his fingers and then folds the fingers into a fist, covering it with his.
“Almost,” he repeats.
Shutting his eyes, Ryan makes a small, funny sound.
“Why not?” Ryan asks Jon.
“Not sure how. With a guy. Big hands, something. Teasing him,” Jon shifts up and rubs at his stomach. “He wanted it so bad.”
“I can,” Ryan offers, eager, tongue purple from the Skittles he keeps stealing from Spencer. “Next hotel.”
“You have before?” Spencer asks, a little shocked.
Ryan laughs. “Brendon has porn. I can figure it out. Or I’ll call Pete.”
Spencer considers death before dishonor as Ryan sprints for his phone.
*
“Pete says to relax and go really slowly. Use the warming kind of lube. Oh, and to get it on tape.”
“Tape?” Spencer says, blinking.
“Well, he wants to share in the experience even if he can’t actually, like, be there. Or something.”
“No way in hell,” Spencer says, looking at Jon, trying to gauge if the asshole has said anything to Brendon yet. This is turning into a group fucking project. No pun intended.
*
One, and then two hotels go by, and Spencer begins to think that everyone’s forgotten about it. He almost has.
Everything’s a little better, though. He’s not tripping quite so close to the edge. He feels a little more like he’s a part of a band again and not just living in his own little world, isolated behind his drum set.
He likes making out with Jon, too. In bathrooms, back up against a wobbly stall--backstage, getting groped as they’re coming off, hot and smelly and sweaty and smearing each other’s makeup.
*
By the time the fall tour gets to Denver, Brendon’s sick. He’s pale and damp, with blood shot eyes and a weak stomach. Spencer watches while Ryan buys Brendon Big Gulps full of Sprite from 7-11, and Jon coaxes him into eating club crackers until Ryan and Brendon’s bed is full of crumbs.
The room has oversized windows that face west and Spencer spends most of his time standing in front of them, letting the altitude work on him, getting dizzy and breathless. He watches the moon reflect off of the snowy mountains--seeing them glow--and wonders if he should take up snowboarding.
On the last trip to 7-11 with Ryan, they had passed a group of girls in beanies and Carharts. One of them was wearing a hoodie that said Skiing Makes me Board. She had dread locks and big teeth, and Spencer thought that Colorado might not be the place for him as he dodged the inquisitive nose of Dread Lock’s Husky mix.
Ryan agreed, about their incompatibility with Colorado, while he bought Brendon’s soda and a bag of Starbursts for himself. “Lesbians,” Ryan pointed out, paying with his credit card, and glancing outside at the girls who were laughing out loud, with their breath bright white against the orange and black city sky. “They want to feed us to their dogs.”
“Bet they’re names are, like, Cheyenne and Montana and Luna, right?” Spencer asked, holding the door for Ryan.
“The girls or the dogs?”
*
Eventually, Brendon kicks them all out and claims he just wants to sleep it off. Ryan and Spencer go back to Spencer’s room and Jon takes off with the kids from Bloc Party.
Ryan and Spencer are on their fourteenth game of hangman--Ryan’s turn; he’s picked a movie: b _ _ a _ _ a s t a t t _ _ _ a _ _ s. And Spencer has a head, a neck and two arms on his little man--when Jon comes back with chapped lips, a red nose, wet hair, icy hands and a hell of a lot of energy.
“What the fuck, you guys?” he asks, bouncing on the bed, snapping the little mini hotel pencil in half when he lands on it. “Are you nine?”
“Are you high?” Ryan snaps back, kicking at Jon and glaring.
“Maybe. Yeah,” Jon says, gripping Spencer’s arm, just under the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Something.”
“Got an idea for you kids, though,” Jon says, sliding up behind Spencer, pressing against his back and looking over his shoulder at the little pad of paper with its Red Lion logo on the top.
“Strip hangman. I’ll start. ‘Cause Spence? You lose points for not getting that one, like, right now.” He reaches over Spencer for the three inches that are left of the pencil and scrawls a new game on the pad: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ . “It’s a band.”
“A,” Ryan guesses, and Jon scribbles, rubbing over Spencer’s back while he does.
_ _ _ _ _ _ a _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
“R,” Spencer says, and Jon shakes his head. “Socks.”
Spencer peels his socks off while Ryan guesses “E.”
_ _ _ _ _ e a _ _ _ _ e _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Jon’s captured one of Spencer’s feet--he was just trying to bury them underneath Jon to keep them warm--and is rubbing circles with his thumb over the thin skin under Spencer’s ankle, making his legs tingle, all the way up the long tendons and into his back.
Shit, Spencer thinks. “M.”
“No,” Jon sounds amused. “Shirt.”
Spencer has to corkscrew out of his shirt, careful not to elbow anyone in the mouth, because no one seems to want to give him space now. And he’s feeling awfully warm and trapped and, oh no, there’s Jon’s hand on his back, rubbing those tingles out of the muscles right above the dip in his spine and, yeah, he’s getting hard now.
He reaches back, maybe he wants to push Jon off of him because, hey, not with Ryan, right? Ryan’s got his own thing, and his Brendon, and whatever else and this--this is Spencer’s now. But when his hands find Jon’s hips, and Jon starts breathing into the back of his head just like that one time, Jesus, Spencer gives Ryan a pass.
Even though he can’t see Jon, and he can see Ryan--whose expression is at best unreadable (and that’s not just the remnants of stage makeup)--he grips Jon’s hips and pulls Jon into him, feeling the sting, the rush, the cold and then the heat of the adrenalin that comes with sudden arousal.
He also feels something in Jon’s front pocket. “What--?”
“Here,” Jon says, around the sound of a plastic bag as he moves a little bit away from Spencer.
Ryan can see what‘s happening, and his eyes go wide with disapproval? Excitement? As Jon tips Spencer’s head back and tells him “Open,” before putting a finger in Spencer’s mouth and running it over his gums.
It‘s tastes bitter, and oh you sick motherfucker, Spencer thinks, as he tongues his now-numb cheeks and gums.
“Fuck you, Jon.”
“Give it a second,” Jon says, holding him down when he starts to get up. And then Ryan’s there too. Soft hands, light touches on his shoulders, strawberry Starburst scented breath in his face.
“Hey, hey,” Ryan says. Looking interested. “Tell me. Tell me what it’s like.”
“Like I got a shot of Novocain you fuckwits, let me--” Oh no, now Spencer’s lying, and he’s sure they can tell by the way he kind of melts away from them that this not just like a trip to the dentist.
All the sharp edges he lives with all day--his bones, Ryan’s words, Brendon’s teeth--smooth over, round off, and suddenly, he can slide.
Now, it’s all so crystal fucking clear (he’s so clear, transparent--Ryan and Jon should be able to see right through his skin and his blood and his muscle and right into his soul): he’s a rock star. Not just that? But Ryan’s a rock star. And it’s because of them that Brendon and Jon are rock stars too.
“It’s--” he tries to talk to Ryan. “It’s like, everything all over me.” And he makes a grab for Ryan. “Share the love, man.”
Ryan rolls on top of him and that’s perfect. Ryan weighs about sixteen pounds when he’s holding a guitar, but Spencer can feel him anyway, holding him down and holding him together.
Jon’s still behind and underneath him--working Spencer’s pants off-- taking to him, telling him to take it easy, and to be careful when he bites at Ryan ,‘cause Ryan’s real; he’ll bleed.
Spencer thinks he might want to argue the point. Ryan is real according to who? In what way? What definition of real do you mean? In a post-modern world, does Ryan the idea, the word, the memory of hot, neon nights in Vegas--signify the boy hiding behind glitter and pyrotechnics and dancers and roses?
Spencer would argue no. There is no correlation between Ryan and the rock star. Therefore, the rock star can bleed a little, and Spencer can taste the copper and the sweat along with the sharp, bitter powder still stuck to his teeth.
“Suck me,” Ryan says, tugging Spencer over so they roll together until Ryan is on his back and Spencer is sprawled over his chest.
Flicking his eyes up to Jon, and then back up to Ryan, Spencer shrugs and slides down, fumbling with buttons and zippers.
It’s kind of a record, Spencer figures, for messy blow jobs, what with the numb lips. Ryan doesn’t seem to mind, though. He comes more quickly than Spencer remembers, actually, pulling Spencer off of him by the hair and hitting Spencer’s neck and chest.
“Goddamn,” Jon says, behind Spencer, fingers wet and stroking.
Jon’s teasing him, playing with him, and Spencer’s so far past that right now that he wants to beat Jon with something heavy and then have his way with his unconscious body.
When Jon gets with it, gets in him, Spencer’s still on top of Ryan, crushing him and clinging to him, listening as Ryan composes lyrics about the way Spencer’s back bends, the way Jon’s hands curl around Spencer’s hips, the tangles in his hair and-- “It’s not enough, is it?” Ryan asks. “That’s so fucked up, Spence,” he says, gentle, in Spencer’s ear. “You’re all coked out and fucked up and his dick isn’t enough. Won’t get you off.” Slut, is implied and Spencer can feel shame worming its way through the heat in his chest.
The little shit is right, though. Spencer’s strung tight and wound up, and so hard his stomach hurts, but he’s, like, plateaued or some shit. Can’t come down; can’t let go, just flat can’t come.
Spencer’s thinking about this, obsessing, getting pissed off, when Ryan pushes up and leans over him, mubling something to Jon who’s close--Spencer can feel that.
“--remember?” Ryan says, and Jon loses his rhythm. “You hold him. I’ll--”
Jon grips the thick muscles that connect Spencer’s neck and shoulder, Vulcan-death-grip style, as he comes. And it sounds to Spencer--wet, soft, low--like they’re kissing over his back.
*
It’s a blur, how they move after that. Jon drags Spencer--hot, filthy and sore--to the top of the bed and lays with him, murmuring nonsense comfort while his brain spins out of control, whirling from ow, to there is no way I will ever be clean again, to is it possible that I might need therapy from this? to I think I’m having a heart attack and my skin is falling off. Oh god.
“Breathe,” Jon tells him. “You’re not dying.”
“How do you know? My heart--”
Jon presses his thumb to Spencer’s wrist. “ ‘S fine. Shh.”
“Not fine. What if I have, um, pria--prius . . .?”
“Priapism?” Jon laughs and reaches between Spencer’s legs. “You don’t. Just,” and he kisses Spencer soft on the mouth. “Wait.”
“For?” Spencer wants to know, on the verge of a full-blown breakdown, he’s sure, when the bed dips and Ryan’s back.
“Dude,” he says, rubbing Spencer’s thighs. “I can get you some Ativan to calm you down, or--”
Spencer’s about to ask a) where the hell Ryan’s going to get Ativan and b) what the or is, when Ryan slides a finger inside of Spencer, and all of Spencer’s vibrating muscles and nerves go right back into hyper drive. All he gets out is a dry, hoarse, moan.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
He pulls his knees up to his chest. Fuck it all, he doesn’t care how that looks, because it means that Ryan’s wicked fucking fingers can do their thing. Which is fine.
It’s all good again, with Ryan playing inside him and Jon working his cock. He’s drifting, counting Starburst wrappers, wondering if Brendon is going to walk in on them, listening to the goddamn incessant wind, until Ryan hurts him.
“What the fuck?” Spencer asks, trying to pull away from Ryan who’s got four fingers in Spencer, which burns like a motherfucker.
“Spence,” Jon says. “Relax. Be good.“
Oh. Oh yeah. Spencer grits his teeth and nods and breathes hard and deep.
Jon, still rubbing Spencer’s cock, tells him, “If I thought you couldn’t do it, or you didn’t want it, I wouldn’t let Ryan. But, c’mon.” Barely a whisper now. Right into Spencer’s glittery, white brain. “You’re hard, man. Tell me you want it to stop.”
A dare.
Spencer focuses.
He concentrates on the burn and the stretch and the ohfuck feeling. He shifts his hips and waits for the tearing that never comes. The pain doesn’t fade, really, he just absorbs it until it’s a part of him, and underneath it, there’s a spark of something that feels uncontrollable.
“Okay?” It’s Ryan. “More?”
“Mmm,” Spencer says. Hurt me.
And then he screams.
“Jesus, Spencer,” Jon says, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Shut up.”
But he can’t. He’s seeing black and feeling red, and all the shit he never says, that he couches in sarcasm or in simple silence, gets ripped out of him, right from the guts, when Ryan twists his fist.
*
Snow keeps them in Denver for an extra day and Spencer doesn’t mind. He thinks he’s used to the altitude now and the dizziness only hits when the memories do, like, when Ryan walks past him and he smells like candy.
He spends a lot of time outside. The snow feels good to him. It’s cold; it covers shit up and makes the swelling go down.
Dread Locks--the lesbian with the dog from the night when Brendon was so sick--is usually out there and her name is actually Holly and the dog’s name is Tangerine. Spencer likes both of them. Holly smokes American Spirit cigarettes and feeds Tangerine beef jerky while she talks to Spencer about politics and whether or not the remake of Hellraiser will be any good.
Jon is out of his mind with all of the photo ops he gets in the snow: Ryan in red against white; Tangerine carrying around a purple trucker’s hat; Brendon and Ryan making snowmen, and Spencer licking a piece of homemade peanut butter granola and making his “ew” face.
They all click again. (Again?) They click. No one’s left out; no one’s leaving. Everything’s slowed down, a little. The snow does that.
*
Spencer buys Jon a D.A.R.E. shirt as they’re leaving town, and Jon wears it for three days.
Jon buys Spencer an old copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People, and Spencer thinks that the two of them might really be on to something.
END
Title: “We’re After the Same Rainbow's End”
Pairing: Jon/Spencer, Jon/Spencer/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Thanks: To horizon_greene for the amazing beta. Tense agreement is for the weak. ;)
Disclaimer: The people are real, this isn’t.
Word Count: 4800
Warnings: This is just pure crack. Also, Kink!fic. So, you're warned. Mild drug use, fisting, breath play, threesome.
Summary: They’ve decided to strangle me in my sleep, he thinks, disappointed. If Panic! are anything, they’re creative, innovative. They think outside the bun. This--being strangled in his bunk--is so mundane. If it’s a plot on Brendon’s part, then it should be slow. Poisoning. Arsenic, maybe. Blue nails, and slowly getting weaker. Very tragic. If it’s up to Ryan? Something on a grand scale. Impalement. Death by mascara wand. Black lines and bloody faces.
We’re After the Same Rainbow's End
Touring almost constantly hones Spencer’s body and his nerves to a razor’s edge. He’s never been easy going. He’s never been especially nice, even, and after months of attempting to keep up with Ryan’s diva act and Brendon’s boundless energy--first apart and then, God help them all--together, he’s a few shaky breaths away from his breaking point.
This has all happened too fast, and Spencer sometimes worries that like, you know who, he’s going to get left behind.
It doesn’t help at all that Jon is so constantly serene. Like, Brendon and Ryan have each other and The Music. Jon has inner fucking peace and what does Spencer have? Shoes? Shit. Not good enough.
Fall is when Spencer used to be in school, and he’s not used to not doing that yet because he’s not in college either, or working nine to five. He feels like he’s skipped something somewhere and it makes him feel incomplete--parted out, sold off--and mean.
At the VMAs, Spencer hisses to Pete that he’s overexposed and unoriginal and that the monkey is appalling.
A few weeks later, Brendon gives Ryan a bouquet of russet colored roses--partially wilted because they come from an organic florist, but Brendon wants Ryan to wear them in his hair (Ryan blushes when Brendon clarifies, “not on stage”), and Ryan gives one to Jon and to Spencer too.
Spencer eats his.
The final straw comes when he picks a fight with Jon, who won’t fight back. Spencer starts with Jon’s weight (if Spencer can lose it--hate it right off of himself--why can‘t Jon? Soft, huggable fucker). Then, when he gets nothing but an eye roll, he moves on to Jon’s photography. “It’s pretentious and lacks perspective,” he tells Jon, working up to an attack on Jon’s choice in footwear (holy shit, brown flip flops? One step away from Birkenstocks, man. Are they gonna tour with Dave Matthews next?)
Jon stops him with a hand on his head and asks him if there’s anything wrong, if he wants to talk, blah blah blah sensitive shit.
Spencer bites him.
He sees the three of them: Ryan and Jon and Brendon talking later and looking at him out of the corner of their eyes and over their shoulders while he writes vicious haikus in his notebook about Birkenstocks and basses and boys with soft bellies.
*
That night, Spencer wakes up and he can’t breathe.
There’s an arm around his throat and a body pressed against his back.
They’ve decided to strangle me in my sleep, he thinks, disappointed. If Panic! are anything, they’re creative, innovative. They think outside the bun. This--being strangled in his bunk--is so mundane. If it’s a plot on Brendon’s part, then it should be slow. Poisoning. Arsenic, maybe. Blue nails, and slowly getting weaker. Very tragic. If it’s up to Ryan? Something on a grand scale. Impalement. Death by mascara wand. Black lines and bloody faces.
Jon is a back alley killer. He maybe doesn’t know it yet.
Spencer opens his mouth to protest a boring death and a premature one, when Jon, murmuring into the back of his head, says, “Shh. Be good. Everyone’s asleep. Don’t wanna wake them up.”
Spencer hushes. Of course he doesn’t want to wake them up. That would be awkward. Especially if this isn’t a plan to assassinate him.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he asks, quiet, being good, because his sleepy and slightly oxygen-deprived brain thinks that sounds interesting.
“No. Might hurt you, though,” Jon says into his hair. Spencer almost doesn’t hear it, has to play it back a few times and decide if that’s what he wants to hear.
It is. Maybe, with the way the words settle deep in his stomach and flutter around, he’s been waiting to hear it.
“ ‘k,” he whispers back.
“Lift,” Jon tells him as he begins working Spencer’s boxers off and hey! Jon’s not wearing much either. “Open this,” he says, a second later, handing Spencer a bottle of lube which he opens, glad to help. Jon has one arm occupied with cutting off Spencer’s airways, after all.
“The rules,” Jon says, slipping a finger inside Spencer, “are pretty easy. No loud noises; no bitching; only speak when spoken to unless you want to stop. Right?”
“ ‘s” Spencer says, wiggling his hips a little, trying to get comfortable. It’s not that this is totally new--he’s done it to himself a couple times, and there was that one time with Ryan back before . . . everything. But this is Jon and usually, before, Spencer could breathe.
Spencer likes foreplay. He likes kissing and touching and rubbing and licking and everything getting faster and wetter and hotter, eyes stinging and hearts skipping. Jon‘s either not really into that or he‘s just not into it tonight, because now he‘s pressing into Spencer--kissing the back of Spencer head--and there‘s stretching and burning and blood pounding slow and heavy and hard in Spencer‘s wrists.
He’s careful to muffle a grunt on Jon’s arm.
“Want something you can say to make me stop?” Jon asks, moving a little, not like he’s serious about it, not fucking, just finding a spot he likes and then going still.
“Safeword?” Spencer half-laughs, half-chokes, quietly. He lifts his head, feeling teeth on the tendon where it’s drawn tight, straining.
“Whatever.”
“Purple Rain. Won’t need it, though,” Spencer says, making it up as he goes. Is he imagining Jon’s arm getting tighter?
“We’ll see,” Jon says.
*
Spencer’s seeing stars. Little white explosions in his head as he tries to breathe. He wants to concentrate on that, on getting air, because that’s logical, a matter of survival. But Jon’s kissing the shell of his ear and telling him to be good again, and stop his flailing and give into it, and that it’ll be easier next time (next time?). And there’s also his cock, which Jon’s working in long, slow strokes.
“Spencer, Spencer,” Jon says. “It’s okay. You can come.”
Jon comforting him and hurting him at the same time is confusing in the best possible way, except maybe for the part of his brain that’s still functioning and won’t shut up about how this is definitely not okay, and how much of a pervert is he really that he can just wake up in the middle of the night and let this shit go down without a fight?
“Let go.”
Oh, Spencer thinks, finally not able to breathe at all. That’s why. And he comes as everything greys out.
*
Jon relaxes his chokehold, leaving his arm loose over Spencer’s collarbones, and Spencer coughs softly into his pillow as he gets his air back.
“Here,” Jon’s holding his hand to Spencer’s mouth, and it takes Spencer a second to get it together and realize what Jon wants. His tongue feels weird--too big, awkward--when he starts to lick Jon’s hand, and he wonders if they‘re finished. Jon is still inside him and still hard and still not moving.
“It’ll be easier this time,” Jon says when Spencer’s done.
And Spencer says, “Not done?”
“Not for a while,” Jon answers.
*
Right now, after just once, Spencer feels pretty good--relaxed and almost peaceful. Connected to something. Which, yeah, Jon’s still in him, so that’s logical. Although, Spencer’s managed, on occasion to feel pretty disconnected during sex. He supposes the whole almost choking brings a sense of immediacy to the whole experience. Also, Spencer wishes he could turn off the thing in his brain that makes him analyze shit until it loses all appeal.
That voice, the bitchy inner monologue, fuzzes out a little as he concentrates on Jon telling him--in between kisses to the back of Spencer’s neck and shoulders--that he should get hard again soon, that he should want to get hard again soon, and that this time he’s going to be good and ask Jon to do things to him, isn’t he?
“Yes,” he tells Jon. And he can feel the tension in his thighs and belly building already--partly from Jon talking and partly from Jon moving in him.
It hurts when Jon plays with him right after he‘s come, but he doesn’t pull away. It’s like the thrill of picking at an open wound, almost.
When Jon tightens his grip around Spencer’s neck again, it’s after Spencer whispers “Please,” and Jon’s palmed Spencer’s balls flat against his body, making him gasp too loudly.
This time, every liquid breath comes with rolling tremors through his muscles. He twitches everywhere, tingles, sees the ceiling of his bunk through a green and silver veil and every time he shifts his eyes, tracers follow, lighting up his peripheral vision like multicolored contrails.
“Please,” he says. Let me breathe. Let me go. Let me come. He’s drowning, so he isn’t sure he can speak. But then he’s coming and coughing and crying a little.
*
When Jon pulls out of him, he’s still seeing stars: little pink spots that split and merge and dance even when he closes his eyes.
“Okay?” Jon asks, rearranging them so that he can rub at Spencer’s shoulders and Spencer can curl up his knees a little--automatic, protecting himself.
“I’m good,” Spencer says. Lying. He’s better than good, and worse. His throat’s bruised and his lungs feel like he’s been running for his life. His brain refuses to function properly, misfiring on things like hurt, shame and don’t let it be over, can’t be over, not enough.
“Done? Spencer,” Jon asks. “Done?”
“Yes,” Spencer says, then pushes himself back against Jon. “No.”
“You’re fucked up, kid. You know that?” Jon asks, and Spencer hears him messing with the lube.
Finger again, then, and Jon talking. “I was sleeping with this girl, on and off, for a while, um, a year ago? Anyway. She couldn’t get off on my dick, right?”
So fucking calm. Spencer could fall asleep like this: Jon talking and fingering him. Maybe he could market it. It would be bigger than Ambien and safer. None of that sleep eating shit. Jon would strangle you if you tried to get up in the night for a snack that didn’t involve him.
“--so had to get creative.”
Holy shit, Spencer jerks away from Jon. There are three fingers in him now and Jon’s teasing him with his thumb too. And Spencer feels a little crazy. He’s heard about this, but only in a very abstract way. Not in, like, the Jon Walker is about to do some very twisted shit to me in my bunk tonight kind of way.
Only, “You want it,” Jon says. No doubt.
“No--I. Fuck, yeah.”
“Freak.”
“Please.”
Jon twists his wrist, hard, up and around, and Spencer has to clap both hands to his face to stop the pain-grunt.
“No.” Jon sounds like he’s smiling.
Spencer keeps his hands where they are to stifle his sob of frustration and relief.
Jon kisses the row of Spencer’s knuckles where his hands are still covering his face as Jon pulls his hand out and says, “Be good, Spencer and roll over.”
*
It’s two, no, three days later when Ryan finally asks about the bruises on Spencer’s neck. He says he’s worried; Spencer hasn’t been mean to anyone in, like, a good forty-eight hours.
“Ask Jon,” Spencer says.
And Ryan does. But he waits until Jon’s drunk, Spencer notices, and more likely to say awkward things. “What’s your secret, Jon,” Ryan asks. “I’ve known him, like, forever, and he’s always been a bitch.”
“Sex,” Jon says.
“No.” Ryan stares at Spencer.
“Yeah,” Jon nods.
“But I’ve had sex with him and he’s managed to be a bitch during.”
Jon shuts his eyes and rubs at the bridge of his nose. Spencer begins to get worried.
“C’mere, Ryan.”
Ryan goes and sits next to, or well, more kind of on Jon. Like a fucked up version of a little kid asking Santa for something really special for Christmas. Spencer heads for the kitchen. He needs something with sugar. Something that crunches. Like Brendon’s stash of Skittles.
So Spencer’s tasting the rainbow, getting his sugar rush on, thinking he’s going to avoid hearing Jon’s Version Of Events. Not quite though. The kitchen’s not far enough away, and a drunk Jon isn’t a discreet Jon. Spencer can hear him, slurring and mumbling to a giggling and then increasingly quiet Ryan.
“Couple hours,” Jon says. “Like this.” And then Spencer’s back in the lounge where Jon has Ryan in a loose headlock.
He goes to his knees in front of them, still working on a handful of Skittles.
“Then what?” Ryan asks Spencer.
Spencer has a second of indecision: to play or not to play? Throw the Skittles and have a temper tantrum or, bond, somehow?
He feeds Ryan a Skittle and makes up his mind. “He made me ask for it,” he says. “Ask to breathe and ask to--y‘know,” Spencer says, picking at the carpet beneath him, looking for a wayward candy. “Twice.”
“And?” Ryan’s breathing hard, eyes bright.
“He almost--” Spencer can’t say it. His teeth hurt from the sugar.
“What?”
Spencer takes Ryan’s hand and measures the tiny wrist with his fingers and then folds the fingers into a fist, covering it with his.
“Almost,” he repeats.
Shutting his eyes, Ryan makes a small, funny sound.
“Why not?” Ryan asks Jon.
“Not sure how. With a guy. Big hands, something. Teasing him,” Jon shifts up and rubs at his stomach. “He wanted it so bad.”
“I can,” Ryan offers, eager, tongue purple from the Skittles he keeps stealing from Spencer. “Next hotel.”
“You have before?” Spencer asks, a little shocked.
Ryan laughs. “Brendon has porn. I can figure it out. Or I’ll call Pete.”
Spencer considers death before dishonor as Ryan sprints for his phone.
*
“Pete says to relax and go really slowly. Use the warming kind of lube. Oh, and to get it on tape.”
“Tape?” Spencer says, blinking.
“Well, he wants to share in the experience even if he can’t actually, like, be there. Or something.”
“No way in hell,” Spencer says, looking at Jon, trying to gauge if the asshole has said anything to Brendon yet. This is turning into a group fucking project. No pun intended.
*
One, and then two hotels go by, and Spencer begins to think that everyone’s forgotten about it. He almost has.
Everything’s a little better, though. He’s not tripping quite so close to the edge. He feels a little more like he’s a part of a band again and not just living in his own little world, isolated behind his drum set.
He likes making out with Jon, too. In bathrooms, back up against a wobbly stall--backstage, getting groped as they’re coming off, hot and smelly and sweaty and smearing each other’s makeup.
*
By the time the fall tour gets to Denver, Brendon’s sick. He’s pale and damp, with blood shot eyes and a weak stomach. Spencer watches while Ryan buys Brendon Big Gulps full of Sprite from 7-11, and Jon coaxes him into eating club crackers until Ryan and Brendon’s bed is full of crumbs.
The room has oversized windows that face west and Spencer spends most of his time standing in front of them, letting the altitude work on him, getting dizzy and breathless. He watches the moon reflect off of the snowy mountains--seeing them glow--and wonders if he should take up snowboarding.
On the last trip to 7-11 with Ryan, they had passed a group of girls in beanies and Carharts. One of them was wearing a hoodie that said Skiing Makes me Board. She had dread locks and big teeth, and Spencer thought that Colorado might not be the place for him as he dodged the inquisitive nose of Dread Lock’s Husky mix.
Ryan agreed, about their incompatibility with Colorado, while he bought Brendon’s soda and a bag of Starbursts for himself. “Lesbians,” Ryan pointed out, paying with his credit card, and glancing outside at the girls who were laughing out loud, with their breath bright white against the orange and black city sky. “They want to feed us to their dogs.”
“Bet they’re names are, like, Cheyenne and Montana and Luna, right?” Spencer asked, holding the door for Ryan.
“The girls or the dogs?”
*
Eventually, Brendon kicks them all out and claims he just wants to sleep it off. Ryan and Spencer go back to Spencer’s room and Jon takes off with the kids from Bloc Party.
Ryan and Spencer are on their fourteenth game of hangman--Ryan’s turn; he’s picked a movie: b _ _ a _ _ a s t a t t _ _ _ a _ _ s. And Spencer has a head, a neck and two arms on his little man--when Jon comes back with chapped lips, a red nose, wet hair, icy hands and a hell of a lot of energy.
“What the fuck, you guys?” he asks, bouncing on the bed, snapping the little mini hotel pencil in half when he lands on it. “Are you nine?”
“Are you high?” Ryan snaps back, kicking at Jon and glaring.
“Maybe. Yeah,” Jon says, gripping Spencer’s arm, just under the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Something.”
“Got an idea for you kids, though,” Jon says, sliding up behind Spencer, pressing against his back and looking over his shoulder at the little pad of paper with its Red Lion logo on the top.
“Strip hangman. I’ll start. ‘Cause Spence? You lose points for not getting that one, like, right now.” He reaches over Spencer for the three inches that are left of the pencil and scrawls a new game on the pad: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ . “It’s a band.”
“A,” Ryan guesses, and Jon scribbles, rubbing over Spencer’s back while he does.
_ _ _ _ _ _ a _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
“R,” Spencer says, and Jon shakes his head. “Socks.”
Spencer peels his socks off while Ryan guesses “E.”
_ _ _ _ _ e a _ _ _ _ e _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Jon’s captured one of Spencer’s feet--he was just trying to bury them underneath Jon to keep them warm--and is rubbing circles with his thumb over the thin skin under Spencer’s ankle, making his legs tingle, all the way up the long tendons and into his back.
Shit, Spencer thinks. “M.”
“No,” Jon sounds amused. “Shirt.”
Spencer has to corkscrew out of his shirt, careful not to elbow anyone in the mouth, because no one seems to want to give him space now. And he’s feeling awfully warm and trapped and, oh no, there’s Jon’s hand on his back, rubbing those tingles out of the muscles right above the dip in his spine and, yeah, he’s getting hard now.
He reaches back, maybe he wants to push Jon off of him because, hey, not with Ryan, right? Ryan’s got his own thing, and his Brendon, and whatever else and this--this is Spencer’s now. But when his hands find Jon’s hips, and Jon starts breathing into the back of his head just like that one time, Jesus, Spencer gives Ryan a pass.
Even though he can’t see Jon, and he can see Ryan--whose expression is at best unreadable (and that’s not just the remnants of stage makeup)--he grips Jon’s hips and pulls Jon into him, feeling the sting, the rush, the cold and then the heat of the adrenalin that comes with sudden arousal.
He also feels something in Jon’s front pocket. “What--?”
“Here,” Jon says, around the sound of a plastic bag as he moves a little bit away from Spencer.
Ryan can see what‘s happening, and his eyes go wide with disapproval? Excitement? As Jon tips Spencer’s head back and tells him “Open,” before putting a finger in Spencer’s mouth and running it over his gums.
It‘s tastes bitter, and oh you sick motherfucker, Spencer thinks, as he tongues his now-numb cheeks and gums.
“Fuck you, Jon.”
“Give it a second,” Jon says, holding him down when he starts to get up. And then Ryan’s there too. Soft hands, light touches on his shoulders, strawberry Starburst scented breath in his face.
“Hey, hey,” Ryan says. Looking interested. “Tell me. Tell me what it’s like.”
“Like I got a shot of Novocain you fuckwits, let me--” Oh no, now Spencer’s lying, and he’s sure they can tell by the way he kind of melts away from them that this not just like a trip to the dentist.
All the sharp edges he lives with all day--his bones, Ryan’s words, Brendon’s teeth--smooth over, round off, and suddenly, he can slide.
Now, it’s all so crystal fucking clear (he’s so clear, transparent--Ryan and Jon should be able to see right through his skin and his blood and his muscle and right into his soul): he’s a rock star. Not just that? But Ryan’s a rock star. And it’s because of them that Brendon and Jon are rock stars too.
“It’s--” he tries to talk to Ryan. “It’s like, everything all over me.” And he makes a grab for Ryan. “Share the love, man.”
Ryan rolls on top of him and that’s perfect. Ryan weighs about sixteen pounds when he’s holding a guitar, but Spencer can feel him anyway, holding him down and holding him together.
Jon’s still behind and underneath him--working Spencer’s pants off-- taking to him, telling him to take it easy, and to be careful when he bites at Ryan ,‘cause Ryan’s real; he’ll bleed.
Spencer thinks he might want to argue the point. Ryan is real according to who? In what way? What definition of real do you mean? In a post-modern world, does Ryan the idea, the word, the memory of hot, neon nights in Vegas--signify the boy hiding behind glitter and pyrotechnics and dancers and roses?
Spencer would argue no. There is no correlation between Ryan and the rock star. Therefore, the rock star can bleed a little, and Spencer can taste the copper and the sweat along with the sharp, bitter powder still stuck to his teeth.
“Suck me,” Ryan says, tugging Spencer over so they roll together until Ryan is on his back and Spencer is sprawled over his chest.
Flicking his eyes up to Jon, and then back up to Ryan, Spencer shrugs and slides down, fumbling with buttons and zippers.
It’s kind of a record, Spencer figures, for messy blow jobs, what with the numb lips. Ryan doesn’t seem to mind, though. He comes more quickly than Spencer remembers, actually, pulling Spencer off of him by the hair and hitting Spencer’s neck and chest.
“Goddamn,” Jon says, behind Spencer, fingers wet and stroking.
Jon’s teasing him, playing with him, and Spencer’s so far past that right now that he wants to beat Jon with something heavy and then have his way with his unconscious body.
When Jon gets with it, gets in him, Spencer’s still on top of Ryan, crushing him and clinging to him, listening as Ryan composes lyrics about the way Spencer’s back bends, the way Jon’s hands curl around Spencer’s hips, the tangles in his hair and-- “It’s not enough, is it?” Ryan asks. “That’s so fucked up, Spence,” he says, gentle, in Spencer’s ear. “You’re all coked out and fucked up and his dick isn’t enough. Won’t get you off.” Slut, is implied and Spencer can feel shame worming its way through the heat in his chest.
The little shit is right, though. Spencer’s strung tight and wound up, and so hard his stomach hurts, but he’s, like, plateaued or some shit. Can’t come down; can’t let go, just flat can’t come.
Spencer’s thinking about this, obsessing, getting pissed off, when Ryan pushes up and leans over him, mubling something to Jon who’s close--Spencer can feel that.
“--remember?” Ryan says, and Jon loses his rhythm. “You hold him. I’ll--”
Jon grips the thick muscles that connect Spencer’s neck and shoulder, Vulcan-death-grip style, as he comes. And it sounds to Spencer--wet, soft, low--like they’re kissing over his back.
*
It’s a blur, how they move after that. Jon drags Spencer--hot, filthy and sore--to the top of the bed and lays with him, murmuring nonsense comfort while his brain spins out of control, whirling from ow, to there is no way I will ever be clean again, to is it possible that I might need therapy from this? to I think I’m having a heart attack and my skin is falling off. Oh god.
“Breathe,” Jon tells him. “You’re not dying.”
“How do you know? My heart--”
Jon presses his thumb to Spencer’s wrist. “ ‘S fine. Shh.”
“Not fine. What if I have, um, pria--prius . . .?”
“Priapism?” Jon laughs and reaches between Spencer’s legs. “You don’t. Just,” and he kisses Spencer soft on the mouth. “Wait.”
“For?” Spencer wants to know, on the verge of a full-blown breakdown, he’s sure, when the bed dips and Ryan’s back.
“Dude,” he says, rubbing Spencer’s thighs. “I can get you some Ativan to calm you down, or--”
Spencer’s about to ask a) where the hell Ryan’s going to get Ativan and b) what the or is, when Ryan slides a finger inside of Spencer, and all of Spencer’s vibrating muscles and nerves go right back into hyper drive. All he gets out is a dry, hoarse, moan.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
He pulls his knees up to his chest. Fuck it all, he doesn’t care how that looks, because it means that Ryan’s wicked fucking fingers can do their thing. Which is fine.
It’s all good again, with Ryan playing inside him and Jon working his cock. He’s drifting, counting Starburst wrappers, wondering if Brendon is going to walk in on them, listening to the goddamn incessant wind, until Ryan hurts him.
“What the fuck?” Spencer asks, trying to pull away from Ryan who’s got four fingers in Spencer, which burns like a motherfucker.
“Spence,” Jon says. “Relax. Be good.“
Oh. Oh yeah. Spencer grits his teeth and nods and breathes hard and deep.
Jon, still rubbing Spencer’s cock, tells him, “If I thought you couldn’t do it, or you didn’t want it, I wouldn’t let Ryan. But, c’mon.” Barely a whisper now. Right into Spencer’s glittery, white brain. “You’re hard, man. Tell me you want it to stop.”
A dare.
Spencer focuses.
He concentrates on the burn and the stretch and the ohfuck feeling. He shifts his hips and waits for the tearing that never comes. The pain doesn’t fade, really, he just absorbs it until it’s a part of him, and underneath it, there’s a spark of something that feels uncontrollable.
“Okay?” It’s Ryan. “More?”
“Mmm,” Spencer says. Hurt me.
And then he screams.
“Jesus, Spencer,” Jon says, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Shut up.”
But he can’t. He’s seeing black and feeling red, and all the shit he never says, that he couches in sarcasm or in simple silence, gets ripped out of him, right from the guts, when Ryan twists his fist.
*
Snow keeps them in Denver for an extra day and Spencer doesn’t mind. He thinks he’s used to the altitude now and the dizziness only hits when the memories do, like, when Ryan walks past him and he smells like candy.
He spends a lot of time outside. The snow feels good to him. It’s cold; it covers shit up and makes the swelling go down.
Dread Locks--the lesbian with the dog from the night when Brendon was so sick--is usually out there and her name is actually Holly and the dog’s name is Tangerine. Spencer likes both of them. Holly smokes American Spirit cigarettes and feeds Tangerine beef jerky while she talks to Spencer about politics and whether or not the remake of Hellraiser will be any good.
Jon is out of his mind with all of the photo ops he gets in the snow: Ryan in red against white; Tangerine carrying around a purple trucker’s hat; Brendon and Ryan making snowmen, and Spencer licking a piece of homemade peanut butter granola and making his “ew” face.
They all click again. (Again?) They click. No one’s left out; no one’s leaving. Everything’s slowed down, a little. The snow does that.
*
Spencer buys Jon a D.A.R.E. shirt as they’re leaving town, and Jon wears it for three days.
Jon buys Spencer an old copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People, and Spencer thinks that the two of them might really be on to something.
END