New Panic! fic: Certain Coasts Set Apart [1/2]
Title: Certain Coasts Set Apart
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 15,300+
Warning: Future fic, post band-breakup
Summary: It was easier to get lost on the Virginian coast than Spencer thought it would be.
A/N: I’m a little weird about this fic. I don’t think I’ve ever written anything quite like it, and it’s almost entirely about Spencer and castoffstarter called it introspective, so I’m going to go with that. Anyway, more thanks than I can properly express go to castoffstarter for the beta and encouragement and all the little comments that made me grin.
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Certain Coasts Set Apart
“Certain coasts,” the remark of a perceptive writer came back to me, “are set apart for shipwreck.” - Loren Eiseley, The Unexpected Universe
It was easier to get lost on the Virginian coast than Spencer thought it would be.
He’d felt a little stupid at first, retiring into hermitage status at the tender age of twenty-eight, but he’d had the money for it, and been pissed enough, and really just sick of every fucking thing in the entire world at the time - and now he just sort of liked the solitude.
The phone woke him up, the jarring rhythm of Wolf Parade signaling a call he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much he might’ve wanted to, because Ryan was a tenacious fucker and it was early enough that he’d have time to call continuously for - he squinted at the pale light shading his open window - at least an hour.
He groped for his Sidekick on the bedside table and thumbed it on. “Ryan, it’s ass o’clock,” he said, burrowing back under his covers.
“Yes, it is. It is, Spencer, it’s early, and today is the day of your birth, and I’m sending you a present. So get up.”
Spencer sighed heavily. “I’m going back to sleep.” He sat up, though, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It was getting long again, falling over his eyes.
“Oh, and dude, there’s an email from Greg I forwarded you, so just. Look it over, will you? And let me know what you think about that song, the Semiconductor demo with the-you know, from last month, and what have you been doing, asshole-”
Spencer would probably be better at the whole hermit thing if he didn’t have Ryan, who was using him as some sort of manager, et al, whatever-person - which Greg-the-actual-manager was probably thrilled about, but, hey, it’d been years - and apparently it took distance and separation for Ryan to get talky, since although he respectfully kept the calls to Spencer at a minimum - once a week, max, except in emergencies or holidays - he hardly ever let Spencer get a word in, and if he happened to ping Spencer’s voicemail, he’d run out the tape with weird, eerily Wentz-like messages.
Spencer thought maybe, maybe Ryan was afraid of what Spencer would say if he ever let him say it.
Climbing out of bed, he yawned and scratched his belly, making appropriate noises as Ryan rambled. The bathroom light was harsh, and he winced at his reflection, palming his jaw. He was thirty-three. Thirty-three and old, with tiny almost-crows feet at the corner of his eyes - if he scrunched up his face enough - and he probably had skin cancer or something from five years on the beach, like Ryan always said he’d get, although Ryan was still a staunch supporter of big-eyed, bone-thin, fish-belly paleness.
The doorbell rang just as he was struggling one-handed into a pair of shorts, and he cut into Ryan’s rant about whatever - neighborhood hoodlums or something, because sometime after he hit thirty Ryan turned into a surly old man who started sentences with ‘kids these days’ and ‘when I was their age’ completely without irony.
“Hang on,” Spencer said, moving through the sparsely furnished den towards the front of his small cottage, “there’s someone at the door,” and Ryan said, “Okay, that’s probably from me, so,” and then he trailed off, suspiciously quiet and oddly tense.
Spencer arched a brow. “Really?” He gazed out his screen door, and then dropped his eye-line about three feet. “You sent me a kid?”
Ryan choked, like a strangled laugh, then went, “Um.”
“Ryan.”
“He wanted to,” Ryan said in a rush. “It wasn’t my idea, it totally wasn’t, I swear.”
“Ryan.”
“Gotta go, Spence, bye,” Ryan said, and hung up.
Spencer was still holding the Sidekick up to his ear, listening to dead air.
The little dark-haired boy on the other side of the screen shifted on his feet and said, “Hi.”
Spencer swallowed hard. “Hi,” he said back, then opened the door.
*
There was some sort of cosmic irony that Jon was the one who broke up the band. They announced it as a mutual decision, a hiatus, a ‘we’ve been doing this for almost a decade, and it’s time for a break’ kind of thing, but basically it was Jon and Cassie and their little girl who’d been diagnosed with leukemia.
Spencer probably could’ve handled it if Brendon hadn’t gone ahead and married a preschool teacher from Kansas City that he’d known for just over a month, and Spencer probably could’ve handled that if he hadn’t been completely and stupidly in love with him. Brendon had been wearing him down for years with his constant, boundless energy and huge smiles and big, affectionate hugs, and Spencer had been so very ready to give him everything-hell, he’d already given Brendon practically all of himself by that point, hadn’t he? And losing him so fast and fucking easy had sliced Spencer up inside.
It was half that, and half what Ryan referred to as his psychotic break - his best friend’s daughter was dying, he went a little crazy in an FAO Schwartz, police were involved, it wasn’t his finest moment - that drove Spencer to rent a house in the dunes just south of Chincoteague, and then it was the calm, for once, the complete fucking calm, that convinced him stay.
*
They had Froot Loops. Spencer boosted the kid-Jon, Jon Thomas, to separate him from his honorary uncle, and Spencer had seen him once months after he’d been born, over four years before at Mae’s funeral, so he knew that, and Spencer hefted him up onto the tall chair at the kitchen island. He seemed sturdy enough for an almost five-year-old, so Spencer was pretty sure the height was okay. Jon Thomas folded his legs under him and leaned forward onto the counter and fisted his spoon and Spencer sat next to him, staring down into his Froot Loops and watching the milk spin into colors.
*
He pulled on a hoodie before trudging outside. Jon Thomas took off down the porch steps and across the grassy sand, shouting into the breeze, and it was funny to think he’d been on his best behavior inside the cottage, remembering all his please and thank-yous and sitting still in a way that Brendon had never been able to master.
He was down by the water’s edge before Spencer even stepped onto the beach, bare toes curling into the still night-cool sand.
“So was he to butter me up?” Spencer asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts.
Brendon was reading, sitting against an overturned rowboat, a picturesque wreck half buried in the dunes that Spencer hadn’t thought to get rid of. He looked up from his book, dark glasses shading his eyes but a tentative smile curling his mouth. “Did it work?”
Spencer shrugged. His hair whipped in front of his face and he pushed it behind his ears, watching as Brendon struggled to his feet. He looked the same. A little more solid, maybe, but the same.
“Hi,” Brendon said. He stepped towards Spencer, bouncing a little on his feet, and Spencer could still recognize Brendon’s pre-hug shuffle, the little tell in his arms before he folded up his target into a surprisingly strong bear hug, and Spencer hastily stepped back.
He wasn’t ready for that yet, he didn’t think.
Brendon frowned, quick, so it was there and gone again, and he pressed his book up to his chest and pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head. Spencer could read the wary hope in his eyes, and a lump settled in the bottom of his stomach, because before, before everything, Spencer had always thought Brendon’d been so damn open, open in his affection and invitation. But there were some things about Brendon that Spencer didn’t think he’d ever understand.
“Hi,” Spencer said finally.
Brendon bit his lip, nodding. Then he said, “So. Happy birthday,” and Spencer’s throat tightened and his eyes prickled a little, even though he’d never admit it, and he nodded back, “Okay.”
*
Spencer had never been around many kids besides Mae. He’d been around Brendon and Jon, and they were sort of like kids, but they’d never been so small and big-eyed and dependent, and Jon Thomas wanted to be carried everywhere he didn’t feel like running.
“He can walk, you know,” Brendon said, amusement plain as Spencer hefted Jon Thomas onto his back.
“I don’t wanna walk,” Jon Thomas said matter-of-factly, hooking his arms around Spencer’s neck and nearly strangling him.
“He doesn’t want to walk,” Spencer said, and it felt good. It felt good to have this skinny-limbed boy humming in his ear, chin digging into his shoulder and fingers grasping at the collar of his t-shirt.
“We’re staying in town,” Brendon told him when they reached the porch.
Spencer let Jon Thomas slide to the ground, keeping a grip on his arms so he couldn’t fall. “Do you want to-” Spencer paused and Brendon looked hopeful, and he had a spare bedroom, but if he wasn’t ready for hugs, he wasn’t ready for that. “Dinner?” he asked instead.
“You can cook,” Brendon said, not a question, and yeah. One important aspect of hermitage was self-sufficiency.
“I can cook. No meat,” Spencer offered.
Brendon shifted on his feet, then bent down and grabbed Jon Thomas around his waist as he tried to streak past, back towards the beach, hefting him up into his arms. “But it’s your birthday,” he said. Jon Thomas wriggled until he was upside down, legs kicked out behind Brendon, dark hair a mess, smiling crookedly up at Spencer. “You shouldn’t have to cook.”
Spencer didn’t point out that he would’ve been cooking for just himself anyway. He shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck. “So don’t come.”
“I didn’t-wait, Spencer.” Brendon took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean-”
“So come,” Spencer said, more confidently.
“Okay.” Brendon nodded. “Okay, yes, we’ll come.”
*
Spencer opened up his laptop, sitting on his couch and leaning over his lacquered coffee table, like he did every morning, mug of coffee at his elbow. It didn’t matter that Brendon was just miles away, tucking himself into the sleepy little bayside town. There was one inn; a garden drenched three storey Victorian, painted lemon yellow and facing the sea. There was a dock with an ice cream parlor and a shack that sold oysters and clams and whatever fish they pulled in that day. There was a shabby diner on Main Street. There wasn’t much else.
In his inbox, there was a blank email from Jon, a pic of the new baby attached, propped up with her pudgy hands gripping a markered sign - Happy birthday, Uncle Spence! Jon called him on Sundays, usually, and let Lily babble into the phone, and for five days every summer Jon brought his girls out - Never with Mae, but after-after with Cassie and their giant Great Pyrenees, Amber, and now with little Lily in tow - to track sand and slobber through his tiny house.
The worst was when Ryan showed up, too, armed with SPF 300 and his guitar, because it felt too perfect, and then it felt too wrong, and no one would say anything about Brendon.
Spencer downloaded the picture of Lily and printed it out, another piece to stick on his fridge, then went back to his email. There were two from Ryan. The forward from Greg he’d mentioned and another one with the subject line: Don’t kill me.
Spencer clicked on it, figuring it’d either be an apology or an explanation, but instead it only read, Talk to him, Spencer, punctuated with an obnoxious smiley face.
Talk to him. Right.
The absolute worst thing, the part that hurt the most, was that Brendon had known.
Mae had been responding well to treatment, in the beginning, and Brendon’d been making shadow puppets for her on her bedroom wall, and he made these stupid faces and pitched funny voices for them and Spencer just kind of told him. He’d said it with his eyes first, silently, a space apart in front of the warm yellow flashlight, and then when they stumbled out into the hall after Mae had drifted off to sleep, he’d said the actual words, quick and breathy, hands gripping Brendon’s upper arms.
Brendon had known. He’d let Spencer say it out loud, and he’d smiled with his whole entire body, like he’d just been fucking waiting for Spencer to get a clue, and then everything had gone to shit within the space of a few days.
*
Somehow, Spencer was not exactly sure, he’d acquired two cats. A seal point, solid-boned Siamese mix with a white patch on his chest and three white-toed paws, and an orange tabby with half his tail missing and a scar arcing over his left eye. Spanky, the Siamese, was a dune kitten that’d followed him home three years before. Rover had shown up on his porch last spring, fully grown and heavy-set and surprisingly sweet-tempered.
Spanky and Rover slept sprawled together in sun-warmed nooks all over his cottage during the day, and then spent their nights outside hunting nightjars and ground squirrels and frogs. Spencer thought claiming ownership was pathetically middle-aged old-maid of him, but acceptable in a beach bum sort of way, so he fed them and tricked them into heading into the vet’s once a year, and sometimes they curled up at the bottom of his bed or left headless field mice in his shoes.
They were both strangely tolerant of Jon Thomas - “Jay, we call him Jay, now,” Brendon said, grinning fondly at the boy as he heaved Rover up into his arms. He staggered under the cat’s weight, said, “Whoa, kitty,” and Rover just flicked his stubby tail and looked mildly disgruntled.
Brendon’s grin turned softer when he looked up at Spencer again. “So what’s on the menu?” he asked.
“Pasta.” Not the most elaborate meal, but Spencer’d had trouble focusing all afternoon, and it seemed like something a kid might eat.
“Cool.” Brendon’s eyes crinkled up at the edges.
Spencer swallowed, fingers biting white-knuckled into the worn wood frame of his screen door. “Come on in,” he said. Jon-Jay had already sped past, chasing after Rover when he’d squirmed out of his arms. He waved Brendon in and moved towards the kitchen.
He was tense, stiff, and he really, really hoped Brendon wouldn’t notice. It was stupid, because Brendon probably already knew, but he didn’t want him to see how uncomfortable this all was for him. He didn’t want Brendon to see how much his presence literally grated.
He wanted to know why Brendon was there.
*
Spaghetti was apparently a hit with Jay, but also a huge mess.
“I just. Stop wiggling, Jay.” Brendon wrestled, actually wrestled Jay to the ground, armed with a wet paper towel, the little boy laughing hysterically as Brendon fought to swipe red sauce off his face, fingers, arms, hair, even, and Spencer was a little in awe.
“Do you-”
“Dad, dad, daddy, daddy,” Jay chanted, giggling and pushing the towel away and shaking his head and seriously. Spencer had no idea how Brendon could handle it, but then, Brendon had never been much better.
Finally, Brendon sat back on his heels. “Ta dah,” he said, brandishing the dirty paper towel and pointing a finger at Jay. “You, young man, are trouble.”
“Uncle Spence,” Jay said, making grabby hands at Spencer, and he’d said that earlier, he’d said it twice at dinner, and it hadn’t stopped being sort of beyond painful yet. He pouted exactly like his dad when Spencer didn’t move fast enough, he pouted with his whole face, brown eyes liquid, and Spencer had never, ever been able to resist that.
He rolled his eyes and tugged at Jay’s arms, sliding him out from under Brendon and propping him on his feet.
“Uncle Spence, where’s the cats?” he asked, scanning the room.
“Hiding from you.” He poked his stomach. “Outside probably.” Or more likely under the bed, but he thought they deserved a break from the mini-Urie.
Jay ran for the door and Brendon called out, “Shoes first,” and, “Don’t break your neck on the steps,” and then he turned to Spencer, brow arched, and said, “Good going, now we have to follow him.”
“You have to follow him.” Spencer gestured towards the kitchen. “I have to clean up.”
“Better idea,” Brendon said, giving him a slight push. “I’ll clean up, you watch the midget.”
“I-”
“Come on, please?” Brendon low-balled him with some puppy-eyes.
Spencer huffed. “Fine. Soap’s in the cabinet.”
“Soap?” Brendon’s face screwed up. “No dishwasher?”
“Wanna trade?”
“Ha, no. I’ve had him all day. Do you have any idea how boring that town is?”
Spencer felt himself bristle, blush hinting up his neck, but reined in his temper. They moved slower there, and Brendon always moved at a faster clip than anyone Spencer knew.
“It’s okay,” Spencer said, and Brendon visibly floundered a little, mouth opening and closing and eyes apologetic. He only shrugged, though, and went back towards the kitchen.
“Don’t let him in the water, okay?” he tossed over his shoulder. “It’s too cold.”
*
Spencer sat with his bare feet buried in the sand, arms hooked around his knees as he watched Jay play. He’d dug out a few plastic buckets that he used to collect shells and Jay was busy packing them full of damp sand, just out of reach of the lapping foamy waves. He was talking to himself, a steady chatter snatched away by the slight breeze, and despite everything, Spencer smiled.
He was a cute kid. Smart, tiny-thin like he imagined Brendon would’ve been, with big expressive eyes and his father’s mouth. Spencer had never met his mother, but from pictures he could see Jay had her small nose and the natural curl of her hair.
A shadow thrown from the dying sun fell across him, and then Brendon dropped down onto the sand with a groan. “You should seriously think about investing in a dishwasher.”
“Okay,” Spencer said dryly, slanting him a sideways glance.
Brendon nodded, combing a hand through his hair, letting it fall over his eyes.
“He’s cute,” Spencer said, gesturing towards Jay. It was the truth, obviously, but the words still felt forced.
If Brendon noticed, though, he didn’t seem to care. “Thanks,” he said, then Spencer started, “Why-” just as Brendon said, “Spencer-”
Brendon worried the hem of his shirt and half-grinned. “Go ahead,” he said. “You first.”
Spencer cleared his throat, gazed off towards Jay. He was digging a shallow hole with one of the buckets, the other upended precariously on the top of his head, slipping down over his eyes with every other movement. After a moment, Spencer asked quietly, “Why are you here, Brendon?”
“I.” Brendon paused, then said, “This isn’t the first time, you know.”
Spencer turned back to Brendon. “What?”
Brendon waved a hand. “Here. I’ve been here before. I was just too much of a coward to do anything about it.”
“How many-”
“Twice.” Brendon let out a dry chuckle. “With Jon last summer. And then right before Thanksgiving.”
The Thanksgiving Spencer’s sister finally coaxed him out of hiding. Spencer didn’t ask if he’d tried the cottage and found it empty. “You came with Jon and Cassie?”
Brendon ducked his head. “In town. I didn’t want to, like, intrude or anything,” he said, which was almost laughable, because Brendon always intruded.
“Oh,” Spencer said.
“Yeah. Oh.” Brendon’s tone was self-depreciating, but Spencer didn’t know what to say to change it.
Once the sky slid into twilight, Brendon whistled and waved Jay over, and Jay jumped up and ran for them, slip-sliding a little once he reached the soft, deeper sand near the dunes. He was breathless, wet and sandy and even Spencer could see he was exhausted.
“We better go,” Brendon said, getting to his feet. “Say bye, Jay.”
Spencer stood up and wiped the back of his shorts, and Jay threw himself against his legs.
“Bye, Uncle Spence,” he said, head tipped back, grinning widely up at him.
Spencer ruffled his hair, then crouched down for a proper hug. He kissed his cheek, and skinny arms wound around his neck and Spencer lifted him off the ground a little, said, “Bye, Jay,” against his temple.
*
Brendon had rented a sleek black SUV that made Spencer’s own beat-up Explorer look even older than its five years. Jay clambered up into the back and into his child seat, hooking his own restraints together, and Brendon leaned in to tug them tight.
“So.” Spencer gave Brendon a half-smile when he turned around, pushing the door closed behind him. “Thanks for coming.”
Brendon nodded, bounced a little on his feet. “Thanks for. You know. Dinner.”
“Sure.” It was more than a little awkward, saying goodbye, and Spencer asked, “How long are you-?” He gestured vaguely with his chin.
“Early tomorrow. Marla has-”
“Right,” Spencer cut in, because he didn’t really want to hear about Marla. They might be okay, they might get better, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to talk about Brendon’s wife.
“Spencer-”
“No, um.” Spencer tried for a smile. “It’s good. It was good. Seeing you,” he clarified.
“Yeah, so.” Brendon bounced again, and Spencer caught the intention, but Brendon was too fast and slid forward before Spencer could step away. He found himself wrapped up in Brendon, his arms around his torso and face mashed into his throat, and it was so familiar and so strange and so good and so horrible all at the same time.
“God, Spencer,” Brendon murmured.
Spencer took a shaky breath. He lifted his arms and cautiously moved to hug Brendon back, awkward hands pressed flat against his spine.
Brendon said, “Please say this is okay,” and Spencer didn’t know what to say, really, so he didn’t say anything at all.
*
The day after his birthday, Spencer stayed in bed. With Spanky curled up on his chest, Rover on the pillow by his head, he watched the Game Show Network and ate two entire bags of Double Stuff Oreos cookies.
The day after that, he was feeling pretty disgusting and light-headed from all the sugar, so he forced himself to get up and showered. He tugged on a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans and headed for the beach.
Down by the rock jetty, about a half mile from his house, small pools formed as the tide pulled out, and Spencer picked through the shallow water, tossing stranded starfish back into the sea, dropping bits of shells and sand-smooth stones into a bucket. Tiny multicolored clams burrowed deeper into the sand as he sifted through them, and he dug out crabs, just to see them scuttle back into their holes.
He never did anything with the shells he collected, but just the activity, the routine, always seemed to clear his mind, helped him think better - or sometimes not think at all. The monotony was soothing, and the salty wind, the brine scent so different from the hot, arid grit of the desert, kept him firmly grounded in the now.
When he wandered back towards his home hours later, bucket full and stomach grumbling for lunch, there was an unfamiliar sedan parked in front of the cottage. Jon was sitting on the porch steps, rolling a bottle of beer between his hands.
Spencer waved. “Hey.”
Jon grinned, shook his head and got up to hug him, pressing the cold bottle against the small of his back. “Spencer,” he said. “You smell good.”
Spencer laughed. “Sand and salt air, same as always. What are you doing here?”
“Yeah, not the question to ask.” He pulled back and arched an eyebrow at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
Jon poked him in the chest. “Wrong answer, my friend.”
*
Spencer pan-fried grilled cheese with bacon, because Jon normally couldn’t have either, but Cassie wasn’t there to stop them. They used light Pam instead of butter, though, and called it a compromise.
He sliced a tomato onto a plate and opened a bag of chips, and they sat next to each other on the top step of the porch, and Jon waited until Spencer’s mouth was full of sandwich before he said, “You know Brendon’s been divorced for over a year.”
Spencer choked, grabbed for his ice tea and took a huge gulp. He swallowed, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Um. No.”
Jon nodded.
“Why didn’t. Why didn’t you say anything before?” Spencer asked, even though he knew it wasn’t a fair question. That Brendon was off-limits as a conversation topic was an unspoken rule in Spencer’s house.
“It wasn’t.” Jon paused and shrugged. “A year probably isn’t all that long in terms of a marriage and kid,” he said baldly. “And I always thought Brendon should be the one to tell you, anyway.”
“But he didn’t,” Spencer pointed out.
“No, he didn’t,” Jon agreed. “Which is why I just did, and if you tell Cassie I said anything, I’ll let Ryan know you’re the one who threw out all his hobo gloves.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes. “You play dirty.”
“I play to win.”
“Right.” Spencer rubbed the side of his hand under his nose. Brendon was divorced. It didn’t mean anything, really.
Jon sighed and set down his sandwich. “Brendon,” he started, “was always a little selfish.”
Spencer snorted. “Okay.” That was nothing new. Brendon had always gotten what he wanted, eventually. Brendon had been a whiner and a pouter and he was always so adorable about it that no one ever really minded giving him what he asked for. Selfish, maybe, but always delightfully pleased when presented with whatever he wanted most. Which was probably why Spencer had been so blindsided when he’d finally, finally given in and then had his heart shoved right back in his face, battered and bruised from all the careless handling.
“Look, we all coped in different ways, okay?” Jon leaned his elbows on his thighs, clasped his hands together. “You assaulted a beloved anime character and got into a fist fight in the happiest toy store on earth, and Brendon. Brendon had some sort of mortality crisis, got married and had a baby.”
Spencer picked at the knee-hole in his jeans with a thumb. “It’s been too long, Jon,” he said finally. He couldn’t actually say that he’d moved on, because Jon wouldn’t believe him. He lived at the beach. He lived at the beach with two cats.
Jon sighed. “He tried to make it work. Jay’s a great kid and Marla’s-”
“Jon,” Spencer cut in quietly.
“They tried, Spencer.” Jon reached out and cupped Spencer’s knee, squeezing it. “You can’t fault him for trying. Now you have to decide if you want to try, too.”
*
They stayed up late talking about everything and anything and nothing; Lily’s first word - “Do,” which she apparently used interchangeably between Jon and the dog - and Ryan’s strange but profitable recent online business union with Frank Iero, with the unlikely name of AndFrank.com, a subsidiary of Clandestine that specialized in band and concert t-shirts for dogs.
The next morning, Jon was gone when Spencer woke up. There was two-thirds a coffee pot still hot, and a sticky note on Spencer’s laptop - an email address and a smiley face.
Spencer sighed. He poured himself a mug of coffee, snatched his Sidekick off the kitchen counter and went outside to call Ryan.
He half expected Ryan to not pick up, considering, but on the third ring Ryan answered with a slightly wary, “Spencer?”
“I’m not going to talk to you about it,” Spencer said.
There was a pause. Then, “Okay.”
Spencer leaned a hip against the porch railing. The sun was up, but the sky was overcast, meeting the ocean with a blurry, barely noticeable line of blue-gray. “Jon was here.”
“When?” Ryan asked, but Spencer could tell he already knew. There was no way Jon and Ryan hadn’t talked about it before hand.
So instead he said, “It’s almost Mae’s birthday.”
“Two months,” Ryan pointed out, but it wasn’t a disagreement.
“I’m not making any promises.” A lot could happen in two months. A lot could happen in two days, so no, he wasn’t making any promises at all, but Mae’s birthday was something he’d always selfishly taken for himself, and he thought it was about time he made some sort of effort.
Ryan inhaled sharply, said, “Spencer, that.” He paused, laughed a little. “It would be great, Spencer, but you don’t have to, you know that, right? It’s never made. It’s never been an issue with us-with Jon.”
“I know,” Spencer said, and he wanted to say a lot more, say that it’d always been an issue with him, and that Brendon wasn’t the only one guilty of being a coward, but he just repeated, “I know,” again, and then asked, “Can I stay with you?”
*
Ryan told Spencer he’d take care of everything, which was a relief. Spencer didn’t want to have to think about it, not yet, but he owed Ryan a lot, so he opened up his laptop and the forward from Greg and the Semiconductor demo from last month and got to work.
The band was okay. The lead singer tended to scream a lot, which wasn’t necessarily bad, but was probably hell on his throat. Lyrics aside, he liked the hook. He hated the beginning riff, but hooks were generally harder to fix, in his opinion, and there were probably better and worse songs in their repertoire somewhere - there always was.
He sent an email to Ryan - copying Jon and, after a minute of indecision, Brendon, too, carefully typing in the address Jon had left him - that said: Stupid name, sloppy drumming, what’s with all the thinly veiled man-whore references? Do you have anything else by them?
By midmorning, there was a reply from Jon.
He replied to all: Please, please tell me you signed them, Ryan, because I want to hear this on the radio every day of my life.
*
Spencer had a weekly therapist appointment by phone. He hadn’t always had a therapist, but Ryan had pretty much given him an ultimatum three years ago. Either he talked to a professional, or Ryan would give Pete his address. Spencer still wasn’t sure if it’d been an empty threat or not, but there was only so much of Pete Spencer could deal with, so he wisely chose the shrink.
He ended up not minding it so much. Dr. Epstein was generally helpful and let Spencer talk about all the things Ryan would never let him talk about, but she gave him stupid assignments, assignments that he forced himself to do no matter how much they made his skin itch.
There was progress, though. He could go into town now. He could stroll along the fishing dock and buy an ice cream cone and have a coherent conversation with Allie, the teenager who manned the counter in the summer.
Predictably, he was more comfortable in the winter, when the town grew sparse and tourists no longer filtered through the diner on Main Street. Every Tuesday he walked the two miles into town and sat at the counter - he’d graduated from a booth months ago - and worked his way through the surprisingly extensive laminated menu. Variety, Dr. Epstein told him, was the spice of life.
Spencer wasn’t so sure that particular idiom applied to diner food, but since it’d taken a full three months of prodding from Epstein to get him to even sit in there long enough to finish a cup of coffee, he figured it didn’t actually matter.
Deana, a tiny, plump frosted blonde, clicked the chipped Formica with a bright red nail, then upended a thick cream coffee mug and filled it to the brim. “We’re still on O this week,” she reminded him. Her tone was half poking-fun and half pure affection. Spencer was perfectly aware he was regarded as the town weirdo, but Deana was young enough to know who he was and obviously didn’t know who he was, so town weirdo was just fine with him.
“Is there another O besides omelet?” he asked.
“Oatmeal.”
Spencer grimaced.
Deana laughed. “Oh, honey, I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them.”
It was comments like that one that made Spencer suspect Dr. Epstein had been making inappropriate calls around town, but Spencer was pretty sure Deana had just drawn her own conclusions.
“I don’t think I’m ready for oatmeal,” Spencer said, glancing at the menu. “I’m in a pancake sort of mood.”
“Short stack it is,” she said, then patted his hand before turning back towards the kitchen.
He lasted a half hour, which was shorter than usual, but a group of boisterous out-of-towners, probably the last of the season, stumbled in laughing, reeking of sunshine and alcohol and they were harmless, Spencer knew this, but the set of his shoulders instantly stiffened. He didn’t do well with strangers.
He probably would’ve been okay, except a smiling young man hitched himself up on the stool next to Spencer’s and he did a double-take and said, “Hey,” eyes curious, and Spencer was just waiting, waiting for the inevitable, Aren’t you that famous guy who traumatized hundreds of little kids five years ago by almost shoving that Cowboy Robot Karate Fun Team guy down an escalator? But instead he just said, “You look familiar.”
Spencer forced a shrug. “Yeah, well.” He shifted up, took out his wallet and slipped out enough to cover his lunch and a sizable tip. He tucked it under his half-eaten plate, stood up, and made himself meet the guy’s eyes. “I’m not,” he said, then took measured steps out the door.
*
Spencer liked being in control. He liked knowing where he was going, he liked having a plan, and he liked knowing that if the plan changed, if things went wrong, he could always fix them. He took care of things, and from the moment they met, Ryan’s problems had been Spencer’s problems, and then the band’s problems had always been Spencer’s, too, and all the guys were automatically grouped under that umbrella.
He couldn’t fix Mae. In the end, he couldn’t fix the band, he couldn’t fix himself, and, really, at that point he hadn’t wanted to.
It’d been too much shit all at once, and Spencer was strong, but not that strong, and Dr. Epstein had once gently pointed out that maybe he thought the guys had taken advantage of him. That maybe they took for granted the fact that Spencer would make everything better. And then she’d said that maybe Jon blamed Spencer for not doing anything about Mae, and Spencer had flipped the fuck out, because no way. No way would that ever be true, and there was no way Spencer could’ve done anything, and Spencer would never tell anyone ever that he sobbed like a fucking two-year-old after cursing Epstein out, because it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t, and there wasn’t any possible way he could’ve held them all together after that. He wasn’t a fucking miracle worker.
*
Despite the no promises deal, Ryan emailed Spencer his flight itinerary before the end of September.
*
Now that Brendon had Spencer’s email - had it officially from Spencer, at least, since he couldn’t delude himself into thinking the guys hadn’t given it to him sooner - he started cc’ing him on forwards, and no one liked forwards, really, except Spencer could guess Brendon’s game. Get him so used to seeing his email address in his inbox that it wouldn’t even faze Spencer when he received an actual real email, and that’s basically exactly what happened.
Of course, emailing was just the beginning, morphing into text messaging, which was weird, because Spencer hadn’t really texted much in years - there was an immediacy to it that made Spencer uncomfortable. He thought maybe he could ignore them, Brendon’s sharp, surprisingly quick-witted comments, but it was hard to break old habits, and one Tuesday afternoon he found himself texting back and forth rapidly with Brendon in the Main Street diner.
They were arguing about Jell-O flavors, and the complete normalcy of it poleaxed Spencer right in the middle of a sip of water. He choked back a spit-take, because was it supposed to be that easy? Was it all right, falling into old patterns, old routines with barely a hitch?
“All right, honey?” Deana asked, leaning against the counter in front of him, his plate of mushroom and tomato quiche in one hand.
Spencer nodded, coughed and took another sip of water. “Fine,” he said, and Deana arched a slim, blonde eyebrow at him. “No, really, I’m fine.”
She eyed him sharply for a minute, then set his lunch down and pushed his drink off to the side so she could rest an elbow on the Formica, chin cupped in her hand. “Listen, I’m going to be nosy here for a second, okay?”
“Deana, when are you not nosy?” he joked, but Deana’s face was serious, her mouth pursed, and her voice was low enough that the ancient jukebox kept her words strictly for Spencer alone.
“You don’t smile, kid.”
Spencer blinked at the endearment. Deana was barely older than him, if at all. “Okay.”
She shook her head. “You don’t smile. Your mouth does this pathetic little upwards tilt and, honey, I know you like me, but nothing I’ve ever said has put that light in your eyes, and whatever was in that message, well.” She shrugged, straightened, and Spencer froze a little in place because she looked this close to ruffling his hair. But she just tapped the counter and said, “Don’t panic now, okay?” like she knew him, like she knew his brain was flashing: you’re happy? Something must be horribly wrong, or something’s going to go horribly wrong at any second, so you better back the fuck up before you get hurt.
Spencer swallowed thickly. “Right,” he said, and then he asked in half-impulsive desperation, “What’re you doing November 5th?”
*
Spencer had never minded flying, and Ryan had booked seats on a late-night flight, business class, the plane predictably half-empty, so Spencer could stretch out and try to relax. Deana was flipping idly through a magazine beside him, and her presence was surprisingly easing, like he had a tangible piece of his hard-won sanity with him, just in case things went to shit.
Ryan hadn’t commented on her sudden inclusion, even though Spencer knew he was dying to know who she was.
Deana was just sort of bemused about the whole thing. Frankly, Spencer was stunned she’d actually agreed to go.
“So we’re staying with your friend Ryan,” she said without looking up, still paging through the US Weekly.
“He’s got five million dogs.”
She slanted him a grin. “I like dogs.”
Spencer sank down lower in his seat. A pressure was building behind his eyes, and he pressed at his temples. “They’re all better dressed than me.”
“Honey, I find that sincerely hard to believe.”
Spencer had eschewed his usual winter wear of ratty hoodies and fisherman sweaters for an old Fall Out Boy t-shirt. His jeans were conspicuously new and he’d pulled on his favorite pair of purple shoes by habit. He rubbed his palms on his thighs, self-conscious in a way he’d never really been.
Deana reached over and squeezed his hand. “Chicago can’t be all that scary,” she said, and Spencer muttered, “You have no idea.”
*
Ryan actually only had three dogs. Three Boston Terriers that looked exactly alike and Ryan dressed them in shirts proclaiming their names for his trip into O’Hare - Deputy Steve, Carlos and Tramp - because Ryan was anal and hated it when Spencer called any of them by the wrong name. They were identical and they were dogs, but whatever.
Spencer got stuck in the back with Carlos and Tramp, and Deana fell instantly in love with Deputy Steve, cuddling him onto her lap in the passenger seat, and Ryan fell instantly in love with Deana for babying one of his beloved dogs, and Spencer was pretty sure he was going to go out of his mind before the three days were over.
He already missed his quiet cottage. He missed the damned cats.
Ryan caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. “We’re going straight to Jon’s, if that’s okay.”
“I’m not-”
“Just us, just dinner,” Ryan hastily cut in.
Spencer sighed. “Okay.” Tramp scrambled into his lap and licked his chin and then started panting in his face, sucking up all his fresh air, and Spencer scratched behind his ears.
*
It was pure panic-inducing chaos, and Spencer was going to kill Ryan. Kill him dead.
“Hiding?”
Spencer was folded up in the grass behind the shed, huddled into one of Jon’s hoodies, and he was most definitely hiding. He didn’t even bother answering Frank, just sent him a steady glare.
‘Just us’ turned out to be small army of aging scenesters that had flown in for the charity banquet and free concert, and Spencer hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t been prepared at all, and what he didn’t need was another public breakdown on his record. He pulled his knees up to his chest and tried his best to send Frank leave-me-the-fuck-alone vibes.
Frank sat down next to him. He fumbled in his pockets, lit a cigarette, and then asked, “You mind?”
“Yes,” Spencer said, but Frank ignored him, and after a few minutes where Frank was blessedly quiet, Spencer finally relaxed. And that’s when Frank pounced.
“So what’s the deal, Smith? There’s no stranger danger here.”
Spencer shrugged tightly. He figured it was simply a matter of not being used to so many people at once, whether he knew them or not. He’d forgotten how to interact with them, with everyone, and it was just a lot to take in.
“Needed a breather,” Spencer finally said when it became clear that Frank was waiting for a verbal response.
Frank arched an eyebrow. “For an hour.”
Huh. Spencer was honestly surprised by that. He didn’t think he’d been out there that long. He gripped his knees and exhaled slowly, the cold condensing his breath into smoke nearly as thick as Frank’s. He heard the sliding glass door open and close, and then a pack of dogs streaked noisily past them, Ryan’s three and Amber and Frank’s motley crew of disreputable looking mutts.
Pinching the end of his cigarette, Frank got to his feet and stretched a hand out to Spencer. “Come on,” he said. “Gerard’s sad he hasn’t hugged you yet.”
A laugh slipped out, and Spencer took the offered help to stand after only a slight hesitation. He felt better. A little wobbly still, but Frank didn’t let go of him as they started back towards the house.
*
“Your friends are great,” Deana said, taking her teacup to the sink, “but exhausting.”
Spencer snorted. That was kind of an understatement. He was just grateful Brendon hadn’t shown up.
She smiled at him. “You’re far more interesting than I thought, honey,” she said, “and I actually always thought you were really interesting.”
“He’s reclusive and likes cats,” Ryan said, trying to garner all her attention in the most obvious way possible, since she loved his dogs and anyone who loved his dogs was automatically put on The List - and don’t even get Spencer started on The List, because Spencer’s mom was on The List and there was no way she was a candidate for Ryan’s grand married-by-forty plan, no matter how good her cookies were. The List was possibly the stupidest thing Ryan had ever come up with.
Deana laughed, shook her head, then said, “Seriously, I’m wiped,” and Ryan took the hint, eagerly ushering her out of the kitchen towards one of the guest rooms after Spencer told her goodnight.
Then Spencer just sat and stared at his hands, feeling the tension he’d been shouldering all night slowly start to melt away.
Fifteen minutes later, Ryan wandered back in looking a little dazed.
“She called me kiddo and kissed my cheek,” Ryan said, and Spencer gave him a tired smile. “I think I’m older than her,” he went on, incredulous.
“You’re older than everyone,” Spencer pointed out, because Ryan asked for grocery store gift certificates for his birthday and slept on a prescription mattress. One memorable summer, he even showed up at the cottage with a wooden cane and an alleged stubbed toe. The cane lasted only as long as Jon’s restraint, though, because that shit was just hilarious, and sometimes Ryan had trouble taking a joke.
“Funny.” Ryan rolled his eyes.
Spencer scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “I should kill you, you know.”
“No, honestly, Spence,” Ryan hopped up on the stool next to him, “I didn’t know everyone would show up like that.”
Spencer eyed him in disbelief. “It’s Jon’s house, it’s Mae Day weekend, and you didn’t think there’d be a party?”
Ryan grimaced. “Well, you know, maybe. But you agreed to go.”
“Whatever, Ryan, it doesn’t matter. It’s fine.” Spencer pushed back the stool and got to his feet. He hadn’t had fun, exactly, but he felt accomplished. He felt like it was something he could do again, maybe, which was really, really good.
“Really?” Ryan asked warily.
“It’s fine, I’m fine.” He leaned into him from behind, wrapping his arms over Ryan’s skinny chest and dropping his forehead onto the back of Ryan’s neck. He smelled a little bit like cinnamon.
Ryan laced his fingers into Spencer’s and tugged, spinning the stool around until they could hug properly, Spencer slipping in between Ryan’s spread knees. “I miss you all the time, you know,” Ryan said, voice muffled, face buried in Spencer’s throat.
Spencer’s arms tightened around him. “Yeah, me too.”
*
“What’re you doing?” Ryan asked Spencer, squishing onto the loveseat next to him and Deputy Steve, who was sprawled boneless across Spencer’s lap, snoring.
“Texting Brendon.”
“Oh.”
Spencer glanced over, nose wrinkled. “Oh, what?”
Ryan shrugged, a sly little grin on his face. “Nothing.”
Spencer’s knuckles went white around the Sidekick. “Whatever.” Brendon had asked him what he was going to wear that night, and Spencer was being a total girl about it and trying not to think about actually going, because he was starting to feel a little bit suffocated. It was a huge event and there was going to be massive amounts of publicity and he had to concentrate on the part where it was not about him. It was about the Mae Walker Foundation and it was about juvenile illnesses and no one was going to ask him about his mental breakdown.
“Hey, hey.” Ryan nudged his shoulder. “You all right?”
“Yeah, just.” Spencer took a deep breath. “It’s a little overwhelming.”
“You don’t have to go. I mean it,” he added when Spencer opened his mouth to retort that of course he did, because he’d made it that far and he wasn’t going to back down at the last minute. “Spencer, just you being here means so much, and, like I said, Jon doesn’t-”
“I’m going,” Spencer cut in, more sure than he was even just a minute before. Every year, all the guys dropped everything for Mae Day. They attended the two-fifty a plate banquet, mingled with politicians and actors and fellow rock stars, and then the next night they performed an awesome, weirdly incestuous free concert for the general public, an amalgam of all the bands they used to be and all they bands they currently were, and all the bands they might possibly be in the future.
And, God, Spencer wanted to drum. He suddenly, achingly wanted to get up on stage behind any fucking drum kit they could give him and play, and he hadn’t felt that burn in years.
part two
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 15,300+
Warning: Future fic, post band-breakup
Summary: It was easier to get lost on the Virginian coast than Spencer thought it would be.
A/N: I’m a little weird about this fic. I don’t think I’ve ever written anything quite like it, and it’s almost entirely about Spencer and castoffstarter called it introspective, so I’m going to go with that. Anyway, more thanks than I can properly express go to castoffstarter for the beta and encouragement and all the little comments that made me grin.
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Certain Coasts Set Apart
“Certain coasts,” the remark of a perceptive writer came back to me, “are set apart for shipwreck.” - Loren Eiseley, The Unexpected Universe
It was easier to get lost on the Virginian coast than Spencer thought it would be.
He’d felt a little stupid at first, retiring into hermitage status at the tender age of twenty-eight, but he’d had the money for it, and been pissed enough, and really just sick of every fucking thing in the entire world at the time - and now he just sort of liked the solitude.
The phone woke him up, the jarring rhythm of Wolf Parade signaling a call he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much he might’ve wanted to, because Ryan was a tenacious fucker and it was early enough that he’d have time to call continuously for - he squinted at the pale light shading his open window - at least an hour.
He groped for his Sidekick on the bedside table and thumbed it on. “Ryan, it’s ass o’clock,” he said, burrowing back under his covers.
“Yes, it is. It is, Spencer, it’s early, and today is the day of your birth, and I’m sending you a present. So get up.”
Spencer sighed heavily. “I’m going back to sleep.” He sat up, though, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It was getting long again, falling over his eyes.
“Oh, and dude, there’s an email from Greg I forwarded you, so just. Look it over, will you? And let me know what you think about that song, the Semiconductor demo with the-you know, from last month, and what have you been doing, asshole-”
Spencer would probably be better at the whole hermit thing if he didn’t have Ryan, who was using him as some sort of manager, et al, whatever-person - which Greg-the-actual-manager was probably thrilled about, but, hey, it’d been years - and apparently it took distance and separation for Ryan to get talky, since although he respectfully kept the calls to Spencer at a minimum - once a week, max, except in emergencies or holidays - he hardly ever let Spencer get a word in, and if he happened to ping Spencer’s voicemail, he’d run out the tape with weird, eerily Wentz-like messages.
Spencer thought maybe, maybe Ryan was afraid of what Spencer would say if he ever let him say it.
Climbing out of bed, he yawned and scratched his belly, making appropriate noises as Ryan rambled. The bathroom light was harsh, and he winced at his reflection, palming his jaw. He was thirty-three. Thirty-three and old, with tiny almost-crows feet at the corner of his eyes - if he scrunched up his face enough - and he probably had skin cancer or something from five years on the beach, like Ryan always said he’d get, although Ryan was still a staunch supporter of big-eyed, bone-thin, fish-belly paleness.
The doorbell rang just as he was struggling one-handed into a pair of shorts, and he cut into Ryan’s rant about whatever - neighborhood hoodlums or something, because sometime after he hit thirty Ryan turned into a surly old man who started sentences with ‘kids these days’ and ‘when I was their age’ completely without irony.
“Hang on,” Spencer said, moving through the sparsely furnished den towards the front of his small cottage, “there’s someone at the door,” and Ryan said, “Okay, that’s probably from me, so,” and then he trailed off, suspiciously quiet and oddly tense.
Spencer arched a brow. “Really?” He gazed out his screen door, and then dropped his eye-line about three feet. “You sent me a kid?”
Ryan choked, like a strangled laugh, then went, “Um.”
“Ryan.”
“He wanted to,” Ryan said in a rush. “It wasn’t my idea, it totally wasn’t, I swear.”
“Ryan.”
“Gotta go, Spence, bye,” Ryan said, and hung up.
Spencer was still holding the Sidekick up to his ear, listening to dead air.
The little dark-haired boy on the other side of the screen shifted on his feet and said, “Hi.”
Spencer swallowed hard. “Hi,” he said back, then opened the door.
*
There was some sort of cosmic irony that Jon was the one who broke up the band. They announced it as a mutual decision, a hiatus, a ‘we’ve been doing this for almost a decade, and it’s time for a break’ kind of thing, but basically it was Jon and Cassie and their little girl who’d been diagnosed with leukemia.
Spencer probably could’ve handled it if Brendon hadn’t gone ahead and married a preschool teacher from Kansas City that he’d known for just over a month, and Spencer probably could’ve handled that if he hadn’t been completely and stupidly in love with him. Brendon had been wearing him down for years with his constant, boundless energy and huge smiles and big, affectionate hugs, and Spencer had been so very ready to give him everything-hell, he’d already given Brendon practically all of himself by that point, hadn’t he? And losing him so fast and fucking easy had sliced Spencer up inside.
It was half that, and half what Ryan referred to as his psychotic break - his best friend’s daughter was dying, he went a little crazy in an FAO Schwartz, police were involved, it wasn’t his finest moment - that drove Spencer to rent a house in the dunes just south of Chincoteague, and then it was the calm, for once, the complete fucking calm, that convinced him stay.
*
They had Froot Loops. Spencer boosted the kid-Jon, Jon Thomas, to separate him from his honorary uncle, and Spencer had seen him once months after he’d been born, over four years before at Mae’s funeral, so he knew that, and Spencer hefted him up onto the tall chair at the kitchen island. He seemed sturdy enough for an almost five-year-old, so Spencer was pretty sure the height was okay. Jon Thomas folded his legs under him and leaned forward onto the counter and fisted his spoon and Spencer sat next to him, staring down into his Froot Loops and watching the milk spin into colors.
*
He pulled on a hoodie before trudging outside. Jon Thomas took off down the porch steps and across the grassy sand, shouting into the breeze, and it was funny to think he’d been on his best behavior inside the cottage, remembering all his please and thank-yous and sitting still in a way that Brendon had never been able to master.
He was down by the water’s edge before Spencer even stepped onto the beach, bare toes curling into the still night-cool sand.
“So was he to butter me up?” Spencer asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts.
Brendon was reading, sitting against an overturned rowboat, a picturesque wreck half buried in the dunes that Spencer hadn’t thought to get rid of. He looked up from his book, dark glasses shading his eyes but a tentative smile curling his mouth. “Did it work?”
Spencer shrugged. His hair whipped in front of his face and he pushed it behind his ears, watching as Brendon struggled to his feet. He looked the same. A little more solid, maybe, but the same.
“Hi,” Brendon said. He stepped towards Spencer, bouncing a little on his feet, and Spencer could still recognize Brendon’s pre-hug shuffle, the little tell in his arms before he folded up his target into a surprisingly strong bear hug, and Spencer hastily stepped back.
He wasn’t ready for that yet, he didn’t think.
Brendon frowned, quick, so it was there and gone again, and he pressed his book up to his chest and pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head. Spencer could read the wary hope in his eyes, and a lump settled in the bottom of his stomach, because before, before everything, Spencer had always thought Brendon’d been so damn open, open in his affection and invitation. But there were some things about Brendon that Spencer didn’t think he’d ever understand.
“Hi,” Spencer said finally.
Brendon bit his lip, nodding. Then he said, “So. Happy birthday,” and Spencer’s throat tightened and his eyes prickled a little, even though he’d never admit it, and he nodded back, “Okay.”
*
Spencer had never been around many kids besides Mae. He’d been around Brendon and Jon, and they were sort of like kids, but they’d never been so small and big-eyed and dependent, and Jon Thomas wanted to be carried everywhere he didn’t feel like running.
“He can walk, you know,” Brendon said, amusement plain as Spencer hefted Jon Thomas onto his back.
“I don’t wanna walk,” Jon Thomas said matter-of-factly, hooking his arms around Spencer’s neck and nearly strangling him.
“He doesn’t want to walk,” Spencer said, and it felt good. It felt good to have this skinny-limbed boy humming in his ear, chin digging into his shoulder and fingers grasping at the collar of his t-shirt.
“We’re staying in town,” Brendon told him when they reached the porch.
Spencer let Jon Thomas slide to the ground, keeping a grip on his arms so he couldn’t fall. “Do you want to-” Spencer paused and Brendon looked hopeful, and he had a spare bedroom, but if he wasn’t ready for hugs, he wasn’t ready for that. “Dinner?” he asked instead.
“You can cook,” Brendon said, not a question, and yeah. One important aspect of hermitage was self-sufficiency.
“I can cook. No meat,” Spencer offered.
Brendon shifted on his feet, then bent down and grabbed Jon Thomas around his waist as he tried to streak past, back towards the beach, hefting him up into his arms. “But it’s your birthday,” he said. Jon Thomas wriggled until he was upside down, legs kicked out behind Brendon, dark hair a mess, smiling crookedly up at Spencer. “You shouldn’t have to cook.”
Spencer didn’t point out that he would’ve been cooking for just himself anyway. He shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck. “So don’t come.”
“I didn’t-wait, Spencer.” Brendon took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean-”
“So come,” Spencer said, more confidently.
“Okay.” Brendon nodded. “Okay, yes, we’ll come.”
*
Spencer opened up his laptop, sitting on his couch and leaning over his lacquered coffee table, like he did every morning, mug of coffee at his elbow. It didn’t matter that Brendon was just miles away, tucking himself into the sleepy little bayside town. There was one inn; a garden drenched three storey Victorian, painted lemon yellow and facing the sea. There was a dock with an ice cream parlor and a shack that sold oysters and clams and whatever fish they pulled in that day. There was a shabby diner on Main Street. There wasn’t much else.
In his inbox, there was a blank email from Jon, a pic of the new baby attached, propped up with her pudgy hands gripping a markered sign - Happy birthday, Uncle Spence! Jon called him on Sundays, usually, and let Lily babble into the phone, and for five days every summer Jon brought his girls out - Never with Mae, but after-after with Cassie and their giant Great Pyrenees, Amber, and now with little Lily in tow - to track sand and slobber through his tiny house.
The worst was when Ryan showed up, too, armed with SPF 300 and his guitar, because it felt too perfect, and then it felt too wrong, and no one would say anything about Brendon.
Spencer downloaded the picture of Lily and printed it out, another piece to stick on his fridge, then went back to his email. There were two from Ryan. The forward from Greg he’d mentioned and another one with the subject line: Don’t kill me.
Spencer clicked on it, figuring it’d either be an apology or an explanation, but instead it only read, Talk to him, Spencer, punctuated with an obnoxious smiley face.
Talk to him. Right.
The absolute worst thing, the part that hurt the most, was that Brendon had known.
Mae had been responding well to treatment, in the beginning, and Brendon’d been making shadow puppets for her on her bedroom wall, and he made these stupid faces and pitched funny voices for them and Spencer just kind of told him. He’d said it with his eyes first, silently, a space apart in front of the warm yellow flashlight, and then when they stumbled out into the hall after Mae had drifted off to sleep, he’d said the actual words, quick and breathy, hands gripping Brendon’s upper arms.
Brendon had known. He’d let Spencer say it out loud, and he’d smiled with his whole entire body, like he’d just been fucking waiting for Spencer to get a clue, and then everything had gone to shit within the space of a few days.
*
Somehow, Spencer was not exactly sure, he’d acquired two cats. A seal point, solid-boned Siamese mix with a white patch on his chest and three white-toed paws, and an orange tabby with half his tail missing and a scar arcing over his left eye. Spanky, the Siamese, was a dune kitten that’d followed him home three years before. Rover had shown up on his porch last spring, fully grown and heavy-set and surprisingly sweet-tempered.
Spanky and Rover slept sprawled together in sun-warmed nooks all over his cottage during the day, and then spent their nights outside hunting nightjars and ground squirrels and frogs. Spencer thought claiming ownership was pathetically middle-aged old-maid of him, but acceptable in a beach bum sort of way, so he fed them and tricked them into heading into the vet’s once a year, and sometimes they curled up at the bottom of his bed or left headless field mice in his shoes.
They were both strangely tolerant of Jon Thomas - “Jay, we call him Jay, now,” Brendon said, grinning fondly at the boy as he heaved Rover up into his arms. He staggered under the cat’s weight, said, “Whoa, kitty,” and Rover just flicked his stubby tail and looked mildly disgruntled.
Brendon’s grin turned softer when he looked up at Spencer again. “So what’s on the menu?” he asked.
“Pasta.” Not the most elaborate meal, but Spencer’d had trouble focusing all afternoon, and it seemed like something a kid might eat.
“Cool.” Brendon’s eyes crinkled up at the edges.
Spencer swallowed, fingers biting white-knuckled into the worn wood frame of his screen door. “Come on in,” he said. Jon-Jay had already sped past, chasing after Rover when he’d squirmed out of his arms. He waved Brendon in and moved towards the kitchen.
He was tense, stiff, and he really, really hoped Brendon wouldn’t notice. It was stupid, because Brendon probably already knew, but he didn’t want him to see how uncomfortable this all was for him. He didn’t want Brendon to see how much his presence literally grated.
He wanted to know why Brendon was there.
*
Spaghetti was apparently a hit with Jay, but also a huge mess.
“I just. Stop wiggling, Jay.” Brendon wrestled, actually wrestled Jay to the ground, armed with a wet paper towel, the little boy laughing hysterically as Brendon fought to swipe red sauce off his face, fingers, arms, hair, even, and Spencer was a little in awe.
“Do you-”
“Dad, dad, daddy, daddy,” Jay chanted, giggling and pushing the towel away and shaking his head and seriously. Spencer had no idea how Brendon could handle it, but then, Brendon had never been much better.
Finally, Brendon sat back on his heels. “Ta dah,” he said, brandishing the dirty paper towel and pointing a finger at Jay. “You, young man, are trouble.”
“Uncle Spence,” Jay said, making grabby hands at Spencer, and he’d said that earlier, he’d said it twice at dinner, and it hadn’t stopped being sort of beyond painful yet. He pouted exactly like his dad when Spencer didn’t move fast enough, he pouted with his whole face, brown eyes liquid, and Spencer had never, ever been able to resist that.
He rolled his eyes and tugged at Jay’s arms, sliding him out from under Brendon and propping him on his feet.
“Uncle Spence, where’s the cats?” he asked, scanning the room.
“Hiding from you.” He poked his stomach. “Outside probably.” Or more likely under the bed, but he thought they deserved a break from the mini-Urie.
Jay ran for the door and Brendon called out, “Shoes first,” and, “Don’t break your neck on the steps,” and then he turned to Spencer, brow arched, and said, “Good going, now we have to follow him.”
“You have to follow him.” Spencer gestured towards the kitchen. “I have to clean up.”
“Better idea,” Brendon said, giving him a slight push. “I’ll clean up, you watch the midget.”
“I-”
“Come on, please?” Brendon low-balled him with some puppy-eyes.
Spencer huffed. “Fine. Soap’s in the cabinet.”
“Soap?” Brendon’s face screwed up. “No dishwasher?”
“Wanna trade?”
“Ha, no. I’ve had him all day. Do you have any idea how boring that town is?”
Spencer felt himself bristle, blush hinting up his neck, but reined in his temper. They moved slower there, and Brendon always moved at a faster clip than anyone Spencer knew.
“It’s okay,” Spencer said, and Brendon visibly floundered a little, mouth opening and closing and eyes apologetic. He only shrugged, though, and went back towards the kitchen.
“Don’t let him in the water, okay?” he tossed over his shoulder. “It’s too cold.”
*
Spencer sat with his bare feet buried in the sand, arms hooked around his knees as he watched Jay play. He’d dug out a few plastic buckets that he used to collect shells and Jay was busy packing them full of damp sand, just out of reach of the lapping foamy waves. He was talking to himself, a steady chatter snatched away by the slight breeze, and despite everything, Spencer smiled.
He was a cute kid. Smart, tiny-thin like he imagined Brendon would’ve been, with big expressive eyes and his father’s mouth. Spencer had never met his mother, but from pictures he could see Jay had her small nose and the natural curl of her hair.
A shadow thrown from the dying sun fell across him, and then Brendon dropped down onto the sand with a groan. “You should seriously think about investing in a dishwasher.”
“Okay,” Spencer said dryly, slanting him a sideways glance.
Brendon nodded, combing a hand through his hair, letting it fall over his eyes.
“He’s cute,” Spencer said, gesturing towards Jay. It was the truth, obviously, but the words still felt forced.
If Brendon noticed, though, he didn’t seem to care. “Thanks,” he said, then Spencer started, “Why-” just as Brendon said, “Spencer-”
Brendon worried the hem of his shirt and half-grinned. “Go ahead,” he said. “You first.”
Spencer cleared his throat, gazed off towards Jay. He was digging a shallow hole with one of the buckets, the other upended precariously on the top of his head, slipping down over his eyes with every other movement. After a moment, Spencer asked quietly, “Why are you here, Brendon?”
“I.” Brendon paused, then said, “This isn’t the first time, you know.”
Spencer turned back to Brendon. “What?”
Brendon waved a hand. “Here. I’ve been here before. I was just too much of a coward to do anything about it.”
“How many-”
“Twice.” Brendon let out a dry chuckle. “With Jon last summer. And then right before Thanksgiving.”
The Thanksgiving Spencer’s sister finally coaxed him out of hiding. Spencer didn’t ask if he’d tried the cottage and found it empty. “You came with Jon and Cassie?”
Brendon ducked his head. “In town. I didn’t want to, like, intrude or anything,” he said, which was almost laughable, because Brendon always intruded.
“Oh,” Spencer said.
“Yeah. Oh.” Brendon’s tone was self-depreciating, but Spencer didn’t know what to say to change it.
Once the sky slid into twilight, Brendon whistled and waved Jay over, and Jay jumped up and ran for them, slip-sliding a little once he reached the soft, deeper sand near the dunes. He was breathless, wet and sandy and even Spencer could see he was exhausted.
“We better go,” Brendon said, getting to his feet. “Say bye, Jay.”
Spencer stood up and wiped the back of his shorts, and Jay threw himself against his legs.
“Bye, Uncle Spence,” he said, head tipped back, grinning widely up at him.
Spencer ruffled his hair, then crouched down for a proper hug. He kissed his cheek, and skinny arms wound around his neck and Spencer lifted him off the ground a little, said, “Bye, Jay,” against his temple.
*
Brendon had rented a sleek black SUV that made Spencer’s own beat-up Explorer look even older than its five years. Jay clambered up into the back and into his child seat, hooking his own restraints together, and Brendon leaned in to tug them tight.
“So.” Spencer gave Brendon a half-smile when he turned around, pushing the door closed behind him. “Thanks for coming.”
Brendon nodded, bounced a little on his feet. “Thanks for. You know. Dinner.”
“Sure.” It was more than a little awkward, saying goodbye, and Spencer asked, “How long are you-?” He gestured vaguely with his chin.
“Early tomorrow. Marla has-”
“Right,” Spencer cut in, because he didn’t really want to hear about Marla. They might be okay, they might get better, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to talk about Brendon’s wife.
“Spencer-”
“No, um.” Spencer tried for a smile. “It’s good. It was good. Seeing you,” he clarified.
“Yeah, so.” Brendon bounced again, and Spencer caught the intention, but Brendon was too fast and slid forward before Spencer could step away. He found himself wrapped up in Brendon, his arms around his torso and face mashed into his throat, and it was so familiar and so strange and so good and so horrible all at the same time.
“God, Spencer,” Brendon murmured.
Spencer took a shaky breath. He lifted his arms and cautiously moved to hug Brendon back, awkward hands pressed flat against his spine.
Brendon said, “Please say this is okay,” and Spencer didn’t know what to say, really, so he didn’t say anything at all.
*
The day after his birthday, Spencer stayed in bed. With Spanky curled up on his chest, Rover on the pillow by his head, he watched the Game Show Network and ate two entire bags of Double Stuff Oreos cookies.
The day after that, he was feeling pretty disgusting and light-headed from all the sugar, so he forced himself to get up and showered. He tugged on a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans and headed for the beach.
Down by the rock jetty, about a half mile from his house, small pools formed as the tide pulled out, and Spencer picked through the shallow water, tossing stranded starfish back into the sea, dropping bits of shells and sand-smooth stones into a bucket. Tiny multicolored clams burrowed deeper into the sand as he sifted through them, and he dug out crabs, just to see them scuttle back into their holes.
He never did anything with the shells he collected, but just the activity, the routine, always seemed to clear his mind, helped him think better - or sometimes not think at all. The monotony was soothing, and the salty wind, the brine scent so different from the hot, arid grit of the desert, kept him firmly grounded in the now.
When he wandered back towards his home hours later, bucket full and stomach grumbling for lunch, there was an unfamiliar sedan parked in front of the cottage. Jon was sitting on the porch steps, rolling a bottle of beer between his hands.
Spencer waved. “Hey.”
Jon grinned, shook his head and got up to hug him, pressing the cold bottle against the small of his back. “Spencer,” he said. “You smell good.”
Spencer laughed. “Sand and salt air, same as always. What are you doing here?”
“Yeah, not the question to ask.” He pulled back and arched an eyebrow at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
Jon poked him in the chest. “Wrong answer, my friend.”
*
Spencer pan-fried grilled cheese with bacon, because Jon normally couldn’t have either, but Cassie wasn’t there to stop them. They used light Pam instead of butter, though, and called it a compromise.
He sliced a tomato onto a plate and opened a bag of chips, and they sat next to each other on the top step of the porch, and Jon waited until Spencer’s mouth was full of sandwich before he said, “You know Brendon’s been divorced for over a year.”
Spencer choked, grabbed for his ice tea and took a huge gulp. He swallowed, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Um. No.”
Jon nodded.
“Why didn’t. Why didn’t you say anything before?” Spencer asked, even though he knew it wasn’t a fair question. That Brendon was off-limits as a conversation topic was an unspoken rule in Spencer’s house.
“It wasn’t.” Jon paused and shrugged. “A year probably isn’t all that long in terms of a marriage and kid,” he said baldly. “And I always thought Brendon should be the one to tell you, anyway.”
“But he didn’t,” Spencer pointed out.
“No, he didn’t,” Jon agreed. “Which is why I just did, and if you tell Cassie I said anything, I’ll let Ryan know you’re the one who threw out all his hobo gloves.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes. “You play dirty.”
“I play to win.”
“Right.” Spencer rubbed the side of his hand under his nose. Brendon was divorced. It didn’t mean anything, really.
Jon sighed and set down his sandwich. “Brendon,” he started, “was always a little selfish.”
Spencer snorted. “Okay.” That was nothing new. Brendon had always gotten what he wanted, eventually. Brendon had been a whiner and a pouter and he was always so adorable about it that no one ever really minded giving him what he asked for. Selfish, maybe, but always delightfully pleased when presented with whatever he wanted most. Which was probably why Spencer had been so blindsided when he’d finally, finally given in and then had his heart shoved right back in his face, battered and bruised from all the careless handling.
“Look, we all coped in different ways, okay?” Jon leaned his elbows on his thighs, clasped his hands together. “You assaulted a beloved anime character and got into a fist fight in the happiest toy store on earth, and Brendon. Brendon had some sort of mortality crisis, got married and had a baby.”
Spencer picked at the knee-hole in his jeans with a thumb. “It’s been too long, Jon,” he said finally. He couldn’t actually say that he’d moved on, because Jon wouldn’t believe him. He lived at the beach. He lived at the beach with two cats.
Jon sighed. “He tried to make it work. Jay’s a great kid and Marla’s-”
“Jon,” Spencer cut in quietly.
“They tried, Spencer.” Jon reached out and cupped Spencer’s knee, squeezing it. “You can’t fault him for trying. Now you have to decide if you want to try, too.”
*
They stayed up late talking about everything and anything and nothing; Lily’s first word - “Do,” which she apparently used interchangeably between Jon and the dog - and Ryan’s strange but profitable recent online business union with Frank Iero, with the unlikely name of AndFrank.com, a subsidiary of Clandestine that specialized in band and concert t-shirts for dogs.
The next morning, Jon was gone when Spencer woke up. There was two-thirds a coffee pot still hot, and a sticky note on Spencer’s laptop - an email address and a smiley face.
Spencer sighed. He poured himself a mug of coffee, snatched his Sidekick off the kitchen counter and went outside to call Ryan.
He half expected Ryan to not pick up, considering, but on the third ring Ryan answered with a slightly wary, “Spencer?”
“I’m not going to talk to you about it,” Spencer said.
There was a pause. Then, “Okay.”
Spencer leaned a hip against the porch railing. The sun was up, but the sky was overcast, meeting the ocean with a blurry, barely noticeable line of blue-gray. “Jon was here.”
“When?” Ryan asked, but Spencer could tell he already knew. There was no way Jon and Ryan hadn’t talked about it before hand.
So instead he said, “It’s almost Mae’s birthday.”
“Two months,” Ryan pointed out, but it wasn’t a disagreement.
“I’m not making any promises.” A lot could happen in two months. A lot could happen in two days, so no, he wasn’t making any promises at all, but Mae’s birthday was something he’d always selfishly taken for himself, and he thought it was about time he made some sort of effort.
Ryan inhaled sharply, said, “Spencer, that.” He paused, laughed a little. “It would be great, Spencer, but you don’t have to, you know that, right? It’s never made. It’s never been an issue with us-with Jon.”
“I know,” Spencer said, and he wanted to say a lot more, say that it’d always been an issue with him, and that Brendon wasn’t the only one guilty of being a coward, but he just repeated, “I know,” again, and then asked, “Can I stay with you?”
*
Ryan told Spencer he’d take care of everything, which was a relief. Spencer didn’t want to have to think about it, not yet, but he owed Ryan a lot, so he opened up his laptop and the forward from Greg and the Semiconductor demo from last month and got to work.
The band was okay. The lead singer tended to scream a lot, which wasn’t necessarily bad, but was probably hell on his throat. Lyrics aside, he liked the hook. He hated the beginning riff, but hooks were generally harder to fix, in his opinion, and there were probably better and worse songs in their repertoire somewhere - there always was.
He sent an email to Ryan - copying Jon and, after a minute of indecision, Brendon, too, carefully typing in the address Jon had left him - that said: Stupid name, sloppy drumming, what’s with all the thinly veiled man-whore references? Do you have anything else by them?
By midmorning, there was a reply from Jon.
- From: Jon (dynomite@maeday)
To: spencersmith@rrr.org, ryanross@rrr.org
CC: bden@urie.net
Subject: Re: Semi-lame pimp cane
Now I’m gonna have that part about the stylin’ pimp in my head all day. Also, I agree about the drumming. Even my mad skillz would show him up.
- From: bden@urie.net
To: dynomite@maeday, spencersmith@rrr.org, ryanross@rrr.org
Subject: Re: Semi-lame pimp cane
Stupid name? This from the guy who helped come up with The Summer League. Does anyone else think they used Casio’s Calypso Rhythm II button for Jon’s pimp hook?
From: Jon (dynomite@maeday)
To: bden@urie.net, spencersmith@rrr.org, ryanross@rrr.org
Subject: stick this in your velvet crotch
I hate you. Amber, who’s had to listen to my singing for the past hour, hates you, too.
- From: Ryan (ryanross@andfrank.com)
To: spencersmith@rrr.org, dynomite@maeday, bden@urie.net
Subject: you suck
I hate all of you more than can be properly expressed by email. The Summer League was cool.
He replied to all: Please, please tell me you signed them, Ryan, because I want to hear this on the radio every day of my life.
*
Spencer had a weekly therapist appointment by phone. He hadn’t always had a therapist, but Ryan had pretty much given him an ultimatum three years ago. Either he talked to a professional, or Ryan would give Pete his address. Spencer still wasn’t sure if it’d been an empty threat or not, but there was only so much of Pete Spencer could deal with, so he wisely chose the shrink.
He ended up not minding it so much. Dr. Epstein was generally helpful and let Spencer talk about all the things Ryan would never let him talk about, but she gave him stupid assignments, assignments that he forced himself to do no matter how much they made his skin itch.
There was progress, though. He could go into town now. He could stroll along the fishing dock and buy an ice cream cone and have a coherent conversation with Allie, the teenager who manned the counter in the summer.
Predictably, he was more comfortable in the winter, when the town grew sparse and tourists no longer filtered through the diner on Main Street. Every Tuesday he walked the two miles into town and sat at the counter - he’d graduated from a booth months ago - and worked his way through the surprisingly extensive laminated menu. Variety, Dr. Epstein told him, was the spice of life.
Spencer wasn’t so sure that particular idiom applied to diner food, but since it’d taken a full three months of prodding from Epstein to get him to even sit in there long enough to finish a cup of coffee, he figured it didn’t actually matter.
Deana, a tiny, plump frosted blonde, clicked the chipped Formica with a bright red nail, then upended a thick cream coffee mug and filled it to the brim. “We’re still on O this week,” she reminded him. Her tone was half poking-fun and half pure affection. Spencer was perfectly aware he was regarded as the town weirdo, but Deana was young enough to know who he was and obviously didn’t know who he was, so town weirdo was just fine with him.
“Is there another O besides omelet?” he asked.
“Oatmeal.”
Spencer grimaced.
Deana laughed. “Oh, honey, I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them.”
It was comments like that one that made Spencer suspect Dr. Epstein had been making inappropriate calls around town, but Spencer was pretty sure Deana had just drawn her own conclusions.
“I don’t think I’m ready for oatmeal,” Spencer said, glancing at the menu. “I’m in a pancake sort of mood.”
“Short stack it is,” she said, then patted his hand before turning back towards the kitchen.
He lasted a half hour, which was shorter than usual, but a group of boisterous out-of-towners, probably the last of the season, stumbled in laughing, reeking of sunshine and alcohol and they were harmless, Spencer knew this, but the set of his shoulders instantly stiffened. He didn’t do well with strangers.
He probably would’ve been okay, except a smiling young man hitched himself up on the stool next to Spencer’s and he did a double-take and said, “Hey,” eyes curious, and Spencer was just waiting, waiting for the inevitable, Aren’t you that famous guy who traumatized hundreds of little kids five years ago by almost shoving that Cowboy Robot Karate Fun Team guy down an escalator? But instead he just said, “You look familiar.”
Spencer forced a shrug. “Yeah, well.” He shifted up, took out his wallet and slipped out enough to cover his lunch and a sizable tip. He tucked it under his half-eaten plate, stood up, and made himself meet the guy’s eyes. “I’m not,” he said, then took measured steps out the door.
*
Spencer liked being in control. He liked knowing where he was going, he liked having a plan, and he liked knowing that if the plan changed, if things went wrong, he could always fix them. He took care of things, and from the moment they met, Ryan’s problems had been Spencer’s problems, and then the band’s problems had always been Spencer’s, too, and all the guys were automatically grouped under that umbrella.
He couldn’t fix Mae. In the end, he couldn’t fix the band, he couldn’t fix himself, and, really, at that point he hadn’t wanted to.
It’d been too much shit all at once, and Spencer was strong, but not that strong, and Dr. Epstein had once gently pointed out that maybe he thought the guys had taken advantage of him. That maybe they took for granted the fact that Spencer would make everything better. And then she’d said that maybe Jon blamed Spencer for not doing anything about Mae, and Spencer had flipped the fuck out, because no way. No way would that ever be true, and there was no way Spencer could’ve done anything, and Spencer would never tell anyone ever that he sobbed like a fucking two-year-old after cursing Epstein out, because it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t, and there wasn’t any possible way he could’ve held them all together after that. He wasn’t a fucking miracle worker.
*
Despite the no promises deal, Ryan emailed Spencer his flight itinerary before the end of September.
- From: Ryan (ryanross@rrr.org)
To: spencersmith@rrr.org
Subject: No excuses
You’re flying in, but you can decide whether you want to go to the banquet when you get here, okay? You can hide out with the dogs if you want.
*
Now that Brendon had Spencer’s email - had it officially from Spencer, at least, since he couldn’t delude himself into thinking the guys hadn’t given it to him sooner - he started cc’ing him on forwards, and no one liked forwards, really, except Spencer could guess Brendon’s game. Get him so used to seeing his email address in his inbox that it wouldn’t even faze Spencer when he received an actual real email, and that’s basically exactly what happened.
- From: bden@urie.net
To: spencersmith@rrr.org
Subject: Chicago?
Ryan said you might be coming to Mae Day?
Of course, emailing was just the beginning, morphing into text messaging, which was weird, because Spencer hadn’t really texted much in years - there was an immediacy to it that made Spencer uncomfortable. He thought maybe he could ignore them, Brendon’s sharp, surprisingly quick-witted comments, but it was hard to break old habits, and one Tuesday afternoon he found himself texting back and forth rapidly with Brendon in the Main Street diner.
They were arguing about Jell-O flavors, and the complete normalcy of it poleaxed Spencer right in the middle of a sip of water. He choked back a spit-take, because was it supposed to be that easy? Was it all right, falling into old patterns, old routines with barely a hitch?
“All right, honey?” Deana asked, leaning against the counter in front of him, his plate of mushroom and tomato quiche in one hand.
Spencer nodded, coughed and took another sip of water. “Fine,” he said, and Deana arched a slim, blonde eyebrow at him. “No, really, I’m fine.”
She eyed him sharply for a minute, then set his lunch down and pushed his drink off to the side so she could rest an elbow on the Formica, chin cupped in her hand. “Listen, I’m going to be nosy here for a second, okay?”
“Deana, when are you not nosy?” he joked, but Deana’s face was serious, her mouth pursed, and her voice was low enough that the ancient jukebox kept her words strictly for Spencer alone.
“You don’t smile, kid.”
Spencer blinked at the endearment. Deana was barely older than him, if at all. “Okay.”
She shook her head. “You don’t smile. Your mouth does this pathetic little upwards tilt and, honey, I know you like me, but nothing I’ve ever said has put that light in your eyes, and whatever was in that message, well.” She shrugged, straightened, and Spencer froze a little in place because she looked this close to ruffling his hair. But she just tapped the counter and said, “Don’t panic now, okay?” like she knew him, like she knew his brain was flashing: you’re happy? Something must be horribly wrong, or something’s going to go horribly wrong at any second, so you better back the fuck up before you get hurt.
Spencer swallowed thickly. “Right,” he said, and then he asked in half-impulsive desperation, “What’re you doing November 5th?”
*
Spencer had never minded flying, and Ryan had booked seats on a late-night flight, business class, the plane predictably half-empty, so Spencer could stretch out and try to relax. Deana was flipping idly through a magazine beside him, and her presence was surprisingly easing, like he had a tangible piece of his hard-won sanity with him, just in case things went to shit.
Ryan hadn’t commented on her sudden inclusion, even though Spencer knew he was dying to know who she was.
Deana was just sort of bemused about the whole thing. Frankly, Spencer was stunned she’d actually agreed to go.
“So we’re staying with your friend Ryan,” she said without looking up, still paging through the US Weekly.
“He’s got five million dogs.”
She slanted him a grin. “I like dogs.”
Spencer sank down lower in his seat. A pressure was building behind his eyes, and he pressed at his temples. “They’re all better dressed than me.”
“Honey, I find that sincerely hard to believe.”
Spencer had eschewed his usual winter wear of ratty hoodies and fisherman sweaters for an old Fall Out Boy t-shirt. His jeans were conspicuously new and he’d pulled on his favorite pair of purple shoes by habit. He rubbed his palms on his thighs, self-conscious in a way he’d never really been.
Deana reached over and squeezed his hand. “Chicago can’t be all that scary,” she said, and Spencer muttered, “You have no idea.”
*
Ryan actually only had three dogs. Three Boston Terriers that looked exactly alike and Ryan dressed them in shirts proclaiming their names for his trip into O’Hare - Deputy Steve, Carlos and Tramp - because Ryan was anal and hated it when Spencer called any of them by the wrong name. They were identical and they were dogs, but whatever.
Spencer got stuck in the back with Carlos and Tramp, and Deana fell instantly in love with Deputy Steve, cuddling him onto her lap in the passenger seat, and Ryan fell instantly in love with Deana for babying one of his beloved dogs, and Spencer was pretty sure he was going to go out of his mind before the three days were over.
He already missed his quiet cottage. He missed the damned cats.
Ryan caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. “We’re going straight to Jon’s, if that’s okay.”
“I’m not-”
“Just us, just dinner,” Ryan hastily cut in.
Spencer sighed. “Okay.” Tramp scrambled into his lap and licked his chin and then started panting in his face, sucking up all his fresh air, and Spencer scratched behind his ears.
*
It was pure panic-inducing chaos, and Spencer was going to kill Ryan. Kill him dead.
“Hiding?”
Spencer was folded up in the grass behind the shed, huddled into one of Jon’s hoodies, and he was most definitely hiding. He didn’t even bother answering Frank, just sent him a steady glare.
‘Just us’ turned out to be small army of aging scenesters that had flown in for the charity banquet and free concert, and Spencer hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t been prepared at all, and what he didn’t need was another public breakdown on his record. He pulled his knees up to his chest and tried his best to send Frank leave-me-the-fuck-alone vibes.
Frank sat down next to him. He fumbled in his pockets, lit a cigarette, and then asked, “You mind?”
“Yes,” Spencer said, but Frank ignored him, and after a few minutes where Frank was blessedly quiet, Spencer finally relaxed. And that’s when Frank pounced.
“So what’s the deal, Smith? There’s no stranger danger here.”
Spencer shrugged tightly. He figured it was simply a matter of not being used to so many people at once, whether he knew them or not. He’d forgotten how to interact with them, with everyone, and it was just a lot to take in.
“Needed a breather,” Spencer finally said when it became clear that Frank was waiting for a verbal response.
Frank arched an eyebrow. “For an hour.”
Huh. Spencer was honestly surprised by that. He didn’t think he’d been out there that long. He gripped his knees and exhaled slowly, the cold condensing his breath into smoke nearly as thick as Frank’s. He heard the sliding glass door open and close, and then a pack of dogs streaked noisily past them, Ryan’s three and Amber and Frank’s motley crew of disreputable looking mutts.
Pinching the end of his cigarette, Frank got to his feet and stretched a hand out to Spencer. “Come on,” he said. “Gerard’s sad he hasn’t hugged you yet.”
A laugh slipped out, and Spencer took the offered help to stand after only a slight hesitation. He felt better. A little wobbly still, but Frank didn’t let go of him as they started back towards the house.
*
“Your friends are great,” Deana said, taking her teacup to the sink, “but exhausting.”
Spencer snorted. That was kind of an understatement. He was just grateful Brendon hadn’t shown up.
She smiled at him. “You’re far more interesting than I thought, honey,” she said, “and I actually always thought you were really interesting.”
“He’s reclusive and likes cats,” Ryan said, trying to garner all her attention in the most obvious way possible, since she loved his dogs and anyone who loved his dogs was automatically put on The List - and don’t even get Spencer started on The List, because Spencer’s mom was on The List and there was no way she was a candidate for Ryan’s grand married-by-forty plan, no matter how good her cookies were. The List was possibly the stupidest thing Ryan had ever come up with.
Deana laughed, shook her head, then said, “Seriously, I’m wiped,” and Ryan took the hint, eagerly ushering her out of the kitchen towards one of the guest rooms after Spencer told her goodnight.
Then Spencer just sat and stared at his hands, feeling the tension he’d been shouldering all night slowly start to melt away.
Fifteen minutes later, Ryan wandered back in looking a little dazed.
“She called me kiddo and kissed my cheek,” Ryan said, and Spencer gave him a tired smile. “I think I’m older than her,” he went on, incredulous.
“You’re older than everyone,” Spencer pointed out, because Ryan asked for grocery store gift certificates for his birthday and slept on a prescription mattress. One memorable summer, he even showed up at the cottage with a wooden cane and an alleged stubbed toe. The cane lasted only as long as Jon’s restraint, though, because that shit was just hilarious, and sometimes Ryan had trouble taking a joke.
“Funny.” Ryan rolled his eyes.
Spencer scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “I should kill you, you know.”
“No, honestly, Spence,” Ryan hopped up on the stool next to him, “I didn’t know everyone would show up like that.”
Spencer eyed him in disbelief. “It’s Jon’s house, it’s Mae Day weekend, and you didn’t think there’d be a party?”
Ryan grimaced. “Well, you know, maybe. But you agreed to go.”
“Whatever, Ryan, it doesn’t matter. It’s fine.” Spencer pushed back the stool and got to his feet. He hadn’t had fun, exactly, but he felt accomplished. He felt like it was something he could do again, maybe, which was really, really good.
“Really?” Ryan asked warily.
“It’s fine, I’m fine.” He leaned into him from behind, wrapping his arms over Ryan’s skinny chest and dropping his forehead onto the back of Ryan’s neck. He smelled a little bit like cinnamon.
Ryan laced his fingers into Spencer’s and tugged, spinning the stool around until they could hug properly, Spencer slipping in between Ryan’s spread knees. “I miss you all the time, you know,” Ryan said, voice muffled, face buried in Spencer’s throat.
Spencer’s arms tightened around him. “Yeah, me too.”
*
“What’re you doing?” Ryan asked Spencer, squishing onto the loveseat next to him and Deputy Steve, who was sprawled boneless across Spencer’s lap, snoring.
“Texting Brendon.”
“Oh.”
Spencer glanced over, nose wrinkled. “Oh, what?”
Ryan shrugged, a sly little grin on his face. “Nothing.”
Spencer’s knuckles went white around the Sidekick. “Whatever.” Brendon had asked him what he was going to wear that night, and Spencer was being a total girl about it and trying not to think about actually going, because he was starting to feel a little bit suffocated. It was a huge event and there was going to be massive amounts of publicity and he had to concentrate on the part where it was not about him. It was about the Mae Walker Foundation and it was about juvenile illnesses and no one was going to ask him about his mental breakdown.
“Hey, hey.” Ryan nudged his shoulder. “You all right?”
“Yeah, just.” Spencer took a deep breath. “It’s a little overwhelming.”
“You don’t have to go. I mean it,” he added when Spencer opened his mouth to retort that of course he did, because he’d made it that far and he wasn’t going to back down at the last minute. “Spencer, just you being here means so much, and, like I said, Jon doesn’t-”
“I’m going,” Spencer cut in, more sure than he was even just a minute before. Every year, all the guys dropped everything for Mae Day. They attended the two-fifty a plate banquet, mingled with politicians and actors and fellow rock stars, and then the next night they performed an awesome, weirdly incestuous free concert for the general public, an amalgam of all the bands they used to be and all they bands they currently were, and all the bands they might possibly be in the future.
And, God, Spencer wanted to drum. He suddenly, achingly wanted to get up on stage behind any fucking drum kit they could give him and play, and he hadn’t felt that burn in years.
part two