New Fic: Close Enough For True
Title: Close Enough For True
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: PG-13 for some language
Word count: ~7000
Warning: Snow White AU/parody, told sort of in omniscient story telling form.
Summary: Brendon was a prince. You might’ve thought that was important to the story, but it wasn’t. In fact, the story would’ve ended the same way had Brendon been a smithy. Or a woodsman.
A/N: Yay, it's done! Special thanks to castoffstarter for the awesome beta. This is silly. This is so silly and so much fun, so enjoy.
download the soundtrack
Close Enough For True
If you wanted to, if you were so inclined, you could place the blame squarely on William - in fact, William himself would be eager to accept it, if only because the story ended so well - but in the beginning, in the beginning, if you blamed William, you would not, actually, be correct.
The whole entire mess was Gabe’s fault.
*
Once, there was William. He was pretty fantastic looking. People from kingdoms all over the world would visit and bring him gifts and exclaim about his great beauty and stuff, and William fucking lived for it.
William was a ruler. William was born of a king and queen and at one point he was probably called prince - when he was little, maybe, and his parents were still around - but everyone basically just called him Bill. He was an accessible ruler. Lackadaisical, perhaps. Sloppy at times, okay, but his consort, Travis, made most of the important decisions, anyway.
Every morning, William would stretch awake and ask Gabe to tell him how pretty he was, and Gabe would praise his cheekbones and eyebrow arches and lips and long legs and there was always a mocking twist to his voice - which William graciously overlooked, since William might’ve been a little vain, but he had a healthy sense of self, and knew that no matter how sarcastically Gabe extolled his virtues, they were all very, very true - and Gabe always ended with, “and there’s none prettier than you,” because Gabe was a kiss-up, and it was what William wanted to hear.
Now Gabe, you should know, was not a person in the sense that Travis and William were persons. He had a consciousness and a sharp mind of his own - and he was evil, yes, but that wasn’t the most important part of his description. No, the most important part of his description, how he should be described, was that he was a mirror. Or he was in a mirror, specifically, trapped by a good witch many, many years before, although William wasn’t aware of that fact. William just knew Gabe was very flattering and not too hard on the eyes.
When William had first acquired the mirror from a zealous suitor, he’d been miffed that it wouldn’t ever reflect him, because a magical talking mirror would’ve been so much cooler if he could talk to himself. But Gabe was a snake, a rat, if you will, dressed up in the sort of sycophant style William loved best, so it didn’t take long for the young royal to get caught in Gabe’s thrall.
So while Gabe was evil, William really wasn’t. William was just. Misguided. Misled. Mustachioed even, once, but that was a mistake for a slightly later point in time.
*
Since William was not aware that Gabe was once a full-bodied sorcerer, with all the power that entailed, he tended to rub his nose - uh, gilt-edged frame - in the fact that William could slide his hands over the smooth expanse of his skin and also, for example, the smooth expanse of Travis’s skin, and that Gabe was sort of impotent.
The wordless taunts - once Gabe got past the delicious fun of voyeurism, which only lasted so many years before becoming fucking frustrating - eventually put Gabe in a dark, shitty mood.
One morning, when William said, “Tell me how damn gorgeous I am, Gabe,” snuggling down into his luxurious satin sheets, Gabe was a little more tart than usual, and he ended with, “and I can think of at least one guy who’s totally prettier than you, dude.”
William blinked. “What?”
“Spencer Smith, man,” Gabe said, mouth curling up slyly.
Spencer Smith, Cousin Spencer, who William always thought attractive in a first cousin relation sort of way, was not actually prettier than William. He was different.
He was soft where William was spare, and lovely where William was dangerous, and if everyone was being honest-if Gabe was being honest, he could say they were both equally pretty in their own way, and that it’d be unfair to compare them. Gabe was often bluntly honest, but honest in this, in that right then, he wasn’t. He was kind of curious to see how far he could make William go.
William’s mouth tightened. “Well, that’s something I won’t stand for. I will not.” He clenched his fingers in his sheets. What if everyone in all the kingdoms all over the world started bringing Spencer gifts, and ignoring poor, beautiful William? His sadness would be overwhelming, really, and something had to be done to prevent that. Possibly something drastic.
“Look, I have a few suggestions,” Gabe said, and that was the part, the exact moment, when William should have taken a brick to his glass. Or a shoe, since a shoe was much more likely than a brick to be lying around his bedroom. And he probably should have done something like that as soon as he’d received Gabe years before, if we’re getting nitpicky about the whole thing, but right at that moment, it would’ve been especially judicious of William to block out Gabe’s mind-fuckery. Too bad William was iffy about the meaning of that word.
*
Jon stared at William, looking very closely for signs of dementia - or more signs of dementia than usual. “Okay,” he said, and William beamed at him for his agreement, only no. No way. “Okay, no. Are you. Have you finally lost your mind?”
“No.” William pouted and slumped lower in his throne, his freakishly long limbs all over the place. He had his favorite crown on, tipped to the side. The one with the pink sparkles and square-cut diamonds.
“You want me. You want me to take Spencer out into the woods,” Jon made some vague hand motions, as if that would help everything make more sense, “kill him, and then bring back his heart in a box, and. Seriously, be honest, are you on something?”
“Woodsman,” William said, with special emphasis on the wood, and then again, louder, “Woodsman,” - which was somewhat of a misnomer, because Jon wasn’t much of a woodsman, really, he just liked to hang around court in a scruffy beard - before pouting deeper.
Jon waited for something more, something sane, maybe, but they just ended up in some sort of bizarre staring contest.
And because William was eerily good at bizarre staring contests, Jon broke first. “Okay, you know what? Fine,” he said. “Fine, I’ll kill Spencer,” and those were words he never, ever thought he’d say, but Spencer should get the hell out of the kingdom anyway if William was going to go all psychopath on them. He could stop by the Butcher’s and get a fucking pig’s heart to put in the stupid box.
“You’re my favorite, Jon Walker,” William said brightly. “My very favorite in all the land.” He nodded, and his crown slid down low on his forehead. “I shall remember this good deed.”
Jon pointed a finger at him. “You owe me, Bill.” Big time. He liked Spencer.
*
Spencer was a favorite at court. Everyone liked Spencer, even William, when he wasn’t busy listening to Gabe and getting brainwashed.
Spencer had a dry wit and a brilliant smile and, somehow, he was a fuzzy baby animal magnet. Kittens, puppies, ducklings, piglets, bear cubs, whatever was hanging around inside, outside, on fucking windowsills, sometimes, little baby birds just learning to fly. It was occasionally very ridiculous.
Since Spencer was family - which was the only reason he’d never been playfully groped by William; except for that once, but it’d been darkish out and William’d been full of his cups, and Spencer’d had a kitten on his lap, so allowances were made and it was never spoken of again. But since he was family, he had a nicely appointed suite of rooms in the castle, and he didn’t do much with his days except hang out with his best friend, Ryan, and sometimes Jon. And sometimes Brendon.
Brendon was like a constant annoying buzz in Spencer’s ear. A smoking hot annoying buzz, with this amazing mouth and puppy-dog eyes and a penchant for following Spencer around and trying to hold his hand. He was from a neighboring kingdom, and he’d shown up one day with his horse - Mr. Frisky, and, okay, Spencer thought that was pretty hilarious, especially since Brendon totally loved Mr. Frisky and would, like, constantly say his name, Mr. Frisky this, and Mr. Frisky that, and Spencer thought Brendon was maybe a little developmentally challenged or something. But, anyway, Brendon had shown up and spotted Spencer and just wouldn’t leave.
Ryan was. Well, Spencer wasn’t sure what Ryan was, but he helped Spencer dress in the morning. He supposed that would make him some sort of valet, except Spencer suspected Ryan just didn’t trust his sense of fashion.
Spencer had excellent taste, though. He was a sharp dresser, particularly in the way of footwear. He had on his very best shoes - pristine white with these adorable little tassels - when Jon kidnapped him.
*
At first, Spencer thought they were just going on a little outing.
When they were children - since Spencer had grown up there, and Jon was only a few years older than him - he’d trailed Jon around the castle grounds, and once they could sit horses unchaperoned, their explorations spread further out into the surrounding forest. So Spencer didn’t think anything of it when Jon urged him up onto Sable Run’s Handmade Wooden Chair - “A manly name,” William had said, when he’d given Spencer the appaloosa yearling on his sixteenth birthday, “one he’ll grow into.” Spencer had just stared at him, and William’d swept his hair back off his face and said, “Well, all right, I lost a bet with Sisky, okay? Deal with it.” - Handy, for short, and led him through the castle gates, over the drawbridge and into the woods.
If he’d thought about it, though, really thought about it, Spencer would’ve realized he wasn’t dressed for riding - he had awesome soft, brown leather riding boots, and Jon knew he loved to wear them whenever they went on a jaunt - and that Jon looked a little strained around the eyes, but Spencer’d never had a reason not to trust Jon.
“Spencer,” Jon said, when they were deep into the forest, deeper than they’d ever gone before. He sounded a little sad.
Spencer pulled Handy up and cocked his head at Jon. “Yeah?”
Jon said, “Get down.”
Spencer arched a brow, but slid off Handy. He pressed a palm against the gelding’s white-gray neck.
“Give me the reins,” Jon said, calmly, and held out his hand.
Spencer’s fingers clenched around the worn leather. “What’s going on, Jon?” he asked, and Jon shook his head.
“Look,” Jon said. He leaned forward in his saddle and grabbed the end of Handy’s reins, tugging them out of Spencer’s grip. “Look, there’s a cabin a little further in, okay? Some guys live there. They’ll help you out.”
“What?”
“It’s not safe, Spence,” Jon said, voice low. His eyes were shadowed.
“Are you-” Spencer still wasn’t sure what was going on. “Are you leaving me here?”
“It’s William. He-” Jon paused, then went on resolutely, “I’m going to fix this, okay, but you need to stay away from the castle for now.”
Spencer blinked up at him, his hands fisted on his hips. “What the fuck, Jon?”
“Seriously. Seriously, just. Don’t come home,” Jon said, then spun his horse around and trotted off, Handy following docilely behind.
Kidnapped and abandoned. Spencer was not a happy camper.
*
Spencer never made it to the cabin. Spencer was a little leery about the forest, first of all. They said man-eating dwarves lived out that far.
He still kind of thought the whole thing was some really poor joke, too, and maybe if he moved from that spot Jon would never be able to find him. So he sat down under a huge oak tree and folded up his legs and stared at his knees. And when his eyelids started drooping, he thought he’d just let them rest a while, for a few measly minutes, and he listed to the side, cheek pressing against the rough bark.
A bunny twitched its nose out of a nearby warren, spotted Spencer and disappeared back down the hole. And then four bunnies, tiny and brown, hopped up out of the tunnel and over to sniff at Spencer’s shoes and pants and fingers and then they burrowed close to his side, curling up against his hip.
*
There really weren’t any man-eating dwarves in the forest. There actually was a cabin, though, like Jon had said. There were guys living in it, too. Whether they would help Spencer out remained to be seen, but they certainly weren’t going to eat him.
It was the middle of the night, but Pete had yelled, “Fire drill!” and they all tumbled out into the chilly air and Joe tripped over a root in the dark. His lantern rolled to a stop some three feet ahead of him, illuminating a bunch of rabbits and a curled up, shivering form.
“What do you think it is?” Pete asked.
Patrick heaved a tired sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses. He didn’t have any pants on. He really hated Pete sometimes. “A boy, Pete. It’s a boy.”
“I’ve always wanted a boy,” Pete said, grinning. “A boy of my very own.”
“Right,” Andy said. He had his hands on his hips. “That’s great.”
*
Now, you might be wondering what four guys were doing out there in the middle of the forest, living in a tiny cabin. Or, actually, you might be wondering what seven guys were doing out there in the middle of the forest. I’m not sure the seven guys even knew that, though. It was just where they lived.
They slept in seven little beds in an attic room, all pushed together - to save space, which was Pete’s idea, and it totally didn’t have anything to do with waking up snuggled in between Patrick and Mikey. It was totally altruistic. The cabin was tiny - and they wrote songs and stuff and occasionally sold things to neighboring villages, but mainly they just kept to themselves.
Finding Spencer - only they didn’t know it was Spencer right then, and they wouldn’t have known who Spencer was, in the grand scheme of the kingdom, had they known. But finding Spencer was a little exciting.
Frank nudged him with his toe and the bunnies scattered. “Weird,” he said, then yawned.
Gerard scrubbed a hand over Frank’s head and leaned sleepily into his side, skeleton pajama bottoms sagging low at his hips.
“Do you think it’s dead?” Pete asked, holding a lantern high, and Patrick said, “No, Pete, no,” because it - he, Jesus, he’d been spending way too much time with Pete, honestly - was shivering, hands tucked up under his armpits and elbows folded in between his knees.
And then blue eyes blinked open and narrowed and then went wide. “Um.”
Gerard gave him his best grin. “Hi.”
*
The cabin was small, but homey. The kitchen was warm, and smelled like fresh bread and roasting wood. The upstairs was a cozy nook, with a slanted ceiling and what looked like one long, soft bed stretching nearly the entire length. There were a couple bureaus on one wall with clothes spilling out all over the floor.
“Bed,” Patrick said, pushing a little at Spencer’s back. “Bed, and then we’ll talk about this in the morning, okay?”
“Um,” Spencer said. He was saying that a lot, it seemed, but the situation kind of called for it. “Um.”
Pete hooked an arm around Spencer’s waist and nuzzled his cheek. “Sleepy time. Sleep here,” he said, and then Spencer found himself cuddled up next to Pete on the mattress, which was actually pretty comfortable, and then the bed dipped behind him and Patrick said close to his ear, “Just don’t fight him and he’ll let go.”
“Never let go,” Pete murmured, but his grip slackened, so that was something.
“Let him breathe, Pete, geez,” Joe said, pressing the heel of his palm to Pete’s forehead, leaning over from the other side of Patrick, and then Mikey snapped, “Can you all just shut up, please?” from somewhere behind Pete.
Frank giggled in the dark. Spencer wondered how he knew it was Frank, but he was seriously punch-drunk tired and he’d always been really good with names, anyway - another reason he was so well liked at court - and Frank had a really distinctive, little-kid giggle.
And then Spencer didn’t hear anything at all, because he’d drifted surprisingly easily off to sleep.
*
In the cabin, everyone always woke up on top of or under someone else. Snuggling was the preferred blanket of choice.
Gerard woke up with Frank tucked under his chin, one leg thrown across his thighs. They were wedged up close to Mikey, who was spooning Pete, who was spooning Spencer, nose buried in his nape. Patrick was open-mouthed and snuffling against Spencer’s collarbone, fingers twined with Pete’s at his waist, and Joe and Andy were a tangled mess of limbs, forehead’s touching, Joe’s back pressed flat along Patrick’s.
All in all, they only used about three-fourths the entire length of the bed. Sooner or later, Pete was going to figure that out and vote for a smaller bunch of mattresses.
Spencer wasn’t used to waking up covered in human blankets, though. He wasn’t used to waking up in bed with anyone, really, except for occasionally Ryan’s cat, Peanut Brittle.
“Um.” Seriously, Spencer was going to have to find a better word.
“The boy’s awake,” Pete said, voice thick, and. And Spencer stiffened because he was pretty sure that was Pete’s tongue.
Patrick shook his head, lips brushing Spencer’s chest. “Spencer, Pete,” he said, then yawned, spreading breathy warmth over Spencer’s skin.
Spencer, for his part, was not entirely sure when he’d lost his shirt. At least he still had his pants on.
Pete pet Spencer’s head, running his fingers through his hair and ruffling the ends. “Pretty boy,” he said, laughing a little, and that was definitely Pete’s tongue, flat against the knob at the top of Spencer’s spine.
“Are you-” Spencer paused. “Are you licking me?”
“Ew, Pete, seriously,” Joe said, sitting up. “Seriously.” His hair was huge and impressive in the morning. He scratched his scalp and wrinkled his nose. “Stop molesting Spencer.”
“We’re huddled together for warmth!” Pete protested. It’d been Pete’s idea to get rid of the actual blankets in the first place. Pete was pretty sneaky. Or not sneaky at all, just really fucking annoying if he didn’t get his way. “I’m being friendly!”
Gerard stood at the foot of the bed, Frank barely standing on his own next to him, eyes slit, temple resting along Gerard’s shoulder. “Pancakes?” Gerard asked, shifting from foot to foot.
“Pancakes,” Patrick agreed.
Pete moved so his chin was up on Spencer’s shoulder, and he made faces at Patrick, mouth in a snarl. Patrick leaned forward and gave him an Eskimo kiss, noses brushing softly, and Spencer blinked wide-eyed from in between them.
“Hi,” Patrick said. He pressed his thumb into Pete’s chin and pushed him backwards off Spencer. “Wake up.”
“I’m up, I’m up,” Pete said, then tumbled backwards and over a still-sleeping Mikey - Mikey grunted and kicked out clumsily at Pete - and then slipped off the bed. He held out his hands, fingers wiggling, and Patrick grabbed one, scooting himself up. Pete waved the other one at Spencer expectantly.
Joe yawned, said to Spencer, “Just let him help already, or he’ll totally pout all morning,” and then shoved Andy off the side of the bed.
“Fucker,” Andy groaned. He struggled up, rubbing his shoulder and glaring half-heartedly at Joe.
Pete gave Spencer an encouraging grin, and Spencer sighed, letting Pete pull him to his feet.
*
Downstairs, Gerard and Frank made pancakes - well, Gerard made pancakes and Frank hovered around the skillet and stole chocolate chips - and Patrick poured everybody juice, and just as Frank slid the last plate onto the table, Mikey stumbled down the steps.
He made a face at Pete and growled, “Cold.”
“I’m a genius,” Pete said, and pretty much everybody just rolled their eyes.
“Want to tell us what’s going on?” Patrick asked Spencer when they were all finally seated around the kitchen table - which was kind of tight, but it’d obviously sat seven, and they just squeezed Spencer in between Gerard and Andy.
Spencer shrugged, head bowed, gripping his fork tight. He didn’t actually know what to say. All he knew was that Jon had left him in the middle of nowhere and told him not to come back, and that it had something to do with William.
“Jon said to come here,” was what he ended up spitting out, and Andy knocked his shoulder.
“Jon’s a good guy,” he said, and Spencer nodded and said, “The best.”
*
The occupants of the little cabin in the middle of the woods were not the only one’s waking up and enjoying breakfast. Well, they might’ve been the only ones enjoying breakfast, actually. Breakfast at the castle was not a particularly important meal.
But back at the castle, that morning, two things happened almost at the exact same time.
One; William looked into Gabe’s eyes, squared his shoulders, and said, “Tell me.”
Gabe grinned sharply. “Do you honestly think Jon killed Spencer?” he asked, and William pressed his lips together and crinkled his brow and thought.
It did seem highly unlikely.
“Don’t worry,” Gabe said. “I have a backup plan.”
And two; Jon sat Brendon and Ryan down, side by side, and said, “So something happened.”
Ryan blinked. “Okay.”
“Something happened,” Jon went on, nodding slowly, “and I had to hide Spencer.”
*
Brendon was a prince. You might’ve thought that was important to the story, but it wasn’t. In fact, the story would’ve ended the same way had Brendon been a smithy. Or a woodsman.
But we’re not at the end of the story yet. We’re in the middle. And in the middle, Brendon, Ryan, and Jon slipped into William’s rooms to destroy Gabe.
Not everyone knew about Gabe. Jon hadn’t known about Gabe, for instance - because if he had, the whole thing with Spencer might’ve made marginally more sense. Maybe. But Ryan knew, and Ryan was certain that if they got rid of Gabe, William could be talked out of his homicidal snit. And then Spencer could come home. Gabe, Ryan was sure, was the underlying culprit. He was right, of course, but we’ve already been over that part.
And this part, the part in the middle, the part where Ryan and Brendon and Jon were sneaking into William’s rooms to destroy Gabe, wouldn’t have solved the immediate problem - Gabe had already told William about his second evil plan, you see - but in the long run everyone would’ve been way better off. If they’d actually succeeded in their mission, of course.
Which they didn’t.
Mainly, they didn’t succeed because William had half a dozen mirrors hanging around his room, and Gabe refused to show his face like the coward he was. Ryan was leery of the looming threat of seven years bad luck if they happened to smash the wrong one.
“This one,” Brendon said, standing in front of the hugely ornate mirror hanging over William’s dresser.
Jon sidled up next to him and cocked his head. “Are you sure?”
“It’s giving off evil vibes,” Brendon said, nodding. “I think that cherub is trying to eat my brain.”
Jon blinked at him, eyes catching his in their shiny reflection. “Right.”
“Wait, but,” Ryan was palming his chin, leaning forward into a mirror on the other side of the room, “I’m sort of sallow in this one. I’m not sallow, am I? Seriously, I’m not-I’m not yellowish, right? I think he’s doing it on purpose.”
“You do look kind of tired,” Brendon offered, and Ryan scowled at him.
Jon clapped Brendon’s shoulder. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, this isn’t working. We need a new idea.”
*
Jon didn’t have a new idea, and William was conspicuously absent from dinner that night. And the next night. And the night after that.
See, William was busy trying to execute Gabe’s evil backup plan, and he wasn’t very good at it. Gabe was the sorcerer, okay, and William didn’t have the concentration or focus for lab work. Or the coordination, apparently. He’d always thought himself pretty smooth, except he’d dropped about fifteen hundred beakers and three dozen bowls and he was sure the cooks were starting to get suspicious.
Finally, though, finally, on the fifth night he missed dinner, he got the poison apple to actually look, you know, appetizing. That step had been really fucking hard to perfect.
*
The tiny cabin in the middle of the woods was a fun place to be. Spencer realized that two hours into his first morning, when Pete declared war on anyone wearing red - Joe and Frank, although Pete said Patrick’s hair counted - and spent most of the day sneak-attacking them from around corners, bushes, chairs, whatever he could even remotely hide behind.
Each meal was practically a party, loud and raucous. They took turns cooking, apparently, except no one let Pete use the stove.
Andy liked to whittle.
They sang. They sang a lot, and played guitars and flutes and drums and made up songs about gallant knights and corrupt kings and friendly dragons and they were bards, of a sort, Spencer figured. They were good at it, if you discounted their tendency towards melodramatic teen angst.
At night, because Spencer was apparently comfy and soft and warm and a hot commodity, Spencer slept sandwiched between Pete and Patrick, and sometimes - when Gerard caught him before Pete could stake a claim - cuddled up on Gerard’s chest, legs tangled with Mikey’s. Joe even grabbed him once, on an especially cold night, and settled him in a sprawl across half his body, making sure he and Andy covered as much of his exposed skin as possible, his head ducked down under Andy’s arm.
Spencer was getting surprisingly used to the forceful invasion of his personal space. It was a little like living with seven Brendon Uries of varying shapes and sizes.
There were times, of course, when Spencer was left alone in the house, when the seven guys traveled to the neighboring villages to sell some songs and some of Andy’s whittling and pick up supplies.
It was one of those times, just seven days after Jon kidnapped and abandoned him deep in the woods, that William showed up.
*
William, of course, when he showed up at the little cabin, was not dressed as William.
He was in disguise, and that was only barely relevant to the story, since his disguise was not very good. Or perhaps it wasn’t that the disguise was bad, but that William was so very distinctive, and Spencer had no trouble seeing through the cloak and the clunky glasses and - wait for it - the mustache.
“Bill?” Spencer said, frozen in the doorway.
William laughed, deep and fake and booming, and said, “Um, who?”
Spencer shifted uneasily on his feet. “Seriously, Bill, what the fuck are you doing?”
“I, uh,” he paused, dropped the deep and fake voice, and went on, maybe a little over-brightly, “came to apologize, Cousin Spence.”
“Right.” Spencer eyed him carefully. “For what?”
William’s fingers lifted to twiddle with the ends of the bushy hair he’d taped over his lip - seriously, a mustache, not even a fucking goatee to denote a cheesy evil twin or something, and William was really terrible at the whole subterfuge thing - and he said, “For trying to kill you.”
Spencer blinked. Wow. So that was why Jon had wanted him out of the castle. “Okay. I’m not sure I accept your apology.” That was a pretty fucking horrible offence.
William nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, then held out a hand. “Apple?”
*
Spencer was not in any way, shape, or form stupid. But William was notoriously bad at plots, both good and evil, and it didn’t cross Spencer’s mind, not even once, that the apple was anything other than an ordinary apple.
Perhaps William’s costume should have given him pause, except not only was William inept at evil plots, he was also really fucking odd and, sadly, it was not the first time Spencer had seen him in a cloak like that. And the clunky glasses. The facial hair was new, though.
So Spencer took the apple - which looked tasty, huge and glossy, ripe red - and shut the door in William’s face. He’d deal with his deranged cousin later.
In the kitchen, Spencer washed and pealed the apple and cut it into little wedges, and when he bit into one, it tasted just as good as it looked, tart and juicy.
He chewed and swallowed, hummed a little under his breath, and then everything went black.
*
Luckily for William - because William, we already established, was not truly evil, and probably would’ve felt really bad, in retrospect, had Spencer died - Spencer never finished the apple.
The bite he took was just enough to knock him out.
Unfortunately, though, he hit his head on the corner of the stove on the way down.
Head wounds bled like a bitch.
*
Gerard and Frank found him first, which was for the best, since they were the least likely to panic at the sight of blood. They clogged up the doorway, though, frozen in shock, and Joe bounced off Gerard’s back with an oof, and a muffled, “Ow, Patrick,” when Patrick bounced off his back, and Pete laughed as he grabbed Patrick around the waist to keep him from falling.
“What’s the hold up?” Mikey asked, craning his neck to see past their heads.
“Spencer!” Gerard exclaimed, and then he was on his knees next to where Spencer was sprawled out and bleeding and way too fucking pale, a tiny dark puddle under his temple.
The pieces of apple had gone brown on the table.
Gerard gingerly searched for the wound, wincing in sympathy when his blood-sticky fingers grazed the ragged edges of a cut just behind Spencer’s left ear. “It’s shallow,” he said, relieved. A knot was already forming underneath the skin, the tissue around it softly swelling.
Pete stripped off his t-shirt, wordlessly sacrificing it for the cause.
Gerard spared him a dry look before wadding it up and pressing the shirt onto the cut, and Patrick went off to the pantry in search of proper bandages.
A half hour later, they’d moved Spencer upstairs to the beds, and he still wasn’t stirring. They checked his breath. They counted his pulse. They tapped his cheek and whispered his name, and two hours later, Spencer was still white-faced and comatose and unresponsive.
The next morning, he was exactly the same.
*
Brendon was the one who suggested they approach Travis. Travis was, like, eight feet tall. Comparatively, Brendon was a leprechaun. William was tall, too, of course, except William could turn sideways and practically disappear. Travis was a lot more intimidating, bulk wise.
He was totally cool about it, though, and gave Jon a big hug, because he hadn’t seen him in a while - Travis was busy making important decisions that would affect the future of the kingdom - and he ruffled Brendon’s hair, because Brendon was sort of unbelievably cute, and he bumped fists with Ryan.
Ryan bobbed his head and said, “Hey, man.”
“What’s up, little dudes?” Travis asked, slumping down in his throne and spreading his legs.
“We need a favor,” Jon started, and Travis nodded.
“I can do favors,” he said. “Favors are fine.”
Jon nodded back. “Right, so-”
“Bill’s trying to kill Spencer,” Brendon blurted out.
Ryan sent him a glare and hissed, “Brendon.”
Travis leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs and hands clasped. “Okay. I can see how that’d be problematic for you guys.”
Ryan cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, and, uh, we kind of need you to destroy Gabe for us.”
“Kind of,” Travis echoed, deadpan.
“Do,” Jon said hastily. “Definitely do need.” Travis was all about the conviction. He got enough ambivalence and indecision from William.
Travis stared at them hard. He stared at them so long even Jon started fidgeting, and Jon hardly ever had any nervous energy.
Finally, Brendon bit his lip and clenched his hands into fists and said, “You can have Mr. Frisky. If you help, you can. I’ll give you Mr. Frisky, okay?” which was ridiculous and sweet and so entirely Brendon that Travis laughed.
He laughed, and half his mouth was still quirked up smiling when he said, “Yeah?”
“Totally.” Brendon nodded, because he’d said it, and he wasn’t going to take back his words, no matter how much he loved that horse - which was a different story altogether, one that began with Brendon’s unforgiving parents and ended with Brendon leaving home with the only thing that’d ever been truly his - because this was Spencer, and Spencer was pretty much it for Brendon. He’d decided that the first time he’d ever laid eyes on him.
Jon and Ryan didn’t laugh. They knew, even though they didn’t know the specifics, how much Mr. Frisky meant to him.
“That’s fucking adorable, man,” Travis said, shaking his head. “All right, yeah. Done.”
*
Jon led the way deep into the forest. Brendon doubled up with Ryan, because he couldn’t bear to betray Mr. Frisky with another steed of his own - not yet, at least - and they brought Handy for Spencer, the gelding prancing and snorting a little behind them, restless from inactivity.
Brendon was excited. Brendon had missed Spencer a lot, and he was debating on whether to hug him or kiss him first, and whether or not Spencer would punch him in response. A hug, obviously, would be the less risky of the two, except he really, really wanted to kiss Spencer. He wanted to lick that strip of skin where his jaw met his neck, wanted to nip his ear and bury his face in his throat, and he’d come so close to losing Spencer completely that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to quash those urges once he spotted Spencer’s beautiful face.
Ryan was tense. Ryan had been on edge for what seemed like forever, because Spencer was the closest thing he had to a family, and he really didn’t know what he’d do without him. Jon and Brendon were all right, were great guys, but Spencer knew him. Spencer could look at him and know exactly what was going on inside his head and knew exactly how to make everything better. Plus, Ryan’s cat would be fucking desolate. Ryan’s cat had been howling for days.
Jon was just really relieved the nightmare was over, and he was hoping Spencer would forgive him for the whole kidnapping and abandoning thing.
They didn’t know, of course, that William had already enacted Gabe’s evil backup plan, or that there’d even been an evil backup plan to begin with. They didn’t know that the seven guys in the little cabin were already mourning Spencer’s loss.
*
Spencer was not dead; an important point to stress.
Spencer had a hell of an egg on his noggin and some nasty poison working its way through his body, but he wasn’t dead.
The seven guys didn’t seem to quite grasp that, though. Oh, they knew he wasn’t dead dead, but they had their doubts that he’d ever wake up.
They’d heard tales of endless sleeps and true love kisses, written plenty of songs about it, too, but after Pete decided they all had to kiss Spencer - “Plant one right on him!” Pete had said, shoving Patrick’s head so hard he’d almost cracked their skulls together - they were well and truly stymied about what to do.
Mourning seemed like a good enough idea at the time.
Gerard’s eyes were red-rimmed with unshed tears when he opened the cabin door to Jon, Brendon, and Ryan on the other side.
“Jon,” he said, voice thick, and then Frank wrapped a comforting arm around his shoulders, giving them a solemn nod and a grave, “Jon,” of his own.
Pete wasn’t so reserved. Jon staggered under his weight as he took a running leap at him, and Ryan frowned, asked, “What’s wrong, where’s Spencer?” and Gerard let out an embarrassing sob while Patrick just stood there and sniffled, rubbing the side of his hand under his nose.
Joe and Andy were both dry-eyed and grim, sitting at the kitchen table, and Mikey wasn’t even there. Mikey was folded up in the corner of the attic, face buried in his knees.
*
Forever after, Spencer would swear it was a coincidence.
Brendon would tackle him to the ground and crow about true love kisses and endless sleeps and nuzzle his nose into his neck and Spencer would shout, “It was a fucking coincidence, you freak!” even though he would smile, bright and wide, and even though his arms would snake around him, pulling Brendon even closer.
*
What happened was this:
Spencer was laid out on the bed upstairs. He was under a blanket - the one blanket they could find, that Pete hadn’t gotten rid of, that’d been tucked forgotten in the pantry - and he was deathly pale and shallow-breathed and still.
There was a fluffy little round-breasted bluebird perched on the headboard above him. It chirped, a melodious warning, shifted on its tiny feet before settling down again, head cocked so one black beady eye was sharp on them.
Ryan refused to move past the doorway, fingers biting into the frame, and Jon kept a hand loose on his arm, not pushing forward or holding back.
There was a pressure in Brendon’s chest when he stepped up next to the bed. A burning in his throat, a harsh sob that lodged itself stubbornly sideways. He brushed tentative fingers over Spencer’s forehead, sweeping back his bangs. His skin was cool, but not cold.
“Is he-” Jon cut off his own words, swallowing.
Brendon shook his head and murmured, “No. No, he’s,” and then he leaned over, fingertips skimming down to trace dry lips, resting at one corner as he ducked his head to fit his mouth against Spencer’s.
It was over before Ryan could finish his chiding, “Brendon.”
Brendon hastily backed up. He pressed his palms together and stared at the bluebird, its feathers silently ruffled, bristling, it seemed, in indignation.
“Brendon,” Ryan said again.
“I’m-” Brendon stopped mid-apology, when Ryan’s tone seeped through his thoughts and he realized it was more amazed than angry.
And then Spencer groaned.
The end.
*
The story didn’t actually end there.
For instance, Travis had always sort of liked Gabe. He’d liked when they argued, because Travis wasn’t as gullible as William and there was never a time when Gabe could convince Travis to do something he didn’t actually want to do. He’d been marginally pissed, but not entirely surprised, to find out that Gabe had been manipulating William into homicide, but there wasn’t enough anger involved to warrant Gabe’s total destruction.
He’d moved Gabe to the dungeons. Gabe went on to wreak the occasional evil havoc for years, and Travis would smoke cigars and debate war and peace with him in the early evenings.
William and Spencer made up, eventually, and everyone else forgave and forgot as well. It was kind of hard to stay mad at William for any length of time. He was far too good-natured and affectionate when not under the influence of evil magic mirrors.
Mr. Frisky lived out his days in the fields surrounding the castle, lazy and content, munching on sweet grass and dandelions and oats. Brendon would bring him carrots and sugar cubes and sigh at him wistfully, but he never once attempted to ride him again. Brendon never went back on his word.
Brendon, as previously mentioned, had earned the right to tackle Spencer whenever and wherever he pleased. He figured it was a fair trade off.
They might have had a wedding. They might have stood in front of God and everyone and the bishop and pledged their love and fealty, but Spencer never mentioned it afterwards - he was half sure it was a fever dream - and Brendon was content enough with the folded piece of paper he kept in the bottom of his sock drawer, the one that said mine, yours and ours forever, William’s seal pressed with permanence into its fibers.
Spencer could pretend all he wanted during the day, but at night-at night, he realized, he couldn’t seem to sleep unless Brendon was busy being his blanket, bare skin to bare skin.
It was a coincidence, of course, when Spencer had fluttered open his eyes after Brendon’s kiss.
He’d been struggling towards consciousness for hours, snippets of Pete’s whispered prayers and Mikey’s crying and Joe’s solid reassurances filtering through his mind. He hadn’t been under a spell, and Brendon wasn’t his true love.
Spencer was pretty sure, though, that life with Brendon was as close to happily ever after as he was going to get.
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: PG-13 for some language
Word count: ~7000
Warning: Snow White AU/parody, told sort of in omniscient story telling form.
Summary: Brendon was a prince. You might’ve thought that was important to the story, but it wasn’t. In fact, the story would’ve ended the same way had Brendon been a smithy. Or a woodsman.
A/N: Yay, it's done! Special thanks to castoffstarter for the awesome beta. This is silly. This is so silly and so much fun, so enjoy.
download the soundtrack
Close Enough For True
If you wanted to, if you were so inclined, you could place the blame squarely on William - in fact, William himself would be eager to accept it, if only because the story ended so well - but in the beginning, in the beginning, if you blamed William, you would not, actually, be correct.
The whole entire mess was Gabe’s fault.
*
Once, there was William. He was pretty fantastic looking. People from kingdoms all over the world would visit and bring him gifts and exclaim about his great beauty and stuff, and William fucking lived for it.
William was a ruler. William was born of a king and queen and at one point he was probably called prince - when he was little, maybe, and his parents were still around - but everyone basically just called him Bill. He was an accessible ruler. Lackadaisical, perhaps. Sloppy at times, okay, but his consort, Travis, made most of the important decisions, anyway.
Every morning, William would stretch awake and ask Gabe to tell him how pretty he was, and Gabe would praise his cheekbones and eyebrow arches and lips and long legs and there was always a mocking twist to his voice - which William graciously overlooked, since William might’ve been a little vain, but he had a healthy sense of self, and knew that no matter how sarcastically Gabe extolled his virtues, they were all very, very true - and Gabe always ended with, “and there’s none prettier than you,” because Gabe was a kiss-up, and it was what William wanted to hear.
Now Gabe, you should know, was not a person in the sense that Travis and William were persons. He had a consciousness and a sharp mind of his own - and he was evil, yes, but that wasn’t the most important part of his description. No, the most important part of his description, how he should be described, was that he was a mirror. Or he was in a mirror, specifically, trapped by a good witch many, many years before, although William wasn’t aware of that fact. William just knew Gabe was very flattering and not too hard on the eyes.
When William had first acquired the mirror from a zealous suitor, he’d been miffed that it wouldn’t ever reflect him, because a magical talking mirror would’ve been so much cooler if he could talk to himself. But Gabe was a snake, a rat, if you will, dressed up in the sort of sycophant style William loved best, so it didn’t take long for the young royal to get caught in Gabe’s thrall.
So while Gabe was evil, William really wasn’t. William was just. Misguided. Misled. Mustachioed even, once, but that was a mistake for a slightly later point in time.
*
Since William was not aware that Gabe was once a full-bodied sorcerer, with all the power that entailed, he tended to rub his nose - uh, gilt-edged frame - in the fact that William could slide his hands over the smooth expanse of his skin and also, for example, the smooth expanse of Travis’s skin, and that Gabe was sort of impotent.
The wordless taunts - once Gabe got past the delicious fun of voyeurism, which only lasted so many years before becoming fucking frustrating - eventually put Gabe in a dark, shitty mood.
One morning, when William said, “Tell me how damn gorgeous I am, Gabe,” snuggling down into his luxurious satin sheets, Gabe was a little more tart than usual, and he ended with, “and I can think of at least one guy who’s totally prettier than you, dude.”
William blinked. “What?”
“Spencer Smith, man,” Gabe said, mouth curling up slyly.
Spencer Smith, Cousin Spencer, who William always thought attractive in a first cousin relation sort of way, was not actually prettier than William. He was different.
He was soft where William was spare, and lovely where William was dangerous, and if everyone was being honest-if Gabe was being honest, he could say they were both equally pretty in their own way, and that it’d be unfair to compare them. Gabe was often bluntly honest, but honest in this, in that right then, he wasn’t. He was kind of curious to see how far he could make William go.
William’s mouth tightened. “Well, that’s something I won’t stand for. I will not.” He clenched his fingers in his sheets. What if everyone in all the kingdoms all over the world started bringing Spencer gifts, and ignoring poor, beautiful William? His sadness would be overwhelming, really, and something had to be done to prevent that. Possibly something drastic.
“Look, I have a few suggestions,” Gabe said, and that was the part, the exact moment, when William should have taken a brick to his glass. Or a shoe, since a shoe was much more likely than a brick to be lying around his bedroom. And he probably should have done something like that as soon as he’d received Gabe years before, if we’re getting nitpicky about the whole thing, but right at that moment, it would’ve been especially judicious of William to block out Gabe’s mind-fuckery. Too bad William was iffy about the meaning of that word.
*
Jon stared at William, looking very closely for signs of dementia - or more signs of dementia than usual. “Okay,” he said, and William beamed at him for his agreement, only no. No way. “Okay, no. Are you. Have you finally lost your mind?”
“No.” William pouted and slumped lower in his throne, his freakishly long limbs all over the place. He had his favorite crown on, tipped to the side. The one with the pink sparkles and square-cut diamonds.
“You want me. You want me to take Spencer out into the woods,” Jon made some vague hand motions, as if that would help everything make more sense, “kill him, and then bring back his heart in a box, and. Seriously, be honest, are you on something?”
“Woodsman,” William said, with special emphasis on the wood, and then again, louder, “Woodsman,” - which was somewhat of a misnomer, because Jon wasn’t much of a woodsman, really, he just liked to hang around court in a scruffy beard - before pouting deeper.
Jon waited for something more, something sane, maybe, but they just ended up in some sort of bizarre staring contest.
And because William was eerily good at bizarre staring contests, Jon broke first. “Okay, you know what? Fine,” he said. “Fine, I’ll kill Spencer,” and those were words he never, ever thought he’d say, but Spencer should get the hell out of the kingdom anyway if William was going to go all psychopath on them. He could stop by the Butcher’s and get a fucking pig’s heart to put in the stupid box.
“You’re my favorite, Jon Walker,” William said brightly. “My very favorite in all the land.” He nodded, and his crown slid down low on his forehead. “I shall remember this good deed.”
Jon pointed a finger at him. “You owe me, Bill.” Big time. He liked Spencer.
*
Spencer was a favorite at court. Everyone liked Spencer, even William, when he wasn’t busy listening to Gabe and getting brainwashed.
Spencer had a dry wit and a brilliant smile and, somehow, he was a fuzzy baby animal magnet. Kittens, puppies, ducklings, piglets, bear cubs, whatever was hanging around inside, outside, on fucking windowsills, sometimes, little baby birds just learning to fly. It was occasionally very ridiculous.
Since Spencer was family - which was the only reason he’d never been playfully groped by William; except for that once, but it’d been darkish out and William’d been full of his cups, and Spencer’d had a kitten on his lap, so allowances were made and it was never spoken of again. But since he was family, he had a nicely appointed suite of rooms in the castle, and he didn’t do much with his days except hang out with his best friend, Ryan, and sometimes Jon. And sometimes Brendon.
Brendon was like a constant annoying buzz in Spencer’s ear. A smoking hot annoying buzz, with this amazing mouth and puppy-dog eyes and a penchant for following Spencer around and trying to hold his hand. He was from a neighboring kingdom, and he’d shown up one day with his horse - Mr. Frisky, and, okay, Spencer thought that was pretty hilarious, especially since Brendon totally loved Mr. Frisky and would, like, constantly say his name, Mr. Frisky this, and Mr. Frisky that, and Spencer thought Brendon was maybe a little developmentally challenged or something. But, anyway, Brendon had shown up and spotted Spencer and just wouldn’t leave.
Ryan was. Well, Spencer wasn’t sure what Ryan was, but he helped Spencer dress in the morning. He supposed that would make him some sort of valet, except Spencer suspected Ryan just didn’t trust his sense of fashion.
Spencer had excellent taste, though. He was a sharp dresser, particularly in the way of footwear. He had on his very best shoes - pristine white with these adorable little tassels - when Jon kidnapped him.
*
At first, Spencer thought they were just going on a little outing.
When they were children - since Spencer had grown up there, and Jon was only a few years older than him - he’d trailed Jon around the castle grounds, and once they could sit horses unchaperoned, their explorations spread further out into the surrounding forest. So Spencer didn’t think anything of it when Jon urged him up onto Sable Run’s Handmade Wooden Chair - “A manly name,” William had said, when he’d given Spencer the appaloosa yearling on his sixteenth birthday, “one he’ll grow into.” Spencer had just stared at him, and William’d swept his hair back off his face and said, “Well, all right, I lost a bet with Sisky, okay? Deal with it.” - Handy, for short, and led him through the castle gates, over the drawbridge and into the woods.
If he’d thought about it, though, really thought about it, Spencer would’ve realized he wasn’t dressed for riding - he had awesome soft, brown leather riding boots, and Jon knew he loved to wear them whenever they went on a jaunt - and that Jon looked a little strained around the eyes, but Spencer’d never had a reason not to trust Jon.
“Spencer,” Jon said, when they were deep into the forest, deeper than they’d ever gone before. He sounded a little sad.
Spencer pulled Handy up and cocked his head at Jon. “Yeah?”
Jon said, “Get down.”
Spencer arched a brow, but slid off Handy. He pressed a palm against the gelding’s white-gray neck.
“Give me the reins,” Jon said, calmly, and held out his hand.
Spencer’s fingers clenched around the worn leather. “What’s going on, Jon?” he asked, and Jon shook his head.
“Look,” Jon said. He leaned forward in his saddle and grabbed the end of Handy’s reins, tugging them out of Spencer’s grip. “Look, there’s a cabin a little further in, okay? Some guys live there. They’ll help you out.”
“What?”
“It’s not safe, Spence,” Jon said, voice low. His eyes were shadowed.
“Are you-” Spencer still wasn’t sure what was going on. “Are you leaving me here?”
“It’s William. He-” Jon paused, then went on resolutely, “I’m going to fix this, okay, but you need to stay away from the castle for now.”
Spencer blinked up at him, his hands fisted on his hips. “What the fuck, Jon?”
“Seriously. Seriously, just. Don’t come home,” Jon said, then spun his horse around and trotted off, Handy following docilely behind.
Kidnapped and abandoned. Spencer was not a happy camper.
*
Spencer never made it to the cabin. Spencer was a little leery about the forest, first of all. They said man-eating dwarves lived out that far.
He still kind of thought the whole thing was some really poor joke, too, and maybe if he moved from that spot Jon would never be able to find him. So he sat down under a huge oak tree and folded up his legs and stared at his knees. And when his eyelids started drooping, he thought he’d just let them rest a while, for a few measly minutes, and he listed to the side, cheek pressing against the rough bark.
A bunny twitched its nose out of a nearby warren, spotted Spencer and disappeared back down the hole. And then four bunnies, tiny and brown, hopped up out of the tunnel and over to sniff at Spencer’s shoes and pants and fingers and then they burrowed close to his side, curling up against his hip.
*
There really weren’t any man-eating dwarves in the forest. There actually was a cabin, though, like Jon had said. There were guys living in it, too. Whether they would help Spencer out remained to be seen, but they certainly weren’t going to eat him.
It was the middle of the night, but Pete had yelled, “Fire drill!” and they all tumbled out into the chilly air and Joe tripped over a root in the dark. His lantern rolled to a stop some three feet ahead of him, illuminating a bunch of rabbits and a curled up, shivering form.
“What do you think it is?” Pete asked.
Patrick heaved a tired sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses. He didn’t have any pants on. He really hated Pete sometimes. “A boy, Pete. It’s a boy.”
“I’ve always wanted a boy,” Pete said, grinning. “A boy of my very own.”
“Right,” Andy said. He had his hands on his hips. “That’s great.”
*
Now, you might be wondering what four guys were doing out there in the middle of the forest, living in a tiny cabin. Or, actually, you might be wondering what seven guys were doing out there in the middle of the forest. I’m not sure the seven guys even knew that, though. It was just where they lived.
They slept in seven little beds in an attic room, all pushed together - to save space, which was Pete’s idea, and it totally didn’t have anything to do with waking up snuggled in between Patrick and Mikey. It was totally altruistic. The cabin was tiny - and they wrote songs and stuff and occasionally sold things to neighboring villages, but mainly they just kept to themselves.
Finding Spencer - only they didn’t know it was Spencer right then, and they wouldn’t have known who Spencer was, in the grand scheme of the kingdom, had they known. But finding Spencer was a little exciting.
Frank nudged him with his toe and the bunnies scattered. “Weird,” he said, then yawned.
Gerard scrubbed a hand over Frank’s head and leaned sleepily into his side, skeleton pajama bottoms sagging low at his hips.
“Do you think it’s dead?” Pete asked, holding a lantern high, and Patrick said, “No, Pete, no,” because it - he, Jesus, he’d been spending way too much time with Pete, honestly - was shivering, hands tucked up under his armpits and elbows folded in between his knees.
And then blue eyes blinked open and narrowed and then went wide. “Um.”
Gerard gave him his best grin. “Hi.”
*
The cabin was small, but homey. The kitchen was warm, and smelled like fresh bread and roasting wood. The upstairs was a cozy nook, with a slanted ceiling and what looked like one long, soft bed stretching nearly the entire length. There were a couple bureaus on one wall with clothes spilling out all over the floor.
“Bed,” Patrick said, pushing a little at Spencer’s back. “Bed, and then we’ll talk about this in the morning, okay?”
“Um,” Spencer said. He was saying that a lot, it seemed, but the situation kind of called for it. “Um.”
Pete hooked an arm around Spencer’s waist and nuzzled his cheek. “Sleepy time. Sleep here,” he said, and then Spencer found himself cuddled up next to Pete on the mattress, which was actually pretty comfortable, and then the bed dipped behind him and Patrick said close to his ear, “Just don’t fight him and he’ll let go.”
“Never let go,” Pete murmured, but his grip slackened, so that was something.
“Let him breathe, Pete, geez,” Joe said, pressing the heel of his palm to Pete’s forehead, leaning over from the other side of Patrick, and then Mikey snapped, “Can you all just shut up, please?” from somewhere behind Pete.
Frank giggled in the dark. Spencer wondered how he knew it was Frank, but he was seriously punch-drunk tired and he’d always been really good with names, anyway - another reason he was so well liked at court - and Frank had a really distinctive, little-kid giggle.
And then Spencer didn’t hear anything at all, because he’d drifted surprisingly easily off to sleep.
*
In the cabin, everyone always woke up on top of or under someone else. Snuggling was the preferred blanket of choice.
Gerard woke up with Frank tucked under his chin, one leg thrown across his thighs. They were wedged up close to Mikey, who was spooning Pete, who was spooning Spencer, nose buried in his nape. Patrick was open-mouthed and snuffling against Spencer’s collarbone, fingers twined with Pete’s at his waist, and Joe and Andy were a tangled mess of limbs, forehead’s touching, Joe’s back pressed flat along Patrick’s.
All in all, they only used about three-fourths the entire length of the bed. Sooner or later, Pete was going to figure that out and vote for a smaller bunch of mattresses.
Spencer wasn’t used to waking up covered in human blankets, though. He wasn’t used to waking up in bed with anyone, really, except for occasionally Ryan’s cat, Peanut Brittle.
“Um.” Seriously, Spencer was going to have to find a better word.
“The boy’s awake,” Pete said, voice thick, and. And Spencer stiffened because he was pretty sure that was Pete’s tongue.
Patrick shook his head, lips brushing Spencer’s chest. “Spencer, Pete,” he said, then yawned, spreading breathy warmth over Spencer’s skin.
Spencer, for his part, was not entirely sure when he’d lost his shirt. At least he still had his pants on.
Pete pet Spencer’s head, running his fingers through his hair and ruffling the ends. “Pretty boy,” he said, laughing a little, and that was definitely Pete’s tongue, flat against the knob at the top of Spencer’s spine.
“Are you-” Spencer paused. “Are you licking me?”
“Ew, Pete, seriously,” Joe said, sitting up. “Seriously.” His hair was huge and impressive in the morning. He scratched his scalp and wrinkled his nose. “Stop molesting Spencer.”
“We’re huddled together for warmth!” Pete protested. It’d been Pete’s idea to get rid of the actual blankets in the first place. Pete was pretty sneaky. Or not sneaky at all, just really fucking annoying if he didn’t get his way. “I’m being friendly!”
Gerard stood at the foot of the bed, Frank barely standing on his own next to him, eyes slit, temple resting along Gerard’s shoulder. “Pancakes?” Gerard asked, shifting from foot to foot.
“Pancakes,” Patrick agreed.
Pete moved so his chin was up on Spencer’s shoulder, and he made faces at Patrick, mouth in a snarl. Patrick leaned forward and gave him an Eskimo kiss, noses brushing softly, and Spencer blinked wide-eyed from in between them.
“Hi,” Patrick said. He pressed his thumb into Pete’s chin and pushed him backwards off Spencer. “Wake up.”
“I’m up, I’m up,” Pete said, then tumbled backwards and over a still-sleeping Mikey - Mikey grunted and kicked out clumsily at Pete - and then slipped off the bed. He held out his hands, fingers wiggling, and Patrick grabbed one, scooting himself up. Pete waved the other one at Spencer expectantly.
Joe yawned, said to Spencer, “Just let him help already, or he’ll totally pout all morning,” and then shoved Andy off the side of the bed.
“Fucker,” Andy groaned. He struggled up, rubbing his shoulder and glaring half-heartedly at Joe.
Pete gave Spencer an encouraging grin, and Spencer sighed, letting Pete pull him to his feet.
*
Downstairs, Gerard and Frank made pancakes - well, Gerard made pancakes and Frank hovered around the skillet and stole chocolate chips - and Patrick poured everybody juice, and just as Frank slid the last plate onto the table, Mikey stumbled down the steps.
He made a face at Pete and growled, “Cold.”
“I’m a genius,” Pete said, and pretty much everybody just rolled their eyes.
“Want to tell us what’s going on?” Patrick asked Spencer when they were all finally seated around the kitchen table - which was kind of tight, but it’d obviously sat seven, and they just squeezed Spencer in between Gerard and Andy.
Spencer shrugged, head bowed, gripping his fork tight. He didn’t actually know what to say. All he knew was that Jon had left him in the middle of nowhere and told him not to come back, and that it had something to do with William.
“Jon said to come here,” was what he ended up spitting out, and Andy knocked his shoulder.
“Jon’s a good guy,” he said, and Spencer nodded and said, “The best.”
*
The occupants of the little cabin in the middle of the woods were not the only one’s waking up and enjoying breakfast. Well, they might’ve been the only ones enjoying breakfast, actually. Breakfast at the castle was not a particularly important meal.
But back at the castle, that morning, two things happened almost at the exact same time.
One; William looked into Gabe’s eyes, squared his shoulders, and said, “Tell me.”
Gabe grinned sharply. “Do you honestly think Jon killed Spencer?” he asked, and William pressed his lips together and crinkled his brow and thought.
It did seem highly unlikely.
“Don’t worry,” Gabe said. “I have a backup plan.”
And two; Jon sat Brendon and Ryan down, side by side, and said, “So something happened.”
Ryan blinked. “Okay.”
“Something happened,” Jon went on, nodding slowly, “and I had to hide Spencer.”
*
Brendon was a prince. You might’ve thought that was important to the story, but it wasn’t. In fact, the story would’ve ended the same way had Brendon been a smithy. Or a woodsman.
But we’re not at the end of the story yet. We’re in the middle. And in the middle, Brendon, Ryan, and Jon slipped into William’s rooms to destroy Gabe.
Not everyone knew about Gabe. Jon hadn’t known about Gabe, for instance - because if he had, the whole thing with Spencer might’ve made marginally more sense. Maybe. But Ryan knew, and Ryan was certain that if they got rid of Gabe, William could be talked out of his homicidal snit. And then Spencer could come home. Gabe, Ryan was sure, was the underlying culprit. He was right, of course, but we’ve already been over that part.
And this part, the part in the middle, the part where Ryan and Brendon and Jon were sneaking into William’s rooms to destroy Gabe, wouldn’t have solved the immediate problem - Gabe had already told William about his second evil plan, you see - but in the long run everyone would’ve been way better off. If they’d actually succeeded in their mission, of course.
Which they didn’t.
Mainly, they didn’t succeed because William had half a dozen mirrors hanging around his room, and Gabe refused to show his face like the coward he was. Ryan was leery of the looming threat of seven years bad luck if they happened to smash the wrong one.
“This one,” Brendon said, standing in front of the hugely ornate mirror hanging over William’s dresser.
Jon sidled up next to him and cocked his head. “Are you sure?”
“It’s giving off evil vibes,” Brendon said, nodding. “I think that cherub is trying to eat my brain.”
Jon blinked at him, eyes catching his in their shiny reflection. “Right.”
“Wait, but,” Ryan was palming his chin, leaning forward into a mirror on the other side of the room, “I’m sort of sallow in this one. I’m not sallow, am I? Seriously, I’m not-I’m not yellowish, right? I think he’s doing it on purpose.”
“You do look kind of tired,” Brendon offered, and Ryan scowled at him.
Jon clapped Brendon’s shoulder. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, this isn’t working. We need a new idea.”
*
Jon didn’t have a new idea, and William was conspicuously absent from dinner that night. And the next night. And the night after that.
See, William was busy trying to execute Gabe’s evil backup plan, and he wasn’t very good at it. Gabe was the sorcerer, okay, and William didn’t have the concentration or focus for lab work. Or the coordination, apparently. He’d always thought himself pretty smooth, except he’d dropped about fifteen hundred beakers and three dozen bowls and he was sure the cooks were starting to get suspicious.
Finally, though, finally, on the fifth night he missed dinner, he got the poison apple to actually look, you know, appetizing. That step had been really fucking hard to perfect.
*
The tiny cabin in the middle of the woods was a fun place to be. Spencer realized that two hours into his first morning, when Pete declared war on anyone wearing red - Joe and Frank, although Pete said Patrick’s hair counted - and spent most of the day sneak-attacking them from around corners, bushes, chairs, whatever he could even remotely hide behind.
Each meal was practically a party, loud and raucous. They took turns cooking, apparently, except no one let Pete use the stove.
Andy liked to whittle.
They sang. They sang a lot, and played guitars and flutes and drums and made up songs about gallant knights and corrupt kings and friendly dragons and they were bards, of a sort, Spencer figured. They were good at it, if you discounted their tendency towards melodramatic teen angst.
At night, because Spencer was apparently comfy and soft and warm and a hot commodity, Spencer slept sandwiched between Pete and Patrick, and sometimes - when Gerard caught him before Pete could stake a claim - cuddled up on Gerard’s chest, legs tangled with Mikey’s. Joe even grabbed him once, on an especially cold night, and settled him in a sprawl across half his body, making sure he and Andy covered as much of his exposed skin as possible, his head ducked down under Andy’s arm.
Spencer was getting surprisingly used to the forceful invasion of his personal space. It was a little like living with seven Brendon Uries of varying shapes and sizes.
There were times, of course, when Spencer was left alone in the house, when the seven guys traveled to the neighboring villages to sell some songs and some of Andy’s whittling and pick up supplies.
It was one of those times, just seven days after Jon kidnapped and abandoned him deep in the woods, that William showed up.
*
William, of course, when he showed up at the little cabin, was not dressed as William.
He was in disguise, and that was only barely relevant to the story, since his disguise was not very good. Or perhaps it wasn’t that the disguise was bad, but that William was so very distinctive, and Spencer had no trouble seeing through the cloak and the clunky glasses and - wait for it - the mustache.
“Bill?” Spencer said, frozen in the doorway.
William laughed, deep and fake and booming, and said, “Um, who?”
Spencer shifted uneasily on his feet. “Seriously, Bill, what the fuck are you doing?”
“I, uh,” he paused, dropped the deep and fake voice, and went on, maybe a little over-brightly, “came to apologize, Cousin Spence.”
“Right.” Spencer eyed him carefully. “For what?”
William’s fingers lifted to twiddle with the ends of the bushy hair he’d taped over his lip - seriously, a mustache, not even a fucking goatee to denote a cheesy evil twin or something, and William was really terrible at the whole subterfuge thing - and he said, “For trying to kill you.”
Spencer blinked. Wow. So that was why Jon had wanted him out of the castle. “Okay. I’m not sure I accept your apology.” That was a pretty fucking horrible offence.
William nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, then held out a hand. “Apple?”
*
Spencer was not in any way, shape, or form stupid. But William was notoriously bad at plots, both good and evil, and it didn’t cross Spencer’s mind, not even once, that the apple was anything other than an ordinary apple.
Perhaps William’s costume should have given him pause, except not only was William inept at evil plots, he was also really fucking odd and, sadly, it was not the first time Spencer had seen him in a cloak like that. And the clunky glasses. The facial hair was new, though.
So Spencer took the apple - which looked tasty, huge and glossy, ripe red - and shut the door in William’s face. He’d deal with his deranged cousin later.
In the kitchen, Spencer washed and pealed the apple and cut it into little wedges, and when he bit into one, it tasted just as good as it looked, tart and juicy.
He chewed and swallowed, hummed a little under his breath, and then everything went black.
*
Luckily for William - because William, we already established, was not truly evil, and probably would’ve felt really bad, in retrospect, had Spencer died - Spencer never finished the apple.
The bite he took was just enough to knock him out.
Unfortunately, though, he hit his head on the corner of the stove on the way down.
Head wounds bled like a bitch.
*
Gerard and Frank found him first, which was for the best, since they were the least likely to panic at the sight of blood. They clogged up the doorway, though, frozen in shock, and Joe bounced off Gerard’s back with an oof, and a muffled, “Ow, Patrick,” when Patrick bounced off his back, and Pete laughed as he grabbed Patrick around the waist to keep him from falling.
“What’s the hold up?” Mikey asked, craning his neck to see past their heads.
“Spencer!” Gerard exclaimed, and then he was on his knees next to where Spencer was sprawled out and bleeding and way too fucking pale, a tiny dark puddle under his temple.
The pieces of apple had gone brown on the table.
Gerard gingerly searched for the wound, wincing in sympathy when his blood-sticky fingers grazed the ragged edges of a cut just behind Spencer’s left ear. “It’s shallow,” he said, relieved. A knot was already forming underneath the skin, the tissue around it softly swelling.
Pete stripped off his t-shirt, wordlessly sacrificing it for the cause.
Gerard spared him a dry look before wadding it up and pressing the shirt onto the cut, and Patrick went off to the pantry in search of proper bandages.
A half hour later, they’d moved Spencer upstairs to the beds, and he still wasn’t stirring. They checked his breath. They counted his pulse. They tapped his cheek and whispered his name, and two hours later, Spencer was still white-faced and comatose and unresponsive.
The next morning, he was exactly the same.
*
Brendon was the one who suggested they approach Travis. Travis was, like, eight feet tall. Comparatively, Brendon was a leprechaun. William was tall, too, of course, except William could turn sideways and practically disappear. Travis was a lot more intimidating, bulk wise.
He was totally cool about it, though, and gave Jon a big hug, because he hadn’t seen him in a while - Travis was busy making important decisions that would affect the future of the kingdom - and he ruffled Brendon’s hair, because Brendon was sort of unbelievably cute, and he bumped fists with Ryan.
Ryan bobbed his head and said, “Hey, man.”
“What’s up, little dudes?” Travis asked, slumping down in his throne and spreading his legs.
“We need a favor,” Jon started, and Travis nodded.
“I can do favors,” he said. “Favors are fine.”
Jon nodded back. “Right, so-”
“Bill’s trying to kill Spencer,” Brendon blurted out.
Ryan sent him a glare and hissed, “Brendon.”
Travis leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs and hands clasped. “Okay. I can see how that’d be problematic for you guys.”
Ryan cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, and, uh, we kind of need you to destroy Gabe for us.”
“Kind of,” Travis echoed, deadpan.
“Do,” Jon said hastily. “Definitely do need.” Travis was all about the conviction. He got enough ambivalence and indecision from William.
Travis stared at them hard. He stared at them so long even Jon started fidgeting, and Jon hardly ever had any nervous energy.
Finally, Brendon bit his lip and clenched his hands into fists and said, “You can have Mr. Frisky. If you help, you can. I’ll give you Mr. Frisky, okay?” which was ridiculous and sweet and so entirely Brendon that Travis laughed.
He laughed, and half his mouth was still quirked up smiling when he said, “Yeah?”
“Totally.” Brendon nodded, because he’d said it, and he wasn’t going to take back his words, no matter how much he loved that horse - which was a different story altogether, one that began with Brendon’s unforgiving parents and ended with Brendon leaving home with the only thing that’d ever been truly his - because this was Spencer, and Spencer was pretty much it for Brendon. He’d decided that the first time he’d ever laid eyes on him.
Jon and Ryan didn’t laugh. They knew, even though they didn’t know the specifics, how much Mr. Frisky meant to him.
“That’s fucking adorable, man,” Travis said, shaking his head. “All right, yeah. Done.”
*
Jon led the way deep into the forest. Brendon doubled up with Ryan, because he couldn’t bear to betray Mr. Frisky with another steed of his own - not yet, at least - and they brought Handy for Spencer, the gelding prancing and snorting a little behind them, restless from inactivity.
Brendon was excited. Brendon had missed Spencer a lot, and he was debating on whether to hug him or kiss him first, and whether or not Spencer would punch him in response. A hug, obviously, would be the less risky of the two, except he really, really wanted to kiss Spencer. He wanted to lick that strip of skin where his jaw met his neck, wanted to nip his ear and bury his face in his throat, and he’d come so close to losing Spencer completely that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to quash those urges once he spotted Spencer’s beautiful face.
Ryan was tense. Ryan had been on edge for what seemed like forever, because Spencer was the closest thing he had to a family, and he really didn’t know what he’d do without him. Jon and Brendon were all right, were great guys, but Spencer knew him. Spencer could look at him and know exactly what was going on inside his head and knew exactly how to make everything better. Plus, Ryan’s cat would be fucking desolate. Ryan’s cat had been howling for days.
Jon was just really relieved the nightmare was over, and he was hoping Spencer would forgive him for the whole kidnapping and abandoning thing.
They didn’t know, of course, that William had already enacted Gabe’s evil backup plan, or that there’d even been an evil backup plan to begin with. They didn’t know that the seven guys in the little cabin were already mourning Spencer’s loss.
*
Spencer was not dead; an important point to stress.
Spencer had a hell of an egg on his noggin and some nasty poison working its way through his body, but he wasn’t dead.
The seven guys didn’t seem to quite grasp that, though. Oh, they knew he wasn’t dead dead, but they had their doubts that he’d ever wake up.
They’d heard tales of endless sleeps and true love kisses, written plenty of songs about it, too, but after Pete decided they all had to kiss Spencer - “Plant one right on him!” Pete had said, shoving Patrick’s head so hard he’d almost cracked their skulls together - they were well and truly stymied about what to do.
Mourning seemed like a good enough idea at the time.
Gerard’s eyes were red-rimmed with unshed tears when he opened the cabin door to Jon, Brendon, and Ryan on the other side.
“Jon,” he said, voice thick, and then Frank wrapped a comforting arm around his shoulders, giving them a solemn nod and a grave, “Jon,” of his own.
Pete wasn’t so reserved. Jon staggered under his weight as he took a running leap at him, and Ryan frowned, asked, “What’s wrong, where’s Spencer?” and Gerard let out an embarrassing sob while Patrick just stood there and sniffled, rubbing the side of his hand under his nose.
Joe and Andy were both dry-eyed and grim, sitting at the kitchen table, and Mikey wasn’t even there. Mikey was folded up in the corner of the attic, face buried in his knees.
*
Forever after, Spencer would swear it was a coincidence.
Brendon would tackle him to the ground and crow about true love kisses and endless sleeps and nuzzle his nose into his neck and Spencer would shout, “It was a fucking coincidence, you freak!” even though he would smile, bright and wide, and even though his arms would snake around him, pulling Brendon even closer.
*
What happened was this:
Spencer was laid out on the bed upstairs. He was under a blanket - the one blanket they could find, that Pete hadn’t gotten rid of, that’d been tucked forgotten in the pantry - and he was deathly pale and shallow-breathed and still.
There was a fluffy little round-breasted bluebird perched on the headboard above him. It chirped, a melodious warning, shifted on its tiny feet before settling down again, head cocked so one black beady eye was sharp on them.
Ryan refused to move past the doorway, fingers biting into the frame, and Jon kept a hand loose on his arm, not pushing forward or holding back.
There was a pressure in Brendon’s chest when he stepped up next to the bed. A burning in his throat, a harsh sob that lodged itself stubbornly sideways. He brushed tentative fingers over Spencer’s forehead, sweeping back his bangs. His skin was cool, but not cold.
“Is he-” Jon cut off his own words, swallowing.
Brendon shook his head and murmured, “No. No, he’s,” and then he leaned over, fingertips skimming down to trace dry lips, resting at one corner as he ducked his head to fit his mouth against Spencer’s.
It was over before Ryan could finish his chiding, “Brendon.”
Brendon hastily backed up. He pressed his palms together and stared at the bluebird, its feathers silently ruffled, bristling, it seemed, in indignation.
“Brendon,” Ryan said again.
“I’m-” Brendon stopped mid-apology, when Ryan’s tone seeped through his thoughts and he realized it was more amazed than angry.
And then Spencer groaned.
The end.
*
The story didn’t actually end there.
For instance, Travis had always sort of liked Gabe. He’d liked when they argued, because Travis wasn’t as gullible as William and there was never a time when Gabe could convince Travis to do something he didn’t actually want to do. He’d been marginally pissed, but not entirely surprised, to find out that Gabe had been manipulating William into homicide, but there wasn’t enough anger involved to warrant Gabe’s total destruction.
He’d moved Gabe to the dungeons. Gabe went on to wreak the occasional evil havoc for years, and Travis would smoke cigars and debate war and peace with him in the early evenings.
William and Spencer made up, eventually, and everyone else forgave and forgot as well. It was kind of hard to stay mad at William for any length of time. He was far too good-natured and affectionate when not under the influence of evil magic mirrors.
Mr. Frisky lived out his days in the fields surrounding the castle, lazy and content, munching on sweet grass and dandelions and oats. Brendon would bring him carrots and sugar cubes and sigh at him wistfully, but he never once attempted to ride him again. Brendon never went back on his word.
Brendon, as previously mentioned, had earned the right to tackle Spencer whenever and wherever he pleased. He figured it was a fair trade off.
They might have had a wedding. They might have stood in front of God and everyone and the bishop and pledged their love and fealty, but Spencer never mentioned it afterwards - he was half sure it was a fever dream - and Brendon was content enough with the folded piece of paper he kept in the bottom of his sock drawer, the one that said mine, yours and ours forever, William’s seal pressed with permanence into its fibers.
Spencer could pretend all he wanted during the day, but at night-at night, he realized, he couldn’t seem to sleep unless Brendon was busy being his blanket, bare skin to bare skin.
It was a coincidence, of course, when Spencer had fluttered open his eyes after Brendon’s kiss.
He’d been struggling towards consciousness for hours, snippets of Pete’s whispered prayers and Mikey’s crying and Joe’s solid reassurances filtering through his mind. He hadn’t been under a spell, and Brendon wasn’t his true love.
Spencer was pretty sure, though, that life with Brendon was as close to happily ever after as he was going to get.