PatD fic -- Your Candle Burns too Bright -- Spencer/Ryan -- R
Title: Your Candle Burns Too Bright
Author: sneaky_sena
Rating: hard R
Pairing: Spencer/Ryan
POV: 3rd person
Summary: In which making homemade fireworks with Brendon turns out to be not at all disastrous and Spencer starts to get things figured out.
Disclaimer: No they did not.
Notes: Follows Dreaming to the Twilight and Never See the Sky the Same Way
It's weird, really, how long Spencer can go without seeing Ryan even though they spend every day in the same building. It's not like they have any classes together--Ryan does Scholars while Spencer's just in the college-prep courses--but that never seemed to really matter before. They used to talk in the halls all the time. They used to carpool, used to eat lunch together. Now they only see each other at rehearsals, and they barely talk. Spencer just sits behind his drum kit and keeps a steady rhythm while keeping his head down.
When he and Ryan do talk, it's to fight, but it's mostly easily fixed by one or both of them listening to Brent and shutting the fuck up, unless it's not.
"You're not," says Ryan, "could you just fucking come in on your fucking cue?"
"Yeah," Spencer snaps. "If you didn't lose the fucking rhythm every time we play the bridge, I'm pretty sure I could."
"I don't--" Ryan starts.
"You rush it every time--" Spencer snaps.
"Will you guys stop?" Brent asks.
"Fuck you," Ryan and Spencer chorus. Brendon laughs nervously.
"The fuck's so funny, faggot?" Spencer demands, then has to duck when Ryan's nearly-full Gatorade bottle comes flying at his head. Ryan's got a wicked pitching arm for as skinny as he is.
"Stop being such a fucking asshole!" Ryan shouts at him. He yanks off his guitar and lets it drop onto Spencer's grandmother's sofa, then grabs up his messenger bag and stomps up the stairs.
Spencer grits his teeth and twirls his drumsticks, a way to handle the nervous tension. He can hear Ryan's Grand Am starting up--it's in desperate need of a new muffler.
Brent takes off his bass and starts packing it away as Spencer listens to the sound of Ryan's car get further and further away.
"Seriously," Brent says, once he snaps his case shut. "What the hell is going on with you guys?"
Spencer stares at Brent and raises one eyebrow, mentally dares Brent to say one more word about it.
"Fuck this," Brent snaps. "Call me when your PMS is over, all right? I don't need this shit." He stomps up the stairs and Spencer drops his head forward. He takes a deep breath and waits for Brendon to leave, too, only Brendon doesn't. When he looks up, Brendon's looking at him sadly, like it hurts him to see his friends fight. It probably does. Spencer returns Brendon's look with the same death glare he gave Brent. It never really works on Brendon.
"You wanna talk about it?" Brendon asks.
Spencer shakes his head once. What's he supposed to say, that three months ago he'd had Ryan's dick up his ass and that he'd loved it and that the idea of being just another one of Ryan's hook ups is fucking killing him?
"You wanna go get smoothies?" is Brendon's next question.
Spencer shrugs. He's sick of smoothies, even if he does get most of them for free. "We could make smoke grenades," he says, mostly because he's in the mood to blow something up.
Brendon laughs and looks delighted.
Spencer leads Brendon to his garage and gives him the task of cutting holes in the tennis balls while the electric skillet heats up. Spencer mixes the sugar and potassium himself, and Brendon stops hacking at the tennis balls when Spencer pours the mix into the skillet and begins to stir.
"Should I be terrified that you know how to make explosives in your garage?" Brendon asks with a grin.
"A smoke bomb is not an explosive," Spencer says, as if that's obvious. "Although I can totally show you how to make an M-80 later using a Piccolo Pete's, duct tape, and a soda bottle."
The mixture has melted down and gotten thick and it's almost time to add the baking soda when Spencer says, "What I called you before, I didn't mean--"
"I know," Brendon says simply.
Spencer frowns. Brendon disarms him, makes it impossible to put up most of his walls. There's no point in being a jerk to someone if that person never takes the bait and yells back.
He thinks about it for a little while he's funneling the smoke mixture into the tennis balls. He thinks about telling Brendon the truth, telling him that he put his heart out there for the first time in his entire life and Ryan kicked it into the gravel. He ends up not saying anything, though, because he's not stupid. Brendon's pretty much the last person who could understand or give him advice; he walks around in t-shirts about God half the time, after all.
They fool around in the garage while the mix dries. Brendon's on his high school's drumline, so they use glass jars and plastic tubs and whatever they can find in the garage to fashion drum kits for the both of them and play their makeshift kits with screwdrivers and tent pegs. They spend nearly an hour making up increasingly intricate rhythms, trying to one up each other, until Spencer's mother sticks her head into the garage and says, "Honey, I love your drumming, you know that, but it's Saturday afternoon." She looks at Brendon for a moment and quirks her head. "You're not Ryan."
Brendon grins and shakes his head. "Brendon Urie, ma'am. Pleased to meet you."
"Manners," she says, giving Spencer a grin. "I like him. Pleased to meet you, too, Brendon."
She goes back into the house without noticing the drying smoke bombs. Spencer's not sure if she knows how into amateur pyrotechnics he and Ryan are sometimes or if she just thinks her gardening supplies keep magically disappearing.
"You think they're ready?" Brendon asks.
"They will be by the time we get there," says Spencer.
"Where?"
"I'm not letting off firecrackers and smoke bombs in my front yard," says Spencer.
Brendon thinks about that for a moment. "Good point," he says. "I'm driving!"
"Fine," says Spencer. He packs the smoke bombs and some duct tape, a handful of Piccolo Pete's firecrackers, and a hammer into a paper bag. Then he goes through the recycling and pulls out the driest, cleanest plastic bottles with lids. He almost forgets a nail to make a hole in the lid, but remembers at the last moment.
If you head west on Charleston Boulevard out of town, then turn north before you get to Red Rock Canyon, there's a gravel road that takes you into the middle of nowhere. He and Ryan found it one afternoon by accident; right after Ryan got his license they spent hours and hours in his car, driving around the city and out into the desert, blaring music and talking and laughing until they couldn't breathe.
Spencer gives Brendon directions to the pull-off next to the arroyo because it's the best place to light off firecrackers. The side of the arroyo isn't steep so it's easy to climb in and out, and it's tucked down away from the road so no one driving by can even tell that it's there.
Spencer tells himself it doesn't matter that one night in that very spot, Ryan pushed him up against the side of his car and kissed him hard and long, the summer heat still oppressive at ten o'clock at night, the cicadas buzzing so loud that it felt like the sound was drilling into his skull.
When Brendon pulls off the road and around the back of the rise--making Spencer swear he'll pay for any and all damages to his mom's Taurus if something goes wrong--Spencer catches a flash of a white Grand Am and anger coils low in his belly. He kicks open the passenger door before Brendon can put the car in park and stalks towards Ryan's car, paper bag banging against his knee.
Ryan's sitting on the hood of his car, feet curled beneath him, sketching or writing in one of his notebooks.
Spencer wants to ask Ryan what the fuck he's doing there. It's irrational, he knows. It's not like they ever sat down and divided up the places they were allowed to go--Spencer gets the desert near Red Rocks, Ryan gets the abandoned construction site off West Lake Mead Boulevard, Ryan gets Port of Subs, Spencer gets Capriotti's--but still. He feels like Ryan doesn't have any fucking right to be there. They made out there one night for hours and Ryan's the one who made it so they never would again, so he doesn't get it. It's Spencer's spot.
Ryan looks up, startled, and Spencer can tell he was deep in whatever he was writing; he looks a little confused as to where he is or what he's doing.
"So, um," Brendon says from behind him. "I just remembered this thing."
"What?" Spencer asks, not looking away from Ryan. When he finally does turn, it's because he hears tires on the gravel. He watches Brendon drive away in his mother's Taurus and hopes he gets a flat. He watches the dust cloud and the bumper of Brendon's car as it gets further and further away. He hears the crunch of feet behind him.
"Little Mormon fucker just abandoned me in the desert," he says.
"I'm pretty sure he knew I'd give you a ride home. How'd you know I was here?"
"I didn't. We made smoke bombs."
"Oh," says Ryan, and he says it like Spencer making smoke bombs with anyone but him is a slap in the face.
"We could," Spencer starts. He reaches into the bag to show Ryan what he'd made. "It's that tennis ball thing I was telling you about."
"Right," says Ryan, nodding.
"I have two. And some piccolos and bottles and stuff."
"I can't believe you got Brendon to make smoke bombs with you."
"He was totally into it. I think there's a little pyro in him just dying to get out."
Ryan grins at that, takes the tennis ball from Spencer's hand and heads down into the arroyo. Spencer waits a moment, realizes there's pretty much nothing else he can do, and follows him down.
"Matches," says Ryan, bossy as ever. Spencer lights the fuse and once it's caught, Ryan throws the tennis ball into the middle of the wash. After a few seconds, great plumes of red smoke start to fume up and to the right, following the arroyo and the wind.
Ryan laughs and claps his hands together a couple times. "Badass," he says.
Spencer nods and fiddles with his lighter. It is pretty fucking cool. He wishes he'd thought to bring a video camera.
"I take it Brendon forgave you for calling him a faggot," Ryan says softly after a moment.
"Yeah," Spencer says. The moment is awkward. "Ironic choice of insults, I know."
Ryan takes Spencer's lighter from him. "I was going to go with hypocritical."
Spencer rubs his arm and watches the smoke waft by. "I don't want to be that guy," he says. "I don't want to be repressed and taking it out on other people. I just. I really liked you."
"Past tense?" Ryan asks. His voice is flat and distant the way it gets when he's trying not to be hurt. "So, what? You hate me now?"
Spencer shakes his head. "No, but I don't, when you'd kiss me, it wasn't just. It meant more to me than I let on, I guess. I wanted more than just that, more than just being friends."
Ryan doesn't say anything. He tips his head down and away from the smoke that blows their way for a moment. He flicks the lighter and watches the flame, holds it down until the wind blows it out and then flicks it again.
"And I know that you're not, I know that for you it was just fooling around. I do know that. Just. I'm going to need time, OK? To get over you."
Ryan presses the hot metal of the lighter against the inside of his left arm. Spencer's hand shoots out and slaps it away.
"Don't fucking," Spencer snaps. He takes Ryan's arm, looks at the burn. It's small, probably just first degree. "You can't punish yourself for something that's not your fault," he whispers.
Ryan's eyes are liquid and glistening. Either he's about to cry or the smoke's getting to him; Spencer's not sure he wants to know which.
"You wanna make some bottle bombs?" he asks after a moment.
Ryan nods.
"I was thinking we could make a bunch of them with different length fuses, light off the smoke bomb so the explosions and the smoke all mix, sort of have a military theme going on."
"Very Platoon," Ryan says, nodding sagely.
Spencer digs in the bag and tosses Ryan a Piccolo Pete's. He grabs one for himself, too, and starts working and pulling off the red plastic base. He has a pit of uneasiness low in his stomach, but he can breathe again and thinks that probably, they're going to be fine.
**********
In February, Spencer leaves a PFLAG flyer on the counter next to his mom's purse, with the word "bisexual" circled on the cover and leaves for school. He spends the next eight hours trying not to think about it. One of the good things about being a drummer is that people tend to attribute your nervous tension to just being ADD and needing to hit things with sticks.
He makes it through school, makes it through rehearsal, and when he gets home his stomach is flipping and his skin is burns cold and he can't catch his breath.
He thinks maybe he'll just run up to his room and hide but as soon as he comes in, his mother says, "Spencer," and he freezes in his tracks. She's sitting in the living room with her feet tucked beneath her.
He stands in the doorway, not looking at her.
She sighs and gets up, walks towards him and hugs him close. "Love you," she whispers against his temple.
Spencer lets out a shaky breath and hugs her back.
"You could have just told me," she says.
"I didn't know how."
She pulls back and cradles his face in her hands, gazes at him with that mom look she has, the one that makes him feel safe and loved even though he's sixteen years old and probably shouldn't even care anymore.
"I'll put a rainbow sticker on the back of the minivan if you want me to," she says, grinning.
Spencer smiles and shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, that's just...no."
"How about a giant banner proclaiming how much I love my brilliant, funny, talented, amazing, bisexual son?"
He pulls away from her and rolls his eyes. "God. Please don't."
"I do though," she says, tugging on a lock of his hair. "Is this a new thing, by the way, or do I just need to make you an appointment at the barber shop?"
Spencer shrugs. "I thought I might grow it out a little bit."
"Suits you," she says.
Then his sisters start screaming from upstairs and one of them shouts, "Mom! She won't stop looking at me!" and Spencer's mom rolls her eyes and tells him there's roast in the fridge if he still wants dinner, and runs upstairs to play peacemaker.
He heats up a bowl of pot roast and texts Ryan. told my mom I was bi
It takes a few minutes before Ryan texts back. shit u ok?
yeah it went good glad I told her
do i have 2 march in a parade w u now?
Spencer laughs and texts back, fuck yes and I expect u to wear rainbows
gay pride wear is so aesthetically unpleasing Ryan texts back. Then, good lyrics 2nite show u 2morow and Spencer smiles and feels like everything is falling back into place.
"Are you seeing anybody?" Spencer's mother asks him the next morning over breakfast.
Spencer flushes and shakes his head. "No," he whispers.
"Because I thought maybe Ryan--"
"No," he says quickly, horrified, looking up at her.
"Or maybe your friend Brendon--"
"God, no," he says.
"Because you can tell me, you know. If you meet someone."
He nods and stares down at his oatmeal and tries to think about what it would be like to kiss some guy who wasn't Ryan.
Ryan's gone through three different girlfriends since Tiff broke up with him in September. His most recent girlfriend, Sylvia, breaks up with him just as his dad starts ramping up into binge mode, so of course Spencer tells him he can stay over. After a week of Ryan sleeping on the floor, Spencer says, "Christ. Get up here. You're going to bruise on the places where there's nothing but skin between your bones and the floor, and that's, like, everywhere."
"Ass," says Ryan. And he shoves Spencer over a little harder than he has to, but he does sleep in Spencer's twin bed.
It's not easy having Ryan so close to him, but he can handle it. Sometimes he still catches himself half asleep and burrowing closer to Ryan's warmth, breathing in his smell, but mostly it's OK. He misses Ryan when he goes back home after two weeks, puts off washing his sheets for as long as he can so he still feels surrounded by Ryan when he burrows beneath his covers.
Then his mother gets fed up with it and cleans his room for him, which is never good. She throws out half his drumming magazines and piles all his dirty clothes in the hallway and washes his sheets so that when he climbs into bed that night, all he can smell is fabric softener.
But Ryan stays over off and on, sometimes because of his dad and sometimes just because it's late and he and Spencer are going to carpool to school in the morning anyway and they've got songs they want to work on.
"Spencer," Ryan says one night after they turn off the lights.
There's something in the tone of his voice that makes Spencer turn towards the wall, makes him say, "Sleep now, lyrics later," even though he knows whatever Ryan was about to say, it wasn't about music.
Neither one of them says anything for a very long time, both of them pretending to be asleep. Spencer's breath catches in his throat when he feels the press of Ryan's body against his back. Ryan slips his hand beneath the waistband of Spencer's pajamas and Spencer rockets out of bed and stands in the middle of his room, staring at Ryan and shaking.
"Spence," Ryan whispers, reaching for him.
"No," Spencer says, shaking his head. "I'm not just here whenever you don't have a girlfriend. You can't fuck with me like that."
"That wasn't--" Ryan starts, but Spencer can't hear it, turns and leaves his room, pads barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen where he paces back and forth. He braces his hands on the counter near the stove and tries to breathe. His body's trembling and he doesn't ever remember being so angry.
He doesn't turn when he hears Ryan's feet soft on the tile behind him. He doesn't want to yell and wake up his family; he doesn't want to lash out and shove Ryan or worse. He's not sure if there are any other ways it can go down, so he does nothing.
"I'm not fucking with you," Ryan says.
Spencer's fingers flex against the countertop and he swallows hard. He can feel Ryan behind him, can feel the heat of Ryan's hand before it settles tentatively on his shoulder. Spencer pulls away from Ryan's touch, turns and looks at him. Ryan looks ghostly in the eerie blue glow of the microwave's display.
"I fucked it up before," Ryan says. "I'm...that's what I do, Spence. I fuck things up all the time."
Spencer reaches out and slides his fingers through Ryan's hair, pulls him forward and kisses him because he can't not. He doesn't even care if all Ryan wants is to get off, which is mostly why he's so angry. He hates that he'll just give in, knows he'll give in every time.
Ryan backs him up against the counter and shoves his thigh between Spencer's. Spencer groans into Ryan's mouth and grinds against him, can feel Ryan's cock hard against his hip.
"Not fucking with you," Ryan whispers when they part. Then he drops to his knees and God, oh, God, he's going to--
Spencer gasps at the first touch of Ryan's mouth on his cock. Then he bites down on the heel of his hand because it's the best thing ever. Ryan's mouth is perfect, hot and slick and tight and Spencer can't look away, can't do anything but stare at how Ryan's lips look stretched around his cock. Spencer's hips jerk forward and Ryan gags, pulls back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Spencer's this close to begging Ryan not to stop when Ryan takes a deep breath, wraps his fingers around the base of Spencer's cock, and leans in to try again.
Spencer stops biting his hand, slides both hands over Ryan's head and down to his shoulders. He bites his lower lip hard, though, because the sounds that want to come out of his mouth would wake his entire family.
"This OK?" Ryan asks after a while, sounding out of breath.
"Fuck," Spencer whispers, stroking Ryan's hair. "Fuck yes." He's so close, even more so when he sees the angle of Ryan's right arm, sees that he's got his hand in his sweats and is jerking himself off while sucking Spencer's cock. He means to give a warning, but there isn't time. Immediately, he's coming hard, coming into Ryan's mouth. Ryan jerks back and coughs and Spencer keeps coming across the side of Ryan's face and his neck and his shoulder.
"Sorry," Spencer gasps.
Ryan laughs and wipes at his face. "It's all right," he says, and he's smiling up at Spencer and still stroking his cock and Spencer has to drop to his knees right that second and kiss him hard.
"Do you want me to?" he asks as he wraps his fingers around Ryan's cock. "Because I'll, if you want me to suck it--"
"This is good," Ryan whispers. He presses his face against Spencer's throat, breathes shakily and digs his fingers into Spencer's biceps. "Good," he whispers again. "Just like, fuck, Spence," and then he's coming over Spencer's hand.
Spencer tips his head, presses his forehead against Ryan's as he keeps stroking him through it, keeps stroking until Ryan shudders and puts his hand on Spencer's forearm to get him to stop. Spencer slides his hand over Ryan's hip, strokes along the bony crest with his thumb.
"I can't believe you just jizzed all over my face," Ryan whispers, laughing softly.
"I can't believe you just sucked me off in my kitchen."
Ryan kisses him quickly, then stands and pulls Spencer to his feet. They hurry up the stairs back to Spencer's room. Once the door's shut behind him, Spencer stops and takes Ryan's wrist in his hand.
"Ryan," he whispers. He doesn't know what to say, how to ask it, how to figure out what whatever they just did means.
"Tomorrow," Ryan says. He pulls out of Spencer's grasp and strips off his t-shirt, pushes down his sweats. "Can we talk tomorrow?" he asks. He sprawls across Spencer's bed, slides naked beneath the covers.
Spencer tries to say no, but he's weak-kneed and tired and he really, really wants to be pressed up along the length of Ryan's warm body. He pushes off his pajama pants, takes off his t-shirt and barely remembers to lock the door.
They face each other in the bed, Ryan's back pressed to the wall. Spencer's still too close to the edge, though, so he moves forward and pulls Ryan to him. Ryan's skin is damp with the barest sheen of sweat. He huffs softly when Spencer's hand strokes over his ribs.
"Ticklish?" Spencer asks softly.
Ryan nods. His fingers stroke gently over Spencer's cheek and mouth and Spencer can't help but to close his eyes.
"I won't screw it up this time," Ryan tells him.
"OK." He doesn't know if it will be, but there's nothing he can do but take Ryan at his word. He slides his hand around to rest in the middle of Ryan's back, pulls him forward a little more so he can feel Ryan's breath on his neck, closes his eyes and falls asleep to the feeling of Ryan's fingers sliding gentle back and forth over his hip.
Author: sneaky_sena
Rating: hard R
Pairing: Spencer/Ryan
POV: 3rd person
Summary: In which making homemade fireworks with Brendon turns out to be not at all disastrous and Spencer starts to get things figured out.
Disclaimer: No they did not.
Notes: Follows Dreaming to the Twilight and Never See the Sky the Same Way
It's weird, really, how long Spencer can go without seeing Ryan even though they spend every day in the same building. It's not like they have any classes together--Ryan does Scholars while Spencer's just in the college-prep courses--but that never seemed to really matter before. They used to talk in the halls all the time. They used to carpool, used to eat lunch together. Now they only see each other at rehearsals, and they barely talk. Spencer just sits behind his drum kit and keeps a steady rhythm while keeping his head down.
When he and Ryan do talk, it's to fight, but it's mostly easily fixed by one or both of them listening to Brent and shutting the fuck up, unless it's not.
"You're not," says Ryan, "could you just fucking come in on your fucking cue?"
"Yeah," Spencer snaps. "If you didn't lose the fucking rhythm every time we play the bridge, I'm pretty sure I could."
"I don't--" Ryan starts.
"You rush it every time--" Spencer snaps.
"Will you guys stop?" Brent asks.
"Fuck you," Ryan and Spencer chorus. Brendon laughs nervously.
"The fuck's so funny, faggot?" Spencer demands, then has to duck when Ryan's nearly-full Gatorade bottle comes flying at his head. Ryan's got a wicked pitching arm for as skinny as he is.
"Stop being such a fucking asshole!" Ryan shouts at him. He yanks off his guitar and lets it drop onto Spencer's grandmother's sofa, then grabs up his messenger bag and stomps up the stairs.
Spencer grits his teeth and twirls his drumsticks, a way to handle the nervous tension. He can hear Ryan's Grand Am starting up--it's in desperate need of a new muffler.
Brent takes off his bass and starts packing it away as Spencer listens to the sound of Ryan's car get further and further away.
"Seriously," Brent says, once he snaps his case shut. "What the hell is going on with you guys?"
Spencer stares at Brent and raises one eyebrow, mentally dares Brent to say one more word about it.
"Fuck this," Brent snaps. "Call me when your PMS is over, all right? I don't need this shit." He stomps up the stairs and Spencer drops his head forward. He takes a deep breath and waits for Brendon to leave, too, only Brendon doesn't. When he looks up, Brendon's looking at him sadly, like it hurts him to see his friends fight. It probably does. Spencer returns Brendon's look with the same death glare he gave Brent. It never really works on Brendon.
"You wanna talk about it?" Brendon asks.
Spencer shakes his head once. What's he supposed to say, that three months ago he'd had Ryan's dick up his ass and that he'd loved it and that the idea of being just another one of Ryan's hook ups is fucking killing him?
"You wanna go get smoothies?" is Brendon's next question.
Spencer shrugs. He's sick of smoothies, even if he does get most of them for free. "We could make smoke grenades," he says, mostly because he's in the mood to blow something up.
Brendon laughs and looks delighted.
Spencer leads Brendon to his garage and gives him the task of cutting holes in the tennis balls while the electric skillet heats up. Spencer mixes the sugar and potassium himself, and Brendon stops hacking at the tennis balls when Spencer pours the mix into the skillet and begins to stir.
"Should I be terrified that you know how to make explosives in your garage?" Brendon asks with a grin.
"A smoke bomb is not an explosive," Spencer says, as if that's obvious. "Although I can totally show you how to make an M-80 later using a Piccolo Pete's, duct tape, and a soda bottle."
The mixture has melted down and gotten thick and it's almost time to add the baking soda when Spencer says, "What I called you before, I didn't mean--"
"I know," Brendon says simply.
Spencer frowns. Brendon disarms him, makes it impossible to put up most of his walls. There's no point in being a jerk to someone if that person never takes the bait and yells back.
He thinks about it for a little while he's funneling the smoke mixture into the tennis balls. He thinks about telling Brendon the truth, telling him that he put his heart out there for the first time in his entire life and Ryan kicked it into the gravel. He ends up not saying anything, though, because he's not stupid. Brendon's pretty much the last person who could understand or give him advice; he walks around in t-shirts about God half the time, after all.
They fool around in the garage while the mix dries. Brendon's on his high school's drumline, so they use glass jars and plastic tubs and whatever they can find in the garage to fashion drum kits for the both of them and play their makeshift kits with screwdrivers and tent pegs. They spend nearly an hour making up increasingly intricate rhythms, trying to one up each other, until Spencer's mother sticks her head into the garage and says, "Honey, I love your drumming, you know that, but it's Saturday afternoon." She looks at Brendon for a moment and quirks her head. "You're not Ryan."
Brendon grins and shakes his head. "Brendon Urie, ma'am. Pleased to meet you."
"Manners," she says, giving Spencer a grin. "I like him. Pleased to meet you, too, Brendon."
She goes back into the house without noticing the drying smoke bombs. Spencer's not sure if she knows how into amateur pyrotechnics he and Ryan are sometimes or if she just thinks her gardening supplies keep magically disappearing.
"You think they're ready?" Brendon asks.
"They will be by the time we get there," says Spencer.
"Where?"
"I'm not letting off firecrackers and smoke bombs in my front yard," says Spencer.
Brendon thinks about that for a moment. "Good point," he says. "I'm driving!"
"Fine," says Spencer. He packs the smoke bombs and some duct tape, a handful of Piccolo Pete's firecrackers, and a hammer into a paper bag. Then he goes through the recycling and pulls out the driest, cleanest plastic bottles with lids. He almost forgets a nail to make a hole in the lid, but remembers at the last moment.
If you head west on Charleston Boulevard out of town, then turn north before you get to Red Rock Canyon, there's a gravel road that takes you into the middle of nowhere. He and Ryan found it one afternoon by accident; right after Ryan got his license they spent hours and hours in his car, driving around the city and out into the desert, blaring music and talking and laughing until they couldn't breathe.
Spencer gives Brendon directions to the pull-off next to the arroyo because it's the best place to light off firecrackers. The side of the arroyo isn't steep so it's easy to climb in and out, and it's tucked down away from the road so no one driving by can even tell that it's there.
Spencer tells himself it doesn't matter that one night in that very spot, Ryan pushed him up against the side of his car and kissed him hard and long, the summer heat still oppressive at ten o'clock at night, the cicadas buzzing so loud that it felt like the sound was drilling into his skull.
When Brendon pulls off the road and around the back of the rise--making Spencer swear he'll pay for any and all damages to his mom's Taurus if something goes wrong--Spencer catches a flash of a white Grand Am and anger coils low in his belly. He kicks open the passenger door before Brendon can put the car in park and stalks towards Ryan's car, paper bag banging against his knee.
Ryan's sitting on the hood of his car, feet curled beneath him, sketching or writing in one of his notebooks.
Spencer wants to ask Ryan what the fuck he's doing there. It's irrational, he knows. It's not like they ever sat down and divided up the places they were allowed to go--Spencer gets the desert near Red Rocks, Ryan gets the abandoned construction site off West Lake Mead Boulevard, Ryan gets Port of Subs, Spencer gets Capriotti's--but still. He feels like Ryan doesn't have any fucking right to be there. They made out there one night for hours and Ryan's the one who made it so they never would again, so he doesn't get it. It's Spencer's spot.
Ryan looks up, startled, and Spencer can tell he was deep in whatever he was writing; he looks a little confused as to where he is or what he's doing.
"So, um," Brendon says from behind him. "I just remembered this thing."
"What?" Spencer asks, not looking away from Ryan. When he finally does turn, it's because he hears tires on the gravel. He watches Brendon drive away in his mother's Taurus and hopes he gets a flat. He watches the dust cloud and the bumper of Brendon's car as it gets further and further away. He hears the crunch of feet behind him.
"Little Mormon fucker just abandoned me in the desert," he says.
"I'm pretty sure he knew I'd give you a ride home. How'd you know I was here?"
"I didn't. We made smoke bombs."
"Oh," says Ryan, and he says it like Spencer making smoke bombs with anyone but him is a slap in the face.
"We could," Spencer starts. He reaches into the bag to show Ryan what he'd made. "It's that tennis ball thing I was telling you about."
"Right," says Ryan, nodding.
"I have two. And some piccolos and bottles and stuff."
"I can't believe you got Brendon to make smoke bombs with you."
"He was totally into it. I think there's a little pyro in him just dying to get out."
Ryan grins at that, takes the tennis ball from Spencer's hand and heads down into the arroyo. Spencer waits a moment, realizes there's pretty much nothing else he can do, and follows him down.
"Matches," says Ryan, bossy as ever. Spencer lights the fuse and once it's caught, Ryan throws the tennis ball into the middle of the wash. After a few seconds, great plumes of red smoke start to fume up and to the right, following the arroyo and the wind.
Ryan laughs and claps his hands together a couple times. "Badass," he says.
Spencer nods and fiddles with his lighter. It is pretty fucking cool. He wishes he'd thought to bring a video camera.
"I take it Brendon forgave you for calling him a faggot," Ryan says softly after a moment.
"Yeah," Spencer says. The moment is awkward. "Ironic choice of insults, I know."
Ryan takes Spencer's lighter from him. "I was going to go with hypocritical."
Spencer rubs his arm and watches the smoke waft by. "I don't want to be that guy," he says. "I don't want to be repressed and taking it out on other people. I just. I really liked you."
"Past tense?" Ryan asks. His voice is flat and distant the way it gets when he's trying not to be hurt. "So, what? You hate me now?"
Spencer shakes his head. "No, but I don't, when you'd kiss me, it wasn't just. It meant more to me than I let on, I guess. I wanted more than just that, more than just being friends."
Ryan doesn't say anything. He tips his head down and away from the smoke that blows their way for a moment. He flicks the lighter and watches the flame, holds it down until the wind blows it out and then flicks it again.
"And I know that you're not, I know that for you it was just fooling around. I do know that. Just. I'm going to need time, OK? To get over you."
Ryan presses the hot metal of the lighter against the inside of his left arm. Spencer's hand shoots out and slaps it away.
"Don't fucking," Spencer snaps. He takes Ryan's arm, looks at the burn. It's small, probably just first degree. "You can't punish yourself for something that's not your fault," he whispers.
Ryan's eyes are liquid and glistening. Either he's about to cry or the smoke's getting to him; Spencer's not sure he wants to know which.
"You wanna make some bottle bombs?" he asks after a moment.
Ryan nods.
"I was thinking we could make a bunch of them with different length fuses, light off the smoke bomb so the explosions and the smoke all mix, sort of have a military theme going on."
"Very Platoon," Ryan says, nodding sagely.
Spencer digs in the bag and tosses Ryan a Piccolo Pete's. He grabs one for himself, too, and starts working and pulling off the red plastic base. He has a pit of uneasiness low in his stomach, but he can breathe again and thinks that probably, they're going to be fine.
**********
In February, Spencer leaves a PFLAG flyer on the counter next to his mom's purse, with the word "bisexual" circled on the cover and leaves for school. He spends the next eight hours trying not to think about it. One of the good things about being a drummer is that people tend to attribute your nervous tension to just being ADD and needing to hit things with sticks.
He makes it through school, makes it through rehearsal, and when he gets home his stomach is flipping and his skin is burns cold and he can't catch his breath.
He thinks maybe he'll just run up to his room and hide but as soon as he comes in, his mother says, "Spencer," and he freezes in his tracks. She's sitting in the living room with her feet tucked beneath her.
He stands in the doorway, not looking at her.
She sighs and gets up, walks towards him and hugs him close. "Love you," she whispers against his temple.
Spencer lets out a shaky breath and hugs her back.
"You could have just told me," she says.
"I didn't know how."
She pulls back and cradles his face in her hands, gazes at him with that mom look she has, the one that makes him feel safe and loved even though he's sixteen years old and probably shouldn't even care anymore.
"I'll put a rainbow sticker on the back of the minivan if you want me to," she says, grinning.
Spencer smiles and shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, that's just...no."
"How about a giant banner proclaiming how much I love my brilliant, funny, talented, amazing, bisexual son?"
He pulls away from her and rolls his eyes. "God. Please don't."
"I do though," she says, tugging on a lock of his hair. "Is this a new thing, by the way, or do I just need to make you an appointment at the barber shop?"
Spencer shrugs. "I thought I might grow it out a little bit."
"Suits you," she says.
Then his sisters start screaming from upstairs and one of them shouts, "Mom! She won't stop looking at me!" and Spencer's mom rolls her eyes and tells him there's roast in the fridge if he still wants dinner, and runs upstairs to play peacemaker.
He heats up a bowl of pot roast and texts Ryan. told my mom I was bi
It takes a few minutes before Ryan texts back. shit u ok?
yeah it went good glad I told her
do i have 2 march in a parade w u now?
Spencer laughs and texts back, fuck yes and I expect u to wear rainbows
gay pride wear is so aesthetically unpleasing Ryan texts back. Then, good lyrics 2nite show u 2morow and Spencer smiles and feels like everything is falling back into place.
"Are you seeing anybody?" Spencer's mother asks him the next morning over breakfast.
Spencer flushes and shakes his head. "No," he whispers.
"Because I thought maybe Ryan--"
"No," he says quickly, horrified, looking up at her.
"Or maybe your friend Brendon--"
"God, no," he says.
"Because you can tell me, you know. If you meet someone."
He nods and stares down at his oatmeal and tries to think about what it would be like to kiss some guy who wasn't Ryan.
Ryan's gone through three different girlfriends since Tiff broke up with him in September. His most recent girlfriend, Sylvia, breaks up with him just as his dad starts ramping up into binge mode, so of course Spencer tells him he can stay over. After a week of Ryan sleeping on the floor, Spencer says, "Christ. Get up here. You're going to bruise on the places where there's nothing but skin between your bones and the floor, and that's, like, everywhere."
"Ass," says Ryan. And he shoves Spencer over a little harder than he has to, but he does sleep in Spencer's twin bed.
It's not easy having Ryan so close to him, but he can handle it. Sometimes he still catches himself half asleep and burrowing closer to Ryan's warmth, breathing in his smell, but mostly it's OK. He misses Ryan when he goes back home after two weeks, puts off washing his sheets for as long as he can so he still feels surrounded by Ryan when he burrows beneath his covers.
Then his mother gets fed up with it and cleans his room for him, which is never good. She throws out half his drumming magazines and piles all his dirty clothes in the hallway and washes his sheets so that when he climbs into bed that night, all he can smell is fabric softener.
But Ryan stays over off and on, sometimes because of his dad and sometimes just because it's late and he and Spencer are going to carpool to school in the morning anyway and they've got songs they want to work on.
"Spencer," Ryan says one night after they turn off the lights.
There's something in the tone of his voice that makes Spencer turn towards the wall, makes him say, "Sleep now, lyrics later," even though he knows whatever Ryan was about to say, it wasn't about music.
Neither one of them says anything for a very long time, both of them pretending to be asleep. Spencer's breath catches in his throat when he feels the press of Ryan's body against his back. Ryan slips his hand beneath the waistband of Spencer's pajamas and Spencer rockets out of bed and stands in the middle of his room, staring at Ryan and shaking.
"Spence," Ryan whispers, reaching for him.
"No," Spencer says, shaking his head. "I'm not just here whenever you don't have a girlfriend. You can't fuck with me like that."
"That wasn't--" Ryan starts, but Spencer can't hear it, turns and leaves his room, pads barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen where he paces back and forth. He braces his hands on the counter near the stove and tries to breathe. His body's trembling and he doesn't ever remember being so angry.
He doesn't turn when he hears Ryan's feet soft on the tile behind him. He doesn't want to yell and wake up his family; he doesn't want to lash out and shove Ryan or worse. He's not sure if there are any other ways it can go down, so he does nothing.
"I'm not fucking with you," Ryan says.
Spencer's fingers flex against the countertop and he swallows hard. He can feel Ryan behind him, can feel the heat of Ryan's hand before it settles tentatively on his shoulder. Spencer pulls away from Ryan's touch, turns and looks at him. Ryan looks ghostly in the eerie blue glow of the microwave's display.
"I fucked it up before," Ryan says. "I'm...that's what I do, Spence. I fuck things up all the time."
Spencer reaches out and slides his fingers through Ryan's hair, pulls him forward and kisses him because he can't not. He doesn't even care if all Ryan wants is to get off, which is mostly why he's so angry. He hates that he'll just give in, knows he'll give in every time.
Ryan backs him up against the counter and shoves his thigh between Spencer's. Spencer groans into Ryan's mouth and grinds against him, can feel Ryan's cock hard against his hip.
"Not fucking with you," Ryan whispers when they part. Then he drops to his knees and God, oh, God, he's going to--
Spencer gasps at the first touch of Ryan's mouth on his cock. Then he bites down on the heel of his hand because it's the best thing ever. Ryan's mouth is perfect, hot and slick and tight and Spencer can't look away, can't do anything but stare at how Ryan's lips look stretched around his cock. Spencer's hips jerk forward and Ryan gags, pulls back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Spencer's this close to begging Ryan not to stop when Ryan takes a deep breath, wraps his fingers around the base of Spencer's cock, and leans in to try again.
Spencer stops biting his hand, slides both hands over Ryan's head and down to his shoulders. He bites his lower lip hard, though, because the sounds that want to come out of his mouth would wake his entire family.
"This OK?" Ryan asks after a while, sounding out of breath.
"Fuck," Spencer whispers, stroking Ryan's hair. "Fuck yes." He's so close, even more so when he sees the angle of Ryan's right arm, sees that he's got his hand in his sweats and is jerking himself off while sucking Spencer's cock. He means to give a warning, but there isn't time. Immediately, he's coming hard, coming into Ryan's mouth. Ryan jerks back and coughs and Spencer keeps coming across the side of Ryan's face and his neck and his shoulder.
"Sorry," Spencer gasps.
Ryan laughs and wipes at his face. "It's all right," he says, and he's smiling up at Spencer and still stroking his cock and Spencer has to drop to his knees right that second and kiss him hard.
"Do you want me to?" he asks as he wraps his fingers around Ryan's cock. "Because I'll, if you want me to suck it--"
"This is good," Ryan whispers. He presses his face against Spencer's throat, breathes shakily and digs his fingers into Spencer's biceps. "Good," he whispers again. "Just like, fuck, Spence," and then he's coming over Spencer's hand.
Spencer tips his head, presses his forehead against Ryan's as he keeps stroking him through it, keeps stroking until Ryan shudders and puts his hand on Spencer's forearm to get him to stop. Spencer slides his hand over Ryan's hip, strokes along the bony crest with his thumb.
"I can't believe you just jizzed all over my face," Ryan whispers, laughing softly.
"I can't believe you just sucked me off in my kitchen."
Ryan kisses him quickly, then stands and pulls Spencer to his feet. They hurry up the stairs back to Spencer's room. Once the door's shut behind him, Spencer stops and takes Ryan's wrist in his hand.
"Ryan," he whispers. He doesn't know what to say, how to ask it, how to figure out what whatever they just did means.
"Tomorrow," Ryan says. He pulls out of Spencer's grasp and strips off his t-shirt, pushes down his sweats. "Can we talk tomorrow?" he asks. He sprawls across Spencer's bed, slides naked beneath the covers.
Spencer tries to say no, but he's weak-kneed and tired and he really, really wants to be pressed up along the length of Ryan's warm body. He pushes off his pajama pants, takes off his t-shirt and barely remembers to lock the door.
They face each other in the bed, Ryan's back pressed to the wall. Spencer's still too close to the edge, though, so he moves forward and pulls Ryan to him. Ryan's skin is damp with the barest sheen of sweat. He huffs softly when Spencer's hand strokes over his ribs.
"Ticklish?" Spencer asks softly.
Ryan nods. His fingers stroke gently over Spencer's cheek and mouth and Spencer can't help but to close his eyes.
"I won't screw it up this time," Ryan tells him.
"OK." He doesn't know if it will be, but there's nothing he can do but take Ryan at his word. He slides his hand around to rest in the middle of Ryan's back, pulls him forward a little more so he can feel Ryan's breath on his neck, closes his eyes and falls asleep to the feeling of Ryan's fingers sliding gentle back and forth over his hip.