Bandom fic, Brendon/Spencer, "Trust me on the sunscreen"
For the most lovely ericaplease, for her birthday. She is the best friend I could ask for, and she is also very fond of nagging me about sunscreen. ;)
Beta by the fabulous fiddleyoumust. Ty bb! <333
ILU2, ERICA SUE~~
“You remember that song? The one that was like, spoken-word poetry or something? It was about sunscreen.” Brendon is possibly - OK, no, Brendon is definitely - drunk. He’s got an intent look on his face, like it really matters whether Spencer remembers some song that was popular when they were in middle school.
The fact is, Spencer does remember it because Ryan was pretentious in middle school, too, and thought the sun rose and set on Kurt Vonnegut’s ass. Spencer had taken a twisted sense of delight in telling him it was actually by a writer for the Chicago Trib. Ryan didn’t believe him until Spencer dragged him to the library and found a copy of it on microfilm.
“I remember,” Spencer says, tipping his head so he can see Brendon out the corner of his eye, sprawling across a lawn chair. He has to squint to see, sun-dazzles flickering bright yellow-orange-red in his vision like fireworks around Brendon’s face. “What about it?”
Brendon waves a hand, fingers slipping out of the shade he insisted on setting the chair in. “Sunscreen,” he says, and Spencer thinks he should have cut him off before that last Corona.
They sit for another five minutes, and Spencer watches the clouds through his lashes. Brendon swings his leg and hums snatches of some of the new stuff they’ve been working on, and it's obvious that he's not going to finish his thought.
“So, what about sunscreen?” Spencer says, voice a lazy drawl. He might be a little drunk too.
Spencer turns his head again, liking the feeling of heat seeping into the skin under his jaw, and watches as Brendon pushes himself to his feet, tilting like a slow-spinning top until he grabs the back of the chair and gets his feet under him. Brendon has a tendency to pace when he’s lecturing, and Spencer smiles and settles in for the show.
“One in three, Spence” Brendon says, “that’s how many white people get skin cancer.” He holds up his hand with all four fingers out then folds down his pinky and nods to himself. “You get what that means?” He touches the tip of each finger, staring at Spencer to make sure he’s making his point, and stops on his index finger, looking up and saying, “This could be you. This could be you with a horrible cancerous growth.”
Spencer tries not to roll his eyes too hard. “I’m not going to get cancer, Brendon."
Brendon steps along the line between where his patch of shade ends and the sunlight begins, heel-toe heel-toe, like he’s doing a sobriety test. He’s still got his three fingers up, but now they’re wobbling through the air as he waves his arms and tries to balance.
"You could, though," Brendon says, "and then where would I be. I'd have to find a new drummer. That would suck. Plus, Ryan would be a total bitch."
Brendon makes it back to his chair without falling over, but he almost goes down when he gets there. He catches himself on the arm and flails around on the ground for a minute before he comes up triumphantly with a bottle.
Spencer has some vague thought about how silly a sunburn would look on just one side of his neck, so he turns his head the other way. He doesn't need to see Brendon to get the gist of his schpiel.
Brendon doesn't say anything for long enough Spencer almost turns back to look, but the urge to do that is drifting further and further away, sailing on a wave of warm sun and good beer. He's dozing when he feels something slimy drip onto the back of his hand, and he blinks at the feel of whatever it is slipping over his wrist. There's pressure sliding up and down his arm, and when Spencer's eyes focus he sees Brendon's hand all covered in sunscreen. Brendon's biting his lip like it's brain surgery, switching to little circles as the sunscreen gets worked in, pushing up under the sleeve of Spencer's Zeppelin T-shirt where there's not any sun anyway.
"Brendon, what are you doing?" Spencer's nose wrinkles at the fake coconut smell.
There's no answer besides the sound of Brendon getting more sunscreen, and then his other arm is getting the same treatment. The hairs on Spencer's arm get pushed forward and back as Brendon rubs, and Spencer's eyes start getting heavy again. Brendon's fingers drift up to Spencer's neck, and Spencer gives in and lets his head fall forward. His shoulders and neck have been sore for a couple of days, ever since that long day in the studio, and Brendon's thumbs dig in with the perfect amount of pressure.
Brendon laughs, a tispy, happy giggle, and keeps working sunscreen into Spencer's neck and tension out of it. He switches to slow strokes up into the edge of Spencer's hair and around behind his ears, fingers sliding over the thin skin down to his throat and under the neck of his shirt, across his collarbones and back to work on his shoulders some more.
"I can't be friends with a redneck," Brendon says as he tugs at the collar of Spencer's shirt, and Spencer snorts and shakes his head just a little. He feels too lazy to do more than that.
Spencer thinks Brendon's done when he takes his hands away, but the sunscreen bottle smacks into the one of Spencer's hands that doesn't have a beer in it, and Brendon says, "OK, now do your legs."
The fake coconut smell is overwhelming now, and Spencer really doesn't want to put his beer down, but Brendon's got his hands on his hips, and he's a stubborn drunk. Spencer sets his beer close to the leg of his chair so it won't spill and tries to get it over with as quickly as possible. He hates the greasy feel of sunscreen on the palms of his hands, and he wipes them on his shorts as soon as he's done.
"Now your face," Brendon says, tugging on Spencer's wrist and moving to put more sunscreen in his hand.
Spencer pulls his hand away and shakes his head, says, "No, Brendon. It smells gross, and I'd probably get it in my eyes or something. It's fine."
Brendon huffs, and Spencer's about to roll his eyes again when Brendon grabs his shoulder and swings a leg over his lap. Brendon sits across his knees and snaps a finger, says, "Gimme some sunscreen, you big baby," and Spencer sighs and squirts some on his fingers.
"Close your eyes," Brendon says, leaning close and breathing Corona and Doritos into Spencer's face. As soon as Spencer's eyes close, Brendon is at work, smoothing greasy gloop down Spencer's nose, over his cheeks, across his forehead. Spencer sits still as long as he can, but Brendon's heavy for a little dude, and he has to move his knees side to side a little to relieve the tension.
Just as Spencer is wondering if Brendon's planning on getting up, or if he's just going to camp out on Spencer's lap for the rest of the day, Brendon says, "OK, all done. You can open your eyes."
Spencer goes a little cross-eyed with how close Brendon is, and before he can do more than start to lean back, Brendon ducks in and presses a kiss on the end of Spencer's nose and manages to wiggle off Spencer's lap without falling on his ass.
Brendon is grinning, and Spencer rolls his eyes. He's trying to frown, but it's kind of difficult; he got a neck rub, and Brendon's starting to go pink over the bridge of his nose -- he was sitting in the shade, so he didn't bother with sunscreen. Spencer is a big fan of irony. "I will hate you until the day I die," he says, just so Brendon doesn't think he's getting away with something.
Brendon just tips his head and smirks, and says, "Well, at least you won't die of melanoma," and he only trips a little bit over the four syllables.
Beta by the fabulous fiddleyoumust. Ty bb! <333
ILU2, ERICA SUE~~
“You remember that song? The one that was like, spoken-word poetry or something? It was about sunscreen.” Brendon is possibly - OK, no, Brendon is definitely - drunk. He’s got an intent look on his face, like it really matters whether Spencer remembers some song that was popular when they were in middle school.
The fact is, Spencer does remember it because Ryan was pretentious in middle school, too, and thought the sun rose and set on Kurt Vonnegut’s ass. Spencer had taken a twisted sense of delight in telling him it was actually by a writer for the Chicago Trib. Ryan didn’t believe him until Spencer dragged him to the library and found a copy of it on microfilm.
“I remember,” Spencer says, tipping his head so he can see Brendon out the corner of his eye, sprawling across a lawn chair. He has to squint to see, sun-dazzles flickering bright yellow-orange-red in his vision like fireworks around Brendon’s face. “What about it?”
Brendon waves a hand, fingers slipping out of the shade he insisted on setting the chair in. “Sunscreen,” he says, and Spencer thinks he should have cut him off before that last Corona.
They sit for another five minutes, and Spencer watches the clouds through his lashes. Brendon swings his leg and hums snatches of some of the new stuff they’ve been working on, and it's obvious that he's not going to finish his thought.
“So, what about sunscreen?” Spencer says, voice a lazy drawl. He might be a little drunk too.
Spencer turns his head again, liking the feeling of heat seeping into the skin under his jaw, and watches as Brendon pushes himself to his feet, tilting like a slow-spinning top until he grabs the back of the chair and gets his feet under him. Brendon has a tendency to pace when he’s lecturing, and Spencer smiles and settles in for the show.
“One in three, Spence” Brendon says, “that’s how many white people get skin cancer.” He holds up his hand with all four fingers out then folds down his pinky and nods to himself. “You get what that means?” He touches the tip of each finger, staring at Spencer to make sure he’s making his point, and stops on his index finger, looking up and saying, “This could be you. This could be you with a horrible cancerous growth.”
Spencer tries not to roll his eyes too hard. “I’m not going to get cancer, Brendon."
Brendon steps along the line between where his patch of shade ends and the sunlight begins, heel-toe heel-toe, like he’s doing a sobriety test. He’s still got his three fingers up, but now they’re wobbling through the air as he waves his arms and tries to balance.
"You could, though," Brendon says, "and then where would I be. I'd have to find a new drummer. That would suck. Plus, Ryan would be a total bitch."
Brendon makes it back to his chair without falling over, but he almost goes down when he gets there. He catches himself on the arm and flails around on the ground for a minute before he comes up triumphantly with a bottle.
Spencer has some vague thought about how silly a sunburn would look on just one side of his neck, so he turns his head the other way. He doesn't need to see Brendon to get the gist of his schpiel.
Brendon doesn't say anything for long enough Spencer almost turns back to look, but the urge to do that is drifting further and further away, sailing on a wave of warm sun and good beer. He's dozing when he feels something slimy drip onto the back of his hand, and he blinks at the feel of whatever it is slipping over his wrist. There's pressure sliding up and down his arm, and when Spencer's eyes focus he sees Brendon's hand all covered in sunscreen. Brendon's biting his lip like it's brain surgery, switching to little circles as the sunscreen gets worked in, pushing up under the sleeve of Spencer's Zeppelin T-shirt where there's not any sun anyway.
"Brendon, what are you doing?" Spencer's nose wrinkles at the fake coconut smell.
There's no answer besides the sound of Brendon getting more sunscreen, and then his other arm is getting the same treatment. The hairs on Spencer's arm get pushed forward and back as Brendon rubs, and Spencer's eyes start getting heavy again. Brendon's fingers drift up to Spencer's neck, and Spencer gives in and lets his head fall forward. His shoulders and neck have been sore for a couple of days, ever since that long day in the studio, and Brendon's thumbs dig in with the perfect amount of pressure.
Brendon laughs, a tispy, happy giggle, and keeps working sunscreen into Spencer's neck and tension out of it. He switches to slow strokes up into the edge of Spencer's hair and around behind his ears, fingers sliding over the thin skin down to his throat and under the neck of his shirt, across his collarbones and back to work on his shoulders some more.
"I can't be friends with a redneck," Brendon says as he tugs at the collar of Spencer's shirt, and Spencer snorts and shakes his head just a little. He feels too lazy to do more than that.
Spencer thinks Brendon's done when he takes his hands away, but the sunscreen bottle smacks into the one of Spencer's hands that doesn't have a beer in it, and Brendon says, "OK, now do your legs."
The fake coconut smell is overwhelming now, and Spencer really doesn't want to put his beer down, but Brendon's got his hands on his hips, and he's a stubborn drunk. Spencer sets his beer close to the leg of his chair so it won't spill and tries to get it over with as quickly as possible. He hates the greasy feel of sunscreen on the palms of his hands, and he wipes them on his shorts as soon as he's done.
"Now your face," Brendon says, tugging on Spencer's wrist and moving to put more sunscreen in his hand.
Spencer pulls his hand away and shakes his head, says, "No, Brendon. It smells gross, and I'd probably get it in my eyes or something. It's fine."
Brendon huffs, and Spencer's about to roll his eyes again when Brendon grabs his shoulder and swings a leg over his lap. Brendon sits across his knees and snaps a finger, says, "Gimme some sunscreen, you big baby," and Spencer sighs and squirts some on his fingers.
"Close your eyes," Brendon says, leaning close and breathing Corona and Doritos into Spencer's face. As soon as Spencer's eyes close, Brendon is at work, smoothing greasy gloop down Spencer's nose, over his cheeks, across his forehead. Spencer sits still as long as he can, but Brendon's heavy for a little dude, and he has to move his knees side to side a little to relieve the tension.
Just as Spencer is wondering if Brendon's planning on getting up, or if he's just going to camp out on Spencer's lap for the rest of the day, Brendon says, "OK, all done. You can open your eyes."
Spencer goes a little cross-eyed with how close Brendon is, and before he can do more than start to lean back, Brendon ducks in and presses a kiss on the end of Spencer's nose and manages to wiggle off Spencer's lap without falling on his ass.
Brendon is grinning, and Spencer rolls his eyes. He's trying to frown, but it's kind of difficult; he got a neck rub, and Brendon's starting to go pink over the bridge of his nose -- he was sitting in the shade, so he didn't bother with sunscreen. Spencer is a big fan of irony. "I will hate you until the day I die," he says, just so Brendon doesn't think he's getting away with something.
Brendon just tips his head and smirks, and says, "Well, at least you won't die of melanoma," and he only trips a little bit over the four syllables.