RE-UPLOAD: Further Down the Road
Re-upload thanks to stupid hackers who can't keep their dirty paws to themselves. It would rock if you could update your links.
(Originally posted: 2008-05-08)
New fic, I guess!
PG-13; ~7,000 words; Ryan/Spencer (implied: Brendon/Jon, Ryan/Pete)
Disclaimer: Totally did not happen.
Excerpt:
>> The sketch of a full moon is sitting next to yesterday’s date, and twenty-eight days, Spencer thinks. Twenty-eight days. He could be wrong, of course, but… He doesn’t know why it makes a twisted kind of sense mostly because it’s Ryan, but it does. <<
(Thanks to inderpal for prodding me. Otherwise, I probably never would have done anything with this.)
===================================
Further Down the Road
________________________________________
The first time it happens, Ryan is sixteen and Spencer is fifteen.
It starts gradually, over the whole course of a quiet evening. They spend most of it on their stomachs in Spencer's room, fingers flying over the controllers of some video game Spencer won't remember later on. Spencer's mom occasionally comes in to check on them, worried eyes flying to the bruise around Ryan's left eye that Ryan refuses to acknowledge with so much as a touch. He seems fine.
Fine, if a little bit cold, and Spencer revels in the knowledge that no matter what Ryan's dad is going to throw at him, Ryan will be fine because he has Spencer and Spencer's family, always.
“Boys,” Spencer's mom says from the door, “I think it's time you head off to bed. Ryan, do you want me to make you a hot water bottle?”
Ryan, whose shoulder has been quietly trembling against Spencer's, looks away from the screen and smiles, earnestly but a little too small, too shy. “That would be wonderful, Ginger. Thanks so much for...”
“Oh, shut up.” Spencer's mom laughs, but Spencer can hear the underlying hint of worry in it. “You know you're always welcome to stay here, for as long as you want.”
“You're not the one who has to fall asleep with his sharp elbows and knees,” Spencer says. He looks up at his mother, but throws an arm around Ryan's shoulder despite the truth of Ryan's sharp bones. He supposes they kind of balance each other out: Ryan could use a bit more weight to soften his sharp edges, and Spencer could lose some of his so that his arms and stomach don't look quite as soft.
He tightens his hold around Ryan's shoulder, drawing him closer because Ryan is almost shaking, tiny, out-of-control jerks of his body. “You okay?” Spencer whispers, as soon as the door is closed again.
“Just cold,” Ryan says.
“Sure?”
Ryan's teeth start chattering, but he presses his jaw shut and nods against the crook of Spencer's neck.
--
Hours later, Spencer wakes up to the bed quivering with Ryan's suppressed shudders. A faint glow of moonlight is trickling in through a gap in the curtains, and Spencer rolls around to find that the clock on his bedside table shows a red twelve and two ones behind the colon.
“Ryan?” he breathes, almost lost in the darkness.
Ryan mutters something and moves closer, his arm cold under Spencer's palm, too cold to be entirely healthy, and, “Shit,” Spencer says, sitting up. “Do you want me to like, get my mom?”
“No,” Ryan says, the protest quick and a little scared, almost. “Just, keep touching me, please. It’s, your hands, they're warm.”
“Where's the hot water bottle?” Spencer asks, but he shifts closer anyway and slings an arm around Ryan.
“At my feet. Not helping.” Ryan turns into him, tucking his face against Spencer’s collarbone. He sighs, his breath ghosting along Spencer’s throat. His nose is cold. “This is, though. Helping.”
“Okay,” Spencer says. He slips his hands underneath Ryan’s t-shirt and starts rubbing slow circles into his back. It seems to soothe Ryan’s shudders, but that could be just wishful thinking on Spencer’s part. “Better?” he asks.
Ryan nods into the hollow of his throat.
“Maybe you should get rid of the shirt,” Spencer suggests. He realizes what that sounded like and blinks into the dark room, the shapes of the furniture turned new and frightening by the absence of light. “Skin contact, right? That’s what they always do in, like, movies and stuff.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, and when he pulls away, Spencer has a frightened second when he thinks that this might be not okay (although really, Ryan’s the one who said it helped, so). Then he realizes Ryan’s pulling his shirt over his head, the rustle of cloth soft in the darkness. Okay, Spencer thinks, and moves to discard his own shirt.
The moment he lies back down, Ryan rolls into him, practically wrapping his too-cold body around Spencer. It’s a weird sensation, weird because Spencer is slightly cold everywhere their skin touches, and overheated everywhere it doesn’t. He stares at the ceiling and is glad that the night hides his flushed cheeks.
“Thanks,” Ryan mutters.
“Better?”
Ryan’s mouth drags along Spencer’s Adam’s apple. “Better,” he says. “Go to sleep.”
“You think you’ll be able to?”
“I’m,” Ryan shifts against Spencer’s side, his chest pressed against Spencer’s arm, “not that cold anymore.”
“Good,” Spencer says. He turns, enough for his arm to rest loosely around Ryan’s shoulders, and the skin under his hands really doesn’t feel quite as icy as it did. Good.
It’s probably only minutes until Ryan’s breathing settles into a regular rhythm, a steady rise and fall of his chest against Spencer’s side. It’s probably hours before Spencer is able to relax as well, relax and stop dreading the harsh light of the next day.
--
If Spencer expected anything to change, he is sorely disappointed. Or relieved. He’s not entirely sure, really.
--
It’s exactly four weeks later when it happens again. Spencer knows this because the first time has been noted in his calendar with a red exclamation mark and, after a moment’s thought, a question mark behind it, and then a red circle around both.
Ryan’s not staying over this time. Instead, Spencer is woken by a soft tap against his window, and he doesn’t think anything of it because Ryan’s done that before, whenever things got really bad at home. He’s not usually shaking, though. He’s not usually huddled up in a winter jacket in late spring, arms wrapped around himself to stop shudders that he still can’t quite hide.
The moon casts an eerie, white-blue glow over Ryan’s figure. Spencer’s bedside clock shows three in the morning.
He opens the window, and Ryan climbs in, shaking all over. It’s hard to tell who moves first, but it takes less than three seconds for Ryan to clutch Spencer to him, shiveringshakingshuddering, and Spencer has to coax him to loosen his hold so he can strip Ryan down to his underwear and ease both of them onto his bed, under the covers.
It takes much longer for Ryan’s skin to warm up this time. Spencer falls asleep to clammy skin and feather-light puffs of breath against his cheek, occasional shudders still rippling along Ryan’s spine.
--
Spencer moves aside to give Ryan better access to the fridge, their hips bumping. “Next time it happens,” he says around a spoonful of cereal, “don’t wait so long until you come to me, okay?”
“Next time?” Ryan says. He glances up from the milk, fringed hair partly hiding the scared expression in his eyes.
Spencer points his spoon at the calendar his mother put up on the kitchen door, one of those big, glossy ones that comes with pictures and additional information. The sketch of a full moon is sitting next to yesterday’s date, and twenty-eight days, Spencer thinks. Twenty-eight days. He could be wrong, of course, but… He doesn’t know why it makes a twisted kind of sense mostly because it’s Ryan, but it does.
“Twenty-eight days,” he says.
“That’s.” Ryan shakes his head and puts the milk back into the fridge, his shoulders drawn up a little. “Spence, that’s not… I don’t think this is going to become a regular… thing.”
“Okay,” Spencer says. “Just, next time it happens, don’t wait so long, okay?”
Ryan nods.
--
Twenty-eight days later, and the moon is full and bright. Ryan starts shivering sometime after sunset.
They head to bed early, the chilliness of Ryan’s skin dispensing within a few short minutes, and when Spencer wakes up, they’re so tangled around each other he can hardly free himself to go to the bathroom. He returns to find that some of the coldness has crept back into Ryan’s body, but it melts away easily under Spencer’s hands.
--
After that, things sort of settle into a pattern.
--
It’s on the evening of a full moon when they make Brendon their singer. Brendon, who has many siblings and little pocket money, invites them all to the shabby diner just around the corner from their practice space. Most of the place is already occupied by regulars and their beer and loud conversations, as well as by a few sallow-skinned loners in an alcoholic coma.
Their little group of four sticks out like a sore thumb, and they squeeze into a booth in the back that is actually too small for all of them. Since Ryan is starting to shiver with the first shocks of coldness, Spencer is grateful for the excuse to sit close.
“Chicken,” Brendon says, tapping his fingers against the sticky tabletop. Above his head, an old lamp is humming ominously, almost loud enough to drown out the unsteady stream of other people’s conversations. “I want chicken wings,” Brendon continues, “and French fries, and lots of ketchup, like, a river of it, and some mayonnaise, too. And, like, curry.”
“Are you done yet?” Ryan asks.
“And salad,” Brendon announces. “With corn. And a dressing that has no lemons, because I really hate those sour dressings that make your toes curl.”
“Feel free to provide us with even more details,” Ryan says, deadpan. Brent grins and turns a yellowed page of the menu, his hair shielding half of his face.
Spencer curls his hand near the dip of Ryan’s spine. “Careful there,” he tells Brendon. “There might be some actual vitamins still alive in that salad of yours. Don’t want you to die from a vitamin shock.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, shifting closer to Spencer’s touch. “It would kind of suck, having to find a replacement singer so soon after we appointed you.”
Brendon sticks out his tongue at both of them.
“Ouch.” Spencer puts his free hand over his chest. “That hurt. I am deeply wounded by the sheer sparkling wittiness of your comeback.”
Brendon’s reply (“Yeah, well, your mom-”) is cut short by the appearance of the waitress, a middle-aged woman in tired, dirty-gray sneakers who juggles a cigarette, a notepad and a pen all in one hand. Spencer is vaguely impressed. “What do you want?” she asks, voice harsh, and whoa, yeah, the news of this being the age of customer service don’t seem to have reached this particular diner.
“Chicken wings,” Brendon exclaims, beaming.
“Are out,” she says, in a bored tone. It might be an accident, but her smoky exhalation hits Brent square in the face, and he blinks and lowers the menu. Ryan glances at Spencer, just a flickering connection of their gazes for a split second.
“You’re not out of French fries, are you?” Ryan asks.
“Speak up, boy.” She fixes him with dispassionate eyes, setting the notepad down on the table as she leans forward. Cigarette smoke curls around her hand. “I can’t hear you if you’re mumbling like that.”
Spencer brushes his hand along Ryan’s back and manages to smile up at the waitress. (Terry, the nametag states.) “Thanks so much,” he says, his enunciation exaggerated, voice raised to carry. “But I think that in this case, we’re going back to my grandmother’s. I’m pretty sure there still are some chicken wings in the freezer, and hey, maybe it’s even the same brand as the ones you serve. When you’re not out of them, that is.” His smile widens and probably resembles the one his father throws at Jehovah’s witnesses when they try to sell him the Watchtower.
Her shrug is kind of anti-climatic, but whatever. Spencer rises to his feet, and Brendon and Brent follow smoothly, Ryan two steps behind. On their way out, they hear one of the regulars order chicken wings. Terry nods, her smile revealing smoke-yellowed teeth, and jots it down on her notepad.
--
“You know,” Ryan says, muffled because his shirt is tangled somewhere between his arms and his forehead. “You don’t have to protect me all the time, Spence. I can look out for myself, you know?”
Spencer fluffs the pillow and watches out of the corners of his eyes. “I was just looking for an excuse to get out of there,” he says. “So Brendon wouldn’t spend his money on us. It’s, I mean, he has little enough of it as it is, right?”
“Oh.” Ryan frowns, then he nods and smiles. Shadows are collecting under the ridge of his collarbone. “Okay.”
--
Brendon’s parents kick him out on a Sunday, just after a church service he refused to attend. It seems weirdly ironic to Spencer, but he doesn’t think Brendon’s parents would see it that way. He also doesn’t think Brendon would, at least not when he shows up on Spencer’s doorstep, a suitcase beside him and his face older than Spencer remembers it. Maybe he will, years from now.
“Oh, Bren,” Spencer says, and it’s apparently all the invitation Brendon needs to collapse against him, bury his face against Spencer’s neck. When Spencer’s mom appears in the doorframe of the kitchen, Spencer is stroking Brendon’s back and making quietly soothing nonsense noises. He exchanges a desperate glance with his mother.
‘Waffles?’ she mouths. Spencer nods and thinks that he really, really loves his mom. He’s a teenage boy, so he’s obviously got more dignity than to tell her. But, still. Between Ryan and Brendon, Spencer knows that he got inordinately lucky, so lucky that he never quite feels as if he really deserves it.
--
Brendon is looking for apartments in between school and working shifts at the Smoothie Hut. In the meantime, though, he’s staying at Spencer’s place because anything else is just out of the question.
Sharing a bed with Brendon is entirely different from sharing a bed with Ryan. On normal nights, Ryan is a very quiet sleeper, curled into himself on one side of the bed, taking up about as much room as a tiny kitten would. Brendon, on the other hand, sprawls all over the bed, limbs flailing. He also hogs the covers, and, once asleep, nothing short of excessively rough treatment will make him wake up before his body is satisfied with the amount of sleep it got.
Which is why, when Ryan climbs in through the window on Brendon’s third day, Brendon doesn’t even stir. The moon hangs bright and heavy behind Ryan’s head, making him appear smaller than he really is.
The next morning, Spencer wakes up to Brendon’s inquisitive stare. Brendon is propped up on one elbow, watching Spencer over Ryan’s head, and Spencer loosens his grip around Ryan’s bare waist and clears his throat. “It’s not-“ he begins.
Brendon shakes his head, voice barely above a whisper, highly unusual for someone who can’t do anything quietly. “It’s okay,” he says, and the smile touches his eyes. “Really, you don’t have to explain anything, okay? I’m, like, happy for you guys.”
Spencer somehow doesn’t find the words to dispel that misconception. He supposes it’s not that important, anyway. So he shrugs and things still feel normal when they go look at another apartment just after breakfast.
It’s shitty, but not as shitty as some of the others were, and it’s somewhat close to the Hut and not too far from their practice space. Spencer secretly calculates that it’s a bit beyond Brendon’s limit. He draws Ryan into a quiet corner of the only actual room, Brendon’s voice ringing clear from the bathroom, and Ryan’s eyebrows draw together and he tilts his head.
“You sure?” he asks, a whisper that won’t reach Brendon or the landlord.
“Six months, tops,” Spencer says. “I don’t think he can afford it any longer, even if he uses up his savings.”
“Shit.” Ryan glares up at the broken light bulb above the kitchenette. Then he squares his shoulders and gives Spencer a smile, beautiful and glittering around the curling tilt of his mouth. “Okay. Then we’ll just have to make sure that those six months are enough for us to get somewhere.”
--
Two weeks later, Pete Wentz e-mails Ryan that he’s coming down to see them play.
--
Ryan calls shortly after eight, his voice quiet and hushed, with a hint of awe to it only because Spencer knows him so well. “Spence,” Ryan says. Spencer can hear the rush of water on the other end of the line, then the echo of a slamming door, and it sounds as if Ryan ducked into a public restroom, maybe crouching down low, head tilted back against the wall to keep himself steady.
Spencer gets up from the couch, leaving Jackie to watch an awful teen flick that drowns in bright colors, an MTV video on speed. “Ryan?” he asks into the receiver, leaning back against the closed kitchen door.
“Spence,” Ryan repeats. “Pete is, he’s taken us out to dinner, Brendon and me, and I think he,” catch of breath. “I think he wants to sign us.”
Spencer inhales deeply. “He said so?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Okay, wow, yes. The kitchen seems brighter suddenly, the light somehow more golden than yellow. “Don’t sign anything yet, though, okay? We need to make sure he’s not, you know. Screwing us over on the contracts.”
“We won’t,” Ryan says. And then, quietly, “Spencer. We’re…”
“I know,” Spencer says, and he blinks and something in his chest expands, soaring. “Ryan, I know. We… Yeah. Call me as soon as you can, okay?”
“Of course,” Ryan says, as if the thought of not doing it surprises him.
Spencer stands grinning for long minutes afterwards, but when Jackie looks up at his entrance, eyes questioning and blue-white with the reflection of the movie, he shakes his head and sits back down. He’s not ready to talk about it just yet. Mostly because he’s not even sure he believes it himself.
--
Spencer sits up almost all night, listening for a call that doesn’t come. When Ryan finally does call, shortly before noon, Spencer has dozed off into a fitful sleep, still waiting, in a way. The ringing cuts straight through a dream in which last night’s new moon somehow turned into an eclipse, the edges of the black circle sharp and painfully bright with a re-emerging sun.
“He still wants to sign us,” Ryan says, as soon as Spencer has managed to locate the receiver. “He just left, and Spence, he wants to sign us, he does.”
Spencer breathes out through his nose and presses the receiver closer to his ear, cold and hard in his hands. “He stayed the night?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, and then, “What?”
Spencer shakes his head even though Ryan can’t see. “Nothing,” he says.
--
They never talked about girlfriends except for in a vague, off-handed way.
(“So, you and Jess, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess, I mean. Yeah. Backseat’s kind of uncomfortable, though. Like, tight fit. But, you know. Good.”
“Well, good for you, then.”
“Yeah.”)
They never talked about girlfriends, so they don’t talk about Pete, either. The surprising part is that Spencer actually really wants to ask. He doesn’t, of course.
--
Spencer doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. In fact, he didn’t even know Ryan and Brendon were holed up in that little music room right next to the vending machine until Brendon’s voice, low and angry, drifts out into the corridor. “You’re kind of an asshole,” Brendon says. Spencer pauses in his efforts to get the machine to accept his 50 cent and shifts closer.
He’s not going to intervene, he tells himself. Brendon and Ryan are fighting half the time and bonding over music the rest of it, and the recording process has all of them slightly unbalanced, patience wearing thin. Maybe Brendon and Ryan need to get their issues out of the way, and Spencer’s not going to intervene. Unless bodily harm is happening.
“What are you talking about?” Ryan asks, and he sounds genuinely surprised.
“Pete?” There’s a clattering sound, as if Brendon were kicking at something metallic. “Seriously, Ryan, you’re fucking Spence over for Pete? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like Pete, but just, what, Ryan?”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, “what? What the fuck, Brendon?”
“I saw you,” Brendon says, words a rush. Spencer’s fingers clench around the 50-cent-piece. “I fucking saw you kissing him, Ross, so don’t even try-“
“I’m not trying to deny anything. Just, what’s me kissing Pete got to do with anything?”
There’s a pause, and Spencer notices that the edge of the coin cuts into his palm. Then Brendon says, less certain now, “But, I thought you and Spence were…”
“Spencer’s straight,” Ryan says.
“Oh,” Brendon says, and oh, Spencer thinks.
“Yeah.” Ryan’s monotone sounds almost normal, no noticeable difference to anyone who doesn’t know him very well. Spencer does, but just this once, the underlying hint of… of something remains a mystery to him.
Brendon clears his throat. “I thought… Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, “well. No.” And then they’re both chuckling, Brendon’s more a bright giggle, Ryan’s a low, slightly chocked sound, as if he doesn’t quite dare letting it out. Spencer quietly retreats, leaving the machine to itself. He doesn’t really feel like coke anymore, anyway.
--
It’s sometime during the first half of their tour (their tour, Jesus fucking Christ) when Spencer opens his calendar, thumbs through the days until the sketch of a full moon greets him - and realizes that he’s looking forward to it, practically thrumming with anticipation.
That night, he gets drunk on the Academy bus for the first time in his life and ends up spilling his guts to a tech guy he doesn’t even know by name.
--
He wakes up in a bunk he doesn’t recognize, with the sharp stab of a headache sitting low in the base of his skull. He promises himself right then and there that he’s never drinking again. Like, ever. And he’d add an exclamation mark, if the mere thought wouldn’t make his head throb.
The curtain is pulled open from the outside. Spencer supposes someone heard his groan and is coming to check whether he’s dying in here. It sort of feels like he’s dying. But if he were dying, the light spilling in from the bus aisle wouldn’t make him go cross-eyed and clutch his head. Probably. Spencer’s not really experienced in dying matters, but, um, yeah.
“How’re you feeling?” a voice asks. It’s a nice voice, friendly and easy-going.
Spencer squeezes his eyes open, just a little, peering at the face of the tech guy from last night. Well, he thinks, shit. Because now that he’s sober (more sober), he actually recognizes him as the guy who seems to have attracted Brendon’s unguarded fascination; also as the guy Ryan has had frequent conversations with recently, both of them with their heads bent low over guitars. Jon, Spencer remembers, and he remembers it mostly because his stomach gave an unhappy churn when Ryan casually dropped the name in the middle of a conversation.
Jon is still watching him with open friendliness in his eyes, waiting for a reply.
“Pretty shitty,” Spencer says.
A quiet laugh. “Can’t say I’m surprised. You were pretty wasted.”
“Not used to it,” Spencer says.
“Yeah, I kinda figured. I thought you Panic boys were all straight-edge, and then you go and surprise me by downing four beers in half an hour. Not bad for a first try.” Jon smiles lazily, sitting down on the edge of the bunk, and Spencer notices that it’s the one on the bottom. Since there are no pictures on the wall, he assumes it’s an empty one that has been let to him for the night. Someone also must have dressed him down to his boxers and t-shirt, which, yes, nice.
“Listen,” he says, “about what I told you…”
“Don’t worry about it.” Jon’s voice is mild and doesn’t add to Spencer’s headache, which is a miracle in and of itself. Jon procures a glass of water and aspirin from somewhere. “I’m not going to tell anyone, all right?”
After a moment’s contemplation, Spencer accepts the glass and smiles a tight smile, the effort making his stomach turn. “Thanks,” he says, “I appreciate it.”
“As I said, don’t worry.” A pause that has Spencer calculating the hour while he swallows the pill down with most of the glass’ contents. There are no windows, but the bus isn’t moving yet and the sound of people asleep in their bunks hangs in the air, so it’s probably still early. Maybe early enough that Ryan hasn’t even noticed…
Spencer swings his legs over the edge, coming to sit next to Jon. His head is throbbing, but the pain is manageable. Spencer thinks he might even deserve it. “I should probably get going,” he says.
Jon nudges him. “Stay as long as you want.”
“Yeah, no, it’s just. They might notice I’m gone, so.” Spencer bends down to scoop up his clothes from the floor. “You know,” he finishes lamely.
“Have you thought about just telling Ryan?” Jon asks, out of the blue, surprising Spencer into dropping his sweatshirt. Clearly, he was wrong about Jon’s friendly smile and his trustworthiness.
“No,” he says, as much finality to the word as he can manage right now. Which is less than usual, maybe.
Jon doesn’t get the hint, so he’s probably dumb, or deaf. “I’m just saying that he might not mind at all, you know?”
“No,” Spencer says, “I don’t. And also, I’m not stupid. You think I’m going to ruin years of- no. It’s just a phase, okay?”
“Okay.” Jon shrugs, but his eyes show that he doesn’t believe it. Fucker.
“Thanks for last night,” Spencer says, buttoning up his pants, slipping into his shoes. He leaves Jon sitting on the bunk, expression thoughtful, and wonders why he feels like he’s running.
--
Ryan isn’t awake when Spencer quietly slips in through the door. He’s asleep on the couch in the lounge, Brendon wrapped around him like a comfortable blanket. Brent is nowhere to be seen, which seems to be happening more and more often.
When Spencer tries to escape to the bunks, Ryan slants his eyes open. Spencer stops dead in his tracks. A pause, then Ryan pushes himself up into a half-sitting position, Brendon’s hold trapping him against the back of the couch. “Where were you?” he asks into the suddenly awkward silence.
Next to him, Brendon stirs, grumbles and, rolling over, ends up on the floor. He blinks up at the ceiling for a good two seconds. Then he shakes his head, hair sliding over the carpet.
“Hi,” Spencer says gratefully, stepping forward until his face must appear in Brendon’s line of sight. He reaches out a hand, but Brendon just grins and rolls over onto his stomach.
“I just has the weirdest dream ever,” he announces. “Ryan’s pick was magic and could open locks, so I went around stealing bikes.”
“What did you do with them?” Ryan asks, sitting up properly. His hair is messed up, flat on one side and sticking up in little tufts on the other. The imprint of a cushion circles his left cheek. Spencer collapses next to him on the couch, his headache mostly evaporated by now.
“I rode them, of course,” Brendon says. He raises a brow. “I mean, duh.”
Spencer tucks his head against Ryan’s shoulder, yawning. “All of them?”
“I didn’t steal that many,” Brendon says. “Only, like, four. And if you’re cuddling up there, I want in.”
Ryan’s arm slips around Spencer’s waist, fingers splaying along Spencer’s hip, warm and comfortable. “You,” Ryan tells Brendon, “are the peanut gallery. You don’t get cuddles.”
“Okay, that’s it, move over. I’m coming up.” And that’s what Brendon does, wiggling in between Spencer and the armrest, folding his legs over both of their laps. His grin is happy in the morning light, eyes bright.
“Welcome,” Ryan says, voice flat, “to the madhouse.”
Brendon leans forward to peer past Spencer’s nose. “Bet you’d be the evil nurse.”
“He’d look good in a white nurse dress,” Spencer says. Ryan’s fingers tighten on his hip, a warning of a tickling attack in the near future.
“White is so not my color,” Ryan says, “and besides, I’m clearly the one flying over the cuckoo’s nest. Soaring above you, ‘cause that’s where I belong. A tiny dot in the sky, and you’ll have to crane your necks to see me.”
“Like a vulture?” Spencer asks.
“Like an eagle,” Ryan corrects.
Brendon starts humming softly, and with Ryan’s arm around his waist and Brendon’s energy quivering against his side, Spencer thinks that maybe this is the essence of happiness. There’s no need for more.
--
Jon catches up with him between soundcheck and the show, casually joining them in the dressing room. “I think you forgot this,” he says, and holds out a paper bag for Spencer to take.
Spencer stares blankly.
“This morning,” Jon supplies. “When you left our bus, I think you forgot this.”
The bag is filled with muffins in all variations - chocolate and cranberry, vanilla. “Did you bake these?” Spencer asks, something like awe in his voice, and probably on his face, too.
“Well, no.” Jon scruffs a flip-flop-clad foot against the floor. “I bought them in a coffee shop, just outside the venue.”
“Marry me?” Spencer asks, sorting through the pile of baked goods.
Briefly, Jon’s gaze flickers to where Ryan is sprawled on the couch, eyes closed, absently strumming his guitar. Then Jon grins and shrugs. “Only if we name it after Frank Sinatra.”
Brendon comes out of the bathroom, bouncing over to peer over Spencer’s shoulder. “Oh my god,” he exclaims. “Jon Walker, are these muffins, did you bring us muffins?” At the word ‘muffins,’ Ryan’s head snaps up, eyes flying open.
“You have to ask Spencer to share,” Jon says, but he’s already reaching into the bag for a chocolate-flavored one. Brendon makes grabby hands, skipping forward, beaming. After a second’s resistance that doesn’t fool Spencer in the least, Jon hands the muffin over.
--
Probably because his mind is still a bit busy freaking out, it takes Spencer another three days to notice that the next full moon falls on Thanksgiving.
--
“Maybe,” Ryan says, and he looks like he’s trying very hard to believe it himself, “it won’t be so bad. I’ll get through it, you know?”
“No.” Spencer shakes his head, firm. They’ve never been in this situation before, never had to find a solution because Spencer was always there when it happened, so it was never really that much of a problem. Ryan wouldn’t have trusted any of his girlfriends with this either way, he’s stubborn like that, but… “Brendon,” Spencer says.
“Brendon?”
“Brendon.”
Ryan seems to consider it. “He’ll freak out.”
“He won’t.” Spencer leans forward, places one hand on Ryan’s forearm. “Brendon’s more mature than we give him credit for most of the time. He’ll deal. And you trust him. We trust him.”
Ryan looks down at Spencer’s hand on his arm, then up at the wall, staring at the refrigerator for a few blank seconds. “Okay,” he says, eventually.
--
Brendon calls shortly after midnight, sounding frantic, out of his depths. “It’s not working,” he says. “We’re, I’m trying, Spence, I’m trying to hold onto him, but it’s not working and he’s shaking all over and what do I do?”
“It’s not working?” Spencer asks, dumfounded. He switches his phone from one ear to the other and thinks, fuck.
“No, no, it’s not, and Spence, fuck, what do I do?”
“You’re both… You’re skin to skin, right?”
“Of course,” Brendon answers, rushed. “Down to our boxers, but it’s just. Not helping.”
“Okay,” Spencer says, breathing carefully. “Put Ryan on the line, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” The sound of shuffling, then Ryan’s voice, stuttering through the chatter of his teeth.
“Spence?”
“Ry, what are you…” Spencer sighs and lies down on his bed, stares up at the ceiling and vaguely wonders since when he has felt like a stranger in his own room. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing, I don’t know. I…” A shaky exhalation. “Spence, I…”
“I’ll be there tomorrow, Ry. Afternoon. Do you think…” Spencer swallows. “Do you think it will stop in the morning? Do you think you can make it that long?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan says, and Spencer’s not sure which question he’s answering to.
“Tomorrow, Ry. Try to sleep, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Spencer says, even though it’s not. “Pass me Brendon again?”
“Tomorrow,” Ryan says, like a promise, and then Brendon is back with a breathless,
“Yeah. Spence?”
Spencer stares at the bedside clock until the red numbers are starting to blur. “Get Jon,” he says. “You and Jon, can you. Just. Try to hold him, okay?”
“Okay,” Brendon whispers, unusually solemn. “We’ll… We’ll do our best until you get here, yeah.”
“Thank you,” Spencer says. He rolls over onto his side, cheek on the back of his hand and tries to think past the scared noises in his brain. Brendon is making soothing sounds on the other end of the line, directed somewhere else, but Spencer is grateful all the same. He clears his throat. “Do you think it will help if I talk to him?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” Brendon says without a moment’s thought. “Yes, definitely, I think.”
“Okay.” Spencer nods into his pillow. “Then, um. Pass me Ryan, yeah?”
--
Spencer falls asleep in the middle of telling Ryan about his sisters’ shared crush on a guy who works at the food market around the corner. He has dark-brown hair and silent eyes and looks a lot like Ryan, even down to the tight girl pants. Spencer dreams about him because when he wakes up, dark hair and silent eyes are flashing behind his lids.
The phone is dead on his pillow, out of battery.
--
Ryan is waiting at the airport, and he’s not shivering, but he’s dressed in much warmer clothes than Jon and Brendon, who flank him on both sides. The moment Spencer makes it out of the barrier, he’s assaulted by a furious bundle of Ryan.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” Ryan whispers against the side of Spencer’s neck. “Leave me. Don’t you dare, Spence.”
“I didn’t know,” Spencer protests.
“Well.” Ryan pulls away, putting his hands in his pockets, glaring faintly. “Now you do. So.”
The next second, Spencer is swept up in Brendon’s embrace and Jon’s lazy pat on the back. Looking back hours later, once he gets away from the madness that is family dinner at the Wentz’ household, Spencer thinks that maybe he missed part of the conversation. That there may have been more to it than his sleep-deprived brain could grasp at the time.
--
Ryan and Pete are as affectionate as ever, but Ryan doesn’t spend the night in Pete’s bed. Spencer isn’t sure what to make of that.
--
Then the tour sweeps them up again, and Spencer stops trying to figure it out because Brent is slowly moving away from them, further and further. It’s a new pattern, a frightening one: Brent sleeps until they’re almost at the venue, then he disappears and returns shortly before soundcheck, and sometimes even late for it.
Spencer knows he’s not the only one who noticed; he can read it in the tight line of Ryan’s shoulders and the occasional strain around Brendon’s mouth. They don’t mention it, though. If they don’t talk about it, it’s not happening.
--
Less than thirty minutes to the show, and Brent is nowhere to be found. Brendon has been running laps around the dressing room, dashing out to get more sugar from a vending machine down the hall. Ryan, on the other hand, has withdrawn into himself, curled up in a corner of the couch with his eyes closed and his right hand tight around his left wrist.
Spencer manages to catch Brendon around the waist, and he marches both of them over to the couch, jostling Ryan out of his reverie. “I think,” Spencer says, and he hates the way his voice bounces off the wall, too harsh and cold, “we need to talk.”
“He’ll show up,” Brendon says. He doesn’t sound as if he means it anymore.
“He probably will,” Spencer says, “at least this time. But maybe not next time, or the time after that.”
The moon is not even halfway full, but Ryan shivers and burrows closer. His hand finds Spencer’s, and Spencer laces their fingers.
“We need to talk about this,” he says.
Brendon exhales on a helpless sigh and tips sideways, swaying into both of them, his hand ending up on Ryan’s knee, his face against Spencer’s chest. “Fuck,” he mutters, breath warm.
That’s how Jon finds them, maybe half a minute later. “Guys,” he says softly, closing the door, protecting them from the outside world.
Spencer looks up. “Did you find him?”
Jon looks conflicted, as if he wants to say yes, then he shakes his head, just once. Ryan groans and places his chin on top of Brendon’s head. Somehow, Spencer’s arms fit around both of them, and after a moment, Jon approaches carefully and sits down on the edge of the couch. Brendon tugs him closer immediately, and the shift takes some of the weight off Spencer’s thighs.
“Jon,” Spencer says, almost not audible. “You know our songs, don’t you?”
Jon glances up from Brendon’s face and nods, but doesn’t say anything.
--
Brent makes it back roughly ten minutes before they’re supposed to go on.
--
The show sucks. Too much tension in the air, too much fury around the seams, and Brendon skips around most of the stage, but steers curiously clear of Brent’s space. Ryan turns around to assure himself of Spencer’s presence much more often than he usually does. Spencer drums until his wrists hurt and his chest aches a little less than before.
Afterwards, Ryan hauls Spencer away before Brendon even manages to remove his earplugs. “Ryan,” Spencer says, because Ryan’s fingers are cutting off blood circulation. “Ryan, what?”
“Nothing,” Ryan says, turning around suddenly. They’re away from the main hall now, away from the commotion of people hurrying this way and that. The floor is grey and dirt-stained, and Ryan checks the corridor before he pushes Spencer up against the wall and kisses him. Just like that.
After a few incoherent moments of blinding questions, Spencer’s brain shuts down and he starts kissing back. Their mouths, he thinks blindly, their mouths are still closed, so technically it’s not making out. They can still blame this on nerves and frustration later on because they’re not making out, technically. Making out implies tongues.
He grips Ryan’s shoulders, more desperate than anything else. Ryan makes a throaty noise, twists closer, and Ryan’s mouth parts a little.
Spencer stops thinking.
--
They hear Brendon calling their names seconds before Brendon rounds the corner. By the time he does, they’re standing a foot apart, panting and staring at each other. Ryan looks as helpless as Spencer feels.
“The show sucked,” Brendon declares, slumping against the wall next to Spencer. He seems oblivious, but there’s a quick, thoughtful glance at both of them from beneath his lashes. So, maybe not.
It’s just Spencer’s luck that it’s a full moon tonight.
--
They get ready for bed in silence. Brent is sleeping on the Academy bus, which is a whole different matter, and Spencer tries not to watch the shift of Ryan’s stomach muscles when he tugs the shirt over his head.
“Night, guys,” Brendon calls from his bunk, above theirs. It sounds muted.
“Night,” Ryan says back, and, “Sweet dreams,” Spencer calls. Yeah, right.
Ryan crawls under the covers, the first hint of shivers already creeping up his arms. Spencer joins him, switching the light off, and his hand finds Ryan’s waist with practiced ease. After less than a second, Ryan rolls into him, cooling Spencer’s skin everywhere they touch. “Just so you know,” Ryan says, “I’m not sorry.”
Spencer reflexively tightens his hold. “You’re not?” he asks.
“No.”
“I’m…”
Ryan props himself up on his elbows, looming above Spencer like a dark shadow. “If you tell me that you are sorry,” Ryan says calmly, “I’m going to hit you. Because I don’t think you really are.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Spencer says. He squints at Ryan’s face and wonders how much Brendon can hear, but he doesn’t care, not really. “It’s just, it’s… It’s us.”
Ryan lies back down, covers rustling. “I know,” he tells Spencer’s shoulder, lips brushing bare skin.
Spencer swallows, staring up at the dark ceiling. “This is going to change so much.”
“You really think so?” Ryan asks.
“I don’t know.” Ryan’s back feels cold under Spencer’s palms, so he starts massaging circles into the skin, slow and thoughtful. Ryan’s chest is pressed against his upper arm, and their hips are touching.
“I don’t think it would change anything important,” Ryan says.
Spencer turns onto his side and kisses him. Not rushed this time, not frustrated or furious. Just a soft brush of mouths, a test, and it’s as natural as breathing and as exciting as standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down. Which, okay. Cheesy. He exhales through his nose and turns fully, wrapping both arms around Ryan, and in the darkness, Ryan isn’t shivering anymore and his skin feels warm and familiar under Spencer’s palms.
Like maybe this has been with them all along, implicit in every touch, and it just took Spencer a long time to realize.
=== finis ====
Um. I don’t even know. Just. *shrugs*