sweater vests
Same 'verse as Looking For Techniques.
Some days it's easy. Spencer wakes, meets Ryan for breakfast. He goes to classes and takes notes while his professors talk. The material they're covering makes just enough sense that he can follow along, but not enough that he still remembers most of it by the end of the day. He goes to the library, goes to the common room, goes to the coffee shop down the street. When he sits down and opens his books up again, the rows of text are still legible. The tea he makes is steeped and sweetened just enough. He sits at a table by himself, or a table with others. He makes conversation when he runs into someone he knows, and they laugh at his attempts at humour, or he laughs at theirs. He goes to bed tired and falls asleep promptly.
And then some days Spencer wakes and he walks up the hall, instead of down it and towards the dining hall. He knocks on Brendon's door and Brendon answers, and Spencer leaves the door open, standing in the hallway while he waits for Brendon to finish getting ready.
Or he doesn't go to Brendon's room, but something reminds him of Brendon anyway. Something in class, maybe, or nothing at all. But Spencer blinks and realizes that minutes have passed and he hasn't written anything. He crosses his legs and hopes that no one can see the way the fabric of his trousers is bunching. He blinks again and the clock still says the same time it did when last he check, for time has come to a stop even though the professor keeps talking, even though Spencer still hasn't written anything down. He remembers a smell or a taste or the sound Brendon made, his lips hovering near Spencer's ear, while Spencer kissed down his neck.
He goes somewhere else, somewhere crowded, and tries to read the textbook to make up for what he didn't learn in class. The book sits in front of him and his eyes stare off somewhere else. Everyone in the coffee shop is chattering, everyone in the library is whispering, but when someone comes up to his table -- "Oh, hey, have you done problem set five yet?" or "What did you think of the class on Thursday?" or "I think there's a concert in town on the weekend, were you thinking of going?" -- Spencer has nothing to say.
He spaces out and gets nothing done and counts the hours until dinner. Dinner is the marker that divides up his day, because people tend to roam around less after dinner. It's safer to close the door to Brendon's bedroom after dinner. Or he doesn't go to Brendon's room, and it's safer to close the door of his own. Brendon's hands pushing Spencer's door open, carefully, always, like he's still not sure if he'll be allowed in, so he's going to wait for permission.
Or Brendon doesn't come to Spencer's room, and Spencer is stuck there by himself, and he wonders what Brendon is doing, if Brendon's in his own room, or if he's gone out somewhere else. If Brendon would be there if Spencer walked over. Worse than staying alone in his room all night is when he walks to Brendon's room and finds that he's not there.
He tries to study, or he doesn't bother even trying, or he goes to bed and means to sleep, and regardless, he ends up pushing his trousers down over his hips and licking his hand wet. It takes him longer to come than he might have thought it would, because he's more immersed in the thoughts in his head than the slick twist of his hand. He thinks of stupid things and boring things, and things that he'd never tell anyone. He's never been naked with Brendon, but he wants to see what Brendon looks like doing this. What Brendon would look like on Spencer's bed with his pants on the floor and his hand on his dick. It's a weird thing to want, certainly nothing he could ever ask for: Brendon on display, letting Spencer see him like that. Spencer doesn't take his own clothes off when he does this, just pushes material out of the way and tries to catch the mess in a tissue. Spencer doesn't even take off his own clothes, but he wants to take off Brendon's.
It takes him longer to come than he might have though, but when he thinks of untying Brendon's tie, pulling off his sweater, undoing the buttons of his shirt. Of sliding off Brendon's trousers and his underwear and undershirt and socks, and of Brendon's skin, of his bare skin, when he thinks of that, he comes.
Some days it's easy. Spencer wakes, meets Ryan for breakfast. He goes to classes and takes notes while his professors talk. The material they're covering makes just enough sense that he can follow along, but not enough that he still remembers most of it by the end of the day. He goes to the library, goes to the common room, goes to the coffee shop down the street. When he sits down and opens his books up again, the rows of text are still legible. The tea he makes is steeped and sweetened just enough. He sits at a table by himself, or a table with others. He makes conversation when he runs into someone he knows, and they laugh at his attempts at humour, or he laughs at theirs. He goes to bed tired and falls asleep promptly.
And then some days Spencer wakes and he walks up the hall, instead of down it and towards the dining hall. He knocks on Brendon's door and Brendon answers, and Spencer leaves the door open, standing in the hallway while he waits for Brendon to finish getting ready.
Or he doesn't go to Brendon's room, but something reminds him of Brendon anyway. Something in class, maybe, or nothing at all. But Spencer blinks and realizes that minutes have passed and he hasn't written anything. He crosses his legs and hopes that no one can see the way the fabric of his trousers is bunching. He blinks again and the clock still says the same time it did when last he check, for time has come to a stop even though the professor keeps talking, even though Spencer still hasn't written anything down. He remembers a smell or a taste or the sound Brendon made, his lips hovering near Spencer's ear, while Spencer kissed down his neck.
He goes somewhere else, somewhere crowded, and tries to read the textbook to make up for what he didn't learn in class. The book sits in front of him and his eyes stare off somewhere else. Everyone in the coffee shop is chattering, everyone in the library is whispering, but when someone comes up to his table -- "Oh, hey, have you done problem set five yet?" or "What did you think of the class on Thursday?" or "I think there's a concert in town on the weekend, were you thinking of going?" -- Spencer has nothing to say.
He spaces out and gets nothing done and counts the hours until dinner. Dinner is the marker that divides up his day, because people tend to roam around less after dinner. It's safer to close the door to Brendon's bedroom after dinner. Or he doesn't go to Brendon's room, and it's safer to close the door of his own. Brendon's hands pushing Spencer's door open, carefully, always, like he's still not sure if he'll be allowed in, so he's going to wait for permission.
Or Brendon doesn't come to Spencer's room, and Spencer is stuck there by himself, and he wonders what Brendon is doing, if Brendon's in his own room, or if he's gone out somewhere else. If Brendon would be there if Spencer walked over. Worse than staying alone in his room all night is when he walks to Brendon's room and finds that he's not there.
He tries to study, or he doesn't bother even trying, or he goes to bed and means to sleep, and regardless, he ends up pushing his trousers down over his hips and licking his hand wet. It takes him longer to come than he might have thought it would, because he's more immersed in the thoughts in his head than the slick twist of his hand. He thinks of stupid things and boring things, and things that he'd never tell anyone. He's never been naked with Brendon, but he wants to see what Brendon looks like doing this. What Brendon would look like on Spencer's bed with his pants on the floor and his hand on his dick. It's a weird thing to want, certainly nothing he could ever ask for: Brendon on display, letting Spencer see him like that. Spencer doesn't take his own clothes off when he does this, just pushes material out of the way and tries to catch the mess in a tissue. Spencer doesn't even take off his own clothes, but he wants to take off Brendon's.
It takes him longer to come than he might have though, but when he thinks of untying Brendon's tie, pulling off his sweater, undoing the buttons of his shirt. Of sliding off Brendon's trousers and his underwear and undershirt and socks, and of Brendon's skin, of his bare skin, when he thinks of that, he comes.