Want Only One Thing | Spencer/Brendon | PG-13 | ~8860 words | Holiday!fic | drawn_to
Want Only One Thing
Spencer/Brendon | PG-13 | ~ 8860 words | Holiday!fic.
It's months and months after the Panic! split, and Spencer is stressed, :( He just wants to make sure everything goes okay for the band. And for Brendon.
I wrote this for sunsetmog for the drawn_to fic exchanged. I tried to get many of the things from your prompt (with varying degrees of accuracy and success), so, ummm, fingers crossed. Big ♥ to you, bb! I really hope that you like this.
HUGE thanks to queen_geek for all of her help while I was writing this. I wrote some of this while sitting on her couch and eating fresh gingerbread cookies as she baked them-- THAT is support, :D. Thanks for the beta as well!
Thanks also to harriet_vane for helping me brainstorm. And thanks to foxxcub for running this!
"That felt more final than I thought it would," Brendon says. "We've been split up for like, what, six month now? Or like eight, I think?"
Spencer shrugs. "It's been a while."
"Yeah, a while. So I don't know why this makes it feel any different."
"They're with a new record label now, officially. We just signed like fifty billion different legal documents figuring out how we're going to split royalties for the rest of eternity and promising not to use any of Ryan or Jon's lyrics on our new CD."
"We were never going to use their lyrics; that was the whole point of--"
"I know," Spencer says. They've been over this so many times, rehashing it again and again in the week leading up to the appointment with the lawyers. It seems so late to be doing this, heading in to the office at the end of November when they've already spent all summer and fall writing songs, but they're getting close to being able to release the CD and Ryan and Jon finally got a record contract, so there they were.
"Don't you think it feels final?"
"I guess," Spencer says. He clears his throat then lifts his hand and says, "You parked over there. I want to stop for food on the way home."
"You're hungry?"
"It's after four," Spencer says. "That's close to dinnertime."
"Okay," Brendon says. He walks quickly and his sneakers skid along the pavement when he takes a sharp right turn. "What do you want to eat?"
--
Brendon parks the car and heads straight for the basement, where they've got the music room set up.
Spencer takes the bag of Chinese food into the kitchen and methodically spreads out the cartons over the table. He's not actually hungry, but he makes himself a plate anyway and spends the next half an hour trying to pick the sprouts out of his chow mein. Normally he doesn't care so much, but it's something to do and it keeps his hands busy.
The music coming from downstairs is faintly audible and if he listens hard Spencer can just make out the song that Brendon's playing. Brendon's been stuck on the bridge for three days now and it's been driving him crazy. They're close to being done, so fucking close, with most of the tracks already laid down and just a few left to do. Next week will be the last of their time in the studio, post production is in the new year, and then they'll be done and Spencer will be able to sleep again.
The thing about splitting up the band is that it's all going to be worth it if their new CD is awesome.
He finishes his plate, minus the pile of sprouts, then eats sweet and sour chicken balls out of the carton until his stomach feels like it's going to burst. There are still a few pieces of chicken left over so he puts them onto a new plate along with a few spoons from every other carton on the table. Brendon doesn't mind if his food gets all mixed together so Spencer doesn't try to keep them in separate piles. He grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge and carries it and the place down to the music room.
Brendon's sitting with his guitar, picking out a melody with painstaking precision.
"Food," Spencer says.
"Thanks."
"You got it figured out?"
"No," Brendon says. "Maybe. I don't know. Can I play it to see if it sounds okay to you?" He rubs his hand down the neck of his guitar.
"Will you remember it?" Spencer asks.
"Yeah. I've got it written down."
"Eat first then."
Brendon puts his guitar down reluctantly, but he tears into the plate when Spencer passes it over.
--
It's after three before they turn out the lights in the music room and walk slowly up the stairs. Brendon has a pink spot on his forehead where he keeps rubbing his fingers over his skin and he blinks more than usual.
"I don't know if that works or not," Brendon says.
"It works," Spencer says.
"Maybe it's not the right place for a key change."
"We'll listen again in the morning."
Brendon nods. He says, "Night, Spence," and turns down the hallway towards the master bedroom.
"Night," Spencer says. He pauses when he gets to the door of his own bedroom, backtracking so that he can grab his laptop.
They record all their attempts at songs, just shitty demos but they're all right there on Spencer's computer. It's dumb, but pulling up the folder and seeing the list of songs makes him feel better. He clicks on the most recent one, plugs in his headphones and sits at the kitchen table, listening to it again and again.
He thinks it sounds okay, even on repeat. The space behind his eyeballs throbs but he can't bring himself to shut off the computer, even though he knows all the songs will still be there when he turns it back on again. Even if it doesn't sound okay, they're going to be showing it to the producer next week; he can give them suggestions. They're not completely on their own, even though, sitting at the kitchen table, the rest of the house dark and quiet, Spencer feels alone.
*
Spencer wakes the next morning when Brendon calls him for breakfast. They don't always eat together, but Brendon made enough scrambled eggs for two.
He yells, "They're going to get cold," when Spencer doesn't come right away.
It takes a few tries before Spencer can get his tongue to work. It's after ten, but Spencer has only had a few hours of sleep.
"So keep them on the stove," he finally manages.
"Then they'll get dry," Brendon calls back.
Spencer stumbles into the kitchen and sits down at the table.
"I had a new idea while I was falling asleep last night," Brendon says. His mouth is full but he's only spewing eggs a little bit. "I wrote it down. After this I'm going to go make sure it sounds okay outside of my head."
"Okay," Spencer says. It takes him a few tries to spear the eggs with his fork. "Good. Great, Brendon."
Brendon nods, pausing his chewing briefly to take a huge bite of toast.
"I think I've got it," he says, his forehead wrinkling. "Hopefully it sounds okay."
"You want me to come down with you?" Spencer asks.
"Yeah, just give me a minute first to try it out."
Brendon finishes his plate and carries it to the kitchen before dashing down the stairs.
The frying pan has eggs burnt onto the bottom so Spencer scrubs it clean and does the rest of the dishes to give Brendon time. There are some more things from the lawyer to go over, or maybe it's something from their manager. Spencer isn't even sure anymore because the piles of paperwork that he wants to double-check multiply every time he looks away. He knows that they've got people who check over everything, but he wants to see it himself, just wants to make sure. He's not very good at understanding the legal jargon so it takes him a long time.
Soggy eggs swirl in the bottom of the sink when Spencer pulls the stopper out of the drain. He'll try to get through another ten pages today and all of his emails. He told their manager and agent to forward everything to him but it turns out that's a lot of emails.
Bogart noses at Spencer's ankles. Spencer knows that Brendon would have fed him in the morning, but still he reaches under the sink for the bag of dog treats.
"Sit," Spencer says, waiting for Boggart to comply before giving him the biscuit. Boggart eats the treat, his little tail wagging furiously. Spencer tries to force his shoulders to relax. He bends over and scoops up the dog, who wiggles as Spencer holds him to his chest but not so much that Spencer has to let him go. Spencer dips his head as he hugs Boggart, takes a long slow breath before setting the dog back on the ground, then walks downstairs.
*
"Hey," Brendon says softly.
Spencer turns around, wincing as his back cracks loudly.
"Hey."
"What are you doing?" Brendon asks.
"Just emails and stuff," Spencer says.
"You going to bed soon?"
"Yeah. Pretty soon."
"Okay," Brendon says. His shirt lifts up as he reaches to scratch the back of his neck. "I think today went okay."
"It was good," Spencer agrees. "I like the stuff we finished."
"I think it's okay," Brendon says. He's tanned but the skin of his inner arm is lighter than the rest of his arm.
"It is," Spencer says. He sounds confident. Each time he tells Brendon that they're doing good, that the songs sound good, that it's all going to work out, he sound so confident. And he is. When he says it, he means it. It's just the sick feeling that's inside his stomach and tight along his shoulders and sharp at the back of his throat.
"We should take some time off," Brendon says. "Decorate the house or something."
"Neither of us is going to be home for the holidays," Spencer points out.
"No, but I don't leave until the eighteenth," Brendon says. "We could have some stuff up in the meantime. We don't have to do a full on Christmas tree or anything. You're not heading home until later in December, right?"
Brendon moves his hand away from his neck and rests it flat on his chest, just above his belly, his fingers smoothing out his t-shirt before stilling.
"Right," Spencer says. "Yeah, sure we can put some stuff up. Lights, maybe. For outside. We could buy a timer or something. My parents used to do that: put the Christmas lights on a timer so that it still looked like someone was home if we were going to be away from the holidays."
"That's a good idea," Brendon says. "Shane'll be around a bit to get the mail and stuff. Once he and Regan get back from seeing her folks."
Spencer nods. "But just as another thing. Do we have any lights?"
"I don't think so," Brendon says.
"I'll grab some tomorrow," Spencer says.
"Okay." Brendon uses the back of his other hand to rub at his eyes. "What are you doing again? Do you need help with anything?"
"Just finished up. Go to bed," Spencer says. "I'll shut down soon."
"You need more sleep," Brendon says, his knuckle digging into the soft skin under his eye.
Spencer snorts and gives Brendon a pointed look. Brendon functions on little sleep better than anyone else Spencer knows. And anyway, it doesn't matter how much Spencer sleeps because he can still never keep up with Brendon. He lost twenty pounds just by moving into Brendon's house and following him down to the beach each time he went surfing, but the end of the day found Spencer sprawled in front of the TV while Brendon got ready to head out of the night.
"You look tired," Brendon says, but he interrupts himself halfway through with a yawn.
"You look tired," Spencer says.
"Your mom looks tired," Brendon says. "And also you."
Spencer rolls his eyes, snaps his laptop closed, and says, "Night, Brendon." He waits until he hears the sound of Brendon's bedroom door close before he lifts the screen back up again.
He's got like five emails with the booking agent to read through and then he'll go to bed.
*
"Okay, but what ones are best?" Spencer asks, balancing four boxes of Christmas lights in his arms.
"It's kind of just-- what you like," the sales guy says, shrugging. He's younger than Spencer but that's no excuse for gross incompetence. Spencer glares for a minute before turning away.
He's decorated his house before, but Vegas was different than L.A. Everything's different here and Spencer finds himself suddenly paralyzed, trying to pick between different colors of bulbs.
Gritting his teeth with frustration, he looks at the boxes more carefully. Maybe if he'd remembered to eat breakfast before taking off this morning he would be having an easier time. He doesn't have anything difficult to do today, but he also doesn't have hours to spend staring at boxes of lights.
What the fuck ever, he'll just buy a whole bunch and then Brendon can choose. It's Brendon's house. Maybe he has a preference.
As he waits in the lineup, Spencer thinks of his old house in Vegas and feels briefly nostalgic. It wasn't better there and he doesn't miss Haley anymore. Truly doesn't miss her, in the real way where when he feels lonely lying his bed at night he doesn't even think of her. Just misses having another body close by. There was nothing better about Vegas, it's just that back then everything didn't feel so hard all the time.
--
Brendon looks surprised when Spencer comes home with four bags full of Christmas lights.
"It wasn't, like, an emergency," Brendon says. He's still wearing his pajamas. "If you'd woken me up we could have gone together."
"Whatever," Spencer says. "I had some stuff to do anyway."
"Shane's going to come over later," Brendon says. "Maybe we could get him to helps us hang them."
"Or maybe he'll film us while we try to hang them," Spencer says, because that's usually how it goes when they try to get Shane to do housework. "We can just save the lights for another day. It's still early in December."
"Yeah," Brendon says.
"What do you want to do about dinner?"
"Order something, I guess," Brendon says. "I still have to eat breakfast." He gives Spencer this weird look that's softened with a smile. "We can worry about dinner when it's actually time to eat."
"Yeah," Spencer says. "I know. I was just asking."
"Let's start with cereal," Brendon says, nudging Spencer with his shoulder until Spencer begins to walk toward the kitchen.
--
"I'm going to pack the bowl again," Spencer announces after investigating the bong. He dumps the ash onto a napkin and folds it up carefully, reminding himself to throw it away. Shane brought over a bag of really fresh stuff and it smells strongly, like earth and mint and pot, mostly like pot.
Brendon's lying on the floor and he keeps chuckling to himself, usually after an aborted attempted to share whatever hilarious thing he'd just thought of but sometimes completely randomly as well. They've got enough weed to stay pretty seriously stoned for the rest of the evening if they wanted to. Maybe they should stop after this, though. Spencer's cheeks feel numb.
His thumb, too, as he tries to flick the lighter. It's a cheap Bic one, and the metal won't turn. Or, it is turning but the fire won't come.
"Damn," Spencer says. He looks at the lighter and tries to figure out why it isn't working. He tries it again and again but the side of his thumb starts to hurt. His hands are callused from playing all the time, so he must have been flicking at the lighter for a long time. It didn't feel like a long time. He doesn't understand why he can't get it to work.
Brendon raises his head off the floor. Spencer opens his palm toward Brendon, showing him the lighter. He doesn't say anything, but Brendon wriggles onto all fours and crawls over, presenting Spencer with the lighter from his back pocket.
"Thanks," Spencer says. Brendon's lighter makes a little flame and Spencer ducks his head to take a toke. The water goes burble burble burble as he sucks and then he pulls out the choke and his mouth fills with smoke. His lungs were already full of air so he has to exhale quickly before he can get all of the smoke out of the bong. His throat burns like sharp and sore but not actually hot at all. It burns like pain but not like heat. That's so fucking weird.
"You have to be careful," Spencer says as he passes the bong over to Brendon. Like they haven't done this countless times before. It feels new right now. Spencer's body feels new. Brendon's hair is getting long. It falls in his eyes when he ducks down and sucks up smoke. The couch feels weird so Spencer slides down onto the floor beside Brendon. He can see Shane, his back turned to them, across the living room. Spencer's pretty sure that Shane is trying to alphabetize the stack of CDs.
"Makes more sense to do it by genre," says Spencer.
Brendon took another toke and he's holding the smoke in, his whole body still as he waits, so he doesn't answer. Spencer's voice sounds rough and he clears his throat.
Brendon exhales, pursing his lips and directing the stream off to the right. "That last one was rough," he says sympathetically, touching his fingers to the skin above Spencer's collarbones.
Spencer swallows before he remembers that Brendon will be able to feel the movement. Brendon's fingers are warm and he's careful when he touches, stroking lightly along Spencer's throat.
"Yeah," Spencer says, belatedly.
Brendon's fingers feel like tickling but not in the kind of way that is going to make Spencer laugh. Brendon's thumb rests just above the collar of Spencer's shirt.
"You should get some water."
"Right," Spencer says. Then, "Okay," and he pushes to his feet and walks to the kitchen. His feet take him there and once he's there his hands turn on the tap and fill up a glass with water. He drinks it slowly. It feels like it takes him a long time to walk back and maybe it does because when he gets back to the rec room, Shane is stretched out face down on the floor and Brendon is sitting beside him playing with the tips of his hair. Shane's hair is straightened but not very carefully and Brendon pulls on a curl.
Spencer walks over to the couch again, but, no, maybe he needs more water and he turns around and walks back to the kitchen.
--
"You still stoned?" Shane asks, coming up behind Spencer.
"Ah, no," Spencer says, looking up before he drops back down again, scooping up another t-shirt. Half of these are his and half are Brendon's, but they're all dirty so Spencer shoves them into the washing machine without bothering to sort them. "Just out of clean clothes."
He's not actually out of clean clothes, but after spending so much time on tour where that was a very real option, he's gotten a little more fussy with laundry. Brendon's house has a big washer and dryer, and it's easy to put on a load before bed. He just has to remember to check back to put it in the dryer.
He turns around, and Shane reaches up and passes Spencer the detergent, locating it easily on the cluttered shelf. Because this was Shane's laundry room. Because he used to live here. Spencer wonders if Brendon misses having Shane for a roommate.
"Are you?" Spencer asks as he fills the lid with detergent. "Still stoned?'
"I think I'm okay," Shane says. "We had another bowl after you left. We didn't use up all the pot though, don't worry."
Spencer turns around to give Shane a questioning look.
"You're all-- you know, about things running out."
Spencer shakes his head. "I don't know."
"You always want to make sure everything is taken care of. So, do not worry, the weed is totally taken care of."
Shane's eyes are bloodshot and he blinks really slowly, like he's still feeling it more than Spencer. But when Spencer says, "Okay... thanks?" Shane grins widely, and, yeah, it's Shane and he's kind when he has the chance to be and that's why they all like to have him around.
Spencer says, "Thanks," again, and shuffles forward, wrapping his arms around Shane in a quick hug. He pats Shane's back before pulling away, then pats him on the arm.
"I'm going to order pizza."
Spencer looks over Shane's shoulder, surprised to find Brendon standing in the doorway.
"Do you want some?" Brendon asks.
"Yeah," Shane says. "No mushrooms."
"No onions," Spencer says.
Brendon rolls his eyes. "I remember."
--
The pizza's okay except that the crust is too dry. Spencer ends up drinking through more bottles of beer than he meant to trying to wash it down, and by the time midnight rolls around, he's crashing.
"I'm'a call a cab," Shane says. "I'll come by and get the car tomorrow."
"You can sleep over," Spencer says, pointedly not making eye contact with Brendon even though he's tempted to check his response.
"It's cool, I'll cab," Shane says.
"'kay," Spencer says.
Brendon turns around and starts fussing with the sink full of dishes, so Spencer walks Shane to the door.
Once he's back in the kitchen, he stands beside Brendon and grabs a drying cloth.
"Let's just save these for the morning," Brendon says even though he's the one who started washing in the first place.
There's not that many but the dishwasher needs to be emptied first and Spencer's fingers are sluggish.
"You want another beer?" Brendon asks, and, sure, why not.
Brendon passes him a bottle and they stand in the kitchen, leaning back against the counters. The backs of Spencer's shoulders throb, an ache that settles low in his elbows. He tilts his head from side to side and his neck cracks.
"So," Brendon says.
That's the funny thing about them living together: even after everyone goes home, Brendon's still right there.
"Today was kind of a wash," Spencer says.
Brendon shrugs. "It's good to take a break sometimes."
"I guess." Spencer rolls his shoulders again.
"You okay?" Brendon asks.
"Yeah," Spencer says, stilling himself then exhaling slowly. "Just getting a headache."
"I can finish that for you," Brendon says. He wiggles his free hand towards Spencer's bottle of beer.
Spencer laughs and clutches the bottle closer to his chest. "Get your own."
"I've got my own. And then I'll also have yours."
"My head's not that bad."
"Good," Brendon says. "There's Tylenol in the medicine cabinet."
"I'll be fine," Spencer says. "I'll save it for the morning." He looks down at his beer, grimaces, then takes another sip. "I'm going to be feeling this."
"Yeah?"
"I don't know, maybe." Spencer takes another sip and tries to count how many beers he's had to drink. There's some formula to determine how hung over he's going to be based on how much he drank multiplied by how much he smoked, but he doesn't know what the magic number is. Someone should really figure that shit out.
And then he makes the point moot by asking, "Are you hooking up with Shane?" just as Brendon reaches into the sink to pull out the wash cloth.
"What?" Brendon asks, spinning around so quickly that he knocks one of the glasses onto the floor. It shatters, but he stares at Spencer instead of attending to it. "Are you hooking up with Shane?"
Spencer starts rolling his eyes, but Brendon's clearly not joking. Oh, ho, Spencer's not actually drunk enough for this conversation to be funny. Just drunk enough to start it in the first place.
"Shane's straight," Spencer says.
Brendon flaps his hand pointedly.
Spencer flaps back. Says, "I know, but--"
"But what?"
"I don't know." Spencer says, "It's you. And maybe that would-- change things for people. For some people. It might."
"Spence," Brendon says.
"So anyway," Spencer says, trying to tuck his bangs behind his ears. His hair is still too short and it just swishes forward again. "No one's hooking up with Shane."
"Except Regan."
"Except Regan," Spencer agrees. His spine feels looser now but in a way where he also feels dumb. Dumb and concerned that Brendon is going to cut his feet on the broken glass. "Don't move. I'll go get the vacuum cleaner."
"It's okay," Brendon says, immediately followed by, "ouch, crap."
Spencer winces, and says, "Just wait," but Brendon's always hopped his way clear over the broken glass.
"Ouch," he says again, touching his hand to the wall for balance.
"You cut?"
Ryan was always so cagey about letting anyone see his injuries, curling in to inspect the damage before he'd let anyone else get close. Brendon just twists around, steading himself as he lifts his leg up and presents his foot to Spencer.
"I'm going to recommend amputation," Spencer says. Brendon wobbles, and Spencer reaches for his ankle, helping to hold his leg up. Brendon's flexible and his leg lifts even higher under the pressure of Spencer's hand.
"I reject your diagnosis," Brendon says, wiggling his toes. "See, there's still movement."
"It's the last twitches of dying nerves," Spencer says. "Enjoy it while you can."
Brendon wiggles his toes again. Blood runs down the sole of his foot.
"I'll go get a Bandaid," Spencer says.
"Thanks."
Spencer comes back down the hallway and out of the corner of his eye sees Brendon sitting in the living room, his leg bent around at an odd angle as he holds a paper towel to the bottom of his foot.
"You okay?" Spencer asks, walking over.
"Yeah. Doesn't even hurt."
Spencer sits down beside Brendon and, after Spencer tilts his head, Brendon turns around on the couch, lifting his leg and balancing his heel carefully on Spencer's thigh. There's only a little spot of red and it probably doesn't even need a bandage, but Spencer starts peeling off the wrapper anyway. He presses the Bandaid to Brendon's skin, smooths his fingers over the plaster before running the tip of his finger over the arch of Brendon's foot. Brendon's toes clench, but he doesn't move away.
Spencer wraps his hand around Brendon's foot, running his thumb over the smooth skin at the centre of the sole.
He looks over at Brendon, and even though Brendon's relaxing with his face resting against the side of the couch, Spencer offers, "I think I'm kind of drunk."
"s'okay," Brendon says. He shifts and brings his other foot onto Spencer's thigh as well. "Me, too."
Brendon's feet are just cooler than room temperature, even though his skin is usually noticeably warmer. When Spencer starts rubbing along the skin just under Brendon's toes, Brendin sighs loudly and wiggles on the couch, making himself more comfortable.
Spencer rubs Brendon's feet until he can feel his eyes getting heavy, heavier, too heavy to keep open, and then he gives himself a little shake. Brendon makes a sleepy noise and moves his feet away when Spencer stops rubbing. They stand up slowly and make their way down the hall and towards the bedrooms.
Spencer says, "I'm setting my alarm for ten-thirty so that we can get some stuff done tomorrow," and Brendon says, "Yeah. Okay. I'll see you then."
Spencer closes the door to his bedroom and presses his palms together.
*
The song's almost done, but Brendon gets an idea about adding cellos, and then they have to go back to one of the earlier songs because Spencer realizes he's used the same rhythm leading out of the bridge in two different songs and he needs to rework one of them, and then there's the reworking of lyrics for that song that they never actually finished the chorus of, and December keeps marching along.
"So you're not coming home this weekend?" his mother asks.
Spencer rubs at his eyes with his free hand, holding the phone to his ear with the other. "We're just going to try to hammer out these last few songs. I'll be home before Christmas, though. Just a little later than I thought."
"You work so hard," his mother says.
"It's my job."
"And you're doing really well."
"You haven't heard the songs yet."
"Spencer," his mother says. "You're doing good. I've heard the demos. Everything's going to be okay."
His mother hasn't heard the songs and Spencer knows the demos were mostly shit, but he says, "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Mom," and means it.
He says goodbye and tucks his phone back in his pocket, looking up when Brendon walks out of the recording booth.
It's still early but Brendon says, "That's it for today."
"Seriously?" Spencer asks. "What about--"
Brendon shakes his head. "I'm getting hoarse, man. I need a break. Rob's working on an arrangement to show us for tomorrow; we're done here."
The collar of Brendon's t-shirt is loose and hangs lower on one side. Spencer can see the line of Brendon's collarbone, the smooth skin at the hollow of his neck.
Spencer stands and tries to shake the tension out of his back, sore from too much time spent in the studio, too long in front of his computer, just-- sore.
"I'm going to put up the Christmas lights when we get home," Spencer says, holding the door for Brendon. And then maybe a hot bath.
--
"Blue around the window? No, the white ones. Or, no, we should have the blue along the side of the house and the Christmas colors in the front."
"Why'd you buy so many different lights, anyway?" Brendon asks, shaking another string free.
"We don't have to use them all."
"Don't have to use them all," Brendon says, scoffing. "The fuck we don't have to use them all. Can you come here and hold the ladder for me?"
"Give me the lights," Spencer says. "You've got to put the clips on first. I'll pass them to you one at a time."
"'kay," Brendon says.
He makes his way up to the top of the ladder, grabs hold of the side of the house with one hand and reaches down with the other. Spencer passes one of the plastic hooks up and Brendon sticks it onto the side of the house.
"This is going to take forever," Brendon says, three clips later.
"Be careful," Spencer says as Brendon reaches forward, the ladder wobbling. His palm digs into the metal as he tries to hold the ladder still, his other hand curving around Brendon's calf, not that that'll do much good.
"I've got it," Brendon says. "I'm okay."
"Yeah, yeah," Spencer says, passing another clip up. "Come down now, we have to move the ladder."
--
"That's pretty fucking sweet," Brendon says.
Hours later and it's dark outside, but the house is bright. Colorful. Brendon's got sweatstains on his t-shirt, and he beams at Spencer, looking back and forth between Spencer and the house.
"Pretty fucking sweet," Spencer says.
They got lazy and wrapped four strings of lights around the railing leading up to the entrance way of the house, and the lights don't match, don't work with any color scheme, but it's bright and cheerful. It looks like a place that Spencer is glad to come home to.
"I've got to take a picture of this," Brendon says, fishing his phone out of his pocket. "Show my Mom."
Brendon holds up his phone and snaps the picture, humming happily to himself. He looks over and asks, "You okay?" when he sees Spencer rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah," Spencer says. "Just stiff."
"That's serious business, right there," Brendon says. "Hanging up all those lights. Little people like us should not be doing that."
Spencer snorts. "Come on, little person," he says, slinging his arm around Brendon's shoulder. He can feel how warm Brendon is through the fabric of his t-shirt. The fabric is still damp but Spencer doesn't care. "There are beers in the fridge."
They get beers. Spencer sits on the couch and Brendon sits beside him, pulling up his legs and wrapping one arm around his calves.
"I'm glad we did the Christmas lights," Brendon says.
"You've leaving soon. Won't be around long to enjoy them."
"But they'll be there when we come home."
"When are you getting back?" Spencer asks.
"I don't know, January?" Brendon says. "We don't have any studio time booked before then."
Spencer nods.
"I'm going to go to my sister's house, then my brother's, then my other sister, then we're all heading back to my parents house for Christmas," Brendon says. "We'll both be in Vegas on Christmas day. You should, like, text me when you have a minute away from your family and I can come over and give you your present."
"My parents aren't going to have as much of a full house as yours are," Spencer says. "Wait. Does that mean I was supposed to get you something?"
Brendon squints one eye shut and peers at Spencer. Spencer locks his jaw and leaves his face blank.
"You're just kidding," Brendon says without conviction. He looks at Spencer with big eyes and Spencer feels the corners of his mouth twitch.
"I've got another week," Spencer says. "Plenty of time. You need new socks, right?"
They both look down at Brendon's feet. His big toe is poking out of the hole in his sock.
"Well, yeah," Brendon says, giving Spencer another shifty look.
"I'll get you another beer," Spencer says, setting his own empty bottle down on the table. "See, I'm starting early with the presents."
"You really believe in giving until it hurts, huh?"
"You know it."
*
Spencer nudges Brendon's suitcase closer to the wall while Bogart sniffs at the corner.
"You excited to go see Shane?" Brendon asks as he walks into the entrance way. "Are you excited to go and have lots of fun with Indie and Dylan? Are you? Are you?"
Bogart complete ignores Brendon.
"Are you really doing that now?" Spencer says. "Baby talk? Are you? Are you?"
"Oh, shut up," Brendon says. "I saw you snuggling with him on the couch the other day."
"Umm, at no point in time was the legitimacy of snuggling at question," Spencer says. He leans over and picks up Bogart. "Was it?" he asks. Bogart licks his cheek. "No, it wasn't."
"Baby's giving mommy all his sweet kisses," Brendon says, leaning forward to scratch at Bogart's head.
Spencer tries to level Brendon with a glare, but Bogart's poking his cold nose into Spencer's neck and it tickles.
"Did you remember Shane's gift?"
"Yeah, it's in the car already."
"With the card?"
"Yes, with the card. You fucking duct-taped that sucker on, it's not going anywhere.
"I didn't use ducttape," Spencer says.
"Well, everything is fine," Brendon says. "Shane'll take care of the puppies and he'll love the present and everything is awesome. Now, give him over."
Spencer passes over the dog-- they've already got the carrying crate set up in Brendon's car-- and after he's handed Bogart over, Brendon reaches for Spencer with his free arm, pulling him in.
"Merry Christmas," Spencer says, laughing. He squeezes Brendon back and closes his eyes for a second.
"I'm going to see you on Christmas," Brendon says.
"'kay," Spencer says. "Merry Christmas until it's actually Christmas. Have fun with your family."
"You, too," Brendon says. "Take it easy."
Spencer tilts his head to the side so that Brendon can lean his forehead on Spencer's shoulder. Bogart squirms, but like he's making himself comfortable not like he's trying to get away.
"Seriously," Brendon says. "Go home and sleep."
"I'll do my best," Spencer says.
Brendon hums, pulling Spencer in tighter before letting him go.
"Drive safe," Spencer says once Bogart's in his crate and Brendon is behind the wheel. He waves goodbye to Brendon from the top of the driveway, watches him drive away and stands there for a minute even once the car is out of sight.
*
Brendon's gone and the house is suddenly empty. Spencer's planning on leaving the day after Brendon, just hanging around to finish wrapping presents and cleaning the perishable food out of their fridge. Brendon said to just leave it, but the carton of milk is going to expire on before New Year's and they've been working on the same block of cheddar for a while so it's going to go any day now, and then Spencer wanted to make sure there would be nonperishable food for when they got back so they wouldn't have to go grocery shopping right away.
Now that Brendon's gone, Spencer finds himself walking up and down the hallways like he's trying to relearn the house. He's been living here long enough that it doesn't feel like Brendon's house anymore, not really. But right now it feels unfamiliar to him.
And also he really doesn't do well when he smokes up by himself.
He just thought he'd toke up a little to make the cleaning more interesting, but it's totally hard to judge things when he's by himself. When there are other people around he knows he's stoned because he can feel the way his laughter shakes his ribs. He's alone now and nothing funny is happening and it's not until he looks away from his computer screen and the world goes, blwoop, like this sudden lurch, like maybe he'd just been sitting there staring for longer than he'd thought, it's not until he looks away from his computer screen and his head wobbles that he realizes he's actually pretty fucking stoned.
Ha, Spencer whispers. Ha, ha.
He doesn't like this empty house.
It's still empty when he crawls into bed, and it's also the middle of the afternoon, so what the fuck, right? He just plans on lying down for a minute, but his bed is nice. Soft. The cracks on his ceiling are more noticeable with the sunshine streaming through the window than they are at night with the neon lights of the city keeping the room lit.
Spencer's cellphone is in his pocket and he can't call Brendon because Brendon only left a little while ago, and he can't call Jon because these days Jon refuses to do more than make the most mindless of all mindless smalltalk. Spencer knows that Jon's mad, but, whatever, Spencer's mad, too. That shouldn't mean that they can never talk. And he can't call Ryan because Ryan actually sounds happy these days and that hurts even worse than if he were angry.
So, anyway, Spencer'll go clean out the fridge eventually.
*
The string of lights has fallen so it's drooping on the right edge of the garage, and it doesn't matter but it's still bugging Spencer. He's already locked up the house and he doesn't feel like going back inside for the step ladder, so he pushes his suitcase against the garage door and steps on top of it. The suitcase wobbles a little, but it holds under his weight. He reaches up, grabs hold of the string of lights and starts clipping it back onto the little plastic hooks.
He's not quite far enough over, but there's just one more to go and he can almost reach and he lifts up on the balls of his feet and stretches his arm as far as it will go and his back goes arrrrggggggg and then whomp he topples sideways, hitting the cement hard, and fuck.
Gritting his teeth doesn't take away the pain but it does help to stop the noises that are threatening to escape. Spencer draws in a breath through his nose and squeezes his eyes tightly closed. In and out, in and out, and then he forces his eyes open and unclenches his jaw.
He tries to push off the ground, but, no, fuck no, ouch, motherfucking ouch. The asphalt is cool under his cheek. Rough.
It's just as bad the second time he tries to stand up.
So, okay. Fuck.
He lies for a while longer, waiting for the pain to go away and when it doesn't, he finally remembers that he's got his phone in his pocket. Reaches down slowly, so slowly and still that hurts, pulls the phone out, dials Shane's number.
"Hey," he says. "So, I need you to come take me to the doctor."
--
"Can you bend forward-- slowly, slowly, just-- okay, don't try anymore."
Spencer cuts off the sound he's making, a sharp hiss as he exhales through gritted teeth, and stands up straight again.
"Bedrest," the doctors says. "Flat on your back. Pillows to keep your feet up."
"For how long?"
--
"At least three days, the doctor said," Spencer says.
His mother tuts nervously. "At least?"
"Well, maybe a week. But it's okay," Spencer says. "I'll definitely be home before the new year. I might not make it back for Christmas day though. It's fine, I'll just give you your presents a little late." Spencer's grateful that he spent that weekend in September shopping ahead.
"Spencer," his mother says sharply. "We're going to see you on Christmas. We'll just drive up."
"When are the twins getting back?" Spencer asks. They'e driving back from college this year, taking the long route so they can catch a few days of snow.
"Day after tomorrow."
"See," Spencer says. "I won't be much later than that. You don't have to drive up. They'll only just be back. You don't want to waste one of the days driving up."
"It's not a waste," his mother says.
"Just wait and see, okay? Maybe I'll make an awesome recovery. Don't drive out yet."
"What even happened?"
"I just wrenched my back really badly," Spencer says. "The doctor doesn't think anything's torn, I just, you know, probably need to remember to sit up straight and actually stretch sometimes."
"You've been working too hard," his mom says.
"Can't work now," says Spencer. He sighs.
Shane hovers in the doorway while Spencer makes the call, and once Spencer's set the phone down he walks over to the side of the bed.
"Need anything else?" Shane asks.
"I'm good," Spencer says. "Thanks."
"You sure you're going to be okay?"
"Yeah. I can feel the painkillers helping already." Lying down makes the pain bearable, and the pills help Spencer not care about the remaining discomfort.
"I can stay here with you if you need," Shane offers.
"No, go. Tell Regan's family 'Happy Holidays' for me."
"You're sure you're going to be able to feed yourself?"
"I can get up alright," Spencer says. "I'm not paralyzed."
Getting out of bed hurts like a son of a bitch, but Spencer can do it. Shane got him a load of groceries while Spencer napped and now there's food in the fridge and a bottle of pills on the bedside table. Plus all the stuff Spencer bought that was supposed to be for after he returned from vacation. And he's got a phone; he can get takeout.
Spencer's going to be fine.
*
Spencer is not fine.
He sleeps through the night but it takes him the better part of twenty minutes to push himself upright in the morning, and by the time he's on his feet he's sweating and sore. He wants to put on sweats, but they're in a lower drawer and he can't reach them. It takes some maneuvering, but he bends at the knees, holding onto the top of the dresser for balance, and stretches out the tips of his fingers until finally he manages to get hold of the fabric.
And then he has to figure out how to put them on.
Motherfucker.
Spencer shuffles over to the bedside table and swallows a painkiller dry. Mutters, "Okay, here we go," and starts lifting his leg, trying to get his foot into the leg of the sweats. Getting dressed shouldn't be this much effort.
He's ready for the painkillers to start helping. Anytime now.
Seriously.
*
Three days before Christmas and Spencer can shuffle over to the car but still can't manage to get up onto the seat without it hurting so badly that he has to bite his lip to keep from making noise.
He slams the door shut, then winces as his back screams at him for moving too quickly. It takes a long time for him to get back to his bedroom because he can't lift his feet more than a couple of inches off the ground and he has to take tiny, tiny steps. Getting into bed takes forever and once he's finally lying down, the throbbing of his back reminds him that it's been over four hours and he should take another pill.
The bottle is on the bedside table, but it's too far for Spencer to reach. Sitting up takes even longer than lying down and hurts just as badly, and okay, fine, so Spencer will just lie here for a minute and wait until his back stops hurting so much and then he'll take the pill. Except that his back hurts now and it might not stop hurting until he takes the pill, but he's so fucking tired. It hurts all the time and everything is a million times more difficult than usual, and it's not like things felt easy before.
Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to breathe slowly. The jerky way his ribcage moves as he tries to fight the lump in his throat is making the pain even worse. It's not helping anything to get all riled up and he just needs to take a deep breath and then sit up and take the pill and then he can have a nap. That'll help. Not being awake is far superior to being awake.
He wonders what his parents are doing right now and then feels really stupid for even thinking about it because he knows they'd drive down the second he asked them to. But then they'd waste a whole day of their vacation and his sisters aren't home for very long. His mom will already have the house all decorated. His back will feel better eventually and then he will drive down and see them, and that'll be much better than forcing them to come up and see him.
He wonders if Ryan has decorated his house. When they were kids, Spencer's mom used to get the both of them making popcorn chains, which Ryan always insisted that his Dad wrap around the tree. Spencer doubts that Ryan is making popcorn chains this year, but he could be. His whole house could be covered in popcorn. It's funny that they might end up being in the same city for Christmas after all, but that doesn't mean they're actually going to see each other.
Spencer bites the inside of his cheek sharply. Lying here and letting himself get all silly isn't helpful. He takes a deep breath and uses his hands to push up until he's upright, grabbing quickly for the bottle of pills and swallowing one dry.
When he lies back down, his back still hurts, and the space behind his eyes, and, whatever. So he reaches for the TV remote, which luckily is close beside him on the bed, and turns on the TV, sitting on top of his dresser. He'll watch fucking infomercials until he falls asleep.
*
He's not sure if the pain actually gets worse or if it just feels worse, but Spencer starts thinking what if he feels like this forever? What if it always hurts this bad? What if he doesn't make it home tomorrow? And it's really fucking stupid because getting all upset certainly isn't going to help anything, but he can't stop himself. His brain has been stupid for months now and he hasn't been any good at getting his brainvoice to just shut the fuck up.
He squeezes his eyes closed tightly. The remote is still beside him, but he's sick of TV. Maybe he'll just order a pay-per-view movie or something.
He hasn't actually turned on the TV yet, which is why his heart starts pounding when he hears a noise. The house has been completely silent, and all the sudden it's not anymore, and Spencer doesn't know if he should open his eyes. It sounds like maybe something fell over downstairs, and that's not the end of the world. It's creepy as fuck, but, yeah, so things just fall over sometimes.
Spencer opens his eyes. His room is still empty, which is to be expected since the noises clearly came from somewhere else in the house. He wonders if he should go check things out. That would involve getting out of bed, and Spencer doesn't want to get out of bed, but maybe he should.
He's still weighing the pros and cons when his bedroom door pushes open, and holy fucking hell, Spencer's heart stops completely for the moment it takes for Brendon to walk in.
"Jesus Christ," Spencer says, touching his hand to his chest. "You actually just gave me a heart attack." And then, "Brendon?"
"Hey, Spencer," Brendon says, walking into the bedroom. "What the fuck did you manage to do to yourself?"
"Why are you even here? How did you know?" Spencer asks. "Did Shane tell you? I told him not to tell you." Being stuck in bed with a bad back is motherfucking embarrassing. He's not actually eighty years old, even though his body appears to be in decay.
"Shane's not a total fucking asshole," says Brendon. "Of course he told me. What the fuck is wrong with you? Did you hit your head in the fall?"
"No."
"Did they check you for a concussion? Because that's the only thing that would explain your new heights of fucking insanity. What the fuck are you doing here by yourself when you can't even get out of bed?"
"I can get out of bed," Spencer says. And then he accidentally shifts too quickly. He tries to hide his wince, but judging by the expression on Brendon's face, Brendon notices. "I can," Spencer says. "It just takes a little while."
"Why didn't you call me?" Brendon asks.
"You were with your family. It's Christmas."
"You broke your back."
"It's not broken," Spencer says.
Brendon gives him an unimpressed look.
"I can't believe you came," Spencer says. "What about your family?"
"I'll see them again," Brendon says. "They all thought it would be a good idea for me to come back and deal with the idiot who's stuck in bed by himself two days before Christmas."
"Yeah," Spencer says.
He keeps staring at Brendon, but, no, Brendon's actually here. Spencer opens his mouth but closes it again.
"You want me to get you something?" Brendon offers.
Spencer shakes his head quickly. "Can you just-- stay here with me for a bit." Spencer says, "I can't believe you're here."
"You're an idiot," Brendon says. "I've always been here."
"I feel really bad," says Spencer. He thinks that it should be a relief to finally say it out loud, but it just makes him feel worse. "Brendon, I feel like shit. This really hurts."
"Yeah," Brendon says. He climbs gently onto the bed and settles beside Spencer. His hand comes to rest flat on Spencer's belly, rubbing slow circles.
Spencer wants to pull Brendon in closer but he can't move. He grabs for Brendon's wrist, holding on tighter than he means to, but Brendon doesn't seem to mind. He scooches in a little closer.
"This okay on your back?" Brendon asks.
"Yeah, it's good." Spencer swallows. "Hey, so, thanks for coming, and stuff." His back still hurts but his brain doesn't feel as crazy now that Brendon's here.
Brendon hums, "Mh hm." He wiggles around, careful not to jar Spencer. "Your bed's pretty comfy," he says.
"Not too bad," Spencer says. He doesn't care about his bed, but Brendon is pretty comfy, pressed warm against Spencer's side. Brendon's palm rubs across Spencer's belly and it's such a relief to be touched.
Spencer turns his head and finds Brendon already looking up at him. Spencer knows he looks like a disaster right now, but Brendon blinks up at him, his mouth curving into a soft smile. Spencer's breath catches and then Brendon tilts his head back and bumps his lips against Spencer's, like, hey, hi, I'm right here.
*
"Ho, ho, ho," Brendon shouts when Spencer's mom opens the door. "Someone told me that you were very good this year so I brought you a special present."
From where he's standing beside Brendon, Spencer waves. The yards and yards of ribbon that Brendon wrapped around his head tickle his face where they hang down. Spencer said that the ribbon was itchy and maybe could they just use a stick on bow instead, but Brendon said that his Santa beard was itchy as well so Spencer could just shut up.
Spencer steps into his parents house, his mom holding one elbow and Brendon holding the other so that he can make it over the step, and as Spencer shuffles into the front entrance, Brendon doesn't let go.
Spencer/Brendon | PG-13 | ~ 8860 words | Holiday!fic.
It's months and months after the Panic! split, and Spencer is stressed, :( He just wants to make sure everything goes okay for the band. And for Brendon.
I wrote this for sunsetmog for the drawn_to fic exchanged. I tried to get many of the things from your prompt (with varying degrees of accuracy and success), so, ummm, fingers crossed. Big ♥ to you, bb! I really hope that you like this.
HUGE thanks to queen_geek for all of her help while I was writing this. I wrote some of this while sitting on her couch and eating fresh gingerbread cookies as she baked them-- THAT is support, :D. Thanks for the beta as well!
Thanks also to harriet_vane for helping me brainstorm. And thanks to foxxcub for running this!
"That felt more final than I thought it would," Brendon says. "We've been split up for like, what, six month now? Or like eight, I think?"
Spencer shrugs. "It's been a while."
"Yeah, a while. So I don't know why this makes it feel any different."
"They're with a new record label now, officially. We just signed like fifty billion different legal documents figuring out how we're going to split royalties for the rest of eternity and promising not to use any of Ryan or Jon's lyrics on our new CD."
"We were never going to use their lyrics; that was the whole point of--"
"I know," Spencer says. They've been over this so many times, rehashing it again and again in the week leading up to the appointment with the lawyers. It seems so late to be doing this, heading in to the office at the end of November when they've already spent all summer and fall writing songs, but they're getting close to being able to release the CD and Ryan and Jon finally got a record contract, so there they were.
"Don't you think it feels final?"
"I guess," Spencer says. He clears his throat then lifts his hand and says, "You parked over there. I want to stop for food on the way home."
"You're hungry?"
"It's after four," Spencer says. "That's close to dinnertime."
"Okay," Brendon says. He walks quickly and his sneakers skid along the pavement when he takes a sharp right turn. "What do you want to eat?"
--
Brendon parks the car and heads straight for the basement, where they've got the music room set up.
Spencer takes the bag of Chinese food into the kitchen and methodically spreads out the cartons over the table. He's not actually hungry, but he makes himself a plate anyway and spends the next half an hour trying to pick the sprouts out of his chow mein. Normally he doesn't care so much, but it's something to do and it keeps his hands busy.
The music coming from downstairs is faintly audible and if he listens hard Spencer can just make out the song that Brendon's playing. Brendon's been stuck on the bridge for three days now and it's been driving him crazy. They're close to being done, so fucking close, with most of the tracks already laid down and just a few left to do. Next week will be the last of their time in the studio, post production is in the new year, and then they'll be done and Spencer will be able to sleep again.
The thing about splitting up the band is that it's all going to be worth it if their new CD is awesome.
He finishes his plate, minus the pile of sprouts, then eats sweet and sour chicken balls out of the carton until his stomach feels like it's going to burst. There are still a few pieces of chicken left over so he puts them onto a new plate along with a few spoons from every other carton on the table. Brendon doesn't mind if his food gets all mixed together so Spencer doesn't try to keep them in separate piles. He grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge and carries it and the place down to the music room.
Brendon's sitting with his guitar, picking out a melody with painstaking precision.
"Food," Spencer says.
"Thanks."
"You got it figured out?"
"No," Brendon says. "Maybe. I don't know. Can I play it to see if it sounds okay to you?" He rubs his hand down the neck of his guitar.
"Will you remember it?" Spencer asks.
"Yeah. I've got it written down."
"Eat first then."
Brendon puts his guitar down reluctantly, but he tears into the plate when Spencer passes it over.
--
It's after three before they turn out the lights in the music room and walk slowly up the stairs. Brendon has a pink spot on his forehead where he keeps rubbing his fingers over his skin and he blinks more than usual.
"I don't know if that works or not," Brendon says.
"It works," Spencer says.
"Maybe it's not the right place for a key change."
"We'll listen again in the morning."
Brendon nods. He says, "Night, Spence," and turns down the hallway towards the master bedroom.
"Night," Spencer says. He pauses when he gets to the door of his own bedroom, backtracking so that he can grab his laptop.
They record all their attempts at songs, just shitty demos but they're all right there on Spencer's computer. It's dumb, but pulling up the folder and seeing the list of songs makes him feel better. He clicks on the most recent one, plugs in his headphones and sits at the kitchen table, listening to it again and again.
He thinks it sounds okay, even on repeat. The space behind his eyeballs throbs but he can't bring himself to shut off the computer, even though he knows all the songs will still be there when he turns it back on again. Even if it doesn't sound okay, they're going to be showing it to the producer next week; he can give them suggestions. They're not completely on their own, even though, sitting at the kitchen table, the rest of the house dark and quiet, Spencer feels alone.
*
Spencer wakes the next morning when Brendon calls him for breakfast. They don't always eat together, but Brendon made enough scrambled eggs for two.
He yells, "They're going to get cold," when Spencer doesn't come right away.
It takes a few tries before Spencer can get his tongue to work. It's after ten, but Spencer has only had a few hours of sleep.
"So keep them on the stove," he finally manages.
"Then they'll get dry," Brendon calls back.
Spencer stumbles into the kitchen and sits down at the table.
"I had a new idea while I was falling asleep last night," Brendon says. His mouth is full but he's only spewing eggs a little bit. "I wrote it down. After this I'm going to go make sure it sounds okay outside of my head."
"Okay," Spencer says. It takes him a few tries to spear the eggs with his fork. "Good. Great, Brendon."
Brendon nods, pausing his chewing briefly to take a huge bite of toast.
"I think I've got it," he says, his forehead wrinkling. "Hopefully it sounds okay."
"You want me to come down with you?" Spencer asks.
"Yeah, just give me a minute first to try it out."
Brendon finishes his plate and carries it to the kitchen before dashing down the stairs.
The frying pan has eggs burnt onto the bottom so Spencer scrubs it clean and does the rest of the dishes to give Brendon time. There are some more things from the lawyer to go over, or maybe it's something from their manager. Spencer isn't even sure anymore because the piles of paperwork that he wants to double-check multiply every time he looks away. He knows that they've got people who check over everything, but he wants to see it himself, just wants to make sure. He's not very good at understanding the legal jargon so it takes him a long time.
Soggy eggs swirl in the bottom of the sink when Spencer pulls the stopper out of the drain. He'll try to get through another ten pages today and all of his emails. He told their manager and agent to forward everything to him but it turns out that's a lot of emails.
Bogart noses at Spencer's ankles. Spencer knows that Brendon would have fed him in the morning, but still he reaches under the sink for the bag of dog treats.
"Sit," Spencer says, waiting for Boggart to comply before giving him the biscuit. Boggart eats the treat, his little tail wagging furiously. Spencer tries to force his shoulders to relax. He bends over and scoops up the dog, who wiggles as Spencer holds him to his chest but not so much that Spencer has to let him go. Spencer dips his head as he hugs Boggart, takes a long slow breath before setting the dog back on the ground, then walks downstairs.
*
"Hey," Brendon says softly.
Spencer turns around, wincing as his back cracks loudly.
"Hey."
"What are you doing?" Brendon asks.
"Just emails and stuff," Spencer says.
"You going to bed soon?"
"Yeah. Pretty soon."
"Okay," Brendon says. His shirt lifts up as he reaches to scratch the back of his neck. "I think today went okay."
"It was good," Spencer agrees. "I like the stuff we finished."
"I think it's okay," Brendon says. He's tanned but the skin of his inner arm is lighter than the rest of his arm.
"It is," Spencer says. He sounds confident. Each time he tells Brendon that they're doing good, that the songs sound good, that it's all going to work out, he sound so confident. And he is. When he says it, he means it. It's just the sick feeling that's inside his stomach and tight along his shoulders and sharp at the back of his throat.
"We should take some time off," Brendon says. "Decorate the house or something."
"Neither of us is going to be home for the holidays," Spencer points out.
"No, but I don't leave until the eighteenth," Brendon says. "We could have some stuff up in the meantime. We don't have to do a full on Christmas tree or anything. You're not heading home until later in December, right?"
Brendon moves his hand away from his neck and rests it flat on his chest, just above his belly, his fingers smoothing out his t-shirt before stilling.
"Right," Spencer says. "Yeah, sure we can put some stuff up. Lights, maybe. For outside. We could buy a timer or something. My parents used to do that: put the Christmas lights on a timer so that it still looked like someone was home if we were going to be away from the holidays."
"That's a good idea," Brendon says. "Shane'll be around a bit to get the mail and stuff. Once he and Regan get back from seeing her folks."
Spencer nods. "But just as another thing. Do we have any lights?"
"I don't think so," Brendon says.
"I'll grab some tomorrow," Spencer says.
"Okay." Brendon uses the back of his other hand to rub at his eyes. "What are you doing again? Do you need help with anything?"
"Just finished up. Go to bed," Spencer says. "I'll shut down soon."
"You need more sleep," Brendon says, his knuckle digging into the soft skin under his eye.
Spencer snorts and gives Brendon a pointed look. Brendon functions on little sleep better than anyone else Spencer knows. And anyway, it doesn't matter how much Spencer sleeps because he can still never keep up with Brendon. He lost twenty pounds just by moving into Brendon's house and following him down to the beach each time he went surfing, but the end of the day found Spencer sprawled in front of the TV while Brendon got ready to head out of the night.
"You look tired," Brendon says, but he interrupts himself halfway through with a yawn.
"You look tired," Spencer says.
"Your mom looks tired," Brendon says. "And also you."
Spencer rolls his eyes, snaps his laptop closed, and says, "Night, Brendon." He waits until he hears the sound of Brendon's bedroom door close before he lifts the screen back up again.
He's got like five emails with the booking agent to read through and then he'll go to bed.
*
"Okay, but what ones are best?" Spencer asks, balancing four boxes of Christmas lights in his arms.
"It's kind of just-- what you like," the sales guy says, shrugging. He's younger than Spencer but that's no excuse for gross incompetence. Spencer glares for a minute before turning away.
He's decorated his house before, but Vegas was different than L.A. Everything's different here and Spencer finds himself suddenly paralyzed, trying to pick between different colors of bulbs.
Gritting his teeth with frustration, he looks at the boxes more carefully. Maybe if he'd remembered to eat breakfast before taking off this morning he would be having an easier time. He doesn't have anything difficult to do today, but he also doesn't have hours to spend staring at boxes of lights.
What the fuck ever, he'll just buy a whole bunch and then Brendon can choose. It's Brendon's house. Maybe he has a preference.
As he waits in the lineup, Spencer thinks of his old house in Vegas and feels briefly nostalgic. It wasn't better there and he doesn't miss Haley anymore. Truly doesn't miss her, in the real way where when he feels lonely lying his bed at night he doesn't even think of her. Just misses having another body close by. There was nothing better about Vegas, it's just that back then everything didn't feel so hard all the time.
--
Brendon looks surprised when Spencer comes home with four bags full of Christmas lights.
"It wasn't, like, an emergency," Brendon says. He's still wearing his pajamas. "If you'd woken me up we could have gone together."
"Whatever," Spencer says. "I had some stuff to do anyway."
"Shane's going to come over later," Brendon says. "Maybe we could get him to helps us hang them."
"Or maybe he'll film us while we try to hang them," Spencer says, because that's usually how it goes when they try to get Shane to do housework. "We can just save the lights for another day. It's still early in December."
"Yeah," Brendon says.
"What do you want to do about dinner?"
"Order something, I guess," Brendon says. "I still have to eat breakfast." He gives Spencer this weird look that's softened with a smile. "We can worry about dinner when it's actually time to eat."
"Yeah," Spencer says. "I know. I was just asking."
"Let's start with cereal," Brendon says, nudging Spencer with his shoulder until Spencer begins to walk toward the kitchen.
--
"I'm going to pack the bowl again," Spencer announces after investigating the bong. He dumps the ash onto a napkin and folds it up carefully, reminding himself to throw it away. Shane brought over a bag of really fresh stuff and it smells strongly, like earth and mint and pot, mostly like pot.
Brendon's lying on the floor and he keeps chuckling to himself, usually after an aborted attempted to share whatever hilarious thing he'd just thought of but sometimes completely randomly as well. They've got enough weed to stay pretty seriously stoned for the rest of the evening if they wanted to. Maybe they should stop after this, though. Spencer's cheeks feel numb.
His thumb, too, as he tries to flick the lighter. It's a cheap Bic one, and the metal won't turn. Or, it is turning but the fire won't come.
"Damn," Spencer says. He looks at the lighter and tries to figure out why it isn't working. He tries it again and again but the side of his thumb starts to hurt. His hands are callused from playing all the time, so he must have been flicking at the lighter for a long time. It didn't feel like a long time. He doesn't understand why he can't get it to work.
Brendon raises his head off the floor. Spencer opens his palm toward Brendon, showing him the lighter. He doesn't say anything, but Brendon wriggles onto all fours and crawls over, presenting Spencer with the lighter from his back pocket.
"Thanks," Spencer says. Brendon's lighter makes a little flame and Spencer ducks his head to take a toke. The water goes burble burble burble as he sucks and then he pulls out the choke and his mouth fills with smoke. His lungs were already full of air so he has to exhale quickly before he can get all of the smoke out of the bong. His throat burns like sharp and sore but not actually hot at all. It burns like pain but not like heat. That's so fucking weird.
"You have to be careful," Spencer says as he passes the bong over to Brendon. Like they haven't done this countless times before. It feels new right now. Spencer's body feels new. Brendon's hair is getting long. It falls in his eyes when he ducks down and sucks up smoke. The couch feels weird so Spencer slides down onto the floor beside Brendon. He can see Shane, his back turned to them, across the living room. Spencer's pretty sure that Shane is trying to alphabetize the stack of CDs.
"Makes more sense to do it by genre," says Spencer.
Brendon took another toke and he's holding the smoke in, his whole body still as he waits, so he doesn't answer. Spencer's voice sounds rough and he clears his throat.
Brendon exhales, pursing his lips and directing the stream off to the right. "That last one was rough," he says sympathetically, touching his fingers to the skin above Spencer's collarbones.
Spencer swallows before he remembers that Brendon will be able to feel the movement. Brendon's fingers are warm and he's careful when he touches, stroking lightly along Spencer's throat.
"Yeah," Spencer says, belatedly.
Brendon's fingers feel like tickling but not in the kind of way that is going to make Spencer laugh. Brendon's thumb rests just above the collar of Spencer's shirt.
"You should get some water."
"Right," Spencer says. Then, "Okay," and he pushes to his feet and walks to the kitchen. His feet take him there and once he's there his hands turn on the tap and fill up a glass with water. He drinks it slowly. It feels like it takes him a long time to walk back and maybe it does because when he gets back to the rec room, Shane is stretched out face down on the floor and Brendon is sitting beside him playing with the tips of his hair. Shane's hair is straightened but not very carefully and Brendon pulls on a curl.
Spencer walks over to the couch again, but, no, maybe he needs more water and he turns around and walks back to the kitchen.
--
"You still stoned?" Shane asks, coming up behind Spencer.
"Ah, no," Spencer says, looking up before he drops back down again, scooping up another t-shirt. Half of these are his and half are Brendon's, but they're all dirty so Spencer shoves them into the washing machine without bothering to sort them. "Just out of clean clothes."
He's not actually out of clean clothes, but after spending so much time on tour where that was a very real option, he's gotten a little more fussy with laundry. Brendon's house has a big washer and dryer, and it's easy to put on a load before bed. He just has to remember to check back to put it in the dryer.
He turns around, and Shane reaches up and passes Spencer the detergent, locating it easily on the cluttered shelf. Because this was Shane's laundry room. Because he used to live here. Spencer wonders if Brendon misses having Shane for a roommate.
"Are you?" Spencer asks as he fills the lid with detergent. "Still stoned?'
"I think I'm okay," Shane says. "We had another bowl after you left. We didn't use up all the pot though, don't worry."
Spencer turns around to give Shane a questioning look.
"You're all-- you know, about things running out."
Spencer shakes his head. "I don't know."
"You always want to make sure everything is taken care of. So, do not worry, the weed is totally taken care of."
Shane's eyes are bloodshot and he blinks really slowly, like he's still feeling it more than Spencer. But when Spencer says, "Okay... thanks?" Shane grins widely, and, yeah, it's Shane and he's kind when he has the chance to be and that's why they all like to have him around.
Spencer says, "Thanks," again, and shuffles forward, wrapping his arms around Shane in a quick hug. He pats Shane's back before pulling away, then pats him on the arm.
"I'm going to order pizza."
Spencer looks over Shane's shoulder, surprised to find Brendon standing in the doorway.
"Do you want some?" Brendon asks.
"Yeah," Shane says. "No mushrooms."
"No onions," Spencer says.
Brendon rolls his eyes. "I remember."
--
The pizza's okay except that the crust is too dry. Spencer ends up drinking through more bottles of beer than he meant to trying to wash it down, and by the time midnight rolls around, he's crashing.
"I'm'a call a cab," Shane says. "I'll come by and get the car tomorrow."
"You can sleep over," Spencer says, pointedly not making eye contact with Brendon even though he's tempted to check his response.
"It's cool, I'll cab," Shane says.
"'kay," Spencer says.
Brendon turns around and starts fussing with the sink full of dishes, so Spencer walks Shane to the door.
Once he's back in the kitchen, he stands beside Brendon and grabs a drying cloth.
"Let's just save these for the morning," Brendon says even though he's the one who started washing in the first place.
There's not that many but the dishwasher needs to be emptied first and Spencer's fingers are sluggish.
"You want another beer?" Brendon asks, and, sure, why not.
Brendon passes him a bottle and they stand in the kitchen, leaning back against the counters. The backs of Spencer's shoulders throb, an ache that settles low in his elbows. He tilts his head from side to side and his neck cracks.
"So," Brendon says.
That's the funny thing about them living together: even after everyone goes home, Brendon's still right there.
"Today was kind of a wash," Spencer says.
Brendon shrugs. "It's good to take a break sometimes."
"I guess." Spencer rolls his shoulders again.
"You okay?" Brendon asks.
"Yeah," Spencer says, stilling himself then exhaling slowly. "Just getting a headache."
"I can finish that for you," Brendon says. He wiggles his free hand towards Spencer's bottle of beer.
Spencer laughs and clutches the bottle closer to his chest. "Get your own."
"I've got my own. And then I'll also have yours."
"My head's not that bad."
"Good," Brendon says. "There's Tylenol in the medicine cabinet."
"I'll be fine," Spencer says. "I'll save it for the morning." He looks down at his beer, grimaces, then takes another sip. "I'm going to be feeling this."
"Yeah?"
"I don't know, maybe." Spencer takes another sip and tries to count how many beers he's had to drink. There's some formula to determine how hung over he's going to be based on how much he drank multiplied by how much he smoked, but he doesn't know what the magic number is. Someone should really figure that shit out.
And then he makes the point moot by asking, "Are you hooking up with Shane?" just as Brendon reaches into the sink to pull out the wash cloth.
"What?" Brendon asks, spinning around so quickly that he knocks one of the glasses onto the floor. It shatters, but he stares at Spencer instead of attending to it. "Are you hooking up with Shane?"
Spencer starts rolling his eyes, but Brendon's clearly not joking. Oh, ho, Spencer's not actually drunk enough for this conversation to be funny. Just drunk enough to start it in the first place.
"Shane's straight," Spencer says.
Brendon flaps his hand pointedly.
Spencer flaps back. Says, "I know, but--"
"But what?"
"I don't know." Spencer says, "It's you. And maybe that would-- change things for people. For some people. It might."
"Spence," Brendon says.
"So anyway," Spencer says, trying to tuck his bangs behind his ears. His hair is still too short and it just swishes forward again. "No one's hooking up with Shane."
"Except Regan."
"Except Regan," Spencer agrees. His spine feels looser now but in a way where he also feels dumb. Dumb and concerned that Brendon is going to cut his feet on the broken glass. "Don't move. I'll go get the vacuum cleaner."
"It's okay," Brendon says, immediately followed by, "ouch, crap."
Spencer winces, and says, "Just wait," but Brendon's always hopped his way clear over the broken glass.
"Ouch," he says again, touching his hand to the wall for balance.
"You cut?"
Ryan was always so cagey about letting anyone see his injuries, curling in to inspect the damage before he'd let anyone else get close. Brendon just twists around, steading himself as he lifts his leg up and presents his foot to Spencer.
"I'm going to recommend amputation," Spencer says. Brendon wobbles, and Spencer reaches for his ankle, helping to hold his leg up. Brendon's flexible and his leg lifts even higher under the pressure of Spencer's hand.
"I reject your diagnosis," Brendon says, wiggling his toes. "See, there's still movement."
"It's the last twitches of dying nerves," Spencer says. "Enjoy it while you can."
Brendon wiggles his toes again. Blood runs down the sole of his foot.
"I'll go get a Bandaid," Spencer says.
"Thanks."
Spencer comes back down the hallway and out of the corner of his eye sees Brendon sitting in the living room, his leg bent around at an odd angle as he holds a paper towel to the bottom of his foot.
"You okay?" Spencer asks, walking over.
"Yeah. Doesn't even hurt."
Spencer sits down beside Brendon and, after Spencer tilts his head, Brendon turns around on the couch, lifting his leg and balancing his heel carefully on Spencer's thigh. There's only a little spot of red and it probably doesn't even need a bandage, but Spencer starts peeling off the wrapper anyway. He presses the Bandaid to Brendon's skin, smooths his fingers over the plaster before running the tip of his finger over the arch of Brendon's foot. Brendon's toes clench, but he doesn't move away.
Spencer wraps his hand around Brendon's foot, running his thumb over the smooth skin at the centre of the sole.
He looks over at Brendon, and even though Brendon's relaxing with his face resting against the side of the couch, Spencer offers, "I think I'm kind of drunk."
"s'okay," Brendon says. He shifts and brings his other foot onto Spencer's thigh as well. "Me, too."
Brendon's feet are just cooler than room temperature, even though his skin is usually noticeably warmer. When Spencer starts rubbing along the skin just under Brendon's toes, Brendin sighs loudly and wiggles on the couch, making himself more comfortable.
Spencer rubs Brendon's feet until he can feel his eyes getting heavy, heavier, too heavy to keep open, and then he gives himself a little shake. Brendon makes a sleepy noise and moves his feet away when Spencer stops rubbing. They stand up slowly and make their way down the hall and towards the bedrooms.
Spencer says, "I'm setting my alarm for ten-thirty so that we can get some stuff done tomorrow," and Brendon says, "Yeah. Okay. I'll see you then."
Spencer closes the door to his bedroom and presses his palms together.
*
The song's almost done, but Brendon gets an idea about adding cellos, and then they have to go back to one of the earlier songs because Spencer realizes he's used the same rhythm leading out of the bridge in two different songs and he needs to rework one of them, and then there's the reworking of lyrics for that song that they never actually finished the chorus of, and December keeps marching along.
"So you're not coming home this weekend?" his mother asks.
Spencer rubs at his eyes with his free hand, holding the phone to his ear with the other. "We're just going to try to hammer out these last few songs. I'll be home before Christmas, though. Just a little later than I thought."
"You work so hard," his mother says.
"It's my job."
"And you're doing really well."
"You haven't heard the songs yet."
"Spencer," his mother says. "You're doing good. I've heard the demos. Everything's going to be okay."
His mother hasn't heard the songs and Spencer knows the demos were mostly shit, but he says, "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Mom," and means it.
He says goodbye and tucks his phone back in his pocket, looking up when Brendon walks out of the recording booth.
It's still early but Brendon says, "That's it for today."
"Seriously?" Spencer asks. "What about--"
Brendon shakes his head. "I'm getting hoarse, man. I need a break. Rob's working on an arrangement to show us for tomorrow; we're done here."
The collar of Brendon's t-shirt is loose and hangs lower on one side. Spencer can see the line of Brendon's collarbone, the smooth skin at the hollow of his neck.
Spencer stands and tries to shake the tension out of his back, sore from too much time spent in the studio, too long in front of his computer, just-- sore.
"I'm going to put up the Christmas lights when we get home," Spencer says, holding the door for Brendon. And then maybe a hot bath.
--
"Blue around the window? No, the white ones. Or, no, we should have the blue along the side of the house and the Christmas colors in the front."
"Why'd you buy so many different lights, anyway?" Brendon asks, shaking another string free.
"We don't have to use them all."
"Don't have to use them all," Brendon says, scoffing. "The fuck we don't have to use them all. Can you come here and hold the ladder for me?"
"Give me the lights," Spencer says. "You've got to put the clips on first. I'll pass them to you one at a time."
"'kay," Brendon says.
He makes his way up to the top of the ladder, grabs hold of the side of the house with one hand and reaches down with the other. Spencer passes one of the plastic hooks up and Brendon sticks it onto the side of the house.
"This is going to take forever," Brendon says, three clips later.
"Be careful," Spencer says as Brendon reaches forward, the ladder wobbling. His palm digs into the metal as he tries to hold the ladder still, his other hand curving around Brendon's calf, not that that'll do much good.
"I've got it," Brendon says. "I'm okay."
"Yeah, yeah," Spencer says, passing another clip up. "Come down now, we have to move the ladder."
--
"That's pretty fucking sweet," Brendon says.
Hours later and it's dark outside, but the house is bright. Colorful. Brendon's got sweatstains on his t-shirt, and he beams at Spencer, looking back and forth between Spencer and the house.
"Pretty fucking sweet," Spencer says.
They got lazy and wrapped four strings of lights around the railing leading up to the entrance way of the house, and the lights don't match, don't work with any color scheme, but it's bright and cheerful. It looks like a place that Spencer is glad to come home to.
"I've got to take a picture of this," Brendon says, fishing his phone out of his pocket. "Show my Mom."
Brendon holds up his phone and snaps the picture, humming happily to himself. He looks over and asks, "You okay?" when he sees Spencer rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah," Spencer says. "Just stiff."
"That's serious business, right there," Brendon says. "Hanging up all those lights. Little people like us should not be doing that."
Spencer snorts. "Come on, little person," he says, slinging his arm around Brendon's shoulder. He can feel how warm Brendon is through the fabric of his t-shirt. The fabric is still damp but Spencer doesn't care. "There are beers in the fridge."
They get beers. Spencer sits on the couch and Brendon sits beside him, pulling up his legs and wrapping one arm around his calves.
"I'm glad we did the Christmas lights," Brendon says.
"You've leaving soon. Won't be around long to enjoy them."
"But they'll be there when we come home."
"When are you getting back?" Spencer asks.
"I don't know, January?" Brendon says. "We don't have any studio time booked before then."
Spencer nods.
"I'm going to go to my sister's house, then my brother's, then my other sister, then we're all heading back to my parents house for Christmas," Brendon says. "We'll both be in Vegas on Christmas day. You should, like, text me when you have a minute away from your family and I can come over and give you your present."
"My parents aren't going to have as much of a full house as yours are," Spencer says. "Wait. Does that mean I was supposed to get you something?"
Brendon squints one eye shut and peers at Spencer. Spencer locks his jaw and leaves his face blank.
"You're just kidding," Brendon says without conviction. He looks at Spencer with big eyes and Spencer feels the corners of his mouth twitch.
"I've got another week," Spencer says. "Plenty of time. You need new socks, right?"
They both look down at Brendon's feet. His big toe is poking out of the hole in his sock.
"Well, yeah," Brendon says, giving Spencer another shifty look.
"I'll get you another beer," Spencer says, setting his own empty bottle down on the table. "See, I'm starting early with the presents."
"You really believe in giving until it hurts, huh?"
"You know it."
*
Spencer nudges Brendon's suitcase closer to the wall while Bogart sniffs at the corner.
"You excited to go see Shane?" Brendon asks as he walks into the entrance way. "Are you excited to go and have lots of fun with Indie and Dylan? Are you? Are you?"
Bogart complete ignores Brendon.
"Are you really doing that now?" Spencer says. "Baby talk? Are you? Are you?"
"Oh, shut up," Brendon says. "I saw you snuggling with him on the couch the other day."
"Umm, at no point in time was the legitimacy of snuggling at question," Spencer says. He leans over and picks up Bogart. "Was it?" he asks. Bogart licks his cheek. "No, it wasn't."
"Baby's giving mommy all his sweet kisses," Brendon says, leaning forward to scratch at Bogart's head.
Spencer tries to level Brendon with a glare, but Bogart's poking his cold nose into Spencer's neck and it tickles.
"Did you remember Shane's gift?"
"Yeah, it's in the car already."
"With the card?"
"Yes, with the card. You fucking duct-taped that sucker on, it's not going anywhere.
"I didn't use ducttape," Spencer says.
"Well, everything is fine," Brendon says. "Shane'll take care of the puppies and he'll love the present and everything is awesome. Now, give him over."
Spencer passes over the dog-- they've already got the carrying crate set up in Brendon's car-- and after he's handed Bogart over, Brendon reaches for Spencer with his free arm, pulling him in.
"Merry Christmas," Spencer says, laughing. He squeezes Brendon back and closes his eyes for a second.
"I'm going to see you on Christmas," Brendon says.
"'kay," Spencer says. "Merry Christmas until it's actually Christmas. Have fun with your family."
"You, too," Brendon says. "Take it easy."
Spencer tilts his head to the side so that Brendon can lean his forehead on Spencer's shoulder. Bogart squirms, but like he's making himself comfortable not like he's trying to get away.
"Seriously," Brendon says. "Go home and sleep."
"I'll do my best," Spencer says.
Brendon hums, pulling Spencer in tighter before letting him go.
"Drive safe," Spencer says once Bogart's in his crate and Brendon is behind the wheel. He waves goodbye to Brendon from the top of the driveway, watches him drive away and stands there for a minute even once the car is out of sight.
*
Brendon's gone and the house is suddenly empty. Spencer's planning on leaving the day after Brendon, just hanging around to finish wrapping presents and cleaning the perishable food out of their fridge. Brendon said to just leave it, but the carton of milk is going to expire on before New Year's and they've been working on the same block of cheddar for a while so it's going to go any day now, and then Spencer wanted to make sure there would be nonperishable food for when they got back so they wouldn't have to go grocery shopping right away.
Now that Brendon's gone, Spencer finds himself walking up and down the hallways like he's trying to relearn the house. He's been living here long enough that it doesn't feel like Brendon's house anymore, not really. But right now it feels unfamiliar to him.
And also he really doesn't do well when he smokes up by himself.
He just thought he'd toke up a little to make the cleaning more interesting, but it's totally hard to judge things when he's by himself. When there are other people around he knows he's stoned because he can feel the way his laughter shakes his ribs. He's alone now and nothing funny is happening and it's not until he looks away from his computer screen and the world goes, blwoop, like this sudden lurch, like maybe he'd just been sitting there staring for longer than he'd thought, it's not until he looks away from his computer screen and his head wobbles that he realizes he's actually pretty fucking stoned.
Ha, Spencer whispers. Ha, ha.
He doesn't like this empty house.
It's still empty when he crawls into bed, and it's also the middle of the afternoon, so what the fuck, right? He just plans on lying down for a minute, but his bed is nice. Soft. The cracks on his ceiling are more noticeable with the sunshine streaming through the window than they are at night with the neon lights of the city keeping the room lit.
Spencer's cellphone is in his pocket and he can't call Brendon because Brendon only left a little while ago, and he can't call Jon because these days Jon refuses to do more than make the most mindless of all mindless smalltalk. Spencer knows that Jon's mad, but, whatever, Spencer's mad, too. That shouldn't mean that they can never talk. And he can't call Ryan because Ryan actually sounds happy these days and that hurts even worse than if he were angry.
So, anyway, Spencer'll go clean out the fridge eventually.
*
The string of lights has fallen so it's drooping on the right edge of the garage, and it doesn't matter but it's still bugging Spencer. He's already locked up the house and he doesn't feel like going back inside for the step ladder, so he pushes his suitcase against the garage door and steps on top of it. The suitcase wobbles a little, but it holds under his weight. He reaches up, grabs hold of the string of lights and starts clipping it back onto the little plastic hooks.
He's not quite far enough over, but there's just one more to go and he can almost reach and he lifts up on the balls of his feet and stretches his arm as far as it will go and his back goes arrrrggggggg and then whomp he topples sideways, hitting the cement hard, and fuck.
Gritting his teeth doesn't take away the pain but it does help to stop the noises that are threatening to escape. Spencer draws in a breath through his nose and squeezes his eyes tightly closed. In and out, in and out, and then he forces his eyes open and unclenches his jaw.
He tries to push off the ground, but, no, fuck no, ouch, motherfucking ouch. The asphalt is cool under his cheek. Rough.
It's just as bad the second time he tries to stand up.
So, okay. Fuck.
He lies for a while longer, waiting for the pain to go away and when it doesn't, he finally remembers that he's got his phone in his pocket. Reaches down slowly, so slowly and still that hurts, pulls the phone out, dials Shane's number.
"Hey," he says. "So, I need you to come take me to the doctor."
--
"Can you bend forward-- slowly, slowly, just-- okay, don't try anymore."
Spencer cuts off the sound he's making, a sharp hiss as he exhales through gritted teeth, and stands up straight again.
"Bedrest," the doctors says. "Flat on your back. Pillows to keep your feet up."
"For how long?"
--
"At least three days, the doctor said," Spencer says.
His mother tuts nervously. "At least?"
"Well, maybe a week. But it's okay," Spencer says. "I'll definitely be home before the new year. I might not make it back for Christmas day though. It's fine, I'll just give you your presents a little late." Spencer's grateful that he spent that weekend in September shopping ahead.
"Spencer," his mother says sharply. "We're going to see you on Christmas. We'll just drive up."
"When are the twins getting back?" Spencer asks. They'e driving back from college this year, taking the long route so they can catch a few days of snow.
"Day after tomorrow."
"See," Spencer says. "I won't be much later than that. You don't have to drive up. They'll only just be back. You don't want to waste one of the days driving up."
"It's not a waste," his mother says.
"Just wait and see, okay? Maybe I'll make an awesome recovery. Don't drive out yet."
"What even happened?"
"I just wrenched my back really badly," Spencer says. "The doctor doesn't think anything's torn, I just, you know, probably need to remember to sit up straight and actually stretch sometimes."
"You've been working too hard," his mom says.
"Can't work now," says Spencer. He sighs.
Shane hovers in the doorway while Spencer makes the call, and once Spencer's set the phone down he walks over to the side of the bed.
"Need anything else?" Shane asks.
"I'm good," Spencer says. "Thanks."
"You sure you're going to be okay?"
"Yeah. I can feel the painkillers helping already." Lying down makes the pain bearable, and the pills help Spencer not care about the remaining discomfort.
"I can stay here with you if you need," Shane offers.
"No, go. Tell Regan's family 'Happy Holidays' for me."
"You're sure you're going to be able to feed yourself?"
"I can get up alright," Spencer says. "I'm not paralyzed."
Getting out of bed hurts like a son of a bitch, but Spencer can do it. Shane got him a load of groceries while Spencer napped and now there's food in the fridge and a bottle of pills on the bedside table. Plus all the stuff Spencer bought that was supposed to be for after he returned from vacation. And he's got a phone; he can get takeout.
Spencer's going to be fine.
*
Spencer is not fine.
He sleeps through the night but it takes him the better part of twenty minutes to push himself upright in the morning, and by the time he's on his feet he's sweating and sore. He wants to put on sweats, but they're in a lower drawer and he can't reach them. It takes some maneuvering, but he bends at the knees, holding onto the top of the dresser for balance, and stretches out the tips of his fingers until finally he manages to get hold of the fabric.
And then he has to figure out how to put them on.
Motherfucker.
Spencer shuffles over to the bedside table and swallows a painkiller dry. Mutters, "Okay, here we go," and starts lifting his leg, trying to get his foot into the leg of the sweats. Getting dressed shouldn't be this much effort.
He's ready for the painkillers to start helping. Anytime now.
Seriously.
*
Three days before Christmas and Spencer can shuffle over to the car but still can't manage to get up onto the seat without it hurting so badly that he has to bite his lip to keep from making noise.
He slams the door shut, then winces as his back screams at him for moving too quickly. It takes a long time for him to get back to his bedroom because he can't lift his feet more than a couple of inches off the ground and he has to take tiny, tiny steps. Getting into bed takes forever and once he's finally lying down, the throbbing of his back reminds him that it's been over four hours and he should take another pill.
The bottle is on the bedside table, but it's too far for Spencer to reach. Sitting up takes even longer than lying down and hurts just as badly, and okay, fine, so Spencer will just lie here for a minute and wait until his back stops hurting so much and then he'll take the pill. Except that his back hurts now and it might not stop hurting until he takes the pill, but he's so fucking tired. It hurts all the time and everything is a million times more difficult than usual, and it's not like things felt easy before.
Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to breathe slowly. The jerky way his ribcage moves as he tries to fight the lump in his throat is making the pain even worse. It's not helping anything to get all riled up and he just needs to take a deep breath and then sit up and take the pill and then he can have a nap. That'll help. Not being awake is far superior to being awake.
He wonders what his parents are doing right now and then feels really stupid for even thinking about it because he knows they'd drive down the second he asked them to. But then they'd waste a whole day of their vacation and his sisters aren't home for very long. His mom will already have the house all decorated. His back will feel better eventually and then he will drive down and see them, and that'll be much better than forcing them to come up and see him.
He wonders if Ryan has decorated his house. When they were kids, Spencer's mom used to get the both of them making popcorn chains, which Ryan always insisted that his Dad wrap around the tree. Spencer doubts that Ryan is making popcorn chains this year, but he could be. His whole house could be covered in popcorn. It's funny that they might end up being in the same city for Christmas after all, but that doesn't mean they're actually going to see each other.
Spencer bites the inside of his cheek sharply. Lying here and letting himself get all silly isn't helpful. He takes a deep breath and uses his hands to push up until he's upright, grabbing quickly for the bottle of pills and swallowing one dry.
When he lies back down, his back still hurts, and the space behind his eyes, and, whatever. So he reaches for the TV remote, which luckily is close beside him on the bed, and turns on the TV, sitting on top of his dresser. He'll watch fucking infomercials until he falls asleep.
*
He's not sure if the pain actually gets worse or if it just feels worse, but Spencer starts thinking what if he feels like this forever? What if it always hurts this bad? What if he doesn't make it home tomorrow? And it's really fucking stupid because getting all upset certainly isn't going to help anything, but he can't stop himself. His brain has been stupid for months now and he hasn't been any good at getting his brainvoice to just shut the fuck up.
He squeezes his eyes closed tightly. The remote is still beside him, but he's sick of TV. Maybe he'll just order a pay-per-view movie or something.
He hasn't actually turned on the TV yet, which is why his heart starts pounding when he hears a noise. The house has been completely silent, and all the sudden it's not anymore, and Spencer doesn't know if he should open his eyes. It sounds like maybe something fell over downstairs, and that's not the end of the world. It's creepy as fuck, but, yeah, so things just fall over sometimes.
Spencer opens his eyes. His room is still empty, which is to be expected since the noises clearly came from somewhere else in the house. He wonders if he should go check things out. That would involve getting out of bed, and Spencer doesn't want to get out of bed, but maybe he should.
He's still weighing the pros and cons when his bedroom door pushes open, and holy fucking hell, Spencer's heart stops completely for the moment it takes for Brendon to walk in.
"Jesus Christ," Spencer says, touching his hand to his chest. "You actually just gave me a heart attack." And then, "Brendon?"
"Hey, Spencer," Brendon says, walking into the bedroom. "What the fuck did you manage to do to yourself?"
"Why are you even here? How did you know?" Spencer asks. "Did Shane tell you? I told him not to tell you." Being stuck in bed with a bad back is motherfucking embarrassing. He's not actually eighty years old, even though his body appears to be in decay.
"Shane's not a total fucking asshole," says Brendon. "Of course he told me. What the fuck is wrong with you? Did you hit your head in the fall?"
"No."
"Did they check you for a concussion? Because that's the only thing that would explain your new heights of fucking insanity. What the fuck are you doing here by yourself when you can't even get out of bed?"
"I can get out of bed," Spencer says. And then he accidentally shifts too quickly. He tries to hide his wince, but judging by the expression on Brendon's face, Brendon notices. "I can," Spencer says. "It just takes a little while."
"Why didn't you call me?" Brendon asks.
"You were with your family. It's Christmas."
"You broke your back."
"It's not broken," Spencer says.
Brendon gives him an unimpressed look.
"I can't believe you came," Spencer says. "What about your family?"
"I'll see them again," Brendon says. "They all thought it would be a good idea for me to come back and deal with the idiot who's stuck in bed by himself two days before Christmas."
"Yeah," Spencer says.
He keeps staring at Brendon, but, no, Brendon's actually here. Spencer opens his mouth but closes it again.
"You want me to get you something?" Brendon offers.
Spencer shakes his head quickly. "Can you just-- stay here with me for a bit." Spencer says, "I can't believe you're here."
"You're an idiot," Brendon says. "I've always been here."
"I feel really bad," says Spencer. He thinks that it should be a relief to finally say it out loud, but it just makes him feel worse. "Brendon, I feel like shit. This really hurts."
"Yeah," Brendon says. He climbs gently onto the bed and settles beside Spencer. His hand comes to rest flat on Spencer's belly, rubbing slow circles.
Spencer wants to pull Brendon in closer but he can't move. He grabs for Brendon's wrist, holding on tighter than he means to, but Brendon doesn't seem to mind. He scooches in a little closer.
"This okay on your back?" Brendon asks.
"Yeah, it's good." Spencer swallows. "Hey, so, thanks for coming, and stuff." His back still hurts but his brain doesn't feel as crazy now that Brendon's here.
Brendon hums, "Mh hm." He wiggles around, careful not to jar Spencer. "Your bed's pretty comfy," he says.
"Not too bad," Spencer says. He doesn't care about his bed, but Brendon is pretty comfy, pressed warm against Spencer's side. Brendon's palm rubs across Spencer's belly and it's such a relief to be touched.
Spencer turns his head and finds Brendon already looking up at him. Spencer knows he looks like a disaster right now, but Brendon blinks up at him, his mouth curving into a soft smile. Spencer's breath catches and then Brendon tilts his head back and bumps his lips against Spencer's, like, hey, hi, I'm right here.
*
"Ho, ho, ho," Brendon shouts when Spencer's mom opens the door. "Someone told me that you were very good this year so I brought you a special present."
From where he's standing beside Brendon, Spencer waves. The yards and yards of ribbon that Brendon wrapped around his head tickle his face where they hang down. Spencer said that the ribbon was itchy and maybe could they just use a stick on bow instead, but Brendon said that his Santa beard was itchy as well so Spencer could just shut up.
Spencer steps into his parents house, his mom holding one elbow and Brendon holding the other so that he can make it over the step, and as Spencer shuffles into the front entrance, Brendon doesn't let go.