fic: Hello, I'm too tired to smile today | bandom | 2236 words
I spent most of today hopped up on NeoCitron and watching Mythbusters reruns. During the commercial breaks I wrote something.
title: Hello, I'm too tired to smile today
rating: I didn't know I could write anything g rated, but here it is.
words: 2236
summary: Spencer just wants to go home. He ends up in Chicago. This is not a coincidence.
notes: This was written for bandomvalentine for prompt 28 Post/split HAPPY Jon/Spencer (maybe side Brendon/Ryan?) As long as it has a happy ending, it's all good. "Remember when you looked like a girl?" I had big happy plans for this prompt, but then life and the cold that will not die got in the way. It is mostly happy? subterrain assures me that it is bittersweet.
notes: As mentioned above, subterrain gave up part of her Sunday to look this over and kick my ass a little.
When the wheels of the airplane touch down on a runway at O'Hare, Spencer has been awake for thirty hours, approximately. He isn't entirely sure and is more concerned with getting his hands on some Visine than he is in figuring out the minutes and hours and days that have passed since he last closed his eyes. The dry, recycled air in the cabin is probably what Spencer hates the most about air travel.
The coffee Spencer gets from a kiosk on the concourse is more like caffeinated syrup than an actual liquid but its hot and bitter on his tongue, his heart beats faster with every gulp and he feels more balanced, if slightly nauseous, when the paper cup is empty. He doesn't have any luggage so he bypasses baggage claim, darting through the throng of travelers who watch the carousel jolt into motion with predatory attention. It had been a cool night in Los Angeles and Spencer is wearing a light jacket, but it isn't going to do much against the cold February air in Chicago. He considers the wares of the magazine shop beside the revolving doors - it offers the same selection as every other airport store on the continent; candy, bestsellers, blankets and cushions, cheap souvenirs and bottled water. There's a rack of scarves and mittens in the back corner, garish and brightly coloured, but there's a line up at the counter and the cashier looks like someone who may have been around to vote for Eisenhower and Spencer doesn't think he could stand still for that long.
Sitting in a cab doesn't hold much appeal, either. Spencer follows the signs to the CTA terminal. He doesn't know the train system at all, but he knows the Blue line. It reminds him that the last time he was in this airport he'd flown in with Jon, visited with Jon, whose enthusiasm for Chicago's public transit had been endearing. Spencer thinks he probably knows Jon's neighborhood better than he knows his own in LA. Despite the late hour, the big digital readout above the transit schedule reads 4:38, Spencer doesn't have to wait long for a train. The whole trip has been easy like that. He can't remember when the idea popped into his head. He'd left Brendon at Shane's party. There had been too many people, too many people who only knew Jon and Ryan through Shane's careful anecdotes or Brendon's bitter asides and it had been early but the headache growing behind his eyes had sent Spencer out the door and into a cab. He'd meant to go home, his only thought had been home, but he asked to go to LAX. From there it hadn't taken any thought at all.
Maybe he should have called. He still could, face tipped against the window and watching the dark rattle by. The only things he has with him besides his clothes are the essentials he stuffed in his jacket pocket when he'd left the house with Brendon that evening. His keys, his phone and his wallet.
His phone is off. He wonders if Brendon has noticed he's gone.
Spencer doesn't call Jon. He doesn't know what to say yet. Jon was one of his closest friends and once they had orbited each other with the promise of something more, but that something never came and Spencer doesn't know if this kind of visit would ever have been within the boundaries of their friendship. He doesn't know if he would have been welcomed then, he's even less sure now.
Its too soon when his stop comes up. Spencer's not ready to step out of the limbo of travel, that place where you can exist only inside your own head, just a passing thought or second glance to the world around you.
There's an all night diner four blocks from the train stop, eight blocks further from Jon's apartment. Spencer was there once with Jon. He had pancakes and Jon ordered an egg scramble. He doesn't remember how the food tasted, but he remembers that it was warm and that the waitress had drawn a lopsided smiley face on his pancakes.
Spencer ducks his head against the cold and walks fast. He gets turned around, goes up the wrong street before he realizes his mistake and it takes ten minutes to reorient himself. When he pushes open the diner door and the bell jingles overhead the light and warmth feels a little like salvation. The booths are mostly empty and Spencer scuffs across the linoleum to the sound of a talk radio station. The waitress is at his elbow before he's even taken his seat, scooting indelicately across the vinyl bench seat.
The waitress, Joanna, if her nametag can be trusted, would probably pass for thirty if it weren't for the blue rinse in her hair. Spencer remembers a time when he would have been texting Ryan about this experience as soon as her back was turned, he remembers a time when Ryan would have been sitting across the table from him, eyebrows angled in droll amusement.
He orders a coffee and pancakes. The coffee comes first, a steaming at his elbow in a chipped porcelain cup and Spencer forgoes the yellow packets of Splenda for the hulking sugar dispenser by the napkin holder. The coffee feels good and Joanna refills his cup before she brings the pancakes out. Joanna smiles as she slides the plate in front of him.
"I tried to put a smiley face on them for you, didn't quite work out," she says. Spencer smiles at her, mouth stretching and cheeks dimpling, but he feels a little sick now. The whipped cream smile is crooked, almost like a grimace, and suddenly being here feels wrong, like he's gone through the looking glass to a darker reflection.
He calls Jon. Its after five now, Sunday morning and traffic outside won't pick up with early commuters. Jon answers on the fifth ring. He doesn't sound sleepy or confused, he sounds wary.
"Spencer?" he says. He doesn't bother with hello and he doesn't point out the time. Its been so long since they've talked, this isn't just a casual call.
"This pancake smile is very sinister," Spencer says, and it isn't what he meant to say at all. He meant to say something innocuous like, Sorry for waking you or Do you have a minute? But that isn't right, because he isn't sorry and he needs more than a minute.
"Where are you?" Jon asks. "Where's Brendon?"
"Brendon, I'm not sure. The last time I saw him he was drinking something very purple in Shane's kitchen." Spencer choses not to answer the first question, not yet.
"How long ago was that?"
"I don't know exactly. I guess, probably about six hours, no, no probably more like eight."
"And you're eating sinister pancakes?"
"I probably won't eat them." Spencer admits. He won't, he knew he wouldn't when he ordered them. "I don't know why I ordered them."
"Spencer, where are you?" Jon is being very patient, Spencer gets that, but he wishes he wouldn't ask that question again.
"Um. A diner. Patti's."
There is a long pause, Spencer can just hear the rustle of fabric - blankets, maybe? - and a soft thump, like maybe Jon was putting his feet on the floor.
"You're here?" Jon says, his tone modulated in the way he uses when he's trying to seem calm.
"Yes," Spencer says.
"I'll be right there." Jon says, and hangs up.
Spencer is on his third refill of coffee when the door opens and the little bell rattles. He doesn't look up from the table until Jon is sliding in across from him, unwrapping his scarf and dropping his mittens next to the salt and pepper shakers. Jon looks tired, pillow creases on his cheek and disheveled hair. Spencer has never seen it so long. He wants to comb his fingers through it, smooth out the tangles behind Jon's ears.
Before Jon can speak Joanna is at their side with an extra cup and a carafe of coffee. Jon smiles politely and declines a menu. He takes a careful sip, winces and reaches for the sugar dispenser.
"Those pancakes are a little sinister," Jon says. Spencer nods, but he keeps his lips pressed together tightly. Jon is here, a wool peacoat over his pajamas and making idle conversation about threatening breakfast foods and the truth is Spencer wasn't sure that he would come. Wasn't sure that he had the right to ask anymore. It might have been better if Jon hadn't answered the phone. Spencer doesn't know what he's doing here. He feels cracked open and sad, and he isn't sure what will come out of his mouth if he tries to speak.
"I taught Dylan a new trick," Jon says. "Its pretty awesome, I won't lie. I'm glad you're here so that you can witness it in person, I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."
"Were you going to tell me about it?" Spencer asks. With anyone else the question would be weighted, would have ulterior motives maybe. With Ryan, it would have started a fight.
"I don't know," Jon says. "I thought about it. Sometimes I think up conversations in my head, things I could tell you, things I want to tell you. I don't think they'd go like I imagined them, though."
"Probably not," Spencer admits. "I don't know why I'm here. I mean," he shrugs. "I didn't plan it. I just, I left Shane's party and," he shrugs again. Jon is looking at him, really looking, and Spencer wants to turn his gaze away so badly, but he figures he owes Jon at least a few seconds of eye contact at this point.
"You shaved," Jon says, and grimaces through another swallow of coffee. Spencer automatically reaches up to rub his jaw, it still feels strange to feel his skin and not the bristles of hair.
"I was sick, this flu thing, and it just. After three days of fever it felt gross." he shrugs.
"How long has it been since you slept?" Jon asks. No point in hiding anything from someone you've shared a bus with. Brendon and Ryan and Jon, they probably know him better than his mother, probably better than he knows himself.
"A while," Spencer says. "Since Thursday night, I guess."
Jon nods. "We should go," he says. "I have my car, you might not freeze."
Spencer pulls two twenties from his wallet - he feels bad for not eating Joanna's pancakes. He hopes the tip will make up for his weirdness.
Jon's car is just around the corner and they shuffle side by side, Jon trying to hurry them along and Spencer resisting. He isn't cold, not really. Spencer settles himself into the passenger seat and ignores Jon's searching looks. Spencer watches the street lights as they drive by.
"I missed you," he says, and for a moment he can see Jon's profile in the window, staring straight ahead and knuckles tight on the steering wheel.
Jon hustles him up the stairs to his apartment and this time Spencer lets him. He's at once eager and terrified for the familiarity of Jon's home, Dylan and Clover and the rug he got in England and the thick wool sweaters that seem part of the decor. He almost breaks down when he walks into the living room, exactly as he'd remembered. His hands are shaking when Jon hands him a pair of sweatpants to change into.
"Come on," Jon takes him by the elbow and leads him down the hallway to his bedroom. His duvet is half on the floor and the pillows bunched up around the headboard. Jon reaches up to pull his jacket off his shoulders and Spencer's legs buckle, just a little. "Hey, hey," Jon slips an arm around his waist and takes him the last two steps to the bed. He holds on while Spencer shuffles out of his jeans, toes off his socks and pulls the sweatpants up. "Lay down," Jon murmurs, and Spencer crawls across the mattress to settle on his side, facing the wall. Jon follows and curls himself around Spencer, chest to back. He strokes a palm down Spencer's side, curling at his hip. "You're getting too skinny again."
Jon's breath is warm against his ear and Spencer closes his eyes, exhales and breathes in the scent of Jon and sleep. He can't remember a time where he didn't want this, when he didn't want Jon. He'd always been afraid, of ruining the band, of losing his friend. He never took the chance, and the worst happened anyway.
"I've missed you, too," Jon says. "I'm glad you came. When you wake up I'm probably going to kiss you, if that's okay."
Spencer presses a hand to his mouth and smiles against his skin. "It's okay," he whispers.
"And I'll make you some friendly pancakes," Jon presses a dry kiss to the skin behind his ear and inhales deeply. "I'm so glad you're here," he says again. "You can sleep now."
"I know," Spencer says. He closes his eyes. The pipes make a soft whooshing sound as hot water circulates and Spencer can hear the cats puttering around outside the door and Jon is snuffle-snoring beside his ear. He sleeps.
-----------------------------------------------
Now with Jon POV companion piece; don't hold back, feel a little longer
title: Hello, I'm too tired to smile today
rating: I didn't know I could write anything g rated, but here it is.
words: 2236
summary: Spencer just wants to go home. He ends up in Chicago. This is not a coincidence.
notes: This was written for bandomvalentine for prompt 28 Post/split HAPPY Jon/Spencer (maybe side Brendon/Ryan?) As long as it has a happy ending, it's all good. "Remember when you looked like a girl?" I had big happy plans for this prompt, but then life and the cold that will not die got in the way. It is mostly happy? subterrain assures me that it is bittersweet.
notes: As mentioned above, subterrain gave up part of her Sunday to look this over and kick my ass a little.
When the wheels of the airplane touch down on a runway at O'Hare, Spencer has been awake for thirty hours, approximately. He isn't entirely sure and is more concerned with getting his hands on some Visine than he is in figuring out the minutes and hours and days that have passed since he last closed his eyes. The dry, recycled air in the cabin is probably what Spencer hates the most about air travel.
The coffee Spencer gets from a kiosk on the concourse is more like caffeinated syrup than an actual liquid but its hot and bitter on his tongue, his heart beats faster with every gulp and he feels more balanced, if slightly nauseous, when the paper cup is empty. He doesn't have any luggage so he bypasses baggage claim, darting through the throng of travelers who watch the carousel jolt into motion with predatory attention. It had been a cool night in Los Angeles and Spencer is wearing a light jacket, but it isn't going to do much against the cold February air in Chicago. He considers the wares of the magazine shop beside the revolving doors - it offers the same selection as every other airport store on the continent; candy, bestsellers, blankets and cushions, cheap souvenirs and bottled water. There's a rack of scarves and mittens in the back corner, garish and brightly coloured, but there's a line up at the counter and the cashier looks like someone who may have been around to vote for Eisenhower and Spencer doesn't think he could stand still for that long.
Sitting in a cab doesn't hold much appeal, either. Spencer follows the signs to the CTA terminal. He doesn't know the train system at all, but he knows the Blue line. It reminds him that the last time he was in this airport he'd flown in with Jon, visited with Jon, whose enthusiasm for Chicago's public transit had been endearing. Spencer thinks he probably knows Jon's neighborhood better than he knows his own in LA. Despite the late hour, the big digital readout above the transit schedule reads 4:38, Spencer doesn't have to wait long for a train. The whole trip has been easy like that. He can't remember when the idea popped into his head. He'd left Brendon at Shane's party. There had been too many people, too many people who only knew Jon and Ryan through Shane's careful anecdotes or Brendon's bitter asides and it had been early but the headache growing behind his eyes had sent Spencer out the door and into a cab. He'd meant to go home, his only thought had been home, but he asked to go to LAX. From there it hadn't taken any thought at all.
Maybe he should have called. He still could, face tipped against the window and watching the dark rattle by. The only things he has with him besides his clothes are the essentials he stuffed in his jacket pocket when he'd left the house with Brendon that evening. His keys, his phone and his wallet.
His phone is off. He wonders if Brendon has noticed he's gone.
Spencer doesn't call Jon. He doesn't know what to say yet. Jon was one of his closest friends and once they had orbited each other with the promise of something more, but that something never came and Spencer doesn't know if this kind of visit would ever have been within the boundaries of their friendship. He doesn't know if he would have been welcomed then, he's even less sure now.
Its too soon when his stop comes up. Spencer's not ready to step out of the limbo of travel, that place where you can exist only inside your own head, just a passing thought or second glance to the world around you.
There's an all night diner four blocks from the train stop, eight blocks further from Jon's apartment. Spencer was there once with Jon. He had pancakes and Jon ordered an egg scramble. He doesn't remember how the food tasted, but he remembers that it was warm and that the waitress had drawn a lopsided smiley face on his pancakes.
Spencer ducks his head against the cold and walks fast. He gets turned around, goes up the wrong street before he realizes his mistake and it takes ten minutes to reorient himself. When he pushes open the diner door and the bell jingles overhead the light and warmth feels a little like salvation. The booths are mostly empty and Spencer scuffs across the linoleum to the sound of a talk radio station. The waitress is at his elbow before he's even taken his seat, scooting indelicately across the vinyl bench seat.
The waitress, Joanna, if her nametag can be trusted, would probably pass for thirty if it weren't for the blue rinse in her hair. Spencer remembers a time when he would have been texting Ryan about this experience as soon as her back was turned, he remembers a time when Ryan would have been sitting across the table from him, eyebrows angled in droll amusement.
He orders a coffee and pancakes. The coffee comes first, a steaming at his elbow in a chipped porcelain cup and Spencer forgoes the yellow packets of Splenda for the hulking sugar dispenser by the napkin holder. The coffee feels good and Joanna refills his cup before she brings the pancakes out. Joanna smiles as she slides the plate in front of him.
"I tried to put a smiley face on them for you, didn't quite work out," she says. Spencer smiles at her, mouth stretching and cheeks dimpling, but he feels a little sick now. The whipped cream smile is crooked, almost like a grimace, and suddenly being here feels wrong, like he's gone through the looking glass to a darker reflection.
He calls Jon. Its after five now, Sunday morning and traffic outside won't pick up with early commuters. Jon answers on the fifth ring. He doesn't sound sleepy or confused, he sounds wary.
"Spencer?" he says. He doesn't bother with hello and he doesn't point out the time. Its been so long since they've talked, this isn't just a casual call.
"This pancake smile is very sinister," Spencer says, and it isn't what he meant to say at all. He meant to say something innocuous like, Sorry for waking you or Do you have a minute? But that isn't right, because he isn't sorry and he needs more than a minute.
"Where are you?" Jon asks. "Where's Brendon?"
"Brendon, I'm not sure. The last time I saw him he was drinking something very purple in Shane's kitchen." Spencer choses not to answer the first question, not yet.
"How long ago was that?"
"I don't know exactly. I guess, probably about six hours, no, no probably more like eight."
"And you're eating sinister pancakes?"
"I probably won't eat them." Spencer admits. He won't, he knew he wouldn't when he ordered them. "I don't know why I ordered them."
"Spencer, where are you?" Jon is being very patient, Spencer gets that, but he wishes he wouldn't ask that question again.
"Um. A diner. Patti's."
There is a long pause, Spencer can just hear the rustle of fabric - blankets, maybe? - and a soft thump, like maybe Jon was putting his feet on the floor.
"You're here?" Jon says, his tone modulated in the way he uses when he's trying to seem calm.
"Yes," Spencer says.
"I'll be right there." Jon says, and hangs up.
Spencer is on his third refill of coffee when the door opens and the little bell rattles. He doesn't look up from the table until Jon is sliding in across from him, unwrapping his scarf and dropping his mittens next to the salt and pepper shakers. Jon looks tired, pillow creases on his cheek and disheveled hair. Spencer has never seen it so long. He wants to comb his fingers through it, smooth out the tangles behind Jon's ears.
Before Jon can speak Joanna is at their side with an extra cup and a carafe of coffee. Jon smiles politely and declines a menu. He takes a careful sip, winces and reaches for the sugar dispenser.
"Those pancakes are a little sinister," Jon says. Spencer nods, but he keeps his lips pressed together tightly. Jon is here, a wool peacoat over his pajamas and making idle conversation about threatening breakfast foods and the truth is Spencer wasn't sure that he would come. Wasn't sure that he had the right to ask anymore. It might have been better if Jon hadn't answered the phone. Spencer doesn't know what he's doing here. He feels cracked open and sad, and he isn't sure what will come out of his mouth if he tries to speak.
"I taught Dylan a new trick," Jon says. "Its pretty awesome, I won't lie. I'm glad you're here so that you can witness it in person, I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."
"Were you going to tell me about it?" Spencer asks. With anyone else the question would be weighted, would have ulterior motives maybe. With Ryan, it would have started a fight.
"I don't know," Jon says. "I thought about it. Sometimes I think up conversations in my head, things I could tell you, things I want to tell you. I don't think they'd go like I imagined them, though."
"Probably not," Spencer admits. "I don't know why I'm here. I mean," he shrugs. "I didn't plan it. I just, I left Shane's party and," he shrugs again. Jon is looking at him, really looking, and Spencer wants to turn his gaze away so badly, but he figures he owes Jon at least a few seconds of eye contact at this point.
"You shaved," Jon says, and grimaces through another swallow of coffee. Spencer automatically reaches up to rub his jaw, it still feels strange to feel his skin and not the bristles of hair.
"I was sick, this flu thing, and it just. After three days of fever it felt gross." he shrugs.
"How long has it been since you slept?" Jon asks. No point in hiding anything from someone you've shared a bus with. Brendon and Ryan and Jon, they probably know him better than his mother, probably better than he knows himself.
"A while," Spencer says. "Since Thursday night, I guess."
Jon nods. "We should go," he says. "I have my car, you might not freeze."
Spencer pulls two twenties from his wallet - he feels bad for not eating Joanna's pancakes. He hopes the tip will make up for his weirdness.
Jon's car is just around the corner and they shuffle side by side, Jon trying to hurry them along and Spencer resisting. He isn't cold, not really. Spencer settles himself into the passenger seat and ignores Jon's searching looks. Spencer watches the street lights as they drive by.
"I missed you," he says, and for a moment he can see Jon's profile in the window, staring straight ahead and knuckles tight on the steering wheel.
Jon hustles him up the stairs to his apartment and this time Spencer lets him. He's at once eager and terrified for the familiarity of Jon's home, Dylan and Clover and the rug he got in England and the thick wool sweaters that seem part of the decor. He almost breaks down when he walks into the living room, exactly as he'd remembered. His hands are shaking when Jon hands him a pair of sweatpants to change into.
"Come on," Jon takes him by the elbow and leads him down the hallway to his bedroom. His duvet is half on the floor and the pillows bunched up around the headboard. Jon reaches up to pull his jacket off his shoulders and Spencer's legs buckle, just a little. "Hey, hey," Jon slips an arm around his waist and takes him the last two steps to the bed. He holds on while Spencer shuffles out of his jeans, toes off his socks and pulls the sweatpants up. "Lay down," Jon murmurs, and Spencer crawls across the mattress to settle on his side, facing the wall. Jon follows and curls himself around Spencer, chest to back. He strokes a palm down Spencer's side, curling at his hip. "You're getting too skinny again."
Jon's breath is warm against his ear and Spencer closes his eyes, exhales and breathes in the scent of Jon and sleep. He can't remember a time where he didn't want this, when he didn't want Jon. He'd always been afraid, of ruining the band, of losing his friend. He never took the chance, and the worst happened anyway.
"I've missed you, too," Jon says. "I'm glad you came. When you wake up I'm probably going to kiss you, if that's okay."
Spencer presses a hand to his mouth and smiles against his skin. "It's okay," he whispers.
"And I'll make you some friendly pancakes," Jon presses a dry kiss to the skin behind his ear and inhales deeply. "I'm so glad you're here," he says again. "You can sleep now."
"I know," Spencer says. He closes his eyes. The pipes make a soft whooshing sound as hot water circulates and Spencer can hear the cats puttering around outside the door and Jon is snuffle-snoring beside his ear. He sleeps.
-----------------------------------------------
Now with Jon POV companion piece; don't hold back, feel a little longer