Floating Our Way Out -- Part Two
Part One
Brendon goes and hides in the guest room, cause when Spence isn't there that's his room. He tries to calm down, tries to be quiet, but there’s not a lot he can do about it. He’s been in love with Spencer for months, and has never even said hello, hasn’t said anything because he’s been terrified of exactly this, and all of a sudden, Spencer sees him-mistakes him for a real person, even, and still Spencer somehow hates him for no reason at all. Brendon stifles his sobs into his hands-he’d use a pillow or something, but he can interact with real things even less when he’s upset, so that’s not going to happen. Ryan will just have to deal with the noise. Brendon doesn’t think he’ll be that bothered.
Someone clears their throat, and Brendon chokes a sob into a hiccup in surprise.
Spencer is hovering in the doorway, looking conflicted. “I-“ he starts, shakes his head, tries again. “Brendon.”
Brendon blinks at him, sniffles a little. “Yeah.”
Spencer bites his lip, palms the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re-I mean, you’re real.”
“Sort of,” Brendon agrees, laughing a little, wetly. The laugh turns into another sob, and he hides his face in the crook of his arm.
Spencer hesitates in the doorway for a minute, then shuffles into the room. He pauses for another minute, but eventually sits down beside Brendon on the bed and runs a hand through the faintly tingling patch of air where Brendon's hair appears. “Shhh,” he tells Brendon softly, “I’m not mad, okay, I get it now.”
Brendon just lets the tears run until there aren’t any more, lets himself feel comforted by the buzz of Spencer’s hand through where his hair should be.
--
"What happened to you?" Spencer asks, softly, when Brendon stops crying, is just snuffling quietly into the sleeve of his translucent purple hoodie.
Brendon shrugs. "I got really sick. I had a big family, and they-they couldn't really afford a lot of medication or anything, and I guess I had pneumonia or something? It’s, you know, it’s kind of fuzzy. And it got worse, and one day I just. Woke up and couldn't feel things or touch people anymore." He demonstrates his inability to touch things by trying to put his hand over the one Spencer's stroking over his hair with, and sure enough, his fingers fizzle right through. He doesn't talk about after, when his parents saw him and screamed and called him a demon and left, left him and the house and almost all of their things.
Spencer, though, shakes his head. "I can feel your hair," he says, half perplexed, half defiant, and Brendon snaps back to here, now.
Brendon snorts. "You can not, Spencer Smith, you just think you can."
"I can so," Spencer protests. "It's like how you can feel water-- like, it doesn't feel like anything, but you can tell the difference between when your hand is in it and when you hand is just in the air."
Brendon doesn't call him out on how ridiculous that sounds-- it's too nice of a thing to think about for him to really want to protest. And he doesn't mean to, he totally doesn't, but he imagines how good it would feel for Spencer to actually be stroking his hair, and he falls asleep to the rhythmic brush of fingers across his scalp.
--
Spencer shows up early in the day on a Friday, when Ryan is out. He lets himself in with the key from under the mat, and wanders through the house, looking for Brendon.
He hears him before he finds him. He's singing From a Mountain in the Middle of the Cabins, and it's nothing, nothing like when Ryan sings it. Spencer stands in the doorway to the kitchen, where Brendon is dancing around a little while he sings, and listens. He’s only heard him sing once, and it’s somehow almost a religious experience, this, hearing him sing, so open and unguarded, like he’s doing it with his entire being. Spencer is pretty sure he could never listen to anything else and he’d still be perfectly content.
Brendon turns, though, and sees him, and the sound just completely dies in his throat. He coughs a little, ducking his head. "Spence," he says, awkwardly.
"That was amazing," Spencer says, grinning at him. "It sounded so much more--"
"No, no, it’s not, I mean," Brendon cuts him off. "It's Ryan's. I'm sorry, okay, don't tell anyone? I don't have any right to be messing with it." He twists his hoodie in his hands. "Please, don't tell him I was messing with it?"
"Brendon, you wrote like half the words. Hell, you write most of the words he sings."
Brendon shrugs, doesn't meet his eyes. "Yeah, I guess."
Spencer narrows his eyes at him. "Brendon. Seriously, what the hell? It's your song, too."
Brendon looks up, eyes guarded, and says, voice small and tight, "But it's not my band, okay? It's not mine, and I'm not part of it, and I don't have any business meddling in parts of it."
Spencer is pretty sure that his heart breaks a little. “Bren.” He swallows back the bile rising in his throat. “Brendon, okay, it’s yours. You write it, you’re allowed to sing it. Ryan just-you give it to him, and that’s awesome, but it’s yours.”
“It’s not.” Brendon’s voice is low, but firm. “I gave it to him. To the band. The songs aren’t mine anymore, they’re the band’s, and I just-I need to let them go. I don’t normally sing them, I was just.” He stops himself, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Spencer looks at him for a long moment, then says decisively, “We’re going to fix this.”
--
Spencer has a super-secret-clubhouse discussion with Ryan. Or, well, it's not in an actual clubhouse, because they're totally adults now and don't have one anymore, but he corners Ryan in the hall and shoves him into the bathroom and sits him down on the edge of the tub and says, "Brendon thinks he's not allowed to sing the band's songs."
Ryan squints at him. "That's moronic."
"Yes," Spencer agrees, and, "He should be more of a part of things. Feel more like they're his, too."
Ryan nods, keeping up with him in that awesome way that Ryan always has. "We should tell Jon about him."
Spencer nods along, sits down on the closed toilet, and they plan things. Super-secret-clubhouse things. Or, well, super-secret-band-meeting-in-a-bathroom things.
--
Jon deals with finding out about Brendon a lot better than Spencer did.
He shows up like four hours early for band practice and doesn't bother to knock, which Brendon supposes is understandable, because he and Ryan are totally sleeping together now, and that's part of his boyfriend rights or something.
"Hey, Ryan, Spence," he says, shuffling into the band room, and, cocking his head at Brendon, "Hey, other dude."
Brendon blinks at him, but Ryan beams at Jon and says, "He's Brendon, he's my dead roommate. He's been helping me write things."
Jon just stands there for a minute-- a minute during which Brendon seriously wishes he could strangle Ryan for completely taking this out of his hands like a total asshole, holy shit.
After the minute, though, Jon just nods and says, "Awesome. We should totally go make out now, since I totally got here early for that purpose. That is totally why I am here."
Ryan grins and hands Spencer his guitar like nothing about the exchange was at all weird, like he didn't just totally risk alienating Jon from Brendon forever. On the other hand, Brendon supposes, Ryan and Jon are on some sort of secret men-of-stringed-instruments wavelength, and it's probably better to just let Ryan handle it. "On it," Ryan says, and follows Jon from the room.
"So," Spencer says, turning to Brendon like that totally wasn't weird as hell, "We should work on Northern Downpour, I don't think I'm solid on it, yet."
Brendon blinks at him for a minute, then swallows and nods. "Right, totally, yes. Let's do that."
And if Spencer seems weirdly innocent about the whole thing, Brendon doesn’t say anything.
--
"How do you give him stuff?" Spencer demands, dropping unceremoniously onto Ryan's bed at ass o'clock in the morning.
Ryan blinks at him sleepily, but doesn't try to give him shit by asking what he's talking about. "I burn it."
Spencer tips his head to the side. "And that works?"
Ryan shrugs. "Apparently." He pushes his hair back from his face with one hand. "Also, if you burn yourself to death so you can bang my dead roommate, I will follow you and kick your ass."
Spencer would protest that he hadn't thought of that when Ryan said it, but he'd be lying. He wouldn't do it, though-- mostly because he's pretty sure Brendon would kick his ass, too. Also, it would probably be really, really painful, and Spencer doesn’t actually have a terribly high pain tolerance. "No, I just. I want--" He huffs in frustration. "I don't know, Ry. I just want to do what I can."
Ryan gives him a piercing look, derogatory and pitying all at once. Spencer kind of wants to slap him. "You can't do much for him, Spence, he's dead."
Spencer glares right back. Spencer's bitchface is fearsome, he knows this. Brendon's told him so. "You give him things. You wouldn't if you thought that, asshole."
Ryan scowls at him for another minute before he says, "He likes Indian food. He's a vegetarian."
Spencer grins at him. "Awesome."
--
"You--" Brendon swallows, stares at Spencer and the table he's set up in the living room-- or more specifically, the things on it. Four paper takeout containers full of Indian food-- saag paneer, vegetable korma, vegetable biryani, and raita. Vegetarian Indian food. Brendon's favorite food.
Spencer bites his lip, ducks his head. "Ryan said you could eat it, if I--" he gestures at the fireplace vaguely. "Silverware was kind of hard, I could only find a wooden spoon, I felt like plastic would probably-- yeah, so, spoon." He waves a wooden spoon-- a little bigger than a normal spoon, but Brendon's pretty fucking sure he'll deal with it.
"Yeah, I." Brendon can't actually remember how to talk. "You got all this for-- I mean, this is actually for me?"
Spencer gives him a fake bitchface, says, "No, Brendon, I totally just put it here to taunt you. Built a fire, too, just to be a total jerk." He sticks out his tongue. "Yes, okay, it's for you. Now sit down."
Brendon sits, watching with wide eyes as Spencer methodically takes each container to the fireplace, setting it flat on the burning logs and letting it go up in flames before he adds the next one. "What--" Brendon says, nervously tapping his fingers on his thighs, "I mean, what are you eating?"
Spencer looks up from where he's crouched by the fireplace and smiles. "Meat. I'm totally going to enjoy the flesh of delicious baby sheep in curry."
Brendon makes a face, but laughs anyways. He can't help it, he's kind of ridiculously giddy. When he sobers, he asks-- can't help but ask-- "Spence. Seriously. Why are you doing all this?"
When the food is all ready, shimmering and translucent in its containers, Spencer joins him at the low table. He looks Brendon in the eyes for the first time that night, leans forward a little, says, low and serious, "Because I'm basically stupid for you, and I don't know what else I can do."
Brendon feels his stomach turn over, feels his skin go tight. “Spence,” he says, and it’s not anything, it’s not even a question, it’s just to remind himself that this is actually happening, that it’s not something in his head.
“Brendon,” he says back, smiling with half his mouth. “Shut up and eat your dinner.”
Brendon chokes back a laugh, holds back all of the babbling ridiculousness that wants to seep out of him, and obeys.
--
Spencer doesn’t mind that Brendon sleeps in his bed. Spencer tells Brendon that he’s ridiculous and that it’s Brendon’s house, and Spencer is really sleeping in his bed, and that he needs to shut the fuck up and go to sleep, or Spencer will sing to him, and that’s a real threat, because Spencer’s singing is atrocious. So Brendon smiles a secret, happy smile, and curls up, carefully not touching Spencer’s space. He listens to Spencer breathe with the kind of attention he couldn’t pay before, when he was worrying that Spencer would wake up and freak out. Now, Brendon’s allowed, and that’s the nicest thing that’s happened in a long, long while.
--
When Ryan tries a half dozen times and still can't hit the high note Brendon wants in the newest song, he throws up his hands and snaps, "Well, you fucking sing it then."
Brendon just raises an eyebrow at him. "Right, because I can totally leave this house and go play shows with you. That can happen." He jams his hands into his pockets, tries not to let the hurt show through in his voice.
Jon and Spencer don't say anything, they just wait while Ryan breathes hard through his nose and glares at Brendon like this is all somehow his fault. Brendon doesn't blame them-- he would be trying not to draw attention to himself, too, if he were in their position.
"We can just change the note," Brendon says, finally, hanging his head. It won't be right, it won't be the song in his head, but it'll be something, and that's more than he could have without Ryan.
"No," Ryan says, teeth gritted, like it's actually painful for him to say, "It's better your way." All the breath sags out of him. "I just... can't do it."
"Why, exactly," Jon says slowly, "can't Brendon sing it?" When Ryan opens his mouth to say what Brendon's thinking-- duh, genius, he's a ghost, okay, not a person, he can't leave the house, can't get up on stage in front of a bunch of people who wouldn't even be able to see him if he did leave-- Jon puts a quelling hand on Ryan's shoulder and adds, "I didn't ask why he can't perform it. I asked why he can't sing it."
Ryan goes quiet for a minute, looking at Jon. Jon gives him a half smile, shrugs one shoulder. "It's a thought," Ryan says, slow, like he's working something through in his head.
Brendon doesn't ask what the thought is. If Ryan has a thought, a thought about how Brendon can sing and actually have people hear him, he's not going to jinx it by asking questions before Ryan's done thinking it through.
"We'd need to bring the equipment here," Ryan says thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on his thigh while he thinks. "And someone to actually mix it, because I sure as hell don't know how to."
Brendon hadn't noticed Spencer coming up behind him, but all of a sudden, there are hands over his shoulders, keeping him touching the floor, keeping him solid, grounded. He can feel them, almost, and it lends him the strength to try to say something, to ask. "Are you talking about-- Ryan, I mean, do you mean--"
Ryan meets his eyes, and, biting back a smile, nods. "Recording, Bren. We'll make an album, okay, and I can't--" he pauses, eyes flicking away for a second, guilty, "I can't do anything about performing, I don't know what the hell anyone could do, but. We'll make an album."
Brendon blinks at him. "We," he says, just to make sure.
Spencer answers before Ryan can, his voice right next to Brendon's ear. "We," he confirms.
Brendon resists the urge to zoom around the ceiling, yelling, "YES! YES! WHOOO!" because if they're going to treat him like an actual person, he should probably try to act like one.
--
Spencer wakes up that night to little whimpering noises. He panics for a second, because they're clearly Brendon, and that's bad-- but then he realizes that it's probably not actually a sound of pain, because Brendon's dead and it's really unlikely that's he's cut himself or stubbed his toe or something.
So Spencer opens his eyes and rolls over.
Brendon freezes, eyes popping open and looking away in guilt. The heel of his hand is still pressed against the front of his sweats, and he'd been grinding up into it, clearly positive that Spencer was out for the count.
"I--Spence, I wasn't, I was just--" He's babbling, frantic, eyes anywhere but on Spencer's face. Like Spencer would somehow be bothered, be anything but turned on.
"Brendon." Spencer's voice is hoarse. He reaches out and tucks his hand under the buzzing bit of air that is Brendon's chin, and Brendon looks at him, eyes still too wide.
"Spence--" he says, sounding pained now.
"Bren, can you feel my hand?"
Brendon blinks at him, once, twice, like an owl, momentarily distracted from his insistence that he totally wasn't masturbating or anything. "Um, kind of. It doesn't-- I mean, it doesn't feel like a hand or anything, but I can feel-- I can feel that it's there."
Spencer grins at him, and he probably looks unbalanced, lying there in the dark with this crazy smile, but Brendon smiles back a little, tentatively. Spencer's going to run with that as something like permission.
Brendon's eyes snap shut and open again, wider than before, when Spencer's hand rubs against the front of his sweats. "Spence--" he whimpers, and then Spencer focuses as hard as he can on the idea that Brendon is solid, Brendon is real, and he squeezes.
Brendon's eyes roll up and he makes this heart-stopping mewling sound, hips jerking up desperately, begging for actual pressure.
Spencer lets go, and Brendon whimpers.
"Spencer?" He's blinking up at Spencer again, like he's afraid he's done something wrong, and Spencer's chest tightens.
"Shh," he says, not unkindly, "I'm trying something." Brendon huffs out a breath, but he loses the shadow of fear in his eyes.
Spencer focuses again, on the reality of Brendon, on the way that even if he's dead, his chest is still rising and falling rapidly, his eyes are still blinking, his skin is still there, present and real, damn it, under Spencer's fingers. He traces them over Brendon's hips, the waistline of his pants, his stomach, over his chest. Spencer keeps his eyes closed, narrowing in on the sensation of more-than-air under his hands. Brendon's breathing harder now, sharp little pants and gasps, and Spencer can feel tense muscles straining under his fingertips.
Spencer trails his hands up to Brendon's collarbone, throat, neck, the sides of his face. He cages Brendon's face between his hands, trying, trying really, really hard to remember to feel the skin under his palms, skin that isn't there but should be, can be if he makes it. "Bren," he says, soft as he can, "look at me."
Brendon's eyes are wide and dark, and Spencer can see the little dips in his lower lip from where he's been biting it, trying to keep quiet.
"Spencer, what--" He looks to the side, uncomfortable under scrutiny. "You can't-- I mean, I can't, it's not going to work."
Spencer shakes his head. "I'm not asking you to do anything." He lets go of Brendon's face, lifting himself up and moving until he's straddling Brendon's hips. He has to hold his hips off the bed, since Brendon obviously can't hold any of his weight, and that's kind of uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to pass through Brendon, either, so he'll deal.
Brendon's watching him, nervous and kind of twitchy. "Spencer, seriously, what are you even trying to do? Because--"
"Brendon, Brendon, seriously, shut the fuck up." Spencer bends down over him, carefully keeping a good inch away from Brendon's skin. He leans in, as close as he can, and, half an inch from Brendon's lips, he says, "I'm trying to kiss you, retard, so it would help if you'd fucking hold still and stop telling me I can't." He looks at Brendon's mouth, concentrates on the tiny ridges and valleys in his lips, the nervous swipe of his tongue over his lower one, the way his mouth is quirked just a little higher on the right from too many lopsided grins.
"Spencer," Brendon breathes, less of a protest and more of an affirmation this time, and Spencer carefully, carefully, lines up their lips and closes the gap between them.
--
Spencer's lips are the first thing Brendon's felt-- actually felt, like he can feel every millimeter of soft, soft skin edged in five-in-the-morning stubble-- in nearly six years. And they feel awesome.
Spencer is totally not stopping to be amazed at the fact that it's working, that they're actually kissing, and maybe that's because he'd believed it was going to work this whole time, but Brendon's pretty sure he just isn't sure it'll work again, and he wants to make the most of it in case it doesn't. Brendon is totally on board with this plan, he so, so is.
Spencer's licking at his lower lip, slowly, he's doing everything so slowly, like he thinks if he moves too fast Brendon will blur away, and actually, for all Brendon knows, that might be true, so he doesn't rush him. He sighs a little, and Spencer licks into his mouth, slick and soft and warm, and that's the first time in a long time that anything has actually had a temperature that Brendon can feel.
He can't help that he arches up a little, regrets it as soon as his hips leave the bed, knows he won't get the pressure he's looking for except that he does, and Spencer's hips grind right back. It's not-- it's not like it should be, Spencer sinks a half inch into the space where Brendon is, but something under Brendon's skin has a resistance, now, like sand, almost, like Spencer's sinking into the top layer of him and isn't going further, and that. That's something really, really close to enough. Close enough that Brendon thinks he's pretty much totally okay with it. Momentarily jubilant with the discovery, he wiggles his hips in a little dance, and freezes when Spencer growls.
Spencer's hand grabs his hip-- grabs it!-- and pulls him closer. "Don't stop," he complains into the corner of Brendon's mouth, and oh, okay, a happy growl, Brendon's maybe not used to those, but he thinks he could probably get there. He presses his hips up and grinds in a little, and Spencer makes this amazing noise in the back of his throat, like he's in pain and really freaking happy about it.
Spencer's mouth trails, hot and damp, over Brendon's cheek, pressing kisses into his jaw, and then he sinks his teeth into the side of Brendon's throat and Brendon keens. He blushes as soon as the noise comes out, but Spencer's eyes are closed and Brendon's pretty sure he doesn't actually mind, if the way he's rubbing up against Brendon is any indication. He reaches up to tangle his hand in Spencer's hair before he even thinks about it. His fingers buzz through a few strands, and Brendon's heart skips a beat, before they finally catch, and he can hold on while Spencer leaves a trail of marks across his skin that prove that this is real, this is happening.
When Spencer's hips move a little faster, Brendon doesn't even try to hold in the noises, just clings and tries to keep up. Spencer pants, open mouthed, against the juncture of Brendon's neck and shoulder, and when Brendon comes, shaking and almost surprised, Spencer isn't far behind.
--
"We're recording an album," Ryan says, sucking in a deep breath.
Jon nods. "That, yeah, that was sort of the thought here."
"An actual album," Ryan confirms, trying not to hyperventilate. It’s hard, because this isn’t a small thing, this is a really big thing. It’s an awesome thing, but it’s a thing he hasn’t done since he was miserable and furious and a teenager, and this is so much more of him, so much of a bigger piece of himself-and so much more vulnerable, more soft and helpless in the face of criticism. Anger, okay, if people hate that, that’s okay, because you’re not supposed to look at anger and say, hey, I want to be that, I love that, yes, awesome, you’re supposed to look at anger and get angry along with it. But these are the soft underbellies of Ryan’s thoughts, all the chords his head makes when he thinks of Jon, of Spencer, of Brendon, and the idea of making all of this solid, permanent, handing it to other people and letting them judge it-that’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
"Ryan," Jon says, taking his wrists firmly. "Quit freaking out."
Jon is all manly and bearded and smells nice and has strong hands, and their tight grip on Ryan's wrists is pretty much the only thing keeping him grounded. "Jon," he says, and he would totally elaborate on that, except that he has no idea what to say that doesn't constitute freaking out in one way or another.
Jon seems to get it, though, in that awesome Jon way that he has, and backs Ryan up to the wall, casually steering him around the drum kit and guitar stands. When Ryan's back is to the cool wood paneling, Jon tips his head against Ryan's, pressing their foreheads close, and says, "Breathe, Ry."
Ryan tries. He listens to Jon's breathing for a minute, tries to make his own line up with it exactly. When Jon breathes in, Ryan breathes in. When Jon breathes out, Ryan’s breath stutters out of his mouth. Mostly it works, and his heart slows down a little, sweat stops beading on his palms.
"Better," Jon says, rubbing little circles over the insides of Ryan's wrists with his thumbs. "Keep going."
Ryan closes his eyes, feels Jon's heartbeat against the pulse in his wrists, tries to let himself fall into it. It takes another minute, or maybe a few, but eventually he's breathing steadily, and he feels like maybe he doesn't want to fly out of his skin.
And then Jon says, "So I'm thinking we should go have sex now," and that totally ruins Ryan's ability to breathe like a normal human being at all.
Jon laughs at him the whole way to the bedroom.
--
Gabe can't actually see Brendon, but that doesn't seem to faze him. “I can’t see Bill when he turns sideways, either, I’m totally used to it,” he says when Brendon asks him about it, and none of them have any idea what he’s talking about, so no one brings it up again.
"You at the mic, kiddo?" Gabe asks, fiddling with the sound board.
Brendon nods, then remembers Gabe can't see him, and says, "Yep, yes, yeah." Ryan sniggers in the corner, and Spencer elbows him in the gut. Hysterical laughter-- or maybe just plain hysteria-- bubbles in Brendon's chest, and he does his best not to let any escape.
Gabe bobs his head, grinning. "Cool, cool." The way Gabe smiles, Brendon would kind of worry that he's insane, except that the fact that Gabe is insane is basically the reason Ryan called him in for this in the first place, so Brendon's mostly just grateful for it. Still, it’s mildly disconcerting now and then. "Get ready, little man." Brendon doesn't ask how Gabe knows how short he is, just sucks in a breath that he doesn't technically need and steadies himself as well as he can.
Gabe holds up five fingers, waves them a little to make sure he has Brendon's attention, and starts to count down.
When Gabe tucks his thumb into the rest of his hand, Brendon closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and sings.
--
Jon curls up on the couch, one leg underneath him, and wiggles his fingers, beckoning to Ryan. He's got a bowl of popcorn on his lap, and the remote is wedged into the gap between the cushions beside him.
"Come on," he says, wheedling. “We’ve finished like half the album, it’s time to relax.”
Ryan huffs and crosses his arms. "This is so incredibly stupid."
Jon grins at him, totally remorseless. "Yes. But somehow, you missed the stupidity at the age where you would appreciate it properly, so you're getting it now."
"Like chicken pox?" Ryan says dryly, rolling his eyes.
Jon grabs his hand and yanks, dragging Ryan down to the couch, half on top of him. "Exactly like chicken pox," Jon says, kissing the top of Ryan's head as Ryan tries to untangle all seventeen thousand of his freakishly long limbs. "It'll totally be stronger than it would've been if you'd gotten it as a kid. But I’m pretty sure this experience is slightly less itchy and less likely to leave unsightly scars."
Ryan harrumphs-- it's totally his duty as a young curmudgeon, and he's pretty sure Jon knows that, because all he does is chuckle. "Fine, fine. But it's still demeaning."
"Ferngully is not demeaning, Ryan Ross," Jon says mock-chidingly. "It's inspiring" He bats his eyelashes in a spot-on imitation of Brendon, and Ryan tries not to laugh. It would only serve to ruin his image. “You’ll like it, Ryan Ross, I promise. Pinky swear, even.” He loops his pinky through Ryan’s and squeezes, eyes twinkling.
Ryan rolls his eyes, but snuggles down into Jon's lap and doesn't argue anymore. Jon tends to be right about these sorts of things.
--
When Jon finishes laying the last bass track on the last song for their album, Gabe burns a CD and hands it to Ryan. Ryan turns it over in his hands wonderingly, like he’s not actually sure it’s real, until Spencer kicks him in the shin and says, “It’s not even all finished and fancy yet, Ry, don’t get all sentimental and shit. We could’ve just listened to it straight from the computer, but we all know you have some sort of twisted sense of ceremony.”
Ryan glares at him, but puts it into the CD player and hits play.
Brendon listens to his voice coming out of the speakers, feels it vibrating through the room, twining through Ryan’s guitar and Jon’s bass and Spencer’s drums. He can feel it echoing in the bones of his hands, tickling at the pads of his fingers, and he’s not even actually sure how that’s possible, because he doesn’t exactly have bones or skin anymore, not really. He’s so thrilled and unbalanced by it at the same time that Spencer’s hand, resting lightly on his shoulder, falls right through him.
Gabe makes fun of Brendon for it, which is totally retarded, because Gabe can’t even fucking see him, Gabe is a douche. Brendon whooshes through him in revenge, since it’s not like he can punch him in the arm like he wants to, but all Gabe does is giggle like a little girl, waggle his eyebrows, and say, “Ooh, little man, getting kinky.”
When Brendon can relax enough to maybe keep his ghosty atoms from buzzing ten million times faster than normal, he tucks himself carefully against Spencer’s side and looks at Ryan and Jon and Gabe and says, “Thank you. This-I never thought-I didn’t even know I could have anything like this.”
Gabe sniffles and wipes at his eye. Brendon is still too warm and grateful to mock him properly for it.
--
"Seriously, Brendon. Relax," Spencer says, holding his hands over Brendon's shoulders until Brendon steadies enough that Spencer can actually rest them on his shoulders.
Brendon bites his lip over an apologetic smile. "I kind of can't, you know?"
Spencer knows. There's a bubbling sensation under his breastbone, like boiling water, seeping up into small soda bubbles in the region of his throat. It’s insane and kind of amazing and he doesn’t want it to stop. So he doesn't tell Brendon to relax again, just says, "We're-- it feels like it's real, now. The music."
"It's-- it's like proof," Brendon says, pushing his glasses up on his nose and ducking his head a little.
"Proof?"
Brendon shrugs and says, voice small and kind of embarrassed, "Like, you know. Proof that I exist. I'm recorded. I'm sound waves that other people, all people can hear. I'm concrete in a way I wasn't before. Real."
That gives Spencer a thought, makes him think that maybe, maybe, the more people that hear Brendon's voice, the more real he'll get-- like maybe, with every person that reaffirms his existence, his existence will get more concrete-- but it's not a theory he's going to say out loud. If it happens, they'll all notice, and if it doesn't, there's no reason to get Brendon's hopes up. "C'mere," he says instead. Brendon obliges, tucking his head under Spencer's chin-- he's solid enough, if Spencer concentrates, that he can actually rest his cheek on Brendon's skull without the awkward sensation of slipping in by an inch or two. "You're--" his tongue trips over it, because he's grown up with Ryan, he's not exactly good at this whole verbal assurance thing, this communicating-his-feelings-via-words thing, he's never needed to be. Ryan always knew, from nudges or looks or smiles or whatever else. He takes a breath and says it anyways. "You're kind of the most real thing in the world to me."
Brendon pulls back to look up at him, holds his eyes for a long moment. He doesn't look away when he says, "You know I'd give anything to be able to come back to life for you."
Spencer swallows back the bad taste in his mouth, nudges his nose against Brendon's. "I don't need any more than you're giving me." It's nothing less than the truth.
Brendon sighs against his mouth and snuggles closer. "Still. I'd give you more if I had it."
Spencer smushes a kiss to Brendon's temple and shakes his head. "I don't think anyone could ask for more."
--
"Ryan, calm down." Jon wraps a hand around the back of Ryan's neck, tugs him closer, until Ryan's face is tucked into the side of Jon's throat. "What's going on?"
Ryan breathes harshly through his nose for a minute, swallows, then says, "Gabe. Pete."
Jon blinks at the back of Ryan's head. "Pete-- Wentz? Did he say something--"
Ryan shakes his head, laughing a little hysterically. "No, no, not. He-- Gabe played what we have so far for him-- he didn't ask me first, I would have said-- He says he wants to sign us, Jon."
Brendon is hovering in the corner, and he hadn't mean to eavesdrop, but. He's maybe behind a chair, though, and there's no way Jon and Ryan could have seen him, known he was there. And Brendon could leave, could drop through the floor with no one the wiser, except that his stomach is trying to come out of his throat, and he's not sure if ghosts can throw up from sheer panic, but he might be finding out soon.
Jon sucks in a sharp breath. "Pete Wentz. Us," he says, and, "But Brendon."
"But Brendon," Ryan agrees, voice soft and defeated. "I know. I know, Jon, okay, I know we can't. And, I mean, I don't even want to, not without him, not really, just." He steps back, scrubs a hand over his face. "I just haven't gotten to play this for anyone. I haven't gotten to be on a stage in-- I mean. I don't want it, I don't, except that I really, really fucking do." He snorts bitterly. "And I know I'm not supposed to--"
"You're not supposed to not want to play your own fucking music in front of people, Ryan," Jon says, shoving his shoulder a little. Softer, he says, "You're-- Ryan, you're allowed to want things, too."
Ryan shakes his head, lets Jon reel him back in. "I can't, Jon. I couldn't do that to him. This is his as much as, if not more than, mine. I can't sing all the songs, and I can't give them to anyone else. They're not mine to give away. I couldn’t do that to him. I can’t."
Jon hmmms at him, pulls him closer, but doesn't say anything against it, either.
Brendon has literally every single thing that he wants that it's conceivably possible for him to have. And most of that, almost every single piece of that, really, is because of Ryan Ross. And, unpleasant as it is to think about, it’s maybe Brendon’s turn to be a little self-sacrificing.
It takes him a long time, a lot of focus, for him to make his fingertip solid enough to push the call button on Ryan’s phone while Ryan’s in the shower that night, but when the other line picks up, Brendon knows it’s worth it.
--
Gerard blinks at him when Brendon finally gets the front door open. "You're a ghost."
Brendon nods. "Pretty much, yeah."
"Oh, man," Gerard says, yanking a battered cell out of his pocket, "Mikey's gonna flip his shit." He looks earnestly up at Brendon through his hair, asks, "Hey, okay, so, if you're real, are there, like-are there unicorns?"
Brendon blinks at him. It's kind of disconcerting to try to talk to someone that might possibly be even more of a spaz than he is. "I... don't know? What?"
Gerard's face falls a little, but he brightens right back up. "Holy fuck, you're the singer, aren't you? Brendon? You're why Ryan can't sing." He stops, making a face and rubbing at his chin. "Well, no, okay, Ryan can sing, just. I mean, you're the reason he keeps writing songs he can't sing! He kept mentioning stuff, but nothing-this totally makes sense, this is awesome."
"Uh," Brendon says, "Well, mostly I write them," and, "Can we get back to what I was trying to say?"
Gerard has the grace to look momentarily ashamed for being all over the place. Brendon can relate, so he-- totally magnanimously, Brendon's magnanimous!-- forgives him.
"So, okay, so," Brendon says, rubbing his hands together, not really sure what to say now that he's actually supposed to be saying it. Possibly because what he has to say makes him want to vomit up his lungs. He sucks his teeth and tries again. "So, okay, you sing."
Gerard nods, instantly sobering. "Pretty much as a way of existing, yeah."
Brendon nods back. "Right." This, here, this is the hard part. He shoves through it. "You sing with Ryan. He-he lets you sing with him. Lets you help him with his voice. So, you can sing them with him. My songs." The bile in his throat isn't as bad as it could be. “I’m-I want you to.”
Gerard blinks at him for a long moment. He chews his lip, runs a hand through his hair. "I can't," he says, finally.
Brendon glares at him. If Brendon can do this, if Brendon can give up his songs, give them away to someone else, someone not Ryan or Spencer or Jon, the someone he's giving them to could at least have the fucking decency to take them. "You have to. I can't do it."
Gerard shakes his head. "No, okay, they're not. I mean, they're not mine." He looks at the wall to the left of Brendon's head instead of at Brendon's face.
Brendon floats into his line of vision and scowls. He's learned a lot from Ryan, and scowling is totally one of the most useful things he's picked up. "No, they're not. Not yet, okay, but they're mine, and I'm going to give them to you. Because Ryan trusts you with his voice, and he won't even trust me with that, and that has to mean something." He pauses, takes a breath he doesn't technically need, and says, "And so I'm going to give them to you, and you're going to learn them, and Ryan's going to get to get signed and play for people like he wants to, and if you argue, I will haunt your ass and you won’t sleep until you die."
Gerard studies him for a moment, eyes bright and considering, and he says, “You’re a good dude, ghost-man.” He grins at Brendon, this ridiculous, sloppy, too-wide grin full of crooked teeth and total sincerity, and says, "But if I agree, you have to promise to help me scare the shit out of Frank."
Brendon doesn't know who the hell Frank is, and he doesn't care. He sticks his hand out, and Gerard, without hesitating at all, grabs the air around it and shakes.
The warmth Brendon gets from that almost makes up for the bitter taste in his mouth.
--
"What the fucking fuck, Brendon." Ryan has his hands balled into fists at his side, and he looks so mad he might cry.
Brendon looks at Ryan's shoes-- those stupid white and black ones that are made to look like he's wearing spats-- and says, "You want to play live."
Ryan growls at him. "I'm not doing it without you," he says fiercely, crossing his arms over his chest.
Brendon glares into his eyes. "I'm not live, so I can't sing live, and I'm not letting you not play this for people." He clears his throat, looks at Spencer for support. "We're-- this. This is good, okay, people should hear it."
Spencer's mouth is a hard line, and his voice is mostly flat when he says to Ryan, "I'm not saying I'm not pissed as hell that he went over our heads, but he kind of has a point."
Brendon winces, but presses on. "You've already trusted him with your voice, Ry. If I want to give him my words, that's." He grits his teeth. "It's my choice. And I made it."
Jon steps forward, puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder, squeezes. "He's not wrong, Ry," he says softly. He looks at Brendon over Ryan's shoulder. "If Brendon trusts him with it, if he's willing to give that up for the sake of this-- the least we could do is man the fuck up and let him."
"But--" Ryan stops himself, swallows. He looks hard at Brendon for a minute before he sighs and says, "If it's what you want."
Brendon squares his shoulders, meets Ryan's eyes, and says, even though it tastes like ashes in his mouth, "It is."
--
It doesn't work the second time Spencer and Brendon try to make out properly. They’ve only had time for little things since the last time-quick kisses, slight touches, hand holding, and those have been fine. But they try after the band meeting, because Spencer is still shaken, and Brendon still has the taste of ash in his mouth, and they could both use the reassurance. Neither of them can concentrate properly, though, and it ends with Brendon crying in frustration as Spencer's hands pass straight through him, and Spencer punching the wall so hard his knuckles bleed.
--
"So, okay, wait, also," Spencer says, narrowing his eyes, "What the fuck are people going to think when we get on stage and there's a different voice coming out of Gerard's mouth than comes out of the album?"
Brendon furrows his brow. "Stop ruining my awesome plan with logic, Spencer Smith." That's totally Spencer's worst flaw; he's some sort of awesome-plan-balloon-popping machine that destroys all of Brendon's awesome plans with annoying pins made of reality. Boo.
Ryan, though, occasionally Ryan is a saver of plans, and sometimes he says really helpful things, like, "It can be like... I don't know, like a mystery. It's like having a ghostwriter, but with singing. We can make a big deal out of not telling anybody who you are, and everyone will get obsessed and wonder about it and get even more into us."
"That makes absolutely no sense," Spencer says, crossing his arms.
Brendon bounces a little. "That's totally why it's awesome, stop being such a grownup."
Spencer groans and whacks his head against the wall. “This is going to be so fucking terrible, oh my god.”
Brendon pats his shoulder consolingly. “Probably, yep.”
--
The third time, it still doesn't work, but Brendon is really, really determined.
Spencer seems pretty set on being frustrated and miserable, and Brendon could probably get on board that bandwagon pretty soon, too, yeah, but he's inventive, okay, and he's had a taste of this, there's no fucking way he's letting it slip through his fingers, literally or metaphorically.
He finds Spencer jerking off in the shower, and Spencer maybe sort of has a heart attack.
"Sorry," Brendon says, but he's sort of too focused to be actually sorry. "But," he says, before Spencer can go off on him for using his ghostly powers for evil or whatever, "I want to try something?"
Spencer sighs and slowly bangs his head on the tile wall of the shower a couple of times. "Yeah, okay."
Brendon grins. "So, so, okay. You should lean against that wall right there, okay, and hold really still? Like, no, if you move, this isn't going to work, so make sure you're comfy."
Spencer eyes him like he's grown two heads or has taken to wearing a curly wig and making people call him Frodo, but he leans back against the shower wall.
Brendon drops to his knees, and the noise Spencer makes is sort of startled and awed at the same time. "Okay?" Brendon asks, smiling a little self consciously.
Spencer swallows and nods. "But-- Bren, I mean, if I can't, if you're not--"
"I don't know, okay, just let me try?" Not wanting to give Spencer any more time to talk him out of it, Brendon leans forward and licks him from base to tip, focusing on the slide of skin under his tongue.
Spencer whines, hips bucking forward. "Jesus, Bren--"
"Seriously, Spencer, fucking hold still." Brendon puts a hand on Spencer's hip, and Spencer squirms a little under the strange static-y feeling of it, not as solid as skin, shifting like water, but Brendon's hand doesn't slip all the way through. He wraps his lips around the tip of Spencer's cock and, closing his eyes, thinks of skin and body heat and the feeling of water from the shower and he sinks his mouth all the way down.
Spencer starts taking these little, desperate breaths, but he doesn't move. Brendon slides back and then forward again, skating his tongue along the underside, and Spencer's hands spasm against the wall.
"Spencer, Spence," he says, pulling carefully off, trying to keep Spencer in the confines of where his mouth should be. "Spencer, hold my hair."
"Brendon, we just tried-- oh, fuck." He tips his head back against the tile as Brendon swallows him down again, moving his mouth shallowly back and forth. He can sort of feel Spencer now, a heavy weight on his tongue, and if he concentrates, he can almost feel the velvety skin of Spencer's hip under his fingers. Spencer seems to notice the shift, too, and after a moment of hesitation, there's motion against Brendon's hair. Spencer's fingers don't stick, but he doesn't pull them away, either, and that's a start.
Brendon doesn't stop moving, just shifts slowly back and forth, pausing now and again to lick at the head a little, testing to see how much he can feel under his tongue. Spencer is taking these deep, gasping breaths, and his legs are shaking. Brendon moves his hands to steady them, and when he closes his grip, he feels warm, soft skin under his hands.
Spencer growls, and his hands tighten onto the strands of Brendon's hair, a silent statement of not letting you go again. Brendon tightens his lips and hollows his cheeks around Spencer, tightening his grip because he can. Spencer bucks into his mouth, once, twice, and then he's pulsing over Brendon's tongue, and Brendon does his best to swallow-- which is hard, actually, since he's not exactly sure how that's gonna work out in the long run and he maybe panics for a second, but he manages okay.
When he pulls off, hands still on Spencer's thighs, Spencer is looking at him with a combination of possessiveness and awe. "So this thing," Spencer says after a minute, "where I actually get to touch you? That needs to not stop."
Brendon bites his lip and tries not to let his smile run away with him. "So don't stop touching me. Maybe it'll stick."
Spencer looks thoughtful, but. "In the meantime? Bed. Let's go. I'm going to molest you while I have the chance this time."
Brendon is totally smart enough not to argue.
--
Spencer takes the idea of not letting go of Brendon to heart. He wraps himself around Brendon while they drift off to sleep, and when they wake up in the morning, Spencer drags him down to breakfast with Ryan without letting go of his hand.
And Brendon stays mostly solid. Not alive-solid, but solid enough for touching. He still can't move things much-- and definitely not heavy things-- but when Ryan asks someone to pass the salt, Brendon passes it to him without thinking. He only notices when Spencer and Ryan are both staring at him. He kind of can't help the blush.
It's a little awkward when Spencer has to go to the bathroom, because as soon as he lets go of Brendon, Brendon feels himself fizzle a little, losing corporeality. Not quickly, not enough that he'd be totally incorporeal if Spencer was only gone a few minutes, half an hour tops, but Brendon is realistic enough to admit that Spencer probably cannot spend every single moment of his life touching him.
He's maybe miserable for a minute or two until Ryan makes an exasperated noise and grabs his hand, towing him over to the couch, and Brendon doesn't get any more solid, no, not like when Spencer's touching him, but he doesn't fade any further, either. So, no, okay, maybe Spencer can't spend every minute touching him, but he's pretty sure that Ryan and Spencer and Jon don't actually want him to turn all see-through-y again, so between the three of them, they can probably manage to touch him every couple of minutes, just to make sure he stays real.
He says it out loud, in case he's wrong. Ryan just punches him in the arm and calls him an idiot. There are maybe some drawbacks to being mostly solid, ow, but Brendon thinks he can probably handle it. Spencer kisses the bruise on his arm, later, and then, then Brendon is sure.
--
Epilogue, and a solution:
"So," Gerard says, shoving the door to Brendon's room open, "We're making a trade."
Brendon blinks at him. "Okay." Gerard is kind of weird, but Brendon’s pretty much down with that.
Gerard yanks someone in from the hall, a long, spindly-baby-unicorn of a boy, and says, "You're giving me your songs, okay, so I'm giving you my Mikey."
Mikey Way is all legs and arms and awkward motions, and Brendon would totally cuddle him if a) he didn’t think it would terrify the shit out of him, and b) if he didn't think Spencer would pull off all of Mikey's limbs in a jealous rage.
"Um," Mikey says, giving a tiny, dorky wave, "hi."
Brendon wiggles his fingers back in a small wave, smiling reassuringly at him, then narrows his eyes at Gerard. "...What am I supposed to do with your… Mikey?"
Mikey, to his credit, totally doesn't take offense to being talked about like he's inanimate and not present. With a brother like Gerard, he's probably mostly used to weird conversations. Brendon’s only known him for a couple of weeks, and he’s already mostly not even fazed when Gerard starts relating things to zombies and mutants and comic books that Brendon has never heard of.
Gerard grins triumphantly. "It's not what you do with him!" He waves a Vana White-esque hand at Mikey, who obligingly cocks a hip and spins around like a letter. "It's what he does for you!" Gerard waggles spirit fingers in Mikey’s direction.
Brendon waits for the explanation, because that doesn't actually tell him anything. "Right, of course, I should have known."
Gerard deflates a little, flaps his arms in Mikey's direction. "Shows! He’s going to do show things! I mean-- Mikey's not doing shows. That's not what I mean at all." He blinks rapidly, like he's accidentally let go of what he meant and is groping through his head, trying to find it again. Brendon occasionally has that problem, too-it’s been getting worse since Ryan moved in. Maybe floating through all of Ryan’s pot smoke is doing something to his brain or something. Or floating through all of Jon’s pot smoke. Or Spencer’s. Upon second thought, everyone in the house smokes way too much pot, and that’s totally what Brendon’s going to blame all of his extra-spaztasticness on.
Gerard apparently remembers what he meant, and, beaming, says, "Mikey's going to stay with you and keep you solid while we go and play shows!"
Mikey gives another awkward wave while Brendon looks at him. "I'd kind of forgotten that part where none of them will be here during those," Brendon says, feeling slightly nauseous. They'd all agreed that the others wouldn't play anywhere that was further than they could go to and come back from in the same day, so that Brendon wouldn't have to go without Spencer for too long, but they hadn't exactly gotten to the logistics of how Brendon was going to keep from fading during the shows themselves. Brendon had kind of been avoiding thinking about it, riding out the high from having made a selfless decision and getting to see Ryan actually happy.
"Well, awesome, I'm totally on top of shit, Brendon Urie, look at that," Gerard says, and prods Mikey forward. "He can totally keep you real while we’re away, he believes in unicorns."
Mikey flushes pink and ducks his head. “Shut up, Gee.”
That, though, Brendon can work with that. Brendon likes unicorns, they're like his second favorite after those rainbow zebras on Lisa Frank notebooks. "How do you feel about Disney movies?" he asks, testing the waters.
Mikey gets a little redder, but says, "My favorite's the Little Mermaid."
Brendon nods, mulling it over. "Okay, okay, awesome. And.... how about Keira Knightly?"
"A terrifying hellbeast who ruins potentially good movies with her presence in them," Mikey says promptly, more confident this time.
Brendon beams. "Excellent, awesome, okay. Last one-- your thoughts on jellybeans."
Mikey hmms for a moment, flicking his hair out of his eyes. After a minute of very serious consideration, he says, "Mostly disgusting, but the green apple and the strawberry ones are acceptable."
Brendon nods solemnly. "A man after my own heart. Alright, sir, you totally have a job. I accept you as my official handholder."
Mikey grins, shy and totally pleased, but like he’s trying not to let it show-it’s like if Ryan and Gerard’s smiles had some sort of baby and it got stuck to Mikey’s face. Actually, now that Brendon thinks about it, all of Mikey sort of looks like Ryan and Gerard had some sort of baby, with Gerard’s head attached to Ryan’s spindly spider body. It’s kind of awesomely ridiculous.
Spencer pokes his head in the door, pointing a menacing finger. "If you molest him," he says threateningly, "I will eat your arms." There’s probably something wrong with Brendon, that he thinks that things like that are totally romantic.
Gerard nods, rocking back on his heels. "That’s totally fair,” he agrees, and, “But Mikey is property of the great Bob-ish one." He jerks his head at his brother. "I'm pretty sure your tiny dead man is safe."
Mikey grins at Spencer, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "I promise to give him back as I found him, Mister Spencer, sir," he says, tipping Spencer a lazy, two-fingered salute. Brendon isn’t sure if he’s being sarcastic or nice or a little of both, but either one is hilarious and totally okay with him.
Brendon bounces off the bed and pecks Spencer on the mouth. "Just handholding, Spencer Smith," he says, grinning against Spencer's cheek, because he can feel Spencer's cheek. "We're totally going to hold hands, it's going to be awesome."
Spencer laces his fingers through Brendon's, squeezes. "As long as I'm the only one holding the other parts of you," he says, nudging Brendon's forehead with his own.
“Always, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says, hiding his face in Spencer’s neck. “You get all the best parts of me forever.”
Brendon manfully ignores Gerard's hysterical giggling and exclamations about their gross cuteness. Brendon’s pretty sure he’s solid enough, now, that he could strangle Gerard if he really tried, but then he’d just have to find another singer. And probably another handholder, since Mikey and Gerard seem pretty close, and Mikey would probably get all offended and shit if Brendon killed his brother, and he might even, like, want revenge, and then he’d chase Brendon to the edges of the earth, stabbing him with his really pointy collarbones over and over and over.
And then, Brendon’s brain realizes, Spencer would have to kill Mikey, and then who would be there to hold Brendon’s hand when Spencer and Ryan and Jon and the imaginary new-and-not-strangled singer all go play music on stage?
It all just seems like a frightening amount of work, and Brendon, even at his most hyperactive, isn’t sure he’s up for that sort of thing.
Plus, Brendon is kind of attached to the way things are right now, since things are basically awesome.
END
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Brendon goes and hides in the guest room, cause when Spence isn't there that's his room. He tries to calm down, tries to be quiet, but there’s not a lot he can do about it. He’s been in love with Spencer for months, and has never even said hello, hasn’t said anything because he’s been terrified of exactly this, and all of a sudden, Spencer sees him-mistakes him for a real person, even, and still Spencer somehow hates him for no reason at all. Brendon stifles his sobs into his hands-he’d use a pillow or something, but he can interact with real things even less when he’s upset, so that’s not going to happen. Ryan will just have to deal with the noise. Brendon doesn’t think he’ll be that bothered.
Someone clears their throat, and Brendon chokes a sob into a hiccup in surprise.
Spencer is hovering in the doorway, looking conflicted. “I-“ he starts, shakes his head, tries again. “Brendon.”
Brendon blinks at him, sniffles a little. “Yeah.”
Spencer bites his lip, palms the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re-I mean, you’re real.”
“Sort of,” Brendon agrees, laughing a little, wetly. The laugh turns into another sob, and he hides his face in the crook of his arm.
Spencer hesitates in the doorway for a minute, then shuffles into the room. He pauses for another minute, but eventually sits down beside Brendon on the bed and runs a hand through the faintly tingling patch of air where Brendon's hair appears. “Shhh,” he tells Brendon softly, “I’m not mad, okay, I get it now.”
Brendon just lets the tears run until there aren’t any more, lets himself feel comforted by the buzz of Spencer’s hand through where his hair should be.
--
"What happened to you?" Spencer asks, softly, when Brendon stops crying, is just snuffling quietly into the sleeve of his translucent purple hoodie.
Brendon shrugs. "I got really sick. I had a big family, and they-they couldn't really afford a lot of medication or anything, and I guess I had pneumonia or something? It’s, you know, it’s kind of fuzzy. And it got worse, and one day I just. Woke up and couldn't feel things or touch people anymore." He demonstrates his inability to touch things by trying to put his hand over the one Spencer's stroking over his hair with, and sure enough, his fingers fizzle right through. He doesn't talk about after, when his parents saw him and screamed and called him a demon and left, left him and the house and almost all of their things.
Spencer, though, shakes his head. "I can feel your hair," he says, half perplexed, half defiant, and Brendon snaps back to here, now.
Brendon snorts. "You can not, Spencer Smith, you just think you can."
"I can so," Spencer protests. "It's like how you can feel water-- like, it doesn't feel like anything, but you can tell the difference between when your hand is in it and when you hand is just in the air."
Brendon doesn't call him out on how ridiculous that sounds-- it's too nice of a thing to think about for him to really want to protest. And he doesn't mean to, he totally doesn't, but he imagines how good it would feel for Spencer to actually be stroking his hair, and he falls asleep to the rhythmic brush of fingers across his scalp.
--
Spencer shows up early in the day on a Friday, when Ryan is out. He lets himself in with the key from under the mat, and wanders through the house, looking for Brendon.
He hears him before he finds him. He's singing From a Mountain in the Middle of the Cabins, and it's nothing, nothing like when Ryan sings it. Spencer stands in the doorway to the kitchen, where Brendon is dancing around a little while he sings, and listens. He’s only heard him sing once, and it’s somehow almost a religious experience, this, hearing him sing, so open and unguarded, like he’s doing it with his entire being. Spencer is pretty sure he could never listen to anything else and he’d still be perfectly content.
Brendon turns, though, and sees him, and the sound just completely dies in his throat. He coughs a little, ducking his head. "Spence," he says, awkwardly.
"That was amazing," Spencer says, grinning at him. "It sounded so much more--"
"No, no, it’s not, I mean," Brendon cuts him off. "It's Ryan's. I'm sorry, okay, don't tell anyone? I don't have any right to be messing with it." He twists his hoodie in his hands. "Please, don't tell him I was messing with it?"
"Brendon, you wrote like half the words. Hell, you write most of the words he sings."
Brendon shrugs, doesn't meet his eyes. "Yeah, I guess."
Spencer narrows his eyes at him. "Brendon. Seriously, what the hell? It's your song, too."
Brendon looks up, eyes guarded, and says, voice small and tight, "But it's not my band, okay? It's not mine, and I'm not part of it, and I don't have any business meddling in parts of it."
Spencer is pretty sure that his heart breaks a little. “Bren.” He swallows back the bile rising in his throat. “Brendon, okay, it’s yours. You write it, you’re allowed to sing it. Ryan just-you give it to him, and that’s awesome, but it’s yours.”
“It’s not.” Brendon’s voice is low, but firm. “I gave it to him. To the band. The songs aren’t mine anymore, they’re the band’s, and I just-I need to let them go. I don’t normally sing them, I was just.” He stops himself, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Spencer looks at him for a long moment, then says decisively, “We’re going to fix this.”
--
Spencer has a super-secret-clubhouse discussion with Ryan. Or, well, it's not in an actual clubhouse, because they're totally adults now and don't have one anymore, but he corners Ryan in the hall and shoves him into the bathroom and sits him down on the edge of the tub and says, "Brendon thinks he's not allowed to sing the band's songs."
Ryan squints at him. "That's moronic."
"Yes," Spencer agrees, and, "He should be more of a part of things. Feel more like they're his, too."
Ryan nods, keeping up with him in that awesome way that Ryan always has. "We should tell Jon about him."
Spencer nods along, sits down on the closed toilet, and they plan things. Super-secret-clubhouse things. Or, well, super-secret-band-meeting-in-a-bathroom things.
--
Jon deals with finding out about Brendon a lot better than Spencer did.
He shows up like four hours early for band practice and doesn't bother to knock, which Brendon supposes is understandable, because he and Ryan are totally sleeping together now, and that's part of his boyfriend rights or something.
"Hey, Ryan, Spence," he says, shuffling into the band room, and, cocking his head at Brendon, "Hey, other dude."
Brendon blinks at him, but Ryan beams at Jon and says, "He's Brendon, he's my dead roommate. He's been helping me write things."
Jon just stands there for a minute-- a minute during which Brendon seriously wishes he could strangle Ryan for completely taking this out of his hands like a total asshole, holy shit.
After the minute, though, Jon just nods and says, "Awesome. We should totally go make out now, since I totally got here early for that purpose. That is totally why I am here."
Ryan grins and hands Spencer his guitar like nothing about the exchange was at all weird, like he didn't just totally risk alienating Jon from Brendon forever. On the other hand, Brendon supposes, Ryan and Jon are on some sort of secret men-of-stringed-instruments wavelength, and it's probably better to just let Ryan handle it. "On it," Ryan says, and follows Jon from the room.
"So," Spencer says, turning to Brendon like that totally wasn't weird as hell, "We should work on Northern Downpour, I don't think I'm solid on it, yet."
Brendon blinks at him for a minute, then swallows and nods. "Right, totally, yes. Let's do that."
And if Spencer seems weirdly innocent about the whole thing, Brendon doesn’t say anything.
--
"How do you give him stuff?" Spencer demands, dropping unceremoniously onto Ryan's bed at ass o'clock in the morning.
Ryan blinks at him sleepily, but doesn't try to give him shit by asking what he's talking about. "I burn it."
Spencer tips his head to the side. "And that works?"
Ryan shrugs. "Apparently." He pushes his hair back from his face with one hand. "Also, if you burn yourself to death so you can bang my dead roommate, I will follow you and kick your ass."
Spencer would protest that he hadn't thought of that when Ryan said it, but he'd be lying. He wouldn't do it, though-- mostly because he's pretty sure Brendon would kick his ass, too. Also, it would probably be really, really painful, and Spencer doesn’t actually have a terribly high pain tolerance. "No, I just. I want--" He huffs in frustration. "I don't know, Ry. I just want to do what I can."
Ryan gives him a piercing look, derogatory and pitying all at once. Spencer kind of wants to slap him. "You can't do much for him, Spence, he's dead."
Spencer glares right back. Spencer's bitchface is fearsome, he knows this. Brendon's told him so. "You give him things. You wouldn't if you thought that, asshole."
Ryan scowls at him for another minute before he says, "He likes Indian food. He's a vegetarian."
Spencer grins at him. "Awesome."
--
"You--" Brendon swallows, stares at Spencer and the table he's set up in the living room-- or more specifically, the things on it. Four paper takeout containers full of Indian food-- saag paneer, vegetable korma, vegetable biryani, and raita. Vegetarian Indian food. Brendon's favorite food.
Spencer bites his lip, ducks his head. "Ryan said you could eat it, if I--" he gestures at the fireplace vaguely. "Silverware was kind of hard, I could only find a wooden spoon, I felt like plastic would probably-- yeah, so, spoon." He waves a wooden spoon-- a little bigger than a normal spoon, but Brendon's pretty fucking sure he'll deal with it.
"Yeah, I." Brendon can't actually remember how to talk. "You got all this for-- I mean, this is actually for me?"
Spencer gives him a fake bitchface, says, "No, Brendon, I totally just put it here to taunt you. Built a fire, too, just to be a total jerk." He sticks out his tongue. "Yes, okay, it's for you. Now sit down."
Brendon sits, watching with wide eyes as Spencer methodically takes each container to the fireplace, setting it flat on the burning logs and letting it go up in flames before he adds the next one. "What--" Brendon says, nervously tapping his fingers on his thighs, "I mean, what are you eating?"
Spencer looks up from where he's crouched by the fireplace and smiles. "Meat. I'm totally going to enjoy the flesh of delicious baby sheep in curry."
Brendon makes a face, but laughs anyways. He can't help it, he's kind of ridiculously giddy. When he sobers, he asks-- can't help but ask-- "Spence. Seriously. Why are you doing all this?"
When the food is all ready, shimmering and translucent in its containers, Spencer joins him at the low table. He looks Brendon in the eyes for the first time that night, leans forward a little, says, low and serious, "Because I'm basically stupid for you, and I don't know what else I can do."
Brendon feels his stomach turn over, feels his skin go tight. “Spence,” he says, and it’s not anything, it’s not even a question, it’s just to remind himself that this is actually happening, that it’s not something in his head.
“Brendon,” he says back, smiling with half his mouth. “Shut up and eat your dinner.”
Brendon chokes back a laugh, holds back all of the babbling ridiculousness that wants to seep out of him, and obeys.
--
Spencer doesn’t mind that Brendon sleeps in his bed. Spencer tells Brendon that he’s ridiculous and that it’s Brendon’s house, and Spencer is really sleeping in his bed, and that he needs to shut the fuck up and go to sleep, or Spencer will sing to him, and that’s a real threat, because Spencer’s singing is atrocious. So Brendon smiles a secret, happy smile, and curls up, carefully not touching Spencer’s space. He listens to Spencer breathe with the kind of attention he couldn’t pay before, when he was worrying that Spencer would wake up and freak out. Now, Brendon’s allowed, and that’s the nicest thing that’s happened in a long, long while.
--
When Ryan tries a half dozen times and still can't hit the high note Brendon wants in the newest song, he throws up his hands and snaps, "Well, you fucking sing it then."
Brendon just raises an eyebrow at him. "Right, because I can totally leave this house and go play shows with you. That can happen." He jams his hands into his pockets, tries not to let the hurt show through in his voice.
Jon and Spencer don't say anything, they just wait while Ryan breathes hard through his nose and glares at Brendon like this is all somehow his fault. Brendon doesn't blame them-- he would be trying not to draw attention to himself, too, if he were in their position.
"We can just change the note," Brendon says, finally, hanging his head. It won't be right, it won't be the song in his head, but it'll be something, and that's more than he could have without Ryan.
"No," Ryan says, teeth gritted, like it's actually painful for him to say, "It's better your way." All the breath sags out of him. "I just... can't do it."
"Why, exactly," Jon says slowly, "can't Brendon sing it?" When Ryan opens his mouth to say what Brendon's thinking-- duh, genius, he's a ghost, okay, not a person, he can't leave the house, can't get up on stage in front of a bunch of people who wouldn't even be able to see him if he did leave-- Jon puts a quelling hand on Ryan's shoulder and adds, "I didn't ask why he can't perform it. I asked why he can't sing it."
Ryan goes quiet for a minute, looking at Jon. Jon gives him a half smile, shrugs one shoulder. "It's a thought," Ryan says, slow, like he's working something through in his head.
Brendon doesn't ask what the thought is. If Ryan has a thought, a thought about how Brendon can sing and actually have people hear him, he's not going to jinx it by asking questions before Ryan's done thinking it through.
"We'd need to bring the equipment here," Ryan says thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on his thigh while he thinks. "And someone to actually mix it, because I sure as hell don't know how to."
Brendon hadn't noticed Spencer coming up behind him, but all of a sudden, there are hands over his shoulders, keeping him touching the floor, keeping him solid, grounded. He can feel them, almost, and it lends him the strength to try to say something, to ask. "Are you talking about-- Ryan, I mean, do you mean--"
Ryan meets his eyes, and, biting back a smile, nods. "Recording, Bren. We'll make an album, okay, and I can't--" he pauses, eyes flicking away for a second, guilty, "I can't do anything about performing, I don't know what the hell anyone could do, but. We'll make an album."
Brendon blinks at him. "We," he says, just to make sure.
Spencer answers before Ryan can, his voice right next to Brendon's ear. "We," he confirms.
Brendon resists the urge to zoom around the ceiling, yelling, "YES! YES! WHOOO!" because if they're going to treat him like an actual person, he should probably try to act like one.
--
Spencer wakes up that night to little whimpering noises. He panics for a second, because they're clearly Brendon, and that's bad-- but then he realizes that it's probably not actually a sound of pain, because Brendon's dead and it's really unlikely that's he's cut himself or stubbed his toe or something.
So Spencer opens his eyes and rolls over.
Brendon freezes, eyes popping open and looking away in guilt. The heel of his hand is still pressed against the front of his sweats, and he'd been grinding up into it, clearly positive that Spencer was out for the count.
"I--Spence, I wasn't, I was just--" He's babbling, frantic, eyes anywhere but on Spencer's face. Like Spencer would somehow be bothered, be anything but turned on.
"Brendon." Spencer's voice is hoarse. He reaches out and tucks his hand under the buzzing bit of air that is Brendon's chin, and Brendon looks at him, eyes still too wide.
"Spence--" he says, sounding pained now.
"Bren, can you feel my hand?"
Brendon blinks at him, once, twice, like an owl, momentarily distracted from his insistence that he totally wasn't masturbating or anything. "Um, kind of. It doesn't-- I mean, it doesn't feel like a hand or anything, but I can feel-- I can feel that it's there."
Spencer grins at him, and he probably looks unbalanced, lying there in the dark with this crazy smile, but Brendon smiles back a little, tentatively. Spencer's going to run with that as something like permission.
Brendon's eyes snap shut and open again, wider than before, when Spencer's hand rubs against the front of his sweats. "Spence--" he whimpers, and then Spencer focuses as hard as he can on the idea that Brendon is solid, Brendon is real, and he squeezes.
Brendon's eyes roll up and he makes this heart-stopping mewling sound, hips jerking up desperately, begging for actual pressure.
Spencer lets go, and Brendon whimpers.
"Spencer?" He's blinking up at Spencer again, like he's afraid he's done something wrong, and Spencer's chest tightens.
"Shh," he says, not unkindly, "I'm trying something." Brendon huffs out a breath, but he loses the shadow of fear in his eyes.
Spencer focuses again, on the reality of Brendon, on the way that even if he's dead, his chest is still rising and falling rapidly, his eyes are still blinking, his skin is still there, present and real, damn it, under Spencer's fingers. He traces them over Brendon's hips, the waistline of his pants, his stomach, over his chest. Spencer keeps his eyes closed, narrowing in on the sensation of more-than-air under his hands. Brendon's breathing harder now, sharp little pants and gasps, and Spencer can feel tense muscles straining under his fingertips.
Spencer trails his hands up to Brendon's collarbone, throat, neck, the sides of his face. He cages Brendon's face between his hands, trying, trying really, really hard to remember to feel the skin under his palms, skin that isn't there but should be, can be if he makes it. "Bren," he says, soft as he can, "look at me."
Brendon's eyes are wide and dark, and Spencer can see the little dips in his lower lip from where he's been biting it, trying to keep quiet.
"Spencer, what--" He looks to the side, uncomfortable under scrutiny. "You can't-- I mean, I can't, it's not going to work."
Spencer shakes his head. "I'm not asking you to do anything." He lets go of Brendon's face, lifting himself up and moving until he's straddling Brendon's hips. He has to hold his hips off the bed, since Brendon obviously can't hold any of his weight, and that's kind of uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to pass through Brendon, either, so he'll deal.
Brendon's watching him, nervous and kind of twitchy. "Spencer, seriously, what are you even trying to do? Because--"
"Brendon, Brendon, seriously, shut the fuck up." Spencer bends down over him, carefully keeping a good inch away from Brendon's skin. He leans in, as close as he can, and, half an inch from Brendon's lips, he says, "I'm trying to kiss you, retard, so it would help if you'd fucking hold still and stop telling me I can't." He looks at Brendon's mouth, concentrates on the tiny ridges and valleys in his lips, the nervous swipe of his tongue over his lower one, the way his mouth is quirked just a little higher on the right from too many lopsided grins.
"Spencer," Brendon breathes, less of a protest and more of an affirmation this time, and Spencer carefully, carefully, lines up their lips and closes the gap between them.
--
Spencer's lips are the first thing Brendon's felt-- actually felt, like he can feel every millimeter of soft, soft skin edged in five-in-the-morning stubble-- in nearly six years. And they feel awesome.
Spencer is totally not stopping to be amazed at the fact that it's working, that they're actually kissing, and maybe that's because he'd believed it was going to work this whole time, but Brendon's pretty sure he just isn't sure it'll work again, and he wants to make the most of it in case it doesn't. Brendon is totally on board with this plan, he so, so is.
Spencer's licking at his lower lip, slowly, he's doing everything so slowly, like he thinks if he moves too fast Brendon will blur away, and actually, for all Brendon knows, that might be true, so he doesn't rush him. He sighs a little, and Spencer licks into his mouth, slick and soft and warm, and that's the first time in a long time that anything has actually had a temperature that Brendon can feel.
He can't help that he arches up a little, regrets it as soon as his hips leave the bed, knows he won't get the pressure he's looking for except that he does, and Spencer's hips grind right back. It's not-- it's not like it should be, Spencer sinks a half inch into the space where Brendon is, but something under Brendon's skin has a resistance, now, like sand, almost, like Spencer's sinking into the top layer of him and isn't going further, and that. That's something really, really close to enough. Close enough that Brendon thinks he's pretty much totally okay with it. Momentarily jubilant with the discovery, he wiggles his hips in a little dance, and freezes when Spencer growls.
Spencer's hand grabs his hip-- grabs it!-- and pulls him closer. "Don't stop," he complains into the corner of Brendon's mouth, and oh, okay, a happy growl, Brendon's maybe not used to those, but he thinks he could probably get there. He presses his hips up and grinds in a little, and Spencer makes this amazing noise in the back of his throat, like he's in pain and really freaking happy about it.
Spencer's mouth trails, hot and damp, over Brendon's cheek, pressing kisses into his jaw, and then he sinks his teeth into the side of Brendon's throat and Brendon keens. He blushes as soon as the noise comes out, but Spencer's eyes are closed and Brendon's pretty sure he doesn't actually mind, if the way he's rubbing up against Brendon is any indication. He reaches up to tangle his hand in Spencer's hair before he even thinks about it. His fingers buzz through a few strands, and Brendon's heart skips a beat, before they finally catch, and he can hold on while Spencer leaves a trail of marks across his skin that prove that this is real, this is happening.
When Spencer's hips move a little faster, Brendon doesn't even try to hold in the noises, just clings and tries to keep up. Spencer pants, open mouthed, against the juncture of Brendon's neck and shoulder, and when Brendon comes, shaking and almost surprised, Spencer isn't far behind.
--
"We're recording an album," Ryan says, sucking in a deep breath.
Jon nods. "That, yeah, that was sort of the thought here."
"An actual album," Ryan confirms, trying not to hyperventilate. It’s hard, because this isn’t a small thing, this is a really big thing. It’s an awesome thing, but it’s a thing he hasn’t done since he was miserable and furious and a teenager, and this is so much more of him, so much of a bigger piece of himself-and so much more vulnerable, more soft and helpless in the face of criticism. Anger, okay, if people hate that, that’s okay, because you’re not supposed to look at anger and say, hey, I want to be that, I love that, yes, awesome, you’re supposed to look at anger and get angry along with it. But these are the soft underbellies of Ryan’s thoughts, all the chords his head makes when he thinks of Jon, of Spencer, of Brendon, and the idea of making all of this solid, permanent, handing it to other people and letting them judge it-that’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
"Ryan," Jon says, taking his wrists firmly. "Quit freaking out."
Jon is all manly and bearded and smells nice and has strong hands, and their tight grip on Ryan's wrists is pretty much the only thing keeping him grounded. "Jon," he says, and he would totally elaborate on that, except that he has no idea what to say that doesn't constitute freaking out in one way or another.
Jon seems to get it, though, in that awesome Jon way that he has, and backs Ryan up to the wall, casually steering him around the drum kit and guitar stands. When Ryan's back is to the cool wood paneling, Jon tips his head against Ryan's, pressing their foreheads close, and says, "Breathe, Ry."
Ryan tries. He listens to Jon's breathing for a minute, tries to make his own line up with it exactly. When Jon breathes in, Ryan breathes in. When Jon breathes out, Ryan’s breath stutters out of his mouth. Mostly it works, and his heart slows down a little, sweat stops beading on his palms.
"Better," Jon says, rubbing little circles over the insides of Ryan's wrists with his thumbs. "Keep going."
Ryan closes his eyes, feels Jon's heartbeat against the pulse in his wrists, tries to let himself fall into it. It takes another minute, or maybe a few, but eventually he's breathing steadily, and he feels like maybe he doesn't want to fly out of his skin.
And then Jon says, "So I'm thinking we should go have sex now," and that totally ruins Ryan's ability to breathe like a normal human being at all.
Jon laughs at him the whole way to the bedroom.
--
Gabe can't actually see Brendon, but that doesn't seem to faze him. “I can’t see Bill when he turns sideways, either, I’m totally used to it,” he says when Brendon asks him about it, and none of them have any idea what he’s talking about, so no one brings it up again.
"You at the mic, kiddo?" Gabe asks, fiddling with the sound board.
Brendon nods, then remembers Gabe can't see him, and says, "Yep, yes, yeah." Ryan sniggers in the corner, and Spencer elbows him in the gut. Hysterical laughter-- or maybe just plain hysteria-- bubbles in Brendon's chest, and he does his best not to let any escape.
Gabe bobs his head, grinning. "Cool, cool." The way Gabe smiles, Brendon would kind of worry that he's insane, except that the fact that Gabe is insane is basically the reason Ryan called him in for this in the first place, so Brendon's mostly just grateful for it. Still, it’s mildly disconcerting now and then. "Get ready, little man." Brendon doesn't ask how Gabe knows how short he is, just sucks in a breath that he doesn't technically need and steadies himself as well as he can.
Gabe holds up five fingers, waves them a little to make sure he has Brendon's attention, and starts to count down.
When Gabe tucks his thumb into the rest of his hand, Brendon closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and sings.
--
Jon curls up on the couch, one leg underneath him, and wiggles his fingers, beckoning to Ryan. He's got a bowl of popcorn on his lap, and the remote is wedged into the gap between the cushions beside him.
"Come on," he says, wheedling. “We’ve finished like half the album, it’s time to relax.”
Ryan huffs and crosses his arms. "This is so incredibly stupid."
Jon grins at him, totally remorseless. "Yes. But somehow, you missed the stupidity at the age where you would appreciate it properly, so you're getting it now."
"Like chicken pox?" Ryan says dryly, rolling his eyes.
Jon grabs his hand and yanks, dragging Ryan down to the couch, half on top of him. "Exactly like chicken pox," Jon says, kissing the top of Ryan's head as Ryan tries to untangle all seventeen thousand of his freakishly long limbs. "It'll totally be stronger than it would've been if you'd gotten it as a kid. But I’m pretty sure this experience is slightly less itchy and less likely to leave unsightly scars."
Ryan harrumphs-- it's totally his duty as a young curmudgeon, and he's pretty sure Jon knows that, because all he does is chuckle. "Fine, fine. But it's still demeaning."
"Ferngully is not demeaning, Ryan Ross," Jon says mock-chidingly. "It's inspiring" He bats his eyelashes in a spot-on imitation of Brendon, and Ryan tries not to laugh. It would only serve to ruin his image. “You’ll like it, Ryan Ross, I promise. Pinky swear, even.” He loops his pinky through Ryan’s and squeezes, eyes twinkling.
Ryan rolls his eyes, but snuggles down into Jon's lap and doesn't argue anymore. Jon tends to be right about these sorts of things.
--
When Jon finishes laying the last bass track on the last song for their album, Gabe burns a CD and hands it to Ryan. Ryan turns it over in his hands wonderingly, like he’s not actually sure it’s real, until Spencer kicks him in the shin and says, “It’s not even all finished and fancy yet, Ry, don’t get all sentimental and shit. We could’ve just listened to it straight from the computer, but we all know you have some sort of twisted sense of ceremony.”
Ryan glares at him, but puts it into the CD player and hits play.
Brendon listens to his voice coming out of the speakers, feels it vibrating through the room, twining through Ryan’s guitar and Jon’s bass and Spencer’s drums. He can feel it echoing in the bones of his hands, tickling at the pads of his fingers, and he’s not even actually sure how that’s possible, because he doesn’t exactly have bones or skin anymore, not really. He’s so thrilled and unbalanced by it at the same time that Spencer’s hand, resting lightly on his shoulder, falls right through him.
Gabe makes fun of Brendon for it, which is totally retarded, because Gabe can’t even fucking see him, Gabe is a douche. Brendon whooshes through him in revenge, since it’s not like he can punch him in the arm like he wants to, but all Gabe does is giggle like a little girl, waggle his eyebrows, and say, “Ooh, little man, getting kinky.”
When Brendon can relax enough to maybe keep his ghosty atoms from buzzing ten million times faster than normal, he tucks himself carefully against Spencer’s side and looks at Ryan and Jon and Gabe and says, “Thank you. This-I never thought-I didn’t even know I could have anything like this.”
Gabe sniffles and wipes at his eye. Brendon is still too warm and grateful to mock him properly for it.
--
"Seriously, Brendon. Relax," Spencer says, holding his hands over Brendon's shoulders until Brendon steadies enough that Spencer can actually rest them on his shoulders.
Brendon bites his lip over an apologetic smile. "I kind of can't, you know?"
Spencer knows. There's a bubbling sensation under his breastbone, like boiling water, seeping up into small soda bubbles in the region of his throat. It’s insane and kind of amazing and he doesn’t want it to stop. So he doesn't tell Brendon to relax again, just says, "We're-- it feels like it's real, now. The music."
"It's-- it's like proof," Brendon says, pushing his glasses up on his nose and ducking his head a little.
"Proof?"
Brendon shrugs and says, voice small and kind of embarrassed, "Like, you know. Proof that I exist. I'm recorded. I'm sound waves that other people, all people can hear. I'm concrete in a way I wasn't before. Real."
That gives Spencer a thought, makes him think that maybe, maybe, the more people that hear Brendon's voice, the more real he'll get-- like maybe, with every person that reaffirms his existence, his existence will get more concrete-- but it's not a theory he's going to say out loud. If it happens, they'll all notice, and if it doesn't, there's no reason to get Brendon's hopes up. "C'mere," he says instead. Brendon obliges, tucking his head under Spencer's chin-- he's solid enough, if Spencer concentrates, that he can actually rest his cheek on Brendon's skull without the awkward sensation of slipping in by an inch or two. "You're--" his tongue trips over it, because he's grown up with Ryan, he's not exactly good at this whole verbal assurance thing, this communicating-his-feelings-via-words thing, he's never needed to be. Ryan always knew, from nudges or looks or smiles or whatever else. He takes a breath and says it anyways. "You're kind of the most real thing in the world to me."
Brendon pulls back to look up at him, holds his eyes for a long moment. He doesn't look away when he says, "You know I'd give anything to be able to come back to life for you."
Spencer swallows back the bad taste in his mouth, nudges his nose against Brendon's. "I don't need any more than you're giving me." It's nothing less than the truth.
Brendon sighs against his mouth and snuggles closer. "Still. I'd give you more if I had it."
Spencer smushes a kiss to Brendon's temple and shakes his head. "I don't think anyone could ask for more."
--
"Ryan, calm down." Jon wraps a hand around the back of Ryan's neck, tugs him closer, until Ryan's face is tucked into the side of Jon's throat. "What's going on?"
Ryan breathes harshly through his nose for a minute, swallows, then says, "Gabe. Pete."
Jon blinks at the back of Ryan's head. "Pete-- Wentz? Did he say something--"
Ryan shakes his head, laughing a little hysterically. "No, no, not. He-- Gabe played what we have so far for him-- he didn't ask me first, I would have said-- He says he wants to sign us, Jon."
Brendon is hovering in the corner, and he hadn't mean to eavesdrop, but. He's maybe behind a chair, though, and there's no way Jon and Ryan could have seen him, known he was there. And Brendon could leave, could drop through the floor with no one the wiser, except that his stomach is trying to come out of his throat, and he's not sure if ghosts can throw up from sheer panic, but he might be finding out soon.
Jon sucks in a sharp breath. "Pete Wentz. Us," he says, and, "But Brendon."
"But Brendon," Ryan agrees, voice soft and defeated. "I know. I know, Jon, okay, I know we can't. And, I mean, I don't even want to, not without him, not really, just." He steps back, scrubs a hand over his face. "I just haven't gotten to play this for anyone. I haven't gotten to be on a stage in-- I mean. I don't want it, I don't, except that I really, really fucking do." He snorts bitterly. "And I know I'm not supposed to--"
"You're not supposed to not want to play your own fucking music in front of people, Ryan," Jon says, shoving his shoulder a little. Softer, he says, "You're-- Ryan, you're allowed to want things, too."
Ryan shakes his head, lets Jon reel him back in. "I can't, Jon. I couldn't do that to him. This is his as much as, if not more than, mine. I can't sing all the songs, and I can't give them to anyone else. They're not mine to give away. I couldn’t do that to him. I can’t."
Jon hmmms at him, pulls him closer, but doesn't say anything against it, either.
Brendon has literally every single thing that he wants that it's conceivably possible for him to have. And most of that, almost every single piece of that, really, is because of Ryan Ross. And, unpleasant as it is to think about, it’s maybe Brendon’s turn to be a little self-sacrificing.
It takes him a long time, a lot of focus, for him to make his fingertip solid enough to push the call button on Ryan’s phone while Ryan’s in the shower that night, but when the other line picks up, Brendon knows it’s worth it.
--
Gerard blinks at him when Brendon finally gets the front door open. "You're a ghost."
Brendon nods. "Pretty much, yeah."
"Oh, man," Gerard says, yanking a battered cell out of his pocket, "Mikey's gonna flip his shit." He looks earnestly up at Brendon through his hair, asks, "Hey, okay, so, if you're real, are there, like-are there unicorns?"
Brendon blinks at him. It's kind of disconcerting to try to talk to someone that might possibly be even more of a spaz than he is. "I... don't know? What?"
Gerard's face falls a little, but he brightens right back up. "Holy fuck, you're the singer, aren't you? Brendon? You're why Ryan can't sing." He stops, making a face and rubbing at his chin. "Well, no, okay, Ryan can sing, just. I mean, you're the reason he keeps writing songs he can't sing! He kept mentioning stuff, but nothing-this totally makes sense, this is awesome."
"Uh," Brendon says, "Well, mostly I write them," and, "Can we get back to what I was trying to say?"
Gerard has the grace to look momentarily ashamed for being all over the place. Brendon can relate, so he-- totally magnanimously, Brendon's magnanimous!-- forgives him.
"So, okay, so," Brendon says, rubbing his hands together, not really sure what to say now that he's actually supposed to be saying it. Possibly because what he has to say makes him want to vomit up his lungs. He sucks his teeth and tries again. "So, okay, you sing."
Gerard nods, instantly sobering. "Pretty much as a way of existing, yeah."
Brendon nods back. "Right." This, here, this is the hard part. He shoves through it. "You sing with Ryan. He-he lets you sing with him. Lets you help him with his voice. So, you can sing them with him. My songs." The bile in his throat isn't as bad as it could be. “I’m-I want you to.”
Gerard blinks at him for a long moment. He chews his lip, runs a hand through his hair. "I can't," he says, finally.
Brendon glares at him. If Brendon can do this, if Brendon can give up his songs, give them away to someone else, someone not Ryan or Spencer or Jon, the someone he's giving them to could at least have the fucking decency to take them. "You have to. I can't do it."
Gerard shakes his head. "No, okay, they're not. I mean, they're not mine." He looks at the wall to the left of Brendon's head instead of at Brendon's face.
Brendon floats into his line of vision and scowls. He's learned a lot from Ryan, and scowling is totally one of the most useful things he's picked up. "No, they're not. Not yet, okay, but they're mine, and I'm going to give them to you. Because Ryan trusts you with his voice, and he won't even trust me with that, and that has to mean something." He pauses, takes a breath he doesn't technically need, and says, "And so I'm going to give them to you, and you're going to learn them, and Ryan's going to get to get signed and play for people like he wants to, and if you argue, I will haunt your ass and you won’t sleep until you die."
Gerard studies him for a moment, eyes bright and considering, and he says, “You’re a good dude, ghost-man.” He grins at Brendon, this ridiculous, sloppy, too-wide grin full of crooked teeth and total sincerity, and says, "But if I agree, you have to promise to help me scare the shit out of Frank."
Brendon doesn't know who the hell Frank is, and he doesn't care. He sticks his hand out, and Gerard, without hesitating at all, grabs the air around it and shakes.
The warmth Brendon gets from that almost makes up for the bitter taste in his mouth.
--
"What the fucking fuck, Brendon." Ryan has his hands balled into fists at his side, and he looks so mad he might cry.
Brendon looks at Ryan's shoes-- those stupid white and black ones that are made to look like he's wearing spats-- and says, "You want to play live."
Ryan growls at him. "I'm not doing it without you," he says fiercely, crossing his arms over his chest.
Brendon glares into his eyes. "I'm not live, so I can't sing live, and I'm not letting you not play this for people." He clears his throat, looks at Spencer for support. "We're-- this. This is good, okay, people should hear it."
Spencer's mouth is a hard line, and his voice is mostly flat when he says to Ryan, "I'm not saying I'm not pissed as hell that he went over our heads, but he kind of has a point."
Brendon winces, but presses on. "You've already trusted him with your voice, Ry. If I want to give him my words, that's." He grits his teeth. "It's my choice. And I made it."
Jon steps forward, puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder, squeezes. "He's not wrong, Ry," he says softly. He looks at Brendon over Ryan's shoulder. "If Brendon trusts him with it, if he's willing to give that up for the sake of this-- the least we could do is man the fuck up and let him."
"But--" Ryan stops himself, swallows. He looks hard at Brendon for a minute before he sighs and says, "If it's what you want."
Brendon squares his shoulders, meets Ryan's eyes, and says, even though it tastes like ashes in his mouth, "It is."
--
It doesn't work the second time Spencer and Brendon try to make out properly. They’ve only had time for little things since the last time-quick kisses, slight touches, hand holding, and those have been fine. But they try after the band meeting, because Spencer is still shaken, and Brendon still has the taste of ash in his mouth, and they could both use the reassurance. Neither of them can concentrate properly, though, and it ends with Brendon crying in frustration as Spencer's hands pass straight through him, and Spencer punching the wall so hard his knuckles bleed.
--
"So, okay, wait, also," Spencer says, narrowing his eyes, "What the fuck are people going to think when we get on stage and there's a different voice coming out of Gerard's mouth than comes out of the album?"
Brendon furrows his brow. "Stop ruining my awesome plan with logic, Spencer Smith." That's totally Spencer's worst flaw; he's some sort of awesome-plan-balloon-popping machine that destroys all of Brendon's awesome plans with annoying pins made of reality. Boo.
Ryan, though, occasionally Ryan is a saver of plans, and sometimes he says really helpful things, like, "It can be like... I don't know, like a mystery. It's like having a ghostwriter, but with singing. We can make a big deal out of not telling anybody who you are, and everyone will get obsessed and wonder about it and get even more into us."
"That makes absolutely no sense," Spencer says, crossing his arms.
Brendon bounces a little. "That's totally why it's awesome, stop being such a grownup."
Spencer groans and whacks his head against the wall. “This is going to be so fucking terrible, oh my god.”
Brendon pats his shoulder consolingly. “Probably, yep.”
--
The third time, it still doesn't work, but Brendon is really, really determined.
Spencer seems pretty set on being frustrated and miserable, and Brendon could probably get on board that bandwagon pretty soon, too, yeah, but he's inventive, okay, and he's had a taste of this, there's no fucking way he's letting it slip through his fingers, literally or metaphorically.
He finds Spencer jerking off in the shower, and Spencer maybe sort of has a heart attack.
"Sorry," Brendon says, but he's sort of too focused to be actually sorry. "But," he says, before Spencer can go off on him for using his ghostly powers for evil or whatever, "I want to try something?"
Spencer sighs and slowly bangs his head on the tile wall of the shower a couple of times. "Yeah, okay."
Brendon grins. "So, so, okay. You should lean against that wall right there, okay, and hold really still? Like, no, if you move, this isn't going to work, so make sure you're comfy."
Spencer eyes him like he's grown two heads or has taken to wearing a curly wig and making people call him Frodo, but he leans back against the shower wall.
Brendon drops to his knees, and the noise Spencer makes is sort of startled and awed at the same time. "Okay?" Brendon asks, smiling a little self consciously.
Spencer swallows and nods. "But-- Bren, I mean, if I can't, if you're not--"
"I don't know, okay, just let me try?" Not wanting to give Spencer any more time to talk him out of it, Brendon leans forward and licks him from base to tip, focusing on the slide of skin under his tongue.
Spencer whines, hips bucking forward. "Jesus, Bren--"
"Seriously, Spencer, fucking hold still." Brendon puts a hand on Spencer's hip, and Spencer squirms a little under the strange static-y feeling of it, not as solid as skin, shifting like water, but Brendon's hand doesn't slip all the way through. He wraps his lips around the tip of Spencer's cock and, closing his eyes, thinks of skin and body heat and the feeling of water from the shower and he sinks his mouth all the way down.
Spencer starts taking these little, desperate breaths, but he doesn't move. Brendon slides back and then forward again, skating his tongue along the underside, and Spencer's hands spasm against the wall.
"Spencer, Spence," he says, pulling carefully off, trying to keep Spencer in the confines of where his mouth should be. "Spencer, hold my hair."
"Brendon, we just tried-- oh, fuck." He tips his head back against the tile as Brendon swallows him down again, moving his mouth shallowly back and forth. He can sort of feel Spencer now, a heavy weight on his tongue, and if he concentrates, he can almost feel the velvety skin of Spencer's hip under his fingers. Spencer seems to notice the shift, too, and after a moment of hesitation, there's motion against Brendon's hair. Spencer's fingers don't stick, but he doesn't pull them away, either, and that's a start.
Brendon doesn't stop moving, just shifts slowly back and forth, pausing now and again to lick at the head a little, testing to see how much he can feel under his tongue. Spencer is taking these deep, gasping breaths, and his legs are shaking. Brendon moves his hands to steady them, and when he closes his grip, he feels warm, soft skin under his hands.
Spencer growls, and his hands tighten onto the strands of Brendon's hair, a silent statement of not letting you go again. Brendon tightens his lips and hollows his cheeks around Spencer, tightening his grip because he can. Spencer bucks into his mouth, once, twice, and then he's pulsing over Brendon's tongue, and Brendon does his best to swallow-- which is hard, actually, since he's not exactly sure how that's gonna work out in the long run and he maybe panics for a second, but he manages okay.
When he pulls off, hands still on Spencer's thighs, Spencer is looking at him with a combination of possessiveness and awe. "So this thing," Spencer says after a minute, "where I actually get to touch you? That needs to not stop."
Brendon bites his lip and tries not to let his smile run away with him. "So don't stop touching me. Maybe it'll stick."
Spencer looks thoughtful, but. "In the meantime? Bed. Let's go. I'm going to molest you while I have the chance this time."
Brendon is totally smart enough not to argue.
--
Spencer takes the idea of not letting go of Brendon to heart. He wraps himself around Brendon while they drift off to sleep, and when they wake up in the morning, Spencer drags him down to breakfast with Ryan without letting go of his hand.
And Brendon stays mostly solid. Not alive-solid, but solid enough for touching. He still can't move things much-- and definitely not heavy things-- but when Ryan asks someone to pass the salt, Brendon passes it to him without thinking. He only notices when Spencer and Ryan are both staring at him. He kind of can't help the blush.
It's a little awkward when Spencer has to go to the bathroom, because as soon as he lets go of Brendon, Brendon feels himself fizzle a little, losing corporeality. Not quickly, not enough that he'd be totally incorporeal if Spencer was only gone a few minutes, half an hour tops, but Brendon is realistic enough to admit that Spencer probably cannot spend every single moment of his life touching him.
He's maybe miserable for a minute or two until Ryan makes an exasperated noise and grabs his hand, towing him over to the couch, and Brendon doesn't get any more solid, no, not like when Spencer's touching him, but he doesn't fade any further, either. So, no, okay, maybe Spencer can't spend every minute touching him, but he's pretty sure that Ryan and Spencer and Jon don't actually want him to turn all see-through-y again, so between the three of them, they can probably manage to touch him every couple of minutes, just to make sure he stays real.
He says it out loud, in case he's wrong. Ryan just punches him in the arm and calls him an idiot. There are maybe some drawbacks to being mostly solid, ow, but Brendon thinks he can probably handle it. Spencer kisses the bruise on his arm, later, and then, then Brendon is sure.
--
Epilogue, and a solution:
"So," Gerard says, shoving the door to Brendon's room open, "We're making a trade."
Brendon blinks at him. "Okay." Gerard is kind of weird, but Brendon’s pretty much down with that.
Gerard yanks someone in from the hall, a long, spindly-baby-unicorn of a boy, and says, "You're giving me your songs, okay, so I'm giving you my Mikey."
Mikey Way is all legs and arms and awkward motions, and Brendon would totally cuddle him if a) he didn’t think it would terrify the shit out of him, and b) if he didn't think Spencer would pull off all of Mikey's limbs in a jealous rage.
"Um," Mikey says, giving a tiny, dorky wave, "hi."
Brendon wiggles his fingers back in a small wave, smiling reassuringly at him, then narrows his eyes at Gerard. "...What am I supposed to do with your… Mikey?"
Mikey, to his credit, totally doesn't take offense to being talked about like he's inanimate and not present. With a brother like Gerard, he's probably mostly used to weird conversations. Brendon’s only known him for a couple of weeks, and he’s already mostly not even fazed when Gerard starts relating things to zombies and mutants and comic books that Brendon has never heard of.
Gerard grins triumphantly. "It's not what you do with him!" He waves a Vana White-esque hand at Mikey, who obligingly cocks a hip and spins around like a letter. "It's what he does for you!" Gerard waggles spirit fingers in Mikey’s direction.
Brendon waits for the explanation, because that doesn't actually tell him anything. "Right, of course, I should have known."
Gerard deflates a little, flaps his arms in Mikey's direction. "Shows! He’s going to do show things! I mean-- Mikey's not doing shows. That's not what I mean at all." He blinks rapidly, like he's accidentally let go of what he meant and is groping through his head, trying to find it again. Brendon occasionally has that problem, too-it’s been getting worse since Ryan moved in. Maybe floating through all of Ryan’s pot smoke is doing something to his brain or something. Or floating through all of Jon’s pot smoke. Or Spencer’s. Upon second thought, everyone in the house smokes way too much pot, and that’s totally what Brendon’s going to blame all of his extra-spaztasticness on.
Gerard apparently remembers what he meant, and, beaming, says, "Mikey's going to stay with you and keep you solid while we go and play shows!"
Mikey gives another awkward wave while Brendon looks at him. "I'd kind of forgotten that part where none of them will be here during those," Brendon says, feeling slightly nauseous. They'd all agreed that the others wouldn't play anywhere that was further than they could go to and come back from in the same day, so that Brendon wouldn't have to go without Spencer for too long, but they hadn't exactly gotten to the logistics of how Brendon was going to keep from fading during the shows themselves. Brendon had kind of been avoiding thinking about it, riding out the high from having made a selfless decision and getting to see Ryan actually happy.
"Well, awesome, I'm totally on top of shit, Brendon Urie, look at that," Gerard says, and prods Mikey forward. "He can totally keep you real while we’re away, he believes in unicorns."
Mikey flushes pink and ducks his head. “Shut up, Gee.”
That, though, Brendon can work with that. Brendon likes unicorns, they're like his second favorite after those rainbow zebras on Lisa Frank notebooks. "How do you feel about Disney movies?" he asks, testing the waters.
Mikey gets a little redder, but says, "My favorite's the Little Mermaid."
Brendon nods, mulling it over. "Okay, okay, awesome. And.... how about Keira Knightly?"
"A terrifying hellbeast who ruins potentially good movies with her presence in them," Mikey says promptly, more confident this time.
Brendon beams. "Excellent, awesome, okay. Last one-- your thoughts on jellybeans."
Mikey hmms for a moment, flicking his hair out of his eyes. After a minute of very serious consideration, he says, "Mostly disgusting, but the green apple and the strawberry ones are acceptable."
Brendon nods solemnly. "A man after my own heart. Alright, sir, you totally have a job. I accept you as my official handholder."
Mikey grins, shy and totally pleased, but like he’s trying not to let it show-it’s like if Ryan and Gerard’s smiles had some sort of baby and it got stuck to Mikey’s face. Actually, now that Brendon thinks about it, all of Mikey sort of looks like Ryan and Gerard had some sort of baby, with Gerard’s head attached to Ryan’s spindly spider body. It’s kind of awesomely ridiculous.
Spencer pokes his head in the door, pointing a menacing finger. "If you molest him," he says threateningly, "I will eat your arms." There’s probably something wrong with Brendon, that he thinks that things like that are totally romantic.
Gerard nods, rocking back on his heels. "That’s totally fair,” he agrees, and, “But Mikey is property of the great Bob-ish one." He jerks his head at his brother. "I'm pretty sure your tiny dead man is safe."
Mikey grins at Spencer, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "I promise to give him back as I found him, Mister Spencer, sir," he says, tipping Spencer a lazy, two-fingered salute. Brendon isn’t sure if he’s being sarcastic or nice or a little of both, but either one is hilarious and totally okay with him.
Brendon bounces off the bed and pecks Spencer on the mouth. "Just handholding, Spencer Smith," he says, grinning against Spencer's cheek, because he can feel Spencer's cheek. "We're totally going to hold hands, it's going to be awesome."
Spencer laces his fingers through Brendon's, squeezes. "As long as I'm the only one holding the other parts of you," he says, nudging Brendon's forehead with his own.
“Always, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says, hiding his face in Spencer’s neck. “You get all the best parts of me forever.”
Brendon manfully ignores Gerard's hysterical giggling and exclamations about their gross cuteness. Brendon’s pretty sure he’s solid enough, now, that he could strangle Gerard if he really tried, but then he’d just have to find another singer. And probably another handholder, since Mikey and Gerard seem pretty close, and Mikey would probably get all offended and shit if Brendon killed his brother, and he might even, like, want revenge, and then he’d chase Brendon to the edges of the earth, stabbing him with his really pointy collarbones over and over and over.
And then, Brendon’s brain realizes, Spencer would have to kill Mikey, and then who would be there to hold Brendon’s hand when Spencer and Ryan and Jon and the imaginary new-and-not-strangled singer all go play music on stage?
It all just seems like a frightening amount of work, and Brendon, even at his most hyperactive, isn’t sure he’s up for that sort of thing.
Plus, Brendon is kind of attached to the way things are right now, since things are basically awesome.
END
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