Fic: Told You It's Hard to Breathe (1/2)

[hidingoutside]

Told You It's Hard to Breathe
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spencer/Haley, Jon/Spencer
Disclaimer: No profit is being made. Please don't google yourself or your friends, and please turn back if you know these people personally.
Summary: It's not that he intends it to become a thing, but he starts rationing days where he can wear a pair of girl's underwear. Never to school, and only on the weekends that Ryan's not going to stay over.
Warning: Crossdressing, rimming
A/N: This fic would have been deleted almost a month ago if not for thelemic telling me to go on and then burgaw's constant cheerleading. Thank you to velvet_tuberose and nova33 for the beta work as well as the additional hand-holding in the end. Also, thank you to secrethitmen, who was going to beta before RL came and reared its ugly head.

It's starts, as far as he can remember, in second grade. Ryan goes through his first big dramatic stage and they do little skits in the backyard. Short scripts filled with dialog his mother tries not to laugh at and Spencer can barely remember the lines. Spencer is almost always the heroine. He knows that it's because Ryan likes being in charge, likes that he wrote the script and gave himself all the best lines and all the best moments, saving Spencer every time. There's costumes, some more elaborate than others, usually one of his mom's frilly blouses that itch on Spencer's neck, with Ryan in the same old velour shirt they found in Spencer's grandmother's attic.

It's one time in a string of endless summer afternoons, but he remembers it best, just as Ryan is starting into his mythology phase and the costumes are getting just a touch too involved and ridiculous. Spencer is Echo, with Ryan as Hera and a quick costume change into Narcissus, and they wore some of his mom's nighties because, at 98 degrees in the shade, everything is dying around the edges. No one can handle dressing in flannel sheets.

Spencer remembers slipping the soft silk over his bare skin and looking in the mirror. His belly is just starting to form soft, but the fabric just lays across it, shell pink against his summer-tanned skin, and he touches the straps, rolls them between two fingers, and smoothes them back. He steps back and the silk moves, chilling in the air conditioning so goose-pimples rise on his arms.

Ryan turns around, says, "Uh, this might not work," and Spencer forces himself not to look at the mirror, tries not to blush and hopes that it wasn't weird to stare at yourself in your mom's pajamas. Ryan doesn't notice anything, because the neckline of his own nightgown is too wide, sliding down to his waist when he takes a step, and it's hard to look like the queen of the gods like that. (Spencer's mom helps them pin the nightgown in the back, and both his parents sit through a fifteen minute presentation of the Myth of Echo. There are four more skits after that, and then nothing because mythology and then basketball are Ryan's new obsessions.)

Spencer hides the nightie in the basement instead of putting it back, behind the old boxes of records that no one listens to anymore. He wears it only two more times, too afraid that someone will catch him. His head is filled with Hephaestus and the Spurs, but he can't stop himself from running the material through his hands and remembering.

***

He doesn't think much of it, tries not to concentrate on it because he is already bruised for coming to school as a whale, a walrus, an earthshaker, and the only thing worse than being fat--even if Ryan never said a word and his mom assured him it would pass--is being fat and girly. He does the best he can, plays the best rounds of baseball he can manage. The outfield falls down when he run from second to third, but his team cheers and thanks him when they win. He doesn't make friends with that half, because it's his fault when they lose, too.

It'd only when he rounds the corner to thirteen that he lets the thoughts boil to the surface again, takes them off the careful simmer. It's a Wednesday so it's his day to fold the laundry, ball the socks up and fold denim shorts into three different laundry baskets (one for each room of the house). He likes folding actually, the quick snap of cloth under his hands when he makes the lines crisp like his mother likes them. He folds a blue shirt, a pair of jeans, a sun dress, another blue shirt, and then he pulls a purple camisole out of the snake's nest. It's like everything freezes.

The material is different than the nightgown, a bit scratchier, with lace at the neckline. His mother wears it under suit jackets for work.

He holds it up to his chest, over his Tony Hawk t-shirt. Spencer knows it probably won't fit, but he wants it. It's burning through him and eating at him, just below his navel and a few bites in his chest. He pulls his t-shirt off with shaking fingers and a quick glance at the door before he has it on.

Spencer can't risk going to the mirror because his dad could be home from work at any minute or his mom could come downstairs to start dinner. The best he has is the reflection on the television screen, distorted and too dark for details. The lace doesn't itch like he thought it would, and the camisole is lined with something, some sort of fabric they probably thought up in space, and it just feels--

He smiles at his reflection to see it smile back, reaches out and touches it because the person in the reflection doesn't seem to mind that his chest is just a touch too jiggly for a boy's or that his hands are starting to be too big for his body. The camisole is just a touch too tight, sort of uncomfortable the more he breathes.

But he feels all right in his skin, in the camisole made from space age fabric, until he remembers that he's wearing something that belongs to his mom, and his stomach turns because he doesn't know what it's supposed to mean.

Then the front door opens, and suddenly there isn't any need to worry about breathing. He grabs his t-shirt and pulls it back on, over the camisole and tries to start folding again. His dad shouts hello, and he choruses back with his mother. His face is on fire, and every time he shifts to grab something else out of the laundry basket, he can feel the lace against his skin.

He forces himself to sit and fold one more basket, with his dad droning on about basketball in the background. His fingers are shaking, just enough that the t-shirts aren't folded tight enough. Normally, he would talk about hockey, since that's what he and Ryan are playing now, but he can't. Spencer finishes the last shirt in the basket before he stands and excuses himself, making a dash up to the bathroom on the second floor.

Spencer doesn't run up the stairs, but he wants to. He closes the bathroom door and locks it, closes the open window and pulls down the blinds just in case someone peeks in when he takes off the t-shirt and looks at himself in the mirror. His skin is too flushed, and he can't catch his breath around his heartbeat.

He takes the camisole off and throws it into the hamper, peels back the layers of dirty laundry and stuffs in between his dad's pajama pants and a pair of underwear. Spencer wipes his palms on his shorts and tries to catch his breath, tries to even out his face so he doesn't look so guilty.

Part of him wants to call Ryan and ask him what it means, because Ryan has always known everything that meant anything. Except that Ryan's never mentioned the fat thing, or that Spencer sometimes snorts when he breathes. He just sort of goes with it, but Spencer knows there's a breaking point for everything. He doesn't think he can find that with Ryan.

***

He makes it three more months, throws out the camisole and the nightie and hopes no one notices. He tries to concentrate on Pet Salamander, how they might change the name, and Trevor and Brent's stupid ideas for songs. Then it's December, and he keeps thinking about it, about the feel of soft fabric and if he just has some sort of issue with his mom. It's possible that Ryan's whole thing with Oedipus just scarred him and he needs help.

He ends up at a Fashion Bug, bikes there from home after telling his mom he was going out with Ryan to work on songs. Spencer tries to tell himself that it's just a store in a strip mall, and he ignores the way the sales clerks stare at him when he wanders in and tries to figure out girl's sizing. He doesn't want to look like one of the dumbasses in school, the ones that try to raid the girls' locker room during swimming.

Everything's clean and sort of pleasant, forgettable pop music in the background when he finds the camisole and panty sets in the very back of the store, and he can fell himself blushing. He can't really hold anything up and see if it would fit, just sort of stares at the sizing he doesn't understand. He's barely into men's clothing now, where everything is by waist and inseam, but the clothes here run 1 through 19.

"Do you need some help, dear?" One of the saleswomen comes up to him, all open hands and shaded eyes, and he wants to throw up a little. His stomach is crashing through the floor, and it's enough to make him want to clamp down tight, like an oyster around a pearl, only his pearl is sort of a sick fascination-problem.

He shakes his head and bikes to Ryan's house. He can't go home, and he can't tell Ryan, but they can sit on the porch and talk about being rockstars and their hypothetically awesome life. There's a rumpled twenty in his pocket, and he volunteers it to buy pizza when Mr. Ross doesn't come home, even after the sky goes dark.

***

He goes for it when he's out with Trevor, Trevor who makes queer jokes and calls Ryan a girl at least three times a week, when they're loitering in Wal-mart with no intention of buying anything. They look at the music section until they get waved off by the guarding blue vests, and Trevor picks up a hockey stick in sporting goods. It's when they're carrying bags of frozen vegetables to leave in the Shoe department, that the thought crosses Spencer's mind and he tosses his bag to Trevor, casual. "Hey, I need to look at something for my mom," he says. Lying to Trevor is easier than lying to Ryan, or even to Brent.

Trevor shrugs in his way and wanders out of the department, over to shoes where there is teenage mischief afoot, so Spencer can look at the camisoles again. He casually picks one, white without lace or anything fancy, up off the rack, and the store is so crowded that no one is really paying much attention to him, all rushing around to get the fuck out, complaining about the parking lot, and the employees snipe about lost wages, cut hours, as he grabs another one. It's floral, and, attached at the bottom, there are matching underwear.

He grabs the biggest size in each and wanders back into sleepwear, where he can't see any of the hanging-globe security cameras and takes them off the hangers. They ball up tiny, and they ball up tinier in his pockets, unnoticeable with his too large t-shirt hanging over them. His heart is still trying to run out of his chest when he goes and find Trevor trying to shove a bag of corn into a workboot.

"We should go," he says. His voice squeaks, and his arms are sweating. Trevor doesn't notice, and they don't get stopped at the door.

***

After Trevor goes home, Spencer locks the door to his room. He'll be fifteen soon, and his parents don't bother him when the door's locked. His dad sat both him and Ryan down and went through the whole cringe-inducing conversation when Spencer was eleven (because Ryan was twelve). He's sort of glad for it now, when he pulls the underwear out of his pocket with shaking fingers and pulls off his own clothes.

The underwear are too big but smooth against his skin. The tag calls it rayon, and he's only really used to cotton, since he threw out everything. He puts the camisole on, too, and it's the same feeling as before, when he's just right instead of being weird and maybe a little hard this time, maybe, because he is almost fifteen and the fabric rubs against his dick, silk soft like butterfly wings. Spencer knows that he looks maybe ridiculous, but he feels less awkward now, less likely to tumble out of his skin and over the drums when Ryan and Brent get into one of their tiffs about Brent's abilities (Ryan's bitchiness).

He pulls himself out of the panties, so he doesn't stain them, jacks himself off with his back on the floor so he can feel the rayon sliding over his skin with every thrust of his hips, even when they go a little wild in the end and he accidentally comes onto the hem of the camisole.

Spencer lets out a shaking breath before he grabs his bathrobe and runs into the bathroom to take a shower. He washes the camisole in the sink, uses Dial soap because that's antibacterial and should be enough, and hangs it to dry in his closet. The panties go into his jeans drawer, shoved in the back where he figures no one will look.

***

It's not that he intends it to become a thing, but he starts rationing days where he can wear a pair of girl's underwear. Never to school, and only on the weekends that Ryan's not going to stay over. The second part's harder, because Ryan stays over for weekends in a row and they talk about what they're going to do because Trevor really, really wants to play baseball in the spring and football in the fall.

He has more, most of them bought but a few more stolen. He pretends that he has a girlfriend, and he writes out lists in big, bubbly handwriting of the underwear she needs. He blushes a lot when the sales ladies help him, and he grabs patterns without looking.

There's a skirt, too, in his jeans drawer, elastic waist and hits just under his knee. He doesn't shave his legs and doesn't wear it more than twice because it's not as comfortable. He likes pants and doesn't like the way the fabric moves between his legs and makes him feel exposed even when he's just walking around his room.

So it is a thing, and he's not stupid enough not to know that it's a big, glaring sort of thing that is going to get the shit kicked out of him if he ever tells anyone. He doesn't get picked on at school now, not as much since he's more solid and less chubby.

He was be fine, too, if it didn't turn to summer and he starts wearing the girl's underwear under his basketball shorts most of the time, since he sort of hates letting them sag like Ryan does, even when they're gathered in his grandma's sweltering basement. Something is starting to come together, even if Ryan isn't a good enough guitarist to sing and play at the same time, misses words because he's looking at his fingering.

Even then, it's just Ryan, after Brent packs up to make it to his part-time job, who asks if they can hit his pool. It's Ryan's way of asking if he stay the night, because they'll swim and then there's food, and then it's dark and it doesn't really matter. If they had the space for it, Ryan would probably have his own room at the house. Ryan already has his own drawer in Spencer's room, in a different dresser than the one Spencer keeps his jeans in. They both get changed in Spencer's room like they have since they were five and six.

It's only when Spencer has his hands on his shorts that he remembers, the stretch of fine-spun cotton too familiar. He freezes and tries to push his underwear down fast so Ryan won't notice.

But Ryan notices everything because he sucks and because he's Ryan, who wanted to write books at eight and still talks about maybe writing if the band falls apart or takes off (he's not really sure). He definitely notices the pink cotton/green lace that Spencer's trying to make go away.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he asks, and there's something Spencer doesn't recognize in his voice, something that's sort of scratchy and almost like the way he talks to Mr. Ross when Mr. Ross is too drunk to talk back or remember.

Spencer's going to be sixteen in three months; he hasn't really cried in years. When he looks back at Ryan and Ryan's eyes are impossibly wide before he sees Spencer looking at him, before he turns away to pull his own shorts back up and grabs his t-shirt, he wants to. He can feel the burn just under his eyelids, and he doesn't blink until Ryan's grabs his tennis shoes and runs down the stairs, out of the house.

And then he blinks and has to fumble to get to and lock the open door.

***

After three days, Ryan has yet to call him or stop at the house or IM him. Spencer sits in his room in an old t-shirt and boxers that feel odd and scratchy, and he wonders if Ryan is going to tell Brent (he doesn't think so. They could fill encyclopedias with the embarrassing things they know about each other and haven't told Brent, but the fear is there because Spencer knows how much he wanted to tell someone, to ask someone). It's summer, and they only have band practice when Ryan calls them. He doesn't even have the monotony of school or Brent bitching that he could be at the pool or at his girlfriend's house.

It would be easier if he had more memories that weren't mixed with Ryan, years of shared birthday parties and commiserating that they had to go to different schools when Ryan wasn't even Catholic (recently, didn't even believe in God).

He goes downstairs for dinner, races through it, and asks to be excused so he can go upstairs and wonder what he's supposed to fill his days with. Everything's been sort of torn, half his life stuck four houses up the street and not talking.

Spencer stretches out on his bed and decides that he'll call Brent in the morning, see if maybe he wants to go to the mall. It's easier to fall asleep when he thinks about the video game store and maybe stopping in FYE instead of Ryan's quiet, wide eyes and narrow back as he walked out of the room.

He doesn't remember his dreams. When it's a little after one in the morning, there's tapping at his window. He almost ignores it, it and the way his stomach flips a little because it's at his window and only serial killers and Ryan Ross are crazy enough to climb onto the roof of his back porch. He turns on the light next to his bed, and the tapping stops.

There's no point in putting anything on, now that he's wearing boxers again, and because Ryan knows.

He unlocks the window and opens it, and there's Ryan looking exactly like he did four days ago when he said, "Hey, can we go swimming?" and everything went fucking tits up.

"Hi," Ryan says, and he meets Spencer's eyes. He's in the shadows; it's hard to see his expression and harder still to know what he's thinking. He presses his bare knees to the window sill. "Can I come in?"

Spencer nods and steps back. Ryan always falls into his room, half tumbling because he doesn't have the inherent grace or common sense to put his feet in the room and then follow with his body. He sits on the edge of his bed, and Ryan sits on the floor with his legs crossed like they're at the library for story time.

They don't talk, and he has to look away from Ryan first. He studies the old Blink 182 poster on his closet door, at the tattoos on Travis Barker's arms. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say, if he's supposed to be the one to apologize. He decides he won't. He doesn't apologize that his eyes are blue, because it's just how things are. The underwear thing is almost, sort of, maybe the same.

He doesn't have to worry, though, because Ryan finally sighs and says, "So I'm an asshole. I'm sorry," with his tone pinched because Ryan's never been very good at apologizing. "I just wasn't expecting, I mean, I didn't think you were..." Ryan waves his hand a little, just enough that Spencer had to look at him again and has to fill in his own words for the hand wave.

Spencer wants to spit out a queer, a fag, or a freak, but he doesn't. He frowns at his knees and waits for Ryan to say something else.

"It's weird," Ryan says, and it's not quite a dismissal but it's not quite acceptance. "You didn't tell me," he adds, and that sounds more like an accusation than anything.

Spencer reaches back across the bed and grabs a pillow, throws it with all the force he can muster at Ryan. "You left when you found out, ass."

Ryan catches the pillow and pulls it to his chest. "Well, I don't know. I didn't think you even liked the color pink, and then you were..." He shifts again and looks up at Spencer. "It doesn't matter, all right? I was being stupid."

Spencer flops back on his bed. "Yeah," he says. He closes his eyes and waits for Ryan to climb back out the window.

Instead the bed dips, and Ryan's long fingers circle his arm. "Hey." He stretches out next to Spencer like they've done a hundred times, like nothing's changed. "Whatever it is, if you're gay or whatever... It doesn't matter." he says again, and this time there's the added weight of the hand on his arm, Ryan's way of telling him things are going to be okay.

He smiles without meaning to and shoves at Ryan with his other hand. "You're just glad that I have a dark secret now." He doesn't say You're just glad I'm a bigger freak than you because it probably isn't fair.

Ryan laughs and falls back against the bed, his head near Spencer's shoulder. "Yeah. You were too normal."

"You're the one who wanted us to dress up," Spencer snaps and elbows Ryan's arm.

"Yeah." Silence stretches between them, and he can feel himself starting to fall asleep again. Ryan's hand slides off; the bed dips and shifts again, and the sheet is pulled up over his legs. "This is totally all my fault. We should tell my dad and see how he takes it." His words are light, because they both know it's never going to leave the room, but the look on Mr. Ross' face would be almost worth it.

"You're sadistic," Spencer mutters, and then he's gone.

***

Ryan never makes a big deal out of it, and it's almost like it didn't happen. When Spencer starts thinking about Kenny Sanders mouth, just as the band is starting to pick up and Ryan is IMing Pete Wentz, he tells Ryan about it just like he told Ryan about how hot he though Deb Sherron was six months before that. Ryan only wrinkles his nose because Ryan likes pretty things and one is too horsey and the other too hairy for Ryan's delicate sensibilities.

Sometimes Ryan will smirk when they're at the mall going to visit Brendon, when they leave Wet Seal and have to pass Victoria's Secret. Ryan doesn't say anything, and he only laughs when Spencer shoves his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. It almost feels normal, almost like it's just like admitting to watching Power Rangers even though they're up to like Dino Thunder or something now.

He only has three or four pairs of boxers left that fit after he starts to grow a little. His weight doesn't change, but it's like someone stretches him so he's suddenly almost as tall as Ryan, maybe taller when he's wearing the totally kick-ass tennis shoes with a slight, slight platform. They're girl shoes, but no one comments. It's hard not to feel smug.

It's only when they have the record deal, despite him having to babysit and Brent having to go and be fucking Brent at the worst possible moment, that he realizes what his life could become. When they're piled on top of each other in the van, racing from venue to venue and all their stuff is shoved under the seats, he sees Brent and Brendon and tries not to let his palms sweat on what-ifs. He starts powdering his hands before shows, so he won't lose his sticks.

Recording in Maryland is almost easy, compared to the van. He usually wakes up before Brent and Brendon, and he can have the bathroom to himself. Spencer never wears boxers to play the drums; he goes out of his mind a little because the thicker elastic itches now, especially when he's sweating, and the coarse cotton sticks to his thighs. There is a laundromat, and Spencer can be the laundry bitch if it meant no one asks why he had underwear with ducks and stars on them.

Touring, though, makes him want to throw up in ways that have nothing to do with getting up on the riser. They're packed too tight on top of each other, and there's always a risk. On hotel nights, he always rooms with Ryan and always dresses in the bathroom so there's no chance anyone can see. There are doors in the hotels, though. It's hard to hide in a van.

Brendon's still a Mormon, no matter how much caffeine he pours down his throat and how many times he shouts "a better fuck" to screaming girls. He swears that he gave up the religion three years ago, like it was an addiction he kicked, but there's a tell in his reactions, programming he hasn't overwritten yet. He still looks away at the after parties, when two guys lean against each other and one might press his mouth onto the other's neck. Spencer looks away too, because he doesn't want Brendon to think he's looking at that and wondering if he can have that. He doesn't know how it looks on his face.

Brent is still just Brent. It's sort of awesome to have him around because Ryan's never been really good at strategy video games (the story moves too slow), and it sucks to have him around because he's not nearly as nervous-excited about it as the rest of them. Brent's known him for five less years than Ryan, but Spencer takes some comfort in Brent just looking at the guys and muttering, "I wish those dudes would get a room," because PDA has always made Brent uncomfortable.

Spencer wonders if it would be easier if he could take a test on it, fill in some bubbles with a number two pencil and have a machine spit out the answer. He's older now, and the smiles that scene girls and hipster guys give him feel pretty much the same, give him the same tight pull in his stomach when he thinks about walking off with them.

He tells Ryan about it, when it's Spencer's turn to drive and Ryan's keeping him company. There's no way to know what's actually clean and what's dirty anymore. Everything just smells like four teenage guys have been rolling over top of it, just after they ran a marathon and some of them (Brendon and Spencer) are literally dripping.

Ryan sighs. "They're not going to guess anything you don't want them too, Spence." He shifts and puts his shoes up on the dash.

"Brendon won't like it," he says, and it sounds mulish and defensive. It's almost mean, because Brendon tries almost too hard to be like the three of them, like he grew up being able to have Mountain Dew without fearing hellfire.

Ryan says, "Then I'll kick his ass," with an evenness that really says Don't be stupid.

Spencer lets the conversation drop. Ryan lets the van go quiet, just the sounds of the road and Brent's heavy breathing, before he starts retelling one of Pete's Warped Tour stories, about Joe, Ray Toro, and a goat. By the time he gets to the punchline, Spencer's laughing loud enough make Brendon wake up and blearily ask if there's going to be pancakes.

***

Spencer doesn't realize that he's dropping the puppy fat, not at first. He doesn't really eat any differently than normal, and, okay, the fact that his arms are gaining definition isn't shocking because he's the drummer. He doesn't really notice until he's coming onto Fall Out Boy's bus on the Fusion Tour and Pete tries to pants him that it actually occurs to him that his belt is cinched to the last nock.

His shirt is long, though, and he's fast enough to grab at his jeans before Pete can get them too far down. Pete's an asshole, but the squawking squeal that Spencer makes seems to be enough for him to laugh at. He lets go and doesn't see anything.

The next day, when they have an hour or so to kill, Spencer drags Brendon with him to the closest Target (Ryan can't be bothered because he's too busy following Pete around, and there isn't really time to go to a mall). He takes Brendon, and Brendon doesn't bat an eye at shopping in the juniors department, just grabs shirts that he thinks Spencer needs to try on with his jeans.

It's when he's in the dressing room, in size 17 girl's pants and a blue shirt with glitter stars across the chest, that he feels his chest go a little tight. He looks awesome, and he knows it, but he's dressed completely in girl's clothes, right down the lime-green lowrise panties, and everything feels sort of light, like his ribs are the only thing holding everything in.

"Fucking hell, Spence," Brendon says when he finally steps out of the dressing room and lets him see the first layer. "You could so get laid if you wanted to." Brendon's eyes are bright, and he's chewing gum obnoxiously. When the fitting room attendant, old and wrinkled with a raisin-sized mouth, gives them a look, he doesn't notice.

"I'm going to need another pair," he says and gives Brendon a tiny smile.

"Dude, I'm all over it. There was a pair with bedazzled back-pockets. I think you need them." Brendon grins, ridiculous and cheery, before running back. Spencer smiles to himself and looks at his reflection in the three-way mirror. He tries his smile out again, squaring his shoulders so he looks more confident, like he's a drummer in a fucking rock band and he knows that he's hot.

It actually works. He doesn't even look vaguely ridiculous in the shirt, even though the glitter is starting to flake off the way glitter does, onto his arms like he's going to a rave.

"Seriously, Spencer, it's good," Brendon says, coming up behind him with the bedazzled jeans and a pile of tiny folded shirts that Spencer knows will fit him now. "You look really awesome."

When they get back, Spencer wearing the first outfit out of the store, Ryan starts laughing again. Spencer chases him off the bus and up into the green room. They're both laughing by the time Spencer manages to pin Ryan on the couch, and Brendon looks mildly put out that neither of them will let him in on the joke.

***

Spencer doesn't expect Ryan to be the first one to make a friend on the Statelines tour, any less than he expects it to be on the third day of tour, but it happens. Jon Walker comes up the stairs of their bus--something that never ceases to thrill him, because he doesn't have to survive Brendon's driving anymore--and Spencer sort of wants to die a little. He knows his cheeks are on fire before Jon even says, "Hey, I'm Jon."

Ryan shoots Spencer a look when he just nods and goes back to rereading the same article about The All-American Rejects. Jon and Ryan drink Capri Sun and talk about Oasis, who Ryan just started listening to, and other bands that Spencer's never even heard of (and he is pretty sure that Ryan's talking out his ass, too. Spencer tries to remember the titles Jon keeps flinging out for Ryan, so they can hit up iTunes later.)

He doesn't really mean to be listening, but Jon's voice is soft and careful. Spencer's pretty sure that he can listen to him say "Oasis" all day and still not get over how it sounds, until Ryan gets up to go to the bathroom, still giving Spencer confused looks. Then Jon says, "You're Spencer Smith, right?"

Spencer does his best to make it seem like he isn't blushing like an idiot, tossing his head a little to flick hair from his eyes. "Yeah," he says. He smiles at Jon.

Jon smiles back. And, okay, if Spencer had a type, which he doesn't because he's eighteen and has been on exactly three dates and has had one girlfriend, but if. He doesn't think it would be someone in a shirt that's a little too small in the chest and dingy Wal-mart flipflops. There are grass stains on Jon's jeans, and the fabric is worn thin enough to be white in some places. Spencer's mouth might be a little dry, and he can't think of anything else to say.

He looks away from Jon's knees and then he sees his eyelashes, and he really, really needs Ryan to come back.

Jon just smiles and leans back. "Did you like touring in Europe?"

Spencer nods. He's trying to read, but it's like he's been instantaneously struck down by dyslexia. All the words are sort of swimming. Ryan seriously needs to come back out of the bathroom.

"Yeah," he says again, turning the page like he's actually reading.

"That's cool." Jon taps his fingers on his thighs. "Do you play anything besides the drums?"

Spencer has the worst best friend in the entire world. He looks over at Jon, Jon who is still calm and relaxed like he owns the bus and doesn't seem to notice that Spencer can only say one word at a time. Jon has really nice hands.

"Not really," he says after too long a pause. He shifts and puts the magazine down. He slides his hands under his thighs. "Do you?"

Jon nods. "Piano a little, drums even less, guitar and bass."

Spencer almost asks which is his favorite, but Ryan comes out of the bathroom, looking like he tried to take a shower in the shitty little bathroom (either that or washed his hair in the sink). Jon looks back at Ryan, and the conversation picks up where it left off. Spencer listens in for another ten minutes before he grabs the magazine again.

***

He tries not to think about Jon, but he's on their bus for the rest of the tour, at least once a day. It gets worse because Brendon clings to Jon when Ryan isn't hanging out with him. Spencer tries to talk to Brent, but there's something off there, the little cracks in their friendship turning into chasms.

He doesn't know what to say to "I think maybe biology," when Brent mentions it in the back lounge. Spencer's not trying to judge if his girl shoes (size 12, which he didn't know they made) are maybe getting a touch too tight, and his jeans are starting to get too short.

He forces himself to say, "What?" His palms start sweating, and he rubs them over his thighs.

Brent looks at him, one earbud still in his ear. Spencer can't really tell what he's listening to, but the bass is up way too loud. "I think I want to study biology or zoology, when we get back. I think I want to be a vet."

Spencer nods and looks at his shoes again. The shoe laces have tinsel sewn in, and there's only one way to go back.

He might mention this to Jon, one night when he goes over to the Academy's bus to grab Brendon. Ryan's getting better about the drinking, less strained around the eyes, but he still doesn't want to be the one that has to be responsible for it. He's put in his time.

It might sort of slip out after one beer, seriously one. Brendon's barely even tipsy, and he's playing rummy with Beckett, Carden, and Siska. Conrad and the Butcher are in the back, but Jon keeps him up front and hands over a Blue Moon like it's normal.

Spencer only feels guilty when the beer's mostly gone, and he texts Ryan to confess what he's done (only 1 prmse jons here hell make sure) and to tell him that there's a card game going on. He gets one text back (k goodnite) and knows that he's forgiven because Ryan texts with proper punctuation when he's pissed off.

He might tell Jon because Jon asks how things are going, and the fact that Brent is talking about going back has been running through his head on repeat for the past week. Ryan's actually mostly happy, and he doesn't want to ruin that.

But Jon just nods and throws an arm around Spencer's shoulder. He's warmer and softer than Spencer thought he would be. "Sometimes that happens," he says, and his voice is too close, mouth almost to Spencer's ear.. Jon's not that much older than he is, but there's something in his tone that seems heavy with age, like the two years is really two centuries. "You'll just need to figure out if you want to stay together or let it break you up."

Spencer nods. Jon smells like grapefruit, alcohol, and cigarettes. It shouldn't make him feel better, comforted, but it does. He doesn't realize that he passes out against Jon until Brendon's nudging his shoulder and whispering that they need to get up and get on their bus before Ryan founds out they spent the night in Beckett's den of sin.

***

He starts to hang out with Jon, and he starts to be able to say entire sentences in front of him without the aid of alcohol. Spencer chalks that up as an accomplishment. Jon teaches him cheats for Grand Theft Auto, too, which is also pretty awesome. He mostly forgets about sometimes wanting to lean in and lick the curve of Jon's neck, just to see if he tastes the same way he smells, except when he's in his bunk at night.

It gets easier after he meets Haley on the last night of Statelines. She's hanging out at the stage door to try and meet Bill, and he goes outside to escape the sticky-heat of backstage. Zack's usually minding Brendon after their set because he likes to go and mingle with people, so Spencer knows he's okay. It's not late enough yet to have hundred of girls hanging out for autographs.

Haley smiles at him, and she doesn't have a pass or a ticket stub. "Hi," she says, and she flicks her hair over her shoulder.

Spencer's not exactly sure where he falls on the Kinsey scale. Ryan tried to explain it to him, just once before Spencer felt like it was The Talk his dad gave him all over again, but he likes the way Haley's neck curves and the way she smiles at him. He's used to the girls looking at him (and Brent) as things to fuck to get to Brendon and Ryan. He's done it once, twice if you count the time the girl started to go down and he remembered that he hadn't changed into boxers. There was no fucking way he was going to let that end up on the internet.

But Haley just smiles at him, and they talk. She's younger than he is, still in high school, and she's grounded for getting caught smoking behind the bleachers. Her parents gave away her ticket for the night's show, which is why she's here now instead of inside.

Spencer winces when the first person who knows him on sight screams his name, and he opens the door to rush back inside. "Spencer Smith," Haley says before he can go, and he stops. She hands him the CD booklet from Almost Here. Her number is scrawled on it.

She asks him to meet her at a Starbucks tomorrow, someplace close to his hotel. He's pretty sure they'll still be in town tomorrow.

***

There's four days in Chicago before they fly back to Vegas to get ready for Europe, for their first headlining tour, and Spencer manages to see Haley on every one of them. On the first day, he gives her back the CD booklet with everyone's signatures on it, and she stuffs it into her purse without looking at it. On the second stop to Starbucks, she reaches across the table and holds his hands. Her palm is soft like flower petals, and he laughs at the joke she tells. The third time, and the fourth, she kisses him outside the coffee shop and the movie theatre. He doesn't remember what they order or what they saw, but he remembers the way she doesn't smell like cigarettes (wasn't caught doing that kind of smoking) but like flowers and clean cotton.

When he goes back to Vegas and starts to sort his own laundry again, he doesn't think about Haley pressing her knee against his in Starbucks. He thinks about how most of his clothes come out of the junior section now, and how he needs to buy another package of briefs, in case of Haley.

***

He's mostly gotten over the way Jon makes his stomach tighten when Brendon comes to him, halfway through the European tour. They're sharing their hotel rooms again; Brendon usually stays with Brent, but he demanded they switch this time. Spencer doesn't think about it until Brendon sits down across from him on the bed with serious dark eyes.

Spencer's going through his clothes and sorting out what he doesn't want to wear to the next interview. He still changes in the bathroom, even when he rooms with Ryan. It's more comfortable for everyone.

"So," Brendon says, slowly. He folds his hands in his lap and then rubs them across his knees. "So, Spencer."

Spencer's hand stills in the middle of his suitcase, on the same blue shirt that Brendon had him buy what feels like years ago. "So, Brendon," he says, voice even.

Brendon looks up at him with wide eyes. His feet are tapping the ground. "You're gay, aren't you?"

Spencer stares at Brendon. He's pretty sure that his mouth just falls open, and, seriously, what the fuck? His head goes from calm and focused on seeing if he brought his new favorite red shirt to filled with whirling dervishes of curse words and sputtered denials. He'll say anything for Brendon not to talk to him looking like that.

"Oh, shit, that came out wrong." Brendon says after Spencer doesn't talk, just stares with his mouth open and tongue drying out. "I meant, like, you have a thing, you know."

Spencer's hands might be shaking in his suitcase. "A thing?" he croaks. He's been so careful around Brendon, more careful than he has been with Brent. He always checks to make sure there's no lace peeking out from the waist band of his jeans, and he hides everything in the far corners of his suitcase. He balls his underwear up in his shirt when they share a room.

"You know," Brendon says, making a dismissive hand gesture. "A thing. For Jon. I mean, right?"

Spencer starts to laugh, letting his head tip back. He doesn't know what else to do. It's like he's been jump-started, aware of everything from the ugly comforter pattern to the way his hair touches the back of his neck to the way he can't answer the question. He has to force himself to look Brendon and Brendon's stupidly open expression. "Would it be a problem if I did?" he says, but he's still laughing.

Brendon rolls his eyes. Touring has been good to him. It's stripped off a lot of the shiny-Mormon finish and made him more real. He still has his moments, but sometimes Brendon will drape himself over Ryan in a way that isn't heteronormative in the least. "Don't be an asshole," he says. "You don't have to answer, if you don't--"

"I'm not gay," he says, though it's not a firm statement. Spencer goes back to digging into his suitcase again, brow creased. "But I'm not blind."

Brendon snickers. "You can't resist the charms of Jwalk?" He's bouncing on his bed again, but it's different, just something to fill his time.

"Something like that," Spencer says. He looks up at Brendon and winks. It earns him another grin, and something loosens in his throat. He can breathe again.

***

Europe kicks ass, and they're still riding that thrill until something shatters. There's a show in a little under twenty-four hours, and Brent isn't there and isn't there, and no matter how many times Spencer closes his eyes and opens them again, he's still not there. Spencer tries not to think about the conversation in the back lounge but not thinking about it makes his insides jump and twist.

"I'm going to call Jon," Ryan says. He's curled on the couch beside Spencer, tucked into him in a way that he hasn't been since they were living at home. Spencer doesn't need to be asked, just puts his arm around Ryan's shoulder to hold him while Ryan makes the call.

Brendon's sitting across from them, and his mouth is set in a tight, cold line, eyes hard. It's weird, to see Brendon this angry, to see him still and quiet. Even his hands aren't moving.

Spencer closes his eyes and listens to Ryan's end of the conversation. He can almost hear Jon, but it's more like static.

"After this," Brendon says in a slow voice.

He nods and tightens his hold on Ryan. It might not just be for Ryan's benefit. "I'll do it."

Brendon nods once before slumping over. His foot starts moving.

Ryan looks up then, and he's not quite smiling. It's close though. "Jon says he'll come. He's going to redeye out here." He holds the phone out.

Brendon shouts, "Jon Walker, you are my favorite," over top of Spencer's thank you. He can hear Jon laughing now, and it's like someone's working to untie the knots in his chest again, so everything can be loose and free.

He lets go of Jon and texts Haley. She texts back frowning faces and little anecdotes about high school, the colleges she's deciding between. She might major in chemistry or communications or business.

He stops texting her after that.

***

The problem with having Jon with them is that Jon is basically awesome. He doesn't want to say that things click when they're on stage together, but something definitely happens. Spencer can watch everyone, the way Ryan' seems a little more confident and the added swagger to Brendon. He smiles at Jon when he looks over, and Spencer sort of has it already figured out, where this is going to go.

He's not sure if he wants it to go there, not yet, but he's willing to reserve judgment while Ryan's grinning back stage. They're all soaked, because it's fucking California and they're all wearing dark colors. Apparently this is a band of geniuses. Jon didn't even argue for a lighter color shirt, just one without ruffles and shit. He argues that Spencer doesn't have ruffles, so he doesn't need them.

He and Ryan share a look over that, but Ryan doesn't say anything, not until they're back at the hotel. Even then he just comes out of the shower, into the hotel room, and says, "No ruffles today, Spencer?"

Spencer beats him with a pillow and calls him an asshole.

***

Brendon and Jon share a hotel room that night, and Ryan and Spencer crash it with bags of over-priced popcorn and DVDs. Ryan makes them watch the highlights of Moulin Rouge, just enough to get his fix before they move on to Fantastic Four. It's the perfect sort of movie for them right now, mindless with plenty of mocking material. Ryan rips the plot apart mercilessly, and Jon and Brendon go after the acting. The four of them are piled onto Jon's bed, and Spencer's stuck half-under Brendon and pressed against Jon.

It's warm, too, and the tension from the show, from not knowing if Jon could pull off the bass parts and then not knowing, seeps out down his back. He's asleep before the Human Torch can figure out how to fly.

He wakes up cold, though, the balcony door open. There's one light on in the room, three feet from his head and it's too bright. The pile of bodies is gone, and he can hear Brendon snoring one bed over. He sits up fast, everything still hazed from sleep. He hates the way he doesn't feel in control over himself when he first wakes up, the way he can't figure out where Ryan is or what happened to the movie.

He checks his Sidekick, and it's well after three in the morning. Ryan's probably asleep, and Spencer isn't sure where he put his keycard, the light still too bright for him to be able to concentrate. Brendon snuffles and turns over.

Spencer can't help but smile before he goes over to the open balcony door to close it, block out the cold night air. He'll just sleep in Jon's bed; it's not like the older boy is using it. He thinks about pulling back the flimsy hotel blanket and slipping between over-washed sheets that scrape over the dry patches on his knees. There's another tour, too soon, and he just wants to sleep until the whole mess with Brent has blown over, until he feels like he hasn't been abandoned to strangers who could go through his suitcase.

He tries to close the door, but someone says, "Hey," from the balcony. Jon's out there in sweatpants, without a shirt so Spencer has a chance to look at his back, at the mole he has on his left shoulder. Spencer's mouth is a little dry, even if he's supposed to be over this. He's seen Jon without a shirt, seen most of the members of the crew and the bands he's toured with. He's even seen Greta run from a bus to her van in a bra and towel.

But Jon's looking at him with a quiet smile. "When did you wake up?" Jon asks.

"Just now." Spencer's feet are bare, but he moves over to Jon and sits beside him. LA is still lit up, and there's a haze over the city so he can't see the hills in the distance. It's just street lights, hotel signs, and McDonald's until the universe drops off, maybe fifteen blocks in all. It's like the world's ended, and the only other thing besides the haze and the cold balcony under his thighs is Jon, whose arm brushes Spencer's when he exhales.

He forgets to breathe for that moment, and when he exhales, it comes out in a rush. Jon laughs quietly. "That's what I'm saying, Spencer Smith." He takes a few more pictures of the lights, the hazy smog, and one of Spencer. He reaches out before he takes it, adjusts the way Spencer's holding his head. Jon's broad thumb sweeps over Spencer's chin, and Spencer forgets to breathe.

He does, however, remember to wrinkle his nose. "Don't do that."

Jon grins, and he's closer than he should be, like if Spencer leaned over and maybe up a little, they'd kiss. It makes him shift back. Jon's grin fades down until it's just a soft smile.

They sit in quiet, long enough for his legs to feel like they're going to freeze on the concrete, until Jon bumps Spencer's shoulder with his. "Thanks, for letting me come out and play with you."

Spencer is glad that it's dark, because he can feel a blush creeping into his neck and cheeks. "Thank you for doing it." He wonders if it's too soon to ask if Jon might want to do that more. He knows Ryan and Brendon are thinking it, and he just has to call Brent, make it official. Jon's going to be part of this.

"No problem," Jon says, and his smile is as wide as Spencer's ever seen it.

***

Spencer starts sleeping with Haley after the HFStival. It's nice, in the sort of nerve-wracking way where he has to spend most of the date trying not to itch himself out of his skin because he forgot to pre-wash the briefs or sit strange because he's wearing them. The date is completely perfunctory, and they both know it from the moment she comes out of her parent's house and mentions that she's not really hungry.

They go to a nice restaurant near his hotel, and neither of them finish their meals. They talk about Brent a little, Jon a lot, and her school stuff more. She leans against him and kisses his neck when they're leaving.

Afterwards, she doesn't cling too closely. They don't fall asleep curled around each other, and she doesn't bat an eye at him pulling Happy Bunny pajama pants on. They're still sweaty and gross, but it's nice, to lay in bed with her and not have to talk.

***

Spencer holds his head still so Ryan can draw perfectly straight eyeliner lines on his cheekbones. "I don't see why you let him do that, Smith," Jon says with a whine that clearly said Traitor, like Spencer was doing something horrendous by letting Ryan put makeup on him.

Ryan snorts and picks up another pot of eyeshadow without taking his eyes off of Spencer. His hands are always steady with makeup, even if he is a klutz with anything else. "When we were kids, I used to make him be the fair maiden. We even dressed up."

Spencer flinches, making the red stripe go a little wild. Ryan swears under his breath, and then his eyes go wide.

Jon laughs, though, and he comes closer to them. He's half-dressed, dress slacks and a white undershirt. Spencer concentrates on looking at Ryan. "So you made him be like Sleeping Beauty?"

"No," they say together. It's not a lie, but it sounds like one. Spencer glares at Ryan the way he usually glares at reporters who ask if Brendon's family still hates him or if Ryan's dad beat him when he was little.

Jon blinks and shrugs, hands held up in front of him. "I just thought it was cute," he says, with his normal Jon-Walker smile. "Or Cinderella. Did Spencer like shoes when he was little, too?"

Spencer gets out of the makeup chair. He might want to hit them both, now that Ryan's grinning with shaking shoulders and Jon's just smiling like he always does.

"Spence, the," Ryan motions to his own face. He always does his makeup last so Brendon will have less of a chance to mess it up.

He shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. "I think it looks fine," he says, mulish. It doesn't. The red line is twice as long as the yellow and the blue and stretches along his cheek to almost his ear.

Ryan raises his eyebrows, mouth going pinched. Spencer knows he's ready to start his rant about aesthetics and art, and how Spencer is being a stubborn asshole. Spencer puts his hands on his hips, ready to fire back that Ryan is being a controlling little brat and it's his fucking face.

Then Jon sits down in the makeup chair with a straight back and a completely resigned expression. "Okay, Ross," he says with all the enthusiasm of a man looking down the firing squad. "Go for it."

Ryan's head swivels and grabs one of his eyeliner pencils. He grins at Jon. "I knew you'd come around."

Jon looks at Spencer and winks before he looks up at the ceiling. "Eyeliner only, Ross. No little birds or bushes or whatever."

Ryan nods and puts his hand on Jon's chin. "Stop talking, or your face'll get fucked up too." He's unnecessarily serious to put on a few strokes of eyeliner.

Spencer can see that Jon's trying not to smile, and he can't help but smile back at him. "Are you sure you don't want lightening bolts? Those would look pretty kick ass," Spencer says.

Jon mouths, "No."

Ryan lets go of Jon and straightens up when one of the techs shouts that there's only fifteen minutes left. "Spence, just fix the red line. I have to do Brendon and then get me." He takes his makeup kit, which may have started life as a Hello Kitty purse from Claire's, and heads off in search of their missing vocalist.

"Thanks," Spencer says before grabbing a bottle of water off the dressing table. He leans into the mirror with a wet q-tip and starts trying to wipe the line off.

Jon stands beside him, and his dark eyes are huge thanks to the eyeliner. It draws attention to them, and Spencer knows he's been in the band too long when he wonders what mascara would do to Jon's eyelashes. "I figured if he was going to make you be, like, Snow White, I could put on a little makeup."

Jon takes the q-tip off of him and puts his hand on Spencer's jaw. He starts to scrub at the line, with firm strokes that raise goosebumps on Spencer's skin. He's not wearing body spray, today, wearing real men's cologne instead, and it's just strong enough that Spencer has a taste of it in his mouth.

Spencer blinks and tries to hold still. He doesn't want to do anything stupid with Jon touching his face, no sighing like some preteen girl every time Jon's knuckles brush tissue-soft against his cheekbone or temple. "He usually made up the stories, unless he read them in a book."

"But I know Ryan, and I know there were costumes." Jon's smiling, fond and friendly and without judgment. "Not that you didn't make a pretty girl, Spence, but--"

He steps back from Jon, keeping his face blank and impassive as best he can because there's something too close to the truth there. "I'm going to have him fix this, I think. It's not coming off." It is, actually, onto Jon's fingers and the q-tip. "He'll think of something or I'll let Brendon do it."

Jon blinks. "Brendon will do wildflowers and hearts." He's smiling though, with the eyeliner making his eyes look impossibly huge.

"And that would royally fuck over Ryan's aesthetic." Spencer does his best to smile and walk away, ignoring the way he's sweating under his stage clothes before he's even under the lights, stomach tied around his ribs and lungs so he can't breathe until he's away from Jon and his cologne.

***

Haley comes with them for the first few weeks of the headlining tour, and it's nerve-wracking because she tells him everything about herself when they're tucked in the bunks together. She doesn't ask, but he knows she wants the same from him. He closes his eyes and remembers the look on Ryan's face when he found out. He tells her about everything but, about growing up with Ryan and about going to see the Backstreet Boys.

He wishes it was more than friendly, less than comfortable. Haley's sort of perfect. She laughs at his jokes and talks his temper down when he doesn't even know it's flaring, but she's sort of perfect with half truths. He doesn't like that sort of perfect. He's not sure what he's supposed to want at almost-nineteen, but that isn't it.

When she leaves in Florida to join her family for Disney World, Brendon curls up in Spencer's bunk instead. "We want Jon, for permanent. Is that going to be weird for you?"

Spencer shakes his head. They're shoulder to shoulder, with Brendon half-hanging out. "Why would it be weird?"

"Because," Brendon says, and he shifts onto his side so they both fit. "Because of... What's going on with Haley anyway?"

Spencer shrugs. He knows that there's no denying that he's had sex with Haley in this bunk (and not changed the thin sheet after, which is sort of gross especially now that Brendon's laying on it). "I think we're dating."

"Oh." Brendon shifts again. "Okay. But you and Jon..."

Spencer rolls his eyes. He doesn't want to talk about this, not now, not ever, and not with Brendon. "I had a thing for Jon, and it passed. I've seen him pick his teeth." He says it like that makes sense, even though his stomach still sort of roils when Jon walks out of the venue showers in shorts or a towel.

"Oh." Brendon rests his head against Spencer's shoulder. "Ryan's going to ask him at dinner."

Spencer nods. Ryan didn't need to ask him if he was going to be okay. It's distressingly simple compared to Brendon. If there was a problem, Spencer would have mentioned it long before now.

***

There are two moments that Spencer never wants to relive on the tour. The first is Ryan coming into his bunk at almost six in the morning and whispering, "My dad died." It's more than rescheduling and canceling. It's the way Ryan lets him calls all the important people and wake Brendon and Jon up so they know, too.

Jon lets Ryan huddle against him while Spencer tries to figure out how they're going to do this, how much time away Ryan's really going to need. He has to rationalize eighteen years of butting heads over everything from toast to god with eighteen months of connection and thirty minute phone conversations. He decides a week and a half, and Ryan agrees.

(Later, Spencer goes to Jon and thanks him for being there for Ryan, when Brendon was pulled into himself and Spencer had to be on the phone. Jon just says, "Don't mention it," and puts his hands on Spencer's elbow, squeezes just hard enough to let Spencer know that he's trying to be comforting. He doesn't sleep that night, sits up with Ryan watching movies, and Jon stays pressed to his side for most of them.)

The second shouldn't feel nearly as dramatic, but it does. He and Brendon wake Jon up with Guitar Hero. Jon's awesome and laid back and all that, but he almost never wakes up well. It's all glares and angry jaw until he's had coffee or time to settle him back into his Zen state of being. He also hates Guitar Hero.

Jon lumbers into the back lounge, and Spencer tries not to think about Kodiak bears. He and Brendon scramble to try and get away, but Jon's bigger and faster than anyone just out of bed should be. He pins Spencer between the couch and the television and tries to grab the guitar controller out of his hand. Spencer struggles, and Brendon--who's safely in the doorway now, the fucker--giggles and reminds them both that Ryan's still sleeping.

Spencer tries to wriggle away from Jon without dropping the controller, but he's wearing pajama pants without a tie waist. The fabric is too baggy; Jon has it pinned under his knees. He only knows what's happening when Jon breathes in sharp and lets go of the controller. He's looking down, staring at the fucking postage stamps that had to be on Spencer's underwear. He has pairs that look normal and male, dark wine without lace or bows, but these ones are printed up to look like airmail. Air rattles in his chest, and Brendon keeps talking. He can't see around Jon.

Jon lets him push him away and scramble back, pulling up his pajama pants. He won't look at Spencer. The game buzzes that both players have failed the level, and Spencer goes into his bunk to call Haley and tell her everything from the past two days, minus the past fifteen minutes.

***

"So, what did you do to Jon?" Ryan asks, after three weeks where Spencer won't look at Jon, and Jon lets him run out of the room. He can't stop blushing when they're alone, even for three minutes, and he can't stop thinking Jon knows, Jon knows, Jon knows. He wonders how long it will be before Brendon knows, and then Pete, and then the rest of Decaydance will know about his freak underwear thing.

Spencer shrugs and wishes he was a lyricist, so he could hide behind a black notebook. He's got a magazine spread over his thighs. No one respects reading anymore.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He presses his mouth into a line and doesn't look at Ryan.

Ryan flops down next to Spencer and snatches the magazine away. "He's being weird, and it's only around you, so you must have done something." He turns his head to the side, like something's just occurring to him. "Unless he did something. Did Jon do something?"

"Nothing happened." He stands up and walks away from Ryan. It's exactly the worst way to prove his point, because now Ryan knows something happened, and he'll know that it was bad. Spencer can't make himself care.

Spencer goes into his bunk and closes the curtain before he calls Haley. She answers on the third ring. "Hey, Spence, what's up?" Her tone isn't strained, and she doesn't know.

He asks her about her day and makes it fifteen minutes before he says, "So, for our next tour, Ryan's thinking about us all going out and playing in dresses." He's not sure if he wants to tell her, knows that he doesn't want to do it over the phone, but he can't stop himself from saying it.

She laughs at that, high-pitched and breathless before she can make herself stop. "Even Jon?"

He closes his eyes and tries to think about Haley's neck, the way her wrists bend. "Even Jon."

"Right." There's something in the way she says it, like it's completely ridiculous, and he almost, almost tells her what happened with Jon, right down to the airmail print.

Spencer doesn't, though. "Hey, I have to go. Apparently I'm late for an interview." He's lying; she knows it. Spencer's a Virgo. He's never late for anything, unless he sleeps in. It's a little past three, and his mind is racing.

"All right." Her tone is cold. "I have class anyway." She doesn't. It's Tuesday.

"Talk to you later," he says and hangs up on her goodbye.

***

Spencer has one of the worst epiphanies he's ever had, worst in the way that he's a complete idiot and should have thought of it sooner, when he's watching the Dresden Dolls warm up. It's seriously a moment of him tapping his foot and mouthing the words, and then he looks up and sees Brian like it's the first time. The Dresden Dolls aren't shy about their sexualities, and he's seen Brian in a fucking dress.

He has brain damage because it's only clicking now.

It takes another day and another city to be able to come up to Brian alone, when he's not with a tech or Amanda. He's just sitting outside in the parking lot in a sleeveless black shirt and trying to fix something with his snare.

Spencer opens his mouth to ask, but it's worse than talking to Jon would be. It shouldn't be, because if there's anyone on this tour, it's Brian. He should be able to come up to him and say what's happened, what he is, but.

Brian looks up then and gives Spencer a smile. "Hello," he says.

He sits down on the too-hot asphalt and watches Brian work. He has a hundred different ways to start this conversation, from So, I wear chick underwear, and Jon saw, and I don't know what to do to Do you ever feel like you're a giant freak. When Brian starts talking about how one of the techs dropped the snare and he's not sure if he's going to be able to get the sound right in time for the show, it's a relief.

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