In Our Bedroom, After the War; GSF; NC-17 (5/9)

[insunshine]

.part four.



On the twenty-third, Jon's mother looks at him and says, "Sweetheart, I love you." Jon blinks at her, mouthful of French Toast straining at the corners of his lips, and it takes him a minute to swallow, maybe two.

"I love you too, Mom," he says the words cautiously, because she's looking at him with a glimmer of something in her eye, mischief, maybe.

"And I know how much you loved Lou," she says, and Jon blinks, because sure, he was fond of Lou, they all were, but she was more of a caricature of a television relative than a real person, and he'll miss her in that vague way of losing a family member, but despite their brief Christmas interludes, they hadn't really seen all that much of one another.

"Sure, Mom," he says and her smile brightens, notch by notch. "I'm really going to miss her." He will, but if she's worried that Lou is what he's been so broken up about, she is sadly mistaken.

"Jonathan," she says, palm coasting over his shoulder, "Jonathan, I just don't think that, as you miss her so much, you should have to be here for the holiday where there are so many reminders."

Jon blinks at her, working her words out, slow. Rolling them over and over until they make some sort of sense, but the only thing he's coming up with doesn't make any sense at all.

"You want me to leave?" She laughs, then, and it's like the peal of a bell, her laugh, something he hasn't heard much of lately, something he's missed.

"Jonathan, I just think," She pauses, waving her hand around, and Jon is hit, somewhat belatedly, with a rush of affection for her so strong that it makes his palms tingle. "You should be somewhere where you aren't constantly reminded of Lou, where your wounded heart won't be," She pauses again, and Jon knows that look on her face, knows she's just barely keeping a laugh in. "Constantly reminded and bereft of her presence."

It takes him a minute, it does, but when Jon gets it, he's up like a light.

"Thanks, Mom," he whispers, pulling her close and pressing his lips to her temple.

Let it be known that Mama Walker is the best mother in the entire universe.

"What are you thanking me for?" She asks, tilting her head to the side and staring at him with more love in her eyes than he probably deserves. "I can't stand seeing you so sad, sweetheart. You'll be doing me a favor, keeping me from seeing your face."

Jon laughs. It bursts out of him like he can't help it. She smiles, pulling him close again, hands tight on his arms.

"I love you," she says, and Jon has never been so grateful.

*

It's kind of stupid and corny; he knows that when he comes up with it, sitting on a flight that cost so much he was beginning to think he was going to have to offer up a rugrat to get the seat. It's a moment out of a Hallmark movie, cue the swelling music and the close reaction shots, but he supposes there is a reason why people tear up at those slices of too perfect life caught in celluloid glory, and maybe it's because they want them in real life.

Vegas never sleeps and never stops, which Jon thanks God for when he lands. In Chicago he'd be screwed with a great (or incredibly stupid, one of the two) idea and no way to make it happen.

He still doesn't know if he's wanted as he buys what he needs and shoves it into his backpack, hails a cab and pays out the ass for it to drive him from the city into the suburbs. The gaudiness fades away to the houses and lawns with Santas in Hawaiian shirts waving merrily from the roof.

He taps his phone in his pocket and doesn't call.

The fact that he could very well not be wanted, intruding on Christmas that's not meant for him, repeats through his mind like a movie on a loop.

Spencer's face widening in displeased shock, then quickly arranging into the tight neutrality he thinks passes for feigned happiness. Ryan's blank face turning flat as porcelain in the multicolored glow of strung up lights and Brendon, who can both more easily and less easily hide his emotions, will crumble, folding in on himself.

His Aunt Lou once told him (and the irony of her being helpful isn't lost on Jon), "In for a penny, in for a pound." and while trite and directed at the Uncle Geoffrey Jon never knew, he supposes it's worthwhile enough advice to take.

All things considered.

The cab pulls up and he shoves a handful of crumpled bills to the driver in a holly themed Elvis suit and pompadour, hikes his backpack up on his shoulder and pulls out the sparklers, bumping the heel of his hand to make sure his lighter is still in his pocket.

The possibility of having the police called on suspicion of an intruder hits him as he's slowly walking around the side of the house, pulling out his lighter.

He can hear the low murmur of voices, feet scraping against the roof and the shuffle of clothes and blankets and he can't breathe for a long moment. It's easier than it maybe should be to pick out the individual thread of their voices; Spencer chuckling at something, Ryan's lower, startled bark, and Brendon's giggle.

The sparkler flares to life and they go quiet; Spencer says, "What is that?" and Jon walks around the house.

He hopes it lights up his face enough as they go still and taunt.

For a long moment, he looks at the three of them in all their solid, real glory on the roof and Jon wants to cry, maybe is crying a little, praying the want him and need him as much as he does them.

"Oh my God," Ryan murmurs. "Jon?"

He tries and chokes, tries again and says, "Hi."

*

They tumble off the roof.

It's not a literal thing, but just barely, and he's not sure who moves first, but in less time than it takes for him to blink, he's being attacked from all sides, warm and safe and settled, for the first time since Spencer left.

"Jon Walker," Brendon says, and his voice is breathless, eyes dancing and light, lavender hoodie stretched tight against his shoulders. He's got his hood pulled up, and when he leans forward again, Jon's chin bumps against it. "I can't believe you're here." The words are muffled against Jon's neck, and they tickle at his skin, sending shocks of awareness shoot through him.

"What," Spencer's brows are raised, and he's smiling, Jon has not lived with him for the past two-and-a-half years for nothing. His brows are drawn, and even if he doesn't have to talk about what he's doing here now, Jon's fairly positive he'll have to talk about it eventually. "What are you doing here, Jon Walker?"

Jon shrugs, nonchalant and cool, and Ryan, who's said the least, snorts, leaning forward and hugging Jon too, wrists settling on Jon's shoulders.

"You could have called us," he says, Spencer and Brendon echoing the words, and Jon feels a blush starting to spread across his cheeks as he ducks his head. "Fucking cab ride must have cost an arm and a leg."

Jon rolls his eyes and hugs Ryan back, wonders how the hell these three people got to be so important.

In the morning, Ginger doesn't even blink at his presence, even though she must be surprised, and Jon curses himself up and down for forgetting to grab her something -- anything.

"Jon Walker," she says, sounding suspiciously like her son. "You are gift enough." It's not corny when she says it, because she is a mom and allowed to say things that warm you from the inside out, but Jon winces when the three of them are sitting in front of the tree later, and Brendon thumps him on the arm, crawling into his lap and widening his eyes, lashes countable because their faces are so close.

"You're the missing puzzle piece, Jon Walker, it doesn't matter that you brought me yourself instead of picking up the Special Edition Deluxe Version of Transformers like I asked. Sigh," he says, and Jon snorts, even though this is a serious moment and he intruded on their Christmas.

"Yeah," Ryan says, voice flat, but not as flat as it could be, considering. "Bren, no one else could have gotten you the Transformers movie -- "

"It is not called that," Brendon says punching at Ryan's arm, and Jon winces, expecting fisticuffs, expecting one temper to flare or both, but Ryan just rolls his eyes and punches Brendon back, then focuses his attention onto Jon like it had never left at all.

He leans forward, just slightly, but the three of them are sitting on the love seat, so Jon can feel it when he shifts.

"Jon Walker," he says, never breaking eye contact. "You are the fucking present."

*

Somehow December becomes April, and Spencer's sitting next to Jon on a plane a little after midnight, wrapped in a hoodie and sweatpants, pulling shit out of his backpack and piling it on the little tray. "Swear to God, we spend more time in the air than on land."

Jon chuckles and takes a drink from his little plastic cup of ginger ale. He's got a charged and full iPod in his pocket, headphones looped around his neck, a couple comic books bought at the newsstand as they browsed after eating shitty, greasy pizza for dinner, and, if all else fails, and whole fuckton of notebooks he should be studying so he makes it through finals in one piece.

"It's for Brendon," he says and Spencer's mouth quirks in an involuntary grin, pleased and proud as all hell and Jon grins. "He's a certified nurse now, we have to be there. We have to let him take care of us."

"He could have come to Chicago." Spencer grumbles, but there's no heat in the words and he has a half-finished novel tucked between his thumb and finger and a shitload of indie music downloaded onto his iPod. God bless livejournal download communities. Twenty-four hour preview limit his ass. "They need nurses in Chicago."

Jon shrugs. "Or, you could have stayed in Vegas and then you and I would never have met and I would be getting trashed with William and the Beta Tau girls right now."

Spencer punches his shoulder and pulls a face. "Don't even joke about that."

He plugs his headphones in and starts tapping his feet along the beat, opens his novel and settles back in the seat, not looking up during the flight attendant's spiel, despite her pointed, polite little coughs in their general direction. Jon turns an amused snort into a cough at the look on her face; if there's anyone who knows how to survive a plane crash, making sure to check if the nearest exit is behind, it's them.

Ten minutes into the flight, Spencer reaches over and laces their fingers together, squeezes, and smiles without tearing his eyes away from the page.

Jon doesn't fall asleep during the flight, too wired to relax, and it helps, because Brendon is asininely energetic for it being ass-o' clock in the morning.

He's bouncing on his heels and someone bought him a bright blue tee shirt with OH EIGHT IS GREAT emblazoned across the chest in metallic letters. Jon laughs as he walks up and suspects Butcher, from the way Ryan keeps rolling his eyes and inching away, making clear I honestly don't know this lametard movements.

Honestly, Jon doesn't think Ryan has any room to comment. His shirt has glittering roses on it for God's sake and Jon loves them more is reasonable.

"SPENCERSMITH AND JONWALKER!" Brendon crows when he catches sight of them, taking off across the tile floor. Jon has time to drop his backpack and brace for impact before he has one of Brendon's arms slung around his chest and his side smashed into Spencer's. "God, I've missed you guys, I can't believe you came, you were just here, oh my God I'm graduating, they're actually going to let me take care of people, I'm so glad to see you!"

Spencer pets his back and laughs, says, "Did you catch all that?" to Jon.

"Think he missed us," Jon replies and Brendon bounces back, grinning and vibrating with energy and life and and good god, Jon is proud of him.

Ryan comes up, shuffling like he's only had one cup of coffee and it's only half finished and clutched in one hand. He hugs Spencer, kisses his temple and dodges a smack on the cheek from Brendon. "Hey," he says to Jon and kisses the corner of his mouth as Jon pulls him into a hug.

"Come on, come on, let's get going," Brendon says, "I graduate tomorrow, motherfuckers. They're actually going to let me take care of people! Isn't that cool?"

Ryan rolls his eyes. "May God have mercy on their souls."

*

The thing is, WNC students only get three tickets for graduation, which sets something awkward and uncomfortable in Jon's stomach.

He doesn't say anything when they get to Spencer's house to stow their shit (they're literally only in town for two nights), and doesn't say anything over the dinner Ginger makes in honor of Brendon ("Tofu burgers with extra Swiss and Mac 'N Cheese, honey. Your favorite!" she says, and Jon hears the snuffles before he sees them, watches as Brendon leaps from his seat to hug her, pressing his face against her collarbone.), and very definitely doesn't say anything as the three of them pile on the roof at three in the morning, watching the lights of the city and the lights of the sky merge into one.

"It works out perfectly," Brendon's saying, laying flat on his back against the shingles, head in Ryan's lap and legs in Spencer's, arms flailing out. "There are three of you and three tickets and seriously, Jon Walker if you make that disapproving face at me one more time, I will show you where to put it."

As far as scathing retorts, it falls a little flat, but Jon's also fairly certain he hasn't been shooting disapproving faces at Brendon at all, so.

"Brendon," Spencer says, and he's sitting up, propping himself on his elbows as he looks between the two of them. "Leave the saintly roommate alone. He's just worried that you're giving up Butcher's spot to him, that's all. Tell him that Butcher doesn't care, or that Butcher's backpacking through Malaysia or something so he can stop trying to temper his glee spasms."

Jon rolls his eyes. He hasn't been that bad.

"You have been that bad," Ryan says, and he's mostly been quiet, quieter than he was at Christmas, but there's something else there, a contentment Jon's never really picked up before. "You're one of his best friends. One of our best friends," he says, waving his hand around as if that actually stands for something.

He's smoking a cigarette, and though Jon is a smoker himself, the excess smoke makes him sneeze.

"You are, Jon Walker," Brendon says, nodding vigorously, and Jon feels something warm bloom in his chest. If this were a Lifetime movie, well.

They don't actually make Lifetime about guys like Jon, but if they did, this would be the perfect moment for something, a life altering switch, or possibly a montage -- set to Carole King melodies about love and loss.

If this were a Lifetime movie, Jon would probably not feel so guilty.

"I just. Doesn't he want to come?" If Jon were dating Brendon (and it's not like he wants to be, or like he thinks about it or anything), he would want to be in the front row with a checked banner and a smile.

It just doesn't make sense.

"It just doesn't make sense," he says, because it pays, sometimes to be the voice of reason. "Why wouldn't he -- "

"Backpacking through Malaysia, Jon Walker," Brendon says, eyes steady and gaze firm. He grins after a minute, ruining the effect. "'Sides," he says. "I like you better anyway."

*

Jon picks Brendon out of the crowd of graduates; it's not that hard, Brendon's practically vibrating in his seat, whispering animatedly to the people on either side.

It's hot as hell in the stands, Vegas sun glaring down mercilessly, and Jon has a faint, lingering wishful thought of Chicago's cool, wet springs and how much he'd rather be sitting beneath an umbrella than melting on from the inside out. Even so, there's no place he'd rather be in the world, cliché as it sounds.

He naps through the commencement address and dozes through the names being called, shifting sideways in his seat, nuzzling his head onto Ryan's shoulder and pressing knees to Spencer's thigh. Ryan's humming softly under his breath, a medley of songs ranging from the graduation march to something mournful and bluesy. Spencer doodles on the program, eventually drawing a hangman puzzle that Jon spends all of the Es, Fs, Gs, and Hs trying to figure out before losing.

Brendon's name comes up right as a blessed breeze skitters through the crowd. "Brendon Boyd Urie," and the three of them break out in raucous applause that has Brendon squinting to the crowed, catching sight of them and cocking his hand in a little wave as he accepts his diploma.

"I can't believe he did it," Ryan mumbles as they move on, more names, and the whole crowd is beginning to get restless at the scent of the end of the alphabet.

Jon squeezes his hand and Spencer reaches behind to rub his shoulder.

Brendon, who could have gotten into BYU with his parents smiling all the way, who applied to UCLA and NYU and got in, knowing he would never have been able to afford it, looks proud, confident. He almost didn't go at all, Jon's learned in bits and pieces. It took Spencer begging for him to end up at WNC.

They head to the car after it lets out, weaving through parents and siblings and spouses and children, hundreds of graduates in their caps and gowns, and it seems like everyone is smiling. Jon leans against the hood of Ryan's rust bucket and when Brendon comes bursting out, he's got his gown looped over his arm and his cap cocked on his head.

Jon picks him up and spins him around, "Congratulations, Bren!"

"Thanks," Brendon gasps, laughing, kissing Jon on the forehead. "God. Hi. I'm really fucking glad you’re here."

Spencer grins and ruffles his hair, catches his arms when he staggers as Jon puts him down. "Of course we're here, dumbass. This is your day."

"Yeah, you did good," Ryan adds, running a hand through his hair, sweaty and clinging to his temples. "Now let's fucking get back to Spencer's house so we can get smashed, eat pizza, and be merry."

Spencer's parents hadn't so much offered to host a graduation party as Jeff had pulled out the grill from the garage and Ginger had asked if he wanted a chocolate, vanilla, marble or ice cream cake. Brendon sputtered and protested, he didn't need a party, he could always go to someone else's and use his finger to gouge his name in the cake and pretend.

"Brendon," Ginger said, "You are insulting me. You are my son by proxy and it is my right to throw you a party. Now, what kind of cake do you want and if you don't answer, it's going to be red velvet."

Within an hour, if that, the house is, as Jeff puts it, "Rocking like it's nineteen seventy-four!"

Jon nearly chokes on his beer at that and shoots Spencer a look he hopes conveys just how much he really fucking loves his parents. The little girls are running around with tinsel wrapped around their ponytails, shaking the gifts and guessing how much cash is in the cards.

"Hi, Jon Walker," Crystal says with an impish smile.

"Hey, Crys," Jon says, ruffling her hair and she scampers off, leaving behind a cloud of giggles.

Brendon slings an arm around Jon's shoulders, grinning wide. Someone wrote GRAD across his forehead in bright red magic marker, complete with a matching 0 on one cheek and 8 on the other. "JonWalker, I think Spencer's sister has a crush on you."

"God," Jon sighs, "That's a little awkward," and Brendon breaks out into whoops of laughter.

*

There's a girl leaning against the side of Spencer's house that Jon's never seen before. She's got short dark hair, rings of eyeliner under her eyes and she's smoking her cigarette like it's the last cigarette she'll ever smoke.

"Hey," she says, and she's grinning. Jon grins back, taking a swig from his recently refilled cup and, in a moment of daring, hands the cup over, extending his arm out. "Why, thank you," she says. She winks, bangs falling into her eyes, and Jon wonders who she is, and how it is that they've never met before.

"Why you're welcome," he responds and she rolls her eyes, taking a dainty sip from his cup, breathing deep when she swallows and inhaling more of her cigarette, flicking her wrist out and offering him a drag when she's done. There are lipstick stains around the edges, the outline of a perfect pout.

"You make that look like art," he mumbles, and then his cheeks flame, because wow, is he not used to talking to girls. He used to, with Mike and Bill as his wingmen at parties in high school, in the few college parties they'd snuck into before they'd graduated. He used to be cool.

He has no idea what happened to him.

"I do?" She laughs, and the sound is husky, smooth as it skitters across his skin and down his spine. Her eyes are twinkling, and it would be just his luck that she's related, somehow, that she's a friend of the sisterthings, that she just looks older.

Men have gotten into more trouble for just looking, let alone sharing cigarettes and alcohol.

"You're not Crystal's friend, are you?" She tips her head back and looks at him through her bangs, lips quirked up in something that looks harder than a smile.

"I don't know anyone named Crystal," she says, and she's taking a step closer to him, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth, and sipping from his beer.

"I could have roofied that, you know," he says, and then he blinks, because what? Seriously, what? What the hell is wrong with him?

"You've been drinking from it too." She shrugs her shoulders, dainty just like the rest of her, shirt opened at the throat and all the way down her stomach, the ends tied just above her navel. "It wouldn't be wise, drinking from the same cup you'd poured date rape drugs in. Unless you wanted me to take advantage of you." She takes another drag, flicking the ash away again, the movement drawing his eyes down her stomach. "I could do that," she says, and Jon blinks.

She tosses the cigarette down, grinding the embers down with the heel of her flip-flop and, setting down his cup, offers him a smile.

"I'm Victoria."

"Jon," he offers, and something shifts in her eyes. It's gone a second later, and her smile hasn't wavered, not an inch.

"You are much cuter than a pixelated image would lead one to assume," she says, and her lips quirk, a little like she's trying not to smirk but can't quite help herself.

"I am?" He clears his throat and feels like a chump. "I mean, I am. Obviously." he says, and she snorts then, but grins and grins and grins.

They have sex in Spencer's parents’ bathroom, her skirt up around her waist, legs wrapped around his. When he comes, they haven't even kissed.

"That was," he flails his hand around when he's pulled out and tucked back into his jeans, when his breath is coming out in uneven bursts, ragged. "Something."

She grins, biting the corner of her mouth, looking unexpectedly young.

"Tell Brendon I stopped by, yeah?" She's adjusting her hair in the mirror, applying a fresh coat of lip gloss and smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt. "I'll see you around, Jonny-boy Walker."

He nods until she's at the door, and only then does it strike him. "Hey!" He calls out, rewarded with her grin when she turns back around. "I never told you my last name!"

The party is still going strong, which shouldn't be as surprising as it is, and he finds Brendon, Ryan and Spencer curled together at the grill.

"Jon Walker!" Brendon's excited, still vibrating even hours later, and Jon doesn't blame him. "Where the hell have you been?"

Jon blushes when Spencer's gaze lands on him, and he's never been able to hide anything from Spencer, not really.

"I met a friend of yours," he says, and Brendon tilts his head in surprise, confusion, maybe. "Oh yeah?" he asks, and Jon blushes harder.

"Yeah," he says, pulling out his phone and fiddling with the settings. "Vicky, something or other?" He blinks down at his phone as Brendon says something quiet and excited, craning his head to look around the party.

There's a new number stored in Jon's phone, and he blinks once, blinks twice, but the entry doesn't change, it says, Victoria.

*

Their flight back to Chicago takes off less than forty-eight hours after the one into Vegas landed and Jon's wired on energy and adrenaline as they reach cruising altitude. It's another red eye because they are always, without fail, cheaper and less crowded, two gleaming points in their favor, and it lets them squeeze a few extra hours in with Ryan and Brendon, eating fast food in the little food court.

Jon's got his iPod and his Calc notebook out, but he hasn't so much as glanced at them. Spencer's writing in his notebook for some class or the other, nodding his head and making noises in the appropriate places, but he's not paying attention.

He's babbling a little, talking about Vicky, but still.

"And then she turned in the mirror into a portal to Narnia," Jon says, "And we went and chilled with Aslan and he proposed a threesome and I had to say, whatever his voice does for me, I'm not down with the bestiality."

Spencer makes a noise in the affirmative, brow creased as he crossed something out and moves onto the next line, lips moving in silent recitation of notes. He taps the point of his pencil against another word and circles it and Jon blows out a sigh, pushing a hand through his hair.

"Spencer." He waves his hand between Spencer's eyes and his notebook. "Earth to Spencer, are you even paying attention?"

With a short sigh, Spencer snaps his head up and shoots Jon a glare that's more tired than heated. "Vicky's awesome, Vicky's great, Vicky's rad, Vicky's amazing, and you want to run away to Tahiti with her and have babies with long legs and eyeliner. Sounds great, have fun."

Jon is well aware of Spencer's sarcastic streak and he chalks the irritation in his voice is missing Brendon and Ryan; sleep deprivation, and impending finals.

It's possible Jon is although rather adept at deluding himself, but it's a strategy that works well.

He slumps down in his seat and flips open his notebook. "Yeah, sorry, never mind. Go back to studying. It would suck to lose your scholarship with a year left." The words and numbers blur and swim in front of his eyes, somehow rearranging themselves into tangled snippets of memory from the weekend, a description of Brendon's lit up eyes divided by the sound of Ryan's laugh to the power of Spencer standing on a picnic table singing "Wind Beneath My Wings."

Spencer huffs out a sigh and sets down his pencil, lays a hand on Jon's elbow, fingers pressing gently in the bare flesh on the inside of his forearm. "Hey, come on, don't pout. I'm just tired. Besides, finals are over in like three weeks and we'll be right back, maybe even on this same plane, for the whole rest of the summer. I'm sure we'll be able to pry Brendon off your side for a couple minutes you can spend with the lovely Vicky."

His mouth is smiling, paper cut out bright, but his eyes aren't and, right, Jon maybe on purpose forgot to bring up that little facet of his summer plan.

The facts are these, Jon thinks and maybe he needs to watch less TV, but that's beside the point. They're graduating in a year and a few days of change and then they, he and Spencer, will be off on their own in the real world having to get jobs and apartments and pay bills and all that fucking stupid grown up bullshit.

Jon's not delusional enough to think that Spencer will stay in Chicago, that Brendon and Ryan, settled as they are in the dusty city that gave them life and each other, will want to uproot to a place that's beautiful to them, but still largely alien, cold and wet and a myriad of things they have no experience with.

Plus, they won't leave Michael Guy and Butcher, who are both already far from home, not looking to uproot again.

He needs to get a job so he can earn money to save up so that when he's living alone in a one-bedroom apartment, dying slowly from lack of exposure, he'll be able to find the single gleaming ray of sunshine in his life in at least four or five trips a year down to Vegas.

There's no way he can do that in Vegas.

"About that, Spencer," Jon says, swallowing hard and looking at the pale press of Spencer's fingers into his arms. "About coming down this summer."

Spencer goes still, inhales and exhales too steady for it to be anything but perfectly, precisely controlled. "What about it?"

"I can't," Jon stumbles and stutters. "I mean, I have to stay in Chicago this summer so I can get a job and start earning some start up money for after graduation."

Spencer doesn't scream, not that Jon had expected him to, but he pulls his feet up to tuck them under his thighs and shifts away so his back is cocked toward Jon. He sets his notebook on his knees and flips it open, spends the rest of the flight in betrayed silence.

.spencer.

Spencer's never actually been mad at Jon before.

They've been roommates three years in September, and sure, there have been mild annoyances, but nothing like this, nothing like the aching anger in his chest that blooms whenever they're within three feet of each other and Jon is talking or laughing or breathing, or, more often than not, these days, on the phone.

Spencer as his last final in the morning, Child Psychology 213, and he's stressed, but not as stressed as he should be, not as stressed as he is about Jon.

Jon's sitting on his bed pretty innocuously, fiddling with his cell phone and being completely maddening. Spencer kind of wants to kick him.

Either that or gag him and forcibly drag to Vegas.

"Spence?" his voice is a little quiet, a little lost, and Spencer just sort of wants to hit him. It's not a very rational anger.

"What,” Jon sighs, and he goes to shake his head, Spencer can tell, Spencer's been looking at him for, as was previously established, years.

"I don't want you to hate me." He sighs again, and Spencer just. Spencer can't actually process how much he doesn't hate Jon.

It's trite and it's ridiculous, but he's up and crossing the room, dropping on Jon's bed, seeing the relief crossing Jon's face right before he leans in.

Spencer's shaking, and he doesn't let himself get angry very often, it's tightening his chest and making his teeth grind, and he's fisting his hands in Jon's tee shirt before he can stop himself.

He wasn't planning on it, this isn't a last-ditch attempt to get Jon to come with him, he's just missed the touch. Summers and two weeks in December aren't enough, even though Ryan and Brendon overload him with them then.

He misses Jon, even though the rift was and has been his fault.

"I want," he whispers, and Jon kisses him first. Jon is the one who leans in, Jon who touches Spencer's cheek with the back of his hand and brushes their mouths together.

Jon's not forceful. He could have been -- he can be, but Spencer's brain shuts off when Jon yanks the neck of his shirt down, sinking his teeth into Spencer's skin, leaving a mark there.

Spencer doesn't ask about Vicky.

He doesn't know what they are to each other, hasn't bothered asking any of the stupid little details Jon would have been more than happy to divulge. He doesn't care if this counts as cheating, he doesn't care that his stomach is knotted up tightly, that his skin is as taught as piano wire, uncomfortable and getting more so as Jon shucks his jeans, as he unbuckles Spencer's, pushing them down his thighs.

Jon sucks kisses against the underside of Spencer's jaw, leaving marks and bruises and memories, and Spencer's not quite lucid, but he's fairly positive he hears Jon whisper, "I love you."

His stomach clenches tighter, and Jon opens his eyes, locking their gazes together, and slides a hand down between Spencer's legs, wrapping it loosely around his cock.

"God," Spencer mumbles, lashes fluttering. It's been a while, since first semester and Jon's friend Bill, but the sex, he could live without, it's Jon that he can't.

Tears scald the corners of his eyes, and he noses Jon's chin up, arching so that their mouths fit together. "Spencer," Jon whispers. "Spence."

"Come back with me," he says once Jon picks up the pace, going faster and squeezing tighter. Jon kisses him again, Jon kisses him, and it tastes like goodbye.

"I can't, Spence." There's something ugly and heavy sitting on his chest, and Spencer winces as Jon moves away and off him, as Jon wipes his hand off on a spare tee shirt.

Spencer's pretty sure it's his.

"This doesn't change anything," he says, and Jon's eyes flicker, but he doesn't say a word.

Spencer tells himself it's better.

*

Jon drives him to the airport and it's silent in the truck. Spencer didn't ask, wouldn't ask, couldn't ask, but it happened anyway and he wishes he knew the words to say to makes things click back into place, conjuring a ticker into thin air. Jon can't see that he's needed, how his great sacrifice is turning into cruelty and Spencer has run out of words to try and explain.

He parks, which Spencer doesn't expect, and carries one of his bags, which he does.

Spencer's finals were over three days before the official end of the finals period and he didn't want to wait around the extra days, staring at Jon and floating around the room in an uncomfortable silence they've never had between them before. It's after five but his flight doesn't leave until eight and when they walk across the asphalt, the only sound is the rumble and click of his suitcase's wheels.

The line as passenger check-in is short and the woman behind the counter is distantly pleasant. "Heading home?" she asks, directing a nod at Spencer's shirt, stolen from Jon's laundry basket once upon a time, DePaul in destructed letters.

"Yeah," Spencer says, handing her his ID. "Heading home."

He walks back to Jon with his backpack slung across his shoulder and his ticket clutched in one hand. It's not yet six and he has almost two hours to kill, watching the shops in the airport close down one by one, the flow of people coming and going, running sometimes, ebbing to nothing.

"Good to go?" Jon asks and the levity that should be there falls flat like lead in Spencer's stomach.

No, he thinks, I'm not.

His flight is half empty, the woman behind the counter made the remark, asked him if he wanted to switch his ticket to another seat. "It's not like we're lacking tonight," she'd said with a pleasant grin and Spencer'd felt the acidic burn of bile scouring the back of his throat.

He says, "Yes," and forces out a grin.

If he spreads his hand out across his chest, palm pressed over his ribs where he can feel his heart, all he has to do is push down and he can sense a dozen tiny threads of sensation, not pain and not pleasure, just feeling, from the marks Jon sucked into his skin.

Maybe there's a joke a there, a cheap ploy. Come to Vegas and I'll blow you in the plane bathroom; we can join the mile high club.

Except Jon isn't cheap like that and this feeling in Spencer's stomach goes way beyond what he should want and need, what he should reasonably expect, from a friend. Spencer has never been in love before, only the desperate offshoots of lust, and this is different and terrifying.

"Want me to stay?" Jon asks.

Spencer bits down hard on the inside of his lip, feeling the moment when the skin gives way and his mouth floods with the vaguely unpleasant taste of copper. "No, it's fine. You have that final at seven tomorrow, you should get back and study."

Jon nods and he looks almost disappointed and Spencer chafes at that, wondering just what the hell he'd expected.

He meant it when he said their thing didn't change anything and, yes, it's something of a lie because the heated, sweat slick press of skin will always change something, but it wasn't a change to forgiveness. Spencer is the reasonable one until he's not and it's abandonment throbbing in his chest.

I want you, he thinks, but I really need you.

"Okay," Jon says, more to himself than anything, "Alright."

He cuts his glance away, to the wide walkway that leads the security checkpoint Jon can't go past and in doing so he misses the moment where Jon makes a decision, reaches out and catches Spencer's collar in his hand and pulls him in.

The kiss isn't anything to write home about, not destined for one of the great, sweepingly romantic moments of all time, but it still sends Spencer's breath flooding out of his body.

It's a moment, lips mouth tongue, and then gone and Jon strides across the airport with the faint echo of what was probably a goodbye lingering behind him.

"Goodbye," Spencer murmurs.

To his credit, he thinks, he walks to the bathroom perfectly calmly. He finds a stall and opens the door, steps inside, closes and locks it, and no one would know that a part of him is being shredded by facets of his own mind and the intricacies of relationships he can't begin to unwind. Love and lust are close and far apart and fucking is different from sex. He doesn't know anymore.

Life turned from black and white to gray when he wasn't looking and he's not old enough to cope.

He drops his head into his hands and barely keeps from ending up on his knees, sobbing without crying and falling apart by himself until he hears the boarding call for his plane.

Spencer has always been able to cope, because he has no other choice, and when he boards, his eyes are red rimmed, but he manages a smile at the flight attendant and no one would ever notice anything was wrong.

*

Nevada is as hot as it was three weeks ago, and Spencer is so familiar with the layout of the airport, he could walk it with his eyes closed.

Brendon and Ryan are standing where they always stand, bundled in hoodies and pajama bottoms, dusty flip-flops on their feet.

Ryan sees him first, Spencer can tell because he can see the grin, the burst of white, clean light beaming from his face, and he'd go to smile back, but Ryan's face falls suddenly, and all of that warmth that had seeped into Spencer's chest seeps out again.

Brendon doesn't waste any time. "Is Jon in the bathroom or something?" He asks the words carefully, and Spencer can see his mouth shaping them.

He swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his head, even though it's costing him the possibility of it falling off his neck.

His entire body aches and he wants his bed and a warm body and Jon, somewhere in the distance, cracking stupid, dirty jokes and smiling in that way that promised to make everything okay.

"Where is he, Spence," The flatter Ryan's voice goes, Jon had once told him, the more he's feeling. Spencer's been best friends with Ryan for fourteen years, had known that fact from years of over exposure to bruised ribs and scraped knees, but to hear it phrased so eloquently from someone else had been shocking.

Ryan's voice is flatter than Kansas, now.

"Didn't come," Spencer responds, hiking his bag on his shoulder and pushing past the two of them, walking towards baggage claim.

It takes over an hour to find his suitcases, and it would be just his luck that they are the last ones out, bruised and battered like Spencer's bones.

"Glad you're home, Spence," Brendon whispers when they're walking back to the car, wrapping his arms around Spencer's midsection from behind, pressing his lips to the center of Spencer's back.

Spencer can feel the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, and save from Jon, no one has touched him since he left here.

Brendon grabs his duffel, even though it must weigh more than he does, and manages to stow it in the trunk along with Spencer's regular suitcase and his backpack.

This is usually Jon's job, settling everything, making sure it runs smoothly, taking the edge off a little, but while Ryan tosses him concerned little glances from under the brim of his hat, Brendon slams the head of the trunk down and smiles.

It's comforting, if slightly pasted on, and when Spencer collapses in the backseat, Brendon chooses to crawl in with him, settling his head on Spencer's chest, radiating warmth.

"I missed you," he whispers, and Spencer barely keeps himself from saying, "You talk to me every day, Brendon!"

Ryan says it for him, but with Ryan, the edge is taken off, and when Brendon scoots forward, just an inch, just barely, and Spencer knows what's coming.

He expects it, even, but that doesn't ease away the shock of Brendon's lips on his, the familiarity in it mixing with a new sort of want, and Spencer has to pull away first before he does something stupid.

He meets Ryan's eyes in the mirror, and that's plenty stupid, but neither of them say anything.

The ride is mostly silent, but when they get to the house, they don't really need words, Spencer following Brendon following Ryan out of the car and into the house, Ryan using the key he's worn around his neck since he was twelve to let them in.

They don't even get Spencer's things, just leave them in the car and climb the stairs up to his bedroom, stopping by the linen closet to grab blankets and pillows, and then climbing out the window without even turning the lights on.

Ryan makes their nest, because Ryan is the one that gets cold the easiest. It's only when they're tangled together, legs and fingers and breaths mingling, does Spencer say, "Fuck," and, "I can't ever seem to stop fucking up," and, "I think he didn't come because of me."

Tears are leaking out of his eyes, and Ryan kisses his cheek, his mouth, his eyelid, kisses the path of the water, tightening his fingers around Spencer's waist.

They both make soothing, comforting noises, but neither of them contradict him. Spencer wishes they could.

*

Brendon has a job already, working for the free clinic of a local hospital. The hours are shit and the pay is worse, the work is unforgiving, but he's helping someone every now and then and it sets his eyes smiling when he comes stumbling through the door a little after five in the morning. He covers from eight to four, taking the bus both ways, because hell if Spencer or Ryan is waking up that early to cart his ass home.

"Don't get shot," Ryan advises from the couch. It's Thursday night and Brendon's already in scrubs and a hoodie, shoving his wallet into his backpack as he opens the door.

He flips Ryan the bird. "Not planning on it, asshole. See you tomorrow."

Spencer waves from the kitchen, filling a bowl with chips and pulling a jar of salsa out of the fridge. Ostensibly he's staying at home in his old bedroom, but he's spent the first week crashing on the couch or in Brendon's bed (Michael Guy went home for a couple weeks and Spencer can't say he misses his presence) and his bags are tucked beside the front door.

"One of these days," Ryan says as Spencer sits, "he's going to get murdered by a drugged up Elvis tripping on acid and I'm going to have to explain to your mother why he was working in a free clinic instead of in an actual hospital."

Spencer, who knows Brendon is only working at the clinic to get a foot in the door so he can end up in pediatrics in the actual hospital, quirks his shoulders in a shrug. "I don't think my mom has gotten the stars out of her eyes over the fact that he's a nurse enough to worry about who he's nursing."

The funk, the Jon-funk, hasn't really lifted, but it's being tamped down in small increments by distance and time and if Spencer wakes up every morning to a text message saying hello and goes to reply before deleting it, no one needs to know.

Mindless cable is the night's fare and it's nice, really, to turn off his brain and vegetate in the same space as Ryan. They drink Michael Guy's funky imported Australian beer and eat an entire bag of chips, double dipping with some residue of childish glee, doing something they shouldn't.

When the phone rings, Spencer says, "Don't answer it," and Ryan almost doesn't, then the flatly monotonous voice spits out Ross com-ma- and he's off the couch and grabbing the handset, face already carefully schooled in the blank mask Spencer remembers from the nights he showed up on their doorstep, blank and bruised.

"Hello." Ryan's sits back down, arms folded tight across his chest, and Spencer thinks back, realizes he hasn't seen Mr. Ross since before he left for college and hasn't heard anything about him since not long after that.

Ryan had come out with little fanfare and fuss, his dad staring blankly at him through booze soaked stupor, Ryan's fingers digging hard into Spencer's hand. He'd asked, "You two fucking?" and Ryan'd shook his head, muttered, "No," and that was it. Whatever other questions were satisfied with that answer Spencer never knew and never wanted to ask.

"I don't understand," Ryan says and his voice is calm and flat, but his knuckles have gone bloodless white.

He looks at Spencer and something is wrong.

Something is wrong.

"Ryan?" Spencer shifts closer, a fraction of an inch and lays a hand on his knee, feeling the solidity of the bone beneath the flannel of his pants and the softness of his skin.

He jerks his head in a soft nod and holds out the receiver; Spencer can hear the tinny sound of someone talking and he takes it slowly. "I don't understand what she's telling me," Ryan says and the pronoun slams through Spencer's chest, wrapping around his heart and twisting.

Ryan's father hadn’t been a model husband, a model father, a model anything; Ryan's mother, Ryan's face sitting on the porch after midnight and the childhood blurred memory of his tear stained face, "She left, Spencer, and she took everyone but me," is worse.

"Hello?" Spencer says, wanting it, needing it to be anyone else but her.

There's a beat. "Spencer? Spencer Smith?" and it's been years since he’s heard her voice, years since he saw her face and suddenly it's like she's there in the room again, looking at the pair of them from the shade of the porch with her face hidden by the shadow cast by her palm.

"What's wrong?"

She sucks in a breath and coughs. "Ryan's father is dead. I thought he should know, since I heard they didn't talk much anymore. That's all."

There's a soft click and the angry buzz of a line disconnected; Spencer hangs up and sets the phone down. His hands are shaking and he looks at Ryan, looks at the flat glaze over his eyes and feels the unreasonable sting of tears at the corners of his own eyes for a father than was never his, nor did Spencer ever want him to be.

"Ryan," Spencer murmurs and he doesn't say anything. "I'm so sorry," Spencer whispers to skin of his neck, arms tight around his wooden body.

Ryan doesn't say a word.

*

Ryan won't move, and he won't speak, is just sitting on the couch, hands folded over his lap, face blank. Spencer's tucked blankets around him, because Ryan always catches cold easily, and then he slips as quietly onto the balcony as be possibly can.

Brendon picks up on the fifth ring, voice breathless. "Spencer Smith, someone had better be dismembered on the side of the road," he says by way of greeting. "Or worse. What the fucking what?"

Spencer swallows, counts back from ten, and tries to keep his voice even. "You need to come home," he says, and he can practically hear it when Brendon rolls his eyes.

"Are you kidding me? I have patients. There are twelve pregnant women in the waiting room about to pop and they need someone to clean the placenta off the floor. I don't get paid if I'm not here."

Spencer closes his eyes and pinches the skin between his eyes. "Bren," he says, and he can hear Brendon's answering breath, messy and rough.

"Shit, Spence," he mutters, and Spencer can hear him moving. "What the hell. Is everyone okay? Your dad? He got back from the fishing trip, right? Shit, Spencer."

"It's Ryan," Spencer says, and Brendon sucks a breath in so fast he almost chokes on it. "His dad. His dad's dead, Bren." Spencer's the one choking on air now, tears in the corners of his eyes, not for the man, but for his son, still broken and bruised sitting on a couch in his living room, barely breathing. "You need to -- "

"There's a bus leaving now," he says, voice flat. "I'll be there in twenty minutes," clicking off before Spencer has a chance to respond.

The night air is cold for Vegas, and Spencer shivers in his hoodie and thin pajama pants, still holding the phone in his hand.

There's another call he needs to make, and Jon's number comes into his view screen easily. The plastic is hot against his ear, and he doesn't want to do this, but if there's anyone Jon will come to Vegas for, it's Ryan.

"Spence?" Jon says when he answers, breathy and excited, not even bothering with a hello. Spencer swallows around the lump in his throat and clears it once, twice.

"Ryan's dad is dead," he says, voice flat.

There's no hesitation in his voice when Jon says, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

His flight comes in twelve hours later, information texted to Spencer en route to the airport, and Spencer hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, and is being sustained by cups of coffee and cigarettes pilfered from Ryan's stash.

Jon looks worse for the wear, thinner than Spencer remembers, and the tension coiled in his stomach irrationally disappears when their gazes catch.

"Spencer Smith," Jon says, smile a little pained at the corners, and Spencer doesn't even think when he hauls Jon close, when he presses his face against Jon's neck and breathes and breathes and breathes.

"You're not allowed to leave me again, okay," It's a question, or it should be, but Spencer's shaking, the words spit out on an exhale, and when Jon's arms wrap around him, it's the warmest he's felt in days.

"I promise, Spence," Jon whispers, eyes wide and dark, filled with warmth and promises.

Spencer kisses him hello.

It's all he has left.

*

Ryan hasn't moved when they walk through the door, still staring at his hands like some kind of truth could possibly be written in the whorls of his fingerprints or the deep cut lines of his palms. Jon's eyes are hollow from exhaustion and Spencer can't think about what small miracle he had to pull out of thin air to get to Vegas as fast as he did; he's not in the mindset for the miraculous and gratitude is the best he can manage.

"Ryan," Jon says, setting down his duffle and crosses to kneel in front of him, cupping Ryan's face in his hands. "Ryan. Hey."

There's along moment when Spencer thinks it isn't going to be enough, but Ryan blinks, slowly, face creasing into confusion. "Jon?" he asks and his voice is rough around the edges, gritty and low in his throat. "What are you doing here?"

Brendon's sitting curled up beside him, still in his scrubs, and he flinches a little, letting out a shaky breath.

Not that they could have left Ryan alone, not that they would have left Ryan alone, but when Spencer said Jon needed to get picked up, somehow chafing at the small details when it felt like the grand thread of their lives stood on the cusp of irrevocably shifting, Brendon pressed his face into Ryan's ungiving neck and closed his eyes, lashes fluttering against pale skin.

"Jesus, Ryan," Jon murmurs. He sweeps his thumb along Ryan's lower lip. "Ryan, of course I'm here. Your dad died."

Ryan shudders, hands flexing into fists, and Spencer can see the moment when he cracks.

"Fuck." Ryan's voice breaks in pained gasp that's almost a sob.

Spencer has known Ryan long enough to understand that he doesn't scream and rage and cry, not when it really matters to him. Maybe he can't, even Spencer has never gotten under his skin far enough to find out, but it doesn't matter, not in this moment.

Ryan lets himself be eaten away from the inside out, lets the things he feel to claw and razor away at his chest and he doesn't say anything or ask for help because he's Ryan and that's how he's always had to cope. It's habitual and heartbreaking and Spencer's across the room without conscious thought, sitting on his other side and pulling him close.

"Fuck," he repeats and it's a chant or a prayer, a litany in an afternoon that's gray and covered in dust.

Jon wraps his arms around Ryan's waist and presses his forehead to the near concavity of his chest and Brendon follows suit, face tucked to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Ryan's shaking so hard and Spencer kisses his temple, the corner of his mouth, the side of his nose. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Ryan, for the first time that Spencer can remember since they were children, starts to cry.

*

Ryan doesn't talk in the days leading up towards the funeral, he doesn't talk during the funeral, and in the weeks following, he gets even more silent, if that's possible.

Spencer's almost forgotten the sound of his voice until one night, when it's three and he can't sleep, wandering towards the kitchen, he hears the faint sound of laughter.

It's faint, and Spencer stops just short of the swinging door when he sees, Ryan and Jon, sitting at the table, two mugs between them.

Jon's thumbs are sweeping across Ryan's temples. He's gentle, whispering something quiet that Spencer can't quite hear.

Spencer shouldn't be surprised, but he can't quite help himself when Jon leans forward and fits their mouths together.

Ryan lets him, and Spencer can't stop staring, can't stop watching how quiet they are, their movements slow and languid and familiar, Ryan collapsing into Jon, like Jon is the only thing keeping him upright.

Maybe he is.

He shouldn't be jealous, Spencer knows that, and he's honestly not sure who he's more jealous of, and that's the ridiculous thing.

Ryan makes a noise low in his throat, and Jon moves his head, slow, slow, like they have all the time in the world.

Maybe they do.

Ryan's trembling, shaking all over, and Spencer can't see his eyes, but he can read the line of his shoulders, can just see it when all of the tension seeps out of his skin, out of his bones.

Spencer shouldn't be watching, but that's not getting him to stop, and when Ryan says, "Jon," voice rusty and unused, Spencer can feel his dick getting hard in the soft folds of his pajama pants. A second later, Ryan says, "Shit," and comes between them.

In the morning, Jon makes coffee and Ryan is in the kitchen when Spencer wanders in, Brendon on his heels.

Brendon doesn't seem to notice anything different between the two of them, and Spencer's fairly certain he wouldn't be able to either, if he hadn't seen.

"Hey, Spence," Ryan slides towards him, sleep wary and a little bleary, bangs falling into his eyes. The emotion playing about his lips couldn't be qualified as a smile, but it's something, and Spencer will take it.

"Hey," Spencer says, and Ryan shuffles forward a few inches, pressing their mouths together.

It's not anything, nothing they haven't done hundreds of times before, but Spencer can feel his lips tingling when Ryan pulls away, when Ryan snuffles gratefully into Brendon's neck, when Ryan breathes.

*

When Ryan does talk, it's because there's a half empty bottle of whiskey tucked between their thighs on the back porch and it's a sound like broken glass and rusty nails.

Maybe it's cruel, to ask Ryan in so many gestures and touches, to talk about the things that break him in inches and moments so soon after his mouth loosened and his eyes began to turn up fractionally at the corners, but Spencer has no choice. Ryan will smile as he's bleeding out, say he's fine when he can feel his heart's rhythm staggering in his chest, and he will die before he tells anyone that he needs them with words.

Brendon's at work and Jon's asleep and it's just the two of them, staring out at forever stretched above their heads in shades of blue and black, pin pricked by the light of stars.

The bottle clinks on the concrete and Ryan's breathing, open-mouthed and heavy, sitting cross legged with his forehead pressed to the iron bars his hands are looped around.

Spencer hasn't been drinking really, just pulling sips that trickle down his throat instead of the long drinks burning holes in Ryan's stomach; it's probably cheating and he doesn't care. Jon did something to fix Ryan, but it's never that easy and Spencer would rather make sure the patches will hold than watch Ryan break apart later.

"I fucking hate funerals," Ryan says without preamble, on the tail end of a meandering tangent about Brendon and Jon, how they're different and the same, and Spencer mostly nodded and watched how pretty Ryan's eyes looked in the dying light.

"Me too," Spencer agrees and that much, at least, is very true.

He hasn't been to many, a great aunt's back when he was little and his grandmother's when he was still small enough to be in his mother's arms and now Ryan's father's, standing beneath the unforgiving Vegas sky in a suit rifled out from the back of his closet at home. He sweated through it, holding Ryan's hand as they stood beside the priest, half in comfort and half to keep Ryan from punching the venerable old man in retaliation for a sin that he had nothing to do with.

Ryan takes another drink and passes the bottle off. "When I die, Spence, when I die you should cremate me and scatter my fucking ashes somewhere."

The thought of Ryan dying is too much to think about and Spencer grimaces, swallowing hard and setting the ball out of his arm's reach. "Who says you get to die first, asshole?"

"Me," Ryan snorts. "Fuck, if I die before you, cremate me and scatter me across the fucking country. Like, you and Brendon and Jon should go on road trip and leave a little piece of me in every state." Ryan smiles, almost beatifically, and huffs out a laugh. "Take me all the places I'm never gonna get to go."

*

The end of the summer comes just as it always does, even though Spencer's fighting against it with everything he has.

Ryan drives them to the airport, Brendon vibrating in the passenger's seat, craning his head back to look at the two of them smooshed in the back, eyes as rimmed and as red as they always are when Spencer and Jon have to make the trek back out east.

"I just want you to know," he says when they're standing in front of security, and Spencer can tell he's barely restraining himself from climbing all over the both of them. "I just want you to know that I am losing money being here. You'd better make this worth my while."

The sun is just starting to peek through the clouds, sending soft bursts of pink and yellow through the window, and Jon's settles his hand on Spencer's shoulder, leaning in.

Ryan rolls his eyes, and smiles, this little faint twist to his lips that sends something like hope careening through Spencer's belly. Ryan's beautiful in this light, but he's beautiful in most lights, and Spencer just wants to press his face against Ryan's neck and stay there forever.

He can't, and he doesn't bother thinking about it, just tugs Ryan close and wraps his arms around Ryan's wiry frame, pressing kisses to his temple, his jaw, and finally his lips, letting himself linger, just for a second longer than he usually does.

Ryan doesn't seem to notice, and it bothers Spencer more than it should.

Jon gets the same treatment, the same little smile, the same hug, the same kiss, and Spencer's looking at his face for some sort of sign for the intimacy that transpired between them, but there's nothing there but ease.

Brendon jumps on Spencer once Ryan's moved fully out of the way, chattering about patients and blood work, and Spencer's listening, he is, but he can't stop looking at Ryan, the way his head dips just a little as Jon whispers something low and quiet in his ear.

Spencer tips Brendon's chin up, pressing their mouths together with just enough force that it feels different, but not enough to cause a scene.

When he pulls away, Brendon's eyes are dazed, but Ryan's not even looking at him, and Spencer wonders what it means that he'd be willing to fuck up a time-honored tradition just to get his best friend to notice something that he doesn't even understand.

Brendon and Jon hug too, peck on the lips, and that looks different somehow, too, more intimate, more private, and Spencer's never felt the odd one out more than does in that moment.

The awkwardness between Spencer and Jon is mostly gone, even though Jon still won't talk about why he didn't come for the first part of the summer.

Spencer has stopped asking. Spencer has actually stopped saying much at all.

"I think he'll be okay," Jon says, lacing their fingers together once they've found their seats and the stewardess is talking about life vests and inflatable rafts.

Spencer could probably do this spiel with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back and still make it more interesting than she is.

Spencer kind of hates flying more than anything in the world.

"I still don't want to go back to Chicago," he says, and on impulse, lolls his head against Jon's shoulder, looking for comfort. They haven't touched as much, and Spencer's pretty sure it wasn't a conscious decision, that doesn't mean it wasn't a decision, though, and he's missed the feel of Jon.

"I slept with Brendon," he says sheepishly, apropos of absolutely nothing, and Spencer practically chokes on the air he's breathing.

So much for comfort.

.part six.