.part two. .jon.
Spencer's sleep rumpled and bleary sitting in the front seat of Jon's truck, borrowed ski cap jammed on his head and a cup of coffee clutched between his mittened hands. Even with the bracketing ends of one Chicago winter under his belt, the cold blast of snow that came in October seemed to catch Spencer's desert bred soul by surprise and Jon has to hide a laugh at how cute he is.
"Brendon and Ryan are going to turn into damn popsicles," Spencer gripes. "They probably have on flip flops and hoodies and think they're ready. I don't even think you can actually buy parkas in Las Vegas."
Jon snorts and begins another circuit of the airport pick up loop. "Barring some unnatural family disaster my mom didn't tell me about, they'll both have Walker Christmas sweaters and scarves waiting for them underneath the tree."
"It doesn't do them any good if they die of hypothermia between the airport and your house."
A lesser man would quail beneath the force of a Spencer Smith forcibly removed from a warm bed at five thirty in the morning on the third day of vacation and frog marched down to a truck only to be provided with one cup of shitty gas station coffee. Jon, fortunately, has a year and half of living with Spencer backing him up and the knowledge that if he gets too cranky, Jon can either tickle the spot beneath his ribs or kiss the end of his nose and force a smile out on his pretty face.
Spencer's phone shouts to life with a rousing chorus of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and he rolls his eyes, flipping it open and flipping Jon off, tucking it to his ear. "Have you guys landed yet?"
Jon picks up the threads of the aborted song and hums it as he turns again and ends up along the passenger pick up row, blithely ignoring the irate drivers behind him, honking their horns and communicating through forceful sign language. He slows to crawl in the hopes they'll catch Brendon and Ryan without having to do another loop.
"Jon drives a pile of rust pretending to be a truck," Spencer says pointedly and Jon sticks out his tongue.
It starts to snow, but not in earnest, just a few flakes drifting lazily through the air to bat against the windshield. Jon strains his eyes, trying to pick out Ryan and Brendon from the hoards of holiday travelers. "Okay, we're driving now. Look for the gray truck." Spencer swallows down the rest of his coffee and jams the cup into the holder above the radio. "I don't know Ryan, have Brendon get on your shoulders." Spencer bites down on his lower lip and wipes his hand across the foggy window. "Okay, I see you. I'm hanging up now, throw your shit in the back."
Jon follows the line of Spencer's eye and nearly bursts out laughing. Brendon's sitting on his suitcase with his teeth chattering, wearing what looks like three layers of thin hoodies and flip-flops. Jon prays he brought sneakers and, barring that, that he'll fit into a pair of Jon's old boots. Ryan's bundled up in a parka gotten from God knows where; it falls to his knees and has a fur trimmed collar.
Brendon whoops wildly when he sees them and Ryan cocks his hand in a wave. There's a kind of distance between them, but Jon doesn't have time to question it as Spencer slides over on the seat until they're jammed together, making room for the other two.
"Hi!" Brendon yelps, flinging open the door and throwing himself inside. Ryan follows, "Hey, guys," and there's no room, no room at all, but somehow they manage to exchange awkward, one armed hugs and get the door closed.
"So," Spencer says, with Brendon half on his lap and half on Ryan's, pushed tight into Jon's side. "How far away is your house, again?"
*
"We do this thing," Spencer had said, blush washed away in the wake of the brightly colored lights flickering from the tree. "We do this thing where we sit on a roof on Christmas, but your house doesn't have an accessible roof, and they probably won't remember, or I'm making a bigger deal out of it than it is. But," he'd bitten his lip and looked helplessly adorable.
Jon had said, "So then we'll find a roof."
And they had.
Spencer stands a couple feet from the edge, arms cross tight over his chest, shivering, and looks back over his shoulder. "This feels a little illegal."
Jon shrugs and smiles, mentally signing over every Saturday night until he's thirty to his older brother and taking care of his rugrats. "In the strictest sense, Spence, it's only against the rules. There's not actually a law, per se, that says you can't be on the roof."
He'd asked his brother if they could go up on the roof and gotten a resounding no, pleaded and gotten a slightly regretful negative, offered up three hundred free hours of baby sitting and gotten a wide smile and a promise he would cover for them on the night, but if anyone fell, he was claiming ignorance and throwing whoever was left alive in the woods.
Fair trade, Jon thinks, for the pleased smile on Spencer's face.
"It's not Vegas, I know," Jon says, sliding up beside Spencer and sticking his bare hands into his pockets. "But will it work?"
Spencer smiles, biting down on his lower lip and nods. "Yeah, Jon, it'll more than work. It's great, actually. Thank you." He punctuates the words with a kiss to Jon's cheek. His lips are cool and Jon shivers a little. "Brendon and Ryan are going to be really, really grateful. I am too."
Jon nods, presses his face into Spencer's neck and inhales for a long moment, then pulls back.
He'd been vague about the details, just said he needed a roof for a thing that they'd done for years and maybe a place to buy sparklers in lieu of fireworks (Jon had raised an eyebrow at that and decided he really didn't want to know), then started thinking.
"I can wait down in the apartment," Jon says, staring out over the city tinged in so many shades of winter gray. "I mean, when you do your thing."
Spencer starts and turns his head. "Don't be an idiot, you're invited, obviously."
Jon smiles, wide and bright and easy, and kisses Spencer's neck, but doesn’t actually expect much.
*
Jon's the youngest of three, but the youngest by a long shot, seven and ten years respectively, and both his brothers have wives and kids, so even though the actual day of Christmas is "just family", the amount of family is abundant.
"Seriously," Mike says, mouth filled with turkey, gravy and a gulp of his wine. "The three of you are all he fucking talks about. It's good to finally meet the other two of you."
"MICHAEL," Their mother says, and Jon can feel heat spreading across his cheeks as he ducks his head. Ryan laughs (an honest to God laugh from Ryan Ross and it's because of his brother. Jon is pretty sure the universe hates him), and Brendon and Spencer smile. They're polite enough to do it with their mouths closed though.
Mike is kind of a pig.
He also chipped in on buying Jon a Wii, complete with Guitar Hero, so he's kind of Jon's favorite, too.
Jon just really loves his family a lot.
"When do you guys need to head out, Jonny?" he asks later, when the plates have been cleared away and the seams are bursting on Jon's jeans.
"Head out?"
Jon ducks his head again, because he's a terrible liar, and he's even worse when faced with lying to his mother. "Showing the boys the sights, mom."
"On Christmas?" She sounds worried, Jon can read the lines around her mouth as well as he can read anyone's, but this is important to the guys, and Jon's not going to let them down, not when he forcibly dragged them out here.
"We'll be back before midnight, promise," he says the words even though he's not sure if it's true. It seems to placate her a little, but not much, but there's nothing he can do about that.
"Be careful," she murmurs as he stands, pressing his lips to her forehead. Spencer's practically vibrating next to him and Jon's not sure if it's because he's nervous or just uncomfortable. It's funny, because Spencer's been over to Jon's house at least a hundred times in the past year and a half, always comfortable and smiling, but he's different with Ryan and Brendon; holding himself a little further away, cautious.
Jon tells himself it doesn't sting.
"He's watching the rugrats an hour a day for the next thirty years, Ma," Mike says, and then winks, big and obnoxious. "He deserves a few hours left on his own before his fate is sealed."
"Michael, don't call them that!"
Jon takes that as his cue, and settles firm grips on both Brendon and Ryan. He knows Spencer will follow. They're at the door, practically outside, when he hears Mike saying, "If you want to blame anyone, blame Jonny, he's the one that named them one through four."
"Is there a thing three?" Brendon asks Spencer, hanging back slightly, clinging to the last slivers of warmth from the house. Spencer shakes his head gravely, smile hidden in the darkness of the inky black night.
"I ate him," Jon says, baring his teeth, chuckling a little when Brendon shrinks back, tumbling over his feet, breath puffing out white and visible in the frigid air.
He fields questions about the mysterious (and nonexistent) thing three all the way to Mike's apartment building, and then winces when Ryan looks up and says, "These are sights, Jon Walker?" He's smiling a little, just at the tips of his mouth and Jon was pretty sure he'd stopped wanting to kiss him a long time ago. He was apparently wrong.
Shit.
"These are the sights," Spencer says and he sounds a little nervous too.
Mike, Annie and Things One Through Four are staying at Jon's parents house for the night (a holdover from their first Christmas together, and something they've never quite managed to stop), so he has their apartment for the entire night if they need it.
It's dark as they creak up the stairs. Most people who live in this part of town have families to get to, roomier places than a run-down apartment building with shitty heating and even shittier water pressure.
"Really, Jon Walker," Ryan says. "Seriously, I have never loved Chicago more." Jon rolls his eyes, and he can feel a hand circling his wrist, small and warm, and he thinks it's Spencer for a second, but it isn't, all of Spencer's attention focused on Ryan and the way his arms are crossed, shielding his chest.
Brendon grins at him, something light and simple, but it makes Jon's heart clench regardless.
"In through here," he says, once they're in front of Mike and Annie's apartment and he's finally managed to get the door unlocked.
"Are you going to kill us and use this abandoned apartment building to hide the bodies?" Ryan asks, and he's joking, clearly he's joking, but Jon can feel Spencer stiffening all the same.
"No, he's going to kill you and then throw your body off the roof," he hisses, and then he's stalking through Mike and Annie's bedroom and yanking the window open and climbing out onto the fire escape.
Ryan, to his credit, blushes, heat spreading across his face. "Was it something I said," he mutters, and Jon's not imagining it when he sees Brendon lean into him, whispering something imperceptible and squeezing their fingers together. "How does Spencer know his way around your brother's apartment?" Ryan asks after a minute, eyes narrowing.
Jon just shrugs. This part of the surprise is all Spencer.
"Why don't you guys follow him out there?" He's not particularly subtle as he pushes them towards the window, and they look at him a little strangely, but they go.
He has a feeling they've gotten used to following wherever Spencer leads them.
Jon's expecting to wait a while. Spencer hadn't said what he needed a roof for, voice quiet and needful, head ducked, and Jon hadn't asked.
He settles down on Mike's Laz-E-Boy, gearing up to watch some truly terrible Christmas movie when Spencer pokes his head back in.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice cuts through the room, and when Jon blinks at him, he's honestly surprised.
"What are you talking about?" He asks the words slowly, testing them out on his tongue, and ignoring the want clawing at his stomach, the desire to be up there with the three of them, doing whatever it is that they're doing.
"Get your ass out here," Spencer's voice is thinner than Jon's ever heard it, but he's not going to wait to be asked twice.
Ryan and Brendon are beautiful in the light reflecting from the moon, huddled close together, and they should be shivering, but they're not, they're beaming, Ryan hiding his smile against Brendon's neck.
"Hey," Jon says, hands stuffed in his pockets. "What're we doing?"
Spencer leans forward, cool hands cupping Jon's face, and brushes their lips gently together. Jon blinks at him when he pulls away, shocked into stunned silence.
Spencer grins at him, then repeats the process with both Ryan and Brendon, sliding back over to Jon and wrapping an arm around his waist once he's done.
Brendon stretches, almost losing his balance, and presses his lips to Jon's, lightning fast, nuzzling his face into his neck as Ryan leans forward too.
Jon blinks, but Ryan's hazy, and something like this should be awkward, it should be, but it's not, and when Ryan's mouth brushes his, there's no heat behind it, just a strange form of comfort.
Spencer shifts a little, settling down against the cool cement, pulling the other two along with him. Jon stands awkwardly, blinking down at the three of them, heart in his throat, and suddenly he's trapped in the force of their gazes.
"Get down here, Jonny Walker," Ryan says, grin spread across his features, lighting him in a way Jon's never seen before. "You're one of us now."
*
Fun Walker family fact: they actually have Christmas and present exchange with the whole family on the twenty-sixth.
Not that the day of is a small affair with his parents and his brothers and their wives and their kids and, this year the guys, but the day after is the day when the great aunts and uncles and second cousins and the family members that are not really family members make the trek out to the suburbs, bearing gifts and more food than an army could eat in a month, let alone a day.
By the sound of it, his dad’s about to head out, sent by divine command to scoop up any and all last-minute groceries and Jon can hear his mother in the kitchen, pasting gingerbread onto the side of saved milk cartons with vanilla frosting to make houses for the rugrats.
Jon sits on the edge of his bed; it's actually the bottom of a bunk bed inherited from his brothers in the vain hope that someday there would be another boy and Jon would get to be the older brother. It never got realized, but he likes having the extra bed for friends and it stays.
"I can't find Ryan's present," Spencer mutters after a string of garbled curse words that have Jon's eyebrows raised at his creativity. "I swear to God, if I left them back at the dorm I'm going to punch someone in the face." He yanks open the zip of his duffle bag for the third time, rifling through the contents with a single-minded determination that makes Jon want to ruffle his hair and pinch his cheeks.
His presents are far less grand, at least the ones being unwrapped. The real gifts, despite Ryan's repeated protests of repayment, came in the form of tickets.
"Jonathan, honey! Can you come here?" His mother's voice cuts through the silence and Jon goes without thinking, acknowledging the smile Spencer shoots his way with a decisive gesture of his hand.
Whatever, there are worse things to be in life than a mama's boy.
The stairs creak in the same places they have since he was two and first learned to haul himself up and down them. Jon ambles in the kitchen with an easy smile, catching scent of his mother's cooking. He can identify pot roast and mashed potatoes, gravy and stuffing, and a hundred different kids of cookie.
"Hi, Mama." Jon kisses her on the cheek and she laughs and bats him away, frosting streaked across her apron and smudged on her chin. "What's up?"
"Can you run down in the basement and see if you can find the good linens? I’d have sent your father down, but you know how he doesn't like the spiders. Lord save me from men afraid of bugs. If you can't find them we'll be eating on the Sesame Street place mats the little ones use."
Jon nods and snaps off a salute, dodging the smack she aims at his arm and heading down the stairs.
Ryan and Brendon are in the basement too, he knows, searching through the boxes of Christmas decorations that didn't make it up during his mother's initial burst of holiday cheer the day after Thanksgiving, looking for a pair of Santa candlesticks that have stood on the table for the Christmas meal since before Jon was born. If he's lucky, they'll have stumbled across the linens in their explorations and it'll be quick work.
It's quieter than he would have thought with the pair of them down there, no bickering or talking, no Brendon singing his own version of carols at the top of his lungs while Ryan threatens bodily harm.
Maybe they're both dead, he thinks, having killed each other over the proper sequence of lyrics in Bohemian Rhapsody, but the thought doesn't make him laugh, it makes his stomach turn hard and he shoves it away when he reaches the cold cement floor.
Jon opens his mouth to call their names, catches movement in the corner of his eye and snaps it shut.
One step, then two and he sees and he can't breathe, white noise rushing in his ears.
Ryan's pushed up against the exposed concrete wall, Brendon bracketed between his legs with his hands gripped tight around the knife sharp cut of his hips. His mouth is open, bottom lip tellingly swollen and his eyes have that blown look Jon knows.
He tastes bile and has touched those hips, kissed that mouth, and whispered unkept promises the shell of that ear.
Brendon mutters something, broken and twisted and their hips come together, involuntary.
Jon can't watch, even though it hurts to turn away, and he goes up the stairs as quietly as he can, because some things are sacred, whether they're good or bad, and he won't be the one who has to face the pair of them. The main floor feels too bright and he mumbles something to his mother, starting up the second flight and ignoring her concerned calling of his name.
Spencer's sitting cross legged on Jon's bed still in sweats and a tee shirt, grin playing at the corners of his mouth and Jon's brain helpfully supplies that he must have found Ryan's present.
Ryan.
"Hey." He looks up and grins, bright and blinding.
"Ryan and Brendon are fucking." The words come without the impetus of conscious thought and all the happiness, the loose ease, slides off Spencer's face and in its place leaves a blank mask, sending an unwelcome shudder down Jon's spine.
Spencer shakes his head and stares. "What?"
Jon sits beside him, making sure of the distance, and wonders why it feels like betrayal clawing at his gut and not some faint thread of distantly amused happiness. "Ryan and Brendon."
The shift of emotions across Spencer's face, the subtle ticks, would be missed by anyone else, but Jon catches them, the tangle of grief and shock and resignation, something that looks at the same moment like a broken heart and a thread of want. He stares at his hands for a beat, then stares at Jon and it's need, then, and Jon curls a hand around his neck.
Spencer kisses him, which feels deceptive, like Jon wasn't asking him with every line of his body to do as much.
"Jon," Spencer sighs to his mouth and it's not frantic, like he'd thought it would be, not pushing and pulling and colliding more than coming together.
Shirts off and pants down, Spencer layering soft, needy kisses down Jon's neck and onto his collarbone. He's almost gentle, which is strange and somehow wonderful, and Jon is glad of that. Bruises and teeth would put his mind on shoving Ryan up against a wall, letting Brendon shove him up against the wall and that's too much hurt sitting on his chest.
There's lube between the mattress and the wall and Jon pulls it out and hands it to Spencer. Maybe it's backwards, but he doesn't care.
Spencer pops the cap and kisses him, eyelashes fluttering against his skin and maybe Jon doesn't know what this means, but he knows that he wants it, has wanted it, and he won't regret it in the morning.
"Lie down," Spencer murmurs and Jon does, pillow beneath his hips and the first finger feels less like an intrusion and more like coming home. There's kisses on the small of his back and the knobs of his spine and a second finger pressing in. He feels the stretch and exhales, pressing his mouth to his forearm.
"Okay?" Spencer asks; Jon looks over his shoulder and smiles, nods, and Spencer reaches down and smoothes his hand across his cheek.
He settles his knees on either side of Jon's thighs and sinks down, slow and easy, letting out a shaky exhale that sounds like maybe he's dying a little, breaking and reforming in the same action of flesh and skin and bone. Jon arches into it, savoring the stretch and the faint pull because he wants, has wanted, will want.
Spencer inhales and exhales to the rhythm of his hips and comes across Jon's back. Jon eases his fist down, shifting for room, and jerks himself off the rest of the way, to the rush of Spencer's breath across his shoulder blades and the beat of his heart through his ribs, echoing faintly against Jon's skin.
Love you, Jon thinks. Love them.
He doesn't know what that means.
*
They don't fall asleep because there's not enough time. By the time they're done trading soft, sweet kisses at the foot of Jon's bed, he can hear his great-aunt Lou in the kitchen, mumbling loudly and likely driving his mother crazy.
"Gotta get down there, Spencer Smith," he says quietly, afraid his voice will shatter the quiet peace of the moment. It does, a little, and when Spencer smiles at him, the corners of his eyes don't crinkle.
"Great-aunt Lou?" He grins for real this time, the smile spreading when Jon nods. Spencer knows all about Lou, and when they're down in the kitchen, he says, "Geoffrey's looking well, don't you think, Lou?"
She beams at Jon, patting his arm vaguely, and whispering that he's been away for far too long, that she's missed him. Jon smiles down at her as kindly as he possibly can.
Jon never met his great-uncle Geoffrey, considering he'd been a casualty in the Second World War, but it's been said they look alike. He was the one the Walker clan is actually related to, but they'd adopted Lou as their own long before his death.
It's possible she's slightly senile.
"Something smells delicious!" Brendon's all smiles as he and Ryan push into the kitchen, candlesticks in hand. The door to the basement swings back and forth from the force of Brendon's push, and Ryan's walking with the same awkward cant that Jon is.
"Oh boys," his mother is wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. They're the same tears she always sheds at Christmas, happy and a little emotional, and when she pulls them both against her, Ryan hugs her back, bony arm snaking around her shoulders.
When he straightens, their eyes meet over her head, and Jon feels a stab of want pressing so hard against his stomach he nearly loses his balance.
"Oh Geoffrey," Lou's looking down at her hands, mouth twisted painfully, and Jon feels the lust (and something else, his mind whispers) evaporate just as soon as it had appeared.
"I'm here, Louise," he hears himself saying, and the smile she shoots him is as bright as sunshine. "I haven't gone anywhere."
Her hand is frail when she places it in the crook of his elbow, walking into the living room like they're going somewhere special.
Mike's snickering behind his palm, but Annie elbows him in the ribs every time he does it, and beams at Jon like he's finally doing something right for once.
Dinner is delicious, just like it always is, and Jon and his dad alternate between cutting Lou's food into tiny, bite sized portions.
He can feel Ryan's gaze on him, like another sweater padding him with extra heat skittering up and down his spine. He has no idea what Ryan knows, no idea what he's thinking, but when the plates are cleared and they're waiting for the rugrats to rouse from their self-imposed slumber, he finds out.
"Hey Jon," Ryan says, voice low, no inflection at all. "I need your help." Jon blinks at him, and Lou is half-asleep in her chair, but she blinks her eyes up at him, looking terrified. "Who are they looking for, Geoffrey?" she whispers, clutching at his arm.
"I'm not sure," he says flatly, and he doesn't mean to glare, but he can feel Ryan's flinch all the way across the table.
"Geoffrey," he corrects himself, and Jon doesn't want to smile, he doesn't, but he can't help himself. "Would you please come assist me with the, um." He makes a vague and sweeping hand gesture which Jon translates as, that-thing-I-got-your-mother-that-almost-made-my-suitcase-too-heavy-for-the-airplane. "Thing."
Lou pats his arm, and smiles up at him vaguely. "It's alright, darling," she says, and for a moment, she sounds like someone much younger, she sounds alert. "I know how you like to imbibe." she drops her voice, low on a giggle. "I won't tell a soul."
Jon feels his cheeks coloring, especially when even his mother has to stifle a snort behind her napkin.
"Sure," Jon says, feeling Ryan's expectant gaze on his skin.
They're barely out of sight of the dining room when Ryan's pushing Jon against the door to the pantry; their hips flush against each other, fitting their mouths together.
The pressure is light, Jon can feel the space between them, but the kiss isn't gentle.
"Shit," Ryan says, just slightly pulling back and licking at his lips. "Shit," he says again, pressing his forehead against Jon's. "I've been wanting to do that all day."
He pulls away, and saunters (there's no other word for it) back into the dining without another word.
"I completely forgot that I left your present in the truck. I'm so sorry." Jon hears him say easily. Jon's cousin Reggie borrowed the truck an hour ago, heading further away from the city to rescue his underage girlfriend from the horrors of suburban life.
Jon is kind of ridiculous. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel Spencer raw inside of him, can still feel the ache, and when he licks his lips, he thinks of Ryan, lips wet, leaving marks.
"Shit," he whispers, rubbing his palm over his eyes.
He doesn't think about Brendon.
He doesn't think about Brendon.
He walks back into the diving room, wiping his sweating palms on the legs of his jeans. Brendon catches his wrist as he passes, and grins up at Jon, just because.
He thinks about Brendon.
*
"I hope you like the sweaters, boys," Mama Walker (and Jon has to laugh at how the name trips so easily off their tongues) says, kissing each of their cheeks in turn. Brendon kisses back, enthusiastic and smacking and Ryan blushes, ducking his head like he's not entirely sure what to do. Spencer squeezes her hand and smiles and Jon can't look at the three of them at the same time.
"You boys are welcome in this house any time," his dad adds, voice gruff and paternal only to Jon, who's spent years learning to read his father's tones and looks.
There's a chorus of goodbyes and they're out the door, piling into Jon's truck and it's just the same as the drive there, except now they're all wearing sweaters that match without being the same, knitted with love, and they're too quiet, too introspective.
"Be glad to get back to Vegas?" Jon asks as the engine roars to life and Brendon flinches for a split second. "Glad to see us go?" Ryan asks and there's an edge that can't be missed and it's silence after that.
In the airport, Jon stands with his hands shoved into his pockets, the faint memory of Spencer's mouth on his back and Ryan's mouth on his lips and Brendon's mouth on his neck tumbling together. He wants to say I love you and he wants to say I need you, but more than anything he wants to say you scare me.
Brendon shuffles over, backpack slung over his arm and he's wearing the Cubs cap Jon got him, plunked on his head as they'd sat around the tree and beamed. He's got bags under red rimmed eyes and Jon wants to kiss the bruised purple flesh and tell him that leaving doesn't mean losing and that the Walker family will still love him when he comes back next year.
The kiss is arbitrary to that.
"Hey," Jon says and hooks his hand on Brendon's arm and pulls him in. "I'm gonna miss you, Bden."
Brendon chuckles at the nickname, snuffles weakly, and presses his face to Jon's neck. It catches him by surprise, a little, the way Brendon is so many different people, the confident and the falling apart, the beautiful and the bitter, and how much Jon wants to touch all of them and see if their kisses taste any different.
"Miss you too," Brendon says and pulls away, half smiling. He pulls down the brim of his cap and turns away; Ryan and Spencer come up, both of their faces drawn. Conversations that have to be removed to the bathroom are never a good thing and Jon tries to catch either of their eyes, but can't.
"Thanks for having us, Jon," Ryan says and his face is closed. Jon isn't as fluent in Ryan Ross as Spencer and Brendon are, sometimes doubts he'll ever be, but the first thing he's learned is that the less Ryan shows, the more he's feeling. Jon knows that well enough.
"Anytime," Jon says and fuck boundaries, fuck intimacy, he pulls Ryan into a hug. His body snaps taunt for a moment, resists, then goes lip, arms looped loosely around Jon's waist. "I'm going to miss you and you're not paying me back so stop thinking about it right now."
It's a sign, he thinks, that Ryan just swallows and nods, steps back and folds his arms tight across his chest.
"We have to go," Brendon says.
There's a moment, protracted and prolonged, of the four of them staring at each other, existing in a temporary nebula of them and nothing else. Jon wants to pull them all into his arms and kiss away the worry and the hurt, heal the fault lines across the skin and mind, but it's a spell broken too soon.
"Goodbye," Ryan says. "Bye," Brendon adds.
Jon and Spencer stand side-by-side, knuckles bumping together until Ryan and Brendon melt into the thick crowd of people wandering toward the places they call home. Spencer laces their fingers as they walk out, lets his head fall onto Jon's shoulder and they're silent all the way back to the cold, stale dorm.
*
The first few weeks of classes lull Jon into thinking that nothing much has really changed.
They're on completely opposite schedules again, with Spencer in classes all morning while Jon is in lecture well past eight in the evening, and maybe it's a good thing they don't have time to talk about What Happened. It's pretty fucked up, all in all, and Jon should be glad to be rid of a complication like that.
Still, he misses Spencer.
It's the beginning of February when Spencer pushes into the dorm, lips tight and pinched, cheeks ruddy and pink from the cold.
Jon is supposed to be in class, but it's Computer Programming For the Worldwide Web, and he's known how to program websites since he was twelve.
Spencer widens his eyes at him, Spencer widens his eyes, because not only is Jon home, but he's also in Spencer's bed, and if that's not an open enough invitation, Jon doesn't know what is.
"I had the strangest dream," he says, deadpan, and Spencer rolls his eyes, but the tightness around his mouth has loosened a little. "I had the strangest dream that we were friends once. Best friends, even and then -- "
The tight look is back, panic flaring in Spencer's eyes. " -- Jon, don't."
Jon blinks. He's never heard Spencer's voice like that, low and broken, raw. "I miss you," he says, and he hadn't meant to, but he didn't realized how much he meant it until this moment.
"I sleep three feet away from you, asshole," Spencer says, and his shoulders are achieving the awkward phenomenon of looking tighter and looser all at once. "What is there to miss?"
Jon clears his throat, and this isn't going how he'd planned, although he hadn't much thought past, must get Spencer to talk to me again.
"We don't have to talk about it," he says finally, and now Spencer's shoulders do loosen. He dumps his bag by the door and toes off his shoes, shrugging off his hoodie. "Have you talked to -- "
He starts the sentence, but it dies on his lips when Spencer just shakes his head, eyes guarded. "Brendon, mostly," he says, and surprises the hell out of Jon when he shucks off his jeans and pulls back the sheet, climbing into bed next to Jon.
"Hi," he says, and this is serious business, Spencer is sad and Jon hadn't even known (hadn't been able to pinpoint it, really, because Spencer always got kind of quiet when leaving Ryan and Brendon), but he can't keep his giggle in.
He hasn't been this close to Spencer since the airport, since Spencer's arms had tightened along his limbs, since he'd quietly sobbed on his bed, eyes haunted and lips bitten.
"Hi," Spencer says finally, voice low and quiet. He's beautiful up close, but then, Jon's always known that. "I don't want to talk about it," he says. "I can't talk about it. I can't believe they're," he punctuates the statement by waving his hand around. "And they didn't tell me. I can't believe Brendon didn't tell me. I can't believe that Brendon would." He waves his hand again, and Jon feels something falling in his gut, even though he'd planned this.
"Thought you didn't want to talk about it," he says, forcing a chuckle. It's an asshole move, and Spencer rolls his eyes, but he doesn't move away, and doesn't flinch when Jon wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling himself close enough to mash his face against Spencer's neck.
"I don't." Spencer's voice is rough, sleepy and a little worn. Jon doesn't blame him. It takes effort and careful planning to actively avoid the guy that literally sleeps three and a half feet to your left.
"So we won't, then," Jon says, and it sounds suggestive -- hell, it feels suggestive, but he doesn't move his hands, doesn't leave Spencer's side, and maybe he's imagining it, but he thinks Spencer feels grateful.
It's a while, later. It's a while, after Spencer's heartbeat has gone regular, until Jon can recognize the patterns of his breathing, deep in sleep.
It's a while, before Spencer cracks an eye open, reaches blindly for his phone on the nightstand and winces when he sees the view screen.
"I miss them," he says, voice sleep scratchy. "I miss them and I don't even know what I did to lose them." To both their horrors, Jon can see the tears welling in the corners of his eyes.
"You didn't lose them, Spence," he says, and he knows it's the truth. "You didn't lose them. You just have to look for them harder. They're still there, they're just, like. Hiding."
Spencer nods, and then looks back down at his phone, making a decision that Jon can read from the set of his shoulders.
"I'm just going to -- " he waves his hand again, and Jon nods, understanding, even if it stings a little.
"I can leave, if you want me to."
Spencer shakes his head, and then on impulse, leans down and fits their mouths together, light.
"I don't want you to, Jon Walker."
.spencer.
There are traditions in the Walker family that Spencer doesn't know about, logically couldn't know about; little rituals for birthdays and a biannual family camping trip to the wilds of some Midwestern state hovering above and to the left of Nevada by a couple hundred miles. Spencer's family is close by any standards, but the Walkers are less a family and more a clan.
"I need you to come to Vegas with me," Spencer says, catching himself just before he can say home, because Jon doesn't belong to the desert and sun, the cheap glory of neon lights and a people painted up to look like anything but who they really are.
The yet hovering on the end of the thought makes him shudder and he pushes it away.
Jon looks at him and they're lying facing each other in bed. They haven't slept apart since the first night, the stilted conversation about the way people fail each other in a thousand small ways and peaks of grand missteps, but they also haven't slept together. It's an impasse or a balance, but it's keeping Spencer from coming unhinged and he'll take it.
Jon says, "Okay," and Spencer closes his eyes and breathes. He'll take Mama and Mr. Walker reevaluating their assessment of him if it means not having to face Brendon and Ryan, who are fucking, alone.
Their flight is a nearly empty red eye, just a mother with a pair of toddlers curled up and passed out in seats on either side of her and a couple businessmen scattered around the cabin in rumpled suits with half empty drinks sweating on their trays. There's another college kid, Spencer thinks, sitting with headphones in her ears, the faint bobbing of her head to the beat fading slowly to the lullaby whine of the engines and she drops to sleep.
Spencer has his iPod in his carryon, one half finished book and another bought in the airport on a whim of a bright cover and a mindless enough premise he could lose himself in the mediocre writing, and even a spiral bought for a class that ended up not needing paper, though he'd never been the kind to keep a journal.
He's weary and worn, exhausted through flesh and bone, but he's not tired, and that's the bitch of it.
Jon's folding his napkin and again, running through the small array of origami patterns he knows. Spencer watches a crane emerge, then a frog, and he smiles faintly, touching to tips of his fingers to the soft skin on the inside of Jon's wrist. "Okay?"
Jon smoothes the napkin flat, crisscrossed by a thousand bisecting lines and smiles. "Yeah. Okay?"
Spencer inhales and exhales and nods. It's a lie, maybe, but one tinged with intention; he believes in small lies and white lies, lies of omission, in an effort to keep from hurting people. Sometimes, very rarely, that person is himself and it's less important, except that it feels like the whole rest of the world rests on him as the linchpin.
Ryan and Michael Guy are waiting for them at baggage claim and Spencer's heart stutter stops in his chest, trying to force Brendon to appear in the empty space of the quiet airport. Jon inhales, sharp and surprised, and it takes a conscious amount of effort to not reach out and squeeze tight to Jon's hand.
It's possible Spencer forgot about Michael Guy in the equation, the nonsensical addition of Brendon and Ryan and his stomach twists. Ryan is many things, faithful, loyal nearly to a fault, and this makes no sense, no matter how many ways Spencer tries to twist it in his mind.
"Where's Brendon?" he asks and Ryan's easy, if tired at the edges, smile becomes forced bright and pasted on.
"At home. He's sick, passed out on Nyquil," Ryan says and Spencer isn't blind to the fact that he and Michael Guy aren't holding hands, Michael Guy's fingers are circled around his wrist; his mind imagines the grind of small bones and he's too tired to care that it's an uncharitable thought.
"He's under quarantine," Michael Guy offers and his accent jars Spencer away from Ryan's eyes. "Self imposed. Says he's not going to make two of his best mates start their summers off with, what did he call it? Mutant killing virus?"
"Mutant death plague," Spencer and Ryan correct in tandem. It's the same disease he's gets every single time he's sick enough to warrant calling in and staying in bed.
Jon huffs out a soft laugh and Ryan quirks his mouth in a half smile. "Come on, it's fucking late. Let's get your stuff and take you home."
Sitting in the back of Michael Guy's car, Spencer watches the familiar neighborhoods rush by around them, painted in the deep shadows of night and the bright pinpricks of porch lights and TVs glowing through windows. They're the same and changed, shifting like they must against the pull of time and entropy and Spencer mourns a little, for the things that have been lost and will continue to fade away.
His own house is well lit, porch light gleaming and Spencer is grateful for the small proof that he hasn't been forgotten.
"You guys want to come in for a little bit?" Spencer asks. Old habits die hard and he'll include Michael Guy if that's the price for getting to keep Ryan.
There's a look between them, Ryan and his boy, across the compartment between the seats and Spencer hates it more than he would have ever thought he could hate something. Jon presses his fingers to Spencer's knee and it's enough, barely, to keep him from spitting out the vitriol he sometimes forgets he has.
Brendon and Ryan are fucking.
"I should, we should get back to Brendon," Ryan says, soft and somehow regretful. "Make sure he hasn't succumbed."
Spencer nods and climbs out of the car, grabs his suitcase and doesn't wait for Jon to catch up, doesn't wave goodbye, and tries to convince himself he doesn't care.
*
Spencer goes three days without seeing Brendon, and he's practically shaking out of his fucking skin by the time he calls Ryan.
"Yeah?" Ryan picks up after one ring, and he's breathless, Spencer can tell. A year ago, he would have said, "Beating off or groceries?" But a year ago, Ryan hadn't slept with Brendon. A year ago, Ryan hadn't slept with Jon either.
A year ago, Spencer hadn't.
So many things change in a year, and Spencer felt himself change along with them, felt himself move and break apart from this place and the people that were once so important.
He's back now though, and the desert is clinging to his skin, granules of sand getting caught in his eyes and underneath his fingernails, and he hasn't changed at all, not really.
"Spence?" Ryan's voice is a lot steadier than it had been, and Spencer can see just see him standing in a foreign kitchen, the one Spencer's never been in, despite seeing the photographs.
"How's he doing?" The words are curt, and he feels Ryan's wince. There are some things that will never change between them, and Spencer's always been able to read Ryan like a book.
"Progressing past moaning and groaning, to moaning, groaning and hurling. It's been pretty pleasant around here, let me tell you." Spencer closes his eyes and leans against his headboard, and he can picture Ryan pinching the skin between his eyes. "Michael and I are heading to his friend Sisky's for the next couple of days. Spence, he's got his Jasmine sleeping bag in the bathroom so he doesn't have to move to hurl."
Spencer winces at Ryan's tone, and the words blurt out before he can stop them. "You're just going to leave him?"
"He's a big boy, Spence. He's twenty. He can handle himself."
Spencer says, "I'm coming over. Jon’ll probably do good with a couple days to himself." and he says, "I've missed being around him." He doesn't say, "I've missed being around you," doesn't say, "What the hell are you doing with your life, Ryan Ross?" Doesn't say a damn thing more, and he can tell that Ryan's expecting him to.
It's what he's always done, pushing past the boundaries Ryan builds up around himself, but he doesn't now.
"Fine. We'll be gone by the time you get here."
Ryan hangs up. He's never hung up on Spencer before. There has to be a first time for everything.
*
When Brendon gets sick, Brendon gets clingy, wanting and needing to be touched and hugged and loved and coddled and Ryan's really never been that good at coping with that, but he's also never taken off running. Spencer's better at it, but it's best when it's both and Spencer opens the door with the spare key feeling like he's missing a limb.
Brendon's curled up on the bathroom floor, skin tinted white except where it's flushed almost green around his mouth and bruised blue around his eyes.
"Oh, Jesus, Bren," Spencer sighs, dropping down beside him and smoothing back his hair. It's damp from sweat and clinging to his forehead, which is hot to touch beneath the calluses on Spencer's palm. "Only you could get mutant death plague in the middle of summer."
"If I die," Brendon rasps, "I want Aladdin lyrics on my tombstone."
The jokes catches Spencer off guard, weak as it is, and bursts out laughing, stretching up to fill a glass beside the sink with cool water, passing it down. "You aren't going to die, Bren, not if I have anything to say about it."
Brendon smiles weakly for a moment, then his face twists and just manages to pull himself up before emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet. Spencer grimaces, trails a hand soothingly as he can down the column of Brendon's spine, and mumbles rhythmic nonsense under his breath until Brendon's finished heaving.
They spend the daytime hours in the bathroom because it's just easier, piling in blankets and pillows from the couch and the bedroom to make a kind of nest so Brendon can pass out from time to time. He doesn't eat, crackers and Sprite stay down for maybe a half hour at most and the sight of anything else has him shaking his head and tightening his arms across the stomach.
They spend their nights in bed together, Spencer with one arm slung protectively across Brendon's side.
Brendon is a restless sleeper on the best nights, tossing and turning between the sheets, and it's worse when he's burning up from the inside out. Spencer's not going to leave him alone and let him flail out of bed to crack his skull on the bedside table and bleed out on the carpet.
"Feeling better?" Spencer asks on the third day, when Brendon manages to shuffle into the living room after a shower, in fresh pajamas. He coughs weakly, but smiles, and falls down on the couch with his head on Spencer's thigh.
They watch TV until the daytime soaps become afternoon cartoons.
Spencer makes grilled cheese and Brendon eats a half, lays perfectly still breathing through his nose for twenty minutes, and doesn't puke. "We should throw a party," Spencer teases, kissing the tip of his nose. His skin is still warm, but no longer hot, and Spencer smiles.
Brendon smiles and flips him the bird. "Are Ryan and the Australian asshole coming back any time soon?"
His smiles changes, Spencer knows it must, but for all that he's feeling better, Brendon's still tired and he doesn't catch it, or chooses not to say anything. "You know how Ryan is with vomit," Spencer says softly. "He's taking a couple days insurance."
They don't talk about Ryan anymore.
After Letterman, they migrate into Brendon's bedroom and fall onto the bed, freshly made up with new sheets Spencer found still in the plastic store wrapping shoved in the back of the linen closet. Brendon moves like a zombie, mumbling under his breath and curls up on his side beneath the blankets, breath still whistling slightly in his chest. Spencer fits himself along his back and falls asleep.
He wakes to Brendon staring at him through eyes half lidded from sleep, one hand resting on the dip of his waist.
"I love you," Brendon says, voice soft and rough, but still loose, words falling from his mouth like he's only half aware he's saying them.
Spencer makes a noise in the back of his throat, affirmative and a little heartbroken in the same moment, and smiles as best he can. Brendon and Ryan seem a hundred thousand miles away and even Jon, sleeping in Spencer’s bed in his house less than two miles away, feels distant.
"No." Brendon huffs out a raspy laugh. "I love you."
The words catch Spencer in the stomach, settle in his veins and wrap themselves around his chest and squeeze tight. They are what he's wanted to hear since he was sixteen and first saw Brendon, reckless and breaking from in the inside out, saying he was fine and dying in the same rattling breath.
Brendon rolls over, pulling the blanket tight around his body and it would be so easy to close his eyes and pass it off on dreams, but he can't.
"No, hey." Spencer pulls on his shoulder and pushes him back down, bracing his arms on either side of Brendon's shoulder. "You can't say something like Brendon and turn away. You just, you can't. It's not fair."
"I'm sick," Brendon says, eyes wide and just to the left of panicked. "And, I say shit like this all the time and don't talk about it."
"I'm not Ryan," Spencer says and they both go silent.
Spencer's almost certain, almost positive from the awkward tension between him and Ryan, the stilted words, from gathering up the shards of a breaking friendship and trying to piece them back together, that Ryan knows that Spencer knows what happened at Christmas, or, if nothing else, knows that the two of them have slept together.
Maybe Brendon doesn't. Or maybe he doesn't want to.
"It's not important," Brendon says, closing his eyes and shifting his head away. "You don't."
Spencer can feel the painful thud of his heart slamming against his ribs.
There are things he believes in, things he's been taught and told until they are as part of him as the calluses on his skin and the need to breathe. He believes in soul mates, believes in loving one person implicitly, believes that the happy endings in fairy tales are the happy endings that really happen. The belief in them is all that he knows.
He dips down and kisses Brendon, kisses him until the shock eases from Brendon's bones and he kisses back. His mouth is soft and pliant and he tastes like ginger ale faintly touched by something chemical, Nyquil or Dayquil, cough drops and Tylenol.
"Oh," Brendon says when Spencer pulls back and he smiles.
*
By the time Ryan and Michael Guy decide to come back five days later, Brendon is almost completely healed. He's been clinging to Spencer's arm and saying it's the kisses, just like that.
"The kisses, Spencer Smith," is what it is exactly. "The kisses from thine mouth to mine are what have saved me, saved me from mortal peril."
Brendon is kind of a dork, but Spencer loves him anyway, and they're in the middle of a Mad About You marathon on Lifetime at 11:30 at night when Ryan, Michael Guy and Jon walk in.
The three of them look miserable, awkward and mismatched, not right together. Spencer doesn't think he's ever seen Jon so glum, and he's seen the guy go through an entire box of tissues while watching Titanic.
"If it isn't the Summerlin Patient," Ryan drawls, holding himself back, just slightly as Jon practically runs across the room, hugging Brendon tightly.
"Watch the bones, Walker!" Brendon giggles the words out though, and Spencer knows without a doubt he's glad for the contact. "I have been ailing, on death's door! You could have been in town for my funeral." Jon laughs and shakes his head, but his eyes are haunted, and Spencer sees him tugging Brendon a little closer, pressing a kiss to his hair.
Ryan seems to take that as his cue.
"Oh babe," Michael Guy says, once Ryan has come out of their bedroom, changed into a faded hoodie and a pair of blue and green flannel pajama bottoms. Brendon winces at the words, even though he tries to cover it with a cough. "We're out of ice, it seems. You can pop over to the shop and grab a bag, yeah? I'm positively knackered or I'd go." Spencer doesn't catch the look that passes between them, can't get a read on the currents streaming back and forth, but Michael Guy yawns, and Ryan says, "Yeah, sure. I'll get snacks too. You guys'll be staying, right?" He directs the question to Jon, having not looked at Spencer even once, yet, and Jon nods, huddling closer to Brendon.
Spencer ignores the sharp stab of possessiveness in his stomach, and just curls a hand around Brendon's shoulder, pressing his lips, light, against his forehead.
"Um," Ryan says, and Spencer can feel it, the second Ryan's gaze hits his skin. "Spence?" Spencer blinks, and Ryan's worrying his lip between his teeth, his eyes the most open Spencer's seen them in months. "You want to come with?"
It's an olive branch, and Spencer's not an idiot.
They walk to the grocery, because Ryan doesn't want to have to deal with getting the car in and out of the parking garage, and even though it's summer, the air is crisp in a way that's rare in the desert.
"Hey, so," he says, and he's twisting his fingers, bracelets clanking whenever his wrists hit, and Spencer wants him to stop worrying. He reaches without thinking, lacing their fingers together, and Ryan blinks at him, features illuminated by the streetlamp. "I miss you," Ryan says, and that was not -- not what Spencer had been expecting. "Things are so messed up," he continues, and Spencer squeezes his hand for all that he's worth. "Things are so messed up, and you're not here and I just." He brings his free hand up, using his wrist to wipe away a tear at the corner of his eye. "I need you to be here, Spence."
He looks away, then, and they're both quiet -- silent, processing. Spencer doesn't let go of Ryan's hand, couldn't if his life depended on it.
They come upon the grocery suddenly, and it catches Spencer by surprise, how little he knows this neighborhood, this life that Ryan has, and deals with every day.
He hates it and says as much, grateful for the darkness of the parking lot, helping to hide Ryan's features.
"You left," Ryan says as they walk through the automatic sliding doors. The fluorescent lights are bright and blinding, and there's a surprising amount of traffic for so late at night, but Spencer doesn't let go of Ryan's hand; if anything, he twines their fingers tighter. "You left us -- you left me and I wanted to hate you."
Spencer feels a wave of shame like nothing he's ever felt before, and he wouldn't change the past two years for anything, can't even begin to imagine his life without Jon, but when he tries to extricate his fingers, Ryan just squeezes on tighter.
"I'm sorry," Spencer says, and he means it, but he doesn't say, "I wouldn't do it again." He won't lie to Ryan, not outright.
Ryan shrugs, and rubs at his arm with his palm, looking lost and aimless in his oversized sweatshirt. Spencer's almost positive that it belonged to his dad at some point.
"Not looking for apologies, Spence." He laughs then, and while the sound isn't quite what it used to be, it's getting there. "Not ones from you, anyway. I have a whole fucking list to get through."
Spencer could say, "It's fine. It's fine, Ryan, we're okay." Because they are, and they will be, and there are some things in life are destined to be permanent, Ryan and Spencer just happen to be one of them.
Spencer could say, "Brendon said he was in love with me, and has been, but he's sleeping with you, and he's dating Butcher, and aren't our lives so weird? Aren't our lives so fraught? Do you think this is what they meant when they said college would be the most memorable time of our lives?"
Actually, he probably couldn't say that.
He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to ruin this quiet balance that's taken up residence between, and if there's anything that could do it, it would be Brendon.
Ryan smiles at him, tightlipped, and more than anything, Spencer wants to lean forward and kiss him. He wants to cup Ryan's cheek with his free hand and feel their hearts beating against each other in tandem; wants to chase away the haunted thing that's lived behind Ryan's eyes for longer than he can remember and banish it, forbidding its return.
They don't talk much as they gather their groceries, but Ryan pushes their cart one handed, their palms branded together, even though the fit is slightly awkward in the cramped aisles.
They end up with a little more than ice; Toaster Strudel for Brendon, Havana Hazelnut Roast for Jon, and Scooby Doo fruit snacks for the both of them, because while they are technically adults, the Scooby snacks have been their favorites for years.
Ryan pays with Michael Guy's card, a black AMX pushed casually across the cracked plastic of the check out, and Spencer tries not to let his eyes widen. He's not sure how successful he is, but Ryan doesn't say anything about it, just pockets the card after the transaction has gone through.
"Need my hand back for this part, Spence," he says, and Spencer blinks, looking down at their interlocked fingers. He doesn't want to let go, for a stubborn second he doesn't. Ryan doesn't push him, just looks on steadily until Spencer finds it in himself to let go.
When they're outside again, plastic bags bouncing between their legs, Ryan mentions Brendon.
"We," he starts, flailing his hand around as if that encapsulates all that they are to each other. Maybe it does. "Fuck, if I know. I just." He breathes out, and out again, and Spencer feels the corners of his eyes prickling with something he can't quite identify. "It feels like. It sometimes feels like if I don't touch him I'll die."
Spencer blinks, and feels bile rising in his throat, hot and uncomfortable. He swallows, once, twice and again, but nothing seems to temper it.
"I kissed Jon at Christmas," he says, apropos of nothing, and Spencer can feel his vision whiting out at the edges. If that information is supposed to help, if it's supposed to make Spencer feel less like he's being electrocuted from the outside in, it is failing spectacularly.
"Okay," he says, and somehow his voice is neutral. Somehow, this one word, pulled from his chest and passed through his lips makes Ryan smile, and Spencer says it again, just to see how it feels.
"I don't -- " Ryan says, but Spencer stops him, he has to.
" -- it's okay," he says, and maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but it's a start.
*
Brendon's still awake when Spencer and Ryan come in. Jon's asleep with his head in Brendon's lap, looking peaceful for the first time since he and Spencer landed. There's something awkward that settles in Spencer' stomach when he looks at Jon, Jon who hadn't had to come with him.
Jon who'd come without question or pretense.
Brendon's carding his fingers through the shorthairs at the nape of Jon's neck, and when he catches sight of Spencer, he grins, big and blindingly white, a sharp contrast to the color of his cheeks.
"Is that Toaster Strudel, Ryan Ross?" He asks, eyes bright and wide as saucers, voice hopeful. Ryan snorts, and it's almost against his will, but Spencer can see the sharp relief in his eyes, no matter how involuntary the smile crossing his lips is.
"It's a present," Ryan says, voice a little dull, a little scratchy. Spencer starts unpacking their bags, the plastic rustling loudly as he settles them on the countertop. He peeks at Brendon, while he stacks their jars of peanut butter and jelly, sorting by date and label. He's expecting something, even if he can't pinpoint exactly what it is, but there's nothing on Brendon's face but genuine affection.
Ryan's shoulders are loose, looser (loose, looser) than Spencer can remember ever seeing them, and Spencer can tell he's not the only one who's noticed.
"What kind of present?" Brendon asks, belatedly, and Spencer blinks, because the room had been so still, so quiet. Ryan snorts out something that sounds like, "For making it out alive," and in unison, Spencer and Brendon say, "Mutant death plague!"
"It strikes again," Spencer says, and Ryan rolls his eyes, or tries to, but the corners of his lips keep turning up, up, up.
"I survived, though," Brendon says, and Ryan snorts again. "Just barely," he mutters, but it's good-natured. Spencer blinks, and he blinks again, and he wonders if he's fallen down into some alternate universe where all of the world's problems are solved by going to the supermarket.
He wonders if Global Warming, poverty and the Middle Eastern Conflict will be resolved by morning. He wants to say as much, wants to laugh about this, and the things they've faced, but while he smiles, he doesn't say the words.
There's an easy balance they've struck, and when he looks back over at them, Ryan and Brendon are actually grinning at each other, Brendon bouncing with the kind of energy that has him practically vibrating off his seat, something in his heart settles.
"I love you," Spencer says, and then blinks again. If either of them are startled by his presence, they don't show it. Ryan leans back, wrapping a skinny arm across Spencer's back and pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"I've missed you," he whispers, low, under his breath, and Spencer wants to reach for him so badly that his palms are practically itching with it. Ryan shifts just slightly, and then it's chin digging into Spencer's shoulder, arms wrapped around Spencer's waist.
Spencer looks over to Brendon, expecting either resignation or blinding happiness. He's shocked more than he should be to find Brendon's attention focused on Jon, whispering softly to him as he tentatively opens his eyes.
"Hey look, Bren," Spencer hears Jon say, voice scratchy and low. "Mommy and Daddy made up." Spencer's waiting for Ryan to flinch, for him to stiffen, but the only movement in his shoulders is from convulsions of almost silent laughter.
"I am not the woman in this relationship, Spencer Smith," he says when he pulls away. There's a low flicker of light pouring in through window, and it catches Ryan's features, stealing all of Spencer's breath away. "There is no way you'll see me in a dress."
"Just the pearls then?" Brendon asks, and Ryan does roll his eyes, but he's still smiling.
"I have work in the morning," he says, wincing as he catches sight of the blinking lights on the microwave. "I should probably head in." He gestures down a small hallway Spencer hadn’t gone near at all.
Spencer nods, already moving towards Brendon. It's unconscious, maybe, but he can see the flicker of emotions that pass through Ryan's eyes.
"G'night," Jon murmurs, arching his back high enough, so that when Ryan bends just slightly, their mouths brush. Jon settles back down against Brendon's knee, satisfied, and Spencer honestly wonders how they'd ever survived without him.
His kiss breaks the ice, and Ryan's leaning down further, barely fitting his mouth over Spencer's before he's gone again.
Ryan kisses Brendon too, and if Brendon's shocked, he doesn't show it. Their kiss is as light as the other two had been, nothing heavy or underlying caught between them.
"Love you," Ryan says, and the words are at Spencer's lips in an instant, as if they'd never left. "Love you," he responds, catching Ryan's grin through a fragment of light. "Love you."
.part four.